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Intelligence Collection 1st Edition Robert M. Clark
Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Robert M. Clark
ISBN(s): 9781452271859, 1452271852
Edition: 1
File Details: PDF, 10.70 MB
Year: 2013
Language: english
Copyright © 2014 by CQ Press, an Imprint of SAGE Publications, Inc. CQ
Press is a registered trademark of Congressional Quarterly Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without
permission in writing from the publisher.

Printed in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Clark, Robert M.

Intelligence collection / Robert M. Clark, University of Maryland

pages cm
Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 978-1-4522-7185-9 (alk. paper).

Intelligence service—Methodology. I. Title.

JF1525.I6.C57 2014
327.12—dc23 2013006588

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

13 14 15 16 17 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
FOR INFORMATION:

CQ Press
An Imprint of SAGE Publications, Inc.
2455 Teller Road
Thousand Oaks, California 91320
E-mail: [email protected]

SAGE Publications Ltd.

1 Oliver’s Yard
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United Kingdom

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Publisher: Charisse Kiino

Editorial Assistant: Lauren Johnson
Associate Editor: Nancy Loh
Production Editor: Olivia Weber-Stenis
Copy Editor: Michelle Ponce
Typesetter: C&M Digitals Ltd.
Proofreader: Scott Oney
Indexer: Sheila Bodell
Cover Designer: Michael Dubowe
Marketing Manager: Erica DeLuca
Permissions Editor: Jennifer Barron
Illustrator: ronwilsonillustration.com
Contents
Figures and Tables
Preface
Acronyms
1. Introduction
Part I: Literal Collection
Part II: Nonliteral Collection
Part III: Collection Management and Strategy
Summary
Notes

Part I. Literal Collection

2. Open Source Intelligence
Function
Process
Structure
Summary
Notes
3. Human Intelligence
Function
Process
Structure
Summary
Notes
4. Communications Intelligence
Function
Process
Structure
Summary
Notes
5. Cyber Collection
Function
Process
 Structure
Summary
Notes

Part II. Noniteral Collection

6. Overview of Nonliteral Collection
Function
Process
Structure
Summary
Notes
7. Collection Sensors
Performance Categories of Electromagnetic Sensors
Trade-Offs in Sensor Design and Usage
Sensor Suites
Signatures
Summary
Notes
8. Collection Platforms
Satellites
Aircraft and UAVs
Aerostats
Ships and Submarines
Ground Sites
Summary
Notes
9. Optical Imaging
Function
Process
Structure
 Summary
Notes
10. Radiometric and Spectral Imaging
Function
Process
Structure
Summary
Notes
11. Radar
Function
Process
Structure
Summary
Notes
12. Synthetic Aperture Radar
Function
Process
Structure
Summary
Notes
13. Passive RF
Function
Process
Structure
Summary
Notes
14. Acoustic and Seismic Sensing
Function
Process
 Structure
Summary
Notes
15. Materials Intelligence
Function
Process
Structure
Summary
Notes
16. Biological, Medical, and Biometric Intelligence
Function
Process
Structure
Summary
Notes
17. Materiel Acquisition and Exploitation
Function
Process
Structure
Summary
Notes

Part III. Collection Management and Strategy

18. Managing Intelligence Collection
Managing the Front End
Managing the Back End
Managing across Boundaries
Managing Customer Expectations
Bringing New Collection Capabilities Online
Evaluating Collection
Conclusion
Summary
Notes
Glossary
Index
Figures and Tables
Figure 1.1 Book Organization
Figure 1.2 Taxonomy of Intelligence Collection
Figure 1.3 Mass versus Targeted Collection
Figure 1.4 A Collector’s View of the Intelligence Cycle
Figure 1.5 Stovepipe Structure of Intelligence Collection
Figure 5.1 Malware Distribution Sites during the Second Quarter
of 2011
Figure 5.2 Malware Detected on Computers during the Second
Quarter of 2011
Figure 5.3 Geography of Flame Infections, 2012
Figure 6.1 The Technical Collection Structure and Process
Figure 6.2 Osama bin Laden Compound in Abbottabad, Pakistan
Figure 7.1 The Radio Frequency Spectrum
Figure 7.2 The Optical Spectrum
Figure 7.3 The Interaction of EM Energy with Matter
Figure 7.4 Natural and Artificial Emission of EM Energy
Figure 8.1 Main Satellite Orbit Types
Figure 8.2 Side View of Orbit Types
Figure 8.3 Geometry of a Polar Orbit
Figure 8.4 Ground Path for Global Coverage
Figure 8.5 Earth Coverage of a Sun-Synchronous Orbit
Figure 8.6 Equatorial Coverage for Different Satellite
Constellations
Figure 8.7 Van Allen Radiation Belts
Figure 8.8 Global Hawk UAV
Figure 8.9 Norwegian Intelligence Collector Marjata
Figure 8.10 Maui Space Surveillance System
Figure 8.11 Battlefield Surveillance Radar
Figure 8.12 Steel Eagle Acoustic Sensor
Figure 9.1 Optical Sensor Components
Figure 9.2 Effect of Focal Length on Field of View
Figure 9.3 Sensor Field of View and Field of Regard
Figure 9.4 Classes of Imaging Systems
Figure 9.5 Diego Garcia GEODSS Site
Figure 9.6 Satellite-to-Satellite Image of Envisat
Table 9.1 Description of NIIRS Rating Scale
Figure 9.7 Displaced Libyans in Tunisia in 2011
Figure 10.1 Atmospheric Attenuation of EM Waves
Figure 10.2 Comparison of Radiometric and Visible Imagery
Figure 10.3 Infrared Image of the Space Shuttle
Figure 10.4 OPIR Collection of Delta IV Rocket Launch
Figure 10.5 SBIRS Satellite
Figure 10.6 Polarization Effects of Man-made and Natural
Features
Figure 10.7 Spectral Imaging Resolution and Levels of Information
Obtained
Figure 10.8 False Color Image
Figure 10.9 Creation of Spectral Images
Figure 10.10 Spectral Signatures of Two Gas Pixels in a
Hyperspectral Image
Figure 10.11 A Hyperspectral Data Cube
Table 11.1 Radar Frequency Bands
Figure 11.1 OTH-B Radar Coverage
Figure 11.2 FPS-85 Radar
Figure 11.3 Cobra Dane Radar
Figure 11.4 USNS Howard O. Lorenzen
Figure 11.5 The X Band Radar at Sea
Figure 11.6 Laser Radar Image of a Tank under Camouflage
Netting
Figure 11.7 The Sazhen-M Laser Radar
Figure 11.8 Radar Image of a Reentry Vehicle
Figure 11.9 Radar Image of Envisat
Figure 12.1 Airborne SAR Image of the Pentagon
Figure 12.2 Frequency Change in a Chirped Pulse
Figure 12.3 Forming the SAR Image
Figure 12.4 Spotlight versus Strip Map Imaging
Figure 12.5 Swath Width and Incidence Angle in Airborne and
Spaceborne SARs
Figure 12.6 Artist’s Concept of Germany’s SAR-Lupe Spacecraft
Figure 12.7 Layover and Shadowing in SAR Imagery
Figure 12.8 SAR Multibounce Phenomena
Figure 12.9 Target Movement Artifacts in SAR Imagery
Figure 12.10 Geometry for Repeat Pass Imaging
Figure 12.11 TerraSAR-X and TanDEM-X
Figure 12.12 SAR Image of the North Atlantic
Figure 12.13 JSTARS MTI Image of Iraqi Retreat, 1991
Figure 13.1 Operational and Technical ELINT
Figure 13.2 Using Angle of Arrival to Locate a Cell Phone
Figure 13.3 AN/FLR-9 CDAA Located Near Augsburg, Germany
Figure 13.4 TDOA Geolocation
Figure 13.5 Use of TDOA to Locate Aircraft
Figure 13.6 FDOA Geolocation from Three Moving Receivers
Figure 13.7 The ELISA ELINT Satellites
Figure 13.8 Typical Missile Acceleration History
Figure 13.9 Use of Multipath Reception to Determine Target
Altitude
Figure 14.1 Sound and Infrasound Monitoring Regimes
Figure 14.2 Array of Acoustic Sensors
Figure 14.3 Geophone Design
Figure 14.4 Towed Hydrophone Array
Figure 14.5 Seismic Wave Sensing Paths
Figure 14.6 Acoustic Power Spectrum of a Truck
Figure 14.7 Comparison of Aircraft and Helicopter Acoustic
Signatures
Figure 14.8 Spectrogram of a Surface Ship
Figure 14.9 Comparison of Earthquake and Indian Nuclear Test
Seismograms
Figure 15.1 P-3 Orion Aircraft with MAD Boom
Figure 16.1 Biometric Collection
Figure 17.1 The Materiel Acquisition Structure and Process
Figure 17.2 Reverse Engineering the B-29
Other documents randomly have
different content
killed Uncle Matvey she was dreadfully frightened, but afterwards
she did not mind.
All four were found guilty of murder with mercenary motives.
Yakov Ivanitch was sentenced to penal servitude for twenty years;
Aglaia for thirteen and a half; Sergey Nikanoritch to ten; Dashutka to
six.

VII
Late one evening a foreign steamer stopped in the roads of Dué in
Sahalin and asked for coal. The captain was asked to wait till
morning, but he did not want to wait over an hour, saying that if the
weather changed for the worse in the night there would be a risk of
his having to go off without coal. In the Gulf of Tartary the weather
is liable to violent changes in the course of half an hour, and then
the shores of Sahalin are dangerous. And already it had turned
fresh, and there was a considerable sea running.
A gang of convicts were sent to the mine from the Voevodsky
prison, the grimmest and most forbidding of all the prisons in
Sahalin. The coal had to be loaded upon barges, and then they had
to be towed by a steam-cutter alongside the steamer which was
anchored more than a quarter of a mile from the coast, and then the
unloading and reloading had to begin—an exhausting task when the
barge kept rocking against the steamer and the men could scarcely
keep on their legs for sea-sickness. The convicts, only just roused
from their sleep, still drowsy, went along the shore, stumbling in the
darkness and clanking their fetters. On the left, scarcely visible, was
a tall, steep, extremely gloomy-looking cliff, while on the right there
was a thick impenetrable mist, in which the sea moaned with a
prolonged monotonous sound, “Ah! . . . ah! . . . ah! . . . ah! . . .” And
it was only when the overseer was lighting his pipe, casting as he
did so a passing ray of light on the escort with a gun and on the
coarse faces of two or three of the nearest convicts, or when he
went with his lantern close to the water that the white crests of the
foremost waves could be discerned.
One of this gang was Yakov Ivanitch, nicknamed among the
convicts the “Brush,” on account of his long beard. No one had
addressed him by his name or his father’s name for a long time now;
they called him simply Yashka.
He was here in disgrace, as, three months after coming to Siberia,
feeling an intense irresistible longing for home, he had succumbed to
temptation and run away; he had soon been caught, had been
sentenced to penal servitude for life and given forty lashes. Then he
was punished by flogging twice again for losing his prison clothes,
though on each occasion they were stolen from him. The longing for
home had begun from the very time he had been brought to
Odessa, and the convict train had stopped in the night at
Progonnaya; and Yakov, pressing to the window, had tried to see his
own home, and could see nothing in the darkness. He had no one
with whom to talk of home. His sister Aglaia had been sent right
across Siberia, and he did not know where she was now. Dashutka
was in Sahalin, but she had been sent to live with some ex-convict in
a far away settlement; there was no news of her except that once a
settler who had come to the Voevodsky Prison told Yakov that
Dashutka had three children. Sergey Nikanoritch was serving as a
footman at a government official’s at Dué, but he could not reckon
on ever seeing him, as he was ashamed of being acquainted with
convicts of the peasant class.
The gang reached the mine, and the men took their places on the
quay. It was said there would not be any loading, as the weather
kept getting worse and the steamer was meaning to set off. They
could see three lights. One of them was moving: that was the
steam-cutter going to the steamer, and it seemed to be coming back
to tell them whether the work was to be done or not. Shivering with
the autumn cold and the damp sea mist, wrapping himself in his
short torn coat, Yakov Ivanitch looked intently without blinking in the
direction in which lay his home. Ever since he had lived in prison
together with men banished here from all ends of the earth—with
Russians, Ukrainians, Tatars, Georgians, Chinese, Gypsies, Jews—
and ever since he had listened to their talk and watched their
sufferings, he had begun to turn again to God, and it seemed to him
at last that he had learned the true faith for which all his family,
from his grandmother Avdotya down, had so thirsted, which they
had sought so long and which they had never found. He knew it all
now and understood where God was, and how He was to be served,
and the only thing he could not understand was why men’s destinies
were so diverse, why this simple faith which other men receive from
God for nothing and together with their lives, had cost him such a
price that his arms and legs trembled like a drunken man’s from all
the horrors and agonies which as far as he could see would go on
without a break to the day of his death. He looked with strained
eyes into the darkness, and it seemed to him that through the
thousand miles of that mist he could see home, could see his native
province, his district, Progonnaya, could see the darkness, the
savagery, the heartlessness, and the dull, sullen, animal indifference
of the men he had left there. His eyes were dimmed with tears; but
still he gazed into the distance where the pale lights of the steamer
faintly gleamed, and his heart ached with yearning for home, and he
longed to live, to go back home to tell them there of his new faith
and to save from ruin if only one man, and to live without suffering
if only for one day.
The cutter arrived, and the overseer announced in a loud voice
that there would be no loading.
“Back!” he commanded. “Steady!”
They could hear the hoisting of the anchor chain on the steamer.
A strong piercing wind was blowing by now; somewhere on the
steep cliff overhead the trees were creaking. Most likely a storm was
coming.
 UPROOTED
An Incident of My Travels

I
WAS on my way back from evening service. The clock in the
belfry of the Svyatogorsky Monastery pealed out its soft
melodious chimes by way of prelude and then struck twelve.
The great courtyard of the monastery stretched out at the foot of
the Holy Mountains on the banks of the Donets, and, enclosed by
the high hostel buildings as by a wall, seemed now in the night,
when it was lighted up only by dim lanterns, lights in the windows,
and the stars, a living hotch-potch full of movement, sound, and the
most original confusion. From end to end, so far as the eye could
see, it was all choked up with carts, old-fashioned coaches and
chaises, vans, tilt-carts, about which stood crowds of horses, dark
and white, and horned oxen, while people bustled about, and black
long-skirted lay brothers threaded their way in and out in all
directions. Shadows and streaks of light cast from the windows
moved over the carts and the heads of men and horses, and in the
dense twilight this all assumed the most monstrous capricious
shapes: here the tilted shafts stretched upwards to the sky, here
eyes of fire appeared in the face of a horse, there a lay brother grew
a pair of black wings. . . . There was the noise of talk, the snorting
and munching of horses, the creaking of carts, the whimpering of
children. Fresh crowds kept walking in at the gate and belated carts
drove up.
The pines which were piled up on the overhanging mountain, one
above another, and leaned towards the roof of the hostel, gazed into
the courtyard as into a deep pit, and listened in wonder; in their
dark thicket the cuckoos and nightingales never ceased calling. . . .
Looking at the confusion, listening to the uproar, one fancied that in
this living hotch-potch no one understood anyone, that everyone
was looking for something and would not find it, and that this
multitude of carts, chaises and human beings could not ever succeed
in getting off.
More than ten thousand people flocked to the Holy Mountains for
the festivals of St. John the Divine and St. Nikolay the wonder-
worker. Not only the hostel buildings, but even the bakehouse, the
tailoring room, the carpenter’s shop, the carriage house, were filled
to overflowing. . . . Those who had arrived towards night clustered
like flies in autumn, by the walls, round the wells in the yard, or in
the narrow passages of the hostel, waiting to be shown a resting-
place for the night. The lay brothers, young and old, were in an
incessant movement, with no rest or hope of being relieved. By day
or late at night they produced the same impression of men
hastening somewhere and agitated by something, yet, in spite of
their extreme exhaustion, their faces remained full of courage and
kindly welcome, their voices friendly, their movements rapid. . . . For
everyone who came they had to find a place to sleep, and to provide
food and drink; to those who were deaf, slow to understand, or
profuse in questions, they had to give long and wearisome
explanations, to tell them why there were no empty rooms, at what
o’clock the service was to be where holy bread was sold, and so on.
They had to run, to carry, to talk incessantly, but more than that,
they had to be polite, too, to be tactful, to try to arrange that the
Greeks from Mariupol, accustomed to live more comfortably than the
Little Russians, should be put with other Greeks, that some
shopkeeper from Bahmut or Lisitchansk, dressed like a lady, should
not be offended by being put with peasants. There were continual
cries of: “Father, kindly give us some kvass! Kindly give us some
hay!” or “Father, may I drink water after confession?” And the lay
brother would have to give out kvass or hay or to answer: “Address
yourself to the priest, my good woman, we have not the authority to
give permission.” Another question would follow, “Where is the priest
then?” and the lay brother would have to explain where was the
priest’s cell. With all this bustling activity, he yet had to make time to
go to service in the church, to serve in the part devoted to the
gentry, and to give full answers to the mass of necessary and
unnecessary questions which pilgrims of the educated class are fond
of showering about them. Watching them during the course of
twenty-four hours, I found it hard to imagine when these black
moving figures sat down and when they slept.
When, coming back from the evening service, I went to the hostel
in which a place had been assigned me, the monk in charge of the
sleeping quarters was standing in the doorway, and beside him, on
the steps, was a group of several men and women dressed like
townsfolk.
“Sir,” said the monk, stopping me, “will you be so good as to allow
this young man to pass the night in your room? If you would do us
the favour! There are so many people and no place left—it is really
dreadful!”
And he indicated a short figure in a light overcoat and a straw hat.
I consented, and my chance companion followed me. Unlocking the
little padlock on my door, I was always, whether I wanted to or not,
obliged to look at the picture that hung on the doorpost on a level
with my face. This picture with the title, “A Meditation on Death,”
depicted a monk on his knees, gazing at a coffin and at a skeleton
laying in it. Behind the man’s back stood another skeleton,
somewhat more solid and carrying a scythe.
“There are no bones like that,” said my companion, pointing to the
place in the skeleton where there ought to have been a pelvis.
“Speaking generally, you know, the spiritual fare provided for the
people is not of the first quality,” he added, and heaved through his
nose a long and very melancholy sigh, meant to show me that I had
to do with a man who really knew something about spiritual fare.
While I was looking for the matches to light a candle he sighed
once more and said:
 “When I was in Harkov I went several times to the anatomy
theatre and saw the bones there; I have even been in the mortuary.
Am I not in your way?”
My room was small and poky, with neither table nor chairs in it,
but quite filled up with a chest of drawers by the window, the stove
and two little wooden sofas which stood against the walls, facing
one another, leaving a narrow space to walk between them. Thin
rusty-looking little mattresses lay on the little sofas, as well as my
belongings. There were two sofas, so this room was evidently
intended for two, and I pointed out the fact to my companion.
“They will soon be ringing for mass, though,” he said, “and I
shan’t have to be in your way very long.”
Still under the impression that he was in my way and feeling
awkward, he moved with a guilty step to his little sofa, sighed guiltily
and sat down. When the tallow candle with its dim, dilatory flame
had left off flickering and burned up sufficiently to make us both
visible, I could make out what he was like. He was a young man of
two-and-twenty, with a round and pleasing face, dark childlike eyes,
dressed like a townsman in grey cheap clothes, and as one could
judge from his complexion and narrow shoulders, not used to
manual labour. He was of a very indefinite type; one could take him
neither for a student nor for a man in trade, still less for a workman.
But looking at his attractive face and childlike friendly eyes, I was
unwilling to believe he was one of those vagabond impostors with
whom every conventual establishment where they give food and
lodging is flooded, and who give themselves out as divinity students,
expelled for standing up for justice, or for church singers who have
lost their voice. . . . There was something characteristic, typical, very
familiar in his face, but what exactly, I could not remember nor
make out.
For a long time he sat silent, pondering. Probably because I had
not shown appreciation of his remarks about bones and the
mortuary, he thought that I was ill-humoured and displeased at his
presence. Pulling a sausage out of his pocket, he turned it about
before his eyes and said irresolutely:
“Excuse my troubling you, . . . have you a knife?”
I gave him a knife.
“The sausage is disgusting,” he said, frowning and cutting himself
off a little bit. “In the shop here they sell you rubbish and fleece you
horribly. . . . I would offer you a piece, but you would scarcely care
to consume it. Will you have some?”
In his language, too, there was something typical that had a very
great deal in common with what was characteristic in his face, but
what it was exactly I still could not decide. To inspire confidence and
to show that I was not ill-humoured, I took some of the proffered
sausage. It certainly was horrible; one needed the teeth of a good
house-dog to deal with it. As we worked our jaws we got into
conversation; we began complaining to each other of the lengthiness
of the service.
“The rule here approaches that of Mount Athos,” I said; “but at
Athos the night services last ten hours, and on great feast-days —
fourteen! You should go there for prayers!”
“Yes,” answered my companion, and he wagged his head, “I have
been here for three weeks. And you know, every day services, every
day services. On ordinary days at midnight they ring for matins, at
five o’clock for early mass, at nine o’clock for late mass. Sleep is
utterly out of the question. In the daytime there are hymns of
praise, special prayers, vespers. . . . And when I was preparing for
the sacrament I was simply dropping from exhaustion.” He sighed
and went on: “And it’s awkward not to go to church. . . . The monks
give one a room, feed one, and, you know, one is ashamed not to
go. One wouldn’t mind standing it for a day or two, perhaps, but
three weeks is too much—much too much! Are you here for long?”
“I am going to-morrow evening.”
 “But I am staying another fortnight.”
“But I thought it was not the rule to stay for so long here?” I said.
“Yes, that’s true: if anyone stays too long, sponging on the monks,
he is asked to go. Judge for yourself, if the proletariat were allowed
to stay on here as long as they liked there would never be a room
vacant, and they would eat up the whole monastery. That’s true. But
the monks make an exception for me, and I hope they won’t turn
me out for some time. You know I am a convert.”
“You mean?”
“I am a Jew baptized. . . . Only lately I have embraced orthodoxy.”
Now I understood what I had before been utterly unable to
understand from his face: his thick lips, and his way of twitching up
the right corner of his mouth and his right eyebrow, when he was
talking, and that peculiar oily brilliance of his eyes which is only
found in Jews. I understood, too, his phraseology. . . . From further
conversation I learned that his name was Alexandr Ivanitch, and had
in the past been Isaac, that he was a native of the Mogilev province,
and that he had come to the Holy Mountains from Novotcherkassk,
where he had adopted the orthodox faith.
Having finished his sausage, Alexandr Ivanitch got up, and, raising
his right eyebrow, said his prayer before the ikon. The eyebrow
remained up when he sat down again on the little sofa and began
giving me a brief account of his long biography.
“From early childhood I cherished a love for learning,” he began in
a tone which suggested he was not speaking of himself, but of some
great man of the past. “My parents were poor Hebrews; they exist
by buying and selling in a small way; they live like beggars, you
know, in filth. In fact, all the people there are poor and
superstitious; they don’t like education, because education, very
naturally, turns a man away from religion. . . . They are fearful
fanatics. . . . Nothing would induce my parents to let me be
educated, and they wanted me to take to trade, too, and to know
nothing but the Talmud. . . . But you will agree, it is not everyone
who can spend his whole life struggling for a crust of bread,
wallowing in filth, and mumbling the Talmud. At times officers and
country gentlemen would put up at papa’s inn, and they used to talk
a great deal of things which in those days I had never dreamed of;
and, of course, it was alluring and moved me to envy. I used to cry
and entreat them to send me to school, but they taught me to read
Hebrew and nothing more. Once I found a Russian newspaper, and
took it home with me to make a kite of it. I was beaten for it,
though I couldn’t read Russian. Of course, fanaticism is inevitable,
for every people instinctively strives to preserve its nationality, but I
did not know that then and was very indignant. . . .”
Having made such an intellectual observation, Isaac, as he had
been, raised his right eyebrow higher than ever in his satisfaction
and looked at me, as it were, sideways, like a cock at a grain of
corn, with an air as though he would say: “Now at last you see for
certain that I am an intellectual man, don’t you?” After saying
something more about fanaticism and his irresistible yearning for
enlightenment, he went on:
“What could I do? I ran away to Smolensk. And there I had a
cousin who relined saucepans and made tins. Of course, I was glad
to work under him, as I had nothing to live upon; I was barefoot and
in rags. . . . I thought I could work by day and study at night and on
Saturdays. And so I did, but the police found out I had no passport
and sent me back by stages to my father. . . .”
Alexandr Ivanitch shrugged one shoulder and sighed.
“What was one to do?” he went on, and the more vividly the past
rose up before his mind, the more marked his Jewish accent
became. “My parents punished me and handed me over to my
grandfather, a fanatical old Jew, to be reformed. But I went off at
night to Shklov. And when my uncle tried to catch me in Shklov, I
went off to Mogilev; there I stayed two days and then I went off to
Starodub with a comrade.”
Later on he mentioned in his story Gonel, Kiev, Byelaya, Tserkov,
Uman, Balt, Bendery and at last reached Odessa.
“In Odessa I wandered about for a whole week, out of work and
hungry, till I was taken in by some Jews who went about the town
buying second-hand clothes. I knew how to read and write by then,
and had done arithmetic up to fractions, and I wanted to go to study
somewhere, but I had not the means. What was I to do? For six
months I went about Odessa buying old clothes, but the Jews paid
me no wages, the rascals. I resented it and left them. Then I went
by steamer to Perekop.”
“What for?”
“Oh, nothing. A Greek promised me a job there. In short, till I was
sixteen I wandered about like that with no definite work and no
roots till I got to Poltava. There a student, a Jew, found out that I
wanted to study, and gave me a letter to the Harkov students. Of
course, I went to Harkov. The students consulted together and
began to prepare me for the technical school. And, you know, I must
say the students that I met there were such that I shall never forget
them to the day of my death. To say nothing of their giving me food
and lodging, they set me on the right path, they made me think,
showed me the object of life. Among them were intellectual
remarkable people who by now are celebrated. For instance, you
have heard of Grumaher, haven’t you?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“You haven’t! He wrote very clever articles in the Harkov Gazette,
and was preparing to be a professor. Well, I read a great deal and
attended the student’s societies, where you hear nothing that is
commonplace. I was working up for six months, but as one has to
have been through the whole high-school course of mathematics to
enter the technical school, Grumaher advised me to try for the
veterinary institute, where they admit high-school boys from the
sixth form. Of course, I began working for it. I did not want to be a
veterinary surgeon but they told me that after finishing the course at
the veterinary institute I should be admitted to the faculty of
medicine without examination. I learnt all Kühner; I could read
Cornelius Nepos, à livre ouvert; and in Greek I read through almost
all Curtius. But, you know, one thing and another, . . . the students
leaving and the uncertainty of my position, and then I heard that my
mamma had come and was looking for me all over Harkov. Then I
went away. What was I to do? But luckily I learned that there was a
school of mines here on the Donets line. Why should I not enter
that? You know the school of mines qualifies one as a mining
foreman—a splendid berth. I know of mines where the foremen get
a salary of fifteen hundred a year. Capital. . . . I entered it. . . .”
With an expression of reverent awe on his face Alexandr Ivanitch
enumerated some two dozen abstruse sciences in which instruction
was given at the school of mines; he described the school itself, the
construction of the shafts, and the condition of the miners. . . . Then
he told me a terrible story which sounded like an invention, though I
could not help believing it, for his tone in telling it was too genuine
and the expression of horror on his Semitic face was too evidently
sincere.
“While I was doing the practical work, I had such an accident one
day!” he said, raising both eyebrows. “I was at a mine here in the
Donets district. You have seen, I dare say, how people are let down
into the mine. You remember when they start the horse and set the
gates moving one bucket on the pulley goes down into the mine,
while the other comes up; when the first begins to come up, then
the second goes down—exactly like a well with two pails. Well, one
day I got into the bucket, began going down, and can you fancy, all
at once I heard, Trrr! The chain had broken and I flew to the devil
together with the bucket and the broken bit of chain. . . . I fell from
a height of twenty feet, flat on my chest and stomach, while the
bucket, being heavier, reached the bottom before me, and I hit this
shoulder here against its edge. I lay, you know, stunned. I thought I
was killed, and all at once I saw a fresh calamity: the other bucket,
which was going up, having lost the counter-balancing weight, was
coming down with a crash straight upon me. . . . What was I to do?
Seeing the position, I squeezed closer to the wall, crouching and
waiting for the bucket to come full crush next minute on my head. I
thought of papa and mamma and Mogilev and Grumaher. . . . I
prayed. . . . But happily . . . it frightens me even to think of it. . . .”
Alexandr Ivanitch gave a constrained smile and rubbed his
forehead with his hand.
“But happily it fell beside me and only caught this side a little. . . .
It tore off coat, shirt and skin, you know, from this side. . . . The
force of it was terrific. I was unconscious after it. They got me out
and sent me to the hospital. I was there four months, and the
doctors there said I should go into consumption. I always have a
cough now and a pain in my chest. And my psychic condition is
terrible. . . . When I am alone in a room I feel overcome with terror.
Of course, with my health in that state, to be a mining foreman is
out of the question. I had to give up the school of mines. . . .”
“And what are you doing now?” I asked.
“I have passed my examination as a village schoolmaster. Now I
belong to the orthodox church, and I have a right to be a teacher. In
Novotcherkassk, where I was baptized, they took a great interest in
me and promised me a place in a church parish school. I am going
there in a fortnight, and shall ask again.”
Alexandr Ivanitch took off his overcoat and remained in a shirt
with an embroidered Russian collar and a worsted belt.
“It is time for bed,” he said, folding his overcoat for a pillow, and
yawning. “Till lately, you know, I had no knowledge of God at all. I
was an atheist. When I was lying in the hospital I thought of
religion, and began reflecting on that subject. In my opinion, there is
only one religion possible for a thinking man, and that is the
Christian religion. If you don’t believe in Christ, then there is nothing
else to believe in, . . . is there? Judaism has outlived its day, and is
preserved only owing to the peculiarities of the Jewish race. When
civilization reaches the Jews there will not be a trace of Judaism left.
All young Jews are atheists now, observe. The New Testament is the
natural continuation of the Old, isn’t it?”
I began trying to find out the reasons which had led him to take
so grave and bold a step as the change of religion, but he kept
repeating the same, “The New Testament is the natural continuation
of the Old”—a formula obviously not his own, but acquired— which
did not explain the question in the least. In spite of my efforts and
artifices, the reasons remained obscure. If one could believe that he
had embraced Orthodoxy from conviction, as he said he had done,
what was the nature and foundation of this conviction it was
impossible to grasp from his words. It was equally impossible to
assume that he had changed his religion from interested motives:
his cheap shabby clothes, his going on living at the expense of the
convent, and the uncertainty of his future, did not look like
interested motives. There was nothing for it but to accept the idea
that my companion had been impelled to change his religion by the
same restless spirit which had flung him like a chip of wood from
town to town, and which he, using the generally accepted formula,
called the craving for enlightenment.
Before going to bed I went into the corridor to get a drink of
water. When I came back my companion was standing in the middle
of the room, and he looked at me with a scared expression. His face
looked a greyish white, and there were drops of perspiration on his
forehead.
“My nerves are in an awful state,” he muttered with a sickly smile,”
awful! It’s acute psychological disturbance. But that’s of no
consequence.”
And he began reasoning again that the New Testament was a
natural continuation of the Old, that Judaism has outlived its day. . .
. Picking out his phrases, he seemed to be trying to put together the
forces of his conviction and to smother with them the uneasiness of
his soul, and to prove to himself that in giving up the religion of his
fathers he had done nothing dreadful or peculiar, but had acted as a
thinking man free from prejudice, and that therefore he could boldly
remain in a room all alone with his conscience. He was trying to
convince himself, and with his eyes besought my assistance.
Meanwhile a big clumsy wick had burned up on our tallow candle.
It was by now getting light. At the gloomy little window, which was
turning blue, we could distinctly see both banks of the Donets River
and the oak copse beyond the river. It was time to sleep.
“It will be very interesting here to-morrow,” said my companion
when I put out the candle and went to bed. “After early mass, the
procession will go in boats from the Monastery to the Hermitage.”
Raising his right eyebrow and putting his head on one side, he
prayed before the ikons, and, without undressing, lay down on his
little sofa.
“Yes,” he said, turning over on the other side.
“Why yes?” I asked.
“When I accepted orthodoxy in Novotcherkassk my mother was
looking for me in Rostov. She felt that I meant to change my
religion,” he sighed, and went on: “It is six years since I was there in
the province of Mogilev. My sister must be married by now.”
After a short silence, seeing that I was still awake, he began
talking quietly of how they soon, thank God, would give him a job,
and that at last he would have a home of his own, a settled position,
his daily bread secure. . . . And I was thinking that this man would
never have a home of his own, nor a settled position, nor his daily
bread secure. He dreamed aloud of a village school as of the
Promised Land; like the majority of people, he had a prejudice
against a wandering life, and regarded it as something exceptional,
abnormal and accidental, like an illness, and was looking for
salvation in ordinary workaday life. The tone of his voice betrayed
that he was conscious of his abnormal position and regretted it. He
seemed as it were apologizing and justifying himself.
Not more than a yard from me lay a homeless wanderer; in the
rooms of the hostels and by the carts in the courtyard among the
pilgrims some hundreds of such homeless wanderers were waiting
for the morning, and further away, if one could picture to oneself the
whole of Russia, a vast multitude of such uprooted creatures was
pacing at that moment along highroads and side-tracks, seeking
something better, or were waiting for the dawn, asleep in wayside
inns and little taverns, or on the grass under the open sky. . . . As I
fell asleep I imagined how amazed and perhaps even overjoyed all
these people would have been if reasoning and words could be
found to prove to them that their life was as little in need of
justification as any other. In my sleep I heard a bell ring outside as
plaintively as though shedding bitter tears, and the lay brother
calling out several times:
“Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy upon us! Come to
mass!”
When I woke up my companion was not in the room. It was sunny
and there was a murmur of the crowds through the window. Going
out, I learned that mass was over and that the procession had set
off for the Hermitage some time before. The people were wandering
in crowds upon the river bank and, feeling at liberty, did not know
what to do with themselves: they could not eat or drink, as the late
mass was not yet over at the Hermitage; the Monastery shops
where pilgrims are so fond of crowding and asking prices were still
shut. In spite of their exhaustion, many of them from sheer boredom
were trudging to the Hermitage. The path from the Monastery to the
Hermitage, towards which I directed my steps, twined like a snake
along the high steep bank, going up and down and threading in and
out among the oaks and pines. Below, the Donets gleamed,
reflecting the sun; above, the rugged chalk cliff stood up white with
bright green on the top from the young foliage of oaks and pines,
which, hanging one above another, managed somehow to grow on
the vertical cliff without falling. The pilgrims trailed along the path in
single file, one behind another. The majority of them were Little
Russians from the neighbouring districts, but there were many from
a distance, too, who had come on foot from the provinces of Kursk
and Orel; in the long string of varied colours there were Greek
settlers, too, from Mariupol, strongly built, sedate and friendly
people, utterly unlike their weakly and degenerate compatriots who
fill our southern seaside towns. There were men from the Donets,
too, with red stripes on their breeches, and emigrants from the
Tavritchesky province. There were a good many pilgrims of a
nondescript class, like my Alexandr Ivanitch; what sort of people
they were and where they came from it was impossible to tell from
their faces, from their clothes, or from their speech. The path ended
at the little landing-stage, from which a narrow road went to the left
to the Hermitage, cutting its way through the mountain. At the
landing-stage stood two heavy big boats of a forbidding aspect, like
the New Zealand pirogues which one may see in the works of Jules
Verne. One boat with rugs on the seats was destined for the clergy
and the singers, the other without rugs for the public. When the
procession was returning I found myself among the elect who had
succeeded in squeezing themselves into the second. There were so
many of the elect that the boat scarcely moved, and one had to
stand all the way without stirring and to be careful that one’s hat
was not crushed. The route was lovely. Both banks—one high, steep
and white, with overhanging pines and oaks, with the crowds
hurrying back along the path, and the other shelving, with green
meadows and an oak copse bathed in sunshine—looked as happy
and rapturous as though the May morning owed its charm only to
them. The reflection of the sun in the rapidly flowing Donets
quivered and raced away in all directions, and its long rays played on
the chasubles, on the banners and on the drops splashed up by the
oars. The singing of the Easter hymns, the ringing of the bells, the
splash of the oars in the water, the calls of the birds, all mingled in
the air into something tender and harmonious. The boat with the
priests and the banners led the way; at its helm the black figure of a
lay brother stood motionless as a statue.
When the procession was getting near the Monastery, I noticed
Alexandr Ivanitch among the elect. He was standing in front of them
all, and, his mouth wide open with pleasure and his right eyebrow
cocked up, was gazing at the procession. His face was beaming;
probably at such moments, when there were so many people round
him and it was so bright, he was satisfied with himself, his new
religion, and his conscience.
When a little later we were sitting in our room, drinking tea, he
still beamed with satisfaction; his face showed that he was satisfied
both with the tea and with me, that he fully appreciated my being an
intellectual, but that he would know how to play his part with credit
if any intellectual topic turned up. . . .
“Tell me, what psychology ought I to read?” he began an
intellectual conversation, wrinkling up his nose.
“Why, what do you want it for?”
“One cannot be a teacher without a knowledge of psychology.
Before teaching a boy I ought to understand his soul.”
I told him that psychology alone would not be enough to make
one understand a boy’s soul, and moreover psychology for a teacher
who had not yet mastered the technical methods of instruction in
reading, writing, and arithmetic would be a luxury as superfluous as
the higher mathematics. He readily agreed with me, and began
describing how hard and responsible was the task of a teacher, how
hard it was to eradicate in the boy the habitual tendency to evil and
superstition, to make him think honestly and independently, to instil
into him true religion, the ideas of personal dignity, of freedom, and
so on. In answer to this I said something to him. He agreed again.
He agreed very readily, in fact. Obviously his brain had not a very
firm grasp of all these “intellectual subjects.”
 Up to the time of my departure we strolled together about the
Monastery, whiling away the long hot day. He never left my side a
minute; whether he had taken a fancy to me or was afraid of
solitude, God only knows! I remember we sat together under a
clump of yellow acacia in one of the little gardens that are scattered
on the mountain side.
“I am leaving here in a fortnight,” he said; “it is high time.”
“Are you going on foot?”
“From here to Slavyansk I shall walk, then by railway to Nikitovka;
from Nikitovka the Donets line branches off, and along that branch
line I shall walk as far as Hatsepetovka, and there a railway guard, I
know, will help me on my way.”
I thought of the bare, deserted steppe between Nikitovka and
Hatsepetovka, and pictured to myself Alexandr Ivanitch striding
along it, with his doubts, his homesickness, and his fear of solitude .
. . . He read boredom in my face, and sighed.
“And my sister must be married by now,” he said, thinking aloud,
and at once, to shake off melancholy thoughts, pointed to the top of
the rock and said:
“From that mountain one can see Izyum.”
As we were walking up the mountain he had a little misfortune. I
suppose he stumbled, for he slit his cotton trousers and tore the sole
of his shoe.
“Tss!” he said, frowning as he took off a shoe and exposed a bare
foot without a stocking. “How unpleasant! . . . That’s a complication,
you know, which . . . Yes!”
Turning the shoe over and over before his eyes, as though unable
to believe that the sole was ruined for ever, he spent a long time
frowning, sighing, and clicking with his tongue.
 I had in my trunk a pair of boots, old but fashionable, with pointed
toes and laces. I had brought them with me in case of need, and
only wore them in wet weather. When we got back to our room I
made up a phrase as diplomatic as I could and offered him these
boots. He accepted them and said with dignity:
“I should thank you, but I know that you consider thanks a
convention.”
He was pleased as a child with the pointed toes and the laces, and
even changed his plans.
“Now I shall go to Novotcherkassk in a week, and not in a
fortnight,” he said, thinking aloud. “In shoes like these I shall not be
ashamed to show myself to my godfather. I was not going away
from here just because I hadn’t any decent clothes. . . .”
When the coachman was carrying out my trunk, a lay brother with
a good ironical face came in to sweep out the room. Alexandr
Ivanitch seemed flustered and embarrassed and asked him timidly:
“Am I to stay here or go somewhere else?”
He could not make up his mind to occupy a whole room to
himself, and evidently by now was feeling ashamed of living at the
expense of the Monastery. He was very reluctant to part from me; to
put off being lonely as long as possible, he asked leave to see me on
my way.
The road from the Monastery, which had been excavated at the
cost of no little labour in the chalk mountain, moved upwards, going
almost like a spiral round the mountain, over roots and under sullen
overhanging pines. . . .
The Donets was the first to vanish from our sight, after it the
Monastery yard with its thousands of people, and then the green
roofs. . . . Since I was mounting upwards everything seemed
vanishing into a pit. The cross on the church, burnished by the rays
of the setting sun, gleamed brightly in the abyss and vanished.
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