Above: The MikhailovskyTheatre, arts square, St. Petersburg.
A ballet theatre, The Mikhailovsky was established in 1833 and
named after Grand Duke Michael Pavlovich Romanov.
Below: Boris Vasilievich Mikhailovsky (1899 – 1965), a famous historian of literature
and
arts, Professor of Moscow University and a connoisseur of
Symbolism.
I suspected, and feared, that it could or might have happened -- and so
it was!
Yesterday Mikhalovsky asked me to come to his office. He looked queer
and worried, and when I stepped in, he closed the door and started to
reproach me with every sign of excitement, so proper to him; spitting
all over my face.
"I never expected that from you! I never expected! How is it? What is
it!?..." and so on.
I stopped him and asked him to be more explicit, as I could not grasp
all of the meaning of his eloquence. After he lit a cigarette (how
many times this little thing has been a salvation!) Mikhalovsky became
more comprehensible and told me that Misha phoned at one o'clock in
the night and asked him to come immediately to the Intelligence in his
private office.
Mikhalovsky, who is now taking great care of himself,
drinks some waters, takes green pills and goes to bed at nine, became
enraged and refused, but Misha said he was an ass, and simply had to
dress and go to the headquarters. So the old thing had to dress and
appear.
Misha showed him a short note from the French Agent which
read something like this:--"Baroness B. evidently communicating with
Copenhagen through Sharp and Starleit M. General Z. to be approached,
also Quart.--General R. In one instance a package carried to
Sestroretsk by a lady in a blue tailor suit with white fox fur. Trail
lady, arrest Baroness B. Watch Finland Depot, radio to Generals Z. and
R." No signature.
My astonishment was very great, and I said that "though I have known
Baroness B. quite well since I met her in Paris and Monte Carlo
and...."
(five lines scratched out from manuscript).... "Quit your damn jokes
for a while," he exclaimed. "Do you realize, what you are talking
about? The lady with the fox -- is Maroossia!"
"Maroossia? Spying?" I said, becoming angry in my turn. "You
will have
to account for it, Boris Platonovich, as even an old friend and
relative must think over those accusations."
Then Mikhalovsky explained that Misha's man followed the lady -- up to
the house, and that it was Maroossia. Another one "listened in," and
understood from Maroossia's and Baroness B's. conversation, that
my wife took the package to a certain Madame van der Huechts in
Sestroretsk, on being told to do so by the Baroness, and that she did
not know what there was in it, and even did not know who Madame van
der Huechts was.
"You see, you boneheaded fool," Mikhalovsky continued, "what was
the
danger? If Misha had not succeeded in having his own man listen in,
and do it quietly, all of this detective work, your Maroossia would be
gone by this time." "But,"--he continued, "now the case is
closed,
as far as your wife is concerned, and the only thing I wish to insist
upon -- is to get Maroossia out of here right now. Furthermore, you
should give her a scolding."
I said it would not be omitted.
Maroossia left for her father's. We certainly had some explanation!
She cried and felt indignant, and finally understood why I was so
angry when the evening papers came out with the news of Baroness B's
arrest. Then -- she understood that she never should do anything
that was asked her "without her husband's knowledge." The case, as
Mikhalovsky says, is closed.
The last two or three evenings I spent with both Mikhalovskys. They
told me strange stories. I simply cannot believe them. First--that the
German staff sent Lenine here with a special message to some people
now in power. "We know all about it," said Misha, "but the time
is not
yet ripe to act." Second--that a certain person received a request not
to touch Grimm, nor any of the communists. Third -- the strangest -- to
get the Tsar's family out. "All of this news would have been much
fuller if only we could decipher some of this,"--and Misha took out of
his pocket and presented me with this strange slip of paper....
(missing)
...--all of these crossings of the lines are words, or ciphers, or
phrases, God knows what, and they must mean something very important
for they were taken from members of this web, and stand in direct
connection with our present, or rather our future, attitude. But that
is about as much as we know of it.
11.
I went to Cubat's for luncheon, as the cook had to go to a
meeting,--how do you like that?--and I do not regret it, for I learned
much.
When I think of Cubat's, Contant's or the Hotel de France's public
before the war, and compare them with the present, I find the
difference on the style of people simply enormous. They never were
here before,--these types of men with eyes looking for quick money,
for instantaneous riches, for some "affaires du ravitaillement
militaire." Yesterday's poor chaps, that would not know the
difference between a cotelette and a jigot are ordering and
easily eating things that it would take me some time to think of.
Democratisation of French cooking, or vulgarisation of exclusive
tastes (?) which?
I met Frank at Cubat's.... Heaven knows how he got released from
custody. I could not help it when he approached my table and greeted
me; I asked him whether he had heard anything from Colonel Makevich.
He asked me about Maroossia, so one thing led to another, and finally
the waiter brought a chair. "Can I join you?" he asked. I growled
something like "delighted" and so he sat down. The conversation at
first was rather general, and then suddenly:
"Did you hear anything of the Baroness B's. case, and how is she
now?"
he said.
This unexpected question put Frank in a new light. I had to take
several puffs of my cigarette to think over my answer. Frank gave me
time to prepare the response in giving orders to the maitre d'hotel.
Quite a bit of time elapsed after he questioned me. I hoped for an
instant that he was going to forget about it, but, alas, when he was
through with his orders (from which I understood that he either had
become rich, or expected me to pay his check) he looked at me and
repeated:
"Yes, sir, did you hear anything new of the poor Baroness?"
"Well," I replied, "the only thing that we all know: she is in
jail."
"Your information," he smiled, "is quite old. They released her
about
a day or two after this misunderstanding was cleared up."
"What do you mean 'misunderstanding.' You would not call such a case
so gently, I suppose?"
"Here we are!" Frank said, lowering his voice. "So you must know
more
than the average person. I, personally, knew only that there was an
arrest, and a release (as I saw the Baroness) after they understood
that there was no reason for holding a perfectly loyal lady. I
think we should talk it over again, but not here. I read in the Town
Activities column that your wife went to Tula. Couldn't you join me
for dinner tonight at Contant, say at seven-thirty?"
My first impulse was to refuse him flat. Then I happened to think that
my avoiding him would perhaps somehow reflect on Maroossia for her
silly behavior with the package. Besides I was interested to know what
Frank would talk about, and to know what happened to the B. And again
it interested me to know what he was doing at present. So I hesitated.
"Please do, decide affirmatively," he begged. "I feel sure you
will
not regret a good dinner."
"Very well," I said, "at seven-thirty."
After luncheon I crossed the street to see Mikhalovsky, whom I was
sure to find in the Club. He was going out with Polenov.
"Aha, dear boy!" Polenov said to me. "The wife is away, and here
he
runs around like--... (his comparisons are striking, but very rough!)
Come on with me. There are no political parties or platforms at
Nadejda Stepanovna. A little lawyer, and an old soldier are equally
welcome. Nadejda Stepanovna just telephoned there are new ones."
The old fool! As if there was a single living being in the town that
would not know that all his pleasures were reduced to kissing a
new girl on the forehead and petting her behind the ears! Nadejda
Stepanovna told me how they all laughed watching Polenov through
the keyhole.... "Thanks," I said, "I am through with the
Oficerskaya
Street." So he went alone, trying to look younger and straighter.
When he left I asked Makhalovsky to explain to me what happened to the
Baroness. He almost fainted.
"For heavens sake! Don't shout that damned name! There are ears
everywhere," he whispered.
He took me by the arm and dragged me all along the Morskaya, giving me
short and hard kicks as soon as I would open my mouth. And only when
we reached his room and he verified as to whether or not the door was
well shut, he said:
"Now what seems to be your question, and what in hell do you know
about her? Who told you that something happened to her?"
As this is the time when "homo homini--lupus," I said that nobody
ever
told me of her, but having met Mikhalovsky at the Club I thought of
the Baroness and asked.
"Well," he said, "she was released." And Mikhalovsky became
sad and
worried, looking humble and frightened.
"I am all tangled up, friend!" he said. "I think I am in mortal
danger. Last Friday Kerensky asked me to come to his office and said
she must be freed, and everything was a misunderstanding. He said he
had received proof; her arrest was a mistake. He also said that we all
must be careful about our arrests, "from the left, as well as from the
right."
"Did the British Embassy intervene?"--"Not at all (it seems
though
they never had heared of it)."
--"and here," he continued, "we received a letter signed by
Executive
Committee, Department of Political Research, saying that unless the
whole dossier of the Baroness B. was burned, the undersigned of the
message reserved the privilege of knowing how to deal with it. Misha
was so disgusted with the letter that he went to see Kerensky,
and explained that a body of doubtful prerogatives and no official
standing had no right to insult an official institution by threats.
Kerensky read the letter, studied the attached signatures and said
"that he would not pay any particular attention to the letter, that
there was decidedly no reason to think that the authority of the
Department was offended, or held in contempt." He took the letter from
Misha saying that "as I see it affects you too much, I will make a
private and personal investigation and let you know when I get some
results."
"Now," Mikhalovsky continued, lowering his voice, "Misha has
disappeared. He is not in the office. He has never come home since the
morning he told me all of that. When I asked his chief whether he knew
anything about Misha--I got an answer that he was looking for him
all over the city and could find neither Misha nor a dossier which
he needs more than Misha himself! I feel,--I know, Misha is dead. And
surely, all that in connection....
"Look here, Boris Platonovich," I said, "You must not feel so
terribly
depressed about that story. Nothing happened to Misha ..." and I
continued in that tone of consolation, though I knew how weak the
words sounded.
Mikhalovsky shook his head. "Anyhow I won't let it pass so easily.
I'll try to know, and I'll try to clear it out...."
I left him with his head down on his hands, in an agony of sorrow for
Misha, and in an agony of fears for his own sake.
At about twenty to eight I entered the restaurant, having decided to
keep silent, to give no chance to the man to understand me not only by
questions, but even by the association of ideas: I decided to be like
stone. He was talking to a chap in the hall, a tall, pimply young man
of twenty-five, in the French style of blue khaki and with aviation
insignia on his sleeve. Frank left his friend and we both went to the
dining room.
When we were through with our soup, Frank said:
"I have touched today upon the case of the Baroness. In fact you know
the story from many sources, especially from Mikholavsky.... Please,
please!" he exclaimed, when I made a movement of protest,--"don't.
So,
if you are apt in making logical decisions and conclusions, you are in
a position to understand all. Don't try to destroy anything by going
around with your personal impressions, for it really would be bad.
Just look!"
The telegram he showed me read: "Michael Mikhalovsky's body found on
the track near Vyborg station four in the morning suicide presumed."
"There is no need for explanations," he said, in putting the message
back in his pocket, "nor sorrow--all is over. But it would be an
excellent idea to appreciate this mere fact properly, don't you think
so?"
"So," continued Frank, "to come closer to our own affairs, I
must say
that a young and charming lady is leaving for Stockholm on a special
mission--I know not exactly what it is--and I must give her some
information, some of which could be furnished by you. Before I ask
you for this little information, however, I must clearly apprehend
one thing: do you feel sufficiently interested in anything closely
connected with the old regime? And if so,--how deep is your interest?
You understand?"
"I understand," I said, after a second of thinking. "I also get
your
threat. Now--my answer will be clearer than your insinuations, as I
fear nothing that I cannot see." (what a liar I am!)
Then I assumed my best poker face and calmly continued:
"I don't know, and do not care to know, what you are after, Frank.
Personally--I cannot find anything in the old regime that I would
regret to any important extent. On the other hand--I honestly do
not see anything attractive, or particularly elegant, about the new
regime. Practically there is no regime whatsoever in this present
concoction of kuvaka and elevated ideas. So, finally, damn it all! I
would be grateful to a friend who would advise me how to get out of
any activity, and of course, would not consider any suggestion leading
me into it. My decision is plain. I resign. Then I realize all I can
and disappear from this rich field of political life. That's all,
Frank."
He looked at me. He was very grave. And then suddenly his face changed
and he again became the chap that amused Maroossia and myself in
Marienbad a few years ago.
"So I feel, old man, exactly so," he laughed,--"aren't all of
them the
rottenest types one ever saw? Trash, my dear sir, trash. And I greet
your decision."
The tension which I felt at the beginning of the dinner disappeared
completely, and we began to talk about different things, remembering
the time when we met, and recollecting our mutual impressions of
1912-1913, when things and people seemed to be so very different. I
could not help, however, asking Frank at the end of our dinner:
"Are there any especial reasons to try and be foxy with me, or any
reasons to frighten me with mysteries?"
He answered:...
(several lines scratched out)
..."no such things as mysteries. This is the commonest of all planets
and everything is plain and entirely within the old three dimensions.
Some very cautious persons do not see the matter clearly--or
perhaps they are too stubborn to see it right,--and it makes them
suspicious.... You'll kindly forgive me," he added, "if I'll have to
be going?"...
After his departure--it was only about 9:30, as I had nothing to do,
I went to the New Club. No Misha there. I saw Boris Vlad. drunk as a
sailor in company with three or four other rascals; I think the short
one was the man from the Red Cross. In the card room--a gloomy game of
bridge, no word said unless for a real mistake....
So I came home and looked out of the window onto the deserted and
neglected streets of my Northern Palmira....
12.
Millions of those who fell for their countries in Europe and Asia
paved the way for a general depreciation of life; human existence
has no more value. For years they were killing people on the battle
fields. It is justified.... They were killing lately, in Russia,
officers (for the reason that they were such.) It can be understood:
the crazy mob is not responsible. But what can one think of murders?
For reasons unknown to the murdered, and perhaps to the murderers.
Here are the results of three years of war, the results of three
hundred years of slavery.
Maroossia read the news of Mikhalovsky's accident in the papers in
Tula, and came yesterday.
"Nothing could stop me," she said, crying bitterly, and leaning on me
so that I would not be too angry. "Dearest, everything is so strange!
Misha's death, and Boris Platonovich's death!... Please, let us go
away somewhere, I cannot think of you, here alone...."
I told her that I had made arrangements to resign, and why it could
not be done yet. "Then," I said, "we will go to Gurzoof, where
our
house is rotting without care". I succeeded in calming the poor girl,
explaining with all of the eloquence that I had, that Misha's suicide
and Mikhalovsky's accident in the lift had nothing in common, and that
both deaths were not to be put in the same angle of view.
Later she showed me a postal card from Misha, from Vyborg. He did not
sign it, but his characteristic handwriting spoke only too clearly.
"Wanted to send you some fruit," he wrote, "but here there is no
fruit, so you'll have to get some yourself from the South."
"Poor Misha, there was something strange about him before he killed
himself," she said. "I never asked him for any fruit. He was very
nervous, the poor boy, I see it! And to think that almost in his last
hour he thought of us!..."
Fruit from the south.... I see Misha's dead hand pointing to us the
way out of Petrograd. It is a warning, a cipher warning from the other
side of the grave; one more inducement to leave this filthy place.
13.
I again hear that something is growing amongst the bolsheviki. There
are indications that if everything passes well for them--Kerensky will
join the movement, passing from the left social revolutionary party to
the commune. Both parties deal with internationalism, and finally the
only difference is that the bolsheviki act more energetically.
The country will then become an ideal state: people would not know any
laws, would not pay taxes, would not marry, or sell or buy.... Fine!
About the last, however, I have my doubts. There will be always
somebody to be bought in Petrograd. It is in the climate, I guess.
The Allies! Our Allies who were ready to fight Germany to the last
Russian soldier.... Do they understand that the fraternization at the
present time is so intense, that pretty soon the boches will get the
foodstuffs from the very hands of their Russian comrades? They must
know that at present there are only few men to be hanged. The war
will be won in a month. Tomorrow their number will be so big, that not
enough hangmen could be found in the world to clean up Russia,--unless
some Powers wish to see Russia amputated. This looks probable.
Today saw the British Major. He expressed his condolence for our
grief. I received the impression (or perhaps I am getting too nervous
and suspicious?) that he knows more than I.
14.
Quite unexpectedly the Baroness B. came today to the office. At first
I did not want to see her, but then thought that it would be better
not to make these dangerous people angry, as heaven knows what they
are liable to do if irritated, and besides--she is so fascinating.
So she was shown in. She was veiled as much as only she could be,
for mystery and to conceal the slight and ingenious coat of rouge, I
guess. The usual feathers, rings and perfumes; and I had thought that
I would see an ascetic face tired out by seclusion! She said that she
had nothing serious to tell me, but had just run in to say good-bye
and calm me; she was not going to call on Maroossia: "too busy and
other reasons."
"I appreciate your other reasons," I said. "You have already
shown
what a friend you are. Why did you drag Maroossia into your business?
You probably are well protected against any disagreeable event, but we
are not. So next time please, use your other reasons...."
"There was no dragging your wife into my business. The package of
laces she took to Madame van der Huechts is not a crime. Besides
everything is over; so, as if nothing had happened."
"Yes, it probably is nothing. Misha would be of a different opinion, I
am sure."
"No, he would not."
There was a silence for a while, and then she said, sighing: (line
illegible...) "For instance, we wanted to give you the whole outline
inviting you to do something for your country--and you refused to
help."
"Baroness," I said, "honestly and truly I don't understand these
speculations. Just as honestly and just as truly I don't care for
them, no matter what they are for. I hate this manner of operation.
The manner! I hate plots. I hate underground work, and the only thing
I care for--is my own comfort and my own affairs."
"You don't know what you are talking about," she said, "or the
atmosphere has made you so clever, that I don't know whether you
are trying to get something out of me or not. Very well, I am
conspiring. I am now with these people, with whom I would not have
thought of being--only three months ago. As soon as I succeed--I shall
leave all and become free and independent...."
Then she corrected herself; "I don't mean to say, of course, I am not
independent now, but.... What time is it?"
I told her.
"Thank you. So you see.... What were we talking about?... Ah, yes,
indeed,--how silly of me! Well so I am in a big game. It may seem that
I am in the wrong. But think of the time when there will be a moment,
when just a few persons, maybe only one person, will be able to appear
again on the stage and become the nucleus of regeneration? And if I
am wrong--and such moment will never come--it is so easy to get rid of
those whom many persons are trying to preserve...."
"Yes," I said, smiling at her enthusiasm and innocent cynicism.
"Please omit your insinuations and sarcasm, you bad thing. I only see
you are not patriotic, or you have something personal against me."
"You can judge better than others on this last point. It looks to me
as though you were wrong about the rest, however....
(a page torn out)
"... I saw Tatiana (don't ask me questions, if you please!) and the
girl said that there are only two acceptable ways: to be released
by the will of the people, or taken against their will, a kidnapping
staged. Other methods will meet with a refusal. That is why the
Emperor refused a formal foreign intervention, for it would place them
in a position of parasites with the "ex" title. After everything is
through--all of your Kerenskys--a parasite could not be popular and
desirable.... Well, she got up,--"goodby! Kiss Maroossia for me.
And here is a friendly warning: don't talk. It is dangerous. Don't
trust. It is silly. Write to Sophie's house in Paris--it will reach
me. So sorry we cannot be together!"
She left me.
