“In the cold, no windows, no toilet, no break for a breath of fresh air … with so little light that your eyesight goes? That’s ‘nothing’? No. Resignation is shameful. Don’t give them ideas! There’s only one solution: revolution! One solution: revolution! One solution … !”

“Eleven and a half hours is almost three hours less. Admit it.”

“Revolution! They keep track of how many pieces they’re finishing and always make them work more. Not for God, not for any master!”

“Their bodies may be freezing, but at least they have hot heads….”

“Don’t provoke me. The day before yesterday when I stopped by the workshop they were saying, ‘Sunday we’ll go to the demonstration. With Father Gapon,’ ‘We’ll take pictures of the tsar and banners we’ll sew ourselves, he’s our father, he’ll hear us.’ Father Gapon this, Father Gapon that, their faith in him is blind, he’s the Pied Piper of Hamelin…. When they embraced me farewell, I could hardly refrain from scratching their faces, they’re so stupid. Over and over I told them, ‘The only church that shows the light is one that’s on fire!’”

“You came out with that old slogan? I can see their faces now!”

“And I told them, ‘Better to die on your feet than to live on your knees.’ And I told them …”

Clementine falls silent and looks nervous, worried again; she wraps her scarf around her head.

From the darkness behind the sole candle, the voice speaks again, now pleading, “No, Clementine! Don’t cover your hair!”

He leaves the corner where he’s been hiding and comes to her. He’s very young, pale and thin, dressed impeccably. It’s hard to determine his profession from his voice and his clothes. Is he a domestic servant, an employee of the palace or some other branch of government, and if he is, what’s his rank? His coat is open; he trembles like an autumn leaf. His clothes are of good quality, but a careful eye would notice they’re not made to measure, and the fabric’s so fine they must be secondhand. His hands are delicate, not the hands of a man accustomed to chiseling stone. They tell the story of the work he’s done since he was a child: watchmaking. His luminosity gives him an air of both fragility and fortitude.

Clementine uncovers her head and embraces him.

“Clementine, I went to Tsarskoye Selo to deliver a letter to the tsar on behalf of Father Gapon.”

Clementine steps back.

“To Tsarskoye Selo? What on earth!”

“He refused the letter. And my two companions were arrested. They let me go just so the reverend would hear directly from one of his own that the tsar doesn’t have the least interest in hearing what he has to say.”

Silence. Clementine rubs her eyes and shakes her head impatiently.