A boy cut his little finger and squealed for "mama" like a
young pig--people smiled. An old woman passed on the deck and fell so
badly that tears came into her colorless eyes--smiles became bright
and gay; somebody even whistled. A stowaway was caught in the baggage
room--a pale faced young chap with a forlorn expression--the crew
committee started to "investigate" (just undressed him on the
deck)--and people became joyful and gigglish....
Is it my people? Are _those_ bad creatures--our men who fought in the
snows of Hungary armed with fists and patriotism,--for the munitions
were yet the subject of speculations; did these men cross the scorched
plains of Persia, sent there clad in uniforms prepared for Archangel?
_Did they_ make efforts to save small mutilated nations? Is the
history of Russia--these pages of blood and sacrifices--_made by
them_? Did Russia take _from them_ Pushkin, Chaikovsky, Mechnikov,
Tolstoi and the brilliant web of savants, musicians, soldiers,
explorers and poets?...
I am from this same bulk that centuries ago came from Asia and settled
here. They--and I are the same. But I can't understand them! In
France, in England, in Germany, I could understand the crowd better.
But these men and women are so far from my conception.... And they all
pay me back with the same coin: they not only misunderstand me and my
kin,--but they mistrust me.
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