In the morning Yevsey lay in bed frowning up at the ceiling.
"Put my foot into it!" he thought dismally, as the recollection of what
had happened the day before came back to him. "No, I oughtn't to track
people, but track myself." The idea seemed strange to him. "How's that,
though? Am I rascally toward myself?"
He remembered the melancholy hazel eyes of the joiner, the expression of
dignity on his thin face, and his assured voice as he said, "It's
chilly." Suddenly Yevsey was perplexed to feel within himself something
alien, something ready to struggle with him. He rose to his feet, took
in as much air as he could, and for a long time stood without emitting
breath, as if to stifle inside himself that which was alien and which
hindered him.
"I must stop all this. What do I want it for?" he urged himself.
Nevertheless ease did not return. He began to dress lazily, compelling
himself to think about the task of the day.
Now he seldom went about with goods, because there was much other work
to be done. This day, for instance, he was to go to a factory suburb to
observe the workingmen, with the object of discovering the persons who
distributed proclamations.
He smeared his hands with soot and oil, then washed them with soap,
after which an oily film was left, such as on the hands of metal
workers. This was not essential. But Klimkov liked to dye his tufty
hair, and color his brows and mustache. Such proceedings made his work
more interesting, and heightened its gravity.
The handsome Grokhotov had been very assiduous in teaching Yevsey the
art of disguising his face and figure. Grokhotov was sincerely attracted
by the work. He possessed a large supply of beards, mustaches, and wigs
of all colors, and could paste scars and warts on the face. Sometimes he
would display his mimic arts to his comrades. Suddenly, right in
everybody's presence, he would give his face, voice, and figure a
striking resemblance to one of the officials. Or he would cackle like a
goose, roar like a lion, bark like a dog, or meow like a cat. His
astonished audience praised him generously, and held their sides with
laughter, while he, smiling sedately, declared modestly:
"Just the A B C's. Wait until I've been at it a year. Then I'll go on
the stage. I'll hit off all the celebrities, and I'll imitate every
animal on earth."
Melnikov would look at him with contempt, and spit out. Once he even
shouted:
"Hey, you clown, show us a louse."
"The louse is a mute insect," remarked the spy.
"Well, then, profit by its example. Eat and keep quiet."
While dressing Klimkov remembered this interchange of words, which in
turn recalled Anatol.
"There," he thought, "Anatol would have made a good spy. But Zimin
wouldn't do at all. His eyes are in the way. You can recognize him by
the eyes at once. He certainly wants to take Masha as his mistress."
Yevsey stopped at the door, his heart unpleasantly gripped by this
conjecture. But the next instant he waved his hand carelessly.
"To the devil with all of them! What do I care?"
This thought, which had calmed him before, now irritated a sore spot in
his feelings.
The sun was shining, water flowed from the roofs babbling and washing
away the dirty reddish snow. The people walked quickly and merrily. The
good chimes of the Lenten bells floated lengthily in the warm moist
atmosphere, mingling in a broad ribbon of soft sounds, which waved in
the air, and floated from the city into the pale bluish distance.
"Now to go off somewhere, to walk in the fields, in the deserts,"
thought Yevsey, as he entered the narrow streets of the factory suburb.
Round about him rose the red filthy walls, supporting themselves one
against the other. The sky over them was besmirched with smoke, the air
was steeped in the stifling odor of warm oil. White teeth gleamed
angrily in the dirty faces of the workingmen. All the surroundings were
unlovely, and the eyes quickly wearied in looking upon the smoked stone
cages in which the men worked.
At noon Klimkov, exhausted and feeling insulted by everything he saw,
entered a tavern, where he ordered dinner to be brought to him at a
small table next to a window. He reluctantly listened to the people's
conversation. There were not many, but all were workingmen, who lazily
cast short words at one another as they ate and drank. The only lively
sound was of a young incessant voice which reached him from a corner.
"No, think, where does wealth come from?"
The person who spoke was a broad-shouldered, curly-haired fellow. Yevsey
looked at him in vexation, and turned away. He frequently heard talks
about wealth, which always inspired him with a sense of bored
perplexity. He felt they were dictated only by envy and greed. He knew
that just such talks were accounted noxious, and he forcibly compelled
himself to listen to them, though to-day he wanted to traverse the broad
light streets of the city.
"You work cheaply, and you buy dearly. Isn't it so?" cried the
curly-headed fellow. "All wealth is accumulated from the money by which
we are underpaid for our work. Let's take an example."
"Everybody's greedy," thought Yevsey. "How Masha snatched the beads
yesterday! All are scoundrels. And the reason Zimin did not strike me
was because he was afraid I would call the police. Ha! They drove me
out, but they kept my presents. If they thought me a dirty fellow, they
should have returned my presents, the skunks!"
Filling himself with the pleasant bitterness that comes from censuring
people, he was carried away by it, and no longer heard or saw anything.
Suddenly, however, a merry voice fell upon his ear.
"What, Yevsey Klimkov?"
He raised his head hastily, and wanted to rise, but was unable to do so.
He saw standing before him the curly-headed orator, whom, however, he
did not recognize.
"You don't know me? Yakov, your cousin."
He laughed, held out his hand to Yevsey, and seated himself opposite him
at the table. His laughter enveloped Klimkov in a warm cloud of
reminiscences--of the church, the quiet ravine, the fire, and the talks
of the blacksmith. Silent, smiling in embarrassment, he carefully
pressed his cousin's hand.
"I didn't recognize you."
"Of course!" exclaimed Yakov. "Your memory gets weak in the city.
Various things creep upon you from all sides, so no place is left for
the old. How are you getting along?"
"So, so."
"Out of work?"
"Yes."
Klimkov answered unwillingly. He wanted to know whereby this meeting
might be dangerous for him. But Yakov spoke for both. He rapidly gave an
account of the village, as if it were absolutely necessary for him to
get through with it as quickly as possible. In two minutes he had told
Yevsey that his father had gotten blind, that his mother was always
sick, and that he had been living in the city three years working in the
factory.
"There, you've got the whole story."
Yakov was even more thickly besmudged with soot and oil than most of the
men. Though his clothes were torn he seemed to be rich. He was outspoken
and free in his demeanor. Klimkov looked at him with pleasure, and
recalled without malice how this strong fellow had beaten him.
"Is he a revolutionist, too?" he asked himself timidly.
"Well, how are you getting along?" said Yakov. His broad round face,
glossy and smiling good-naturedly, called for frankness in return, which
Klimkov, however, did not want to give. He felt the new and alien thing
that he had found in his soul in the morning growing in him. In the
desire to evade Yakov's questions, he himself began to interrogate.
"And how are you?"
"Work is hard, and life is easy. I like the city very much. It's a smart
thing, the city is. And how simple, how intelligible things are here.
It's true that work for us fellows is, you may say, humiliating. There's
so much work, and so little time to live. Your whole day, your whole
life goes to your employer. You can keep only minutes for yourself.
There's no time to read a book. I'd like to go to theatre, but when will
I sleep? Do you read books?"
"No."
"Well, yes, you have no time. Isn't it so? Though I manage to read after
all. Such books as you get here! You start one, and you just sink away,
as if a dear girl and you were embracing. Honest! How do you get along
with girls? Lucky?"
"So, so," said Yevsey.
"They love me! The girls here, too--ah, God, what a life! Do you go to
the theatre?"
"I've been."
"I love theatre. I snatch up everything, as if I were going to leave
to-morrow, or die. Really! I like to hear music, everything--the
zoological garden--that's a nice place, too."
The red of excitement broke through the black layer of dirt of Yakov's
cheeks. His eyes burned eagerly. He smacked his lips, as if he were
sucking in something refreshing and vivifying.
Quiet envy stirred in Yevsey, envy of this healthy body with its keen
appetites. He stubbornly recalled how Yakov had pummeled his sides with
his powerful fists; and something sad softly hindered him from doing
violence to himself. Quick, joyous speech came from Yakov without cease;
the ringing exulting words and exclamations fluttered around Yevsey like
swallows. He drank in the live spring-talk, involuntarily smiling. He
seemed to himself to be splitting in two, torn by the desire to listen,
and the awkward, almost shameful feeling that possessed him. Though he
wished to speak in his turn, he feared he might betray himself. His
shirt collar pressed his neck. He turned his head around, and suddenly
saw Grokhotov on the street at the window. Over the spy's left shoulder
and arm hung torn breeches, dirty shirts, and jackets. He gave Yevsey a
scarcely perceptible wink as he shouted in a sour voice:
"I sell and buy old clothes."
"It's time for me to be going," said Yevsey, jumping to his feet.
"You are free on Sundays, aren't you? Oh, yes, you're out of work. Well,
then, let's go to the zoological gardens. Come to me. No, I'd better go
to you. Where do you live?"
Yevsey was silent. He did not want to tell him where he lodged.
"What's the matter? Do you live with a girl? That doesn't matter. You'll
introduce me to her. That's all. What are you ashamed of? Is that it?"
"You see I don't live alone."
"Well, yes."
"But I don't live with a girl. I live with an old man."
Yakov guffawed.
"How funny you are! The devil knows how you speak. Well, we don't want
an old man, of course. I live with two comrades. It's not convenient for
anyone to call on me either. Come, let's agree on a place where we can
meet."
They decided on a meeting-place, and left the café. Yakov on taking
leave gave his cousin an affectionate and vigorous handshake, and Yevsey
left him in precipitate haste as if he feared his cousin would return to
take it back. On his way he reflected dismally:
"I cannot go on the side of the city where the railway station is,
because I'll meet Zimin there, and they'll beat me. Here, the toughest
place, the place they call a hot-bed of revolutionists, Yakov will be in
my way. I can't do a thing. I can't turn anywhere."
A feeling of spiteful irritation glided over his soul like a grey
shadow.
"I sell old clothes," sang Grokhotov behind his back, then whispered,
"Buy a shirt from me, Klimkov."
Yevsey turned around, took some rag in his hand, and examined it
silently, while the spy praising the wares aloud, managed to get in a
whisper, "See here, you just hit it. That curly-headed fellow, I had my
eyes on him. He's a Socialist. Hold on to him. You can hook a great many
with him. He's a young fellow, a simple sort of fellow, do you hear?" He
tore the rag from Yevsey's hand, and shouted in an offended tone, "Five
kopeks for such a garment as this? You're making sport of me, friend.
Why should you insult me? Go your way, go." And shouting his wares,
Grokhotov strode down the street.
"There, I myself am going to be under surveillance," thought Yevsey,
looking at Grokhotov's back.
When a spy with little experience became acquainted with a workingman,
he was obliged to report the fact immediately to the spy above him. The
latter either gave him as an assistant a spy with more experience, or he
himself went among the workingmen; upon which the other spies would say
of him enviously:
"He 'noosed' himself into the provocatorship."
The role of provocator was considered dangerous, so by way of
compensation the officers at once gave money rewards for the handing
over of a group of people. All the spies not only gladly "noosed"
themselves, but sometimes also even tripped one another up in the
endeavor to snatch away the lucky chance. In this way the entire
business was not infrequently spoiled. More than once it happened that a
spy had already gotten inside a circle of workingmen, when suddenly in
some secret manner they learned of his profession; whereupon they would
beat him if he had not succeeded in time in slipping away from the
circle. This was called "snapping the noose."
It was hard for Klimkov to believe that Yakov was a Socialist, though at
the same time he wanted to believe it. The envy his cousin aroused was
transformed again into irritation against him for having put himself in
his way. Yevsey now also recalled the blows his cousin had bestowed upon
him.
In the evening, with eyes turned aside, he informed Piotr of his
acquaintance.
"Well, what of it?" asked Piotr angrily.
"Nothing."
"You don't know what you must do? Then what the devil is the use of
teaching you fellows?" Piotr hastened off, crumpled, lean, with dark
stains under his eyes.
"Evidently lost again at cards," thought Yevsey gloomily.