“No answer.  Do you know the contents?”

“I don’t.  But I can guess.”

“Oh!  Is that so?”

All of this commenced to irritate me.  I shrugged my shoulders.

“Very well, very well,” the doctor said, “we must not be offended.  You know what times we live in.  Won’t you sit down, please?”

The doctor was very nervous:  rubbed his hands, looked around and showed other signs of impatience.  Finally he expressed what was in his mind.

“Can’t the Princess understand how risky these writings are for us?”

“Just as risky as for the authors and bearers,” I replied feeling sorry for the lady who meant well.  “If there is no answer I don’t think I’ll return to Tumen.  I have nothing to do there.  I see all these affairs are managed in the same way, as we managed them in our country.  I am through.  I thought we had changed.  I’ll attend to other things.”

“Please,” he said looking at me with amazement, “don’t misunderstand me.  You see,”—­he tried to invent something, or say something,—­“all is very dangerous....”

We were interrupted by a movement on the street.  A crowd of soldiers (for I cannot call it a company, or a detachment,—­just a crowd of man-haters clad in uniform) passed, and made a demonstration against the Mansion.  A few stones and pieces of wood flew onto the Mansion’s roof, where they landed and rolled down with a rattling noise, scaring the inhabitants.  A frightened face looked out of the window—­and hid immediately.

“The Hooligans!” said Botkin.  “Every God’s day the same, every God’s day!”

With laughter and whistles the crowd went down the Great Liberty Street.  All started suddenly and just as quickly ended; the street became calm again.

Botkin turned to me and continued: 

“Perhaps I was too hasty about this ‘no answer.’  I should’ve said it otherwise.  I think it is of no use to attempt to do anything, that’s the idea.  If any plan will be successful,—­it will not be this,” he showed the letter, “though it is appreciated, trust me when I say it!  We are confronted with other interests, we happen to be in somebody’s game.”  He wanted to add something,—­but stopped.  “Perhaps our misery was seen abroad through this dead screen of general selfishness!  Believe me, sir, any attempt is hopeless.  Our effort only spoils, or might spoil, more cleverly prearranged plans.  Now—­if you wish me to be frank, I personally don’t believe in what I say to you.  I think the song is sung....”

“Very well, if I happen to communicate, I’ll say so.”

An old lady passed the room and searchingly gazed at me.  Then a man, tall and thin came in, got a drink of water and left.  We both kept silent.  An atmosphere of distrust reigned for a while.  I got up.

“Wait a while,” Botkin said, “I still would like to know whom I have the pleasure of speaking to?”

“Syvorotka is my name.  I’ll stay here in the hotel for a while.”