Democratisation of French cooking, or vulgarisation of exclusive tastes (?) which?

I met Frank at Cubat's.... Heaven knows how he got released from custody. I could not help it when he approached my table and greeted me; I asked him whether he had heard anything from Colonel Makevich.

He asked me about Maroossia, so one thing led to another, and finally the waiter brought a chair. "Can I join you?" he asked. I growled something like "delighted" and so he sat down. The conversation at first was rather general, and then suddenly:

"Did you hear anything of the Baroness B's. case, and how is she now?"

he said.

This unexpected question put Frank in a new light. I had to take several puffs of my cigarette to think over my answer. Frank gave me time to prepare the response in giving orders to the maitre d'hotel.

Quite a bit of time elapsed after he questioned me. I hoped for an instant that he was going to forget about it, but, alas, when he was through with his orders (from which I understood that he either had become rich, or expected me to pay his check) he looked at me and repeated:

"Yes, sir, did you hear anything new of the poor Baroness?"

"Well," I replied, "the only thing that we all know: she is in jail."

"Your information," he smiled, "is quite old. They released her about a day or two after this misunderstanding was cleared up."

"What do you mean 'misunderstanding.' You would not call such a case so gently, I suppose?"

"Here we are!" Frank said, lowering his voice. "So you must know more than the average person. I, personally, knew only that there was an arrest, and a release (as I saw the Baroness) after they understood that there was no reason for holding a perfectly loyal lady. I think we should talk it over again, but not here. I read in the Town Activities column that your wife went to Tula. Couldn't you join me for dinner tonight at Contant, say at seven-thirty?"

My first impulse was to refuse him flat. Then I happened to think that my avoiding him would perhaps somehow reflect on Maroossia for her silly behavior with the package. Besides I was interested to know what Frank would talk about, and to know what happened to the B. And again it interested me to know what he was doing at present. So I hesitated.

"Please do, decide affirmatively," he begged. "I feel sure you will not regret a good dinner."

"Very well," I said, "at seven-thirty."

After luncheon I crossed the street to see Mikhalovsky, whom I was sure to find in the Club. He was going out with Polenov.

"Aha, dear boy!" Polenov said to me. "The wife is away, and here he runs around like--... (his comparisons are striking, but very rough!) Come on with me. There are no political parties or platforms at Nadejda Stepanovna. A little lawyer, and an old soldier are equally welcome. Nadejda Stepanovna just telephoned there are new ones."

The old fool! As if there was a single living being in the town that would not know that all his pleasures were reduced to kissing a new girl on the forehead and petting her behind the ears! Nadejda Stepanovna told me how they all laughed watching Polenov through the keyhole.... "Thanks," I said, "I am through with the Oficerskaya Street." So he went alone, trying to look younger and straighter.

When he left I asked Makhalovsky to explain to me what happened to the Baroness. He almost fainted.

"For heavens sake! Don't shout that damned name! There are ears everywhere," he whispered.

He took me by the arm and dragged me all along the Morskaya, giving me short and hard kicks as soon as I would open my mouth. And only when we reached his room and he verified as to whether or not the door was well shut, he said:

"Now what seems to be your question, and what in hell do you know about her? Who told you that something happened to her?"

As this is the time when "homo homini--lupus," I said that nobody ever told me of her, but having met Mikhalovsky at the Club I thought of the Baroness and asked.

"Well," he said, "she was released." And Mikhalovsky became sad and worried, looking humble and frightened.

"I am all tangled up, friend!" he said. "I think I am in mortal danger. Last Friday Kerensky asked me to come to his office and said she must be freed, and everything was a misunderstanding. He said he had received proof; her arrest was a mistake. He also said that we all must be careful about our arrests, "from the left, as well as from the right."

"Did the British Embassy intervene?"--"Not at all (it seems though they never had heared of it)."

--"and here," he continued, "we received a letter signed by Executive Committee, Department of Political Research, saying that unless the whole dossier of the Baroness B. was burned, the undersigned of the message reserved the privilege of knowing how to deal with it. Misha was so disgusted with the letter that he went to see Kerensky, and explained that a body of doubtful prerogatives and no official standing had no right to insult an official institution by threats.

Kerensky read the letter, studied the attached signatures and said "that he would not pay any particular attention to the letter, that there was decidedly no reason to think that the authority of the Department was offended, or held in contempt." He took the letter from Misha saying that "as I see it affects you too much, I will make a private and personal investigation and let you know when I get some results."

"Now," Mikhalovsky continued, lowering his voice, "Misha has disappeared. He is not in the office. He has never come home since the morning he told me all of that. When I asked his chief whether he knew anything about Misha--I got an answer that he was looking for him all over the city and could find neither Misha nor a dossier which he needs more than Misha himself! I feel,--I know, Misha is dead. And surely, all that in connection....

"Look here, Boris Platonovich," I said, "You must not feel so terribly depressed about that story. Nothing happened to Misha ..." and I continued in that tone of consolation, though I knew how weak the words sounded.

Mikhalovsky shook his head. "Anyhow I won't let it pass so easily.

I'll try to know, and I'll try to clear it out...."

I left him with his head down on his hands, in an agony of sorrow for Misha, and in an agony of fears for his own sake.

At about twenty to eight I entered the restaurant, having decided to keep silent, to give no chance to the man to understand me not only by questions, but even by the association of ideas: I decided to be like stone. He was talking to a chap in the hall, a tall, pimply young man of twenty-five, in the French style of blue khaki and with aviation insignia on his sleeve. Frank left his friend and we both went to the dining room.

When we were through with our soup, Frank said:

"I have touched today upon the case of the Baroness. In fact you know the story from many sources, especially from Mikholavsky.... Please, please!" he exclaimed, when I made a movement of protest,--"don't. So, if you are apt in making logical decisions and conclusions, you are in a position to understand all. Don't try to destroy anything by going around with your personal impressions, for it really would be bad.

Just look!"

The telegram he showed me read: "Michael Mikhalovsky's body found on the track near Vyborg station four in the morning suicide presumed."

"There is no need for explanations," he said, in putting the message back in his pocket, "nor sorrow--all is over. But it would be an excellent idea to appreciate this mere fact properly, don't you think so?"

"So," continued Frank, "to come closer to our own affairs, I must say that a young and charming lady is leaving for Stockholm on a special mission--I know not exactly what it is--and I must give her some information, some of which could be furnished by you. Before I ask you for this little information, however, I must clearly apprehend one thing: do you feel sufficiently interested in anything closely connected with the old regime? And if so,--how deep is your interest?

You understand?"

"I understand," I said, after a second of thinking. "I also get your threat. Now--my answer will be clearer than your insinuations, as I fear nothing that I cannot see." (what a liar I am!)

Then I assumed my best poker face and calmly continued:

"I don't know, and do not care to know, what you are after, Frank.

Personally--I cannot find anything in the old regime that I would regret to any important extent. On the other hand--I honestly do not see anything attractive, or particularly elegant, about the new regime. Practically there is no regime whatsoever in this present concoction of kuvaka and elevated ideas. So, finally, damn it all! I would be grateful to a friend who would advise me how to get out of any activity, and of course, would not consider any suggestion leading me into it. My decision is plain. I resign. Then I realize all I can and disappear from this rich field of political life. That's all, Frank."

He looked at me. He was very grave. And then suddenly his face changed and he again became the chap that amused Maroossia and myself in Marienbad a few years ago.

"So I feel, old man, exactly so," he laughed,--"aren't all of them the rottenest types one ever saw? Trash, my dear sir, trash. And I greet your decision."

The tension which I felt at the beginning of the dinner disappeared completely, and we began to talk about different things, remembering the time when we met, and recollecting our mutual impressions of 1912-1913, when things and people seemed to be so very different. I could not help, however, asking Frank at the end of our dinner:

"Are there any especial reasons to try and be foxy with me, or any reasons to frighten me with mysteries?"

He answered:...

(_several lines scratched out_)

..."no such things as mysteries. This is the commonest of all planets and everything is plain and entirely within the old three dimensions.

Some very cautious persons do not see the matter clearly--or perhaps they are too stubborn to see it right,--and it makes them suspicious.... You'll kindly forgive me," he added, "if I'll have to be going?"...

After his departure--it was only about 9:30, as I had nothing to do, I went to the New Club. No Misha there. I saw Boris Vlad. drunk as a sailor in company with three or four other rascals; I think the short one was the man from the Red Cross. In the card room--a gloomy game of bridge, no word said unless for a real mistake....

So I came home and looked out of the window onto the deserted and neglected streets of my Northern Palmira....