He was a member of the Battalion Committee.
"I am not a Bolshevik," he assured me, emphatically. "My family is a
very ancient and noble one. I, myself, am, you might say, a Cadet...."
"But how--?" I began, bewildered.
"Oh, yes, I am a member of the Committee. I make no secret of my
political opinions, but the others do not mind, because they know I
do not believe in opposing the will of the majority.... I have refused
to take any action in the present civil war, however, for I do not
believe in taking up arms against my brother Russians...."
"Provocator! Kornilovitz!" the others cried at him gaily, slapping
him on the shoulder....
Passing under the huge grey stone archway of the Moskovsky Gate,
covered with golden hieroglyphics, ponderous Imperial eagles and the
names of Tsars, we sped out on the wide straight highway, grey with
the first light fall of snow. It was thronged with Red Guards,
stumbling along on foot toward the revolutionary front, shouting and
singing; and others, greyfaced and muddy, coming back. Most of them
seemed to be mere boys. Women with spades, some with rifles and
bandoleers, others wearing the Red Cross on their arm-bands-the
bowed, toil-worm women of the slums. Squads of soldiers marching out
of step, with an affectionate jeer for the Red Guards; sailors,
grim-looking; children with bundles of food for their fathers and
mothers; all these, coming and going, trudged through the whitened
mud that covered the cobbles of the highway inches deep.
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