Twice before this had Ivan Michailovitch visited the family of the
imprisoned workman, Roderick Kroll. His interest in these people was
not an immediate one. It had been evoked by the interest he took in
Christian Wahnschaffe. There was something in Christian that moved him
deeply. After their first conversation he had at once reflected long
concerning his personality and his great charm, as well as concerning
the circumstances of his life and the social soil from which he had
sprung. And since the name of the industrial baron Wahnschaffe had been
so closely connected with the trial of Roderick Kroll, and since that
trial had made quite a stir in the world, his attention had naturally
been drawn in this direction. It is possible that he had already
weighed the step he was now taking. For he was immovably convinced that
many men would be better, and deal more justly, if they could but be
brought to see, or given an opportunity to see, the realities of the
world.
Frau Kroll and her five children had found refuge in a mere hole of a
garret at the top of a populous tenement on the extreme edge of the
city. Before that she had inhabited one of the numerous cottages for
workingmen that Albrecht Wahnschaffe had built near his factories. But
she had been driven from this home, and had moved to the city.
The room she now had gave shelter not only to herself and her
children, the oldest of whom was twelve, but to three lodgers: a
rag-picker, a hurdy-gurdy man, and a chronically drunken vagabond.
The room had a floor-space of sixty square feet; the lodgers slept on
dirty straw sacks, the children on two ragged mattresses pushed close
together, Frau Kroll on a shawl and a bundle of old clothes in the
corner where the slanting ceiling met the floor.
On this particular day the agent of the landlord had appeared
three times to demand the rent. The third time, since no money was
forthcoming, he had threatened to evict them all that night. Fifteen
minutes before the arrival of Ivan Becker and Christian he had appeared
with the janitor and another helper in the dim, evil-smelling room,
and had proceeded to make good his threat. His face had an expression
of good nature rather than of harshness. He was proud of the touch
of humour which he brought to the execution of his duties. Cries
and lamentations did not disturb him in the least. He said: “Hurry,
children! Come on there!” Or else: “Shoulder your guns and march! Let’s
have no scenes! Don’t get excited! No use getting on your knees! Time
is money! Quick work is good work!”
As was usual on such occasions, a commotion stirred all the neighbours,
and they assembled in the hall. There was a yellow-haired woman in her
shift; there was one in a scarlet dressing gown; there was a cripple
without legs, an old man with a long beard, children who were fighting
one another, a painted woman with a hat as large as a cart-wheel,
another with a burning candle in her hand, while a man who had just
come in from the street in her company sought to hide in the darkness
near the roof.
What one heard was the wailing of the Kroll children, and the hard
beseeching voice of the woman, who looked on with desperate eyes as the
agent and his men heaped up her poor possessions. The vagabond cursed,
the hurdy-gurdy man dragged his straw sack toward the door, the agent
snapped his fingers and said: “Hurry, good people, hurry! Let’s have
no tender scenes! My supper is getting cold!”