was crying, really crying! Such an actress!

36

I came home at seven from the village--nobody in there! Nobody to
give me my tea. All looks empty, abandoned. On the bed pinned to the
pillow,--a note: "Good-by." My companion left me--today. And I had so
much to say to her....

She did not forget to look in my bag before leaving, as I see. I
thought so.

My diary _has been censored:_ many pages are missing and some rough
hand-made corrections in the text have been made leaving greasy spots
on the paper. Some of my documents are stolen. I don't see the letter
from Marchenko to Schmelin, the chart with Mamaev's stations, and a
few others. Fortunately, Kerensky's letter to Grimm was not taken, as
I had put it under the floor of the barn with my money and watch.

She must have had the help of the man with the specs--she would not
be able to understand my scratching. They must have been busy all day!
But what really gets me wild--almost all of my letters to Goroshkin
are here! How did she get them? I understand why Goroshkin's letters
missed me--she got them!... Now I understand what she meant by saying
that I was trying to double cross her! In fact Lucie is right,--and
that's why it's maddening. I wonder what Goroshkin and Marchenko think
of me? To whom I must seem a swine! And what a bad way of her's, to
leave my letters--a present for me!

She did what she wanted, this creature of intrigues and no
personality: with "lips of fire and heart of stone." She got in me a
good guardian of her barn, a good transport agent for her Britishers
and Letts, she tangled me up in such a way that I could not report on
her, she enjoyed the privileges of local Soviet's protection through
me,--in short all she wanted.... And here I am alone from now
on,--Good-by"--that's all. She left me this little note--and a bitter
feeling that formerly I was not alone,--and now I am. For
these sensations of lonesomeness a man should never start
companionships,--whether with a woman, or a dog, or even a goldfish.
The one who is alone--is alone. The one that becomes alone--feels
doubly rotten....

"Quidquid ages--prudenter agas, et respice finem"--and I was
a fool,--here I am alone like Shelly's moon, and
"pardessus-le-marche"--robbed! Am I not an old ass?

She will laugh with her silvery laughter in somebody else's house, she
will mend somebody else's socks, and sit on somebody else's lap. The
"other chap from Monte Carlo," will be aske