I've
told you that he was by any kind of standard a bad man. He had, I think,
no redeeming points at all--but he had, all the same, that sense of
Russia. I don't suppose that he put it to any practical use, or that he
even tried to teach it to his pupils, but it would suddenly seize him
and he would let himself go, and for an hour he would be a fine
master--of words. And what Russian is ever more than that at the end?
"He spoke to me and gave me a picture of a world inside a world, and
this inside world was complete in itself. It had everything in
it--beauty, wealth, force, power; it could be anything, it could do
anything. But it was held by an evil enchantment as though a wicked
magician had it in thrall, and everything slept as in Tchaikowsky's
Ballet. But one day, he told me, the Prince would come and kill the
Enchanter, and this great world would come into its own. I remember that
I was so excited that I couldn't bear to wait, but prayed that I might
be allowed to go out and find the Enchanter... but my father laughed
and said that there were no Enchanter now, and then I cried. All the
same I never lost my hope.
Pages:
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355