“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 new-comer, 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] Every one 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.