Yes, that's correct: I did love you. I loved you since my early childhood. Somehow an image was formed in my mind of a dispassionate, handsome British hero, narrow face with Roman-shaped profile, who fears nothing and no one, traversing oceans and continents, at home in any spot of the globe. During my school years this charming image not only did not fade, but shined with new attractive colors: endurance (Livingston), inventor's savvy (Stephenson), scholastic achievement (Newton, Faraday, Maxwell), and -- most delightful for that age -- that unquenchable inquisitiveness which makes men embark on long journeys and discover new lands (Captain Cook, Admiral Drake). Full half of the world map on the wall in the little home of my childhood near Moscow was painted green: quite an excitement for a young heart. British Empire ruled all over the globe -- high seas, diamonds of Golconda, pearls of Bengal, ivory of Black Africa, Australia where the sun goes the other way and at night high above in the sky shines the Southern Cross which none of us has ever seen.

Then came the War, and Britain became our ally. Airways brought to us "It's a long long way to Tipperary" and other songs from the wartime British movies in Russian translation: soon they felt 100% Russian. Then I learned from an eyewitness account that Londoners' behavior during air raids was impeccable: no cases of panic whatsoever, fires put out effectively and quickly, -- and that added yet more to my respect for the Englishmen. Later, in college, I was fascinated by Kipling (whom I still view as the greatest foreign poet of the XX century) and realized that native's deference to sahib is not a matter of servility: it is a full-hearted acknowledgment of the greatness of the British spirit.

The "Mary Gloster" infatuated me immensely, with the inner strength, resolve, will power and courage of its hero. It was he, however, who cast the first shadow over my home-made British ideal: I doubted whether he was the right role-model. Sure, he had the same kind of strength as all my favorite Britons, but to what end did he use it? To material wealth, that's it. What a contrast with David Livingston who was equally steadfast in pursuit of his goal: rather than searching for the mysteries of the Dark Continent, Sir Anthony Gloster sacrificed his beloved wife, his children and himself to a profitable business, only to pass it over to his spoiled son who couldn't care less for it. Gloster understands that his efforts were in vain, but, in his view, his error was simply in having raised his son differently form his own upbringing:

But what would be different if the wealthy heir were placed in circumstances similar to those of his father's formative years and developed qualities of a seaman rather than of a pet puppy? In any case he would have inherited the company, not the helm. Would he then be more courageous in financial deals or stock market raids? Would he then increase his net worth?... How dull and petty it was, how unworthy of the lofty standard I saw in a Briton! At that time I could not see the reality behind that kind of rot: I discounted it as Sir Anthony's personal failing, an exception, and worried no more.

Many-many years later I got a chance to visit Britain and meet the Britons both in the capital and in the country. I can tell you right away that I liked them: I have found courageous, straight, self-sufficient, well organized and intelligent people with great sense of humor, love and care for their land and beautiful English language -- music compared to American English, at least for my ear. I made friends who later came to see me in Moscow and loved it. But I have also found cases of rot which I could not brush away as something superficial or incidental: that was the reality of the British life late in the XX century.

I remember being upset twice: right upon entering the country, and right before leaving. When we arrived to Dover on the ferry from Ostende we were about to take train to London, but the railroad was on strike and we took a bus. Anxiously I was watching road signs, not to miss the town line of the famed British capital. Here we are, on a London street! Houses on both sides, people on the sidewalks... But why are they black? Haven't we missed London by chance? Isn't it rather Nairobi, or maybe Lagos? No, this is London, the East Side, populated mostly by the Blacks: had we come here by train, we would not have seen it at all.

I hope you won't mistake me for a racist: I have no prejudice whatsoever against the Black people. But what is the reason for them to be here, in London, rather than at home, in Africa? Let every flower blossom, each kind in its place: if they are all mixed with no concern for their species, they will surely choke one another... After all, it is not African tribes I have come here to meet.

My excitement was all but gone. Same night, however, I left London for South Wales, where for a few weeks I was in a company of Celts and Anglo-Saxons. Then I stayed in Chiswick, a London borough, and still felt like I am in Britain, but other parts of that great city looked more like Africa.

On the day of my departure from England I was sitting in the railway station, now and again glancing at the clock, waiting for the boarding to begin. A young man next to me caught my attention: the longer I watched him, the warmer and brighter I felt. Not only was he exquisitely handsome; his blue eyes, blond hair, tall stature, fair shape, elegant posture, comely bearing -- everything about him beamed the radiance of nobility, that unmistakable pedigree which can be neither faked nor staged, but only handed down by generations of noble ancestors, gallant gentlemen-warriors and dainty beautiful ladies.

This rose of a man must have been carefully bred for centuries: in no wise could it have sprung forth from a wild flower. And now the rose was willing to open up to a thorn, harsh, crass and unwilling to listen. The thorn was an ugly arrogant fellow sitting next to him, apparently a Muslim from South Asia, invariably responding to his amiable overtures with a brusque, angry "Shuddup" -- as if waving aside a mosquito. Yes, the young man was certainly on the wrong track, he was under influence of alcohol, but that only increased the compassion towards him, towards his wasted beauty and nobility. In his meek attempts to communicate with the ugly guy he took no offense and kept trying to speak up his soul, very gently and friendly; to my astonishment he once even said "I have respect to you", attesting to the worldwide acceptance of this familiar skid row motto...

Watching them was painful. "One of his ancestors, -- thought I -- maybe fought at Poitiers side by side with Edward the Black Prince, shaping the future of the world, and he is prostrate before an arrogant foreigner... Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth, says the Gospel; not the meek but the shameless from lands far away are inheriting the fair city on the British Isles, having all but taken possession of it.

My London impressions, arguably little things by themselves, gained great and sinister symbolic significance in the grim days of the Serbian War of 1999. As the world was watching with shame and disgust Britain's overtures to Albanian Muslim terrorists and her fervor in destruction of Serbia from a safe distance, the scene at the Victoria station replayed itself again and again before my eyes. Now the entire nation laid prostrate before a bunch of bloody scoundrels d.b.a. "Muslim Freedom Fighters" and bent over backwards to demonstrate how deeply they are respected. But, just like then, Britons got no respect in return: having taken over the land of Kosovo, Albanian warlords unleashed genocide against the remaining Christians, safely ignoring British "peacekeepers". Could it have been otherwise with that sort of people who know no other way of interaction between men than armed terror and slavish submission?

I did love you, Britons. As you have seen, my love might not be altogether dead, but it is surely dying, in fact giving way to scorn. Should that surprise you? Having once proclaimed that "Britons never will be slaves", haven't you submitted yourself to willful slavery, first to the Americans, and now to the Muslims? Haven't you delivered your once magnificent capital to invaders from your former colonies and let Muslim terrorists openly run their business from their London headquarters, with no concern for your police which is in turn busy beating up those of you who dare to protest the invasion? Haven't you completely lost the sense of shame? I agree that love is blind, but not entirely blind, and you subjected my love to excessively severe trials. You have not merely lost your national dignity: you have trampled on it, gleefully stoking tabloid scandals over the last monument to your national honor -- your Royal family.

Such is my sad love story. Treason kills love, and my beloved Britons turned traitors. They have betrayed not me, of course, -- who am I, after all? -- but their own land, and I will not forgive that. Why did it happen? Let us think about it together.