from the train at Vladivostok, we were to find a replica of the Soviet we had left at Petrograd, seven thousand miles away.
In six months the Soviet had struck its roots deep into the Russian soil, crowded out all rivals, resisted the shock of every attack, and now held undisputed sway from the Arctic Ocean on the north to the Black Sea on the south, from Narva looking upon the Atlantic all the way to Vladivostok here on its promontory looking into the Pacific.
Vladivostok is a city built on hills, with streets as steep as Alpine paths. But with an extra horse attached to the droshky's shafts, we rattled over the cobbles as swiftly as we did along the level wood-paved prospekts of Petrograd. The main highway, Svetlanskaya, lies folded up and down across the hills, flanked by the commercial houses of the French and English, the International Harvester, and the buildings of the new rulers of Russia—the Red Fleet, and the Soviet of Workmen's Deputies.
Massive fortresses frowned from all the hills around, but they were harmless as dove-cotes. In the first days of the war they had been dismantled, and the great guns shipped to the Eastern front. A defenseless city, into which extends a peculiar tongue of water called the Golden Horn. Here the Allied battleships, uninvited, rode at anchor. Their flags were a welcome sight to the fleeing emigres at the end of the long Siberian journey. With a sigh of relief here they settled down. Soon, they believed,
