The Duma has met, and the sittings are in progress. I pray for fortitude when I read and reread the reports of the terrible speeches. I devour each sentence with my eyes. There must be some mistake. It can’t be that there are no shells! No shells! Shells were promised, but our men were left in the lurch! Our gallant soldiers tried to stay the Germans with their naked hands! To think of it! What is the country coming to?
I don’t understand. There must be something wrong. What about the people who prayed in the Kazan Square? How dared they call upon God when they betrayed our men? But was it the people who betrayed? I heard their prayers, and I prayed with them; I saw their hot tears and their anguish, but there was no sign of the fear and shame the guilty must feel before the all-seeing eyes of God. Was it then different people who prayed, and different people who betrayed? I don’t know, but I feel sure that the country is not guilty; I could swear to that by the life of my children! Something is wrong somewhere.
I can’t convey the impression I got when I first read the speeches of the Duma members. A big German shell seemed to have burst in my brain, deafening, blinding, and shaking me to the very roots of my being. It seemed to deprive me of human speech; I could only jabber unintelligibly and look horror-stricken. Everyone seemed to be affected in the same way. Even the fellows in the office, who always talked so lightly and decided all questions so easily, were almost speechless with consternation. They couldn’t work, and sat about in their shirt sleeves, red as boiled lobsters, devouring the papers, and making the office-boy run for every new edition. When they had had their fill, they set up an uproar, banging their fists on the table and shouting:
“I told you so!”
“What did I say?”
“No one would listen to me!”
“It was you who would not listen, I maintained. …”
One and all had maintained and prophesied, and the mischief had come through no one listening to them. And who had taken Tsar-Grad, and walked through the streets of Berlin, and even bought a tie in some shop on the Freidrich Strasse? They had all forgotten that.
The thing that surprises me most about them is the way they’ll say the most horrible things to each other—things one would think that would keep any man awake for a week—and then be as chummy as possible together. It seemed as if they were anxious to show off the good spirit in the office. After the most abusive argument one will begin on “Satirikon,” another will collect subscriptions for some choice refreshment, to be consumed in the back room, far removed from the eyes of the chief. It’s a good thing they can’t get vodka.
Sashenka is another person who surprises me. Filled as I was with a burning desire to communicate my strange, new impressions about these painful events, I naturally thought of her as someone who would like to share my thoughts, and even pictured the solemn, profound conversation we would have; or perhaps no conversation at all; we might commune in silence, I thought, a silence that would convey more than words, all that was in our hearts. … But it turned out differently. When I opened my eyes wide in astonishment and asked, “You’ve read about it, I suppose?” she looked alarmed at my expression, and said, “What?”
“How what? I’m referring to the speeches in the Duma.”
“What speeches? … Oh, yes, I just glanced at them. I’m too busy to read. The Lord knows what they are after.”
Failing to notice her indifference, I began to expound the situation with warmth, explaining everything with great detail; but suddenly I realised by the expression of pensiveness on her face, by her downcast eyes, and the strange compression of her lips, that she was not listening to me, but was engrossed in some thoughts of her own. I was hurt and angry. I didn’t mind on my own account so much, as that she should ignore a thing so vital for all Russia.
“I don’t think much of your patriotic spirit, Sashenka,” I said coldly, and impressibly.
She blushed, and a pang went through my heart as I saw the colour spread over her pale, worn features.
“Don’t be angry with me, Ilenka dear, for having wandered off and missed part of what you said. It’s not so very important, is it?”
“Not important!” I exclaimed angrily. “You can hardly be aware of what you are saying, Sasha! Surely only a traitor who rejoiced in Russia’s downfall could say a thing like that! Don’t you understand? We have no shells! Aren’t you sorry for our poor, patient, unarmed soldiers whom the well-armed Germans can defeat with a smile on their faces?”
She was impressed by that. Her eyes opened wide, and she said with alarm in her voice, “It is dreadful, but what can we do?”
“That’s what everyone is trying to decide, and you say it is not important. It’s horribly important, Sashenka! It’s so important that it makes you go mad to think of it!”
At that point someone came from the hospital to fetch her to attend to some man who had both arms amputated, and refused to eat unless Sashenka fed him. She instantly forgot everything, and with a guilty look, she gave me a hasty kiss on the ear, and whispered, “Don’t be angry with me, dear; I can’t. …” And she was gone.
What couldn’t she? …