“Two tyrants,” said Marya, “who trample us to war upon each other––who outrage us, crush us, cripple us with their ferocious feuds. What are the Bolsheviki? ‘Those who want more.’ Then the name belongs as well to the capitalists. They, also, are Bolsheviki––‘men who always want more!’ And these are the two quarrelling Bolsheviki giants who trample 106 us––Lord Labour, Lord Capital––the devil of envy against the devil of greed!––war to the death! And, to the survivor, the bones!”
Shotwell, a little astonished to hear from the red lips of this warm young creature the bitter cynicisms of the proletariat, asked her to define more clearly where the Bolsheviki stood, and for what they stood.
“Why,” she said, lying back on the sofa and adjusting her lithe body to a more luxurious position among the pillows, “it amounts to this, Mr. Shotwell, that a new doctrine is promulgated in the world––the cult of the under-dog.
“And in all dog-fights, if the under-dog ever gets on top, then he, also, will try to kill the ci-devant who has now become the under-dog.” And she laughed at him out of her green eyes that slanted so enchantingly.
“You mean that there always will be an under-dog in the battle between capital and labour?”
“Surely. Their snarling, biting, and endless battle is a nuisance.” She smiled again: “We should knock them both on the head.”
“You know,” explained Ilse, “that when we speak of the two outlaws as Capital and Labour, we don’t mean legitimate capital and genuine labour.”
“They never fight,” added Tchernov, smiling, “because they are one and the same.”
“Of course,” remarked Marya, “even the united suffer occasionally from internal pains.”
“The remedy,” added Vanya, “is to consult a physician. That is––arbitration.”