AMOSOZ
189
stop him? Had I the right to? Would you offer him, dear lady, one
goblet of woman's love? He would repay you with crimson and tur–
quoise. Generously he would repay you. His soul for one single
goblet! Half? Quarter? No? Well, then! Never mind.
It
is not
necessary. Do not give. Every human being is:-one planet. There's
no way through. Just twinkling far away whenever there are no
clouds.
Realia
itself is swine. May I offer you one flower? In memory
of that poor miserable one. One flower for ascent of his soul?
Dostoevsky killed him, with my revolver. Anti-Semite he was!
Despicable! Epileptic! He crucifies Christ at least twice on every
single page, and still he accuses us. He beats the Jews murderously.
And perhaps he is right, dear lady? I am not talking about Palestine.
Palestine is - another song. What is Palestine?
Realia?
Palestine is
dream. Palestine is
cauchemar,
but still is dream. Perhaps you have
deigned to hear of Lady Dulcinea? Well, Palestine is like her. In the
dream, myrrh and frankincense, but in
realia
swinery! Misery of
swines . And in the morning-'behold it was Leah!' What Leah?
Malaria. Ottoman Asia. I was just little boy, little boy catching spar–
rows. I used to sell them two for a kopeck. I loved to wander by
myself on the steppe. So: dreamily strolling in the meadows. And all
around-terror! Forests! And muzhiks, with, whatdyacallem, not
boots-leggings . That is our Palestine back in Shirky. The stream is
Palestine too. And I can swim in it. And one day, there am I as
young boy wandering between forest and meadow, and suddenly
right in front of me out of the ground up pops little peasant girl.
With braid. A swineherd, begging your pardon. Maybe fifteen years
old. Well, I don't ask her how old she is. Up she pops and without a
word she starts to hoist up - begging pardon - her skirt. And beck–
oning with her finger. Not one goblet of woman's love-one whole
river. Take and it shall be given to you. And I am only young strip–
ling, my foolish blood boiling, and my brain - begging his par–
don-fast asleep. Would I lie to you, madame, in the middle of my
own funeral? No. Lying is totally contemptible. All the more so
before open grave. In short, I do not deny, my dove, I lay hands on
her in that field. And for that sin I am sent to Ottoman Asia. 'Flow
on, Jordan .... ' My father himself smuggles me out in middle of
night, so they will not hack me to death. And there, in Pales–
tine-wilderness! Graveyard! Fear! Foxes! Prophets! Bedouins!
And the air all ablaze! Take another sip; it will do you good. Drink;
to memory of women's love. On the way, when I am still on ship, I
throw my tefillin straight in sea. Let fishes eat and grow fat. And I
