Entry 39 - Irtysh River

39


The Irtysh opened its dark blue streams for navigation not so long
ago. From my place on the deck I see spots of old yellowish snow on
the hills; near the banks -- the fresh, innocent grass is already daring
to appear on the surface. Peasants are doing something on the vast
plains. The very, very old story of the mythical Lei! White and chaste
birches, triste and flirtatious women amongst the trees, are trimming
their Spring fashion dresses.

However this coming back to life, of the hills, and plains, and trees,
this warmth in the air -- does not affect the passengers. Who in the
devil will nowadays snivel about Spring and myths? All sentiment died
in Russia; everything, at least, looks dead, -- but the co-operative
Societies: they plan a large business, meaning "trusts" when they
advertise for "co-operation."

With the exception of the representatives of the "Creamery Union" (who
were fat and noisy), -- the rest of our fellow-travelers were gloomy and
sordid; I rarely could detect a smile, and if there was a hilarious
expression, it was at somebody's expense, always malicious and
malignant. 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. I can deceive a bolshevik commissary, or
the Princess G.; these -- with their psychology never would let me come
closer. I am an intruder to their caste.

Before -- in Petrograd -- we all have had this very same fear of our
select caste for a newcomer, just as these have. In our midst the man
who tried to break in would be caught right away. Now I understand
this little, mean, reptile impulse of catering to the one whom you
seek, this feeling that the parvenu must have felt, this sensation of
the necessity of flattering, for which one blushes in the nights,
for which one can't sleep and turns endlessly in warm cushions. The
parvenu! Pushkin said:

... and an exchange of silent glance
Forever took away his chance....

It was enough for us to look at each other -- and the parvenu would not
come near us any more. Here -- instead of the poetical form of Pushkin I
must recollect the words of the Tumen cook:

"You liar! Hate your face of a gentry!"

Isn't it a correct translation from my Russian into theirs?

Well, -- I'd rather stop my scratchings: Tobolsk.