Byzantium Endures полностью

She smiled. ‘The girls love you, eh? Esmé! Don’t the girls all love him?’

‘They must do,’ said Esmé. ‘He’s quite a dandy.’

‘Remember when you and Esmé used to sleep here? You over the stove, Esmé in her room?’ She became excited. ‘Didn’t we all have fun?’

I did not remember anything in particular. But I could not bring myself to say so. ‘It was great fun,’ I said. I had to leave then, to do some business.

It was still light as I turned the corner into Kirillovskaya and began to walk down the hill towards the city. The summer evening had a lazy yet unsettled quality to it. There were fewer factory chimneys smoking. Many of the smaller concerns had completely closed down. There was a darker mass of smoke over Podol. The sounds were muted in the streets, yet I heard the wail of a river-boat quite clearly, as if it were only a few feet from me. Gold and green domes of distant churches had a dull, deep shine; yellow brick was warm, it seemed to radiate heat; and the smell of grass, trees and flowers from the wooded gorges mingled with scents of soot and oil and that hint of leather always associated with a large occupying army. I could smell horses, too. Here it was as if the town and country met and blended in almost perfect harmony. I wanted to pause, perhaps hoping a tram would come by, but I knew better than to make myself prey for the gangs occupying some of the outlying parks. I glanced automatically up at an embankment. There was nothing but evening haze on hedges. As I walked down the hill into the city, I had a definite sense of God’s biding His moment. What puzzles me, to this day, is in what manner we failed. Certainly, the churches, both Orthodox and Catholic, were never fuller, from morning to night, than in that uncertain summer.

I returned to my hotel to enjoy a second dinner with a Prussian major, an Austrian colonel, a Ukrainian banker and two émigrés recently arrived from Vologda where, they said, anyone with a vocabulary of more than two hundred words was liable to be shot by the Cheka out of hand. I heard stories of Bolsheviks capturing ‘government’ officers, of stripping them naked and cutting their rank-insignia into their living flesh before killing them. The days of the French Revolution, the days of the Commune, were as nothing compared to the years and years of the Bolshevik Terror. And what did we have to counter it? Humanity? Religion? All we had was pazhlost, that grey, half-dead spiritual state one is in during the winter, when nothing is worthwhile and one can only hope to survive until spring.

In those days ordinary military operations did not exist; the entire pattern of war had gone crazy. It was gradually to become our Civil War. In the North-East were Czechs and Japanese, Russian Whites and small numbers of Americans and British. Finns, Letts, Lithuanians, Baltic Germans, Poles, French, Greeks, Italians, Rumanians and Serbs were all fighting somewhere. Few of these groups, even if they had been allies against the Germans, were able to agree either strategy or a common aim. Out of China, across the border, there were even raids from mixed groups of Chinese and renegade Cossack bandits bent entirely on looting and pillaging whatever they could get away with. It was like the Middle Ages, only worse. Tanks, machine-guns, aeroplanes and armoured trains were available to vicious, uneducated barbarians. In America it had been a crime to sell guns to Indians. This crime was as nothing compared to that of the British who put arms into the hands of Tatar tribesmen. It is like Africa today, where grenades and rocket-launchers replace the knobkerry and assegai. A small war, with few casualties, becomes a total war with thousands of civilians killed.

We face the Dark Age and we go into it whistling The Red Flag as if it were a music-hall song. Only a few stand back, shouting warnings. Soon they shall be sucked into the black maelstrom, too. There will be no escape this time, no little island monasteries where enlightenment can flourish. The whole world shall be conquered in the name of Zion and Mao. Yet we must resist. If it is a test, we must succeed or be eternally deserted by God. Sometimes I fear He has already left this planet to its fate; that there is another planet, in a distant star-system, which has proven itself a worthier place; where Eden still flourishes.

My mother took, in the coming weeks, to sending me notes in which she apologised for disturbing me, told me not to visit her and insisted I look after myself and be careful. The notes were brought by various means, often left at the hotel by Esmé on her way to work. Sometimes she would enclose a message of her own, insisting I stay away ‘for your own sake and your mother’s’. My poor mother was suffering from hysterical exhaustion. She would soon recover. I continued to feel extremely uncomfortable.