CHAPTER II

FIVE DAYS

One of the first things that caught my eye as I emerged from the

station was an old man, standing with his face to the wall of a house,

leaning against a protruding gutter-pipe. As I passed him I noticed he

was sobbing. I stopped to speak to him.

“What is the matter, little uncle?” I said.

“I am cold and hungry,” he whimpered without looking up and still

leaning against the pipe. “For three days I have eaten nothing.” I

pushed a twenty-rouble note into his hand. “Here, take this,” I said.

He took the money but looked at me, puzzled. “Thank you,” he mumbled,

“but what is the good of money? Where shall I get bread?” So I gave him

a piece of mine and passed on.

There was plenty of life and movement in the streets, though only of

foot-passengers. The roadway was dirty and strewn with litter. Strung

across the street from house to house were the shreds of washed-out red

flags, with inscriptions that showed they had been hung out a few weeks

earlier to celebrate the anniversary of the Bolshevist _coup d’état_.

Occasionally one came across small groups of people, evidently of the

educated class, ladies and elderly gentlemen in worn-out clothes,

shovelling away the early snow and slush under the supervision of a

workman, who as taskmaster stood still and did nothing.

[Illustration: THE FORTRESS OF ST. PETER AND ST. PAUL]

Crossing the Liteiny Bridge on my way into the city I stopped, as

was my wont, to contemplate the marvellous view of the river Neva.

No capital in Europe possesses so beautiful an expanse of water as

this city of Peter the Great. Away on the horizon the slender gilded

spire of the cathedral of St. Peter and St. Paul rose from the gloomy

fortress. By force of habit I wondered who was now incarcerated in

those dark dungeons. Years ago, before the revolution, I used to stand

and look at the “Petropavlovka,” as the fortress is popularly called,

thinking of those who pined in its subterranean cells for seeking the

liberty of the Russian people.

My first destination was the house of an English gentleman, to whom

I shall refer as Mr. Marsh. Marsh was a prominent business man in

Petrograd. I did not know him personally, but he had been a friend

of Captain Crombie and until recently was known to be at liberty. He

lived on the quay of the Fontanka, a long, straggling branch of the

Neva flowing through the heart of the city. Melnikoff knew Marsh and

had promised to prepare him for my coming. I found the house and, after

assuring myself the street was clear and I was not observed, I entered.

In the hall I was confronted by an individual, who might or might not

have been the house-porter--I could not tell. But I saw at once that

this man was not disposed to be friendly. He let me in, closed the door

behind me, and promptly placed himself in front of it.

“Whom do you want?” he asked.

“I want Mr. Marsh,” I said. “Can you tell me the number of his flat?” I

knew the number perfectly well, but I could see from the man’s manner

that the less I knew about Marsh, the better for me.

“Marsh is in prison,” replied the man, “and his flat is sealed up. Do

you know him?”

Devil take it, I thought, I suppose I shall be arrested too, to see

what I came here for! The idea occurred to me for a moment to flaunt

my concocted passport in his face and make myself out to be an agent

of the Extraordinary Commission, but as such I should have known of

Marsh’s arrest, and I should still have to explain the reason of my

visit. It wouldn’t do. I thought rapidly for a plausible pretext.

“No, I don’t know him,” I replied. “I have never seen him in my life.

I was sent to give him this little parcel.” I held up the packet

containing my _trousseau_ of socks, biscuits, and handkerchiefs. “He

left this in a house at Alexandrovsky the other night. I am an office

clerk there. I will take it back.”

The man eyed me closely. “You do not know Mr. Marsh?” he said again,

slowly.

“I have never seen him in my life,” I repeated, emphatically, edging

nearer the door.

“You had better leave the parcel, however,” he said.

“Yes, yes, certainly,” I agreed with alacrity, fearful at the same

time lest my relief at this conclusion to the incident should be too

noticeable.

I handed him over my parcel. “Good-morning,” I said civilly, “I will

say that Mr. Marsh is arrested.” The man moved away from the door,

still looking hard at me as I passed out into the street.

Agitated by this misfortune, I turned my steps in the direction of the

hospital where I hoped to find Melnikoff. The hospital in question was

at the extreme end of the Kamenostrovsky Prospect, in the part of the

city known as The Islands because it forms the delta of the river Neva.

It was a good four-mile walk from Marsh’s house. I tried to get on to

a street-car, but there were very few running and they were so crowded

that it was impossible to board them. People hung in bunches all round

the steps and even on the buffers. So, tired as I was after the night’s

adventure, I footed it.

Melnikoff, it appeared, was a relative of one of the doctors of this

hospital, but I did not find him here. The old woman at the lodge said

he had been there one night and had not returned since. I began to

think something untoward must have occurred, although doubtless he had

several other night-shelters besides this one. There was nothing to do

but wait for the afternoon and go to the clandestine café to which he

had directed me.

I retraced my steps slowly into town. All around was shabbiness. Here

and there in the roadway lay a dead horse. The wretched brutes were

whipped to get the last spark of life and labour out of them and

then lay where they fell, for the ladies who were made to sweep the

streets were not strong enough to remove dead horses. Every street,

every building, shop, and porch spoke to me of bygone associations,

which with a pang I now realized were dead. A few stores remained

open, notably for music, books, and flowers, but Soviet licences were

required to purchase anything except propagandist literature, which was

sold freely at a cheap price, and flowers, which were fabulously dear.

Hawkers with trucks disposed of second-hand books, obviously removed

from the shelves of private libraries, while a tiny basement store,

here and there peeping shamefacedly up from beneath the level of the

street, secreted in semi-obscurity an unappetizing display of rotting

vegetables or fruits and the remnants of biscuits and canned goods. But

everything spoke bitterly of the progressive dearth of things and the

increasing stagnation of normal life.

I stopped to read the multifarious public notices and announcements

on the walls. Some bore reference to Red army mobilization, others to

compulsory labour for the bourgeoisie, but most of them dealt with the

distribution of food. I bought some seedy-looking apples, and biscuits

that tasted several years old. I also bought all the newspapers and

a number of pamphlets by Lenin, Zinoviev, and others. Finding a cab

with its horse still on four legs, I hired it and drove to the Finland

Station, where upon arrival in the morning I had noticed there was a

buffet. The food exhibited on the counter, mostly bits of herring on

microscopic pieces of black bread, were still less appetizing than

my biscuits, so I just sat down to rest, drank a weak liquid made of

tea-substitute, and read the Soviet papers.

There was not much of news, for the ruling Bolshevist[1] class had

already secured a monopoly of the Press by closing down all journals

expressing opinions antagonistic to them, so that all that was printed

was propaganda. While the Press of the Western world was full of

talk of peace, the Soviet journals were insisting on the creation of

a mighty Red army that should set Europe and the globe aflame with

world-revolution.

At three o’clock I set out to look for Melnikoff’s café, a clandestine

establishment in a private flat on the top floor of a house in one of

the streets off the Nevsky Prospect. When I rang the bell the door was

opened just a wee bit and I espied a keen and suspicious eye through

the chink. Seeing it was immediately about to close again I slid one

foot into the aperture and asked quickly for Melnikoff.

“Melnikoff?” said the voice accompanying the eagle eye. “What

Melnikoff?”

“N----,” I said, giving Melnikoff’s real name. At this point the

door was opened a little wider and I was confronted by two ladies,

the one (with the eagle eye) elderly and plump, the other young and

good-looking.

“What is his first name and patronymic?” asked the younger lady.

“Nicolas Nicolaevitch,” I replied. “It is all right,” said the younger

lady to the elder. “He said someone might be coming to meet him this

afternoon. Come in,” she went on, to me. “Nicolas Nicolaevitch was here

for a moment on Saturday and said he would be here yesterday but did

not come. I expect him any minute now.”

I passed into a sitting-room fitted with small tables, where the fair

young lady, Vera Alexandrovna, served me to my surprise with delicious

little cakes which would have graced any Western tea-table. The room

was empty when I arrived, but later about a dozen people came in, all

of distinctly bourgeois stamp, some prepossessing in appearance, others

less so. A few of the young men looked like ex-officers of dubious

type. They laughed loudly, talked in raucous voices, and seemed to have

plenty of money to spend, for the delicacies were extremely expensive.

This café, I learned later, was a meeting-place for conspirators, who

were said to have received funds for counter-revolutionary purposes

from representatives of the allies.

Vera Alexandrovna came over to the table in the corner where I sat

alone. “I must apologize,” she said, placing a cup on the table, “for

not giving you chocolate. I ran out of chocolate last week. This is

the best I can do for you. It is a mixture of cocoa and coffee--an

invention of my own in these hard times.” I tasted it and found it very

nice.

Vera Alexandrovna was a charming girl of about twenty summers, and

with my uncouth get-up and general aspect I felt I was a bad misfit

in her company. I was painfully conscious of attracting attention and

apologized for my appearance.

“Don’t excuse yourself,” replied Vera Alexandrovna, “we all look shabby

nowadays.” (She herself, however, was very trim.) “Nicolas Nicolaevitch

told me you were coming and that you were a friend of his--but I shall

ask no questions. You may feel yourself quite safe and at home here

and nobody will notice you.” (But I saw four of the loud-voiced young

officers at the next table looking at me very hard.)

“I scarcely expected to find these comforts in hungry Petrograd,” I

said to Vera Alexandrovna. “May I ask how you manage to keep your café

going?”

“Oh, it is becoming very difficult indeed,” complained Vera

Alexandrovna. “We have two servants whom we send twice a week into

the villages to bring back flour and milk, and we buy sugar from the

Jews in the Jewish market. But it is getting so hard. We do not know

if we shall be able to keep it going much longer. Then, too, we may be

discovered. Twice the Reds have been to ask if suspicious people live

in this house, but the porter put them off because we give him flour.”

Vera Alexandrovna rose to attend to other guests. I felt extremely ill

at ease, for it was clear I was attracting attention and I did not at

all like the looks of some of the people present.

“Ah, _ma chère_ Vera Alexandrovna!” exclaimed a fat gentleman in

spectacles who had just come in, kissing her hand effusively. “Here we

are again! Well, our Redskins haven’t long to last now, I’ll be bound.

The latest is that they are going to mobilize. Mobilize, indeed! Just

a little push from outside, and pouf! up they’ll go like a bubble

bursting!”

At once one of the four young men rose from the next table and

approached me. He was tall and thin, with sunken eyes, hair brushed

straight up, and a black moustache. There was a curious crooked twitch

about his mouth.

“Good-afternoon,” he said. “Allow me to introduce myself. Captain

Zorinsky. You are waiting for Melnikoff, are you not? I am a friend of

his.”

I shook hands with Zorinsky, but gave him no encouragement to talk.

Why had Melnikoff not told me I should meet this “friend of his”? Had

this Zorinsky merely guessed I was waiting for Melnikoff, or had Vera

Alexandrovna told him--Vera Alexandrovna, who assured me no one would

notice me?

“Melnikoff did not come here yesterday,” Zorinsky continued, “but if I

can do anything for you at any time I shall be glad.”

I bowed and he returned to his table. Since it was already six I

resolved I would stay in this café no longer. The atmosphere of the

place filled me with indefinable apprehension.

“I am so sorry you have missed Nicolas Nicolaevitch,” said Vera

Alexandrovna as I took my leave. “Will you come in to-morrow?” I said I

would, fully determined that I would not. “Come back at any time,” said

Vera Alexandrovna, with her pleasant smile; “and remember,” she added,

reassuringly, in an undertone, “here you are perfectly safe.”

Could anybody be more charming than Vera Alexandrovna? Birth,

education, and refinement were manifested in every gesture. But as for

her café, I had an ominous presentiment about it, and nothing would

have induced me to re-enter it.

I resolved to resort to the flat of Ivan Sergeievitch, Melnikoff’s

friend who had seen me off at Viborg. The streets were bathed in gloom

as I emerged from the café. Lamps burned only at rare intervals. And

suppose, I speculated, I find no one at Ivan Sergeievitch’s home?

What would offer a night’s shelter--a porch, here or there, a garden,

a shed? Perhaps one of the cathedrals, Kazan, for instance, might

be open. Ah, look, there was a hoarding round one side of the Kazan

Cathedral! I stepped up and peeped inside. Lumber and rubbish. Yes, I

decided, that would do splendidly!

Ivan Sergeievitch’s house was in a small street at the end of

Kazanskaya, and like Vera Alexandrovna’s his flat was on the top

floor. My experience of the morning had made me very cautious, and I

was careful to enter the house as though I were making a mistake, the

easier to effect an escape if necessary. But the house was as still

as death. I met nobody on the stairs, and for a long time there was

no reply to my ring. I was just beginning to think seriously of the

hoarding round the Kazan Cathedral when I heard footsteps, and a female

voice said querulously behind the door, “Who is there?”

“From Ivan Sergeievitch,” I replied, speaking just loud enough to be

heard through the door.

There was a pause. “From which Ivan Sergeievitch?” queried the voice.

I lowered my tone. I felt the other person was listening intently.

“From _your_ Ivan Sergeievitch, in Viborg,” I said in a low voice at

the keyhole.

There was another pause. “But who are you?” came the query.

“Do not be alarmed,” I said in the same tone. “I have a message to you

from him.”

The footsteps receded. I could hear voices conferring. Then two locks

were undone, and the door was partially opened on a short chain. I saw

a middle-aged woman peering at me with fear and suspicion through the

chink.

I repeated what I had already said, adding in a whisper that I myself

had just come from Finland and would perhaps be going back shortly. The

chain was then removed and I passed in.

The woman who opened the door, and who proved to be the housekeeper

spoken of by Ivan Sergeievitch, closed it again hastily, locked it

securely, and stood before me, a trembling little figure with keen eyes

that looked me up and down with uncertainty. A few paces away stood a

girl, the nurse of Ivan Sergeievitch’s children, who were in Finland.

“Ivan Sergeievitch is an old friend of mine,” I said, not truthfully,

but very anxious to calm the suspicions of my humble hostesses. “I knew

him long ago and saw him again quite recently in Finland. He asked me,

if I found it possible, to come round and see you.”

“Come in, come in, please,” said the housekeeper, whom I shall call

Stepanovna, still very nervously. “Excuse our showing you into the

kitchen, but it is the only room we have warmed. It is so difficult to

get firewood nowadays.”

I sat down in the kitchen, feeling very tired. “Ivan Sergeievitch

is well and sends his greetings,” I said. “So are his wife and the

children. They hope you are well and not suffering. They would like

you to join them but it is impossible to get passports.”

“Thank you, thank you,” said Stepanovna. “I am glad they are well. We

have not heard from them for so long. May we offer you something to

eat----?”

“Ivan Pavlovitch is my name,” I interpolated, catching her hesitation.

“May we offer you something to eat, Ivan Pavlovitch?” said Stepanovna

kindly, busying herself at the stove. Her hands still trembled. “Thank

you,” I said, “but I am afraid you have not much yourself.”

“We are going to have some soup for supper,” she replied. “There will

be enough for you, too.”

Stepanovna left the kitchen for a moment, and the nursing maid, whose

name was Varia, leaned over to me and said in a low voice, “Stepanovna

is frightened to-day. She nearly got arrested this morning at the

market when the Reds came and took people buying and selling food.”

I saw from Varia’s manner that she was a self-possessed and intelligent

girl and I resolved to speak to her first regarding my staying the

night, lest I terrified Stepanovna by the suggestion.

“When I went to my home this afternoon,” I said, “I found it locked.

I expect the housekeeper was out. It is very far, and I wonder if I

may stay the night here. A sofa will do to lie on, or even the floor.

I am dreadfully tired and my leg is aching from an old wound. Ivan

Sergeievitch said I might use his flat whenever I liked.”

“I will ask Stepanovna,” said Varia. “I do not think she will mind.”

Varia left the room and, returning, said Stepanovna agreed--for one

night.

The soup was soon ready. It was cabbage soup, and very good. I ate

two big platefuls of it, though conscience pricked me in accepting a

second. But I was very hungry. During supper a man in soldier’s uniform

came in by the kitchen door and sat down on a box against the wall.

He said nothing at all, but he had a good-natured, round, plump face,

with rosy cheeks and twinkling eyes. With a jack-knife he hewed square

chunks off a loaf of black bread, one of which chunks was handed to me.

“This is my nephew Dmitri,” said Stepanovna. “He has just become a

volunteer so as to get Red army rations, so we are better off now.”

Dmitri smiled at being mentioned, but said nothing. After two platefuls

of soup I could scarcely keep my eyes open. So I asked where I might

spend the night and was shown into the study, where I threw myself on

the couch and fell fast asleep.

When I awoke I had such a strange sensation of unaccustomed

surroundings that I was completely bewildered, and was only brought

to my senses by Varia entering with a glass of tea--real tea, from

Dmitri’s Red rations.

Then I recalled the previous day, my adventurous passage across the

frontier, the search for Marsh and Melnikoff, the secret café, and my

meeting with my present humble friends. With disconcerting brusqueness

I also recollected that I had as yet no prospects for the ensuing

night. But I persuaded myself that much might happen before nightfall

and tried to think no more about it.

Stepanovna had quite got over her fright, and when I came into the

kitchen to wash and drink another glass of tea she greeted me kindly.

Dmitri sat on his box in stolid silence, munching a crust of bread.

“Been in the Red army long?” I asked him, by way of conversation.

“Three weeks,” he replied.

“Well, and do you like it?”

Dmitri pouted and shrugged his shoulders disparagingly.

“Do you have to do much service?” I persisted.

“Done none yet.”

“No drill?”

“None.”

“No marching?”

“None.”

Sounds easy, I thought. “What _do_ you do?”

“I draw rations.”

“So I see,” I observed.

Conversation flagged. Dmitri helped himself to more tea and Stepanovna

questioned me further as to how Ivan Sergeievitch was doing.

“What were you in the old army?” I continued at the first opportunity

to Dmitri.

“An orderly.”

“What are you now?”

“A driver.”

“Who are your officers?”

“We have a commissar.” A commissar in the army is a Bolshevist official

attached to a regiment to supervise the actions of the officer staff.

“Who is he?”

“Who knows?” replied Dmitri. “He is one like the rest,” he added, as if

all commissars were of an inferior race.

“What _is_ the Red army?” I asked, finally.

“Who knows?” replied Dmitri, as if it were the last thing in the world

to interest any one.

Dmitri was typical of the mass of the unthinking proletariat at

this time, regarding the Bolshevist Government as an accidental,

inexplicable, and merely temporary phenomenon which was destined at

an early date to decay and disappear. As for the thinking proletariat

they were rapidly dividing into two camps, the minority siding with the

Bolsheviks for privilege and power, the majority becoming increasingly

discontented with the suppression of the liberties won by the

revolution.

“Have you a Committee of the Poor in this house?” I asked Stepanovna.

“Yes,” she said, and turning to Dmitri added, “Mind, Mitka, you say

nothing to them of Ivan Pavlovitch.”

Stepanovna told me the committee was formed of three servant girls, the

yard-keeper, and the house-porter. The entire house with forty flats

was under their administration. “From time to time,” said Stepanovna,

“they come and take some furniture to decorate the apartments they

have occupied on the ground floor. That is all they seem to think of.

The house-porter is never in his place in the hall” (for this I was

profoundly thankful), “and when we need him we can never find him.”

Varia accompanied me to the door as I departed. “If you want to come

back,” she said, “I don’t think Stepanovna will mind.” I insisted on

paying for the food I had eaten and set out to look again for Melnikoff.

The morning was raw and snow began to fall. People hurried along the

streets clasping bundles and small parcels. Queues, mostly of working

women, were waiting outside small stores with notices printed on canvas

over the lintel “First Communal Booth,” “Second Communal Booth,” and so

on, where bread was being distributed in small quantities against food

cards. There was rarely enough to go round, so people came and stood

early, shivering in the biting wind. Similar queues formed later in the

day outside larger establishments marked “Communal Eating House, Number

so-and-so.” One caught snatches of conversation from these queues.

“Why don’t the ‘comrades’ have to stand in queues?” a woman would

exclaim indignantly. “Where are all the Jews? Does Trotzky stand in a

queue?” and so on. Then, receiving their modicum of bread, they would

carry it hastily away, either in their bare hands, or wrapped up in

paper brought for the purpose, or shielded under the shawls which they

muffled round their ears and neck.

Again I trudged across the river and up the long Kamenostrovsky

Prospect to Melnikoff’s hospital, but again he had not returned and

they knew nothing of him. Wandering irresolutely about the city I

drifted into the district where I had formerly lived, and here in a

side-street I came unexpectedly upon a window on which a slip of paper

was pasted with the word “Dinners,” written in pencil. This, I could

see, was no “communal eating-house.” Without a ticket I could not go to

a communal eating-house, so I peered cautiously into the door of the

little establishment and found that a single room on the ground floor,

probably once a store, had been cleared out and fitted with three

tiny tables, large enough to accommodate half-a-dozen people in all.

Everything was very simple, clearly a temporary arrangement, but very

clean. The room being empty, I entered.

“Dinner?” queried a young lady, appearing from behind a curtain. “Yes,

please.” “Will you sit down a moment?” she said. “It is rather early,

but it will be ready soon.”

Presently she brought a plate of gruel, small in quantity but good.

“Bread, I am afraid, is extra,” she observed when I asked for it. “Can

I get dinner here every day?” I inquired. “As long as they do not close

us down,” she replied with a shrug. I drew her into conversation. “We

have been here a week,” she explained. “People come in who have no food

cards or who want something better than the communal eating-houses. My

father used to keep a big restaurant in Sadovaya Street and when the

Bolsheviks shut it he went into a smaller one in the backyard. When

that was closed, too, we moved in here, where one of father’s cooks

used to live. We cannot put up a sign, that would attract attention,

but you can come as long as the paper is in the window. If it is not

there, do not enter; it will mean the Reds are in possession.”

For second course she brought carrots. Three other people came in

during the meal and I saw at once that they were persons of education

and good station, though they all looked haggard and worn. All ate

their small portions with avidity, counting out their payment with

pitiful reluctance. One of them looked a typical professor, and of the

others, both ladies, I guessed one might be a teacher. Though we sat

close to each other there was no conversation.

Purchasing three small white loaves to take with me, I returned in the

afternoon to Stepanovna’s. My humble friends were delighted at this

simple contribution to the family fare, for they did not know white

bread was still procurable. I telephoned to Vera Alexandrovna, using a

number she had given me, but Melnikoff was not there and nothing was

known of him.

So with Stepanovna’s consent to stay another night I sat in the

kitchen sipping Dmitri’s tea and listening to their talk. Stepanovna

and Varia unburdened their hearts without restraint, and somehow it was

strange to hear them abusing their house committee, or committee of the

poor, as it was also called, composed of people of their own station.

“Commissars” and “Communists” they frankly classed as _svolotch_, which

is a Russian term of extreme abuse.

It was a prevalent belief of the populace at this time that the allies,

and particularly the British, were planning to invade Russia and

relieve the stricken country. Hearing them discussing the probability

of such an event, and the part their master Ivan Sergeievitch might

take in it, I told them straight out that I was an Englishman, a

disclosure the effect of which was electric. For a time they would not

credit it, for in appearance I might be any nationality but English.

Stepanovna was a little frightened, but Dmitri sat still and a broad

smile gradually spread over his good-natured features. When we sat down

about nine I found quite a good supper with meat and potatoes, prepared

evidently chiefly for me, for their own dinner was at midday.

“However did you get the meat?” I exclaimed as Stepanovna bustled about

to serve me.

“That is Dmitri’s army ration,” she said, simply. Dmitri sat still on

his box against the kitchen wall, but the smile never departed from his

face.

That night I found Varia had made up for me the best bed in the flat,

and lying in this unexpected luxury I tried to sum up my impressions

of the first two days of adventure. For two days I had wandered round

the city, living from minute to minute and hour to hour, unnoticed.

I no longer saw eyes in every wall. I felt that I really passed

with the crowd. Only now and again someone would glance curiously

and perhaps enviously at my black leather breeches. But the breeches

themselves aroused no suspicions, for the commissars all wore good

leather clothes. None the less, I resolved I would smear my breeches

with dirt before sallying forth on the morrow, so that they would not

look so new. How shabbily everyone was dressed, I mused drowsily. But

the peasants looked the same as ever in their sheepskin coats and

bast shoes. One of the pamphlets I had bought was an address to the

peasantry, entitled _Join the Communes_, urging the peasants to labour

not for pecuniary gain but for the common weal, supplying bread to the

town workers who would in turn produce for the peasantry. The idea was

a beautiful one, but the idealistic conception was completely submerged

in the welter of rancour and incitement of class-hatred. I recalled

my talk with the cabman who told me it cost him two hundred roubles a

day to feed his horse because the peasantry refused to bring provender

to the cities. Two hundred roubles, I reflected dreamily as I dozed

off, was half my monthly wages of the previous year and twice as much

as I earned before the war teaching English. I reheard snatches of

conversation at the railway station, at the little dining-room, and

with Stepanovna. Was everyone really so bitter as Stepanovna said they

were? Stepanovna and Varia were devoted to their master and thought

in their simplicity Ivan Sergeievitch would return with the English.

Anyway, it was nice of them to give me this bed. There were no sheets,

but the blankets were warm and they had even found me an old pair of

pyjamas. I nestled cosily into the blankets; the streets, Stepanovna,

and the room faded away in a common blur, and I passed into the silent

land of no dreams.

* * * * *

I was awakened rudely by a loud ring at the bell, and sprang up, all

alert. It was a quarter to eight. Who, I asked myself, could the

callers be? A search? Had the house committee heard of the unregistered

lodger? What should I say? I would say Stepanovna was a relative, I

would complain rudely of being disturbed, I would bluster, I would

flaunt my passport of the Extraordinary Commission. Or perhaps

Stepanovna and Varia would somehow explain away my presence, for they

knew the members of the committee. I began dressing hastily. I could

hear Stepanovna and Varia conferring in the kitchen. Then they both

shuffled along the passage to the door. I heard the door opened, first

on the chain, and then a moment’s silence. At last the chain was

removed. Someone was admitted and the door closed. I heard men’s voices

and boots tramping along the passage. Convinced now that a search was

to be made I fished feverishly in my pockets to get out my passport

for demonstration, when--into the room burst Melnikoff! Never was I so

dumbfounded in my life! Melnikoff was dressed in other clothes than

I had seen him in when we last parted and he wore spectacles which

altered his appearance considerably. Behind him entered a huge fellow,

a sort of _Ilia Murometz_, whose stubble-covered face brimmed over with

smiles beaming good-nature and jollity. This giant was dressed in a

rough and ragged brown suit and in his hand he squeezed a dirty hat.

“Marsh,” observed Melnikoff, curtly, by way of introduction, smiling at

my incredulity. We shook hands heartily all round while I still fumbled

my passport. “I was about to defy you with that!” I laughed, showing

them the paper. “Tell me, how the----I thought you were in prison!”

“Not quite!” Marsh exclaimed, dropping into English at once. “I had a

lucky escape! Slithered down a drainpipe outside the kitchen window

into the next yard as the Reds came in at the front door. Shaved my

beard at once.” He rubbed his chin. “About time, by the way, I saw

the barber again. The blighters are looking for me everywhere. I was

held up one evening by one of their damned spies under a lamp-post.

I screwed my face into a grimace and asked him for a light. Then I

knocked him down. And yesterday evening I was going into a yard on

Sadovaya Street when under the arch I heard someone behind me say,

‘Marsh!’ I sprang round, just about to administer the same medicine,

when I saw it was Melnikoff!”

“But how did you find me here?” I said.

“Ask Melnikoff.” I asked Melnikoff in Russian. He was nervous and

impatient.

“Luck,” he replied. “I guessed you might possibly be in Sergeievitch’s

flat, and so you are. But listen, I can’t stay here long. I’m being

looked for, too. You can meet me safely at three this afternoon at the

15th communal eating-house in the Nevsky. You don’t need a ticket to

enter. I’ll tell you everything then. Don’t stay more than two nights

in one place.”

“All right,” I said, “three o’clock at the 15th eating-house.”

“And don’t go to Vera’s any more,” he added as he hurried away.

“Something is wrong there. Good-bye.”

“Get dressed,” said Marsh when Melnikoff had gone, “and I’ll take you

straight along to a place you can go to regularly. But rely mainly on

Melnikoff, he’s the cleverest card I ever saw.”

Stepanovna, beaming with pleasure and pride at having two Englishmen in

her flat, and nervous at the same time on account of the circumstances,

brought in tea, and I told Marsh of my mission to Russia. Though he had

not been connected with intelligence organizations, he knew people who

had, and mentioned the names of a number of persons whose aid might be

re-enlisted. One or two occupied high positions in the Ministry of War

and the Admiralty.

But there was a more pressing task on hand than intelligence. The

Bolsheviks suspected Marsh, together with other Englishmen, of

complicity, in assisting allied citizens who were refused passports to

escape from the country secretly. Numerous arrests among foreigners

were being made and Marsh had had a hairbreadth escape. But his wife

had been seized in his stead as hostage, and this calamity filled him

with concern.

Mrs. Marsh was imprisoned at the notorious _No. 2 Goróhovaya Street_,

the address of the Extraordinary Commission, and Marsh was awaiting

the report of a man who had connections with the Commission as to

the possibilities of effecting her escape. “This man,” explained

Marsh, “was, I believe, an official of the _ohrana_ (the Tsar’s

personal secret police) before the revolution, and is doing some sort

of clerical work in a Soviet institution now. The Bolsheviks are

re-engaging Tsarist police agents for the Extraordinary Commission, so

he has close connections there and knows most of what goes on. He is a

liar and it is difficult to believe what he says, but” (Marsh paused

and rubbed his forefinger and thumb together to indicate that finance

entered into the transaction), “if you outbid the Bolsheviks, this

fellow can do things. Understand?”

Marsh put me up to the latest position of everything in Petrograd. He

also said he would be able to find me lodging for a few nights until I

had some settled mode of living. He had wide acquaintanceship in the

city and many of his friends lived in a quiet, unobtrusive manner,

working for a living in Soviet offices.

“Better be moving along now,” he said when we had finished tea. “I’ll

go ahead because we mustn’t walk together. Follow me in about five

minutes, and you’ll find me standing by the hoarding round the Kazan

Cathedral.”

“The hoarding round the Kazan Cathedral? So you know that hoarding,

too?” I asked, recalling my intention of hiding in that very place.

“I certainly do,” he exclaimed. “Spent the first night there after my

escape. Now I’ll be off. When you see me shoot off from the hoarding

follow me as far behind as you can. So long.”

“By the way,” I said, as he went out, “that hoarding--it doesn’t happen

to be a regular shelter for--for homeless and destitute Englishmen or

others, does it?”

“Not that I know of,” he laughed. “Why?”

“Oh, nothing. I only wondered.”

I let Marsh out and heard his steps re-echoing down the stone staircase.

“I shall not be back to-night, Stepanovna,” I said, preparing to follow

him. “I can’t tell you how grateful----”

“Oh, but, Ivan Pavlovitch,” exclaimed the good woman, “you can come

here any time you like. If anything happens,” she added in a lower

tone, “we’ll say you belong to us. No one need know.”

“Well, well,” I said, “but not to-night. Good-bye, good-bye.” While

Stepanovna and Varia let me out I had a vision of Dmitri standing at

the kitchen door, stolidly munching a crust of black bread.

Outside the hoarding of the Kazan Cathedral I espied the huge figure

of Marsh sitting on a stone. When he saw me over the way he rose and

slouched along with his collar turned up, diving into side streets and

avoiding the main thoroughfares. I followed at a distance. Eventually

we came out on to the Siennaya market, crossed it, and plunged into

the maze of streets to the south. Marsh disappeared under an arch and,

following his steps, I found myself in a dark, filthy, reeking yard

with a back-stair entrance on either hand. Marsh stood at the stairway

on the left. “Flat No. 5 on the second floor,” he said. “We can go up

together.”

The stairway was narrow and littered with rubbish. At a door with “5”

chalked on it Marsh banged loudly three times with his fist, and it

was opened by a woman dressed plainly in black, who greeted Marsh with

exclamations of welcome and relief.

“Aha, Maria,” he shouted boisterously, “here we are, you see--not got

me yet. And _won’t_ get me, unless I’ve got a pumpkin on my shoulders

instead of a head!”

Maria was his housekeeper. She looked questioningly at me, obviously

doubtful whether I ought to be admitted. Marsh roared with

laughter. “All right, Maria,” he cried, “let him in. He’s only my

comrade--comrades in distress, and ha! ha! ha! ‘comrades’ in looks, eh,

Maria?”

Maria smiled curiously. “Certainly ‘comrades’ in looks,” she said,

slowly.

“By the way,” asked Marsh, as we passed into an inner room, “what name

are you using?”

“Afirenko,” I said. “But that’s official. Tell Maria I’m called ‘Ivan

Ilitch.’”

Maria set the samovar and produced some black bread and butter.

“This flat,” said Marsh, with his mouth full, “belonged to a business

colleague of mine. The Reds seized him by mistake for someone else. The

silly fool nearly (here Marsh used a very unparliamentary expression)

with funk when he got arrested. Sat in chokey three days and was told

he was to be shot, when luckily for him the right man was collared.

Then they let him out and I shipped him over the frontier. They’ll

forget all about him. In the daytime this is one of the safest places

in town.”

The flat was almost devoid of furniture. A bare table stood in one

room and a desk in another. An old couch and a few chairs made up the

outfit. The windows were so dirty that they were quite opaque and

admitted very little light from the narrow street. Although it was

nearly midday an oil lamp burned on the table of the room we sat in.

Electric light was becoming rarer and rarer and only burned for a few

hours every evening.

Marsh sat and talked of his adventures and the work he had been doing

for the allied colonies. His country farm had been seized and pillaged,

his city business was ruined, he had long been under suspicion, and

yet he refused to leave. But the arrest of his wife bore constantly on

his mind. From time to time his boisterous flow of talk would suddenly

cease. He would pass his hand over his brow, a far-away, troubled look

coming into his eyes.

“If only it were an ordinary prison,” he would say, “if only they were

human beings. But these----! By the way, will you come with me to see

the Policeman? I am going to meet him in half-an-hour.” The “Policeman”

was the nickname by which we referred to the Tsarist official of whom

Marsh had spoken in the morning. I reflected for a moment. Perhaps the

Policeman might be useful to me later. I consented.

Telling Maria to look out for us both about that time next morning, we

left the flat by the back entrance, as we had entered it. Again Marsh

walked ahead, and I followed his slouching figure at a distance as he

wound in and out of side streets. The dwelling we were going to, he

told me, was that of an ex-journalist, who was now engaged as a scribe

in the Department of Public Works, and it was at the Journalist’s that

he had arranged to meet the Policeman.

The Journalist lived all alone in a flat in the Liteiny Prospect.

I watched Marsh disappear into the entrance and waited a moment to

convince myself he was not being tracked. From the opposite sidewalk I

saw him look back through the glass door, signalling that all was well

within, so giving him time to mount the stairs I followed.

He rang the bell at a door covered with oilcloth and felt. After a

moment’s silence there was a shuffling of slippers, an inner door

opened, and a voice said, “Who’s there?”

“He expects me to say who’s here, the silly fool,” growled Marsh under

his breath, adding just loud enough to be heard through the door, “I.”

“Who? ‘I’?” persisted the voice.

“I, Peter Sergeievitch” (aloud), “blithering idiot” (undertone), said

Marsh.

There was much undoing of bars and bolts, and finally, the door opening

slightly on the chain, a pair of nervous, twinkling eyes peered through

the chink.

“Ah!” said the nervous face, breaking into a smile, “Ivan Petrovitch!”

The door closed again and the chain was removed. Then it reopened and

we passed in.

“Why the devil couldn’t you open at once?” grumbled Marsh. “You knew I

was coming. ‘Who’s there?’ indeed! Do you want me to bawl ‘Marsh’ at

the top of my voice outside your door?” At this the nervous man looked

terrified. “Well, then, why don’t you open? ‘Ivan Petrovitch’ or ‘Peter

Sergeievitch’--can’t any one be Ivan Petrovitch? Isn’t that just why I

_am_ ‘Ivan Petrovitch’?”

“Yes, yes,” answered the nervous man, “but nowadays one never knows who

may be at the door.”

“Well, then, open and look, or next time I _will_ shout ‘Marsh.’” The

nervous man looked more terrified than ever. “Well, well,” laughed

Marsh, “I am only joking. This is my friend--er----”

“Michael Mihailovitch,” I put in.

“Very glad to see you, Michael Mihailovitch,” said the nervous man,

looking anything but glad.

The Journalist was a man of thirty-five years of age, though his thin

and pale features, dishevelled hair, and ragged beard gave him the

appearance of being nearly fifty. He was attired in an old greenish

overcoat with the collar turned up, and dragged his feet about in a

pair of worn-out carpet slippers. The flat was on the shady side of the

street, the sun never peered into its gloomy precincts, it was dark and

musty, and icy cold.

“Well, how go things, Dmitri Konstantinovitch?” asked Marsh.

“Poorly, poorly, Ivan Petrovitch,” said the Journalist, coughing. “This

is the third day I have not been to work. You will excuse my proceeding

with business; I’m having lunch. Come into the kitchen, it is the least

cold of all rooms.”

The Journalist, preparing his noonday meal, was engaged in boiling a

few potatoes over a stick fire in a tiny portable stove. “Two days’

rations,” he remarked, ironically, holding up a salt herring. “How do

they expect us to live, indeed? And half-a-pound of bread into the

bargain. That’s how they feed the bourgeois in return for sweating for

them. And if you _don’t_ sweat for them, then you get nothing. ‘He who

toileth not, neither let him eat,’ as they say. But it’s only ‘toil’

if it is to _their_ advantage. If you toil to your own advantage, then

it is called ‘speculation,’ and you get shot. Ugh! A pretty state our

Russia has come to, indeed! Do we not rightly say we are a herd of

sheep?”

Continuing in this strain the Journalist scraped his smelly herring and

began eating it with his potatoes ravenously and yet gingerly, knowing

that the quicker he finished the scanty repast the sooner he would

realize there was nothing more. Picking the skeleton clean, he sucked

the tail and dug his fork into the head for the last scraps of meat.

“Plus 1,000 roubles a month,” he went on. “Here I eat two days’ rations

at a single meal, and what can I buy with 1,000 roubles? A few pounds

of potatoes, a pound or two of bread and butter? Then there’s nothing

left for fuel, when wood that used to cost 5 roubles a sazhen now costs

500!”

From his overcoat pocket Marsh produced half-a-pound of bread. “Here,

Dmitri Konstantinovitch,” he said, thrusting it toward him, “your

health!”

The Journalist’s face became transfigured. Its haggard look vanished.

He glanced up, his mouth fixed in a half-laugh of delight and

incredulity, his sunken eyes sparkling with childlike pleasure and

gratitude.

“For me?” he exclaimed, scarcely believing his eyes. “But what about

yourself? Surely you do not get sufficient, especially since----”

“Don’t worry about me,” said Marsh, with his good-natured smile. “You

know Maria? She is a wonder! She gets everything. From my farm she

managed to save several sacks of potatoes and quite a lot of bread,

and hide it all here in town. But listen, Dmitri Konstantinovitch,

I’m expecting a visitor here soon, the same man as the day before

yesterday. I will take him into the other room, so that he need not see

you.”

The Journalist, I could see, was overcome with fear at being obliged

to receive Marsh’s unwelcome visitor, but he said nothing. He wrapped

the bread carefully up in paper and put it away in a cupboard. A moment

later there were three sharp rings at the bell. Marsh hurried to the

door, admitted his visitor, and led him into the Journalist’s study.

“You may as well come in, too,” he said to me, looking into the kitchen.

“Michael Ivanitch,” I whispered, pointing at myself, as we passed in.

Marsh introduced me. “My friend, Michael Ivanitch Schmit,” he said.

My first impulse when I saw the individual Marsh nicknamed “the

Policeman” was to laugh, for any one less like a policeman than

the little man who rose and bowed I have seldom seen. I will not

describe him too precisely, but he was short, red-faced, and

insignificant-looking. In spite of this, however, his manner showed

that he had a very high opinion of his own importance. He shook hands

and reseated himself with comical dignity.

“Go on, Alexei Fomitch,” said Marsh. “I want my friend to know how

matters stand. He may be able to help.”

“Madame Marsh, as I was saying,” proceeded the Policeman, “is

incarcerated in chamber No. 4 with thirty-eight other women of various

station, including titled personages, servant girls, and prostitutes.

The chamber is not a large one and I fear the conditions are far from

pleasant. My informants tell me she is cross-examined several hours

every day with the object of eliciting the hiding-place of Monsieur

Marsh, which they believe she knows. Unfortunately her case is

complicated by the confused replies she has given, for after several

hours’ interrogation it often becomes difficult to retain clarity of

mind. Confused or incoherent replies, even though accidental, lead to

further and still more exacting interpellation.”

Marsh followed every word with a concern that was not lost upon the

Policeman. “But can we not get round the interrogators?” he asked,

“they all have their price, damn it.”

“Yes, that is often so,” continued the Policeman in a tone of feigned

consolation. “The investigator can frequently be induced to turn the

evidence in favour of the accused. But in this case it is unfortunately

useless to offer the usual bribe, for even if Madame Marsh’s innocence

is proven to the hilt, she will still be detained as a hostage until

the discovery of Monsieur Marsh.”

Marsh’s face twitched. “I feared so,” he said in a dull voice. “What

are the chances of flight?”

“I was coming to that,” said the Policeman, suavely. “I am already

making inquiries on the subject. But it will take some days to

arrange. The assistance of more than one person will have to be

enlisted. And I fear--I hesitate,” he added in unctuous tones of

regret, “I hesitate to refer to such a matter--but I am afraid this

method may be a little more--er--costly. Pardon me for----”

“Money?” cried Marsh. “Damn it all, man, don’t you realize it is my

wife? How much do you want?”

“Oh, Monsieur Marsh,” expostulated the Policeman, raising his palm,

“you are well aware that I take nothing for myself. I do this out

of friendship to you--and our gallant allies. But there is a prison

janitor, I must give him 5,000, two warders 10,000, a go-between 2,000,

odd expenses----”

“Stop!” put in Marsh, abruptly, “tell me how much it will cost.”

The Policeman’s face assumed a pained expression. “It may cost,” he

said, “twenty-five, possibly thirty thousand roubles.”

“Thirty thousand. You shall have it. I gave you ten thousand, here are

another ten thousand; you shall have the third ten thousand the day my

wife leaves prison.”

The Policeman took the notes, and with a look of offended dignity, as

though the handling of money were altogether beneath him, hid them in

an inner pocket.

“When will you be able to report again?” asked Marsh.

“I expect the day after to-morrow. If you like to come to my house it

is quite safe.”

“Very well, we will meet there. And now, if you are not in a hurry,

I’ll see if I can raise some tea. It’s damned cold in this room.”

When Marsh had gone into the kitchen the little Policeman ventured to

open conversation.

“Such times, such times,” he sighed. “Who would have thought it

possible? You live in Petrograd, Michael Ivanitch?”

“Yes.”

“You are in service, perhaps?”

“Yes.”

There was a pause.

“Yours must have been an interesting occupation,” I remarked, “in days

gone by.”

“You mean?”

“You were connected with the police, were you not?”

I saw at once I had made a _faux pas_. The little man turned very red.

“I beg your pardon,” I hastened to add, “I understood you were an

official of the _ohrana_.”

This apparently was still worse. The little Policeman sat up very

straight, flushing deeply and looking rather like a turkey-cock.

“No, sir,” he said in what were intended to be icy tones, “you have

been grossly misinformed. I have never been connected either with the

police or the _ohrana_. Under the Tsar, sir, I moved in Court circles.

I had the ear of his late Imperial Majesty, and the Imperial Palace was

open to me at any time.”

At this point, fortunately for me, Marsh returned with three glasses of

tea, apologizing for not providing sugar, and the conversation turned

to the inevitable subject of famine. At length the Policeman rose to go.

“By the way, Alexei Fomitch,” said Marsh, “can you find me a lodging

for to-night?”

“A lodging for to-night? I shall be honoured, Monsieur Marsh, if you

will accept such hospitality as I myself can offer. I have an extra

bed, though my fare, I am afraid, will not be luxurious. Still, such as

it is----”

“Thank you. I will come as near nine o’clock as possible.”

“Give three short rings, and I will open the door myself,” said the

Policeman.

When he had gone I told Marsh of our conversation and asked what the

little man meant by “moving in Court circles.” Marsh was greatly amused.

“Oh, he was a private detective or something,” he said. “Conceited as

hell about it. ‘Ear of the Tsar,’ indeed! What he’s after is money.

He’ll pocket most of the 30,000. But he’s afraid of us, too. He’s

cocksure the Allies are coming into Petrograd, so if you have anything

to do with him tell him you’re an Englishman and he’ll grovel. By the

way, we had better let Dmitri Konstantinovitch into the secret, too,

because you will find this flat very useful. The Journalist is a damned

old coward, but buy him some grub or, still better, pay for his fuel

and he will let you use the flat as much as you like.”

So the nervous ex-journalist was initiated into the great secret,

and when Marsh said, “You don’t mind if he comes in occasionally to

sleep on the sofa, do you?” Dmitri Konstantinovitch nearly died with

fear. His thin lips vibrated, and clearer than any words his twitching

smile and tear-filled eyes implored, “Oh, for God’s sake, leave me

alone!”--until I said boldly, “But I don’t like sleeping in the cold,

Dmitri Konstantinovitch. Perhaps you could get some wood in for me.

Here is the price of a sazhen of logs; we will share the wood, of

course.” Then his care-worn, troubled face again became suddenly

transfigured as it had when Marsh gave him bread. “Ah, splendid,

splendid,” he cried in delight, his fears completely obliterated by

the anticipation of coming warmth. “I will get the wood in this very

afternoon, and you shall have sheets and blankets and I will make you

comfortable.” So it was arranged that unless Melnikoff found me a more

suitable place I should return to the Journalist’s that night.

It was now time for me to be thinking of keeping my appointment with

Melnikoff at the communal eating-house. So I left Marsh, arranging to

meet him at the empty flat “No. 5” next morning. Musing on the events

of the day I made my way down the staircase and came out again into

the Liteiny Prospect. It seemed ages since, but two days ago, I walked

along this same street on the day of my arrival in Petrograd, after

crossing the frontier. What would Melnikoff now have to tell me, I

wondered?

As I rounded the corner of the Nevsky Prospect I noticed a concourse of

people outside the communal eating-house toward which I was directing

my steps. I followed the people, who were moving hurriedly across the

street to the other side. At the entrance to the eating-house stood two

sailors on guard with fixed bayonets, while people were filing out of

the building singly, led by militiamen. In the dark lobby within one

could dimly discern individuals being searched. Their documents were

being examined and, standing in their shirt-sleeves, their clothing was

being subjected to strict investigation.

I waited to see if Melnikoff would emerge from the building. After

a moment I felt a tap on my arm and looking round I was confronted

by Zorinsky, the officer who had accosted me in the café of Vera

Alexandrovna on the day of my arrival. Zorinsky signalled to me to move

aside with him.

“Were you to meet Melnikoff here?” he asked. “It is lucky for you you

did not enter the restaurant. The place is being raided. I was about to

go in myself, but came a little late, thank God. Melnikoff was one of

the first to be arrested and has already been taken away.”

“What is the cause of the raid?” I asked, dismayed by this news.

“Who knows?” replied Zorinsky. “These things are done spasmodically.

Melnikoff has been tracked for some days, I believe, and it may have

been on his account. Anyway, it is serious, for he is well known.”

People were beginning to move away and the search was clearly nearing

its end.

“What are you going to do?” said my companion.

“I do not know,” I replied, not wishing to confide any of my movements

to Zorinsky.

“We must begin to think of some way of getting him out,” he said.

“Melnikoff was a great friend of mine, but you are, I expect, as

interested in his release as I am.”

“Is there any chance?” I exclaimed. “Of course I am interested.”

“Then I suggest you come home with me and we will talk it over. I live

quite near.”

Anxious to learn of any possibility of saving Melnikoff, I consented.

We passed into Troitzkaya Street and entered a large house on the right.

“How do you wish me to call you?” asked Zorinsky as we mounted the

staircase. I was struck by the considerateness of his question and

replied, “Pavel Ivanitch.”

The flat in which Zorinsky lived was large and luxuriously furnished,

and showed no signs of molestation. “You live comfortably,” I remarked,

sinking into a deep leather arm-chair. “Yes, we do pretty well,”

he replied. “My wife, you see, is an actress. She receives as many

provisions as she wants and our flat is immune from requisition of

furniture or the obtrusion of workmen. We will go round some evening,

if you like, and see her dance. As for me, my wife has registered me

as a sub-manager of the theatre, so that I receive additional rations

also. These things, you know, are not difficult to arrange! Thus I am

really a gentleman at large, and living like many others at the expense

of a generous proletarian régime. My hobby,” he added, idly, “is

_contre-espionnage_.”

“What?” I cried, the exclamation escaping me inadvertently.

“_Contre-espionnage_,” he repeated, smiling. When he smiled one end of

his crooked mouth remained stationary, while the other seemed to jut

right up into his cheek. “Why should you be surprised? _Tout le monde

est contre-révolutionnaire_: it is merely a question of whether one is

actively or passively so.” He took from a drawer a typewritten sheet of

paper and handed it to me. “Does that by any chance interest you?”

I glanced at the paper. The writing was full of uncorrected

orthographical errors, showing it had been typed by an unpractised

hand in extreme haste. Scanning the first few lines I at once became

completely absorbed in the document. It was a report, dated two days

previously, of confidential negotiations between the Bolshevist

Government and the leaders of non-Bolshevist parties with regard to

the possible formation of a coalition Government. Nothing came of the

negotiations, but the information was of great importance as showing

the nervousness of the Bolshevist leaders at that time and the clearly

defined attitude of the Socialist-Revolutionary and Menshevist parties

toward the military counter-revolution.

“Is it authentic?” I inquired, dubiously.

“That report,” replied Zorinsky, “is at this moment being considered

by the central committee of the Menshevist party in this city. It

was drawn up by a member of the Menshevist delegation and despatched

secretly to Petrograd, for the Bolsheviks do not permit their opponents

to communicate freely with each other. I saw the original and obtained

a copy two hours before it reached the Menshevist committee.”

The suspicion of forgery immediately arose, but I could see no reason

for concocting the document on the off-chance of somebody’s being taken

in by it. I handed it back.

“You may as well keep it,” said Zorinsky. “I should have given it

to Melnikoff and he would doubtless have given it to you. I am

expecting a further report shortly. Yes,” he added, nonchalantly,

tapping the arm of the desk-chair in which he sat, “it is an amusing

game--_contre-espionnage_. I used to provide your Captain Crombie with

quite a lot of information. But I’m not surprised you have not heard of

me, for I always preferred to keep in the background.”

He produced a large box of cigarettes and, ringing a bell, ordered tea.

“I don’t know what you Allies propose doing with regard to Russia,” he

observed, offering me a light. “It seems to me you might as well leave

us alone as bungle things in the way you are doing. Meanwhile, all

sorts of people are conducting, or think they are conducting, espionage

underground in Russia, or planning to overthrow the Reds. Are you

interested?”

“Very.”

“Well, have you heard of General F.?” Zorinsky launched into an

exposition of the internal counter-revolutionary movement, of which he

appeared to know extensive details. There existed, he said, belligerent

“groups,” planning to seize army stores, blow up bridges, or raid

treasuries. “They will never do anything,” he said, derisively,

“because they all organize like idiots. The best are the S.R.’s

(Socialist-Revolutionaries): they are fanatics, like the Bolsheviks.

None of the others could tell you what they want.”

The maid, neatly attired in a clean white apron, brought in tea, served

with biscuits, sugar, and lemon. Zorinsky talked on, displaying a

remarkable knowledge of everybody’s movements and actions.

“Crombie was a fine fellow,” he said, referring to the British Naval

Attaché. “Pity he got killed. Things went to pieces. The fellows who

stayed after him had a hard time. The French and Americans have all

gone now except (he mentioned a Frenchman living on the Vasili Island)

but he doesn’t do much. Marsh had hard luck, didn’t he?”

“Marsh?” I put in. “So you know him, too?”

“_Of_ him,” corrected Zorinsky. All at once he seemed to become

interested and leaned over the arm of his chair toward me. “By the

way,” he said, in a curious tone, “you don’t happen to know where Marsh

is, do you?”

For a moment I hesitated. Perhaps this man, who seemed to know so much,

might be able to help Marsh. But I checked myself. Intuitively I felt

it wiser to say nothing.

“I have no idea,” I said, decisively.

“Then how do you know about him?”

“I heard in Finland of his arrest.”

Zorinsky leaned back again in his chair and his eyes wandered out of

the window.

“I should have thought,” I observed, after a pause, “that knowing all

you do, you would have followed his movements.”

“Aha,” he exclaimed, and in the shadow his smile looked like a black

streak obliterating one-half of his face, “but there is one place I

avoid, and that is _No. 2 Goróhovaya_! When any one gets arrested I

leave him alone. I am wiser than to attempt to probe the mysteries of

that institution.”

Zorinsky’s words reminded me abruptly of Melnikoff.

“But you spoke of the possibility of saving Melnikoff,” I said. “Is he

not in the hands of _No. 2 Goróhovaya_?”

He turned round and looked me full in the face. “Yes,” he said,

seriously, “with Melnikoff it is different. We must act at once and

leave no stone unturned. I know a man who will be able to investigate

and I’ll get him on the job to-night. Will you not stay to dinner? My

wife will be delighted to meet you, and she understands discretion.”

Seeing no special reason to refuse, I accepted the invitation. Zorinsky

went to the telephone and I heard him ask some one to call about nine

o’clock “on an urgent matter.”

His wife, Elena Ivanovna, a jolly little creature, but very much

of a spoilt child, appeared at dinner dressed in a pink Japanese

kimono. The table was daintily set and decked with flowers. As at Vera

Alexandrovna’s café, I again felt myself out of place, and apologized

for my uncouth appearance.

“Oh! don’t excuse yourself,” said Elena Ivanovna, laughing. “Everyone

is getting like that nowadays. How dreadful it is to think of all that

is happening! Have the olden days gone for ever, do you think? Will

these horrid people never be overthrown?”

“You do not appear to have suffered much, Elena Ivanovna,” I remarked.

“No, of course, I must admit our troupe is treated well,” she replied.

“Even flowers, as you see, though you have no idea how horrible it is

to have to take a bouquet from a great hulking sailor who wipes his

nose with his fingers and spits on the floor. The theatre is just full

of them, every night.”

“Your health, Pavel Ivanitch,” said Zorinsky, lifting a glass of vodka.

“Ah!” he exclaimed with relish, smacking his lips, “there are places

worse than Bolshevia, I declare.”

“You get plenty of vodka?” I asked.

“You get plenty of everything if you keep your wits about you,” said

Zorinsky. “Even without joining the Communist Party. I am not a

Communist,” he added (somehow I had not suspected it), “but still I

keep that door open. What I am afraid of is that the Bolsheviks may

begin to make their Communists _work_. That will be the next step

in the revolution unless you Allies arrive and relieve them of that

painful necessity. Your health, Pavel Ivanitch.”

The conversation turned on the Great War and Zorinsky recounted a

number of incidents in his career. He also gave his views of the

Russian people and the revolution. “The Russian peasant,” he said,

“is a brute. What he wants is a good hiding, and unless I’m much

mistaken the Communists are going to give it to him. Otherwise the

Communists go under. In my regiment we used to smash a jaw now and

again on principle. That’s the only way to make Russian peasants fight.

Have you heard about the Red army? Comrade Trotzky, you see, has

already abolished his Red officers, and is inviting--inviting, if you

please--_us_, the ‘counter-revolutionary Tsarist officer swine,’ to

accept posts in his new army. Would you ever believe it? By God, I’ve

half a mind to join! Trotzky will order me to flog the peasants to my

heart’s content. Under Trotzky, mark my words, I would make a career in

no time.”

The dinner was a sumptuous banquet for the Petrograd of the period.

There was nothing that suggested want. Coffee was served in the

drawing-room, while Zorinsky kept up an unceasing flow of strange and

cynical but entertaining conversation.

I waited till nearly ten for the call from Zorinsky’s friend with

regard to Melnikoff, and then, in view of my uncertainty as to whether

the Journalist’s house would still be open, I accepted Zorinsky’s

invitation to stay overnight. “There is no reason,” he said, “why you

should not come in here whenever you like. We dine every day at six and

you are welcome.”

Just as I was retiring Zorinsky was called to the telephone and

returned explaining that he would only be able to begin the

investigation of Melnikoff’s case next day. I was shown to the

spare bedroom, where I found everything provided for me. Zorinsky

apologized that he could not offer me a hot bath. “That rascal dvornik

downstairs,” he said, referring to the yard-keeper whose duty it was

to procure wood for the occupants, “allowed an extra stock of fuel

that I had my eyes on to be requisitioned for somebody else, but next

week I think I shall be able to get a good supply from the theatre.

Good-night--and don’t dream of _No. 2 Goróhovaya_!”

* * * * *

The Extraordinary Commission, spoken of with such abhorrence by

Zorinsky, is the most notorious of all Bolshevist institutions. It is

an instrument of terror and inquisition designed forcibly to uproot

all anti-Bolshevist sentiment throughout Lenin’s dominions. Its full

title is the _Extraordinary Commission for the Suppression of the

Counter-Revolution and Speculation_, “speculation” being every form of

private commerce--the bugbear of Communism. The Russian title of this

institution is _Tchrezvitchainaya Kommissia_, popularly spoken of as

the _Tchrezvitchaika_, or still shorter the _Tche-Ka_. The headquarters

of the _Tche-Ka_ in Petrograd are situated at No. 2 of the street named

_Goróhovaya_, the seat of the Prefecture of Police during the Tsar’s

régime, so that the popular mode of appellation of the Prefecture by

its address--“_No. 2 Goróhovaya_”--has stuck to the Extraordinary

Commission and will go down as a by-word in Russian history.

At the head of _No. 2 Goróhovaya_ there sits a _soviet_, or council, of

some half-dozen revolutionary fanatics of the most vehement type. With

these lies the final word as to the fate of prisoners. Recommendations

are submitted to this _soviet_ by “Investigators” whose duty it is to

examine the accused, collect the evidence and report upon it. It is

thus in the hands of the “Investigators” that power over prisoners’

lives actually lies, since they are in a position to turn the evidence

one way or the other, as they choose.

Investigators vary considerably. There are some who are sincere

and upright, though demoniacal visionaries, cold as steel, cruel,

unpolluted by thirst for filthy lucre, who see the dawn of

proletarian liberty only through mists of non-proletarian blood.

Such men (or women) are actuated by malignant longing for revenge

for every wrong, real or imaginary, suffered in the past. Believing

themselves to be called to perform a sacred task in exterminating the

“counter-revolution,” they can upon occasion be civil and courteous,

even chivalrous (though that is rare), but never impartial. There are

other investigators who are merely corrupt, ready to sacrifice any

proletarian interest for a price, regarding their job purely as a means

of amassing a fortune by the taking of bribes.

Every responsible official of the Extraordinary Commission must be a

member of the Communist Party. The lower staff, however, is composed of

hirelings, frequently of foreign origin, and many of them re-engaged

agents of the Tsarist police. The latter, who lost their jobs as the

result of the revolution which overthrew the Tsarist autocracy, have

been re-enlisted as specialists by the Bolsheviks, and find congenial

occupation in spying, eavesdropping, and hounding down rebellious

or suspected workmen just as they did when the government was the

Tsar’s instead of Lenin’s. It is this fact which renders it almost

impossible for the Russian workers to organize a revolt against their

new taskmasters. It is thus that arose the _sobriquet_ applied to the

Red régime of “Tsarism inside out.” The faintest signs of sedition are

immediately reported to the _Tche-Ka_ by its secret agents disguised as

workers, the ringleaders are then “eliminated” from the factory under

pretext of being conscripted elsewhere, and they are frequently never

heard of again.

The Extraordinary Commission overshadows all else in Red Russia. No

individual is free from its all-perceiving eye. Even Communists stand

in awe of it, one of its duties being to unearth black sheep within

the Party ranks, and since it never errs on the side of leniency there

have been cases of execution of true adherents of the Communist creed

under suspicion of being black sheep. On the other hand, the black

sheep, being imbued with those very qualities of guile, trickery,

and unscrupulous deceit which make the Extraordinary Commission so

efficient a machine, generally manage to get off.

One of the most diabolic of the methods copied from Tsarist days

and employed by the Extraordinary Commission against non-Bolsheviks

is that known in Russia as _provocation_. Provocation consisted

formerly in the deliberate fomentation, by agents who were known as

_agents-provocateurs_, of revolutionary sedition and plots. Such

movements would attract to themselves ardent revolutionaries, and

when a conspiracy had matured and was about to culminate in some

act of terrorism it would be betrayed at the last moment by the

_agent-provocateur_, who frequently succeeded in making himself the

most trusted member of the revolutionary group. _Agents-provocateurs_

were recruited from all classes, but chiefly from the intelligentsia.

Imitating Tsarism in this as in most of its essentials, the Bolsheviks

employ similar agents to foment counter-revolutionary conspiracies and

they reward munificently a _provocateur_ who yields to the insatiable

_Tche-Ka_ a plentiful crop of “counter-revolutionary” heads.

As under the Tsar, every invention of exquisite villainy is practised

to extract from captives, thus or otherwise seized, the secret of

accomplices or sympathizers. Not without reason was Marsh haunted with

fears that his wife, nerve-racked and doubtless underfed, if fed at

all, might be subjected to treatment that would test her self-control

to the extreme. She did not know where he was, but she knew all

his friends and acquaintances, an exhaustive list of whom would be

insistently demanded. She had already, according to the Policeman,

given confused replies, which were bound to complicate her case. The

inquisition would become ever more relentless, until at last----

On the day following my visit to Zorinsky I appeared punctually at

eleven o’clock at the empty flat with “No. 5” chalked on the back door.

It was not far from Zorinsky’s, but I approached it by a circuitous

route, constantly looking round to assure myself I was not being

followed. The filthy yard was as foul and noisome as ever, vying in

stench with the gloomy staircase, and I met no one. Maria, no longer

suspicious, opened the door in answer to my three knocks. “Peter

Ivanitch is not here yet,” she said, “but he should be in any minute.”

So I sat down to read the Soviet newspapers.

Marsh’s three thumps at the back door were not long in making

themselves heard. Maria hurried along the passage, I heard the lock

creak, the door stiffly tugged open, and then suddenly a little stifled

cry from Maria. I rose quickly. Marsh burst, or rather tumbled, into

the room with his head and face bound up in a big black shawl. As he

laboriously unwound it I had a vision of Maria in the doorway, her fist

in her mouth, staring at him speechless and terrified.

It was a strange Marsh that emerged from the folds of the black shawl.

The invincible smile struggled to maintain itself, but his eyes were

bleared and wandered aimlessly, and he shook with agitation despite his

efforts to retain self-control.

“My wife----” he stammered, half coherently, dropping into a chair

and fumbling feverishly for his handkerchief. “She was subjected

yesterday--seven hours’ cross-examination--uninterruptedly--no

food--not even allowed to sit down--until finally she swooned. She has

said something--I don’t know what. I am afraid----” He rose and strode

up and down, mumbling so that I could scarcely understand, but I caught

the word “indiscretion”--and understood all he wished to say.

After a few moments he calmed and sat down again. “The Policeman came

home at midnight,” he said, “and told me all about it. I questioned and

questioned again and am sure he is not lying. The Bolsheviks believe

she was implicated in some conspiracy, so they made her write three

autobiographies, and” (he paused) “they--are all different. Now--she

is being compelled to explain discrepancies, but she can’t remember

anything and her mind seems to be giving. Meanwhile, the Bolsheviks are

resolved to eradicate, once and for all, all ‘English machinations,’

as they call it, in Russia. They know I’ve shaved and changed my

appearance and a special detachment of spies is on the hunt for me,

with a big reward offered to the finder.”

He paused and swallowed at a gulp the glassful of tea Maria had placed

beside him.

“Look here, old man,” he said, suddenly, laying his hands out flat on

the table in front of him, “I am going to ask you to help me out. The

‘Policeman’ says it’s worse for her that I should be here than if I go.

So I’m going. Once they know I’ve fled, the Policeman says, they will

cease plaguing her, and it may be easier to effect an escape. Tell me,

will you take the job over for me?”

“My dear fellow,” I said, “I had already resolved that I would attempt

nothing else until we had safely got your wife out of prison. And the

day she gets out I will escort her over the frontier myself. I shall

have to go to Finland to report, anyway.”

He was going to thank me but I shut him up.

“When will you go?” I asked.

“To-morrow. There are a number of things to be done. Have you got much

money?”

“Enough for myself, but no reserve.”

“I will leave you all I have,” he said, “and to-day I’ll go and see a

business friend of mine who may be able to get some more. He is a Jew,

but is absolutely trustworthy.”

“By the way,” I asked, when this matter was decided, “ever heard of a

Captain Zorinsky?”

“Zorinsky? Zorinsky? No. Who is he?”

“A fellow who seems to know a lot about you,” I said. “Says he is a

friend of Melnikoff’s, though I never heard Melnikoff mention him.

Yesterday he was particularly anxious to know your present address.”

“You didn’t tell him?” queried Marsh, nervously.

“What do you take me for?”

“You can tell him day after to-morrow,” he laughed.

Marsh went off to his business friend, saying he would warn him of my

possible visit, and stayed there all day. I remained at “No. 5” and

wrote up in minute handwriting on tracing paper a preliminary report on

the general situation in Petrograd, which I intended to ask Marsh to

take with him. To be prepared for all contingencies I gave the little

scroll to Maria when it was finished and she hid it at the bottom of a

pail of ashes.

Next morning Marsh turned up at “No. 5” dressed in a huge sheepskin

coat with a fur collar half engulfing his face. This was the disguise

in which he was going to escape across the frontier. As passport he

had procured the “certificate of identification” of his coachman, who

had come into Petrograd from the expropriated farm to see Maria. With

his face purposely dirtied, and decorated with three days’ growth of

reddish beard, a driver’s cap that covered his ears, and a big sack on

his back to add a peasant touch to his get-up, Marsh looked--well, like

nothing on earth, to use the colloquial expression! It was a get-up

that defied description, yet in a crowd of peasants would not attract

particular attention.

Confident that he was doing the right thing by quitting, Marsh had

completely recovered his former good spirits and joked boisterously as

he put a finishing touch here and there to his disguise. I gave him my

report and folding it flat into a packet about two inches square he

removed one of his top boots and hid it inside the sole of his sock.

“The population of hell will be increased by several new arrivals

before the Bolsheviks find that,” he said, pulling on his boot again

and slipping a heavy revolver inside his trousers.

Poor Maria was terribly distressed at Marsh’s departure. So was the

coachman, who could find no terms wherein to express his disgust

and indignation at the conduct of the elder of the two stable-boys,

who had joined the Bolsheviks, assisted in sacking Marsh’s country

house and farm, and was now appointed Commissar in supreme control

of the establishment. The coachman exhausted a luxuriant fund of

expletives in describing how the stable-boy now sprawled in Marsh’s

easy-chairs, spitting on the floor, how all the photographs had

been smashed to pieces, and the drawing-room carpets littered with

dirt, cigarette-ends, and rubbish. At all of which Marsh roared with

laughter, much to the perplexity of the coachman and Maria.

With trembling hands Maria placed a rough meal on the table, while

Marsh repeated to me final details of the route he was taking and

by which I should follow with his wife. “Fita,” he said, mentioning

the name of the Finnish guide on whom he was relying, “lives a mile

from Grusino station. When you get out of the train walk in the other

direction till everybody has dispersed, then turn back and go by the

forest path straight to his cottage. He will tell you what to do.”

At last it was time to start. Marsh and I shook hands and wished

each other good-luck, and I went out first, so as not to witness the

pathetic parting from his humble friends. I heard him embrace them

both, heard Maria’s convulsive sobs--and I hurried down the stone

stairway and out into the street. I walked rapidly to the street-car

terminal in the Mihailovsky Square, and wandered round it till Marsh

appeared. We made no sign of recognition. He jumped on one of the cars,

and I scrambled on to the next.

It was dark by the time we reached the distant Okhta railway station, a

straggling wooden structure on the outskirts of the town. But standing

on the wooden boards of the rough platform I easily discerned the

massive figure, pushing and scrambling amid a horde of peasants toward

the already over-crowded coaches. Might is right in Red Russia, as

everywhere else. The Soviet Government has not yet nationalized muscle.

I watched a huge bulk of sheepskin, with a dangling and bouncing grey

sack, raise itself by some mysterious process of elevation above the

heads and shoulders of the seething mass around and transplant itself

on to the buffers. Thence it rose to the roof, and finally, assisted

by one or two admiring individuals already ensconced within the coach,

it lowered itself down the side and disappeared through the black

aperture of what had once been a window. I hung around for half an

hour or so, until a series of prolonged and piercing whistles from the

antediluvian-looking locomotive announced that the driver had that day

condescended to set his engine in motion. There was a jolt, a series

of violent creaks, the loud ejaculations of passengers, a scramble of

belated peasants to hook themselves on to protruding points in the

vicinity of steps, buffers, footboards, etc., and the train with its

load of harassed creatures slowly rumbled forward out of the station.

I stood and watched it pass into the darkness and, as it vanished,

the cold, the gloom, the universal dilapidation seemed to become

intensified. I stood, listening to the distant rumble of the train,

until I found myself alone upon the platform. Then I turned, and as

I slowly retraced my steps into town an aching sense of emptiness

pervaded everything, and the future seemed nothing but impenetrable

night.