Tram cars were running more regularly than in Moscow, so far as I could observe. The streets were poorly lighted, as in Moscow, and for the same reason. All automobiles had been requisitioned by the army and were used mostly for trucking. The city was policed by women in daytime, by men at night. It was rather startling to encounter a woman policeman with a rifle on her shoulder, but the people took it for granted, and I was told that the women were quite as efficient as the men. In spite of poor lighting, Petrograd is as safe as Moscow at night—or as safe as New York or Chicago, for that matter. Prostitution has lost its clientele. Thousands of women from the streets have found decent employment in various institutions of the Soviet Government, and are able to lead independent, normal lives. I visited one of the large textile industries, which was in full operation, employing probably three thousand men and women. They were making civilian suits and overcoats and winter coats for the soldiers. Motor lorries drove up and carried away thousands of these winter coats for shipment to the soldiers at the front. Some of the factories were closing down through lack of fuel. I asked what would become of the workers who were thrown out of employment, and was told that pending their re-employment they would be given “out of work” cards showing that their idleness was not voluntary, and the government would continue to pay them their regular wages. I visited Maxim Gorky in his modest apartment near the Fortress of Peter and Paul. Gorky is typical of a large class of the intellectuals. Two years ago he was a bitter opponent of Bolshevism, and his writings violently attacked the government. Of artistic rather than political temperament, and strongly pacifist, he was sickened by the killing on both sides. Since then, however, he has come to the support of the Soviet Government. His tribute to the constructive ability of the Soviet leaders was issued over his signature a year ago, and has been widely circulated. I had been told that Maxim Gorky was suffering from tuberculosis, and after all the misery I had seen in Soviet Russia because of the lack of food, I expected to find him emaciated. Instead, he was vigorous and healthy. He stood before me tall, powerful, with a slight bend in his shoulders. He seemed with his mass of gray hair like some huge and fearless animal. There was sadness in his voice and his gray eyes when he spoke of Russia’s suffering. Gorky himself was a child of the streets, and he feels keenly the suffering of the people.