“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. “Not an infinite amount, but certainly enough to go round--and plenty for every one,” was Stchemilov’s calm reply. “Ten--or, say, a hundred--acres per soul? Is that what you mean?” continued Piotr in loud derision. “You’ve got that idea into the heads of the muzhiks, and now they’re in revolt.” Stchemilov again whistled, and said with contemptuous calm: “Fiddlesticks! 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 insist too strongly on your class interests, and therefore freedom is no such great lure to you. But we Russian constitutionalists are carrying on the struggle for freedom almost alone.” Stchemilov listened to him and made an effort to suppress an ironic smile. “It’s true,” he said, “we won’t join hands with you. You wish to fly about in the free air; while we are still ravenously hungry and want to eat.” Rameyev said after a brief silence: “I am appalled at this savagery. Murders every day, every day.” “What’s there to do?” asked Stchemilov, persisting in his ironic tone. “I suppose you’d like to have freedom for domestic use, the sort you could fold up and put in your pocket.” 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. He had long ago accustomed himself to go to the river when agitated by sadness or joy or when he had to think about something very seriously. He was a shy and self-sufficient boy and loved to be alone with his thoughts and his dreams. The coolness of the water running fast about his legs comforted him and banished evil moods. As he stood here, with his naked legs in the water, he became gentle and calm. Elena soon came there also. She stood silently on the bank and looked at the water. For some reason she felt sad and wanted to cry. The water glided past her tranquilly, almost noiselessly. Its surface was smooth--and thus it ran on. Elisaveta looked at Stchemilov with mild displeasure. “Why are you so sharp, Aleksei?” she asked. “You don’t like it, comrade?” he asked in return. “No, I don’t like it,” said Elisaveta in simple, unmistakable tones. Stchemilov did not reply at once. He grew thoughtful, then said: