I am a Russian, and for two years have been an exile.

I will not now speak of my house, for it is no more, or how I escaped, for it is the common tale of all of us.

I have seen things more terrible than any dream and yet lived, but I have paid a price for such experience.

First I went to Italy where there were friends, and I wished only to have peace among kindly people.

About poverty I do not care, for, to us, who have lost all the great things, the want of bread is a little matter.