"I'm so ashamed, I'd like to fall right through the Earth."
Well: I know a gentleman who should be constantly, continuously falling through the Earth -- that's how ashamed he should be.
Let's say this gentleman runs into an acquaintance, the acquaintance looks him in the eye -- and my gentleman should instantly fall through the Earth. He should pierce the entire terrestrial globe with his body, emerging somewhere in the Antipodes; and, the minute some Antipodean looks him in the eye -- he should fall through, once again. So, had my gentleman any shame at all, he would be forever falling through, traversing the Earth's core in all directions.
But my gentleman has no shame, and he's never fallen through anything. Instead, he writes flowery essays, sometimes gives flowery speeches, living on the Earth's surface as if nothing were wrong; and he looks people straight in the eye, as if he had nothing at all to answer for.
Although, if you think about it -- it's frightening how much of a burden life has been piling onto this man's shoulders:
The poet Blok died -- and it's his fault.
The Cheka shot 61 scientists and writers -- it's his fault, too.
Two million Russian adults and one million children have starved to death -- it's his fault, just as if he had personally strangled each and every one of them with his own hands.
Millions of Russian refugees suffer hunger, privations, humiliations -- it's all his, his, his fault.
My God! If I ever happened to be saddled with such an extraordinary, terrible, superhuman guilt -- I would go straight to the famous Yellowstone Park, pick out the tallest tree in the world, take the longest rope in the world, and hang myself from the very top, so all could see how much my conscience was torturing me.
But my gentleman doesn't seem bothered in the least.
As I'm writing this, he is probably sitting in some restaurant in Prague, eating a garnished chicken cutlet, and washing it down with foamy Pilsner -- all the while, without batting an eyelash, reading the latest news from Russia:
"So far, hunger has killed up to three million Russians. By December, the total might reach ten million, and by March -- absent any foreign aid -- all of Russia will be dying." (The Common Cause, letter from St. Petersburg.)
And you're still eating your cutlet? Bon appetit, Aleksandr Feodorovich! Won't you have the decency to choke on it?
They are a happy breed, these people with neither shame nor conscience. The open face exhudes innocence, the clear eyes stare unblinkingly, and the whole expression seems to say:
"So what? Don't blame me. I conducted myself perfectly, I was both general commander and metropolitan, and the only reason there are still no statues of me in Russia is that no man is a prophet in his own land..."
While you're serenely eating your cutlet, Aleksandr Feodorovich -- let me acquaint you with your résumé. And if it makes even one mouthful stick in your throat, then, perhaps, there is still a God in Heaven, and justice on Earth...
Do you know exactly at what moment Russia started heading towards ruin? It was when you, the head of the Russian government, arrived at the ministry and shook hands with a gofer.
Oh, that was so stupid of you. And, were you a different person, you would now be so ashamed of it! You surely thought that the gofer was a man just like you. Absolutely correct: it's not as if he had three eyes, or green blood. But shaking his hand was nonetheless not a good idea, because here's what followed: the next day, he said hello to you first (what the heck, no strangers here, why be shy?), and on the third day, as you were in your office, he walked in without knocking, sat down on the edge of your desk, lit up a cigarette, and patted you on the shoulder:
"Hey, Al! What's shaking, dude?"
Not all was lost: you could've still -- even then -- slapped him away, tossed him off the desk, yelled at him: "You're forgetting yourself, you low-life! Get the hell out of here!"
But that's not what you did. You probably giggled, lit your cigarette from his, and replied:
"Oh, heh heh, I'm just doing my little bit to save Russia."
How embarrassing! Why on earth did you go out of your way to shake the gofer's hand? Do you think he appreciated it the way he should have? No: instead, he climbed onto your back, yelled "giddyap!", and rode you at full gallop -- not in the direction where you wanted to go, but where he did.
Of course, for all I know, maybe this gofer just happened to be a very charming fellow. The problem is, you weren't extending your hand to him alone -- but to the entire loutish, caddish substratum of Russia.
The cad jumped on you, saddled you like a good steed, and raced you straight to the border -- to greet Lenin and Trotsky.
Perhaps, you will argue that Lenin and Trotsky's arrival should be blamed on the Germans? My dear man! They were at war with us; this was just one of the ways of waging war. They could've just as easily sent us a train full of dynamite, or poison gas, or a hundred mad dogs.
But you gave those mad dogs a hero's welcome, and guarded them as the apple of your eye, like a loving nanny watching over some playful kids that have been entrusted to her.
What can I say to the Germans? Ask them why they sent us such terrible crap?
They'll ask me back:
"Well, why were you guys stupid enough to accept it? Had that been us, we would've strung them up right at the border -- the way we'd answer an attack with a counterattack."
And you? You were happy! Your comrades had arrived! "Hi! Welcome! Say and do what you want, it's a free country!"
You had one more chance, remember -- that time at Kshesinsky Hall? One battalion of loyal troops, and all this scum would've been taken care of for good. And nobody would've complained.
But instead, you sent your minister Pereverzev to find Lenin and Trotsky another headquarters.
Aleksandr Feodorovich! You have such enviable self-control... This incident alone is as embarrassing as if you had been whipped in a public square. But now, instead of heading for Yellowstone Park, you just sit there and eat your cutlet.
There are many people with horrible pasts, but I know of none that have a more shameful one than yours. I could even understand it if you had been paid off -- but you did it for free!
You had in your hand the best kind of trump card -- the riots, when the insensed crowd (I witnessed this myself) was tearing the Bolsheviks to pieces. And what did you do about that? You, the head of state, banned the publication of documents showing that Lenin and Trotsky had received German money! Trotsky was in prison -- and you let him out; Kornilov wanted to save the country -- and you destroyed him. You swore to die for democracy -- and ended up fleeing in your limo.
So, now, you're publishing The Will Of Russia? And eating chicken cutlets?
With a past like that?
There are only two honorable ways out for you: either go find that tree in Yellowstone Park, or else put on a monk's hood and chains, and hide in some tiny monastery under a different name, forever, so that we would never again hear about the man who so carefully and methodically ruined one-sixth of the Earth's surface, along with one hundred and fifty million good people -- those same people who, in March of 1917, put their complete trust in you.
You certainly proved yourself worthy of that trust.
Well, good-bye. And bon appetit.