Lost trumpet

132
THE LOST TRUMPET
civilization and life a cruel and bestial thing. In a
sane world this money of yours—this property of
yours—it would be controlled for the good of the
community by the responsible and efficient.”
“Am I neither ?”
“You are a Princess, and beautiful. And there is
no voice so lovely in the world, I think, as a Russian
woman’s. And your mind is ruthless and eager.
But it is no industrialist’s : it is the mind of a dream-
ridden Slav politician.”
“Oh, I know !” She flung aside Esdras Quaritch
—so impatiently that the book fell on the ground
and I had to stoop and retrieve it. “I am Russian to
the core, Anton. Lovely voices—think of all the
other lovely things they have ! Remember the Volga
and the roofs of Kazan in winter ”
“And the music, and the live, kind faces,” I said,
and she rekindled her torch at mine.
“—and the talk, so good and fine and understand¬
ing and desperately silly and desperately splendid.
And the selflessness—and the Asiatic fanatic and saint
in the most stupid face—and someone reciting
Lermontov ’ ’
We stared at each other, white-faced Pelagueya
as I think I was, and sick with nostalgia. Russia !
Around us the green and brown babble of Cairo.
If we took the road to a ship and Suez—to Istambul
—through the Black Sea . . . some morning the
quays and towers of Odessa would rise, kindly and
grey, and those beloved, foolish voices ring in our
ears again. . . . Pelagueya was laughing whitely.