Or it may happen that a Russian will speak with sudden authority, almost
like a prophet, and will continue for half an hour and more, pouring out
his soul, and no one will dream of thinking it an improper exhibition.
In fine, anything can happen at a Russian party. What happened on this
occasion was this. The silence had lasted for some minutes, and I was
wondering for how much longer I could endure it (I had one eye on Nina
somewhere in the background, and the other on Bohun restlessly kicking
his patent-leather shoes one against the other), when suddenly a quiet,
ordinary little woman seated near me said:
"The thing for Russia to do now is to abandon all resistance and so
shame the world." She was a mild, pleasant-looking woman, with the eyes
of a very gentle cow, and spoke exactly as though she were still
pursuing her own private thoughts. It was enough; the windows flew open,
the souls came flooding in, and such a torrent of sound poured over the
carpet that the naked statuary itself seemed to shiver at the threatened
deluge. Every one talked; every one, even, shouted. Just as, during the
last weeks, the streets had echoed to the words "Liberty," "Democracy,"
"Socialism," "Brotherhood," "Anti-annexation," "Peace of the world," so
now the art gallery echoed.
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