39
The Irtysh opened its dark blue streams for navigation not so long
ago. From my place on the deck I see spots of old yellowish snow on
the hills; near the banks--the fresh, innocent grass is already daring
to appear on the surface. Peasants are doing something on the vast
plains. The very, very old story of the mythical Lei! White and chaste
birches, triste and flirtatious women amongst the trees, are trimming
their Spring fashion dresses.
However this coming back to life, of the hills, and plains, and trees,
this warmth in the air--does not affect the passengers. Who in the
devil will nowadays snivel about Spring and myths? All sentiment died
in Russia; everything, at least, looks dead,--but the co-operative
Societies: they plan a large business, meaning "trusts" when they
advertise for "co-operation."
With the exception of the representatives of the "Creamery Union" (who
were fat and noisy),--the rest of our fellow-travelers were gloomy and
sordid; I rarely could detect a smile, and if there was a hilarious
expression, it was at somebody's expense, always malicious and
malignant. A boy cut his little finger and squealed for "mama" like a
young pig--people smiled. An old woman passed on the deck and fell so
badly that tears came into her colorless eyes--smiles became bright
and gay; somebody even whistled. A stowaway was caught in the baggage
room--a pale faced young chap with a forlorn expression--the crew
committee started to "investigate" (just undressed him on the
deck)--and people became joyful and gigglish....
Is it my people? Are _those_ bad creatures--our men who fought in the
snows of Hungary armed with fists and patriotism,--for the munitions
were yet the subject of speculations; did these men cross the scorched
plains of Persia, sent there clad in uniforms prepared for Archangel?
_Did they_ make efforts to save small mutilated nations? Is the
history of Russia--these pages of blood and sacrifices--_made by
them_? Did Russia take _from them_ Pushkin, Chaikovsky, Mechnikov,
Tolstoi and the brilliant web of savants, musicians, soldiers,
explorers and poets?...
I am from this same bulk that centuries ago came from Asia and settled
here. They--and I are the same. But I can't understand them! In
France, in England, in Germany, I could understand the crowd better.
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
"préférence" 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?"
"Just as risky as for the authors and bearers," I replied feeling
sorry for the lady who meant well. "If there is no answer I don't
think I'll return to Tumen. I have nothing to do there. I see all
these affairs are managed in the same way, as we managed them in our
country. I am through. I thought we had changed. I'll attend to other
things."
"Please," he said looking at me with amazement, "don't misunderstand
me. You see,"--he tried to invent something, or say something,--"all
is very dangerous...."
We were interrupted by a movement on the street. A crowd of soldiers
(for I cannot call it a company, or a detachment,--just a crowd of
man-haters clad in uniform) passed, and made a demonstration against
the Mansion. A few stones and pieces of wood flew onto the Mansion's
roof, where they landed and rolled down with a rattling noise, scaring
the inhabitants. A frightened face looked out of the window--and hid
immediately.
"The Hooligans!" said Botkin. "Every God's day the same, every God's
day!"
With laughter and whistles the crowd went down the Great Liberty
Street. All started suddenly and just as quickly ended; the street
became calm again.
Botkin turned to me and continued:
"Perhaps I was too hasty about this 'no answer.' I should've said it
otherwise. I think it is of _no use_ to attempt to do anything, that's
the idea. If any plan will be successful,--it will not be this," he
showed the letter, "though it is appreciated, trust me when I say it!
We are confronted with other interests, we happen to be in somebody's
game." He wanted to add something,--but stopped. "Perhaps our misery
was seen abroad through this dead screen of general selfishness!
Believe me, sir, any attempt is hopeless. Our effort only spoils, or
might spoil, more cleverly prearranged plans. Now--if you wish me to
be frank, I personally don't believe in what I say to you. I think the
song is sung...."
"Very well, if I happen to communicate, I'll say so."
An old lady passed the room and searchingly gazed at me. Then a man,
tall and thin came in, got a drink of water and left. We both kept
silent. An atmosphere of distrust reigned for a while. I got up.
"Wait a while," Botkin said, "I still would like to know whom I have
the pleasure of speaking to?"
"Syvorotka is my name. I'll stay here in the hotel for a while."
He looked at me without any confidence.
"As you please," he said, "I cannot force you to take the mask off.
Good-by."
We shook hands,--and I left the Kornilov's House.
Here I am in the Hotel. Dirty hole--that's it. No linen. A mattress
covered with spots. Rotten humor.
Botkin fears that the efforts might compromise those who are
around the Mansion. He fears even those who are in exile. He fears
everything. But--not for himself. I think he is an honest man.
There is nothing to do here--with these scared people. Suspicious,
having lost faith in each other, and jealous! I must try to approach
them against their will,--perhaps I can do something better than in
Tumen.
It is evident that the tragedy develops here. I would not be surprised
to know that Lucie is somewhere around.
41
With my pass from the Tumen soviet and a very sure feeling of a
perfect disguise, I came yesterday to the local scoundrels,--the "high
commission of investigations" as they call this filthy, impossible
place where they meet. It used to be the Ecclesiastical School in
other days. I had quite a time penetrating these regions guarded by
the Reds. The man to whom I was recommended was an elderly kind-faced
fellow. All he was saying to me was virtually addressed to the crowd
of Reds in the room; as for the room, I think it used to be in former
times the professors' room.
"Yes, yes,--your credentials are perfect. Comrade Schmelin,--of
course I know him! You have no such troubles in Tumen as we have here.
But--all must be done. And for the sake of the Revolution and the
Proletariat--we are here, and will do our duty."
To show how much power he had, he gave some orders to the Reds. They
would come near him to take these orders, stand still as they were
standing only a few months ago before an officer, and then turn in the
brusque manner of soldiers.
The kind faced man--with his sly Jewish features and bulgy big eyes,
did not ask me who I was, how I was, and why I wanted the position
of an "advising commissary" with the detachment. He looked at me,
and smiled,--read the letter I presented,--and, seeing on my face
an admiration for his splendor, accepted me. My God, how alike these
people-in-power are! I remember, in my early days, the Count Witte,
a man with heavy, depressing looks. He liked this move of a
man-of-power. I recollect Mr. Kokovtzev who liked so much to see
admiration on his visitor's face.... I see this little insignificant
and blunt Kerensky, that fished for worship.... And here,--this
"tovarishch" Nachman--sitting in his chair and ruling--had the same
identical signs of self-respect, self-adoration, and independence.
And--with all of them--I would, without any effort, just by
instinct, get on their feeble side, change the whole expression of my
face,--even think like them, and love them,--and win. The instinct of
accommodation is a great thing,--and, it seems to me I possess it in
sufficient volume.
So--accepted in the ranks of those that go wherever they wish, that
do whatever their left foot feels like doing, those that continue to
remodel the country, those that are so free in every action--I sat
near the powerful man,--Comrade Nachman--as equal to equal.
But--what I really could not conceive,--was the range of his duties;
he was judge, and governor, and military commander, and lawyer, and
coroner, and administrator of the city, and the notary public--all
that used to be connected with business--was his concern.... They
could not do it in the olden days; they had to have a specially
trained man for every branch before,--and now!
"How perfectly you perform all of these different duties," I said.
42