He lives with his wife and son. I asked if his
son were also a Bolshevik.

"Of course," he replied.

He then read me a letter he had written, pro-
testing against intervention. He spoke of his old
love for England and for the English people.
Then, speaking of the veil of lies drawn between
Soviet Russia and the rest of the world, he broke
down altogether, and bent his head to hide his
tears.

"I suffer doubly," he said, after excusing him-
self for the weakness of a very old man. "I suffer
as a Russian, and, if I may say so, I suffer as an
Englishman. I have English blood in my veins.
My mother, you see, looks quite English," pointing
to a daguerreotype on the wall, "and my grand-
mother was actually English. I suffer as an Eng-
lishman when I see the country that I love misled
by lies, and I suffer as a Russian because those lies
concern the country to which I belong, and the
ideas which I am proud to hold."

The old man rose with difficulty, for he, like
every one else in Moscow, is half starved. He
showed me his Byron, his Shakespeare, his En-

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