“As she was before Peter the Great,” I added.
“As she was before the hordes.”
The subject was too dark after all. I felt we should have to drink, not to the past, but to the Russia that is going to be when the Bolsheviks have been forgotten.
“And England?” I asked. “Will you not drink confusion to the enemies of King George V.?”
“Oh, no,” said the poet. “I’m too good an American for that. Couldn’t do that. My roots are too deep in democracy. Confusion to the enemies of King George—no, couldn’t drink it. Confusion to the enemies of the English people. Yes, I’d drink that toast.”
“Well, it’s the same thing.”
“Doesn’t sound so.”
“In that case,” I retorted, “I’ll not drink to the President.”
But Vachel had become preoccupied and began an unending chant of Patrick Henry’s oration,