There was quite a sensation in our office today. Zvoliansky, the Pole, has joined the army as a volunteer. He wants to defend Warsaw with his own hand, so to speak. At first we thought he was only bragging, but it turned out to be true. Who would have expected it of him? He used to brag so much that no one would have given him the credit of it. The other fellows arranged all sorts of treats for him, of course, but I did not take part in them, saying that I was not well. Let them parade their patriotism without my aid. I am not afraid of their sneers and suspicions!
In the private talks I’ve had with Zvoliansky, I’ve always heard him say, in high flown terms, that if he did not take part in the war now his conscience would never give him any peace afterwards. Conscience indeed! One can understand his anxiety about Poland, but the least said about conscience, the better.
Conscience, conscience; you can’t get away from it, no matter how hard you try. Conscientious people are to be seen everywhere. They quite alarm a fool like me. To plunder, to betray, to starve children, is all done in the name of conscience. No one can raise any objections. It’s war time, you see, and can’t be helped! So the war and the tears only serve to make unscrupulous tradesmen and manufacturers grow fat and to build them big houses and motorcars that the public admire. They deserve to be hanged, every man of them, but it can’t be done because of conscience.
I happened to notice that our poor old mother always conceals her feet under her skirt when she sits down, and I couldn’t understand the reason of it, until I discovered that the old lady’s shoes were so worn that her toes came through. Poor soul! When I said to her, “Mother, aren’t you ashamed? Why didn’t you tell me or Sashenka?” she burst into tears. I couldn’t get a word out of her in explanation. Some absurd idea of economy of hers, no doubt, that I had upset. It seems so ridiculous to economise and be careful of every farthing when, sooner or later, a farthing saved is sure to find its way into some contractor’s pocket. It is worked like a conjuring trick.
I bought mother a pair of prunella shoes and presented them to her solemnly with the due feelings of a benefactor. She burst into tears again, of course, and as I watched them roll down her cheeks, I thought, “If only she’d give me one of them!”