The Spy

"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: