The saint is a man who would be perfect. The politician one who would make the world wholesome, whole.2 The saint would, if he could, image his God. And God would constantly prove his presence through miracles. With the politician, he would image the good citizen, le bon citoyen. Free, if elected, he would work for the joy of his fellowmen, brother to brother, he’ll sing the Carmagnole or the Ca Ira at the Bastille. All men are born free, only tyrants (the Bourbons, the British or the Americans) make us slaves. Chains are there only to be broken. Can you not hear it, through the dreadful night, a spectre walks through the bazaars of mankind? Selfless, like the saint, the politician too would work miracles. If there was a Saint Francis, there was also a Robespierre. In Russia, at night when the Revolution had settled to itself, the peasant sometimes saw shadows moving through the dented snows—Saint Lenin, gaunt and bearded, was walking through the pines, soothing the cries of widows, healing the woefully wounded. When there was no tea to drink in Petrograd (for Russians, as everyone knows, love tea, but tea came from India or China, and all roads to these countries were cut by the wicked French, the British, the Americans), then, it is said, comrades boiled cauldrons of water, just tap water, and said to the people, pouring from samovars to cups, ‘Here, take, it’s tea, yes tea.’ And it was so good. Did not people remember, did not Katia or Ivan remember the one who had multiplied the fishes and walked on the Galilee? Later it was said when a man and woman coupled in the depths of the dreary night, and the child was conceived, the Moujik said, Saint Stalin had sown the seed for the son to be. Glory be to Stalin, Father of the people!