There was no doubt that the new doctrines had found their way to the banks of the old rivers. Petrograd was not the only place where revolution interfered with work, and proclamations and counter-proclamations kept the populace in a turmoil of doubt and desire. CHAPTER VIII THE MAN ON HORSEBACK September came. The padlocked doors of Nizhni Novgorod and the quiet waters of the Volga seemed far, far away. Farther still were the hectic days of early June when the recalcitrant machine-guns sputtered up and down the Nevsky. The white nights were gone. The soldier lovers and their sweethearts strolled beside the Neva now only at the invitation of the infrequent moon. The War Hotel had undergone a transformation. After living for a whole summer each unto himself alone, breakfasting, lunching, teaing, and dining in our own rooms, we suddenly came out of hiding and looked one another over. The bloodstains of the Revolution had been scoured from the rose-colored carpet in the drawing-room. The boards had come down from the broken windows, and new glass and gorgeous crushed mulberry curtains had taken their place. The dining-room, a few weeks ago the repository of armless chairs and legless tables, dumb victims of the vengeance of an angry mob, now fronted the world arrayed in white napery. It was a setting for luxury, but there was none. When Feodor served luncheon, the first course was often chopped meat and _kasha_ stuffed into cabbage leaves, and the second the same chopped meat and _kasha_ inadequately hidden by the half of a cucumber. There was no third. We had the best the market offered, and the cook was sorely tested to disguise its limitations. A new spirit was abroad in the streets. The ghost of Peter walked with firmer tread. Many of the predicted calamities of the foregoing weeks had failed to materialize. Finland had not revolted. Ukraine was still a part of Russia. The railroad strike continued only a threat. The breach between Kerensky and Korniloff, scheduled for the Moscow conference, had been averted. The reactionaries still clamored for the strong hand of a dictator. The Bolsheviki still cried, “Down with the bourgeoisie.” Kerensky strove desperately to follow a middle course satisfactory to both. He knew his people well enough to realize that the first attempt to use force, even if he had it to use, would result in a reaction that would ultimately mean the downfall of his government. In the hours I had spent at the Soviet, in the Peasants’ Convention, and talking with soldiers and workmen everywhere, I had become convinced there was no power in Russia that Kerensky or any other man could use; that the masses would regard any attempt to instal a dictator as an attack on their Revolution and would desert the man responsible for it.