He looked to me like one of those Siberian
peasants. Then, under the coat of dirt, under his rags and an old
Orenburg shawl, I really saw something familiar.
"Perhaps we met," I said. "Petrograd?"
"Yes, indeed," he bowed his old head and sighed. "I used to go very
often to the French Theatre. You remember 'L'Aiglon?' Can I chat with
you a bit? This silence is simply killing me. Four months of silence!
Don't you think, mister writer, of what a sweet, what a wonderful
word 'revenge' is? If you write--do write about it! Revenge for having
cleaned the streets, for having been thrown out of every Embassy,
every Legation, every Consulate--whose three sons are sleeping there,
on the Prussian Frontier--forever?--when I begged them to help me
and let me go to Paris only to die near my wife? Revenge! Just to see
England--torn to pieces, France--robbed, Japan--licking our feet,--to
see them separately doing what we suffer combinedly. They all betrayed
us, they sold us, they mock at us! We are paying for our readiness to
save Serbia. We are dying for it--and I do not regret it. I know that
from our dead body, from our bier--poisonous flowers are growing;
their fragrancy will send pestilence and destruction to our lucky
Allies, and ruin them, and ruin them.... If I only could help it....
If only I could live long enough to witness it."
The man looked crazy to me. He evidently is one of those whose minds
gave way.
Pages:
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202