ble quite, on some sacred shelf in a Fifth Avenue boot-shop.

Such were the shoes of Dorothy. Such her heroes; and yet I did not see the analogy except by accident.

It was a damp, rainy morning. Dorothy came over to the desk stumped by one of the noblest families in France. The shoes were at their worst that morning owing to the weather. I could hear them squeak soggily as she came up behind me. "I never did see such a one as this," she said: "T-a-l-l-e-y-r-a-n-d."

"One of the oldest lasts in France," I said. "That one was a bishop." "He must have been a mighty funny bishop," said Miss Lewis.

"He was," I agreed. The remark showed, I think, appreciation of the great man's character.

It was spring on my front lawn that morning, as it had been in Madison Square in Poythress's book. Some sort of a bird-I imagine it was a robin-was hopping about in the grass, in an awkward sort of way, as if he had been indoors all winter and had forgotten how to hop. It was the season of reincarnation, of new births, new clothes, new ideas and shoes, new inspirations! The duchesses! Pooh! they were old, dead things; the snows of three centuries had fallen on their graves. Spelling over their extinct distinctions bored me, just as it bored Dorothy. They were all of them glib, impotent, tiresome. The newspaper reporter, poor, virtuous, and strong, compared favorably that morning with even so exalted a personage as the Prince Bishop of Autun. He talked like an ass, to be sure, whereas his grace was, at least, "a funny bishop." But Talleyrand was certainly nobody's hero, whereas the reporter

The squish of Dorothy's shoes sounded soggily behind me.

"By George!" I cried, "I've got it." "We'll make them out of real leather." Dorothy stood in the shoes and stared. The stare disconcerted me.

"I mean," I stammered, "the binding of my book."

"Oh," said Dorothy. "Yes, real leather is lots prettier. But ain't it awfully expensive?"

"What," I asked, "is the use or the sense of a cheap hero?"

In her frightened glance I saw the recrudescence of all the suspicion so carefully planted by the prudent Misses Leiter. Dorothy did not think I was inspired. She thought I was having a fit. She looked doubtfully toward the door.

"Miss Lewis," I implored, "if you were to leave me I should have to hang myself to the chandelier in order to get to heaven to talk to Poythress. And all I ask is-have you ever written a book?"

Her hand was on the door-knob. She hesitated. I looked at the chandelier. "Once," she admitted.

"I knew it!" I cried.

"But it didn't go very far," she added. I had foreseen even this. "I couldn't," she explained, "make the conversations go right." "Of course, I noticed it."

She shivered a little, but held her ground. "Otherwise," she added, "it was a pretty good book."

"I haven't a doubt of it. Like that story of Poythress's. That was a pretty good story, too?"

"Sure," said Dorothy. "Do you remember it?"

"All of it except the conversations." "There was one place" she began. "Stop!" I cried. "You must begin at the beginning."

"What are you going to do?" said Miss Lewis.

"Oh," I said, "I am just going to put in the conversations."

And, on my soul's sincerity, that is all I have done. Otherwise, the book is all Dorothy's, just as she took it from Poythress.

The narrative will be one of the most absorbingly interesting chapters of the memoirs left by the count, which, now that the revolution makes their publication possible, will probably be brought out before long.

It may be added that the Czar never forgave the count for having forced him to this hated decision; from that time Witte was given no part in active politics. The first Douma sat for barely two months and was then dissolved. All efforts at resistance were vain: the Czar, backed solidly by the reactionary party and supported by the army, which was at that time loyal as a whole, came out victorious, sternly repressing any attempt at a popular uprising; and during the following years autocracy had but one idea -to regain little by little the few liberties which had been conceded to the nation.

When the Great War broke out in 1914 it showed, as in a magnifying mirror, all the defects and injustices of autocratic rule. In order to defeat the enemy it was not only necessary to have brave soldiers, for Russia can count her courageous fighting men by millions-it was, above all, indispensable to have systematic organization of all the strength of the country, in order to concentrate it for decisive effort. Of this organization the government of the Czar was, taken as a body, incapable. The country, working through its most responsible representatives in the Douma and in the zemstvos, or provincial assemblies, did what it could to remedy the official incapacity, but all efforts met with persistent opposition on the part of the higher administration.

In the spring of 1915 the army of the Grand Duke Nicholas, which had overrun the whole of Galicia, crossed the Carpathians, and invaded the plains of Hungary, was forced to retire before the vigorous offensive of Mackensen because the short-sighted authorities at home had allowed it to run out of shells and even of rifles.

The minister for war was then General Soukhomlinof. He was totally unprepared, but his notorious incapacity was not perhaps his worst defect. For a long time he was closely associated with Colonel Miassoeidof, a traitor who was later convicted of espionage on behalf of Ger

many and sentenced to be hanged by order of the Grand Duke Nicholas.

After the reverses which obliged the great retreat through Poland and Galicia the Czar, afraid of further disaster, recalled to the ministry of war General Polivanof, a competent man, who had the further advantage of possessing the confidence of the people. He set to work at once to give the army what it so sorely needed, and it was thanks to his efforts that General Brussilof was able to make his brilliant and successful advance in the spring of 1916.

But General Polivanof had one grave defect-he was no courtier and for that reason not in favor with Nicholas II, who soon removed him from his ministry. Between the Czar and his people the breach widened. The nation urgently demanded, by the voice of the Douma, by means of the press, and by manifestations of public opinion everywhere, that, if the country could not have a parliamentary and constitutional government, it should at least have men in power who were honest and competent and whom their fellow countrymen could trust. These men were indicated with astonishing unanimity. They were: M. Sazonof, for the Ministry of Foreign Affairs; General Polivanof, for War; Count Ignatief, M. Goutchkof, etc., etc. The Czar, who resented these expressions of popular opinion, held back, reluctant to acknowledge any will except his own, while in point of fact he was entirely under an influence which grew day by day stronger and more dangerous-that of the Czarina. Now that Nicholas II is a closely guarded prisoner in his own palace, and threatened with an imprisonment which may be still more strict, whoever comments on him is naturally reluctant to judge him harshly. Great misfortune, like death, claims great indulgence; nevertheless, in order to give an intelligent idea of the drama of which Russia is now the stage I must try to sketch briefly the psychology of its principal actor.

Of feeble will and limited intelligence, he has a superstitious belief in his own divine infallibility as Czar, believing himself to be called by God to rule over his great empire. He has shown an almost

invincible repugnance to giving up even the least shred of absolute power, and yet, by a strange contradiction, he has become more and more submissive to the will of the Czarina, who, toward the end, has been able to make him see entirely through her eyes. This mixture of stubbornness and weakness seems to be the essential characteristic of Nicholas II. I have often asked the men who were in a position to know him most intimately, such as members of his court, ministers, generals, or diplomatists, what he was really like, and their answer was always the same that he only listened to the Czarina and the Czarina only listened to Rasputin. Here are a few facts of which I can guarantee the authenticity. One of his ministers, the foremost diplomatist in Russia and a man of the most signal integrity of character, tried with all his might to induce the Czar to proclaim the autonomy of Poland. This statesman felt that there was no time to lose, for if Russia did not make this concession at once the Central Powers would do so ahead of her, thus winning over many of the Poles and gaining considerable material and moral strength. By dint of perseverance he finally succeeded in convincing the Czar, and during a council of ministers which was held at the Stavka, or Great General Headquarters, the plan was adopted after a long discussion. The Czar gave his formal assent to it and said to the minister: "Go back to Petrograd, draw up the plan in all its details, send it to me here, and I will sign it." Back went the minister to Petrograd overjoyed, and there he confided his delight to a friend, another diplomat, from whom I had the story. The minister was naturally proud of having gained his end, because he believed that granting Polish autonomy would have an effect upon the world much to the advantage of Russia, so he shut himself up in his study with two secretaries and worked day and night to get the plan finished.

Two days afterward he was stupefied at receiving the following despatch from the Czar:

"MY DEAR X—

"On account of the state of your health, and in accordance with your own wishes,

so often expressed to me, I have consented to relieve you from the cares of your ministry, which must now be overwhelming. I have decided that you may still be useful to your country as a member of the Council of the empire.

NICHOLAS."

The statesman had never been better in his life (unless, indeed, he was seized with illness after receiving the imperial telegram) and at no time had he ever asked to be relieved of his ministry.

What had happened? Just this-as soon as it came to the ears of the Czarina that the decree for the autonomy of Poland was to be signed she started for the Stavka, where she made the Czar a terrible scene, reproaching him with dismembering his empire, sapping the foundations of his sovereign power, etc., etc. Nicholas II finally yielded, as he always did, and then followed the line of least resistance by removing his minister in order not to be obliged to face him again.

Another instance. The Czar had an aide-de-camp, Prince Z., who was also his most intimate friend, having been his comrade from boyhood; they saw each other constantly; it is scarcely too much to say that they were always together. In 1915 Nicholas II, as usual following the advice of the Czarina, who feared the growing popularity of the Grand Duke Nicholas, decided to take from him the chief command of the armies and send him to the Caucasus. The prince thought it his duty to call the attention of his sovereign to the unfavorable comments which such a proceeding would provoke, and pointed out to him, respectfully but firmly, that he might find it a difficult task to manage the affairs of the empire and at the same time lead its armies. The Czar listened in silence. That same evening, however, the prince received an order to go to the Caucasus immediately, and was further informed that the Czar did not consider it necessary to see him again before he left. Traits of this sort show of what stuff a man is made.

Let us now turn to the Czarina, and in her case it is impossible to have either consideration or indulgence. It is not too much to say that she has been the evil