We entered the dining-room, at a long table in the centre
of which sat about twenty officers in full uniform, wearing their
gold- and silver-handled swords, the ribbons and crosses of Imperial
decorations. All rose politely as I entered, and made a place for me
beside the Colonel, a large, impressive man with a grizzled beard.
Orderlies were deftly serving dinner. The atmosphere was that of any
officers' mess in Europe. Where was the Revolution?
"You are not Bolsheviki?" I asked Morovsky.
A smile went around the table, but I caught one or two glancing
furtively at the orderly.
"No," answered my friend. "There is only one Bolshevik officer in
this regiment. He is in Petrograd to-night. The Colonel is a
Menshevik. Captain Kherlov there is a Cadet. I myself am a Socialist
Revolutionary of the right wing.... I should say that most of the
officers in the Army are not Bolsheviki, but like me they believe in
democracy; they believe that they must follow the soldier-masses...."
Dinner over, maps were brought, and the Colonel spread them out on
the table. The rest crowded around to see.
"Here," said the Colonel, pointing to pencil marks, "were our
positions this morning. Vladimir Kyrilovitch, where is your company?"
Captain Kherlov pointed. "According to orders, we occupied the
position along this road. Karsavin relieved me at five o'clock."
Just then the door of the room opened, and there entered the
Chairman of the Regimental Committee, with another soldier.
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