Theory of Slavery | Hamilton

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"In my opinion, such poetry is nothing but a ridiculous absurdity."

"Hm. I think differently."      

"How? I am surprised, too, for instance, that the author's fundamental idea is a true one. But how it's all expressed, distorted... Who can understand the original idea in this?"

Hamilton was sitting stretched out on the sofa, with a cup of tea in his hand. I seated myself beside him, unceremoniously tucking my legs up under me, and taking up more room on the divan than deference to the master should have allowed. On the table lay an open book. It was a collection of Hesiod's poems. The literary scheme was in full swing.

"Why," Hamilton moved aside with dignity. "In Europe, everyone supports this idea, because the whims and wishes of the proletariat there are put first. The peasantry is still held together somehow by God. In our country everybody has been rolling downhill, and everyone has known for ages that they have nothing to clutch at. That's why you don't get it.

"I believe in God."

"So be it. But Europe is different... Impoverished and dangerous. With paupers in its upper classes, she will be glad of any way of escape; you have only to present it to her. Europe, as she is, has no future.

"But you began about the proletariat. Tell me, how do you look at it?"     

"The proletariat has less power of resistance than anything in the world," said Hamilton, looking meaningfully at me. "I can't believe, for instance, that there was a rising in Russia. Although, according to the latest news, it turned out to be quite unreliable..."

I revived at once.

"And what about it? Yes, everyone looks at Russia with perplexity because they are frightened at the way things are... put there. I am persuaded of the success of those mysterious "things", only because Russia is now pre-eminently the place in all the world where anything you like may happen without any opposition."

Hamilton turned his head and looked at me with inexplicable surprise.

"Socialists openly unmask what is false and prove that we have nothing to lay hold of among us, and nothing to lean upon." I went on, reaching out for tea. "What is most effective about them is the incredible boldness with which they look the truth straight in the face. To look facts straight in the face is only possible to Russians. We are not yet so bold."

Hamilton's disappointment In me was too obvious — he turned his head from side to side and frowned. For the past week, he of course learned to bear with patience and almost without murmur anything, even this. But for the first minute, it was too bitter. He took a sip of tea and said indifferently with his tired voice:

"I thought you were a liberal."      

"Liberals say something quite different."

"I know it's nonsense."

"No, it isn't nonsense... But I am more of a socialist-liberal."      

Hamilton looked confused.

"What do you think of Communism?"

"I like Communism."

Silence.

"Alright."  

We have been reading for an hour or so. I read slowly and perhaps deliberately skipped certain parts. After a week, Greek books seemed to me impossibly boring. I would sometimes spend evenings on end silent, and when it came to the discussion I tried using general expressions in order not to seem uninterested. My manner to Hamilton was as attentive as ever, but there was a shade of reserve in it.