their chance for plunder and glory. When John Reed and I visited the Petrograd Prefect of Police he flung his arms around us, crying: "Welcome, dear comrades. I will commandeer for you the best apartments in the city. We must sing the Marseillaise together. Ah! Our Magnificent Revolution," he exclaimed ecstatically. There was no doubt about his inspiration. The sources of it stood in a dozen bottles on the table. Under their influence he grew eloquent:
"Danton and Marat ruled Paris in the French Revolution. Their names have gone down in history. I rule Petrograd today. My name shall go down in history." Short-lived glory! Next day he was jailed for accepting a bribe.
Another romantic buccaneer in some way received an appointment as military commissar. His selfimportance mounted with every verst that took him away from Moscow. He sent word to a local Soviet that his coming would be announced by the booming of a cannon and the delegates were forthwith to assemble. Revolver in hand he strode upon the platform and in stentorian voice read his commission to the astounded auditors, punctuating each sentence by firing a bullet into the ceiling. There was short shrift for such adventurers.
But for the broad masses the Bolsheviks had infinite tolerance. They knew that the state had stupefied their brains, the church had deformed their consciences, famine had racked their bodies, alcohol
