Piotr and Elisaveta descended towards the boat landing. Two rowing-boats seemed to rock on the water, though there was no breeze and the water was smooth like a mirror. A little farther, behind the bushes, the canvas roof of the bath-house stood revealed. Elena, Misha, and Miss Harrison were already there. They were sitting on a bench halfway down the slope, where the path to the landing was broken. The view from here, showing the bend of the river, was very restful. The water was growing darker, heavier, gradually assuming a leadlike dullness.

Misha and Elena, flushed with running, could not suppress their smiles. The Englishwoman looked calmly at the river, and nothing shocked her in the evening landscape and in the peaceful water. But now two persons came who brought with them their poignant unrest, their uneasiness, their confusion—and again an endless wrangle began.

They left this bench, from which one could look into such a great distance and see nothing but calm and peace everywhere. They descended below to the very bank. Even at this close range the water was still and smooth, and the agitated words of the restless people did not cause the broad sheet to stir. Misha picked up thin, flat stones and threw them underhand into the distance so that, touching the water, they skipped repeatedly on the surface. He did this habitually whenever the wrangling distressed him. His hands trembled, the little stones ricochetted badly sometimes; this annoyed him, but he tried to hide his annoyance and to look cheerful.

Elisaveta said:

“Misha, let’s see who can throw the better. Let’s try for pennies.”

They began to play. Misha was losing.

At the turn of the river, from the direction of the town, a rowing-boat appeared. Piotr looked searchingly into the distance, and said in a vexed voice:

“Mr. Stchemilov, our intelligent workman, the Social Democrat of the Russia Party, is again about to honour us.”

Elisaveta smiled. She asked with gentle reproof:

“Why do you dislike him so?”

“No, you tell me,” exclaimed Piotr, “why this party calls itself the Russia Party, and not the Russian Party? Why this high tone?”

Elisaveta answered with her usual calm:

“It is called the Russia and not the Russian Party because it includes not only the Russian, but also the Lithuanian, the Armenian, the Jew, and men of other races who happen to be citizens of Russia. It seems to me this is quite comprehensible.”

“No, I do not understand,” said Piotr obstinately. “I see in it only unnecessary pretence.”

In the meantime the boat drew nearer. Two men were sitting in it. Aleksei Makarovitch Stchemilov, a young working man, a locksmith by trade, sat at the oars. He was thin and of medium height; there was a suggestion of irony in the shape of his lips. Elisaveta had known Stchemilov since the past autumn, when she became acquainted with other labouring men and party workmen.

The boat touched the landing, and Stchemilov sprang out gracefully. Piotr remarked derisively as he bowed with exaggerated politeness:

“My homage to the proletariat of all lands.”

Stchemilov answered quietly:

“My most humble respects to the gentleman student.”

He exchanged greetings with all; then, turning with special deference towards Elisaveta, said:

“I’ve rowed back your property. It was almost taken from me. Our suburbanites have their own conceptions of the divine rights of ownership.”

Piotr boiled over with vexation—the very sight of this young blouse-wearer irritated him beyond bounds; he thought Stchemilov’s manners and speech arrogant. Piotr said sharply:

“As far as I understand your notion of things, it is not rights that are holy, but brute force.”

Stchemilov whistled and said:

“That is the origin of all ownership. You simply took a thing—and that’s all there was to it. ‘Blessed are the strong’ is a little adage among those who have conquered violently.”

“And how did you get hold of this?” asked Piotr with derision.

“Crumbs of wisdom fall from the tables of the rich even to us,” answered Stchemilov in a no less contemptuous tone; “we nourish ourselves on these small trifles.”

The other young man, clearly a workman also, remained in the boat. He looked rather timid, lean, and taciturn, and had gleaming eyes.

He sat holding on to the ropes of the rudder, and was looking cautiously towards the bank. Stchemilov looked at him with amused tenderness and called to him:

“Come here, Kiril, don’t be afraid; there are kindly people here—quite disposed to us, in fact.”

Piotr grumbled angrily under his breath. Misha smiled. He was eager to see the new-comer, though he hated violent discussions. Kiril got out of the boat awkwardly, and no less awkwardly stood up on the sand, his face averted; he smiled to hide his uneasiness. Piotr’s irritation grew.

“Please be seated,” he said, trying to assume a pleasant tone.

“I’ve done a lot of sitting,” answered Kiril in an artificial bass voice.

He continued to smile, but sat down on the edge of the bench, so that he nearly fell over; his arms shot up into the air, and one of his hands brushed against Elisaveta. He felt vexed with himself, and he flushed. As he moved away from the edge he remarked:

“I’ve sat two months in administrative order."5

Every one understood these strange words. Piotr asked:

“For what?”

Kiril seemed embarrassed. He answered with a morose uneasiness:

“It’s all a very simple affair with us—you do the slightest thing, and they try at once the most murderous measures.”

At this moment Stchemilov said very quietly to Elisaveta:

“Not a bad chap. He wants to become acquainted with you, comrade.”

Elisaveta silently inclined her head, smiled amiably at Kiril, and pressed his hand. His face brightened.

Rameyev came up to them. He greeted his visitors pleasantly but coldly, giving an impression of studied correctness. The conversation continued somewhat awkwardly. Elisaveta’s blue eyes looked gently and pensively at the irritated Piotr and at his deliberately inimical adversary Stchemilov.

Piotr asked:

“Mr. Stchemilov, would you care to explain to me this talk of an autocracy by the proletariat? You admit the need of an autocracy, but only wish to shift it to another centre? In what way is this an improvement?”

Stchemilov answered quite simply:

“You masters and possessors do not wish to give us anything—neither a fraction of an ounce of power nor of possessions; what’s left for us to do?”

“What’s your immediate object?” put in Rameyev.

“Immediate or ultimate—what’s that!” answered Stchemilov. “We have only one object: the public ownership of the machinery of production.”

“What of the land?” cried out Piotr rather shrilly.

“Yes, the land too we consider as machinery of production,” answered Stchemilov.

“You imagine that there is an infinite amount of land in Russia?” asked Piotr with bitter irony.

“Not an infinite amount, but certainly enough to go round—and plenty for every one,” was Stchemilov’s calm reply.

“Ten—or, say, a hundred—acres per soul? Is that what you mean?” continued Piotr in loud derision. “You’ve got that idea into the heads of the muzhiks, and now they’re in revolt.”

Stchemilov again whistled, and said with contemptuous calm:

“Fiddlesticks! The muzhik is not as stupid as all that. And in any case, let me ask you what hindered the opposing side from hammering the right ideas into the muzhik’s mind?”

Piotr got up angrily and strode away without saying another word. Rameyev looked quietly after him and said to Stchemilov:

“Piotr loves culture, or, more properly speaking, civilization, too well to appreciate freedom. You insist too strongly on your class interests, and therefore freedom is no such great lure to you. But we Russian constitutionalists are carrying on the struggle for freedom almost alone.”

Stchemilov listened to him and made an effort to suppress an ironic smile.

“It’s true,” he said, “we won’t join hands with you. You wish to fly about in the free air; while we are still ravenously hungry and want to eat.”

Rameyev said after a brief silence:

“I am appalled at this savagery. Murders every day, every day.”

“What’s there to do?” asked Stchemilov, persisting in his ironic tone. “I suppose you’d like to have freedom for domestic use, the sort you could fold up and put in your pocket.”

Rameyev, making no effort to disguise his desire of closing the conversation, rose, smiling, and stretched out his hand to Stchemilov.

“I must go now.”

Misha was about to follow him, but changed his mind and ran towards the river. He found his fishing-rod near the bath-house and entered the water up to his knees. He had long ago accustomed himself to go to the river when agitated by sadness or joy or when he had to think about something very seriously. He was a shy and self-sufficient boy and loved to be alone with his thoughts and his dreams. The coolness of the water running fast about his legs comforted him and banished evil moods. As he stood here, with his naked legs in the water, he became gentle and calm.

Elena soon came there also. She stood silently on the bank and looked at the water. For some reason she felt sad and wanted to cry.

The water glided past her tranquilly, almost noiselessly. Its surface was smooth—and thus it ran on.

Elisaveta looked at Stchemilov with mild displeasure.

“Why are you so sharp, Aleksei?” she asked.

“You don’t like it, comrade?” he asked in return.

“No, I don’t like it,” said Elisaveta in simple, unmistakable tones.

Stchemilov did not reply at once. He grew thoughtful, then said:

“The abyss that separates us from your cousin is too broad. And even between us and your father. It is hard to come together with them. Their chief concern, as you very well know, is to construct a pyramid out of people; ours to scatter this pyramid in an even stratum over the earth. That’s how it is, Elizaveta.”

Elisaveta showed her annoyance and corrected him:

“Elisaveta. How many times have I told you?”

Stchemilov smiled.

“A lordly caprice, comrade Elisaveta. Well, as you like, though it is a trifle hard to pronounce. Now we would say Lizaveta.”

Kiril complained of his failures, of the police, of the detectives, of the patriots. His complaints were pitiful and depressing. He had been arrested and had lost his job. It was easy to see that he had suffered. The gleam of hunger trembled in his eyes.

“The police treated me most horribly,” complained Kiril, “and then there’s my family....”

After an awkward silence he continued:

“Not a single thing escapes them at our factory, you get humiliated at every step. They actually search you.”

Again he lapsed into silence. Again he complained:

“They force their way into your soul. You can’t hold private conversations.... They stop at nothing.”

He told of hunger, he told of a sick old woman. All this was very touching, but it had lost its freshness by constant repetition—the pity of it had become, as it were, stamped out. Kiril, indeed, was a common type, whose state of mind made him valuable as material to be used up at an opportune moment in the interests of a political cause.

Stchemilov was saying:

“The Black Hundred are organizing. Zherbenev is very busy at this—he’s one of your genuine Russians.”

“Kerbakh is with him—another patriot for you,” observed Kiril.

“The most dangerous man in our town, this Zherbenev. Vermin of the most foul kind,” said Stchemilov contemptuously.

“I am going to kill him,” said Kiril hotly.

To this Elisaveta said:

“In order to kill a man you need to believe that one man is essentially better or worse than another, that he is distinct from the other not accidentally or socially, but in the mystic sense. That is to say, murder only confirms inequality.”

“By the way, Elisaveta,” remarked Stchemilov, “we have come to talk business with you.”

“Tell me what it is,” answered Elisaveta calmly.

“We are expecting some comrades from Rouban within the next few days. They are coming to talk things over,” said Stchemilov; “but of course you know all that.”

“Yes, I know,” said Elisaveta.

“We want to use the occasion,” went on Stchemilov, “to organize a mass meeting not far from here for our town factory folk. So here, at last, is your chance to appear as an orator.”

“How can I be of any use?” asked Elisaveta.

“You have the gift of expression, Elisaveta,” said Stchemilov. “You have a good voice, an easy flow of language, and you have a way of putting the case simply and clearly. It would be a sin for you not to speak.”

“We will bring down the Cadets6 a peg or two,” said Kiril in his bass voice.

“You’ll forgive Kiril, comrade Elisaveta,” said Stchemilov. “I don’t think he knows that your father is a Cadet. Besides, he’s a rather simple, frank fellow.”

Kiril grew red.

“I know so little,” said Elisaveta timidly. “What shall I talk about, and how?”

“You know enough,” said the other confidently; “more than myself and Kiril put together. You do things remarkably well. Everything you say is so clear and accurate.”

“What shall I talk about?”

“You can draw a picture of the general condition of working men,” answered Stchemilov, “and how capital is forging a hammer against itself and compelling labour to organize.”

Elisaveta grew red and silently inclined her head.

“Then it’s all settled, comrade?” asked Stchemilov.

Elisaveta burst into a laugh.

“Yes, settled,” she exclaimed cheerfully.

It was good to hear this gravely and simply pronounced word “comrade.”