"The janitor," announces our official with dignity, "turns the lights on
and he will turn them off." Wherewith the Tarquin of the proletaire
marches off. Two minutes later a man in his short sleeves appears,
following him. This man is the janitor. The audience which has observed
this little comedy begins to laugh as the janitor turns off the offending
lights.
The chief speaker of the evening has arrived. He is a good orator. He is
also cynical of his audience. A short wiry man with a pugnacious face and
a cocksure mustache. He begins by asking what they are all afraid of. He
accuses them of being more social than revolutionary. As long as
revolution was the thing of the hour they were revolutionists. But now
that it is no longer the thing of the hour, they have taken up other
hobbies.
This appears to be rather the truth from the way the intelligentsia take
it. They nod approval. Self-indictment is one thing which distinguishes
the intelligentsia. They are able to recognize their faults, their
shortcomings.
Now the speaker is on his real subject. Revolution. What we want, he
cries, is for the same terrible misfortune to happen in this country that
happened in Russia. Yes, the same marvelous misfortune.
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