"Just what I say. I received orders to move to another place. No,
I cannot tell you. That's all. You, and this little house, and some
hopes I had here,--all, all, must be forgotten. Other people, and
other scenery. A radical change again. Heavens knows how soon I can
forget this little white cold town...."
"Yes," she continued, looking at me, "yes, this cold town, with you;
and you--with your double-crossings, with your reports on me, with
your bad behavior, with your treason. Alex--love is a strange thing.
I don't mind it at all! You never knew it. You never loved your poor
Maroossia: she was your comfort--that's all. You never thought of
Lucie de Clive as such: for you--she was a little girl that possibly
might have been in your way, but you let her stay because she
comforted you. Now--she is going, and very likely you won't see her
any more. In your life--she was a page of a book; now you've read
it!..."
She was crying, really crying! Such an actress!
36
I came home at seven from the village--nobody in there! Nobody to
give me my tea. All looks empty, abandoned. On the bed pinned to the
pillow,--a note: "Good-by." My companion left me--today. And I had so
much to say to her....
She did not forget to look in my bag before leaving, as I see. I
thought so.
My diary _has been censored:_ many pages are missing and some rough
hand-made corrections in the text have been made leaving greasy spots
on the paper. Some of my documents are stolen. I don't see the letter
from Marchenko to Schmelin, the chart with Mamaev's stations, and a
few others. Fortunately, Kerensky's letter to Grimm was not taken, as
I had put it under the floor of the barn with my money and watch.
She must have had the help of the man with the specs--she would not
be able to understand my scratching. They must have been busy all day!
But what really gets me wild--almost all of my letters to Goroshkin
are here! How did she get them? I understand why Goroshkin's letters
missed me--she got them!... Now I understand what she meant by saying
that I was trying to double cross her! In fact Lucie is right,--and
that's why it's maddening. I wonder what Goroshkin and Marchenko think
of me? To whom I must seem a swine! And what a bad way of her's, to
leave my letters--a present for me!
She did what she wanted, this creature of intrigues and no
personality: with "lips of fire and heart of stone." She got in me a
good guardian of her barn, a good transport agent for her Britishers
and Letts, she tangled me up in such a way that I could not report on
her, she enjoyed the privileges of local Soviet's protection through
me,--in short all she wanted.... And here I am alone from now
on,--Good-by"--that's all. She left me this little note--and a bitter
feeling that formerly I was not alone,--and now I am. For
these sensations of lonesomeness a man should never start
companionships,--whether with a woman, or a dog, or even a goldfish.
The one who is alone--is alone. The one that becomes alone--feels
doubly rotten....
"Quidquid ages--prudenter agas, et respice finem"--and I was
a fool,--here I am alone like Shelly's moon, and
"pardessus-le-marché"--robbed! Am I not an old ass?
She will laugh with her silvery laughter in somebody else's house, she
will mend somebody else's socks, and sit on somebody else's lap. The
"other chap from Monte Carlo," will be asked whether he remembers
_me_. And the other chap will probably answer her, as I did. How
tactless!
My God! Long and uninteresting life looks to me! Does it only look, or
did it become?... I must sleep all of this off!
37
My sole connection with the rest of the world is my work in
the Princess' garden. A dull, tiresome, uninteresting work, in
fact--labor. As a diversion--the corpulent cook. My God! If she would
only wash oftener!...
When I come home--I look out of the small window; the landscape is
magnificent: about twenty yards of virgin soil with Spring grass on it
and the barn on the horizon. Behind--the fence, over which I see the
tops of the heads of passers-by.
"Suave mari magno turbantibus aequora ventis spectare laborem...." I
forget how it runs further! My latin gets weak. I wish I had Virgil,
or even "Commentarii de Bello Gallico." I'd be arrested and tried if I
asked for them in a book store....
If only I could obtain some money, and buy a decent suit and get
away,--to Vladivostok, and then through America to France. It seems as
though France is all. It is life. It is salvation from my miseries.
In the evenings I try to arrange in shape my documents and writings
after the looting. For the documents I could be well paid, here,--but
I do not want that. Let the Russia of to-morrow see what has been done
by our present leaders, and by those who gave us to the scaffold....
M. Kerensky's letter to Grimm--alone would make me happy if some day
its contents are known....
Where is Lucie now? How empty my house is!
The Princess came out to me in the garden and asked me whether I could
go to Tobolsk and deliver a letter to Mr. Botkin there.
"Of course, I can, your Ladyship, if I have enough money."
"I don't mean that," she answered coldly, looking with disgust at the
manure I was mixing, "don't worry, we will pay you. I mean whether you
could arrange with your Bolsheviki for a permit."
"Why not?" I answered, "they do not want _me_. I am not a _rich man_,
nor a _Nobleman_...." (I simply love to annoy her).
"That will do, Alexei," she said, casting at me a nasty look, "You may
come for the letter at dinner time. Tell the cook that you want to see
me."
She does not think that I am a man. She hates me. Under my beard and
shabby flannel shirt she sees neither my face nor my person. She has
no shame before me: were I in my uniform of a gentleman-in-waiting,
cleanly shaven and speaking her language, and not in the one I
acquired lately, she would have buttoned her shoes, gartered her
stockings, and would not have shown the bad quality of her corset
cover under her wide-opened _robe-de-chambre_. If she only knew how
her hired help understood her.
At four I was in the kitchen. Here--another interesting phase of life!
The woman from Moscow who claims to be a cook, does not think I am
from her midst, but feels with her organic cleverness that I am an
imposter.
"You,--gentry! You liar! Hate your face! Hope the devil will get you
soon!" she says,--but she isn't a bad woman, she means well, only she
is not as clean as her profession demands. Altogether the kitchen is a
mournful place.
"What is your business?" she asked, "You want to see the Princess?
Don't lie to me!"
"My business is none of your business," said I, "Forget it! Better
tell me if I can have some beer? Go on, cookie, lay it out. Don't be
so stingy!"
The stubborn woman would not give it to me, until I took her gently
around the waist and pinched her arm with all of my force,--that's
the way to get cook's sympathies; it's astonishing how it works! I got
some beer.