Serge went to Moscow. He entered the Teknik. He became
a student. He learned geography from Stoj, the professor,
astrography from Fudj, the assistant, together with
giliodesy, orgastrophy and other native Russian studies.
All day he worked. His industry was unflagging. His
instructors were enthusiastic. "If he goes on like this,"
they said, "he will some day know something."
"It is marvellous," said one. "If he continues thus, he
will be a professor."
"He is too young," said Stoj, shaking his head. "He has
too much hair."
"He sees too well," said Fudj. "Let him wait till his
eyes are weaker."
But all day as Serge worked he thought. And his thoughts
were of Olga Ileyitch, the girl that he had seen with
Kwartz, inspector of police. He wondered why she had
killed Popoff, the inspector. He wondered if she was
dead. There seemed no justice in it.
One day he questioned his professor.
"Is the law just?" he said. "Is it right to kill?"
But Stoj shook his head, and would not answer.
"Let us go on with our orgastrophy," he said. And he
trembled so that the chalk shook in his hand.
So Serge questioned no further, but he thought more deeply
still. All the way from the Teknik to the house where he
lodged he was thinking. As he climbed the stair to his
attic room he was still thinking.
The house in which Serge lived was the house of Madame
Vasselitch. It was a tall dark house in a sombre street.
There were no trees upon the street and no children played
there. And opposite to the house of Madame Vasselitch
was a building of stone, with windows barred, that was
always silent. In it were no lights, and no one went in
or out.
"What is it?" Serge asked.
"It is the house of the dead," answered Madame Vasselitch,
and she shook her head and would say no more.
The husband of Madame Vasselitch was dead. No one spoke
of him. In the house were only students, Most of them
were wild fellows, as students are. At night they would
sit about the table in the great room drinking Kwas made
from sawdust fermented in syrup, or golgol, the Russian
absinth, made by dipping a gooseberry in a bucket of soda
water. Then they would play cards, laying matches on the
table and betting, "Ten, ten, and yet ten," till all the
matches were gone. Then they would say, "There are no
more matches; let us dance," and they would dance upon
the floor, till Madame Vasselitch would come to the room,
a candle in her hand, and say, "Little brothers, it is
ten o'clock. Go to bed." Then they went to bed. They were
wild fellows, as all students are.
But there were two students in the house of Madame
Vasselitch who were not wild. They were brothers. They
lived in a long room in the basement. It was so low that
it was below the street.
The brothers were pale, with long hair. They had deep-set
eyes. They had but little money. Madame Vasselitch gave
them food. "Eat, little sons," she would say. "You must
not die."
The brothers worked all day. They were real students.
One brother was Halfoff. He was taller than the other
and stronger. The other brother was Kwitoff. He was not
so tall as Halfoff and not so strong.
One day Serge went to the room of the brothers. The
brothers were at work. Halfoff sat at a table. There was
a book in front of him.
"What is it?" asked Serge.
"It is solid geometry," said Halfoff, and there was a
gleam in his eyes.
"Why do you study it?" said Serge.
"To free Russia," said Halfoff.
"And what book have you?" said Serge to Kwitoff.
"Hamblin Smith's _Elementary Trigonometry_," said Kwitoff,
and he quivered like a leaf.
"What does it teach?" asked Serge.
"Freedom!" said Kwitoff.
The two brothers looked at one another.
"Shall we tell him everything?" said Halfoff.
"Not yet," said Kwitoff. "Let him learn first. Later he
shall know."
After that Serge often came to the room of the two brothers.
The two brothers gave him books. "Read them," they said.
"What are they?" asked Serge.
"They are in English," said Kwitoff. "They are forbidden
books. They are not allowed in Russia. But in them is
truth and freedom."
"Give me one," said Serge.
"Take this," said Kwitoff. "Carry it under your cloak.
Let no one see it."
"What is it?" asked Serge, trembling in spite of himself.
"It is Caldwell's _Pragmatism_," said the brothers.
"Is it forbidden?" asked Serge.
The brothers looked at him.
"It is death to read it," they said.
After that Serge came each day and got books from Halfoff
and Kwitoff. At night he read them. They fired his brain.
All of them were forbidden books. No one in Russia might
read them. Serge read Hamblin Smith's _Algebra_. He read
it all through from cover to cover feverishly. He read
Murray's _Calculus_. It set his brain on fire. "Can this
be true?" he asked.
The books opened a new world to Serge.
The brothers often watched him as he read.
"Shall we tell him everything?" said Halfoff.
"Not yet." said Kwitoff. "He is not ready."
One night Serge went to the room of the two brothers.
They were not working at their books. Littered about the
room were blacksmith's tools and wires, and pieces of
metal lying on the floor. There was a crucible and
underneath it a blue fire that burned fiercely. Beside
it the brothers worked. Serge could see their faces in
the light of the flame.
"Shall we tell him now?" said Kwitoff. The other brother
nodded.
"Tell him now," he said.
"Little brother," said Kwitoff, and he rose from beside
the flame and stood erect, for he was tall, "will you
give your life?"
"What for?" asked Serge.
The brothers shook their heads.
"We cannot tell you that," they said. "That would be too
much. Will you join us?"
"In what?" asked Serge.
"We must not say," said the brothers. "We can only ask
are you willing to help our enterprise with all your
power and with your life if need be?"
"What is your enterprise?" asked Serge.
"We must not divulge it," they said. "Only this: will
you give your life to save another life, to save Russia?"
Serge paused. He thought of Olga Ileyitch. Only to save
her life would he have given his.
"I cannot," he answered.
"Good night, little brother," said Kwitoff gently, and
he turned back to his work.
Thus the months passed.
Serge studied without ceasing. "If there is truth," he
thought, "I shall find it." All the time he Thought of
Olga Ileyitch. His face grew pale. "Justice, Justice,"
he thought, "what is justice and truth?"