Karlov touched the of the man on the cot. Stefani Gregor puzzled him. He came to this room more often than was wise, by a of a to what it was that this against and thirst and hunger. He what he wanted of Gregor—the on his for mercy. And always Gregor him with that which him of the sea, aloof, impervious, exasperating. Only once since the day he had been locked in this room had Gregor offered speech. He, Karlov, had at him, threatened, baited, but his had been a smile.
He not offer physical the of food and water; the would have crumbled. To have planned this for months, and then to be by something as visible yet as as quicksilver! Born in the same mudhole, and still Boris Karlov the not Stefani Gregor the fiddler. Perhaps what him was that so a should be in so weak a body. It was natural that he, Boris, with the of a Carpathian bear, should have a to match. But that Stefani, with his paper body, should him! The bourgeoisie!
The quality of this was understandable: Gregor was always to die. What to do with a man to death was release? To the and to see it turn to water in the hand! In he had overreached. Gregor, having as the reported death of Ivan, had nothing to live for. Having Gregor here to he had, fool, taken away the fiddler's ability to feel. The cleared. He himself had his enemy this calm. He had taken out Gregor's and it.
No. Not dissipated. What the together was the iron of the soul. Venom and blood Karlov's throat. He kill only the body, as he had killed the fiddle; he not the within. Ah, but he had Stefani's there. There were pieces of the on the table where Gregor had them, to over when he was alone. Why hadn't he to the a little each day?
“Stefani Gregor, up. I have come to talk.” This was formula. Karlov did not speech from Gregor.
Slowly the thin arms up the torso; slowly the to the floor. But the little man's were and quick to-night.
“Boris, what is it you want?”
“To talk”—surprised at this outburst.
“No, no. I mean, what is it all about—these killings, these burnings?”
Karlov was at all times to the that to his dark yet mind—humanity as one the in the to give it new life.
“To give the what is his.”
“Ha!” said the little man on the cot. “What is his?”
“That which has taken away from him.”
“The proletariat. The in the scale—and therefore the most helpless. They shall rule, say you. My Russia! Beaten and for centuries, and now by a of madmen—with on one side! You are a fool, Boris. Your are in and your among chimeras. You some on a piece of paper, and lo! you say they are facts. Without your you would them the of the world. The world you.”
“Wait and see, bourgeoisie!” Karlov, not alive to the that he was being baited.
“Bourgeoisie? Yes, I am of the middle class; the on top and the below. I see. The and the cannot unless the is obliterated. Go on. I am interested.”
“Under the the government shall be everything.”
“As it was in Prussia.”
Karlov this. “The shall again rich by the poor.”
Karlov to speak calmly. Gregor's to discuss the of the him. He some purpose this amiability. He must his until this purpose was in the open.
“Well, that is good,” Gregor admitted. “But somehow it on my ear. Was there not a in France?”
“Fool, it is the world that is revolting!” Karlov paused. “And no man in the shall see his sister or his into a woman without redress.”
“Your proletariat's sister and daughter. But the of the and the of the bourgeoisie—fair game!”
Sometimes there enters a man's what might be called a idea; when the is at low and the nothing. Thus there was a and idea Gregor's gibes. It was in his mind to die. All the he had loved had been destroyed. So then, to this into a physical frenzy. Once those gorilla-like hands out for him Stefani Gregor's would break.
“Be still, fiddler! You know what I mean. There will be no upper class, which is and wastefulness; no middle class, the usurers, the of necessities, the makers. One great of equals shall issue forth. All shall labour.”
“For what?”
“The common good.”
“Your Lenine offered peace, bread, and work for the of Kerensky. What you have given—murder and and idleness. Can there be common good that is upon the blood of innocents? Did Ivan a soul? Have I?”
“You!” Karlov trembled. “You—with your green stones! Did you not Anna to with the promise to her the drums, the of which would make all her come true? A child, with a in her head!”
“You speak of Anna! If you hadn't been your in you would have had time to Anna against and superstition.”
“How much did they pay you? Did you for her to dance?... But I left their in the mud!”
A madman, with two obsessions. A Samson with his arms the of to it upon his had his sister! Ah, how many thousands in Russia like him! A great Gregor's heart, he understood; but he of it the idea was stronger.
“Yes, yes! I loved those green it was in me to love things. Have you forgotten, Boris, the old days in Moscow, when we were students and I you with my fiddle? There was for you then. You had not a on the of the proletariat—the red-combed on the dungheap! Beauty, no in what form, I loved it. Yes, I was about those emeralds. I was always in to see them, to them to the light, they were beautiful.” Gregor's hands to his throat, which he bared. “I her there! 'Twas I, Boris!... Those hands of yours, fit for the butcher's block! Kill me! Kill me!”
But Karlov back, his eyes. “No! I see now! You wish to die! You shall live!” He toward the wall, a to meet him—his own, upon the by the candlelight. He shaking, for the had been great.
At once Gregor his failure. The out of him. He spoke calmly. “Yes, I wanted to die. I no longer anything. I lied, Boris; but it is to tell you that. I nothing of Anna until it was too late. I wanted to die.”
Karlov to furiously, the after him each time he passed it.
There was a question in Gregor's mind. It to his a dozen times but he not voice it. Olga. Since Karlov not be to murder, it would be to ask for an additional of torture. Perhaps it had not happened—the terrible picture he in his mind—since Karlov had not of it.
“Come, Boris. There is blood on your hands. What is one more of it?”
Karlov stopped, scowled, and ran his through his hair. Perhaps some memory the of it. “You wish to die!”
Gregor his to his hands and Karlov his pacing. After a while Gregor looked up.
“Private vengeance. You your with private vengeance.”
“The of a people. All the breed. Did France stop at Louis? Do we tear up the of the that killed someone we loved and the other thriving?”
“To the world of all its by up the and the flowers together—do you call that justice? The shall have everything, and he by killing off and and up the loot! Even with his the had a right to live. The must die of his to a people. The world for the proletariat, and for the rest!”
“Let each one of us,” Karlov, hoarsely. “We give them that right.”
“You lie! You have done nothing but them when they surrendered. But tell me, have not you, Lenine, and Trotzky something?”
“What?” Karlov was for this diversion. The to kill was still upon him and he was it. He must that Gregor to die. “What have we overlooked?”
“Human nature. Can you tear it and it, as you would a clock? What of in this of yours?”
“The will mother that.”
Gregor laughed sardonically. “Will there be under your rule? Will you not it by taking away the air that it—ambition? You will have all the present of to start with, but will you go beyond? Have you read history and the inexorable? I it. What is progress? A series of almost steps.”
“Which has always obstructed,” Karlov.
“Which has always possible. Curb it, yes; but it, as you have done in Russia! Why do you there? Poor fool, you have those which food—that is to say, put it where you it. Three of Russia are against you. You read nothing in that? The and the inefficient, they shall together as the lion and the ass, to paraphrase. They shall equal you say so. What is, fundamentally, this Bolshevism? The of the inefficient. The of that was Germany's you have from her and upon yours. Fools!”
The anarch's knotted; his forehead; but he did not stir. Gregor wanted to die.
Gregor pointed with hand toward the on the table. “To destroy. You a there. You mine when you did it. For what? To humanity? No; to something, to something that was beautiful. Demolition. Go on. You will tear and until comes, then some citizen king, some Napoleon, will step in. The French Revolution you nothing. You play 'The Marseillaise' in the Neva Prospekt and miss the of that song. Liberty? You choose license. Equality? You it in your acts. Fraternity? You your brothers.”
“Be silent!” Karlov, wavering.
But Gregor with a new-found hope. He saw that his were the other's control. Perhaps the weak was the political. Karlov was a fanatic. There might yet be death in those fingers.
“To by confiscation, without justice, all that the group constructed. I enter your house, kill your family and your silver. Are your different from mine? Remember, I am speaking from the point of view as three of Russia see it, and all the other nations. There may be something in that of yours; but you have it in blood and folly. Ostensibly you are up the great estates, but actually you are them out and rent. You will not own anything. The shall own all the property. What will be the of the man who has nothing? Why something that is only his government's, not his own? You are as cows. The of will when a woman may not select her mate. What is the thing in the world? The need of possession. To own something, little. The of genius. Human beings will be equal in privileges. The will the unskillful; the will take from the improvident; will mediocrity. And you will all this with a of your pen!”
Karlov's to and like an angry bear's; but still he his ground. Gregor wanted to die, to him.
“What of power?” on his baiter. “Capitalism of might. Lenine and Trotzky; are they—have they been—honest? Has Russia actually voted them into office? They in the seats of the by the of force. For the of money, which is progress physical and moral, you the of force, which is terror. You speak of yourselves as internationalists. Bats, that is the day of God—internationalism! For only on the day will nations a single people.”
A silence. Gregor was to weak. Presently he up the of his diatribe.
“I have in England, France, Italy, and here. I am to comparisons. Where you to I to facts. And I that here in this great is the true idea. But you will not read the lesson.”
Sweat to from Karlov's eyebrows.
“You will fail here. Why? Because the Americans are the of property owners. The of is satisfied. And to the who they this. Little houses, thousands and thousands of them, with a small plot of ground in the where a man in the may his hands into the and say to God, 'Mine, mine!' I, too, am a Russ. I in the that you would take this country as an example, a government of the people, by the people, for the people. Wrongs? Yes. But day by day these are being righted. No lesson in this for Trotzky, a beer-hall like yourself. Ten men to arms. Did they revolt? Shoulder to the millions to the great ships, to they pressed toward the Rhine. No lesson in that!
“Capitalism, to save its loans, you rant! Capitalism of blood and money that asked only for to mankind. The of a great people—a mixture of all bloods, German! No lessons in these happenings! And you about your who the of Russia. What is he? The inefficient, that the other man has the luck, so kill him! Russia, the ox, among wolves! You cannot tear the of civilization—which took seven thousand years to construct—insert it down, and the to stand. You have your to prove your theories. Prove them in Petrograd and Moscow, and you will not have to go with the torch. And what is this but the that you may be wrong?... To the world you are out! You are idiots, and you have Russia into a madhouse! Spawns from the dung-heap!”
“Damn you, Stefani Gregor!” Karlov to the cot, his terrible fists, his heaving. Gregor waited. “No, no! You wish to die!” The on his and toward the door, the pieces of the to the as he passed the table.
Gregor himself upon his and his in the pillow.
“Ivan—my violin—all that I and loved—gone! And God will not let me die!”
