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A growl was running through the twilight.... Es lebe das Rate Republik! A fierce whisper of voices. Workingmen looking to their guns, massing about the government buildings. A new war minister in the uniform of a marine, speaking from a balcony. Workingmen with guns, listening. Women drifting back to the hovels and stinking bundles of houses.
"Ah, pendant la guerre, m'sieur, en Paris." "And now," Dorn mused, "you are a Spartikust." The baron was on his feet, a wine glass raised in his hand. "Es lebe die Welt Revolution," he cried, "es lebe das Rate Republik!" "What did you do in Paris, von Stinnes?" "Pigeons, my friend.
Grinning earth faces, roaring earth voices come swaggering into the hallowed precincts of civilization. Workingmen with guns marching to take possession of the world. An old tableau decked with new phrases the underfed barbarian at the gate of the grainary. The singing and the roaring continued through the morning. "Es lebe die Welt Revolution! Es lebe das Rate Republik!
He had set the enthusiasm of the Dresden Revolution to his own greatest music; but he set the enthusiasm of twenty years later in derision to the music of Rossini. There is no mistaking the tune he meant to suggest by his doggerel of Republik, Republik, Republik-lik-lik. The Overture to William Tell is there as plainly as if it were noted down in full score.
Little lights twinkling outside the ancient weinstubes began to explode. There must be darkness. Pop!... pop!... a rattle of glass. A blaze of shooting. The railroad station was firing now. "Es lebe das Rate Republik!" from the darkness in the streets. A sweep of figures across the open square. Arms twisting, leaping in sudden glares of flame.
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