“How fond you seem to be of getting together and eating and singing and dancing,” said I. “In England all the people are huddled up close to one another and yet one seldom takes tea with the next-door neighbour even.”
The deacon replied:
“You are all like the people of Moscow or Kiev or St Petersburg, I expect. You have forgotten that you are brothers. Money has come between you and money has made you work. You are all gathered together, not out of love, but out of hate. In England gregariousness, in Russia conviviality.”
“Yes, we live together,” said the Chief of Police; “you die together.”
“You have your pogroms,” I retorted, and everyone looked very grave, for they were all staunch supporters of the Tsar.
“The vine is better for the cutting,” said the deacon, softly.
“But surely you do not approve of shedding blood, you do not think it Christian to fight your enemies?”
“We do not strike them. They are cursed by God, and when they are struck it is by Him. But it is not a matter for argument. You have come to see Russia, you look about, and you will find happiness wherever you go. We are all happy, even the Jews, who are only here to make money out of us. Then, if we are happy you must not object to our Government.”
“But are you really happy? In nine out of every ten provinces you will have famine before the winter is over, and yet you are all wasting your stores by Christmas luxuriance. All these poor people who are gorging themselves to-day will be pinched with hunger to-morrow.”
“He who taketh thought for the morrow is a Jew,” said the officer, and so ended the conversation by flooding it with laughter. Everyone laughed, and I think everyone thought we had been getting too serious.