about him, some sense, too, of an outside power driving him. No, I did
not hate him, but God! how I feared him--feared him not for my own sake,
but for the sake of those who had--was this too arrogant?--been given as
it seemed to me,--into my charge.

I remembered that Monday was the 30th of April, and that, on that
evening, there was to be a big Allied meeting at the Bourse, at which
our Ambassador, Sir George Buchanan, the Belgian Consul, and others,
were to speak. I had promised to take Vera to this. Tuesday the 1st of
May was to see a great demonstration by all the workmen's and soldiers'
committees. It was to correspond with the Labour demonstrations arranged
to take place on that day all over Europe, and the Russian date had been
altered to the new style in order to provide for this. Many people
considered that the day would be the cause of much rioting, of definite
hostility to the Provisional Government, of anti-foreign demonstrations,
and so on; others, idealistic Russians, believed that all the soldiers,
the world over, would on that day throw down their arms and proclaim a
universal peace....

I for my part believed that it would mark the ending of the first phase
of the Revolution and the beginning of the second, and that for Russia
at any rate it would mean the changing from a war of nations into a war
of class--in other words, that it would mean the rising up of the
Russian peasant as a definite positive factor in the world's affairs.

But all that political business was only remotely, at that moment, my
concern. What I wanted to know was what was happening to Nicholas, to
Vera, to Lawrence, and the others. Even whilst I was restlessly
wondering what I could do to put myself into touch with them, my old
woman entered with a letter which she said had been brought by hand.

The letter was from Markovitch.

I give this odd document here exactly as I received it. I do not attempt
to emphasise or explain or comment in any way. I would only add that no
Russian is so mad as he seems to any Englishman, and no Englishman so
foolish as he seems to any Russian.

I must have received this letter, I think, late on Sunday afternoon,
because I was, I remember, up and dressed, and walking about my room. It
was written on flimsy grey paper in pencil, which made it difficult to
read. There were sentences unfinished, words misspelt, and the whole of
it in the worst of Russian handwritings. Certain passages, I am, even