On and on, during long days and restless nights, our Don Quixote
journeyed--for was not Paul like that noble knight, endeavouring to
recall a long dead past unto life? After all, there was only one
Dulcinea del Tobosa--and she was still, and ever would be, the most
beautiful woman in the world.
One morning, at length, Paul awakened from a troublous sleep. The
train had stopped, and looking out of the window in the early mist he
saw some strange figures standing by the side of the track--bearded
men, mostly, with brilliant scarlet shirts, and trousers tucked into
huge clumsy boots--some of them half-covered with long white aprons.
He recognized these gentry as customs officials and porters. At last
he had reached the Russian frontier!
He dressed quickly, eager, for the first time in his life, to have his
baggage examined and his passports inspected. Usually Paul regarded
such performances as a violation of the Heaven-sent rights of an
Englishman to wander unmolested over the face of the earth. But
now--once the ceremony was over--it meant that he was one step nearer
the goal.
Having satisfied the zealous subjects of the Tsar that he was neither
a Nihilist nor a Jew, and that his luggage contained no high
explosives, nor other contraband goods, Paul's history was carefully
written down in a leather covered book, and he was granted the right
as an English gentleman to seek amusement where he would throughout
the domains of the Little Father at St. Petersburg.
The other passengers having in their turn been duly examined, the
train at last moved on, to drag itself monotonously for hour after
hour through countless cornfields and stretches of forest. At
last--and Paul had begun to think the time would never come--he
stepped down and stretched his tired muscles in the railway station at
Warsaw. The prospect of a good hotel, with a tub, a well-served dinner
and a real bed once more, Paul considered for a moment. But no! he
would push on at once. He could rest at his journey's end--this was no
time to look after the comfort of his body; the cry of his soul must
first be satisfied.
And after a brief delay he found himself again _en route_.
On his travels in out-of-the-way corners of the globe, Paul had long
ago accustomed himself to discomfort--even hardship. But he shuddered
as he thought of his dainty lady being subjected to the vicissitudes
of a long trip on those primitive Russian railways. For two days and a
night, in a heaving, swaying train, in a carriage full of reeking
people smoking rancid tobacco, he was forced to curb his eagerness. As
the time of his arrival drew nearer Paul found it all the more
difficult to endure the delay.
It seemed as if the end would never come. The country was almost all
forest now and more bleak and mournful than any Paul had ever seen.
The innumerable willow trees, with their branches drooping to earth as
if they, of all living things, denied the joys of spring, exerted on
him a strangely depressing influence.
But finally, to Paul's relief, the country became more open, and at
last, as the train rolled along the edge of a clear upland, Paul saw
the sheen of the glorious Dnieper, a silver thread beyond which rose a
low range of brown hills covered with woods. And soon he made out the
spires and domes of Kieff.
A little while longer--and then with a long-drawn sigh of satisfaction
he felt the firm earth under foot once more. Kieff at last! Paul could
scarcely believe it.
Into one of the open vans that meet the weary traveller Paul climbed,
and rode across the hills to the fashionable quarter of the town. The
Grand Hotel, he found, was very comfortable, and he retired that night
in a calmer frame of mind than he had known since he left Paris.
For he felt that he was on the threshold.
From Kieff Paul proceeded the next morning, accompanied by his
faithful Baxter, who held in true British contempt the "houtlandish
Russians," and grumbled far more than he was wont as he stowed into
the _droskie_ such necessities as a week's absence required. But
Paul's eagerness proved infectious, and before the sun had arisen they
were far on their way.
It seemed a bit unconventional to Paul's English mind to appear at a
lady's house without an invitation--even warning of his coming. But
there was nothing for it--it was the only course that offered. Those
living in Russian country-houses, he knew, were used to entertaining
such travellers as came their way unbidden. In sparsely settled
districts, where there were not even wretched inns for shelter, it
was a custom that had come about quite naturally.
Paul had never been in that part of Russia before, and it was with
more than passing interest that he observed the scenes around him. At
first he could not understand the passion which he knew Mademoiselle
Vseslavitch felt for her own country, for near Kieff the land was
sterile--the scenery somewhat uneventful. But as the leagues put
themselves between him and the town the aspect of the landscape
changed. It was early Summer or late Spring then, you remember, and
after some hours Paul found himself driven through luxuriant
vegetation. As his eye traversed the great billows of the grassy sea
he saw that one might easily become lost in the verdure. And yet what
glorious reward awaited the bold adventurer! Somewhere, beyond this
emerald ocean, waited the lady he sought.
At mid-day they stopped before a peasant's hut, in the doorway of
which a _moujik_ stood, wrapped in sheepskin and with long and shaggy
hair and beard.
"Good-day, brother; how goes it?" asked Paul, for he knew a little of
the language.
"Good-day, little father; thank God, it goes well with me," the man
answered. "What is your pleasure? How can I serve you?" and his face
unbent with a welcoming smile.
"A little food, brother, if you will," Paul replied, "for we have come
many leagues."
The _moujik_ made sign for Paul and his men to enter, and soon at a
rude table they were eating black bread and drinking _kvass_.
Fresh from the _cafés_ of Paris, Paul delighted in this primitive
simplicity. The transition from the boulevards to the _steppe_ was
most refreshing. When after a short rest they were ready to start on
again, Paul would have the man accept money for their entertainment.
But the peasant waved the coin away.
"To take payment for the bread and salt which a passing stranger
consumes in thy dwelling is a great sin," he said. "I am happy to have
served thee."