Further Foolishness | Page 9

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