From this life Yevsey awoke in a dusky corner of a large room with a low
ceiling. He sat holding a pen in his hand at a table covered with dirty
green oilcloth, and before him lay a thick book in which there was
writing, and a few pages of blank ruled paper. He did not understand
what he had to do with all this apparatus, and looked around helplessly.
There were many tables in the room with two or four persons at each.
They sat there with a tired and vexed expression on their faces, moving
their pens rapidly, smoking much, and now and then casting curt words at
one another. The pungent blue smoke floated to the window casements,
where it met the deafening noise that entered importunately from the
street. Numberless flies buzzed about the occupants' heads, crawled over
the tables and notices on the walls, and knocked against the panes. They
resembled the people who filled this stifling filthy cage with their
bustle.
Gendarmes stood at the doors, officers came and went, various persons
entered, exchanged greetings, smiled obsequiously, and sighed. Their
rapid, plaintive talk, which kept up a constant see-saw, was broken and
drowned by the stern calls of the clerks.
Yevsey sat in his corner with his neck stretched over the table and his
transparent eyes wide open, scrutinizing the different clerks in an
attempt to remember their faces and figures. He wanted to find someone
among them who would help him. The instinct of self-protection, now
awakened in him, concentrated all his oppressed feelings, all his broken
thoughts, into one clear endeavor to adapt himself to this place and
these people, as soon as possible, in order to make himself unnoticed
among them.
All the clerks, young and old, had something in common, a certain seedy
and worn appearance. They were all equally dejected, but they easily
grew excited and shouted, gesticulating and showing their teeth. There
were many elderly and bald-headed men among them, of whom several had
red hair and two grey hair. Of the two, one was a tall man who wore his
hair long and had a large mustache, resembling a priest, whose beard has
been shaved off. The other was a red-faced man with a huge beard and a
bare skull. It was the last who had put Yevsey into a corner, set a book
before him, and, tapping his finger upon it, had told him to copy
certain parts of it.
Now an elderly woman all in black stood before this old man, and drawled
in a plaintive tone:
"Little father, gracious sir."
"You disturb me in my work," shouted the old man without looking at her.
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.