But these men and women are so far from my conception.... And they all pay me back with the same coin: they not only misunderstand me and my kin,--but they mistrust me. I can deceive a bolshevik commissary, or the Princess G.; these--with their psychology never would let me come closer. I am an intruder to their caste.

Before--in Petrograd--we all have had this very same fear of our select caste for a newcomer, just as these have. In our midst the man who tried to break in would be caught right away. Now I understand this little, mean, reptile impulse of catering to the one whom you seek, this feeling that the parvenu must have felt, this sensation of the necessity of flattering, for which one blushes in the nights, for which one can't sleep and turns endlessly in warm cushions. The parvenu! Pushkin said:

... and an exchange of silent glance Forever took away his chance....

It was enough for us to look at each other--and the parvenu would not come near us any more. Here--instead of the poetical form of Pushkin I must recollect the words of the Tumen cook:

"You liar! Hate your face of a gentry!"

Isn't it a correct translation from my Russian into theirs?

Well,--I'd rather stop my scratchings: Tobolsk.

40

"Do not write too much," said a walking corpse clad in rags, seating himself near me on a soft pack of his baggage. "It is better to forget all about it. Why do you do it? What _is_ the use?" His suffering face was not at all familiar to me,--so, when he asked me, "Haven't we met before?"--I said No. He looked to me like one of those Siberian peasants. Then, under the coat of dirt, under his rags and an old Orenburg shawl, I really saw something familiar.

"Perhaps we met," I said. "Petrograd?"

"Yes, indeed," he bowed his old head and sighed. "I used to go very often to the French Theatre. You remember 'L'Aiglon?' Can I chat with you a bit? This silence is simply killing me. Four months of silence!

Don't you think, mister writer, of what a sweet, what a wonderful word 'revenge' is? If you write--do write about it! Revenge for having cleaned the streets, for having been thrown out of every Embassy, every Legation, every Consulate--whose three sons are sleeping there, on the Prussian Frontier--forever?--when I begged them to help me and let me go to Paris only to die near my wife? Revenge! Just to see England--torn to pieces, France--robbed, Japan--licking our feet,--to see them separately doing what we suffer combinedly. They all betrayed us, they sold us, they mock at us! We are paying for our readiness to save Serbia. We are dying for it--and I do not regret it. I know that from our dead body, from our bier--poisonous flowers are growing; their fragrancy will send pestilence and destruction to our lucky Allies, and ruin them, and ruin them.... If I only could help it....

If only I could live long enough to witness it."

The man looked crazy to me. He evidently is one of those whose minds gave way. His eyes were sparkling flames--while his greenish face with a sluttish beard remained immovable and serious. From away--we both were talking of our village affairs.

He continued:

"Don't you think I am talking for myself. It is for Russia. I am finished anyhow. Go ahead! Betray me too. Tell them I am Counsellor of State, and a landlord, and marshal of nobility. I do not care! I am finished.... Yet in my better days I had cancer. It was almost a pleasure then. Don't smile, it's true. Now--I need oysters, and fruit, and fine Port wine, and medicine,--and I have bread, which I cannot digest, and they kick me out of every hospital.... I'm sure the cancer is nearing my heart. If I die,--I won't see my remuneration: the downfall of our traitors. Friend,--what can I do to hasten it? How can I avenge Russia?..."

"It is a hard question to answer. I think you exaggerate a little.

I am myself after a settlement, but I do not go so far. My goal is smaller. I would like to find a man in Petrograd, so that I could make the rest of the world understand what he really is. He is a criminal cretin. Yes, _it is_ this man, exactly. But not at this time. Look around: The Spring is here. Don't you think the air is pacifying? The air calls to a perfect selfishness. So, if I had seen the man right here, I would have shot him of course, but I hate to think of getting into trouble now."

"Air! Spring! Are you in love, young man?"

Then he grew sad and silent for a while. "No, I can't see any pleasure in Spring." He became sunk in his thoughts, and looked away.

I love Winter just because it dies every year, and gives place to a new life! And again the thin birches become green and chastely white.

And I know _my birch_ is somewhere--looking for me.

Tobolsk! Pretty town--I must admit. The high bank with green slopes is covered with churches, white buildings and gleaming gold crosses.

Something tranquil about Tobolsk! Blue, red and green roofs look shy from their cozy nests of trees. It must be very exciting to live here when all is normal. Good God! I see from the deck the fine foggish veil of dust and gossips hanging over the town. They must still play "preference" here, or "vint." In these little "centers" bridge must be unknown.

I took a room in a hotel and went to the Kornilov house. It was about four. I heard the noise of forks and knives, dinner time is so impossibly early in these longitudes. A man answered my ring and said I should wait outside and never ring the front door bell. He explained where the kitchen entrance was. The man, even in explaining these disagreeable things, was polite: by profession, for I immediately saw he was a former Chamber-lackey, though he had a moustache and was looking meager. "Wait on the street, service-man," he said, "I cannot let you in." Very well,--I know these "waits" and "call later ons."

They don't hurt me.

I crossed the street and went down the slope. There is a post office on the corner,--and a soldier near it,--a regular Lett: white eyebrows, red face and the meanest steel blue microscopic eyes deeply placed under a low forehead. He looked at me and impendingly changed the rifle from one shoulder to the other. I turned upwards and continued all along this "great Liberty Street." I did not want to pass near the Mansion. I turned on the Tuliatskaya, passed two blocks and explored where the Budishchevs were. Again a Lett, again no eyebrows over the same piggish eyes. And again a Lett. Gracious! One more in here--and the whole Letvia must be in Tobolsk!

When I knew the city well enough I turned back to Kornilov's.

The same chamber-lackey opened the rear door almost killing me with the smell of cabbage.

"Dr. Botkin is not in," he said, when I explained what I wanted, "Sit down, service-man. Take it"--he gave me a cigarette with a gold crescent on it--the kind they served at the Palace. I looked at the crescent and then at the man. In one glance he got I was not "service-man," but he did not show his discovery,--only got up and continued talking.

"The doctor is very busy right now. He was asked across the street twice today. Have you come from Russia? Demobilized?"

"Yes, quite demobilized," I answered. "I must see Mr. Botkin right now, so won't you please tell him about me as soon as he returns.

Don't worry about the kitchen--I cannot stay here: I'd rather sit outside."

He showed me through the dining room into the front hall. From there I could see the Mansion quite well. A little square in front of it was fenced in, but not very high. On the front stairs I noticed two women and a boy, in whom, notwithstanding his torn-out shoes and unhappy looks, I recognized the unfortunate Heir to the Russian Throne.

Someone called him in--and he went slowly into the house. Two Reds passed near the women smoking pipes and dragging the rifles by their bayonettes. They both looked piercingly at the women and exchanged a few words with each other. The women slowly moved toward the house.

Their life must be a real torture within this fence!

A man of medium height passed from the Mansion and crossed the street.

He entered the Kornilov House, and after short conversation with the chamber-lackey,--

"Did you wish to speak to me?" he asked,--I am Dr. Botkin."

"Yes, sir."

"Now,--what is it?"

"I come from Tumen, Dr. Botkin. I have brought you a letter from your friends."

A grimace passed over his face, and he stared at me with suspicion.

"Tumen? Who are you?"

"I hardly think my name would tell you anything, doctor. Here is the letter." He stopped my movement:

"Please, please, not here. Let's go in. Don't be so sure of this place."

We entered the dining room, and he took the letter and opened the envelope. After reading--there were no more than two pages--he said:

"No answer. Do you know the contents?"

"I don't. But I can guess."

"Oh! Is that so?"

All of this commenced to irritate me. I shrugged my shoulders.

"Very well, very well," the doctor said, "we must not be offended. You know what times we live in. Won't you sit down, please?"

The doctor was very nervous: rubbed his hands, looked around and showed other signs of impatience. Finally he expressed what was in his mind.

"Can't the Princess understand how risky these writings are for us?"