Where is Lucie now?  How empty my house is!

The Princess came out to me in the garden and asked me whether I could go to Tobolsk and deliver a letter to Mr. Botkin there.

“Of course, I can, your Ladyship, if I have enough money.”

“I don’t mean that,” she answered coldly, looking with disgust at the manure I was mixing, “don’t worry, we will pay you.  I mean whether you could arrange with your Bolsheviki for a permit.”

“Why not?” I answered, “they do not want me.  I am not a rich man, nor a Nobleman....” (I simply love to annoy her).

“That will do, Alexei,” she said, casting at me a nasty look, “You may come for the letter at dinner time.  Tell the cook that you want to see me.”

She does not think that I am a man.  She hates me.  Under my beard and shabby flannel shirt she sees neither my face nor my person.  She has no shame before me:  were I in my uniform of a gentleman-in-waiting, cleanly shaven and speaking her language, and not in the one I acquired lately, she would have buttoned her shoes, gartered her stockings, and would not have shown the bad quality of her corset cover under her wide-opened robe-de-chambre.  If she only knew how her hired help understood her.

At four I was in the kitchen.  Here—­another interesting phase of life!  The woman from Moscow who claims to be a cook, does not think I am from her midst, but feels with her organic cleverness that I am an imposter.

“You,—­gentry!  You liar!  Hate your face!  Hope the devil will get you soon!” she says,—­but she isn’t a bad woman, she means well, only she is not as clean as her profession demands.  Altogether the kitchen is a mournful place.

“What is your business?” she asked, “You want to see the Princess?  Don’t lie to me!”

“My business is none of your business,” said I, “Forget it!  Better tell me if I can have some beer?  Go on, cookie, lay it out.  Don’t be so stingy!”

The stubborn woman would not give it to me, until I took her gently around the waist and pinched her arm with all of my force,—­that’s the way to get cook’s sympathies; it’s astonishing how it works!  I got some beer.

Then I was invited in:  “Come in, you scabby devil.”

“You will have to take this,” said the Princess, giving me a letter so that she wouldn’t touch my hand, “and be sure they don’t catch you with the letter.  Be careful, don’t drink, Alexei.  It’s bad to drink; when you come back we’ll give you 500 rubles.”

“Je ne le tolere pas,” she said to the Prince, “il a l’air si commun!  Il nous vendrait tous, s’il etait assez intelligent!”

The Prince did not answer (I guess he knows more than her Highness) and looked aside, grumbling something just to calm his better half.

I stared at her, just to scare this bad female, from under my eyebrows.

“Vous voyez,” the Princess almost cried, “Vous voyez!  Mon Dieu!  Quel type horrible!  J’ai peur de lui!  C’est un degenere! il nous trahira!” She complimented me in this manner for a while, and then started to give me some silly instructions,—­how to get there, etc.