19
Only five months ago--I had a wife, income, good food.... Only five
months ago--I had a country.
The mean and envious beast that lived in our midst,--as it lives in
every other country,--unseen, but felt, and always ready to crush the
acquirements of existing civilization,--_the mob_ came out from the
underground world; criminal hands let _the mob_ on the streets. Weak
and shaky fingers unlocked the trap; a magnificent gesture of an
ignorant Don Quixote invited the spies, the thieves, the murderers "to
make the New Russia."
I see foreign faces around me; I hear foreign accents in every line of
each new edict; I listen to the strange names of our new governors.
The Mob is in power; and the friendly faces of our Allies became dry
and cold....
Looking backward--I try to find out whether there was a mistake of my
own, or my own crime, for which some unknown and heartless Judge is
now so severely punishing me?
* * * * *
Here I am, a graduate of the two best institutions in Russia and
Germany, a man with five generations behind me,--all thoroughbred,
all civilized, all gentlemen. Here I am in disguise--as apparently
thousands and thousands of other Russians are, just as bearded as
they, just as dirty, just as hungry, just as alone in the world.
My name is now Alexei Petrovich Syvorotka, formerly non-commissioned
officer, 7th of Hussars, born in the province of Kursk. I dress in
an old military overcoat, have a badly broken shoulder blade (second
degree injury at Stanislau), and as my documents say--have been
evacuated to Tumen, where I am supposed to receive my soldier's
ration. Syvorotka! Would you talk to a man with such a name?
This Syvorotka, a humble creature--a shadow of yesterday--has only one
thing of which he cannot be robbed, his only consolation: the sorrow
which he wears deep under his uniform jealously concealed from the
rest of the world.
20
My baggage--the handbag--was found.
Those peculiar things can happen only in the present Russia. She is
like a good make of automobile after a wreck. Everything seems to
be crushed and broken--machinery, wheels, glass, body.... Still some
parts are strong enough to keep moving. So miraculously there moved a
part, which brought my handbag here from Moscow,--the very first ray
of sun in my existence for a long time.
I came to the depot this morning--I had been coming every day since
Schmelin gave me the baggage check--and saw a few men unloading a
baggage coach. I approached them.
"Hello," I said to a tartar whose abominable face was covered with
pock marks, (nowadays one must always address the most hostile looking
person in a crowd, never the most sympathetic, for one should not show
any weakness to the mob), "any work"?
"Hello,--yourself," the tartar answered grouchily and without
looking at me, "there is. Don't let them skin you. Ask fifty rubles,
understand?"
"Is that so?" I said, spitting through my front teeth onto a sidewalk
covered with gleaming white snow, "not me, damn them! Whose baggage?"
They did not answer--in their language it meant 'don't know, don't
care, and go to hell!'
On the coach I saw "_Moscow Special_" written with white stone and I
decided to take one more chance and ask for my handbag, presenting my
luggage check.
"It came at last," said the man in charge of the luggage depot, "thank
God I won't see your _muzzle_ any more. What's in it?"
"Since when has it been your business, your burjooi honor?" I said,
"You did not pay me for buying my belongings, so better keep your trap
shut!"
I took the dear old bag--it was Maroosia's before, and came home.
What did Mlle. Goroshkin put in the bag in Moscow? I opened the rusty
lock--and found my silver toilet kit, razors, "La Question du
Maroc," on which the shaving soap had made a big yellow spot, Laferme
cigarettes, some linen (the thing I need the most), night slippers,
manicuring box, and poor Maroossia's fan,--she wired me to take it to
Gurzoof in the last telegram I ever got from her.
The fan was fragrant with her perfume on it; so I shed a few tears. On
the inside of the bag was written "All well, write often," and on the
bottom of the bag--was this book of my notes. I had decided to sell
the silver kit and the fan and get some money as I was very short of
it. Both the fan and the silver outfit looked so inharmonious in my
little room with a small window on a triste court with a yard full of
blindingly white snow.
21
Here is what brought me here:
I could not leave Petrograd on time on account of the house. Nobody
wanted it for 800,000. I waited and waited--day after day, week after
week. Many and many were giving me advice to leave and were warning
me, but I would not listen. When the wire came that poor Maroossia
was killed,--I lost interest in life completely. So I was living in
Petrograd, until the clash for the Assembly. Then,--perhaps my nerves
needed a good shaking up,--I became active again. I went to the Volga
Kama for my money,--the were already closed and gave me 150 rubles,
and allowed me to take another 150 in a week. I went to the Volkov's.
The clerk said that I had no right to withdraw more than 150. I knew
the man from Moscow well, and he recognized me from the time that I
was coming to Bros. Djamgarov Bank. He was really kind, and said that
he could at once arrange that I should receive 80% of my money and
the contents in the safe, out of which 10% should be paid to some
mysterious commissary. "I advise you to take it. The appetites are
growing, and perhaps to-morrow it will be more,--50% or 60%." I wrote
out some kind of understanding, by which I sold my rights on the
10th of October to a certain Kagajitsky. That was all fake, as my
arrangement was made about the 23rd of November, I guess.
My ticket, for which they asked me 12,000 rubles, was obtained through
the cook's sweetheart, and I left Petrograd on the 6th for Moscow on
the usual 12:30, and arrived uneventfully at the depot in Moscow next
morning at about 10:30.
On the stairs of the Nikolaevsky depot I stopped. Where was I going?
In fact I had never thought of it. I had no place, no destination, no
desires--nothing. Perhaps only one desire, to avenge myself and all of
us.
So I hesitated, for in Moscow they had been shooting right and left
for the past week, persecuting the burjoois and officers. I had never
felt so helpless and so unnecessary to myself and to others as on this
snowy morning in Moscow. Besides, all of the way from Petrograd to
Moscow I had had a hideous headache and chills, and I was in a fog of
indifference.
"Good morning, sir," said an astonishingly polite voice behind me, "I
congratulate you upon a safe arrival."
I turned around and saw a man of rather short stature, cleanly shaven,
and politely smiling with the whole width of his mouth.
"Good morning," I said, "I cannot place you, but you seem familiar to
me, I am sure."
"That's due to my former occupation, your Excellency. I am Goroshkin,
the usher from the Ekaterinensky Theatre. So sorry to apprehend of
your sorrow, Sir, in connection with her Excellency's death."
This man, Goroshkin, was a real friend to me, although I hardly
recollected him. We never used to pay much attention to the ushers!
There was no use in trying to go to a hotel with my appearance of
a gentleman and my pockets filled with money; my fever and my
indifference were growing; I had no desire to do anything for myself.
I think that Goroshkin understood me and the state of my mind when
he said, "May I venture to offer Your Excellency my humble house, and
perhaps call a doctor?"
This is as much as I remember of the next fortnight. I had a terrible
attack of typhus,--and when communists were killing the boys from the
military school, bombarding the Hotel National, destroying the Kremlin
and pillaging private homes, I was quietly lying in a little house
somewhere behind Sukharev Tower under the care of a doctor and
Goroshkin's fat sister, whose conspicuous parts of the corsage were
soiled from cooking, and whose face was always red and radiant. My
return to life, and with it my return to the desire for activity and
eating, was commemorated by the appearance at my bed of nobody else
but Marchenko.
One bright morning, when my room seemed to be full of sunshine and
hope,--a man in the uniform of a communist soldier with a red rag on
his coat sleeve, walked into the room bringing in a breath of fresh
and frosty air and a whole arsenal of munitions. I did not recognize
him at first, a little pointed beard and heavy boots had transformed
him into a regular "tovarishch."
"Hello," he said, "glad to know you're alive."
"Yes," I answered, "I am about the only one whom they have not
happened to exterminate, but it is coming"!
Marchenko smiled. "You should not stay here for very long," he said,
"It is getting dangerous and raids are being planned to finish with
the burjoois who are hiding in the outskirts of Moscow."
"Don't think," he went on, "that I am honestly with the communists. My
task is the same and if we failed to do something before,--now we know
we will be successful. Kerensky is out of the life, living evidently
under the friendly protection of Lenine; I think Lenine was the only
man that he did not attempt to double cross."
"Now," he continued, "let us speak of you. I think that you must
understand that the little services that were asked of you some months
ago would have prevented many, many disagreeable events. Behind you,
you can see only sad memories and mourning,--before you, the very dark
existence of a man in hiding. If you will join us, I could guarantee
you a more or less protected life,--of course you will have to care
for your own self, too."
"Please your Excellency," said the voice of Goroshkin behind me,
"don't refuse this time. If your esteemed father could have known the
circumstances, he would have consented, and he was a strict man. I
recollect that His Excellency would not deign to wait a second for his
overcoat."
"Very well, I accept," I said to Marchenko, "but I must say to you
that it is not for the protection you promise me. I do not care much
for my life, but I would like to preserve it. Not to die right now,
but hold it until the moment when I could avenge myself. And that's my
personal aim. As for your plan--it suits me--for it is a measure not
of Russia's good--but a weapon against our present enemy--the Red
Flag. And, I may add that in me you will find a disciplined man."
Goroshkin disappeared and came back with a bottle of Abrau-Durçot,
with which we celebrated my consent.
Indeed I had nothing further to think about. My task was to go to
Tumen in disguise, meet some people there, and through Goroshkin
communicate with Marchenko.
My instructions included....
(_a few pages torn out_)
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.