As we went my companion described
his ancient revolutionary activities, his long and pleasant exile in
France.... As for the Bolsheviki, he confided to me that they were
common, rude, ignorant persons, without aesthetic sensibilities. He
was a real specimen of the Russian _intelligentzia_.... So he came at
last to Room 17, office of the Military Revolutionary Committee, and
stood there in the midst of all the furious coming and going. The
door opened, and out shot a squat, flat-faced man in a uniform
without insignia, who seemed to be smiling-which smile, after a
minute, one saw to be the fixed grin of extreme fatigue. It was
Krylenko.
My friend, who was a dapper, civilized-looking young man, gave a cry
of pleasure and stepped forward.
"Nicolai Vasilievitch!" he said, holding out his hand. "Don't you
remember me, comrade? We were in prison together."
Krylenko made an effort and concentrated his mind and sight. "Why
yes," he answered finally, looking the other up and down with an
expression of great friendliness. "You are S-. _Zdra'stvuitye!_"
They kissed. "What are you doing in all this?" He waved his arm
around.
"Oh, I'am just looking on.... You seem very successful."
"Yes," replied Krylenko, with a sort of doggedness, "The proletarian
Revolution is a great success." He laughed. "Perhaps-perhaps,
however, we'll meet in prison again!"
When we got out into the corridor again my friend went on with his
explanations.
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