"Well, perhaps you're right," he said. "We are as God made us--I am no
better than the rest."
"No, indeed you're not," I answered him. "Why do you think there'll be
trouble?"
"I know.... Perhaps a lot of trouble, perhaps only a little. But it
will be a fine time for those of us who have nothing to lose.... So you
have no money for me?"
"Nothing."
"A mere rouble or so?"
"Nothing."
"Well, I must be off.... I am your friend. Don't forget," and he was
gone.
It had been arranged that Nina and Vera, Lawrence and Bohun and I should
meet outside the Giniselli at five minutes to eight. I left my little
silver box at the flat, paid some other calls, and just as eight o'clock
was striking arrived outside the Giniselli. This is Petrograd's apology
for a music-hall--in other words, it is nothing but the good
old-fashioned circus.
Then, again, it is not quite the circus of one's English youth, because
it has a very distinct Russian atmosphere of its own. The point really
is the enthusiasm of the audience, because it is an enthusiasm that in
these sophisticated, twentieth-century days is simply not to be found in
any other country in Europe.
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