by Maxim Gorky
“The nobleman is squeamish. He doesn’t want to come near me. He has the right to be, the devil take him! His ancestors lived in lofty rooms, they breathed rarefied air, ate healthful food, wore clean undergarments. He, too, for that matter. But I am a muzhik. I was born and brought up like an animal, in filth, among lice, on coarse black bread made of unbolted meal. His blood is better than mine, yes, indeed, both the blood and the brain; and the brain is the soul.” After a pause he added in a lower voice, gloomily, without ridicule, “Idiots and impostors speak of the equality of man. The aristocrat preaches equality because he is an impudent scoundrel, and can’t do anything himself. So of course he says, ‘you are just as good a man as I am. Act so that I shall be able to live better.’ This is the theory of equality.”
Sasha’s talks did not evoke a response from the other spies. They failed to be moved by his excitement, and listened to his growling in indifferent silence. He received sulky support, however, from one, the large Melnikov, who acted as a detective among workingmen.
“Yes,” Melnikov would say, “they are all deceivers,” and nod his dark unkempt head in confirmation while vigorously clenching his hairy fist.
“They ought to be killed, as the muzhiks kill horse thieves,” screamed Sasha.
“To kill may be a little too much, but sometimes it would be delicious to give a gentleman a box on the ear,” said Chashin, a celebrated billiard player, curly-haired, thin, and sharp-nosed. “Let’s take this example. About a week ago I was playing in Kononov’s hotel with a gentleman. I saw his face was familiar to me, but all chickens have feathers. He stared at me in his turn. ‘Well,’ thinks I, ‘look. I don’t change color.’ I fixed him for three rubles and half a dozen beers, and while we were drinking he suddenly rose, and said, ‘I recognize you. You are a spy. When I was in the university,’ he said, ‘thanks to you,’ he said, ‘I had to stick in prison four months. You are,’ he said, ‘a scoundrel.’ At first I was frightened, but soon the insult gnawed at my heart. ‘You sat in prison not at all thanks to me, but to your politics. And your politics do not concern me personally. But let me tell you that on your account I had to run about day and night hunting you in all sorts of weather. I had to stick in the hospital thirteen days.’ That’s the truth. The idea for him to jump on me! The pig, he ate himself fat as a priest, wore a gold watch, and had a diamond pin stuck in his tie.”
Akim Grokhotov, a handsome fellow, with a face mobile as an actor’s observed:
“I know men like that, too. When they are young, they walk on their heads; when the serious years come, they stay at home peacefully with their wives, and for the sake of a livelihood are even ready to enter our Department of Safety. The law of nature.”
“Among them are some who can’t do anything besides revolutionary work. Those are the most dangerous,” said Melnikov.
“Yes, yes,” shot from Krasavin, who greedily rolled his oblique eyes.
Once Piotr lost a great deal in cards. He asked in a wearied, exasperated tone:
“When will this dog’s life of ours end?”
Solovyov looked at him, and chewed his thick lips.
“We are not called upon to judge of such matters. Our business is simple. All we have to do is to take note of a certain face pointed out by the officials, or to find it ourselves, gather information, make observations, give a report to the authorities, and let them do as they please. For all we care they may flay people alive. Politics do not concern us. Once there was an agent in our Department, Grisha Sokovnin, who also thought about such things, and ended his life in a prison hospital where he died of consumption.”
Oftenest the conversation took some such course as the following:
Viekov, a wig-maker, always gaily and fashionably dressed, a modest, quiet person, announced:
“Three fellows were arrested yesterday.”
“Great news!” someone responded indifferently.
But Viekov whether or no would tell his comrades all he knew. A spark of quiet stubbornness flared up in his small eyes as he continued in an inquisitive tone:
“The gentlemen revolutionists, it seems, are again hatching plots on Nikitskaya Street—great goings-on.”
“Fools! All the janitors there are old hands in the service.”
“Much help they are, the janitors!”
“Hmm, yes, indeed.”
“However,” said Viekov cautiously, “a janitor can be bribed.”
“And you, too. Every man can be bribed—a mere matter of price.”
“Did you hear, boys, Siekachev won seven hundred rubles in cards yesterday.”
“How he smuggles the cards!”
“Yes, yes. He’s no sharper, but a young wizard.”
Viekov looked around, smiled in embarrassment, then silently and carefully smoothed his clothes.
“A new proclamation has appeared,” he announced another time.
“There are lots of proclamations. The devil knows which of them is new.”
“There’s a great deal of evil in them.”
“Did you read it?”
“No. Filip Filippovich says there’s a new one, and he’s mad.”
“The authorities are always mad. Such is the law of nature,” remarked Grokhotov with a smile.
“Who reads those proclamations?”
“They’re read all right—very much so.”
“Well, what of it? I have read them, too, yet I didn’t turn black. I remained what I was, a red-haired fellow. It’s not a matter of proclamations, it’s a matter of bombs.”
“Of course.”
“A proclamation doesn’t explode.”
Evidently, however, the spies did not like to speak of bombs, for each time they were mentioned, all made a strenuous effort to change the subject.
“Forty thousand dollars’ worth of gold articles were stolen in Kazan.”
“There’s something for you!”
“Forty thousand! Whew!”
“Did they catch the thieves?” someone asked in great excitement.
“They’ll get caught,” prophesied another sorrowfully.
“Well, before that happens they’ll have a good time.”
A mist of envy enveloped the spies, who sank in dreams of revelries, of big stakes, and costly women.
Melnikov was more interested than the others in the course of the war. Often he asked Maklakov, who read the newspapers carefully:
“Are they still licking us?”
“They are.”
“But what’s the cause?” Melnikov exclaimed in perplexity, rolling his eyes. “Aren’t there people enough, or what?”
“Not enough sense,” Maklakov retorted drily.
“The workingmen are dissatisfied. They do not understand. They say the generals have been bribed.”
“That’s certainly true,” Krasavin broke in. “None of them are Russians,”—he uttered an ugly oath—“what’s our blood to them?”
“Blood is cheap,” said Solovyov, and smiled strangely.
As a rule the spies spoke of the war unwillingly, as if constrained in one another’s presence, and afraid of uttering some dangerous word. On the day of a defeat they all drank more whiskey than usual, and having gotten drunk quarreled over trifles.
On such days Yevsey trying to avoid possible brawls made his escape unnoticed to his empty room, and there thought about the life of the spies. All of them—and there were many, their numbers constantly increasing—all of them seemed unhappy. They were all solitary, and he pitied them with his colorless pity. Nevertheless he liked to be among them and listen to their talk.
At the meetings Sasha boiled over and swore:
“Monstrosities! You understand nothing. You can’t understand the significance of the business. Monstrosities!”
In answer some smiled deprecatingly, others maintained sullen silenc
e.
“For forty rubles a month you can’t be expected to understand very much,” one would sometimes mutter.
“You ought to be wiped off the face of the earth,” shrieked Sasha.
Klimkov began to dislike Sasha more and more, strengthened in his ill-will by the fact that nobody else cared for the diseased man.
Many of the spies were actually sick from the constant dread of attacks and death. Fear drove some, as it had Yelizar Titov, into an insane asylum.
“I was playing in the club yesterday,” said Piotr, in a disconcerted tone, “when I felt something pressing on the nape of my neck and a cold shiver running up and down my back-bone. I looked around. There in the corner stood a tall man looking at me as if he were measuring me inch by inch. I could not play. I rose from the table, and I saw him move. I backed out, and ran down the stairs into the yard and out into the street. I took a cab, sat in it sidewise, and looked back. Suddenly the man appeared from somewhere in front of me, and crossed the street under the horse’s very nose. Maybe it wasn’t he. But in such a case you can’t think. How I yelled! He stopped, and I jumped out of the cab, and off I went at a gallop, the cabman after me. Well, how I did run, the devil take it!”
“Such things happen,” said Grokhotov, smiling. “I once hid myself for a similar reason in the yard. But it was still more horrible there, so I climbed up to a roof, and sat there behind the chimney until daybreak. A man must guard himself against another man. Such is the law of nature.”
Krasavin once entered pale and sweating with staring eyes.
“They were following me,” he announced gloomily, pressing his temples.
“Who?”
“They.”
Solovyov endeavored to calm him.
“Lots of people walk the streets, Gavrilo. What’s that to you?”
“I could tell by the way they walked they were after me.”
For more than two weeks Yevsey did not see Krasavin.
The spies treated Klimkov good-naturedly, and their occasional laughter at his expense did not offend him, for when he was grieved over his mistakes, they comforted him:
“You’ll get used to the work.”
He was puzzled as to when the spies did their work, and tried to unriddle the problem. They seemed to pass the greater part of their time in the cafés, sending novices and such insignificant fellows as himself out for observations.
He knew that besides all the spies with whom he was acquainted there were still others, desperate, fearless men, who mingled with the revolutionists, and were known by the name of provocators. There were only a few such men, but these few did most of the work, and directed it entirely. The authorities prized them very highly, while the street spies, envious of them, were unanimous in their dislike of the provocators because of their haughtiness.
Once in the street Grokhotov pointed out a provocator to Yevsey.
“Look, Klimkov, quick!”
A tall sturdy man was walking along the pavement. His fair hair combed back fell down beautifully from under his hat to his shoulders. His face was large and handsome, his mustache luxuriant. His soberly clad person produced the impression of that of an important, well-fed gentleman of the nobility.
“You see what a fellow?” said Grokhotov with pride. “Fine, isn’t he? Our guard. He delivered up twenty men of the bomb. He helped them make the bombs himself. They wanted to blow up a minister. He taught them, then delivered them up. Clever piece of business, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Yevsey, amazed at the man’s stately appearance so unlike that of the busy, bustling street spies.
“That’s the kind they are, the real ones,” said Grokhotov. “Why, he would do for a minister; he has the face and figure for it. And we—what are we? Poverty-stricken dependents upon a hungry nobleman.”
Yevsey sighed. The magnificent spy aroused his envy.
Ready to serve anybody and everybody for a good look or a kind word, he ran about the city obediently, searched, questioned, and informed. If he succeeded in pleasing, he rejoiced sincerely, and grew in his own estimation. He worked much, made himself very tired, and had no time to think.
Maklakov, reserved and serious, seemed better and purer to Yevsey than any person he had met up to that time. He always wanted to ask him about something, and tell him about himself—such an attractive and engaging face did this young spy have.
Once Yevsey actually put a question to him:
“Timofey Vesilyevich, how much do the revolutionists receive a month?”
A light shadow passed over Maklakov’s bright eyes.
“You are talking nonsense,” he answered, not in a loud voice, but angrily.
The days passed quickly, in a constant stir, one just like the other. At times Yevsey felt they would file on in the same way far into the future—vari-colored, boisterous, filled with the talks now become familiar to him and with the running about to which he had already grown accustomed. This thought enfolded his heart in cold tedium, his body in enfeebling languor. Everything within and without became empty. Klimkov seemed to be sliding down into a bottomless pit.
CHAPTER XVI
In the middle of the winter everything suddenly trembled and shook. People anxiously opened their eyes, gesticulated, disputed furiously, and swore. As though severely wounded and blinded by a blow, they all stampeded to one place.
It began in this way. One evening on reaching the Department of Safety to hand in a hurried report of his investigations, Klimkov found something unusual and incomprehensible in the place. The officials, agents, and clerks appeared to have put on new faces. All seemed strangely unlike themselves. They wore an air of astonishment and rejoicing. They spoke now in very low tones and mysteriously, now aloud and angrily. There was a senseless running from room to room, a listening to one another’s words, a suspicious screwing-up of anxious eyes, a shaking of heads and sighing, a sudden cessation of talk, and an equally sudden burst of disputing. A whirlwind of fear and perplexity swept the room in broad circles. Playing with the people’s impotence it drove them about like dust, first blowing them into a pile, then scattering them on all sides. Klimkov stationed in a corner looked with vacant eyes upon this state of consternation, and listened to the conversation with strained attention.
He saw Melnikov with his powerful neck bent and his head stuck forward place his hairy hands on different persons’ shoulders and demand in his low hollow voice:
“Why did the people do it?”
“What of it? The people must live. Hundreds were killed, eh? Wounded!” shouted Solovyov.
From somewhere came the repulsive voice of Sasha, cutting the ear.
“The priest ought to have been caught. That before everything else. The idiots!”
Krasavin walked about with his hands folded behind his back, biting his lips and rolling his eyes in every direction.
Quiet Viekov took up his stand beside Yevsey, and picked at the buttons of his vest.
“So this is the point we’ve reached,” he said. “My God! Bloodshed! What do you think, eh?”
“What happened?” Yevsey asked.
Viekov looked around warily, took Klimkov by the hand, and whispered:
“This morning the people in St. Petersburg with a priest and sacred banners marched to the Czar Emperor. You understand? But they were not admitted. The soldiers were stationed about, and blood was spilled.”
A handsome staid gentleman, Leontyev, ran past them, glanced back at Viekov through his pince nez, and asked:
“Where is Filip Filippovich?”
But he disappeared without waiting for the information he wanted, and Viekov ran after him.
Yevsey closed his eyes for a minute, in order to try in the darkness to get at the meaning of what had been told him. He could easily represent to himself a mass of people walking through the streets in a sacred
procession, but since he could not understand why the soldiers had shot at them, he was skeptical about the affair. However, the general agitation seized him, too, and he felt disturbed and ill at ease. He wanted to bustle about with the spies, but unable to make up his mind to approach those he knew, he merely retreated still farther into his corner.
Many persons passed by him, all of whom, he fancied, were quickly searching for a little cosy corner where they might stand to collect their thoughts.
Maklakov appeared. He remained near the door with his hands thrust into his pockets, and looked sidewise at everybody. Melnikov approached him.
“Did they do it on account of the war?”
“I don’t know.”
“For what else? If it was the people. But maybe it was simply some mistake. Eh? What did they ask for, do you know?”
“A constitution,” replied Maklakov.
The sullen spy shook his head.
“I don’t believe it.”
“As you please.”
Then Melnikov turned heavily, like a bear, and walked away grumbling:
“No one understands anything. They stir about, make a big noise—”
Yevsey went up to Maklakov, who was looking at him.
“What is it?”
“I have a report.”
Maklakov waved him aside.
“Who wants to bother about reports today.”
Yevsey drew still nearer, and asked:
“Timofey Vasilyevich, what does ‘constitution’ mean?”
“A different order of life,” answered the spy in a low voice.
Solovyov, perspiring and red, came running up.
“Have you heard whether they are going to send us to St. Petersburg?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“I think they probably will. Such an event! Why, it’s a revolt, a real revolt.”
“Tomorrow we will know.”
“How much blood has been shed! What is it?”
Maklakov’s eye ran about uneasily. Today his shoulders seemed more stooping than ever, and the ends of his mustache dropped downward.
Something seemed to be revolting in Yevsey’s brain, and Maklakov’s grim words kept repeating themselves.
