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!"