"You should have seen those little ones"--he winked his eyes--"they got scared to death the first time we sang the "Parson's Daughter"

right near their windows! And I'll tell you...." he whispered something in my ear.

I decided to start with him when it comes to rid the world of some of these Reds.

"Good!" I said with extreme pleasure and tapping him on the shoulder, "Where are their rooms?"

"Right where the white curtain hangs ... you see ... one ... two ...

three ... fourth window on the second floor. They all are there in one room, they are never alone lately. They used to be on the first floor.

That--was a holiday for us boys. Everything seen,--and we would...."

The smile on his face stretched from ear to ear.

"But," he continued,--"again the popes intervened. I hope they'll croak soon. And Kobylinsky consented. He is with us, of course,--but we _must_ get rid of him."

"Well, you boys have good times here," (I said dreamily) "I am glad I came. It's great! All these people had enough of our blood. Now--the people rule themselves! Great life!"

"You bet! Stay with us longer and you'll see better things...."

43

Next day,--it was about four,--Pashinsky, who sticks near me thinking I am his best friend and admirer, punched me with his elbow and said:

"Look, look. Who is coming."

The Emperor, stooping and walking with tottering steps, was passing from the garden into the house. Dr. Botkin was with him. The Emperor's hands were clasped behind him, his eyes were staring downwards. An old, soiled soldier's blouse of khaki flannel was hanging on his spare, bowed, bony body. He was walking slowly, evidently trying to appear indifferent and calm.

I had not seen him for a year and a half or even more. There was more gray in his whiskers,--and to me, at this moment he never seemed to so strikingly resemble his more fortunate English cousin.

They passed very near us. Pashinsky loudly yawned and stretched right in the Emperor's face, who looked at him blankly; but under a dignified and elaborate calm--I detected a spark of wounded majesty.

Then he looked at me,--evidently seeing in me nothing but a new jailer,--sighed, and turned his suffering face away. Dr. Botkin looked at me, too; he recognized me with a start.

"Ever see the bloodsucker before? Did you see how I treat him?"

"Never saw him. Where in the hell could I?... As for you--you certainly are some boy!"

I was so near to the Emperor that for a moment I feared he could recognize me. But he did not, for he glanced twice at me and--passed by. When they were on the stairs, Botkin said something to him, and the Emperor turned around, his eyes resting for a moment on my figure.

I brought up my hand,--so, that for the Emperor--it was a salute; for Pashinsky--a mosquito which I killed on my forehead. Both Emperor and Botkin immediately turned away and entered the Mansion.

"You watch him closer, Syva," Pashinsky said, "I think we'll take him away for good pretty soon."

Today,--during my watch hours I had time to make observations, especially, when the evening came and the night began.

In the house silent figures were walking; these delicate shadows of yesterday; later--Princess Tatiana sat near the window with a book.

... (_line illegible_).... has not changed much. From time to time she would stop turning the pages,--and look--without expression, without moving--down at Pashinsky and me, and at the quiet city, at clear skies, at the distant golden crosses shining under the moon.

There was something natural,--and yet not ordinary, in this dark figure behind the curtain.

Did she think of our black ingratitude, she who did so much for the wounded soldiers and for the families of those killed? Did she think of the capricious Fate, which played with her young life so nastily?

Did she pray--crushed, humble, and lost? Did she cry for the past, or dream of the future?... Or, perhaps, in her mind was the present,--and behind those noble eyebrows, were thoughts and plans to fight still.... Perhaps there was hope?

This dark figure and the other frightened silhouettes of the endangered ladies in the Mansion, surrounded by their jailers, keep me turning from side to side each night.

I see crooked smiles full of rotting teeth; I see perspiring low foreheads and piercing oily eyes; and I know that New Russia has no compassion.

44

Nachman invited me to a dinner. Later Dutzman came and brought a smirking girl with him. Nothing very interesting. A girl. She sang gypsy songs accompanied by a guitar. Good voice--and bad manners. We had champagne, caviar and cigars,--_real Uppman_.

"Eh," he said, "After all--this life _is_ good! Much better even than when I was secretary of the 'Courier of Moscow.' Of course, it is transitory.... Won't you take some more, please?... and we all will be out. Perhaps those of us who will not, by that time, hang, will have already some money put aside. Not I--I am a spender. I can't keep this money."

He was happy and therefore talkative and sincere.

He continued.... "You ask how we get this money? Easily, comrad, very easily, indeed. Besides what we receive from Petrograd, we have other incomes. For instance, here, take this case of the Emperor. Why do you think we intend to send him to Ekaterinburg? Why should we send him towards the approaching Czechs?"

"Everything has been taken by them; they threaten to crush us if the Allies will assist them, even in the slightest way. Still we send. It is a question of two hundred thousand rubles,--but nobody knows that I, Nachman, a scabby Jew, got about fifty thousand out of them. Now another thing: who got the pay for the heavy trucks, and for the benzine, and for the tents, and for the ... oh, many other things!...

who got it? This very Nachman, yes, comrad ... have some more, please, it's good!..."

45

"Quod forti placuit legis habet valorem."

Sailor Khokhriakov--the special envoy of the Sovnarkom--and his band.

Here is the real danger, but only in case Colonel Kobylinsky and his Detachment of Special Destination would consent to join the Soviets.

They all hesitate, not the Colonel, however.

The meeting of the Peoples' Commissaries from Petrograd (Khokhriakov) and Kaganitsky (from Ural, I guess) is certainly worthy of description. I went there, leaving for that reason my Mansion duties--(simply by saying to Pashinsky "tell them I am not coming to the Mansion as I have to attend the meeting"); nowadays military service is really a pleasure.

We all were sitting in the recreation room, about sixty or seventy of us in all. Khokhriakov presided. His neck is like a bull's, but rougher--and red. He started the meeting by a thunderous "Shut up, you over there!" and "Somebody open the window; who in hell is smoking such ... tobacco (I omit the adjective, though correct and strikingly expressive, but profane)?"

The noise stopped under this voice, the windows were thrown open, and our Peoples' Commissary began:

"Comrades,--before us are three questions; 1st--whether to release the prisoners and give them to the Tobolsk people under the auspices of Comrade Kobylinsky and his men, or 2d--whether to try the prisoners right here by the people's tribunal, or 3d--to comply with some other requests--which I have the authority to propose--to send the prisoners to a Ural city. Let us proceed with the first question. I put this proposition to the ballot in this way: the Tobolians, and amongst them the popes, the monarchists, all of the counter-revolutionary trash do not want the Peoples' rule. So they say that the Nikolai family must be given to the Constituent Assembly. Now, what in the hell of hells, do they mean by this? What _is_ a Constituant Assembly? Isn't it a crowd of the same enemies of the people? Isn't this 'Parliament'

against our will? Shall we, proletarians, consider the question of a Constituent Assembly? Would it not be an act of counter-revolution?

Come out here, right before me, the one that will dare to propose such a thing," and the ten pound wooly fist of the sailor was lifted and held for moments in the filthy air of the recreation room.

This rhetorical question, in fact, was not necessary, as we all, hearing the word "Proletariat" in the middle of Khokhriakov's speech had already started to make a noise and to applaud, the cheers densely hung in the room,--and even before he said, "I knew you are good proletarians and would drown this proposition, God damn you,--carried,"--the fate of this weak and impossible thing at that time, the hope for a Constituent Assembly,--was told. In no way would it do.