Shortly after their arrival, Mr. Kerensky sent two boxes of wine to the Tsar; the soldiers broke the boxes.  They do not want any “luxuries” for the exiles.  The Empress has no coffee—­it is a luxury.  But otherwise the attitude is not too bad.  M. wrote that under the charming manners of the Tsar and especially the Heir, before the Soviet rule came, the soldiers very often changed their manners, their revolutionary hearts were melting—­and then Col.  Kobylinsky used to send those “soft rags” back to Petrograd, for they might be counter-revolutionary.

Kobylinsky himself was trying to maintain good relations with the soldiers, with Kerensky (who promised him promotion) and with the family through Kornilov’s House, for the Emperor, like everybody else in Tobolsk, despises him.  The Emperor has never said anything to or about Kobylinsky directly, however.  Once only, when Kobylinsky was changing sentinels he bumped into the Emperor, and the latter said’ “Still a Colonel?” That was really a sarcastic remark!  Of course, now with the Bolshevik! everything has changed and the Family’s position is very bad.

I am well, send me some very thick socks if you happen to have an opportunity.  Greetings.  Attached—­a map of Tobolsk.

Yours,

Al.  Syv.”

(several pages missing)

26

When I returned from the Princess, tired and worried about the absence of news from Moscow and about the whole “organization” so badly and unsystematically managed, I found a dark figure sitting on my bed.  A woman was attempting to light a candle.  But even before I understood who was on my bed, the odor of a woman, fine perfume, burned hair and soap—­struck me very strongly.  I had quite forgotten during all this time of hardships this side and these agreeable ingredients of civilized life.  I took my pistol, closed the door, and always sharply following the movements of the dark figure, approached her, pointing the Browning.  She put her hands up.

When I finally saw the woman,—­I almost fainted:  it was the Baroness
B., friend or enemy, but she.

She did not recognize me at first.  Then: 

“For God’s sake!” she muttered, as if to herself, and swallowing the words, “you are Syvorotka?  My God, what a horror!...  How are you?”

“Madame,” I said, kissing her hand,—­“it certainly is a surprise,—­I hope for both of us!  How can I explain your presence here?  Who and what brought you here?”

“It does not matter—­they went away,” she answered.  She was looking at me with wide-open eyes, in which I noticed the sincerest amazement, if not stupefaction.  “Syvorotka, you!  How perfectly crazy you look with this beard!  If you only knew!” and silvery laughter unexpectedly sounded in my poor quarters—­in this place of mourning and sorrow—­for the first time since I have come here.

“Oh, you must shave it!”

“Let my beard alone, pray,” I said.  “It really is not the time for any personal remarks.  Besides—­look at yourself; there is more paint on your cheeks than flesh.  And this wig!  To tell the truth I like your own hair far better.  Your wig is outrageous.  You look like a bad girl.”