They speak of putting the Emperor in jail,—­the St. Peter and Paul Fortress.  On the other hand Polenov was told that Kerensky won’t tolerate any abuse to “private citizens.”  How about other private citizens?

18.

So finally they all lost.

The Emperor was taken away,—­and both Mikhalovskys died for nothing, just looking for the plotters, I think, or, perhaps, they were plotting themselves?

Mr. Kerensky did not dare to do it himself personally, as he used to say it repeatedly in Tsarskoye.  No!  Lies usually led him to other things:  to give to the Family a “detachment of special destination” under Col.  Kobylinsky (a fine man,—­Emperor’s A.D.C. during the Empire, and his jailer during the Republic!) and Monsieur Makarov, under whose command they all left for Tobolsk.  I had to buy a map.  Sorry to ascertain it, but I have always mixed up Tomsk, Tobolsk and Yakutsk.  Which was which was a puzzle to me.  We Russians must be proud of our perfect ignorance of Siberia.

Monsieur Makarov?  Nobody knew him, but, of course, Polenov.  “Oh,” he said, when I told him the news, “Makarov.  A man who looks like Turguenev, smells of French perfumes, speaks of the arts and is a contractor!?...  Of course I know of him.  He is from the “Brussov and Makarov Contracting Company”—­the rascal!  Kerensky knew him long ago, I am sure.  The first thing when he got powerful he appointed Makarov as something in the Ministry of Beaux-Arts!”

From what I learned afterwards from Admiral and B-tov, all of “the rats of Tsarskoye” ran away.  Only a few remained with the family:  Botkin,—­Capt.  Melnik, Countess G. and her governess, M-e Sch., and Gillard.  That’s about all I guess that I know of—­maybe some will join them afterwards.  I am so sorry I had to go to Tula when they took the Family.  I’d have gone to watch the departure with the Admiral.

Petrograd simply died.  The city does not reflect a thing.  All seem to be satisfied with mere existence, and to have lost interest in the rest of the world.  They look animated when it comes time to converse of food and clothes....  Funny, strange, weird city!  They don’t clean the streets any more.... and everybody finds it natural.  There is nothing in the stores—­and we feel perfectly at ease.  The country is being maliciously run down—­and all repeat that fiction of building up.

Perhaps the only place that has not changed since its foundation is the Club.  The same old grouches are there, on the same sized seats, with the same expressions of old indigestion and fresh gossip.  Boys keep up!  The revolution will probably bring the sacred card games onto the streets.  Your progressive institution must preserve the classic rules for the next generations.

People now are divided into two distinct camps:  those of today, and those of yesterday.  The former—­cover their disgust under a smile of opportunism; kin and kind—­don’t.  We hate each other, and envy each other,—­as we cannot see which way things will turn....  We will be united only if the ones of to-morrow,—­the commune, the third class of people happen to take into their hands the war machinery.  Then we both will be crushed, annihilated, forgotten.  It is coming....