198 CASUALS IN THE CAUCASUS 



Kenneth's choice was " the author with the largest 

 public." According to my cramped and cabin'd 

 ideas what a falling off was there ! He read The 

 Lady Trainer backwards and forwards, began to 

 translate The Selling Plater into Russian, and tried to 

 make us listen to The Roarer, o' nights, but that we 

 resolutely vetoed by slipping off to bed. 



After all, in the wilderness, " exempt from public 

 haunts," the written words of even immortals take a 

 minor place. The greatest book ever penned is lying 

 open, the book of Nature, and you may read it where- 

 soever you will. 



The greatest character in the greatest book is not 

 so interesting as the simplest of the wild people. 

 Every hour, too, you make a new and more-f ascinating- 

 than-the-last acquaintance. Or you reach the Red 

 Letter Day when for the first time in all your life you 

 make friends with yourself. There's nothing like the 

 back of beyond for teaching you your limitations, your 

 strength, your weakness, your capacity. 



But where was I ? I remember. In the gap 'twixt 

 tea and dinner. You must bear with me, you know, 

 for I hate points of any kind. Anyone who wants a 

 coherent, compact, condensed book on Caucasian 

 sport must not tackle this riot of random jottings. 



Then — dinner. Shisliks of ibex, with jam and 

 biscuits as a sweet. Not a slow dinner, but full of 

 banter and chaff and leg-pulling — it helps digestion. 

 Then — music. The murder of Samson by Delilah, in 

 more senses than one. It would have made poor 

 Saint-Saens weep to hear us. Then — bed. To be 



