ple, London, Belgrade, Berlin, Finland, Poland, Switzerland,
Sofia, Vienna, Athens, Riga, the United States, and amongst those
elected were the following well-known Russian personalities--Burtsef,
Struve, Kartashef, Bunin, Kuprin, Roditchef, Savitch, Tyrkova, Dioneo.

This powerful organization is likely enough to go back to Russia if
Lenin and Trotsky fall. The latter are doing their utmost to safeguard
themselves, but they are weaker than the Tsar was. The Tsardom had
most of the brains and abilities of the Russians at its disposal, but
Lenin has driven nearly all the educated and trained minds out of the
country. Russia as an internationalist State is a failure; as a
peasant Communist State she has not succeeded in straightening out the
comparatively simple problems of her economic subsistence.

Of course, there are many abstentions from the Russian National Union,
and among the most notable is Milyukof who characterizes their actions
as "words without force." Milyukof and Burtsef have quarrelled.
Burtsef stood for backing General Wrangel, but Milyukof has taken a
strong line on that matter. He does not believe that Wrangel can do
anything, or that force applied externally can bring Bolshevism down.
He believes in the renovation of Russia from within. Milyukof's
contention is undoubtedly sound, but it has resulted in a wordy warfare
in the columns of Burtsef's "Obshy Delo" and Milyukof's "Posledny
Novosti," both Paris daily papers in Russian which keep up a malevolent
cross-fire on one another.

One of the happiest evenings spent in Paris was at Babief's toy
theatre--"The Flittermouse," where I saw again a programme rendered in
Moscow in 1914. Russians in themselves are the most unmechanical
people, the most emotional and unexpected in their ways. It is,
therefore, curious that they should shine so much when they pretend
that they are dolls, when they take on extra human limitations. In the
Russian Ballet it is the doll-stories of "Petrouchka" and "Boutique
Fantasque" which charm most, and so it is in the programme of the
Flittermouse Theatre, "The Parade of the Wooden Soldiers" and the
toy-box story of "Katinka" are the favourites every night.

I was touched, however, by one of their lesser successes, that was
called "Minuet," which seemed to have a national pathos in it.

A young man is sitting on a seat in the garden of Versailles or some
such place of formal grandeur. It is after the revolution and