22

Goroshkin brought me a passport of Mr. Syvorotka, with my description and my particular marks (broken shoulder), documents and uniform, and gave me a few names in Tumen which I had to remember and to whom on behalf of Mr. Andrei Andreivich Vysotsky I should address myself.

"Your Excellency understands that nobody assumes any responsibility for your safety. You just must be in touch with the people," he said, "and be ready for what you were told to do, as we must have a man in Tumen. If I may suggest, you should not speak or act like a gentleman."

I decided to joke a bit with Goroshkin: "Go to hell, you old fool," I said, "you damned plotter," and then I kicked a chair.

To my great astonishment not a muscle twitched in Goroshkin's face.

"Not bad, not bad," he said calmly, "but even your slang is a gentleman's. Your Excellency should imagine having been born a swine.

That's the point. I should recommend more of silence, and if you happen to speak,--a brief articulation, roughly conceived and expressed. Don't bother at all with the person you are addressing."

The old man amused me very much that evening. I let him sit down and he told me episodes of his life for about a couple of hours. For thirty years he had been present at every performance in his theatre and he knew the world better than I did, only by watching the artists.

January the tenth in the early morning at about six o'clock the fat Mlle. Goroshkin entered my room clad only in a nightgown. That was the only time I saw her pale and sordid, but she was just as uninteresting as ever. "Quick! Get up," she said, "they are searching. Brother has already left, and he said you must dress and get your documents and run out. Go to Tumen, I'll send your effects there."

"They" was enough for me. I was all ready in two minutes, put all of my money and jewelry in my hip pockets, assumed the aspect of a wounded soldier and walked out. I barely reached Miasnitskaya Street before an armored car full of working men and soldiers passed by at about fifty miles an hour. Half a dozen bad faces looked at me. I decided to continue calmly on my way, but I heard the car coming back very soon sounding its siren. It stopped near me. "Come in, cavalry man, there is a seat for one. They found somebody in Yousupov's house."

I stopped and scratched my neck. "It cannot be done, I am going to the hospital. If I am late, I won't have the bandage changed today. Could you take me to the hospital on the Devitche Pole?"

"Are you crazy?" said the man at the wheel, looking at me with fury.

"Comrades, do you think I am going to drive so far for his rotten wound?" and without asking for his friends' consent, he turned the machine and continued on his way towards Yousupov's.

This was my first interview with Russia's rulers.

23

I was stopped four or five times on my way to Deviche Pole. I took this route just to show those that might have watched me that I really was going to the hospital. Then I thought I could take a street car to a station and go somewhere south, to Tula, for instance, then wait there for a while and afterwards reach Moscow again (they cannot keep on shooting and shooting always, I reasoned) and thence to Tumen. So I continued along Miasnitskaya. Near the Post Office some people approached me. "Where to?" they asked, and a woman caught me by the arm. I made a suffering face. "For Christ's sake," I exclaimed, "don't touch me. I am wounded!" They let me go and stopped a long, young fellow in student's uniform. I saw them drag the chap away regardless of his protests. "Comrades! It is a mistake! I am a member of a local committee...." he attempted to protest,--but the woman said he looked like a suspicious plotter and they all disappeared in a side street.

Near Milutinsky a man in the cap of a chauffer stopped me again and asked me to follow him. "Where?" I asked, but he did not reply and invited me to follow with a slight and nothing-good-promising-smile.

"Follow!" he said.

Near a small church, there was a hardware store which we entered.

About ten people were sitting on the counter. Among them were three street girls, if I might judge by their appearance and manners.

Without saying a word, they all came near me, two men got me by the shoulders, two others by the legs, and in one second, my pockets were emptied, my diamonds went to the girls and a formidable blow on the spine with the butt of a rifle threw me out onto the street. "If you report," I heard a voice,--"You won't be able to count your bones."

That was really too much! All they forgot to take was a handkerchief, in which I had put some money. With that I had to reach Tumen and live there!

Then I turned left and went by small streets toward the depot from which I thought trains were running to Tumen. Where this Tumen was I really did not _realize_. It should be somewhere east of the Ural mountains, and all I recollected was that Cheliabinsk was the place to buy a ticket. Near a large school, I think it was an Armenian school or something, I stopped to rest and see how much money I had in the handkerchief,--but as soon as I took the handkerchief out, a man of no profession came to me and asked me to help him. While, like an idiot, I tried to figure how much I could give him,--he helped himself, grabbed my all and ran. All I could do was to send him a few greetings in my best Russian, recollecting the sins of his Mother. That relieved me, of course, but only as a palliative. I sat down near a door to think over my situation. Again a motor passed and again someone asked me who I was. I showed this time such a realistic indifference and such a display of pure disgust with life, that the man at the wheel inquired what was the matter. "Nothing, you beasts," I replied, "but that some of your own scoundrels robbed me right now." "Get after him," I continued, "perhaps you can rob him in your turn." I thought they would shoot me; nothing of the kind--they became almost sympathetic, and only asked how the man looked and which way he had gone. "Hardware store," I said, "around the corner."

24

It was Saturday night when finally our train reached Tumen: a _voyage_ of eleven days by rail, by snow sledge, by foot, and again by rail, was at an end. God! What a sojourn, what people, what disorder! People full of onions, parasites, wounds, dirt, misery and fear! But still, in all of their misery, amiable and sympathetic, at first always desirous of helping the other fellow. Saturday night, and the church bells were ringing sadly, desperately, as if they knew nobody would come and pray. To whom? God had proved to be so far away from these people....

(_pages missing_)

... The city,--and I shall continue to call it a city,--was dark and dreary, and so cold that I resolved to spend the night at the depot where it was warm at least. I bought some hot tea and a large loaf of bread at the buffet, and, as a sick and poor soldier who knows his place, I sat in a corner.

There were some people in the station--mostly peasants, one could easily recognize such in them; quietly talking and drinking tea with dignity and care and biting their sugar with the force of explosions.

They never put their sugar into the tea-tumblers. Later a man with a disagreeable face entered the room and looked around. This was not a peasant, I said to myself,--he would not take off his hat. The newcomer was evidently looking for me, as when he noticed me, he first bought some tea and a sandwich, and then, as if there were no other place in the room, picked out a seat near me. "An enemy," I thought to myself and buried my face in my supper.

The man wanted to talk, but evidently felt embarrassed.

"Cold outside, isn't it?" he asked.

A foreign intonation. No accent, however. A Pole or a Russian-German.

"Hm, hm, very!"

"Yes, severe climate, dog's cold. Going to stay in Tumen, or plan to go further?" he asked after a pause.

"Going to stay, or going further,--what do you ask for? But if it interests you--going to stay for a while. If I croak here, or somewhere else--you aren't going to attend my funeral. So what's the big idea?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing! You see I am a stranger here and lately live practically at the depot. Am looking for a man by the name of Vysotsky, so I ask almost everybody for the man."

"Vysotsky?" I asked, assuming an air of astonishment, "Vysotsky?"

(Marchenko and his crowd flashed through my mind, especially in connection with my mission)--"no, I don't think that I know anyone by that name."

"Here, here," the man laughed, shoving me with his shoulder, "lay it out, old man, you _must_ know him"

"No, Comrade" I responded. "You probably take me for some one else, indeed. I am Syvorotka of the 7th Hussars. We had a man by name Vysotsky, a sub-lieutenant, but I don't think it's the one you are looking for: the Vysotsky I knew has been taken prisoner, at Lvov, or at the Sziget Pass ... yes, at Sziget Pass, of course. Vysotsky, Vysotsky, what was the Christian name, perhaps that would help me out?"

"You white-collared trash!" my man suddenly became angry, "you can't fool me about his first name. Don't be too slick. I'll tell you" (he started to whisper very low and knocked on the table with his finger) "they will jail you right now, if you don't tell me why in the devil's name you came here. Aren't you going to tell me? No? Very well, I'll fix you for life, you damned Russian swine! Hope you'll choke on your tea!"

That's how he ended his friendly wishes, and left me in a fury.

But when someone threatens and is in a fury there is no immediate danger, I know. It is true in every case of life. So I was quiet for the night. I put my overcoat under my head and slept all night.

Next morning I began to work ... (_several pages missing_.)

25

(_First letter to M. Goroshkin_)

"Madame L. obtained from the Princess G-n some particulars. So in addition to the reports forwarded to you through Hatzkelman, I herewith send you more: