The usual crowd of nowadays loafers,--shabby looking, discussing
something, casting around looks full of hostility, hatred and
superiority. A boy brought a chair from a cigar counter, and the
communist stepped on it, and started his talk. "Tovarishshi," he said,
"the time has come."... They all applauded, though nobody knew
what was going to be next, and the speaker could even have been a
reactionary.
"This is he," shouted a sailor to me; a big chap with hair falling off
of his cap.
"Who is _he_?" I questioned.
"You, burjooi," a soldier said to me, "no wonder you do not know him.
This is Comrade Trotzky. He comes from America. You had better move
on or I'll tell who you are,"--he continued staring at me very
resolutely, and spat on the sidewalk right near my foot.
I moved on. What people!
I crossed Nevsky and stood on the other side. From there I could not
hear Comrade Trotzky, but studied his movements and gesticulation, his
manner of scratching his nose, of quickly turning his head in a derby,
and the nervous shrugging of his shoulders. The mob applauded him
after every phrase, making his speech a series of separate sentences
and thus giving him the advantage of thinking of most radical ideas,
while awaiting for the listeners to finish the applause.
I have finally decided to give in my resignation. What is the use? No
work is being done. We only talk.
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