Entry 22

22


Goroshkin brought me a passport of Mr. Syvorotka, with my description
and my particular marks (broken shoulder), documents and uniform, and
gave me a few names in Tumen which I had to remember and to whom on
behalf of Mr. Andrei Andreivich Vysotsky I should address myself.

"Your Excellency understands that nobody assumes any responsibility
for your safety. You just must be in touch with the people," he said,
"and be ready for what you were told to do, as we must have a man
in Tumen. If I may suggest, you should not speak or act like a
gentleman."

I decided to joke a bit with Goroshkin: "Go to hell, you old fool," I
said, "you damned plotter," and then I kicked a chair.

To my great astonishment not a muscle twitched in Goroshkin's face.

"Not bad, not bad," he said calmly, "but even your slang is a
gentleman's. Your Excellency should imagine having been born a swine.
That's the point. I should recommend more of silence, and if you
happen to speak,--a brief articulation, roughly conceived and
expressed. Don't bother at all with the person you are addressing."

The old man amused me very much that evening. I let him sit down
and he told me episodes of his life for about a couple of hours. For
thirty years he had been present at every performance in his theatre
and he knew the world better than I did, only by watching the artists.

January the tenth in the early morning at about six o'clock the fat
Mlle. Goroshkin entered my room clad only in a nightgown. That was the
only time I saw her pale and sordid, but she was just as uninteresting
as ever. "Quick! Get up," she said, "they are searching. Brother has
already left, and he said you must dress and get your documents and
run out. Go to Tumen, I'll send your effects there."

"They" was enough for me. I was all ready in two minutes, put all
of my money and jewelry in my hip pockets, assumed the aspect of a
wounded soldier and walked out. I barely reached Miasnitskaya Street
before an armored car full of working men and soldiers passed by at
about fifty miles an hour. Half a dozen bad faces looked at me. I
decided to continue calmly on my way, but I heard the car coming back
very soon sounding its siren. It stopped near me. "Come in, cavalry
man, there is a seat for one. They found somebody in Yousupov's
house."

I stopped and scratched my neck. "It cannot be done, I am going to the
hospital. If I am late, I won't have the bandage changed today. Could
you take me to the hospital on the Devitche Pole?"

"Are you crazy?" said the man at the wheel, looking at me with fury.
"Comrades, do you think I am going to drive so far for his rotten
wound?" and without asking for his friends' consent, he turned the
machine and continued on his way towards Yousupov's.

This was my first interview with Russia's rulers.