petak, 29. kolovoza 2025.
i was staying not long ago in a small town in the centre of Russia which I will call T⸺. It was a small, sleepy town, through which an indolent river wended its way. The houses were low, one-storeyed, built of wood and painted white, adorned with old-fashioned delicate stucco, delicate pilasters and wooden verandahs; and many of them had gardens and trellis-work arbours. The place breathed a spirit of the dying eighteenth century. One seemed to be in a kind of Russian “Cranford.” The shops and market-places, the hotel with its stiff early Victorian furniture—mahogany, stuffed with faded red rep—the squatting churches, the slow moving, leisurely inhabitants, all seemed to belong to a remoter time than ours. Here, I thought, in any case, the Revolution cannot have penetrated; to seek for politics here would be like looking p. 255for bombs in the Garden of Proserpine. But when I was waiting for my dinner in the dining-room of the hotel, when the great mechanical barrel-organ had played a tune by Donizetti out of Lucrezia Borgia for the tenth time, I was disillusioned by the innkeeper, a fat, smiling man, with a huge beard, high boots, and a loose, white untucked shirt, with a red corded waistband round it. “Here,” I said to him, “you have in any case the advantage of being free from revolutionary turmoil.” “How so?” he asked, in a slightly injured tone, which was due to the fact, not that I had suspected his native city of being anti-revolutionary, but of being void of teeming events. “We, too, have our disorders, very serious disorders,” he said, with pride. “The day before yesterday there were terrible occurrences.” “Really,” I answered, with great interest, “what were they?” “Is it possible that you have not heard,” he asked, “Why, everybody knows that the p. 256day before yesterday the Amorphists made an attempt.” I confessed that I had not heard of it, because I had been very busy, and I pressed him to relate to me the proceedings of the Amorphists, adding that I was not quite sure who the Amorphists were. “Everybody knows,” said my host, “that the Amorphists are the extreme left wing of the Free Law Party. They are to the left of all left parties, which run thus: Social Revolutionaries, Maximalists, Anarchists, Amorphists.” “But what are the Free Law Party?” I asked. “The Free Law Party,” he answered, “are those people who wish the law to be free.” “How free?” I asked. “Free Law,” he answered, “is like free trade. In some countries there is free trade. We wish for free law; everybody to be free to make whatever laws he likes, and everybody else to be free to obey them.” “And to disobey them?” I asked. “Yes, of course, and to disobey them. Well, I will tell you what happened. The p. 257Amorphists—that is to say the left wing of the Free Law Party—were getting discontented at the inactivity of the rest of their party”⸺ “What are Amorphists?” I interrupted. “It is a secret,” he answered, “but I will tell you this; nobody can be an Amorphist who recognises any law or rule, and nobody can be an Amorphist who is more than seventeen years of age. They have no President, for every Amorphist is a President. Their watchword is, ‘Death to the Bourgeoisie; away with the intellectuals; down with the students; to hell with the Jews; Life, Liberty, Anarchy; Death.’ They wear a sign nobody can recognise unless he is initiated, and whoever betrays it is condemned to be drowned on dry land, like a Catholic Freemason.” “What are those?” I asked. “Freemasons,” he replied—he had now become used, and consequently indulgent to my ignorance—“are those people who drink each other’s healths in water. Well, as I was saying, the Amorphists who constituted the left wing of the Free Law Party were discontented with the apathy of the rest of their p. 258colleagues, and they decided that this state of things could not last any longer, and that they must make themselves felt; so they decided to kill Michael Ivanovitch.” “Who,” I asked, “is Michael Ivanovitch?” The innkeeper’s astonishment knew no bounds. My not having heard of the Amorphists, of free law, or freemasons, he quite understood, but Michael Ivanovitch! That was too much. Everybody knew Michael Ivanovitch. “He is the assistant of the Police Inspector,” he said, with an air of patient pity. “They settled to kill him. Lots were drawn, and Vasili, Paul, and Trafim were chosen to kill him—Vasili the floor-cleaner, Paul the stone-mason, and Trafim the stove-maker.” (He now gave explanations unasked, as one does to small children.) “So Vasili, Paul, and Trafim went off to buy a bomb at the Apothecary’s opposite—he is cunning in the making of bombs. They bought a bomb, and they then went to make the attempt. Vasili and Paul were chosen to act, Trafim was to keep guard. It was he who told the story afterwards. They went and sat on a seat in the big street here (it was p. 259quite deserted at this hour), along which they knew Michael Ivanovitch would pass at five minutes to six, since he passed that way every night on his way to dinner. But Heaven knows why! Michael Ivanovitch was late; it was cold, dark, and drizzly, a fine rain was falling, and on Paul, Vasili, and Trafim, as they waited, a great tediousness descended. At last Paul asked Vasili if he had ever been to the Circus. Vasili said he had never been to the Circus. Paul said Vasili knew nothing of anything, and that he for his part had been to the Circus often, and that it was a fine sight. There was a maiden, beautiful as the day, glittering with spangles, who stood on a horse, and leapt through a paper hoop, and alighted once more on the horse. Then there was a Chinaman, a real Chinaman with a big pigtail, who spun a pail of water on his finger. There was also a clown who threw a great golden ball into the air and caught it on his nose as easily as a trout catches a fly. ‘Yes,’ said Vasili, ‘I know how that is done; I can do it myself. You throw the ball up like this,’ and he made a gesture. ‘Fool!’ said Paul, ‘thou knowest nothing at all. May the soul of thy mother be vexed! p. 260He does it like this,’ and suiting the action to the word he lightly threw the bomb which he was holding in his left hand into the air. The bomb exploded, Paul was blown to bits, and Vasili was left a mangled heap. “Trafim, who was only wounded, was very angry, and after taking from the mangled corpse of Vasili a Browning pistol, saying, ‘It is no use wasting twenty-four roubles,’ he went straight to the Apothecary who had sold him the bomb. ‘Scoundrel,’ he said, ‘what sort of goods do you sell? And you even dared to boast. Melinite! Melinite! Here is Melinite for you! It goes off before it is meant to. You do not know how to make a simple bomb. Cheat! Rascal!’ “‘Who says I don’t know how to make bombs?’ said the Apothecary, wounded in his professional pride. “‘I say so,’ said Trafim. ‘The bomb you sold us yesterday went off of its own accord. It was worth nothing at all. May the soul of thy mother be annoyed, you yellow-eyed Arcadia!’” “What is an Arcadia?” I asked. “An Arcadia is the same as a Cholera,” he answered. p. 261 “‘You say I am a yellow-eyed Arcadia,’ he continued, ‘and you are a yellow-eyed Arcadia yourself. You say I cannot make bombs! Look at this!’ and he produced a bomb from a drawer, and banged it down on the counter. The bomb went off, the shop was wrecked, the assistant of the Apothecary was killed; Trafim was blown through the window and wounded; but the Apothecary, who came off with a scratch, smiled triumphantly amidst the wreckage, and said, ‘Who says I do not know how to make bombs? Yellow-eyed Arcadia, indeed!’ “Now a large crowd had gathered outside, attracted by the noise; a policeman came, and every one said something must be done. ‘Send for the Chief of the Police,’ they cried. But the policeman began to cry and said he was a family man; and at last Peter Alexandrovitch, merchant, went and fetched the Chief of Police. The Chief of Police said he could not act without orders, and went to the Prefect. The Prefect telephoned for orders to the Governor, who telephoned back that the Apothecary’s house must be searched, and any bombs and weapons found there must be taken instantly p. 262to the Police Station. The Chief of Police came back with the news, and told the policeman to search the Apothecary’s house, for only the shop had been damaged. But the policeman said, ‘For the sake of Heaven, have mercy on a family man.’ The Chief of Police appealed to the crowd for a patriotic volunteer, but the crowd began at once to melt away. “‘It is not our business,’ at last he said, ‘it is the Electrotechnician’s business; send for the Electrotechnician.’ No sooner said than done. People rushed to fetch the Electrotechnician. He soon arrived, and was told what to do. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘These bombs are Melinite; give me five hundred roubles, and I will bring them out.’ The police said, ‘We have no such sum.’ Nevertheless, in an hour’s time the money was found, and by evening a basketful of bombs was carefully carried by the terrified policemen to the Police Station. Here the bombs were left, and yesterday the Governor drove to the Police Station with an engineer, who examined the bombs; he found that all the explosive had been taken out, and that they were filled with cotton wool.” p. 263 “Who did that?” I asked. “Why, the Electrotechnician, of course,” said the innkeeper. “Do you not know he is the Honorary Vice-President of Amorphists?” “And was he arrested?” I asked. “Heaven be with him, no,” said the innkeeper. “He was thanked by the Governor in person.”
četvrtak, 28. kolovoza 2025.
it was the fourth day of the armed rising in Moscow. Early in the morning some of the shops had opened, especially the tobacconists, and there had been a certain amount of movement in the streets; but later on, towards noon, a stillness had again descended on the city. From the centre of the town came the noise of artillery, and in the side streets one heard a ceaseless clicking of firing, though one could not tell whence it came or where it was going on. At half-past six in the evening, when Alexander Petrovitch Pavlov, a police officer, went home to dinner, all the city seemed empty, quiet and deserted, yet at the same time full of an intermittent, unwonted noise. He went down the Square from the Governor’s house where he had had business, past the Hotel Dresden, and stopped to say a few words to p. 244the policeman there on duty. The policeman, in reply to some question he had vaguely asked (for Alexander Petrovitch was tired, sick of the whole business and discouraged by what seemed to him to be a tissue of absurdities), said: “They are fools, little fools—nothing will come of it.” He did not pay much attention to this; he was thinking how absurd the whole matter was, and what a nuisance these abnormal upheavings were when they were prolonged. Alexander Petrovitch was a man about forty years of age. He had been an officer in an infantry regiment and had once been a man of considerable means, but he had lost all his money quite suddenly playing cards. He had been fond of adventure, and had even taken part in foreign wars in Cuba, in Greece, and in China. Then he married. He did this as he had done everything else, suddenly and impulsively. He married the daughter of a landowner whom he met in a provincial town, and he married her after three days’ acquaintance. His wife was good-looking and prided herself on her European culture; she spoke French and English. They had two children. It was p. 245after his marriage that he had lost his money, and shortly before the war. When the war broke out he went to Manchuria. He was wounded at the battle of Mukden and promoted to be a captain; he also received two orders. After Mukden he was invalided home and some influential person who had met him in the Far East obtained for him a place in the police at Moscow, for which he received good pay. He was what is called in Russian a “Pristav”; that is to say, the police officer of a town district. His wife considered that this position was an inferior one; she was humiliated by it. She also considered her husband to be beneath her in social rank (which was in reality absurd) and she constantly reminded him of the fact. Alexander Petrovitch was quick-witted, good-natured, impulsive, but hopelessly incapable of any prolonged effort or any sort of concentration or fixity of purpose. His mind continually went off at a tangent, and as a Russian proverb says, “there was no Tsar in his head.” When the Manifesto of the 17th of October had been published he had greeted it with enthusiasm, and had taken part in the processions p. 246which had filled the streets that day, and the crowds that sang the “Marseillaise” and “God Save the Emperor,” alternately, and displayed together the red and the National flag. But now he was discouraged. His innate scepticism and his pessimism which every now and then gave way to fitful outbursts of enthusiasm, had once more got the upper hand, and he muttered as he walked home through the snowy streets on that grey evening: “What a beastly state of things! What a beastly state of things!” When he got home he saw at a glance that his wife was not in the best of tempers. “Late as usual!” she said. “The soup’s been standing twenty minutes and it’s quite cold.” “I’m very sorry,” he said; “I was kept at the Governor’s.” He sat down to the table on which there were a few sardines in a broken saucer, a little stale pickled caviare which had got hard and slightly grey, and some slices of sausage no longer fresh. He gulped down three small glasses of vodka. “What about Ermolov?” asked his wife. “He has been arrested,” said Alexander p. 247Petrovitch. “He will be examined by the doctors.” “What nonsense!” said his wife, “why should he be examined? Why should he be arrested? I think he ought to be rewarded. They don’t care who they kill; they shoot policemen round the corner; they profit by the red cross uniform to kill the police; they were shooting from some of the churches to-day.” Ermolov was a high police official who had walked into a doctor’s house the day before and had shot him with a pistol for no reason at all. Alexander Petrovitch shrugged his shoulders. “It’s the Government’s fault,” he said. “There is no order and no law anywhere. Protection is everything. What does it matter what the Revolutionaries do? That has nothing to do with the question. If an officer breaks the law he ought to be punished. He won’t be punished because he’s got protection. Besides which, Ermolov is not a normal man: he is mad, quite mad.” “What I say is,” said his wife, “that men who pretend to be doctors and use the protection of the red cross badges to shoot innocent p. 248policemen in the streets, ought to be shot in the street at sight.” “The whole thing is absurd!” said Alexander Petrovitch. “What did I tell you?” said his wife; “I told you so from the very first when the Manifesto was published. I said that nothing would come of it, and that it was a mistake. What do we want with a Constitution in Russia? It is all the Jews—all this chaos is the work of the Jews. And look what is happening now. One cannot even go out into the streets for fear of being shot. They killed the Schwetzar (the hall porter) next door this morning; he had been sent on a message.” “If people would stay at home and mind their own business,” said Alexander Petrovitch, “they would be quite safe. All day long I have been pestered by people who want to pass here and want to pass there; and they know quite well they can’t. And it’s no good telling them ‘Don’t go there, it’s dangerous; don’t go there, you’ll be shot,’ because the moment you tell them that, they make a point of going there at once. I’m sick of always saying the p. 249same thing. If they go out in the streets they must expect to be killed.” “These students and these Jews,” said his wife, “come and shoot you round the corner. I always said this would be the end of it. I always said no good would come of it. It is disgraceful!” Alexander Petrovitch settled down to his dinner, and, putting a napkin under his chin, began to eat the soup, but it was cold and he had no appetite. “Where are the children?” he said. “They’ve had their dinner,” said his wife. “Kolia and Peter are reading in the next room.” Alexander Petrovitch called his children, and two little boys came into the room. Kolia, a fair-haired, pasty-faced boy with large grey eyes, was aged nine, and Peter, a fat, dark-haired little creature in a sailor’s suit was aged seven. Peter climbed on to his father’s knee and his father asked him what he had been doing. “We’ve been making bombs with the snow,” said Peter; “and playing at the Revolution. Kolia was a policeman and I was a Social p. 250Democrat, and I made a bomb and threw it at him and killed him.” “How dare you play such games?” said their mother—“that’s all your fault,” she added to her husband; “it’s you who have put such ideas into their heads. Heaven knows when children begin to get such ideas; I think the end of the world is come. Look at our schools: the children can’t read; the universities are all in the hands of the Jews. The girls at school have all gone quite mad. Nothing but hysteria, hysteria, hysteria! It’s a disgrace. Don’t let me ever hear of your playing such games again,” she said to the children. The children, used to perpetual scolding, said nothing. Alexander Petrovitch laughed. “At least, I hope,” said his wife, “that the result of all this, and of your having to do all this extra work, will be that you will get promotion.” “I doubt it,” said Alexander Petrovitch. “I have got no protection, and protection is everything. I have finished my dinner. I want some tea.” His wife called Sasha, the maid, and told p. 251her to bring the samovar, and then scolded her violently because it was not ready. She then made a further scene about the way in which the lemon was cut. Finally the samovar was brought, Alexander Petrovitch was given his tea and began smoking cigarette after cigarette in gloomy silence. His wife sat at the head of the table and said nothing. The children played in the corner with some wooden soldiers, and every now and then a dull boom was heard outside, and once or twice the window shook and rattled. “Guns!” said Alexander Petrovitch. “They are firing in the Tverskaia, I suppose.” At that moment the bell rang. “I think,” said Alexander Petrovitch’s wife, “that it must be Ivan Ivanovitch; he said he would come round this evening if he could.” “I shall have to go presently,” said Alexander Petrovitch; “I’ve got to go back to the office.” Then the door was opened, and seven or eight people walked into the room. They were young schoolboys and students between the ages of sixteen and eighteen, and there were two girls with them. p. 252 Alexander Petrovitch and his wife were surprised at this influx of guests, and the children stood up in the corner and stared. “Whom have I the honour to address and what can I do for you?” said Alexander Petrovitch. A young student with long black hair, a seedy overcoat, and a worn fur cap appeared to be the spokesman of the group, and, taking off his cap, said: “We are the representatives of the flying column of the Social Revolutionaries. We have come to carry out our orders.” Alexander Petrovitch’s wife stood up and turned pale. The schoolboys and the students surrounded Alexander Petrovitch and, linking their arms in his, forced him out of the room. He turned round and looked at his wife and the children. “I thought as much!” he said. Then he was pushed out of the room and down the staircase. All this happened in a moment. His wife stood still as though transfixed, and could not move or utter. Two or three minutes passed in breathless silence, and Peter began to cry. They had p. 253left the door open. The banging of the street door was heard, and then two or three shots rang out. Sasha, the maid, came rushing into the room, screaming with all her might— “They have killed Alexander Petrovitch in the yard!”
srijeda, 27. kolovoza 2025.
irina andreevna was a fair-haired, blue-eyed girl aged twenty-two. She went to lectures at the St. Petersburg University in the daytime; in the evening she went to balls and parties. Irina was an orphan, but she lived with an aunt of hers in a large house in St. Petersburg, where on Thursday evenings there was always a considerable gathering of girls and young men, officers chiefly. When the war broke out in 1904, Irina spent all the days at the hospital, learning to tend the sick and the wounded, and making bandages and clothes for the soldiers at the war. In 1905, when peace was declared, and followed by tumultuous events, she was deeply infected by the atmosphere of excitement which prevailed everywhere, the wild hopes and the great expectations. She went to public p. 234meetings and attended private discussions—the private discussions of small groups of students, men and women, which took place in private houses. All the people who attended these informal meetings belonged, as far as their political opinions were concerned, to the Extreme Left. Some of them called themselves Social Democrats, others Social Revolutionaries. Irina’s special friend belonged to the extremer shade of the latter party. Irina’s nature was enthusiastic; she hated compromise. She wanted all or nothing. Violent means such as terrorism or assassination seemed to her of no account where the cause was great and the end noble. As the months went on, she became more and more closely bound to the more ardent spirits among the Social Revolutionaries, and they regarded her as one of their most inspiring leaders. But she continued during all this time to live the ordinary life of the St. Petersburg society, to talk and dance with the young officers at evening parties, and go to the opera, and to take part in sledging and ski-ing parties. Neither her relations nor any of her ordinary acquaintances suspected the p. 235intensity of the inner life that was going on within her. They knew she was interested in politics, but so was everybody else. Her friends chaffed her for being what they called “red”; but then a great many people were red. In February 1906, her uncle, General Steinberg, a brother of her deceased father, was appointed to the Governorship of O., a large manufacturing city. It was just at this time that she joined the branch of the Social Revolutionaries which called themselves Maximalists, and whose business it was to remove by violence the persons whom they considered to be obstacles in the way of their cause. These people, when they had decided that some one should be removed, drew lots among themselves as to who should accomplish the deed of destruction. It so happened that, in February 1906, the Executive Committee of the Maximalists condemned General Steinberg to death for suppressing certain riots in the town of O., during which affray a certain number of workmen had been killed and wounded. Lots were drawn as to who should kill General Steinberg—and the lot fell to Irina, his niece. She p. 236received the decision with calm, and made preparations for leaving St. Petersburg. She told her aunt she was going to Moscow to stay with some intimate friends of the family: from Moscow it is but a short distance to O. Her relations saw her off at the station, also a young man in the regiment of the Chevalier-Gardes, who was particularly devoted to her. She seemed in excellent spirits. When she arrived at Moscow she went straight to O., and stayed at the hotel, from whence she wrote a letter to her uncle saying that she was on her way to the estate of her St. Petersburg relations, which was a night’s journey from O. Everything was made easy for her, for the next morning she received a letter from him asking her to come to luncheon at half-past twelve. The next morning at the appointed time she started off in a sledge to the Governor’s house, wrapped in a fur shuba, and in her muff was concealed a small dynamite bomb capable of enormous destruction. Her uncle greeted her with the utmost simplicity and affection. He was a short, grey-haired man between fifty and sixty, with p. 237a thick grey moustache and kind blue eyes. He was a widower and had no children. He took her into his sitting-room. “My dear little Irina,” he said, kissing her on both cheeks, “it is years since I’ve seen you; I should not have recognised you, you’ve grown into such a lovely grown-up creature. It is lucky that I have been appointed here, just on your way to X. (the country estate of Irina’s relations), but why did you go to the hotel? Another time you must stay here. And mind, I expect to see you often now; you must stop here every time you go to X. There is always plenty of room in this old barrack of a house. But come, we will go and have something to eat.” And he took her into the dining-room. “We shall be quite alone,” he said. “It is better, isn’t it? When you were a little girl, when we were all at X. together, you used to love pancakes; you never could have enough; so I’ve had some made to-day. And my cook understands how to make them properly.” Irina blurted out a few confused phrases. Her uncle could not get over the fact that she was grown up; that she was a tall and pretty p. 238girl. He took her to the window to observe her properly, and he kept on making exclamations of admiration and surprise. Then he led her to the sideboard, and chose out for her titbits among the hot and cold zakouski (hors-d’oeuvre) that were there. “It does one good,” he said, “to see a face like yours in this detestable hole. I can’t tell you what a life it is. One never has a moment’s peace, and nobody is satisfied. There are fifteen or sixteen different parties in the town, all quarrelling. I have to settle everything. There are Revolutionaries, Social Democrats, Social Revolutionaries, Maximalists, Minimalists, merchants, students, Jews, anti-Jews, Reactionaries, the Alliance of the Russian People—all fighting against each other, and all appealing to me to settle their difficulties; and if one does manage to keep things smooth, what thanks does one get from the Government? Absolutely none. The other day all the Reactionaries, the Alliance of the Russian People, and so forth, met together and sang the National Hymn and collected a crowd of hooligans, and went to set fire to the school. I had to go down and make a speech p. 239to them, and it was with the greatest difficulty I got them away. “Then the other day there was a man called Savin, who was arrested for making revolutionary propaganda among the troops. He sent and appealed to me to be allowed to go and see his son, who, he said, was dying of scarlet fever. I gave him permission, and it turned out that the son had not got scarlet fever at all; that the whole thing was a pretext; and he took advantage of the occasion to shoot a policeman and to get away. The result of this is that the Reactionaries here say I am a Revolutionary, and, of course, the Revolutionaries say I’m a satrap and a brutal oppressor, and all the rest of it. But it doesn’t matter what one does, it is impossible to satisfy any one. And every day I receive threatening letters from both sides: letters from people telling me I am a traitor to my country, that I am sold to the Jews and in league with England and all the Continental finance; and others saying that I am an executioner, and the enemy of freedom and of light. However, why should I bore you with all these stories? Let’s talk of more cheerful things.” p. 240 They sat down at the table. “Here are the pancakes,” he said. “The country is turned upside down, but we have to go on eating pancakes just the same, don’t we? The best thing is not to think at all in times like this.” Irina looked at him and smiled; she found it difficult to speak. But he did not give her much opportunity, for he went on gaily, talking first about one thing, then about another—of the coming elections, of the plays that were being acted in St. Petersburg and Moscow, of the modern literature and its hysterical tendencies; and he told many amusing anecdotes illustrating the strange anomalies and the curious ideas that were rife in the present condition of things. When they had finished eating, he said: “Now, you must come into my own sitting-room, where no one is allowed to disturb me, and I will have at least a half-hour of human intercourse before I go back to my convict’s existence; because, you know, my dear, a Governor’s life is worse than a convict’s. At least, a convict does not have to make up his mind twenty hundred times a day p. 241about questions which cannot be solved at all.” He led her into his sitting-room, which was as simply furnished as possible: it contained a large writing-table and a low divan; the carpets had holes in them; there was a gramophone and a small piano. “That gramophone,” he said, “is my one consolation. When I am tired I turn it on and listen to gipsy songs and to Caruso.” He hummed a tune from an Italian opera. “It’s a beautiful gramophone; you must hear it,” and he fixed a Caruso record on it which sang a song from Cavalleria Rusticana. When this was over he talked on for about twenty minutes, of the memories of his youth, of his travels, and many trifling episodes concerning their common relations and acquaintances. Presently he looked at his watch. “My time is really up,” he said, “and now I want to talk to you seriously. You know, Irina, I am alone in the world, and you have got no parents either; so that in a kind of way I look upon myself as your father, and I want you to treat me like a father. I want you to come here whenever you like and to confide in me if ever you have p. 242anything that troubles you in any way. And I will always be ready to do anything I can for you; because, you know, little Irina, I am very, very fond of you. And now, I’m afraid my time is up, and I must go back to my work.” He kissed her on both cheeks, and made the sign of the cross on her face. “God bless you,” he said. Irina left the house, and the General rang for his aide-de-camp and settled down to his work. Ten minutes later a loud explosion was heard in the street where the hotel was situated at which Irina had stopped. She had thrown her bomb, but the street was empty at the time, and she had killed no one save herself.
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