"Boris, what is it you want?"
"To talk"--surprised at this unexpected outburst.
"No, no. I mean, what is it all about--these killings, these burnings?"
Karlov was ready at all times to expound the theories that appealed to
his dark yet simple mind--humanity overturned as one overturned the sod
in the springtime to give it new life.
"To give the proletariat what is his."
"Ha!" said the little man on the cot. "What is his?"
"That which capitalism has taken away from him."
"The proletariat. The lowest in the human scale--and therefore the most
helpless. They shall rule, say you. My poor Russia! Beaten and robbed
for centuries, and now betrayed by a handful of madmen--with brains
atrophied on one side! You are a fool, Boris. Your feet are in strange
quicksands and your head among chimeras. You write some words on a piece
of paper, and lo! you say they are facts. Without first proving your
theories correct you would ram them down the throat of the world. The
world rejects you."
"Wait and see, damned bourgeoisie!" thundered Karlov, not alive to the
fact that he was being baited.
"Bourgeoisie? Yes, I am of the middle class; the rogue on top and the
fool below. I see. The rogue and the fool cannot combine unless the
bourgeoisie is obliterated. Go on. I am interested."
"Under the soviet the government shall be everything."
"As it was in Prussia."
Karlov ignored this. "The individual shall never again become rich by
exploiting the poor."
Karlov strove to speak calmly. Gregor's willingness to discuss the aims
of the proletariat confused him. He suspected some ulterior purpose
behind this apparent amiability. He must hold down his fury until this
purpose was in the open.
"Well, that is good," Gregor admitted. "But somehow it sounds ancient on
my ear. Was there not a revolution in France?"
"Fool, it is the world that is revolting!" Karlov paused. "And no man in
the future shall see his sister or his daughter made into a loose woman
without redress."
"Your proletariat's sister and daughter. But the daughter of the noble
and the daughter of the bourgeoisie--fair game!"
Sometimes there enters a man's head what might be called a sick idea;
when the vitality is at low ebb and the future holds nothing. Thus there
was a grim and sick idea behind Gregor's gibes. It was in his mind to
die. All the things he had loved had been destroyed. So then, to goad
this madman into a physical frenzy. Once those gorilla-like hands
reached out for him Stefani Gregor's neck would break.