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less the objects of his sporting passion were the lions of the seasonā ā€”pianists, singers, littĆ©rateurs, gamblers with amazing luck, jockeys, athletes, and cocottes coming into vogue. By hook or crook Schavinsky made their acquaintance and then, enveloping them in his spiderā€™s toils, tenderly and gently secured his victimā€™s attention. Then he was ready for anything. He would sit for whole sleepless nights with vulgar, stupid people, whose mental equipment, like the Hottentotsā€™, consisted of a dozen or two animal conceptions and clichĆ©s; he stood drinks and dinners to damnable fools and scoundrels, waiting patiently for the moment when in their drunkenness they would reveal the full flower of their villainy. He flattered them to the top of their bent, with his eyes open; gave them monstrous doses of flattery, firmly convinced that flattery is the key to open every lock; he lent them money generously, knowing well that he would never receive it back again. In justification of this precarious sport he could say that the inner psychological interest for him considerably surpassed the benefits he subsequently acquired as a realistic writer. It gave him a subtle and obscure delight to penetrate into the mysterious inaccessible chambers of the human soul, to observe the hidden springs of external acts, springs sometimes petty, sometimes shameful, more often ridiculous than affectingā ā€”as it were, to hold in his hand for a while, a live, warm human heart and touch its very pulse. Often in this inquisitive pursuit it seemed to him that he was completely losing his own ā€œego,ā€ so much did he begin to think and feel with anotherā€™s soul, even speaking in his language with his peculiar words until at last he even caught himself using anotherā€™s gesture and tone. But when he had saturated himself in a man he threw him aside. It is true that sometimes he had to pay long and heavily for a momentā€™s infatuation.

But no one for a long time had so deeply interested him, even to agitation, as this hoarse, tippling infantry captain. For a whole day Schavinsky did not let him go. As he sat by his side in the cab and watched him surreptitiously, Schavinsky resolved:

ā€œNo, I canā€™t be mistaken;ā ā€”this yellow, squinting face with the cheekbones, these eternal bobs and bows, and the incessant hand washing; above all this strained, nervous, uneasy familiarity.ā ā€Šā ā€¦ But if itā€™s all true, and Captain Ribnikov is really a Japanese spy, then what extraordinary presence of mind the man must have to play with this magnificent audacity, this diabolically true caricature of a broken-down officer in broad daylight in a hostile capital. What awful sensations he must have, balanced every second of the day on the very edge of certain death!ā€

Here was something completely inexplicable to Schavinskyā ā€”a fascinating, mad, cool audacityā ā€”perhaps the very noblest kind of patriotic devotion. An acute curiosity, together with a reverent fear, drew the journalistā€™s mind more and more strongly towards the soul of this amazing captain.

But sometimes he pulled himself up mentally: ā€œSuppose Iā€™ve forced myself to believe in a ridiculous preconceived idea? Suppose Iā€™ve just let myself be fooled by a disreputable captain in my inquisitive eagerness to read menā€™s souls? Surely there are any number of yellow Mongol faces in the Ural or among the Oremburg Cossacks.ā€ Still more intently he looked into every motion and expression of the captainā€™s face, listened intently to every sound of his voice.

Ribnikov did not miss a single soldier who gave him a salute as he passed. He put his hand to the peak of his cap with a peculiarly prolonged and exaggerated care. Whenever they drove past a church he invariably raised his hat and crossed himself punctiliously with a broad sweep of his arm, and as he did it he gave an almost imperceptible side-glance to his companionā ā€”is he noticing or not?

Once Schavinsky could hold out no longer, and said: ā€œBut youā€™re pious, though, Captain.ā€

Ribnikov threw out his hands, hunched his shoulders up funnily, and said in his hoarse voice: ā€œCanā€™t be helped, old man. Iā€™ve got the habit of it at the Front. The man who fights learns to pray, you know. Itā€™s a splendid Russian proverb. You learn to say your prayers out there, whether you like it or not. You go into the firing line. The bullets are whirring, terriblyā ā€”shrapnel, bombsā ā€Šā ā€¦ those cursed Japanese shells.ā ā€Šā ā€¦ But it canā€™t be helpedā ā€”duty, your oath, and off you go! And you say to yourself: ā€˜Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy Will be done in earth, as it is in heaven.ā ā€Šā ā€¦ā€™ā€Šā€

And he said the whole prayer to the end, carefully shaping out each sound.

ā€œSpy!ā€ Schavinsky decided.

But he would not leave his suspicion halfway. For hours on end he went on watching and goading the captain. In a private room of a restaurant at dinner he bent right over the table and looked into Ribnikovā€™s very pupils.

ā€œListen, Captain. No one can hear us now.ā ā€Šā ā€¦ Whatā€™s the strongest oath I can give you that no one will ever hear of our conversation?ā ā€Šā ā€¦ Iā€™m convinced, absolutely and beyond all doubt, that youā€™re a Japanese.ā€

Ribnikov banged himself on the chest again.

ā€œI am Captā ā€”ā€

ā€œNo, no. Letā€™s have done with these tricks. You canā€™t hide your face, however clever you are. The line of your cheekbones, the cut of your eyes, your peculiar head, the colour of your skin, the stiff, straggling growth on your faceā ā€”everything points beyond all shadow of doubt to you belonging to the yellow race. But youā€™re safe. I shanā€™t tell on you, whatever offers they make me, however they threaten me for silence. I shanā€™t do you any harm, if itā€™s only because Iā€™m full of admiration for your amazing courage. I say moreā ā€”Iā€™m full of reverence, terror if you like. Iā€™m a writerā ā€”thatā€™s a man of fancy and imagination. I canā€™t even imagine how itā€™s possible for a man to make up his mind to it: to come thousands of miles from your country to a

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