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Then from the left and way off, faintly, broke a smooth whistle, cool like a peeled willow-branch, and I found myself listening to an air from Petroushka, Petroushka, which we saw in Paris at the Chatelet, mon ami et moi.... The voice stopped in the middle and I finished the air. This code continued for a half-hour. It was dark. I had laid a piece of my piece of chocolate on the window-sill.
... and then at last it was lumieres eteintes; and les deux americains lay in their beds in the cold rotten darkness, talking in low voices of the past, of Petroushka, of Paris, of that brilliant and extraordinary and impossible something: Life. Morning. Whitish. Inevitable. Deathly cold. There was a great deal of hurry and bustle in The Enormous Room.
Day after to-morrow the third. Next day the refrain. After oh, well. My whistling of Petroushka brought no response this evening. So I climbed on Ca Pue, whom I now regarded with complete friendliness; the new moon was unclosing sticky wings in dusk, a far noise from near things. I sang a song the "dirty Frenchmen" taught us, mon ami et moi.
"L'Enfant Prodigue" which came from Paris, "Sumurun" which came from Berlin, "Petroushka" which came from Petrograd, conquered the American stage; and surely the loss of speech, while it increased the remoteness from reality, by no means destroyed the continuous consciousness of the bodily existence of the actors.
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