Finally, I left the house, went to Schmelin and got his permission in a minute, and tonight—­I am leaving.

My house and all in it will be taken good care of,—­Schmelin promised to look after it.

Good-by, my humble hut!  Good-by Tumen!

III.  TOBOLSK

III.  TOBOLSK

39

The Irtysh opened its dark blue streams for navigation not so long ago.  From my place on the deck I see spots of old yellowish snow on the hills; near the banks—­the fresh, innocent grass is already daring to appear on the surface.  Peasants are doing something on the vast plains.  The very, very old story of the mythical Lei!  White and chaste birches, triste and flirtatious women amongst the trees, are trimming their Spring fashion dresses.

However this coming back to life, of the hills, and plains, and trees, this warmth in the air—­does not affect the passengers.  Who in the devil will nowadays snivel about Spring and myths?  All sentiment died in Russia; everything, at least, looks dead,—­but the co-operative Societies:  they plan a large business, meaning “trusts” when they advertise for “co-operation.”

With the exception of the representatives of the “Creamery Union” (who were fat and noisy),—­the rest of our fellow-travelers were gloomy and sordid; I rarely could detect a smile, and if there was a hilarious expression, it was at somebody’s expense, always malicious and malignant.  A boy cut his little finger and squealed for “mama” like a young pig—­people smiled.  An old woman passed on the deck and fell so badly that tears came into her colorless eyes—­smiles became bright and gay; somebody even whistled.  A stowaway was caught in the baggage room—­a pale faced young chap with a forlorn expression—­the crew committee started to “investigate” (just undressed him on the deck)—­and people became joyful and gigglish....

Is it my people?  Are those bad creatures—­our men who fought in the snows of Hungary armed with fists and patriotism,—­for the munitions were yet the subject of speculations; did these men cross the scorched plains of Persia, sent there clad in uniforms prepared for Archangel? Did they make efforts to save small mutilated nations?  Is the history of Russia—­these pages of blood and sacrifices—­made by them?  Did Russia take from them Pushkin, Chaikovsky, Mechnikov, Tolstoi and the brilliant web of savants, musicians, soldiers, explorers and poets?...

I am from this same bulk that centuries ago came from Asia and settled here.  They—­and I are the same.  But I can’t understand them!  In France, in England, in Germany, I could understand the crowd better.  But these men and women are so far from my conception....  And they all pay me back with the same coin:  they not only misunderstand me and my kin,—­but they mistrust me.  I can deceive a bolshevik commissary, or the Princess G.; these—­with their psychology never would let me come closer.  I am an intruder to their caste.