A FINE DRIVER 281 



travelled day and night, and got over the ground 

 well. Our main standby was a small book of 

 Russian phrases which George had unearthed from 

 somewhere. We were compelled to burst into 

 post-houses which we had never seen before, at 

 unearthly hours. Once we roused a " flapper " in 

 deshabille, who informed us that she was the post- 

 mistress, at the dreadful hour of 1 a.m. She was 

 very shy and confused, and we all felt rather 

 brutes, but kept hammering away. " Loshat ? " 

 (horse). " Niet," she replied. " We must have 

 some loshats," we chorused, and somehow or other 

 we managed to get six. Soon after leaving Semi- 

 palatinsk we found ourselves in the region of huts 

 made of logs dove-tailed into each other, whilst in 

 every village, big or small, rose at least one green- 

 roofed, gilt-topped church. 



One sleigh-driver stands out in my mind from 

 that strange medley of sleighs, snow, post-houses, 

 and horses in which we seemed to live. A bold, 

 blue-eyed, buccaneering sort of a person, with a 

 game leg and a roaring laugh. What horses he 

 had 1 and at what a pace he drove ! He whirled 

 out of the yard with a crack of his long-thonged 

 whip like a pistol shot. The log hut slid past. We 

 were over a mound of snow, round a corner, and 

 out on a vast expanse beneath the silvery moon. 

 Birch covers, all of the same age and of a size, 

 loomed hazily in the distance, or showed dark on 

 the bosom of that wonderful country, which is 

 unlike any other I have ever seen. Pretentious 

 churches, domed and spired, impressive in the dis- 

 tance, but tawdry to a degree on closer inspection, 

 dominated each cluster of houses. 



