About midday Yevsey was awakened by Viekov dressed in an overcoat and hat. He looked downcast. He shook the back of the bed, and said in a muffled voice, monotonously:

"Hey, Klimkov, get up. They are summoning everybody to the office. Hey, Klimkov—they have proclaimed the constitution. They are summoning all the agents from their lodgings. Filip Filippovich gave the order. Do you hear, Klimkov?"

His words fell like large drops of rain, full of sadness. His face was drawn, as with the toothache. His eyes blinked frequently, as if he were about to cry.

"What is it?" asked Yevsey jumping from bed.

Viekov pursed his lips dismally.

"Is it possible to understand? They said yesterday the Czar would give a full constitution, and to-day here's the manifesto, he's actually giving it. Our Department has become like an insane asylum—that Sasha is such a coarse creature, astonishing. He keeps shouting, 'Strike, slash,' and so forth. Why, look here, I wouldn't make up my mind to kill a man even for five hundred rubles. Yet he proposes we should kill for forty rubles a month. Why, it's savagery even to listen to such talk." Viekov puffed his cheeks, and sighed in weariness of spirit, as he paced up and down the room. "It's horrible. Dress quickly. We must go."

Pulling on his trousers Klimkov asked musingly:

"Whom do they want us to kill?"

"The revolutionists. Although what revolutionists are there now? According to the Czar's ukase, you'd suppose the revolution was ended. They tell us we should gather the people in the streets, march with flags, and sing, 'God Save the Czar.' Well, why not sing, if liberty has been granted? But then they say that while doing this, we should shout 'Down with the constitution,' and so forth. I can't for the life of me understand. That's going against the manifesto and the will of the Czar Emperor. There are many besides me who don't understand it. I'm not the only one."

His voice sounded protesting, insulted, his legs clapped together. He seemed as soft as if his bones had been removed from his body.

"I'm not going there," said Klimkov.

"What do you mean?"

"Just so. First I'll walk the streets, and see what they're going to do."

Viekov sighed again, and whistled.

"Yes, of course. You're a single man. But when you have a family, that is, a woman who demands this, that, the fifth thing, and the tenth thing, then you'll go where you don't want to, yes, you will. The need for a living compels a man to dance a tightrope. When I see tricks on a tightrope, my head begins to turn, and I feel a pain in the lower part of my chest. But I think to myself, 'If it would be necessary for your livelihood, then you, too, Ivan Petrovich Viekov, would dance a tightrope.' Yes, indeed. A poor man must live by doing things that wring his heart, and whether he wants to or not. Such is the law of nature, as Grokhotov says."

Viekov tossed himself about the room, knocking against the table and the chairs, mumbling and swelling his rosy cheeks. His little face was puffed like a bladder. His insignificant eyes disappeared, and the little red nose hid itself between his cheeks. His sorrowful voice, his dejected figure, his hopeless words annoyed Klimkov, who said unamiably:

"Soon everything will be arranged differently. So there's no use complaining now."

"But in our place they don't want a different arrangement," exclaimed Viekov, gesticulating, and stopping in front of Yevsey. "You understand?"

Yevsey disturbed turned on the chair, desiring to express a thought in his mind, but he was unable to find words, and began to lace his shoes sniffling.

"Sasha shouts, 'Beat them. Show them what liberty is. So that they may,' he says, 'get afraid of it.' Viakhirev displays revolvers. 'I'll shoot,' he says, 'straight into the eyes.' Krasavin is gathering a gang of some sort of people, and also speaks about knives, and hacking people down, and all such things. Chasin is preparing to kill a certain student, because he took his mistress from him. Some other new fellow has come. He's one-eyed, and smiles all over, and his teeth are knocked out in front. A very terrible face. Sheer savagery, all this."

Viekov lowered his voice to a whisper, and said mysteriously,

"Everyone ought to protect his means of a livelihood. That's understood—but preferably without murder. Because if we start to kill, then we in turn will be killed, too."

Viekov shuddered. He turned his head toward the window, and listened to something. Then he raised his hand, and his face turned pale.

"What's the matter?" asked Yevsey.

A resonant noise hit against the windows in soft uneven blows, as if to open them cautiously and pour itself into the room. Yevsey rose to his feet with a look of inquiry and alarm at Viekov; while Viekov standing at some distance from the window stretched his hand out in order to open it, apparently taking care not to be seen from the street. At the same moment a broad stream of sounds broke in, surrounded the spies, pushed against the door, opened it, and floated into the corridor, powerful, exulting, sturdy.

"They are rejoicing," said Viekov quietly, starting.

"Look out and see what it is," said Yevsey, hurriedly throwing an overcoat on.

But Viekov was already looking out, and he began to report what he saw, every minute quickly turning his head from the window to Yevsey. He spoke rapidly and brokenly.

"The people are marching—red flags—a great many people—countless—of various stations—all mixed up in one crowd—an officer even—and Father Uspensky—without hats—Melnikov with a flag—our Melnikov—look!"

Yevsey ran to the casement, looked down, and there saw a thick mass of people filling the entire street. In his eyes gleamed a compact mass of faces, which shone like the stars in the Milky Way. Over the heads of the throng waved flags resembling red birds. Klimkov was deafened by the seething noise. In the first row he saw the tall, bearded figure of Melnikov, who held the short pole of the standard in both hands, and waved it. At times the cloth of the flag enveloped his head like a red turban. From under his hat escaped dark strands of hair, which fell on his forehead and cheeks, and mingled with his beard. He was shaggy as a beast. Evidently he was shouting, for his mouth stood wide open.

"Where are they going?" mumbled Klimkov, turning to his comrade.

"They are rejoicing," Viekov repeated, and looked out into the street, leaning his forehead against the glass.

Both men were silent, attentively watching the motley stream of people. With acute hearing they caught the loud splashings of different exclamations in the deep sea of the din.

Viekov shook his head.

"What a power, eh? The people lived each by himself and now suddenly they all move together—what a phenomenon!"

"They've grown wise, it means. They are becoming masters of life," said Yevsey with a smile. At that moment he actually believed so.

"And our Melnikov, did you see him?"

"He always stood up for the people," Yevsey explained didactically. He left the window, feeling himself near his aim, bold and new.

"Now everything will go well. No one wants another to order him about. Everyone wants to live according to his needs, quietly, peacefully, with things arranged in a good system," he said gravely, examining his sharp face in the mirror. He liked his face to-day. It was calm, almost cheerful. Wishing to strengthen the new and pleasant feeling of satisfaction with himself, he reflected on how he might raise himself in the eyes of his comrade. So he announced with an air of mystery, "Do you know, Maklakov has escaped to America?"

"So?" the spy rejoined indifferently. "What of it? He's a single man."

"Why did I tell him?" Yevsey reproached himself. A feeling of slight alarm and enmity came over him.

"Don't speak of this to anybody, please," he begged Viekov.

"About Maklakov? Very well—I have to go to the office. Aren't you going?"

"No, but we can go out together."

On the street Viekov remarked in dismal irritation, speaking in a subdued voice:

"Stupid people, after all. They ought not to be going about with flags and songs. Now they have once begun to feel themselves in power they ought to ask the authorities straightway to abolish all sorts of politics, to transform everybody into people, both us and the revolutionists, to distribute awards to whom they are due, both on our side and theirs, and to make a strict announcement, 'All politics strictly prohibited.' We've had enough of hide and seek!"

Viekov suddenly disappeared around the corner without taking leave of Klimkov. Yevsey walked like a man who to-day has no reason to hasten.

"I have one hundred and fifty rubles," he thought. "I have an inclination for business, and I know about it to some extent. In business a man is free. Soon I'll receive twenty-five rubles more."

The people moved about in the street excitedly, all spoke loud, all faces smiled joyously, and the gloomy autumn evening recalled a bright Easter day. Songs started up, now nearby, now at the end of the street curtained by a grey cloud. Loud shouts quenched the singing.

"Long live liberty!"

From everywhere came laughter and the sound of kindly voices. This pleased Klimkov. He politely stepped aside for those who came his way, looking at them approvingly with a light smile of satisfaction, and continued to picture his future in warm colors.

Two people darted from around the corner, laughing quietly. One of them jostled Yevsey, but immediately pulled off his hat, and exclaimed:

"Oh, I beg your pardon."

"Don't mention it," answered Klimkov affably.

Before Yevsey stood Grokhotov, cleanly shaven, looking as if he had been smeared with ointment. He beamed all over, and his small soft eyes frolicked, running from side to side.

"Well, Yevsey, I nearly got myself into a mess. If it hadn't been for my talent—are you acquainted? This is Panteleyev, one of our men." Grokhotov lost his breath, and spoke in a quick whisper, hurriedly wiping the sweat from his face. "You know I was walking along the Boulevard, when I saw a crowd, with an orator in the center. Well, I went up, and listened. He spoke so—you know—without any restraint at all. So I thought I'd ask who that wise fellow was. I inquired of the man standing next to me. 'His face is familiar to me,' says I. 'Do you know his name?' 'His name is Zimin.' The words were scarcely out of his mouth when two fellows grabbed hold of me under my arm. 'People, he's a spy!' I couldn't get in a word before I found myself in the middle of the crowd, and such a press around me—and everybody's eyes like awls. 'I'm done for,' thinks I."

"Zimin?" asked Yevsey, disturbed, looking back of him and beginning to walk more rapidly.

Grokhotov raised his head to the sky, crossed himself, and continued still more hurriedly.

"Well, the Lord inspired me with an idea. I recovered my presence of mind at once, and shouted out, 'People, it's a mistake, absolutely. I'm no spy, but a well-known mimic of celebrated personages and of animal sounds. Wouldn't you please give me a trial?' The men who had seized me shouted, 'No, he lies; we know him!' But I had already made a face like the Chief of Police, and called out in his voice, 'Who gave you per-r-r-mission to hold this meeting?' And Lord! I hear them laughing already. Well, then I began, I tell you, to imitate everything I know—the governor, the Archpresbyter Izverzhensky, a saw, a little pig, a fly. They roared with laughter. They roared so that the earth trembled under my feet, so help me God. Even the men holding me had to laugh—a curse on them!—and let me go. They began to clap and applaud. Upon my word, here is Pantaleyev, he can testify, he saw everything."

"True," said Pantaleyev in a hoarse voice. He was a dumpy person with eye-glasses, and wore a sleeveless jacket.

"Yes, brother, they applauded," exclaimed Grokhotov in ecstasy. "Now, of course, I know myself; an artist, that's me. No doubt of it now. I may say I owe my life to my art. What else? It's very simple. A crowd can't be taken in by a mere joke."

"The people have begun to be trusting," remarked Pantaleyev pensively and strangely. "Their hearts have greatly softened."

"That's true. See what they're doing, eh?" Grokhotov exclaimed quietly. Then he added in a whisper. "Everything is above-board now. Everywhere the persons under surveillance, our old acquaintances, are in the very first rank. What does it mean, eh?"

"Is the joiner's name Zimin?" Yevsey asked again.

"Matvey Zimin, case of propaganda work in the furniture factory of Knop," replied Pantaleyev with stern emphasis.

"He ought to be in prison," said Yevsey, dissatisfied.

Grokhotov whistled merrily.

"In prison? Don't you know they let everybody out of prison?"

"Who?"

"The people."

Yevsey walked a few steps in silence.

"Did they permit them?"

"Why, yes."

"Why did they do it?"

"That's what I say, too. They oughtn't to have permitted them," said Pantaleyev. His glasses moved on his broad nose. "What a situation! The authorities do not think about the people at all."

"Did they release everybody?" asked Klimkov.

"Everybody." Pantaleyev's hoarse voice was stern, his nostrils dilated. "And there have already been a number of unpleasant encounters. Chasin, for instance, had to threaten to shoot off his revolver, because he was hit in the eye. He was quietly standing off on one side, when suddenly a lady comes up, and cries out, 'Here's a spy!' Inasmuch as Chasin cannot imitate animals, he had to defend himself with a weapon; which isn't possible for everybody either. Not everybody carries a revolver about with him."

"It's been decided to give all of us revolvers."

"Even so no good will come of it. I know positively that a revolver begs of itself to be used. It sets your hand itching."

"Good-by," said Yevsey. "I'm going home."

He walked through small by-streets. When he saw people coming his way, he crossed to the other side, and tried to hide in the shade. The premonition rose and stubbornly grew that he would meet Yakov, Olga, or somebody else of that company.

"The city is large, there are many people," he comforted himself. Nevertheless each time he heard steps in front, his heart sank painfully, and his legs trembled, losing their strength.

"They let them go," he thought in dismal annoyance. "They didn't say anything, and let them go. And how about me? It isn't a matter of indifference to me where they are. Of course not!"

It was already dark. A solitary lamp was burning in front of the gates of the police station. Just as Yevsey approached it, he heard someone say in a muffled voice:

"Here, this way, then to the back courtyard."

Yevsey stopped, and peered in alarm into the darkness. The gates were closed, but a dark man stood at the wicket set in one of the heavy swinging doors, apparently awaiting him.

"Hurry!" The man commanded in a dissatisfied tone.

Klimkov stopped, crept through the wicket, and went along the dark vaulted corridor under the building to a light feebly flickering, in the depths of the court, where he heard the scraping of feet on the stone, subdued voices, and the familiar repulsive snuffling. Klimkov stopped, listened, turned quietly, and walked back to the gate, raising his shoulders, so as to conceal his face in the collar of his overcoat. He had already reached the wicket, and was about to push it, when it opened of itself, and a man darted through, stumbling and clutching at Yevsey.

"The devil! Who's that?"

"I."

"Who?"

"Yevsey Klimkov."

"Aha! Well, show me the way. Why are you standing there? Don't you recognize me?"

Yevsey looked at the hooked nose, the curls behind the ears, the protruding narrow forehead.

"I do. Viakhirev," he said with a sigh.

"Yes. Come on."

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.

Sasha shouted:

"Klimkov!"

Yevsey extended his arm before him, and walked faster. His legs bent under him. He heard Krasavin say:

"Gone, apparently. You ought not to shout family names."

"I beg you not to teach me. I'll soon destroy all family names and similar stupidities."

"It's you that I'm going to destroy," Yevsey made the mental threat, gnashing his teeth until they pained him.

But when he had left the gate behind him, he was seized by the debilitating consciousness of his impotence and nothingness. It was a long time since he had experienced these feelings with such crushing distinctness. He was frightened by their load, and succumbed to their pressure.

"Maybe it will still be warded off," he tried to embolden himself. "Maybe he won't succeed."

But Yevsey did not believe his own thoughts. Without a will of his own he regarded everybody else as equally devoid of will, and he knew that Sasha could easily compel all whom he wanted to compel to submit to his domination.