Foreign

4 0 00

Foreign

Artsybashev is a Russian.

I am an American.

Let us wonder, my townspeople,

if Artsybashev tends his own fires

as I do, gets himself cursed

for the baby’s failure to thrive,

loosens windows for the woman

who cleans his parlor⁠—

or has he neat servants

and a quiet library, an

intellectual wife perhaps and

no children⁠—an apartment

somewhere in a back street or

lives alone or with his mother

or sister⁠—

I wonder, my townspeople,

if Artsybashev looks upon

himself the more concernedly

or succeeds any better than I

in laying the world.

I wonder which is the bigger

fool in his own mind.

These are shining topics

my townspeople but⁠—

hardly of great moment.