“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: