The Created Legend by Fyodor Sologub (ebook reader color screen TXT) 📕

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 newcomer, 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

Everyone 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 everyone,” 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 bathhouse and entered the water up to his knees. He