"My chest still aches."
Alexei, still trying to persuade his brother to go back to the country, began turning over the presents, and touched a flaky pie with his finger.
"Eat this—Matryona, used a whole pound of butter in it."
"Look here, Alexei Ivanovich," said Semyon. "I don't know how to answer you.
I'd go home with pleasure till my wound healed.
But I'm not going to stay and work the land, so don't think it."
"H'm. And may I ask why?"
"I couldn't, Alyosha." (Here a convulsion distorted his mouth, but he overcame it with an effort.) "You've just got to believe I couldn't.
I can't forget my wound. I can't forget how they tortured my comrades." (He turned towards the window, still trembling, fury in his eyes.) "You must try and put yourself in my place. I can think of nothing but those vipers...." He whispered a few words, and then, the red egg clutched in his hand, spoke aloud: "I'll never rest as long as those vipers are drinking our blood. I'll never rest!"
Alexei Ivanovich shook his head.
He spat on the end of his cigarette and extinguished it between his fingers; looking round for somewhere to put it, he threw it under the bed.
"Well, Semyon, it's your business, and your cause is a just one. Come home and get well.
I won't try and keep you by force."
Alexei Krasilnikov had hardly left the hospital before he met his fellow countryman, Ignat, a war veteran.
They stopped to shake hands and exchange greetings.
Ignat said he was working as a chauffeur for the Executive Committee.
"Come with me to the 'Soleil'," suggested Ignat. "You can come back with me for the night.
There's a fight going on there today.
Have you heard of Commissar Broinitsky?
I wonder what he'll find to say for himself today.
His chaps are such hoodlums, the whole town is groaning.
They cut up two children, schoolboys, in full light, yesterday, over there, at the corner—for no reason at all—just fell on them with their swords.
I was standing by that post—it fairly made me vomit."
They talked all the way to the
"Soleil" cinema, and, pushing their way through the crowd inside, took up their stand beside the orchestra.
A pale, round-shouldered man with a shock of black hair was pacing up and down the small stage with short steps like a caged animal, in front of the table placed for the presidium, which consisted of a round-faced woman in a soldier's coat, a gloomy soldier with a dirty bandage round his head, a withered-looking old worker in spectacles, and two young men in soldiers' tunics.
The pale man was speaking, monotonously sawing the air with a feeble fist, a bundle of newspaper cuttings clutched in his other hand.
"A teacher—from our Soviet," whispered Ignat to Krasilnikov.
"We cannot be silent j.. we must not be silent.... Has our town got that Soviet power for which you fought, Comrades?
We have nothing but violence. A despotism worse than the tsar's.... Breaking into the houses of peaceful citizens.... It's dangerous to go out after dusk, you might be stripped, robbed. Children are killed in the streets. I have spoken about this at the Executive Committee, I've spoken about it at the Revolutionary Committee. They are powerless.... The Military Commissar covers all these crimes with his unlimited power.... Comrades...." (He smote himself convulsively on the chest with the bundle of cuttings.) "Why do they kill children?
Better shoot us.... Why do you kill children?"
His last words were lost in an excited hum throughout the hall.
His hearers exchanged glances of fear and agitation.
The speaker seated himself at the table, hiding his lined face behind the sheets of a newspaper.
The chairman, the soldier with the bandaged head, glanced towards the wings.
"Comrade Trifonov, Commander of the Red Guard, will speak."
The audience applauded, clapping with their hands high above their heads.
Some women's voices from the middle of the hall cried:
"Comrade Trifonov!"
A bass voice barked out:
"Three cheers for Trifonov!"
And just then Alexei Krasilnikov noticed a tall, slender man in a smart leather jacket with officer's straps crossed over the front of it, who had been standing right up against the orchestra with his back to the audience, and who now, suddenly drawing himself up, turned to face the clamourers.
As his prominent steel-grey eyes travelled mockingly, coolly over the faces before him, hands were dropped, heads were drawn into shoulders, and there was no more clapping.
Somebody went rapidly, with a crouching gait, towards the exit.
The man with the steely eyes laughed scornfully and settled his holster with a quick movement.
He had a long, clean-shaven, actor's face.
Once more turning towards the platform, he placed his elbows on the orchestra barrier.
Ignat nudged Krasilnikov.
"That's Broinitsky.
He only has to look at you to make your heart sink!"