My interview with his Excellency is worthy of description. Since my graduation from the Lyceum up to the present time--I have seen many men of power; when young--they usually knocked me down by their aureole of magnificence; with age I learned how to distinguish almost unmistakably in the splendor of that scenery an idiot from a crook.

This one--was quite peculiar.

Kerensky made me wait for about one hour during which I had enough time to ascertain that since the new regime the rooms had not been dusted. So what Kerensky said to some foreigner: "Regenerated Russia will not have recourse to the shameful methods utilized by the old regime"--were untruthful words. The dust evidently was old regime's.

At the end of the hour (it was enough for Kerensky!) I decided to go home and mail the resignation. When I got up, however, one of his men (the young rascal was watching me, I am sure) entered and asked me to step in. The staging of the reception was prearranged and intended to impress the visitor; on the desk of the Minister I saw maps and charts, specimens of tobacco for the soldiers, designs of the new scenery for the Mariinsky Theatre, models of American shells, foreign newspapers, barbed wire scissors, etc., etc., just to show the newcomer the immense range of His Excellency's occupations and duties.

When I stepped in, Kerensky looked at me, posing as being exceedingly fatigued in caring for the benefit of others. He almost suffered! He never looked to me so exotic as at this moment: the Palace--and, at the same time the perspiring forehead, the dirty military outfit. The magnificence of power,--and the yellowish collar, badly shined boots. He was glad of the impression produced on me, as I registered disgust,--he, with his usual knowledge of men, thought it worship.

"Look how we, new Russians, are working"--shouted his whole appearance, "look, you pig, and compare with what you have been doing!"

"Alexander Fedorovich," I said approaching him, "I thought I had to bring my resignation personally. You'll find the reasons as "family circumstances,"--and I gave him the paper.

He rose. With one hand on the buttons of his uniform and the other on the desk, he believed himself to look like Napoleon. Like Napoleon he looked straight into my eyes. But his weak and thin fingers were always moving like a small octopus--Napoleon's were stronger.

"May I ask you the real cause of your resignation?" he said, vainly forcing his high-pitched voice lower.

"If you care to know it," I said calmly,--"It is disgust."

Napoleon faded away from his face, and before me was again Monsieur Kerensky, a little lawyer with whom I had once made a trip from Moscow to Petrograd. A little lawyer who tried to please me and looked for my sympathy.

"That's the appreciation of our work!... Poor Russia! She is deserted!

Here I am all alone to carry this burden"--and Kerensky showed with a circular movement of disorder on his desk,--"But you," he continued, after a pause,--"you! Why should _you_ be disgusted, and why should _you_ leave us at this strenuous moment? Don't you see that the building up of the state needs the full co-operation of every element of Russia,--the new ones, as well as the old?"

I said that I did not think I was more of an old element than he, but repeated my categoric decision.

As if wounded right in the heart, with a theatrical sigh, Kerensky looked out of the window, then smiled bitterly, and took the paper from me. "I grant you your request. I know what disgusted you,--and, and--I understand. I hope you will not regret this step."

He sat down thus politely indicating the end of the audience. Here, on his desk, I noticed one of the last numbers of the "L'Illustration"

with a large picture of himself on it, which he was studying while I was waiting for his interview.

How easy I feel! Left to my own affairs, to my own business, all to my very own self! Thank God! I never felt this way before.

And our national Tartarin of Tarrascon--at his desk in the palace, with his people, always meeting polite and covetous eyes,--will continue his hard work. Under every smile and every bow, he will see--up to the grave, the veiled appreciation: "By God, what a small thing you are." On the pages of history his name will forever remain and look like the trace of a malicious and sick fly.

17.

How glad I am that Maroossia went away! I feel more at ease though the housekeeping is up to me.

There was more shooting and more of revolution, than heretofore, during all of these days,--one more evidence that the building of the new state is in full progress. Of course,--these days brought Kerensky as high up as he only can go. Next will be his precipitated downfall,--much speedier than his elevation. Why do the Allies make this mistake of letting a worm like Kerensky endanger the cause--it is a mystery ... though "there are no mysteries in this plainest of planets."

Nahkamkes and Trotzky--found! and in jail, for the moment being,--perhaps like the Baroness, or even easier! But the man, the real German hound of Petrograd, Monsieur Ulianov-Lenin,--could not be found. _Could not be found_ is true. He has not been looked for, as any ass knows where he is. They send him meals from Felicien, or Ernest.

Away from here! I must be going as soon as I get the things straightened.

Have wired to Maroossia that I am still alive, otherwise she is liable to appear again. Elisabeth wrote a letter from Moscow and said that "here--everybody is well and things look satisfactory. Food supplies in abundance. All active in building up the state." Is she sick? Who is building the state? We destroy.

They speak of putting the Emperor in jail,--the St. Peter and Paul Fortress. On the other hand Polenov was told that Kerensky won't tolerate any abuse to "private citizens." How about other private citizens?

18.

So finally they all lost.

The Emperor was taken away,--and both Mikhalovskys died for nothing, just looking for the plotters, I think, or, perhaps, they were plotting themselves?

Mr. Kerensky did not dare to do it himself personally, as he used to say it repeatedly in Tsarskoye. No! Lies usually led him to other things: to give to the Family a "detachment of special destination"

under Col. Kobylinsky (a fine man,--Emperor's A.D.C. during the Empire, and his jailer during the Republic!) and Monsieur Makarov, under whose command they all left for Tobolsk. I had to buy a map.

Sorry to ascertain it, but I have always mixed up Tomsk, Tobolsk and Yakutsk. Which was which was a puzzle to me. We Russians must be proud of our perfect ignorance of Siberia.

Monsieur Makarov? Nobody knew him, but, of course, Polenov. "Oh,"

he said, when I told him the news, "Makarov. A man who looks like Turguenev, smells of French perfumes, speaks of the arts and is a contractor!?... Of course I know of him. He is from the "Brussov and Makarov Contracting Company"--the rascal! Kerensky knew him long ago, I am sure. The first thing when he got powerful he appointed Makarov as something in the Ministry of Beaux-Arts!"

From what I learned afterwards from Admiral and B-tov, all of "the rats of Tsarskoye" ran away. Only a few remained with the family: Botkin,--Capt. Melnik, Countess G. and her governess, M-e Sch., and Gillard. That's about all I guess that I know of--maybe some will join them afterwards. I am so sorry I had to go to Tula when they took the Family. I'd have gone to watch the departure with the Admiral.

Petrograd simply died. The city does not reflect a thing. All seem to be satisfied with mere existence, and to have lost interest in the rest of the world. They look animated when it comes time to converse of food and clothes.... Funny, strange, weird city! They don't clean the streets any more.... and everybody finds it natural. There is nothing in the stores--and we feel perfectly at ease. The country is being maliciously run down--and all repeat that fiction of building up.

Perhaps the only place that has not changed since its foundation is the Club. The same old grouches are there, on the same sized seats, with the same expressions of old indigestion and fresh gossip. Boys keep up! The revolution will probably bring the sacred card games onto the streets. Your progressive institution must preserve the classic rules for the next generations.

People now are divided into two distinct camps: those of today, and those of yesterday. The former--cover their disgust under a smile of opportunism; kin and kind--don't. We hate each other, and envy each other,--as we cannot see which way things will turn.... We will be united only if the ones of to-morrow,--the commune, the third class of people happen to take into their hands the war machinery. Then we both will be crushed, annihilated, forgotten. It is coming....

II. TUMEN

II. TUMEN

19

Only five months ago--I had a wife, income, good food.... Only five months ago--I had a country.

The mean and envious beast that lived in our midst,--as it lives in every other country,--unseen, but felt, and always ready to crush the acquirements of existing civilization,--_the mob_ came out from the underground world; criminal hands let _the mob_ on the streets. Weak and shaky fingers unlocked the trap; a magnificent gesture of an ignorant Don Quixote invited the spies, the thieves, the murderers "to make the New Russia."

I see foreign faces around me; I hear foreign accents in every line of each new edict; I listen to the strange names of our new governors.

The Mob is in power; and the friendly faces of our Allies became dry and cold....