A victory by Tagliamento, 60 000 captives. The news arrived at an unusual time, before lunch. Our first significant victory on the Western front after Marne.
It feels very uneasy. As if it's the beginning of a civil war.
We're expecting a Bolshevik uprising any day now.
For already two weeks now the Bolsheviks, having first separated themselves from all the other parties (their support being the dark mobs of the garrison, sailors and all sorts of rejects, plus anarchists and plain pogromists), have been keeping the city in a state of trepidation: they are promising a general declaration, a pogrom with the following aim: ‘all power to the Soviets’ (i.e. to the Bolsheviks).
No self-respecting party can tolerate strike-breaking and blacklegs in its midst. That is obvious. The more we reflect upon Zinoviev’s and Kamenev’s statement in the non-Party press, the more self-evident it becomes that their action is strike-breaking in the full sense of the term. See more
Is it really so difficult to understand that before a decision has been taken on a strike by the centre, it is permissible to agitate for and against it; but that after a decision in favour of a strike (with the additional decision to conceal this from the enemy), to carry on agitation against the strike is strike-breaking? Any worker will understand that. The question of insurrection has been discussed in the centre since September. That is when Zinoviev and Kamenev could and should have come out in writing, so that everybody, upon
seeing their arguments, would have realised that they had completely lost their heads. To conceal one’s views from the Party for a whole month before a decision is taken, and to send out a dissenting opinion after a decision is taken—that is strike-breaking.
In the factories the committee-rooms were filled with stacks of rifles, couriers came and went, the Red Guard drilled. In all the barracks meetings every night, and all day long interminable hot arguments. See more
On the streets the crowds thickened toward gloomy evening, pouring in slow voluble tides up and down the Nevsky, fighting for the newspapers. Hold-ups increased to such an extent that it was dangerous to walk down side streets. On the Sadovaya one afternoon I saw a crowd of several hundred people beat and trample to death a soldier caught stealing.
Dear Serezhenka, you aren’t writing to me at all. I was so looking forward to the mailman’s arrival yesterday – and nothing. Only a letter for Asya from Kamkova. Asya is still on the estate. She was nursing Zelinskii’s son back to health after his appendicitis; he was lying in bed ill at her residence for three weeks, and now his parents idolise her as if she were a God. I didn’t go – at first they wanted everyone to go together, but I don’t like staying at other people’s; old people have an oppressive effect on me, I feel guilty for all my rings and bracelets. I am keeping watch over Andryusha. I am completely indifferent towards him, as he is to me and – in general – to everyone. With him the role of a mother is reduced to the role of a slave: he returns not even the slightest feeling – stone.
I can't think of a single Russian novel in which one of the characters goes to a picture gallery.
It was warm, with a wet snow falling. Before breakfast, I sat for a while with Kastritsky. I read for awhile. During the evening I began to read aloud Dracula.
Former Grand Duke Ivan Konstantinovich joins a Moscow firm as a scene painter.