"Just think of it! The hooligans who don't succeed in getting dead drunk will kill one another with the sticks and stones. Don't you see?"
"Why one another?" asked the fat man.
"Is it a joke?" inquired the elder lady again.
The red-haired man waved his short arms excitedly and tried to explain.
"When the authorities pacify them, the Parties of the Left cry out about cruelty and atrocities. That means that a way must be found by which they can pacify themselves. Don't you agree?" The steamer gave a lurch and the crockery rattled. The plump lady was alarmed and caught hold of the table; and the elder lady, laying her hand on the fat man's shoulder, asked sharply:
"What's that?"
"We are turning."
The coast, rising out of the water, becomes higher and more defined. One can see the gardens on the slopes of the mist-enveloped hills and mountains. Bluish boulders peep out from among the vineyards; white houses appear through the haze. The window-panes glisten in the sun and patches of bright colour greet the eye. Right on the water's edge, at the foot of the cliffs, a little house faces the sea; it is overhung with a thick mass of bright violet flowers. Above it, pouring like a broad red stream over the stones of the terraces, is a profusion of red geraniums. The colours are gay, the coast-line looks amiable and hospitable. The soft contours of the mountains seem to entice one into the shade of the gardens.
"How small everything is here!" said the fat man, with a sigh. The elder lady looked at him sharply; then, compressing her thin lips and throwing back her head, gazed through her lorgnon at the coast.
A number of dark-complexioned people in light costumes are now on deck, talking loudly. The Russian ladies look at them disdainfully, as queens on their subjects.