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Updated: June 23, 2025
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.
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.
He smiled and said: "What shall I say? His revolutionary poems are not bad. Nowadays, however, everybody writes them. As for his other works, they are not written about us. Noblemen's delights are not for us." "It's a long time since I've been here," said Elisaveta. "What a mess you've got here." "A house without a mistress," answered Stchemilov, rather confused.
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'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.
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.
Stchemilov's house, a cabin in the middle of a vegetable garden, stood on a steep bank of the river, just along the edge of the town. No one had yet arrived at the house. Elisaveta picked up a periodical which lay on the table and asked: "Tell me, comrade, how do you like these verses?" Stchemilov looked at the periodical, open at a page which contained Trirodov's verses.
"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.
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.
You praise me to my eyes as if I were a charming piece of property." Stchemilov suddenly flushed with embarrassment; his habitual self-assurance appeared to have left him unexpectedly. He breathed heavily and stammered out in confusion: "Comrade Elisaveta, you are a fine person. Don't be offended at my words. I love you.
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