by Maxim Gorky
And at the door sitting upon a bench a little thin young girl in a pink dress was sobbing and wiping her face with her white apron.
“I am not guilty.”
“Who is whining there?” asked a sharp voice.
The outsiders who came in did nothing but complain, make requests, and justify themselves. They spoke while standing, humbly and tearfully. The officials, on the other hand, remained seated and shouted at them, now angrily, now in ridicule, and now wearily. Paper rustled, and pens squeaked, and all this noise was penetrated by the steady weeping of the girl.
“Aleksey,” the man with the grey beard called aloud, “take this woman away from here.” His eyes were arrested by the sight of Klimkov. He walked up to him hastily, and asked gruffly, in astonishment, “What’s the matter with you? Why aren’t you writing?”
Yevsey dropped his head, and was silent.
“Hmm, another fool given a job,” said the old man shrugging his shoulders. “Hey, Zarubin!” he shouted as he walked away.
A dry thin boy with a low forehead and restless eyes and black curls on a small head sat down beside Yevsey.
“What’s the trouble?” he asked, nudging Yevsey’s side with his elbow.
“I don’t understand what to do,” explained Klimkov in a frightened tone.
From somewhere within the youngster in the region of his stomach came a hollow, broken sound, “Ugh!”
“I’ll teach you,” he said in a low voice, as if communicating some important secret. “I’ll teach you, and you’ll give me half a ruble. Got half a ruble?”
“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 today 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 tomorrow 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 p
ersistently 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.”
