ANNENKOV: There’s no such place for any of us. All our paths lead to the same end: jail, the gallows.
VOINOV: Yes, but you don’t see them as you see the man you have to kill. You have to imagine them. And, luckily for me, I have no imagination. [With a brief, nervous laugh] Do you know, I’ve never really believed in the secret police! Absurd, isn’t it, for a terrorist? I’ll believe they exist only when I get my first kick in the belly. Not before.
ANNENKOV: And when you are in prison? In prison you can’t help knowing, and seeing. There’s no more shutting your eyes to the facts.
VOINOV: In prison you have no more decisions to make. What a relief to feel that everything’s decided for you! You haven’t got to tell yourself: “Now it’s up to you, you must decide on the moment when to strike.” One thing I’m sure of now is that I shall not try to escape; for escaping, too, you need to make decisions, you have to take the initiative. If you don’t try to escape, the others keep the initiative—they do all the work!
ANNENKOV: Sometimes the work they do is—hanging you!
VOINOV: I know that. But dying won’t be so hard as carrying my life and another man’s in the hollow of my hand and having to decide on the moment when I fling them both into a fiery death. No, Boria, the only way I have of making good is to accept myself as—what I am. [ANNENKOV keeps silent.] Even cowards can help the revolution. It’s up to them to find out in just what way they can be useful.
ANNENKOV: Then, in the last analysis, we all are cowards. Only, we don’t always have opportunities of showing ourselves up.… That’s settled then, Alexis; you’ll do as you prefer.
VOINOV: I prefer to leave at once. I don’t think I could bring myself to face them. But you’ll tell them, won’t you?
ANNENKOV: I’ll tell them. [Moves toward VOINOV.]
VOINOV: Tell Yanek it’s not his fault. And that I love him, as I love you all.
[A short silence. ANNENKOV embraces him.]
ANNENKOV: Good-by, brother. All things have an end. One day Russia will be a happy land.
VOINOV [as he hurries out of the room]: Yes, yes! May she be happy! May she be happy!
ANNENKOV [going to the door]: Come.
[All enter.]
STEPAN: What’s happened?
ANNENKOV: Voinov will not throw the bomb. He’s exhausted and he might muff it.
KALIAYEV: It’s my fault, isn’t it?
ANNENKOV: He asked me to tell you that he loves you.
KALIAYEV: Shall we see him again?
ANNENKOV: Perhaps. For the present, he’s leaving us.
STEPAN: Why?
ANNENKOV: He’ll be more useful on the committees.
STEPAN: Did he ask for this? Has he lost his nerve?
ANNENKOV: No. The decision was mine and mine only.
STEPAN: So at the eleventh hour you are changing all our plans?
ANNENKOV: At the eleventh hour, I’ve had to come to a decision, by myself. It was too late to talk it over with you. I shall take Voinov’s place.
STEPAN: No. I have first claim to it.
KALIAYEV [to ANNENKOV]: You are our leader. Your duty is to stay here.
ANNENKOV: Sometimes a leader’s duty is to act the coward. But on condition that he proves his courage when the need arises. I’ve made my decision. You, Stepan, will replace me for as long as is needed. Now, you must hear the program I’ve fixed up for each of you. Come!
[They go out. KALIAYEV sits down. DORA goes up to him, stretches out her hand; then thinks better of it.]
DORA: It’s not your fault.
KALIAYEV: I’ve hurt him, hurt him cruelly. Do you know what he said to me the other day?
DORA: He was always saying how happy he was.
KALIAYEV: Yes. But he told me there was no happiness for him outside our comradeship. This is what he said: “We—the organization—stand for all that matters in the world today. It’s like an order of chivalry come back to earth.” Oh, Dora, what a shame this has happened!
DORA: He’ll come back.
KALIAYEV: No. I can picture how I’d feel if I were in his position. I’d be heartbroken.
DORA: And now? Aren’t you heartbroken?
KALIAYEV: Now? But I’m with you all, and I am happy—as he was happy.
DORA [musingly]: Yes, it’s a great happiness.
KALIAYEV: None greater. Don’t you feel as I do?
DORA: Yes … But why then are you so depressed? Two days ago you looked so cheerful. Like a schoolboy going on vacation. But today …
KALIAYEV: [rising to his feet; with a rush of bitterness]: Today I know something I did not know then. You were right, Dora; it’s not so simple as it seems. I thought it was quite easy to kill, provided one has courage and is buoyed up by an ideal. But now I’ve lost my wings. I have realized that hatred brings no happiness. I can see the vileness in myself, and in the others, too. Murderous instincts, cowardice, injustice. I’ve got to kill—there are no two ways about it. But I shall see it through to the end. I shall go beyond hatred.
DORA: Beyond? There’s nothing beyond.
KALIAYEV: Yes. There is love.
DORA: Love? No, that’s not what is needed.
KALIAYEV: Oh, Dora, how can you say that? You of all people, you whose heart I know so well!
DORA: Too much blood, too much brutal violence—there’s no escape for us. Those whose hearts are set on justice have no right to love. They’re on their toes, as I am, holding their heads up, their eyes fixed on the heights. What room for love is there in such proud hearts? Love bows heads, gently, compassionately. We, Yanek, are stiff-necked.
KALIAYEV: But we love our fellow men.
DORA: Yes, we love them—in our fashion. With a vast love that has nothing to shore it up; that brings only sadness. The masses? We live so far away from them, shut up in our thoughts. And do they love us? Do they even guess we love them? No, they hold their peace. Ah, that silence, that unresponsive silence!
KALIAYEV: But surely that’s precisely what love means—sacrificing everything without expecting anything in return?
DORA: Perhaps. Yes, I know that love, an absolute, ideal love, a pure and solitary joy—and I feel it burning in my heart. Yet there are times when I wonder if love isn’t something else; something more than a lonely voice, a monologue, and if there isn’t sometimes a response. And then I see a picture floating up before my eyes. The sun is shining, pride dies from the heart, one bows one’s head gently, almost shyly, and every barrier is down! Oh, Yanek, if only we could forget, even for an hour, the ugliness and misery of this world we live in, and let ourselves go—at last! One little hour or so of thinking of ourselves, just you and me, for a change. Can you see what I mean?
KALIAYEV: Yes, Dora, I can; it’s what is called love—in the simple, human sense.
DORA: Yes, darling, you’ve guessed what I mean—but does that kind of love mean anything to you, really? Do you love justice with that kind of love? [KALIAYEV is silent.] Do you love our Russian people with that love—all tenderness and gentleness and self-forgetting? [KALIAYEV still says nothing.] You see. [She goes toward him. Her voice is very low.] And how about me, Yanek? Do you love me—as a lover?
KALIAYEV [after gazing at her in silence for some moments]: No one will ever love you as I love you.
DORA: I know. But wouldn’t it be better to love—like an ordinary person?
KALIAYEV: I’m not an ordinary person. Such as I am, I love you.
DORA: Do you love me more than justice, more than the organization?
KALIAYEV: For me, you, justice, the organization are inseparable. I don’t distinguish between you.
DORA: Yes. But do, please, answer me. Do you love me all for yourself … selfishly … possessively?—oh, you know what I mean! Would you love me if I were unjust?
KALIAYEV: If you were unjust and I could love you, it wouldn’t be you I loved.
DORA: That’s no answer. Tell me only this; would you love me if I didn’t belong to the organization?
KALIAYEV: Then what would you belong to?
DORA: I remember the time when I was a student. I was pretty then. I used to spend hours walking about the town, dreaming all sorts of silly daydreams. I was always laughing. Would you love me if I were like that now—carefree, gay, like a young girl?
KALIAYEV [hesitantly, in a very low voice]: I’m longing, oh, how I’m longing to say Yes.
DORA [eagerly]: Then say Yes, darling—if you mean it, if it’s true. In spite of everything: of justice, of our suffering fellow men, of human bondage. Do try to forget for a moment all those horrors—the scaffold, the agony of little children, of men who are flogged to death.
KALIAYEV: Dora! Please!
DORA: No, surely for once we can let our hearts take charge. I’m waiting for you to say the word, to tell me you want me—Dora, the living woman—and I mean more to you than this world, this foully unjust world around us.
KALIAYEV [brutally]: Keep quiet! My heart yearns for you, and you alone.… But, a few minutes hence I’ll need a clear head and a steady hand.
DORA [wildly]: A few minutes hence? Ah, yes, I was forgetting. [Laughing and sobbing at once] No, darling, I’ll do as you want. Don’t be angry with me—I was talking nonsense. I promise to be sensible. I’m overtired,
