He looked at me without any confidence.

“As you please,” he said, “I cannot force you to take the mask off.  Good-by.”

We shook hands,—­and I left the Kornilov’s House.

Here I am in the Hotel.  Dirty hole—­that’s it.  No linen.  A mattress covered with spots.  Rotten humor.

Botkin fears that the efforts might compromise those who are around the Mansion.  He fears even those who are in exile.  He fears everything.  But—­not for himself.  I think he is an honest man.

There is nothing to do here—­with these scared people.  Suspicious, having lost faith in each other, and jealous!  I must try to approach them against their will,—­perhaps I can do something better than in Tumen.

It is evident that the tragedy develops here.  I would not be surprised to know that Lucie is somewhere around.

41

With my pass from the Tumen soviet and a very sure feeling of a perfect disguise, I came yesterday to the local scoundrels,—­the “high commission of investigations” as they call this filthy, impossible place where they meet.  It used to be the Ecclesiastical School in other days.  I had quite a time penetrating these regions guarded by the Reds.  The man to whom I was recommended was an elderly kind-faced fellow.  All he was saying to me was virtually addressed to the crowd of Reds in the room; as for the room, I think it used to be in former times the professors’ room.

“Yes, yes,—­your credentials are perfect.  Comrade Schmelin,—­of course I know him!  You have no such troubles in Tumen as we have here.  But—­all must be done.  And for the sake of the Revolution and the Proletariat—­we are here, and will do our duty.”

To show how much power he had, he gave some orders to the Reds.  They would come near him to take these orders, stand still as they were standing only a few months ago before an officer, and then turn in the brusque manner of soldiers.

The kind faced man—­with his sly Jewish features and bulgy big eyes, did not ask me who I was, how I was, and why I wanted the position of an “advising commissary” with the detachment.  He looked at me, and smiled,—­read the letter I presented,—­and, seeing on my face an admiration for his splendor, accepted me.  My God, how alike these people-in-power are!  I remember, in my early days, the Count Witte, a man with heavy, depressing looks.  He liked this move of a man-of-power.  I recollect Mr. Kokovtzev who liked so much to see admiration on his visitor’s face....  I see this little insignificant and blunt Kerensky, that fished for worship....  And here,—­this “tovarishch” Nachman—­sitting in his chair and ruling—­had the same identical signs of self-respect, self-adoration, and independence.  And—­with all of them—­I would, without any effort, just by instinct, get on their feeble side, change the whole expression of my face,—­even think like them, and love them,—­and win.  The instinct of accommodation is a great thing,—­and, it seems to me I possess it in sufficient volume.