The Spy

Klimkov returned in silence to the courtyard, where his eyes now distinguished many obscure figures looming in the darkness in uneven hillocks, slowly shifting from place to place, like large black fish in dark, cold water. The satiated voice of Solovyov resounded sweetishly:

"That doesn't suit me. But catch a girl for me, a little girl, a dainty little girl. I'll knout her for you."

"Always joking, the old devil," mumbled Viakhirev. "A fitting time for it."

"I can't give beatings, but I like to give lashings. I remember how I used to flog my nephew, gee!"

From a corner flowed the voice of Sasha, falling incessantly like water dripping from roofs on a rainy day, monotonous as the sound of chants recited in church.

"Every time you meet those fellows with red flags beat them. First beat the men carrying the flags, the rest will take to flight."

"And if they don't?"

"You will have revolvers. So that if you see people known to you by their participation in secret societies – those people upon whom you spied in your time – who were released from the prisons to-day by the insubordination of the unbridled mob – kill them outright!"

"That's reasonable," said somebody, whose voice resembled Pantaleyev's. "Either we, or they."

"Of course. How else?"

"The people have gotten their liberty, but what are we to do?" replied Viakhirev sharply.

Yevsey walked into a corner, where he leaned against a pile of wood, and looked and listened in perplexity.

"A body, a little body, a tiny, wee little calf, meat!" the senseless words of Solovyov spread out like a thick, oily spot.

Dark, heavy walls of unequal height surrounded the court sternly. Overhead slowly floated the clouds. On the walls gleamed the square windows, scattered and dim. Klimkov saw a low porch in one corner of the court, upon which Sasha was standing, his overcoat buttoned to the top, his collar raised, and a low cap thrust on the back of his head. Above him swung a small lamp, whose feeble flame trembled and smoked, as if endeavoring to consume itself as quickly as possible. Behind Sasha's back was the black stain of the door. A few dark people sat on the steps of the porch at his feet. One, a tall grey person, stood in the doorway.

"You must understand that you are given the liberty to make war upon the revolutionists," said Sasha, putting his hands behind his back.

The air hummed with the scraping of soles on the flagging, with dry metallic raps, and, at times, with subdued voices uttering exclamations and officious advice.

"Look out! Be more careful!"

"We're not allowed to load the revolvers."

The vaguely outlined figures in the dark strangely resembled one another – quiet black people scattered over the yard. They stood in compact groups, and listened to the viscid voice of Sasha, rocking and swinging on their feet, as if swayed by powerful puffs of wind. Sasha's talk drowned all sounds, filling Klimkov's breast with a dreary cold and acute hatred of the spy.

"You are given the right to proceed against the rebels in an open fight. Upon you lies the duty to defend the deceived Czar with all possible means. And know that generous rewards await you. Who has not yet received a revolver? Come up here."

Several muffled voices called out:

"I – me – I."

Some persons moved to the porch. Sasha stepped aside, and the grey man squatted down on his heels.

"Mayn't I have two?" asked a lugubrious voice.

"What for?"

"For a comrade."

"Go 'long!"

The voices of the spies whom Yevsey knew sounded louder, braver, and jollier than before.

"I'm not going to do any beating."

"We've heard that," the hoarse voice of Pantaleyev sounded rudely.

"Silence!"

Someone smacking his lips greedily, complained:

"I haven't enough cartridge. We ought to get a whole boxful."

"I set things going in two station-houses to-day," said Sasha. "I'm tired."

"It'll be interesting to-morrow."

"Well, yes."

The words and the sounds flashed up before Yevsey's mind like large sparks illuminating the morrow. They slowly dried up and consumed the hope of a placid life soon to come. He felt with his whole being that out of the darkness surrounding him, from these people about him, advanced a power inimical to his dreams and aims. This power would seize him again, would put him on the old road, would bring him back to the old terror. Hatred of Sasha seethed in his heart, the live, tenacious, yet pliant hatred of the weak, the implacable, sharp, revengeful feeling of a slave who has once been tortured by hope for liberty. He stood there thinking of nothing, in the quick realization that his hopes must inevitably die. He looked at Sasha half closing his eyes, and strained his ears to catch the spy's every word.

The men hurriedly departed from the yard in twos and threes, disappearing under the broad archway that yawned in the wall. The light over the head of the spy trembled, turned blue, and went out. Sasha seemed to jump from the porch into a pit, from which he snuffled angrily:

"To-day seven men of my division of the Safety Department did not show up. Why? Many seem to think it's a holiday. I won't tolerate stupidity. Nor laziness either. I want you to know it. I am now going to introduce strict regulations. I am not Filip Filippovich. Who said that Melnikov is going about with a red flag? Who?"

"I saw him."

"With a flag?"

"Yes. Marching and bawling 'Liberty!'"

"Is it you talking, Viakhirev?"

"Yes, I."

Now that the tall body of Sasha had disappeared and mingled with the dark mass of people at the platform, it seemed to Yevsey that he grew in size and spread over the court like a stifling cloud, which imperceptibly floated toward him in the darkness. Yevsey came out of his leaning posture, and walked toward the exit, stepping as on ice, as if fearing he would sink through a hole. But the adhesive voice of Sasha overtook him, pouring a painful cold on the back of his neck.

"Well, that fool will be the first to slash. I know him." Sasha laughed a thin howling laugh. "I have a slogan for him, 'Strike in behalf of the people.' And who said that Maklakov dropped the service?"

"He knows everything, the vile skunk," Yevsey said to himself with a calm that surprised him.

"I said it. I heard it from Viekov, and he got it from Klimkov."

"Viekov, Klimkov, Grokhotov – all trash. I'll step on the tails of all of them. Parasites, hybrids, lazy good-for-nothings. Is anyone of them here?"

"Klimkov must be here," answered Viakhirev.