Silence reigned in the square.
The officer, still sitting with his arms akimbo, his monocle gleaming, began to speak, dropping out each syllable separately, and pronouncing the words with difficulty, but correctly:
"Agricultural workers of the village of Vladimirskoye, you see up there on the top of the hill, two German machine guns. They are in splendid working order.... You are, of course, rational agricultural workers.
I should be sorry to do you any harm.
It is my duty to inform you that the German troops of the Emperor Wilhelm have come to you to re-establish among you the life of honest people.
We Germans don't like the property of others being stolen, we punish such actions ruthlessly.
The Bolsheviks taught you differently, didn't they?
That's why we have driven the Bolsheviks away, they will never come back to you any more.
I advise you to think well over your bad deeds, and to make up your mind to return to the owner of this estate without delay all that you have stolen from him."
These words evoked divers grunts from the crowd.
Grigori Karlovich sat there all the time, the peak of his cap pulled over his eyes, looking steadily at the peasants.
Once a triumphant smile appeared for a second on his plump face—apparently he had recognized somebody.
The officer stopped talking.
The peasants held their peace.
"I have fulfilled my duty.
You speak to them now, Mr. Miel," said the officer, turning to the bailiff.
Grigori Karlovich politely declined this proposal.
"I have nothing to say to them, Lieutenant.
They understand everything perfectly."
"Good!" replied the officer, who didn't care either way.
"Drive on, Augustin."
The driver cracked his whip, and the military cart rolled through the crowd, which made way on all sides, towards the prince's mansion, where, only three days before, the Volost Executive Committee had been housed.
The peasants looked after the departing cart:
"The German's perked up again," came from the crowd.
"Grigori Karlovich wouldn't talk, mates."
"Give him time—he'll talk!"
"Oh, God, what a calamity—what have we done?'
"The police officer will be upon us soon."
"He's come to Sosnovka already.
He called a meeting and started swearing at the muzhiks—you so-and-so, you robbers and bandits, have you forgotten 1905?
He rated them for three solid hours, swearing all the time.
He showed them what politics meant."
"What's going to happen now?"
"Floggings—that's what."
"And what about the land?
Whose will it be now?"
"Half-and-half.
They'll let us bring the harvest in, and take half of it for the prince."
"What the hell—I'm going away."
"Where to, fool?"
The peasants talked a little more, and then dispersed.
And by night, sofas, beds, curtains, gilt-framed mirrors and pictures were carried back to the landowner's mansion.
The Krasilnikovs had supper in the dark.
Alexei kept laying down his spoon, looking out of the window, and sighing.
Matryona went about, quiet as a mouse, between the stove and the table.
Semyon sat with bowed shoulders, his dark curly hair falling over his forehead.
Every time she cleaned up the fragments, or put a dish with something else on the table, Matryona would brush against him with her arm, or with her breast.
But he maintained a stubborn silence, not even lifting his head.
Suddenly Alexei staggered to the window, tapped on the glass with his fingernails, and looked out.
In the stillness of evening a long, wild shriek could now be clearly heard.