The Spy

"No."

"When you get your pay? All right?"

"All right."

The boy seized the paper, and in the same mysterious tone continued:

"You see? The first names and the family names are marked in the book with red dots. Well, you must copy them on this paper. When you are done, call me, and I'll see whether you haven't put down a pack of lies. My name is Yakov Zarubin."

Again a sound seemed to break inside the boy's body and drop softly, "Ugh!" He glided nimbly between the tables, his elbows pressed to his sides, his wrists to his breast. He turned his small black head in all directions, and darted his narrow little eyes about the room. Yevsey looked after him, then reverently dipped pen in ink, and began to write. Soon he settled into that pleasant state of forgetfulness of his surroundings which had grown customary with him. He became absorbed in the work, which required no thought, and in it he lost his fear.

Yevsey quickly became accustomed to his new position. He did everything mechanically, and was ready to serve anyone at any time. In order the more immediately to get away from people, he subordinated himself submissively to everybody, and cleverly took refuge in his work from the cold curiosity and the cruel pranks of his fellow-clerks. Taciturn and reserved, he created for himself an unperceived existence in his corner. He lived like a nocturnal bird perched upon a dark post of observation without understanding the meaning of the noisy, motley days that passed before his round fathomless eyes.

Every hour he heard complaints, groans, ejaculations of fright, the stern voices of the police officers, the irritated grumbling and angry fun of the clerks. Often people were beaten on their faces, and dragged out of the door by their necks. Not infrequently blood was drawn. Sometimes policemen brought in persons bound with ropes, bruised and bellowing with pain.

The thieves who were led in wore an embarrassed air, but smiled at everybody as on a familiar. The street women also smiled ingratiatingly, and always arranged their dress with one and the same gesture. Those who had no passports observed a sullen or dejected silence, and looked askance at all with a hopeless gaze. The political offenders under police supervision came in proudly. They disputed and shouted, and never greeted anybody connected with the place. They behaved toward all there with tranquil contempt or pronounced hostility. This class of culprits was talked of a great deal in the chancery, almost always in fun, sometimes inimically. But under the ridicule and enmity Yevsey felt a hidden interest and something like reverent awe of these people who spoke so loudly and independently with everybody.

The greatest interest of the clerks was aroused by the political spies. These were men with indeterminate physiognomies, taciturn and severe. They were spoken of with keen envy. The clerks said they made huge sums of money, and related with terror how everything was known to them, everything open, and how immeasurable was their power over people's lives. They could fix every person, so that no matter where he moved he would inevitably land in prison.

The broad gaze of Klimkov lightly embraced everything moving about him. He imperceptibly gathered up experience, which his weak, uninformed mind was incapable of combining into a harmonious whole. But the numerous impressions heaping up one upon the other were forced into unity by the very weight of their mass, and aroused an unconscious greed for new observations. They sharpened his curiosity, and unexpectedly pointed to conclusions, secretly hinted at certain possibilities which sometimes frightened Yevsey by their boldness.

No one about him pitied anybody else. Neither was Yevsey sorry for people. It began to seem to him that all were feigning even when they cried and groaned from beatings. In all eyes he saw something concealed, something distrustful, and more than once his ear caught the cry, threatening though not uttered aloud:

"Wait, our turn will come some day, too."

In the evening, during those hours when he sat almost alone in the large room and recalled the impressions of the day, everything seemed superfluous and unreal, everything was unintelligible, a hindrance to people, and caused them perplexity and vexation. All seemed to know that they ought to live quietly, without malice, but for some reason no one wanted to tell the others his secret of a different life. No one trusted his neighbor, everybody lied, and made others lie. The irritation caused by this system of life was clearly apparent. All complained aloud of its burdensomeness, each looked upon the other as upon a dangerous enemy, and dissatisfaction in life waged war with mistrust, cutting the soul in two.

Klimkov did not dare to think in this wise, but he felt more and more clearly the lack of order and the oppressive weight of everything that whirled around him. At times he was seized by a heavy, debilitating sense of boredom. His fingers grew languid, he put the pen aside, and rested his head on the table, looking long and motionlessly into the murky twilight of the room. He painstakingly endeavored to find in the depths of his soul that which was essential to him.

Then his chief, the long-nosed old man with the shaven face and grey mustache would shout to him:

"Klimkov, are you asleep?"

Yevsey would seize the pen and say to himself with a sigh:

"It will pass away."

But Yevsey could not make out whether he still believed in the phrase, or had already ceased to believe in it and was merely saying it to himself for the sake of saying it.

CHAPTER IX

In the morning Rayisa half dressed, with a kneaded face and dim eyes, gave Yevsey his coffee without speaking to him. Dorimedont coughed and spat in her room. Now his dull voice began to sound even louder and more authoritative than ever. At dinner and supper he munched noisily, licked his lips, thrust his thick tongue far out, bellowed, and looked at the food greedily before he began to eat. His red pimply face grew glossy, and his little grey eyes glided over Yevsey's face like two cold bugs, unpleasantly tickling his skin.

"I know how hard life is, brother," he said. "I know what's what. I know what a pound of good and what a pound of bad is worth to a man, yes, siree. And you had good luck to come to me at once. Here I have placed you in a position, and I am going to push you farther and farther to the highest point possible – if you aren't a fool, of course."

He swung his bulky body as he spoke, and the chair under him groaned. Yevsey as he listened to his talk felt that this man could force him to do everything he wanted.

Sometimes the spy announced boastfully in self-applause:

"I received thanks again to-day from my chief Filip Filippovich. He even gave me his hand."

Once at supper Dorimedont pulled Yevsey's ear and began a recital.

"About two months ago I was sitting in a restaurant near a railroad station, and I saw a man eating cutlets. He kept looking around and consulting his watch. You must know, Yevsey, that an honest man with an easy mind doesn't glance around in all directions. People do not interest him, and he always knows the time. The only persons who look about for people are the agents of the Department of Safety and criminals. Of course, I kept my eye on the gentleman. The suburban train pulled in, another little gentleman comes into the restaurant, a dark fellow with a little beard, apparently a Jew. He wore two flowers in his buttonhole, a red and a white one – a sign. I see them greet each other with their eyes. 'Aha!' thinks I. The dark man ordered something to eat, drank a glass of Selters, and walked out. The one who had been in the restaurant first followed him leisurely, and I after them."

Dorimedont puffed up his cheeks, and then blew a stream of air steeped with the odor of meat and beer into Yevsey's face. Yevsey ducked his head, and the spy burst out laughing. Then he belched noisily, and continued raising his thick finger.

"For a month and twenty-three days I tracked the two men. Finally I reported them. I said I was on the track of suspicious people. They went away, and came back again. Who are they? The fair-haired fellow who had eaten the cutlet said, 'It's none of your business.' But the Jew gave his real name, and on inquiry it turned out we needed the man. Along with him we took a woman known to us – the third time she fell into our hands. We went to various other places, picked the people up like mushrooms. But we knew the whole gang. I was a good deal put out, when suddenly yesterday the fair-haired man gave us his name. He turned out to be an important fellow escaped from Siberia. Well, well, New Year I am to expect a reward."

Rayisa listened looking over the spy's head, while she slowly chewed a crust of bread and bit off little pieces at a time.

"You catch them, and catch them, but they're not exterminated," she said lazily.

The spy smiled, and answered impressively:

"You don't understand politics. That's why you talk nonsense, my dear. We don't want to exterminate these people altogether. They serve as sparks to show us where the fire really begins. That's what Filip Filippovich says, and he himself was once a political, moreover, a Jew. Yes, yes. It's a very sharp game."

Yevsey's gaze wandered gloomily about the contracted room. The walls papered in yellow were hung with portraits of Czars, generals, and naked women. These motley, obtrusive spots fairly cut the eyes, recalling sores and wounds on the body of a sick person. The furniture, smelling of whiskey and warm, greasy food, pressed close against the walls, as if to withdraw from the people. The lamp burned under a green shade, and cast dead shadows upon the faces.

For some reason Yevsey recollected the old sickly flat-nosed beggar with the restless eyes of a sharper, whom he met almost every day on his way to the office. The beggar pretended to be a jolly fellow, and would chant garrulously as he stretched out his hand for alms:

"Stout of body, red of nose,Pining for the want of booze;Prithee, help God's pilgrim true,Charity to whom 'tis due!Help my burning thirst to slake,Rum, oh rum, for the Lord's sake!"

The spy put his hand across the table, and pulled Yevsey's hair.

"When I speak, you must listen."

Dorimedont often beat Klimkov. Though his blows were not painful, they were particularly insulting, as if he struck not the face but the soul. He was especially fond of hitting Yevsey on the head with the heavy ring he wore on his finger, when he would knock the boy's skull so that a strange dry cracking sound was emitted. Each time Yevsey was dealt a blow Rayisa would say indifferently, moving her brows:

"Stop, Dorimedont Lukin. Don't."

"Well, well, he won't be chopped to pieces. He has to be taught."

Rayisa grew thinner, blue circles appeared under her eyes, her gaze became still more immobile and dull. On evenings when the spy was away from home she sent Yevsey for whiskey, which she gulped down in little glassfuls at a time. Then she spoke to him in an even voice. What she said was confused and unintelligible, and she frequently halted and sighed. Her large body grew flabby, she undid one button after the other, untied her ribbons, and half-dressed spread herself on the armchair like sour dough.

"I am bored," she said shaking her head. "Bored! If you were handsomer, or older, you might divert me in my gloom. Oh, how useless you are!"

Yevsey hung his head in silence. His heart was pricked with the burning cold of insult.

"Well, why are you staring at the floor?" he heard her sad complaining. "Others at your age would have started to love girls long ago; they live a living life. While you – oh, how irresponsive you are!"

Sometimes, after she had drunk whiskey, she drew him to herself, and toyed with him. This awoke a complex feeling of fear, shame, and sharp yet not bold curiosity. He shut his eyes tightly, and yielded himself silently, involuntarily, to the power of her shameless, coarse hands. The weak, anæmic boy was oppressed by the debilitating premonition of something terrible.

"Go to bed, go! Oh, my God!" she exclaimed, pushing him away, dissatisfied and disgusted.

Yevsey left her to go to the anteroom in which he slept. Gradually losing the undefined warm feeling he had for her, he withdrew into himself more and more.

As he lay in bed filled with a sense of insult and sharp, disagreeable excitement, he heard Rayisa singing in a thick cooing voice – always the same song – and heard the clink of the bottle against the glass.

But once on a dark night when fine streams of autumn rain lashed the window near his room with a howl, Rayisa succeeded in arousing in the youngster the feeling she needed.

"There, now," she said, smiling a drunken smile. "Now you are my paramour. You see how good it is? Eh?"

He stood at the bed also intoxicated of a sudden. His feet trembled, he was out of breath. He looked at her large, soft body, at her broad face spread in a smile. He was no longer ashamed, but his heart was seized with the grief of loss, and it sank within him outraged. For some reason he wanted to weep. But he was silent. This woman was a stranger to him, unnecessary and unpleasant; all the good kind feelings he had cherished for her were at one gulp swallowed up by her greedy body, and disappeared into it without leaving a trace, like belated drops in a muddy pool.

"We'll live together, and we'll give Dorimedont the go-by, the pig."

"But won't he find out?" inquired Yevsey quietly.

"Oh, you little coward, come here!"

He did not dare to refuse, but now the woman was no longer able to overcome his enmity to her. She toyed with him a long time, and smiled with an air of having been offended. Then she roughly pushed his bony body from her, uttered an oath, and went away.

When Yevsey was left alone he thought in despair.

"Now she will ruin me. She'll store this up against me. I am lost."

He looked through the window. Something formless and frightened throbbed in the darkness. It wept, lashed the window with a doleful howl, scraped along the wall, jumped on the roof, and fell down into the street moaning and wailing. A cautious seductive thought stole into his mind.

"Suppose I tell Kapiton Ivanovich to-morrow that she suffocated the old man!"

The question frightened Yevsey, and for a long time he was unable to push it away.

"She will ruin me, one way or the other," he answered himself. Yet the question persistently stood before him beckoning to him.

In the morning, however, it seemed that Rayisa had forgotten about the tragic, violent incident of the night before. She gave him his bread and coffee lazily and with an indifferent air. As always, she was half sick from the previous day's drinking. By neither word nor look did she hint of her changed relation to him.

He left for the office somewhat calmed, and from that day he began to remain in the office for night work. He would walk home very slowly so as to arrive as late as possible, because it was difficult for him to remain alone with the woman. He was afraid to speak to her, dreading lest she remember that night when she had destroyed Yevsey's feeling for her. Feeble though it had been, it had yet been dear to him.

Yakov Zarubin and Yevsey's chief, Kapiton Ivanovich, the man with the grey mustache, whom everybody called Smokestack behind his back, remained in the chancery with him for night work more frequently than the others. The chief's shaven face was often covered with little red stubble, which glistened golden from afar, and at close range resembled tiny twigs. From under his grey lashes and the eyelids that drooped wearily spiritless eyes gleamed angrily. He spoke in a grumbling growl, and incessantly smoked thick yellow cigarettes. The clouds of bluish smoke always hovering about his large white head distinguished him from all the others workers, and won him the nickname, Smokestack.

"What a grave man he is," Yevsey once said to Zarubin.

"He's cracked in the upper story," Zarubin answered, pointing to his head. "He spent almost a whole year in an insane asylum. But he's a quiet man."

Yevsey saw that sometimes the Smokestack took a small black book from the pocket of his long grey jacket, brought it close to his face, and mumbled something through his mustache, which moved up and down.

"Is that a prayer-book?"

"I don't know."

Zarubin's swarthy face quivered spasmodically. His little eyes bulged, he swung himself over toward Yevsey, and whispered hotly.

"Do you go to girls?"

"No."

"Why?"

Yevsey answered in embarrassment:

"I'm afraid."

"Ugh! Come with me. All right? We can get it for nothing. We need only twenty-five kopeks for beer. If we say we are from the Department of Police, they'll let us in, and give us girls for nothing. They are afraid of police officers. Everybody is afraid of us." In a still lower voice, but with more fire and appetite he continued. "And what girls there are! Stout, warm, like down feather-beds! They're the best, by golly! Some fondle you like your own mother, stroke your head, and so you fall asleep. It's good!"

"Have you a mother?"

"Yes, only I live with my aunt. My mother is a sow. She's a lewd woman, and lives with a butcher for her support. I don't go to her. The butcher won't let me. Once I went there, and he kicked me on the back. Ugh!"

Zarubin's little mouse ears quivered, his narrow eyes rolled queerly, he tugged at the black down on his upper lip with a convulsive movement of his fingers, and throbbed all over with excitement.

"Why are you such a quiet fellow? You ought to be bolder, or else they'll crush you with work. I was afraid at first, too, so they rode all over me. Come, let's be friends for the rest of our lives!"

Though Yevsey did not like Zarubin and was intimidated by his extreme agility, he replied:

"All right. Let's be friends."

"Your hand. There, it's done! So to-morrow we'll go to the girls?"

"No, I won't go."

They did not notice the Smokestack coming up to them.

"Well, Yakov, who will do whom?" he growled.

"We're not fighting," said Zarubin, sullenly and disrespectfully.

"You lie," said the Smokestack. "Say, Klimkov, don't give in to him, do you hear?"

"I do," said Yevsey rising before him.

A feeling of reverent curiosity drew him to the man. Once, as usual unexpectedly to himself, he took courage to speak to the Smokestack.

"Kapiton Ivanovich."

"What is it?"

"I want to ask you, if you please – "

Without looking at him, the Smokestack said:

"Get up some spunk! Get up some spunk!"

"Why do people live so badly?" Yevsey brought out with a great effort.

The old man raised his heavy brows.

"What business is it of yours?" he rejoined, looking into Klimkov's face.

Yevsey was staggered. The old man's question was like a blow on the chest. It stood before him in all the power of its inexplicable simplicity.

"Aha!" said the old man quietly. Then he drew his brows together, whipped a black book from his pocket, and tapping it with his finger said, "The New Testament. Have you read it?"

"Yes."

"Did you understand it?"

"No," answered Yevsey timidly.

"Read it again. Well, anyway – " Moving his mustache the old man hid the book in his pocket. "I've been reading this book for three years, yes, three years. Nobody understands it. It's a book for children, for the pure of heart. No one can understand it."

He grumbled kindly, and Yevsey felt a desire to ask more questions. They did not formulate themselves, however. The old man lighted a cigarette, the smoke enveloped him, and he apparently forgot about his interlocutor. Klimkov glided off quietly. His attraction for the Smokestack had grown stronger, and he thought:

"It would be good for me to sit nearer to him."

Henceforth this became his dream, which, however, came into direct conflict with the dream of Yakov Zarubin.

"You know what?" Zarubin said in a hot whisper. "Let's try to get into the Department of Safety, and become political spies. Then what a life we'll lead! Ugh!"

Yevsey was silent. The political spies frightened him because of their stern eyes and the mystery surrounding their dark business and dark life.

CHAPTER X

An accident happened at home. Dorimedont appeared late at night in torn clothes, without hat or cane, his face bruised and smeared with blood. His bulky body shook, tears ran down his swollen cheeks. He sobbed, and said in a hollow voice:

"It's all over! I must go away – to another city – the minute I can."

Rayisa silently, without haste, wiped his face with a towel dipped in brandy and water. He started and groaned.

"Not so rough! Not so rough! The beasts! How they beat me – with clubs. To beat a man with clubs! Please be more careful. Don't you understand?"

Yevsey handed the water, removed the spy's shoes, and listened to his groans. He took secret satisfaction in his tears and blood. Accustomed as he was to see people beaten until blood was drawn, their outcries did not touch him even though he remembered the pain of the pummelings he had received in his childhood.

"Who did it to you?" asked Rayisa when the spy was settled in bed.

"They trapped me, surrounded me, in a suburb near a thread factory. Now I must go to another city. I will ask for a transfer."

When Yevsey lay down to sleep, the spy and Rayisa began to quarrel aloud.

"I won't go," said the woman in a loud and unusually firm voice.

"Keep quiet! Don't excite a sick man!" the spy exclaimed with tears in his voice.

"I won't go!"

"I will make you."

In the morning Yevsey understood by Rayisa's stony face and the spy's angry excitement that the two did not agree. At supper they began to quarrel again. The spy, who had grown stronger during the day, cursed and swore. His swollen blue face was horrible to look upon, his right hand was in a sling, and he shook his left hand menacingly. Rayisa, pale and imperturbable, rolled her round eyes, and followed the swinging of his red hand.

"Never, I'll never go," she stubbornly repeated, scarcely varying her words.

"Why not?"

"I don't want to."

"But you know I can ruin you."

"I don't care."

"No, you'll go."

"I won't."

"We shall see. Who are you anyway? Have you forgotten?"

"It's all the same to me."

"All right."

After supper the spy wrapped his face in his scarf, and departed without saying anything. Rayisa sent Yevsey for whiskey. When he had brought her a bottle of table whiskey and another bottle of some dark liquid, she poured a portion of the contents of each into a cup, sipped the entire draught, and remained standing a long time with her eyes screwed up and wiping her neck with the palm of her hand.

"Do you want some?" she asked, nodding over the bottle. "No? Take a drink. You'll begin to drink some time or other anyway."

Yevsey looked at her high bosom, which had already begun to wither, at her little mouth, into her round dimmed eyes, and remembering how she had been before, he pitied her with a melancholy pity. He felt heavy and gloomy in the presence of this woman.

"Ah, Yevsey," she said, "if one could only live his whole life with a clean conscience."

Her lips twitched spasmodically. She filled a cup and offered it to him.

"Drink!"

He shook his head in declination.

"You little coward!" she laughed quietly. "Life is hard for you – I understand. But why you live I don't understand. Why? Tell me."

"Just so," answered Yevsey gloomily. "I live. What else is one to do?"

Rayisa looked at him, and said tenderly:

"I think you are going to choke yourself."

Yevsey was aggrieved and sighed. He settled himself more firmly in his chair.

Rayisa paced through the room, stepping lazily and inaudibly. She stopped before a mirror, and looked at her face long without winking. She felt her full white neck with her hands, her shoulders quivered, her hands dropped heavily, and she began again to pace the room, her hips moving up and down. She hummed without opening her mouth. Her voice was stifled like the groan of one who suffers from toothache.

A lamp covered with a green shade was burning on the table. Through the window the round disk of the moon could be seen in the vacant heavens. The moon, too, looked green, as it hung there motionless like the shadows in the room, and it augured ill.