“The abyss that separates us from your cousin is too broad. And even between us and your father. It is hard to come together with them. 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. Now we would say Lizaveta.” Kiril complained of his failures, of the police, of the detectives, of the patriots. His complaints were pitiful and depressing. He had been arrested and had lost his job. It was easy to see that he had suffered. The gleam of hunger trembled in his eyes. “The police treated me most horribly,” complained Kiril, “and then there’s my family....” After an awkward silence he continued: “Not a single thing escapes them at our factory, you get humiliated at every step. They actually search you.” Again he lapsed into silence. Again he complained: “They force their way into your soul. You can’t hold private conversations.... They stop at nothing.” He told of hunger, he told of a sick old woman. 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. Zherbenev is very busy at this--he’s one of your genuine Russians.” “Kerbakh is with him--another patriot for you,” observed Kiril. “The most dangerous man in our town, this Zherbenev. Vermin of the most foul kind,” said Stchemilov contemptuously. “I am going to kill him,” said Kiril hotly. To this Elisaveta said: “In order to kill a man you need to believe that one man is essentially better or worse than another, that he is distinct from the other not accidentally or socially, but in the mystic sense. That is to say, murder only confirms inequality.” “By the way, Elisaveta,” remarked Stchemilov, “we have come to talk business with you.” “Tell me what it is,” answered Elisaveta calmly. “We are expecting some comrades from Rouban within the next few days. They are coming to talk things over,” said Stchemilov; “but of course you know all that.” “Yes, I know,” said Elisaveta. “We want to use the occasion,” went on Stchemilov, “to organize a mass meeting not far from here for our town factory folk. So here, at last, is your chance to appear as an orator.” “How can I be of any use?” asked Elisaveta. “You have the gift of expression, Elisaveta,” said Stchemilov. “You have a good voice, an easy flow of language, and you have a way of putting the case simply and clearly. It would be a sin for you not to speak.”