TAGANROG,
April 2, 1887.


The journey from Moscow to Serpuhov was dull. My fellow-travellers were
practical persons of strong character who did nothing but talk of the
prices of flour....

... At twelve o'clock we were at Kursk. An hour of waiting, a glass of
vodka, a tidy-up and a wash, and cabbage soup. Change to another train. The
carriage was crammed full. Immediately after Kursk I made friends with my
neighbours: a landowner from Harkov, as jocose as Sasha K.; a lady who had
just had an operation in Petersburg; a police captain; an officer from
Little Russia; and a general in military uniform. We settled social
questions. The general's arguments were sound, short, and liberal; the
police captain was the type of an old battered sinner of an hussar yearning
for amorous adventures. He had the affectations of a governor: he opened
his mouth long before he began to speak, and having said a word he gave a
long growl like a dog, "er-r-r." The lady was injecting morphia, and sent
the men to fetch her ice at the stations.

At Belgrade I had cabbage soup. We got to Harkov at nine o'clock. A
touching parting from the police captain, the general and the others.... I
woke up at Slavyansk and sent you a postcard. A new lot of passengers got
in: a landowner and a railway inspector. We talked of railways. The
inspector told us how the Sevastopol railway stole three hundred carriages
from the Azov line and painted them its own colour. [Footnote: See the
story "Cold Blood."]

... Twelve o'clock. Lovely weather. There is a scent of the steppe and one