Karlov moodily touched the shoulder of the man on the cot. Stefani

Gregor puzzled him. He came to this room more often than was wise,

driven by a curiosity born of a cynical philosophy to discover what it

was that reenforced this fragile body against threats and thirst and

hunger. He knew what he wanted of Gregor--the fiddler on his knees

begging for mercy. And always Gregor faced him with that silent calm

which reminded him of the sea, aloof, impervious, exasperating. Only

once since the day he had been locked in this room had Gregor offered

speech. He, Karlov, had roared at him, threatened, baited, but his

reward generally had been a twisted wintry smile.

He could not offer physical torture beyond the frequent omissions of

food and water; the body would have crumbled. To have planned this for

months, and then to be balked by something as visible yet as elusive

as quicksilver! Born in the same mudhole, and still Boris Karlov the

avenger could not understand Stefani Gregor the fiddler. Perhaps what

baffled him was that so valiant a spirit should be housed in so weak a

body. It was natural that he, Boris, with the body of a Carpathian bear,

should have a soul to match. But that Stefani, with his paper body,

should mock him! The damned bourgeoisie!

The quality of this unending calm was understandable: Gregor was always

ready to die. What to do with a man to whom death was release? To hold

the knout and to see it turn to water in the hand! In lying he had

overreached. Gregor, having accepted as fact the reported death of Ivan,

had nothing to live for. Having brought Gregor here to torture he had,

blind fool, taken away the fiddler's ability to feel. The fog cleared.

He himself had given his enemy this mysterious calm. He had taken out

Gregor's soul and dissipated it.

No. Not quite dissipated. What held the body together was the iron

residue of the soul. Venom and blood clogged Karlov's throat. He could

kill only the body, as he had killed the fiddle; he could not reach the

mystery within. Ah, but he had wrung Stefani's heart there. There

were pieces of the fiddle on the table where Gregor had placed them,

doubtless to weep over when he was alone. Why hadn't he thought to break

the fiddle a little each day?

"Stefani Gregor, sit up. I have come to talk." This was formula. Karlov

did not expect speech from Gregor.

Slowly the thin arms bore up the torso; slowly the legs swung to the

floor. But the little gray man's eyes were bright and quick to-night.




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