"Just as risky as for the authors and bearers," I replied feeling sorry for the lady who meant well. "If there is no answer I don't think I'll return to Tumen. I have nothing to do there. I see all these affairs are managed in the same way, as we managed them in our country. I am through. I thought we had changed. I'll attend to other things."

"Please," he said looking at me with amazement, "don't misunderstand me. You see,"--he tried to invent something, or say something,--"all is very dangerous...."

We were interrupted by a movement on the street. A crowd of soldiers (for I cannot call it a company, or a detachment,--just a crowd of man-haters clad in uniform) passed, and made a demonstration against the Mansion. A few stones and pieces of wood flew onto the Mansion's roof, where they landed and rolled down with a rattling noise, scaring the inhabitants. A frightened face looked out of the window--and hid immediately.

"The Hooligans!" said Botkin. "Every God's day the same, every God's day!"

With laughter and whistles the crowd went down the Great Liberty Street. All started suddenly and just as quickly ended; the street became calm again.

Botkin turned to me and continued:

"Perhaps I was too hasty about this 'no answer.' I should've said it otherwise. I think it is of _no use_ to attempt to do anything, that's the idea. If any plan will be successful,--it will not be this," he showed the letter, "though it is appreciated, trust me when I say it!

We are confronted with other interests, we happen to be in somebody's game." He wanted to add something,--but stopped. "Perhaps our misery was seen abroad through this dead screen of general selfishness!

Believe me, sir, any attempt is hopeless. Our effort only spoils, or might spoil, more cleverly prearranged plans. Now--if you wish me to be frank, I personally don't believe in what I say to you. I think the song is sung...."

"Very well, if I happen to communicate, I'll say so."

An old lady passed the room and searchingly gazed at me. Then a man, tall and thin came in, got a drink of water and left. We both kept silent. An atmosphere of distrust reigned for a while. I got up.

"Wait a while," Botkin said, "I still would like to know whom I have the pleasure of speaking to?"

"Syvorotka is my name. I'll stay here in the hotel for a while."

He looked at me without any confidence.

"As you please," he said, "I cannot force you to take the mask off.

Good-by."

We shook hands,--and I left the Kornilov's House.

Here I am in the Hotel. Dirty hole--that's it. No linen. A mattress covered with spots. Rotten humor.

Botkin fears that the efforts might compromise those who are around the Mansion. He fears even those who are in exile. He fears everything. But--not for himself. I think he is an honest man.

There is nothing to do here--with these scared people. Suspicious, having lost faith in each other, and jealous! I must try to approach them against their will,--perhaps I can do something better than in Tumen.

It is evident that the tragedy develops here. I would not be surprised to know that Lucie is somewhere around.

41

With my pass from the Tumen soviet and a very sure feeling of a perfect disguise, I came yesterday to the local scoundrels,--the "high commission of investigations" as they call this filthy, impossible place where they meet. It used to be the Ecclesiastical School in other days. I had quite a time penetrating these regions guarded by the Reds. The man to whom I was recommended was an elderly kind-faced fellow. All he was saying to me was virtually addressed to the crowd of Reds in the room; as for the room, I think it used to be in former times the professors' room.

"Yes, yes,--your credentials are perfect. Comrade Schmelin,--of course I know him! You have no such troubles in Tumen as we have here.

But--all must be done. And for the sake of the Revolution and the Proletariat--we are here, and will do our duty."

To show how much power he had, he gave some orders to the Reds. They would come near him to take these orders, stand still as they were standing only a few months ago before an officer, and then turn in the brusque manner of soldiers.

The kind faced man--with his sly Jewish features and bulgy big eyes, did not ask me who I was, how I was, and why I wanted the position of an "advising commissary" with the detachment. He looked at me, and smiled,--read the letter I presented,--and, seeing on my face an admiration for his splendor, accepted me. My God, how alike these people-in-power are! I remember, in my early days, the Count Witte, a man with heavy, depressing looks. He liked this move of a man-of-power. I recollect Mr. Kokovtzev who liked so much to see admiration on his visitor's face.... I see this little insignificant and blunt Kerensky, that fished for worship.... And here,--this "tovarishch" Nachman--sitting in his chair and ruling--had the same identical signs of self-respect, self-adoration, and independence.

And--with all of them--I would, without any effort, just by instinct, get on their feeble side, change the whole expression of my face,--even think like them, and love them,--and win. The instinct of accommodation is a great thing,--and, it seems to me I possess it in sufficient volume.

So--accepted in the ranks of those that go wherever they wish, that do whatever their left foot feels like doing, those that continue to remodel the country, those that are so free in every action--I sat near the powerful man,--Comrade Nachman--as equal to equal.

But--what I really could not conceive,--was the range of his duties; he was judge, and governor, and military commander, and lawyer, and coroner, and administrator of the city, and the notary public--all that used to be connected with business--was his concern.... They could not do it in the olden days; they had to have a specially trained man for every branch before,--and now!

"How perfectly you perform all of these different duties," I said.

42

I am a jailer; I guess the first in our family.

Together with Comrade Adolf Pashinsky,--a Pole from the dreadnaught "Andrey Pervozvanny,"--I am walking on the Great Liberty Street, and inside of the fence, watching the prisoners in the Mansion, and watching to see that _supreme justice_--the will of the people--be done.

My companion--is a muscular man of thirty, without front teeth; his thin lips are always curved in a bad smile; his brain is such that he cannot think and speak of anything that would not be vulgar and vicious.

The very first night we came to change sentinels--I felt embarrassed, as I do not know the ritual; but--there is nothing military about these things nowadays, all is abolished. The soldiers come to change sentinels, talk freely, laugh loudly. Instead of military traditions--like parole, pass-words, exchange of salutes, etc., etc.,--they ask:

"Ah, howdy! What are "they" (meaning the prisoners) doing? Anything to look at? All right--now you go, we'll stay."

They have, however, a tradition. When the changed jailors are assembled near the entrance,--they start to knock on the rain pipes of the Mansion with their rifles, to throw sand and small stones into the windows of the Heir and the Princesses. When they think enough frightening has been done, they start to sing something hideous and pornographic.

"She went to the ma-a-rket, Bought a bell as a locket...."

begins a thin trembling voice very calmly and even bashfully, as if nothing bad will come out of this quiet song. And then, suddenly, a chorus of twelve big fat swine would belch the notorious refrain:

"Ah, you brunette of mine, O-oh, curly girl of mine...."

and so forth, with the licentious words of this song accompanying it with whistles and jazzing with bayonettes, field-pans and general noise.

I tried to analyze all of this. Why? Why is there such a hatred for these,--this poor man, these five women and a boy? Such unnecessary torture of people of the past,--nothing but a man who awaits the end of his tragedy, nothing but a frail boy, nothing but five trembling ladies. And the picture of the old woman that broke her hip on the deck--and provoked laughter, comes to me.

The second day of my occupation,--it was about eleven when the sentinels were changed and the night was warm and bluish, the demonstration, perhaps in my honor, was exceptionally noisy and obscene.

"How do you like it?" asked Pashinsky gloriously, looking at me and showing, instead of teeth, a burned-out cemetery in his mouth. "Don't they get enough? They just went to bed--and here is the music."

"Fine!" I answered. "Why don't we shoot? It makes more noise and frightens much more."

"We used to do so," he said with regret, "but all these burjoois, and the popes, and the whole carrion of Tobolsk did not like it. So we have decided for the moment not to. Nobody can forbid singing. We are free. The air belongs to the Soviet Government."

Then he continued: