he can induce the keeper to put for him on the floor a bundle of hay, which is perhaps softer, but on the whole more disagreeable than the deal board.  Sometimes he will not get even the wooden bench, for in ordinary post-stations there is but one room for travellers, and the two benches—­there are rarely more—­may be already occupied.  When he does obtain a bench, and succeeds in falling asleep, he must not be astonished if he is disturbed once or twice during the night by people who use the apartment as a waiting-room whilst the post-horses are being changed.  These passers-by may even order a samovar, and drink tea, chat, laugh, smoke, and make themselves otherwise disagreeable, utterly regardless of the sleepers.  Then there are the other intruders, smaller in size but equally objectionable, of which I have already spoken when describing the steamers on the Don.  Regarding them I desire to give merely one word of advice:  As you will have abundant occupation in the work of self-defence, learn to distinguish between belligerents and neutrals, and follow the simple principle of international law, that neutrals should not be molested.  They may be very ugly, but ugliness does not justify assassination.  If, for instance, you should happen in awaking to notice a few black or brown beetles running about your pillow, restrain your murderous hand!  If you kill them you commit an act of unnecessary bloodshed; for though they may playfully scamper around you, they will do you no bodily harm.

Another requisite for a journey in unfrequented districts is a knowledge of the language.  It is popularly supposed that if you are familiar with French and German you may travel anywhere in Russia.  So far as the great cities and chief lines of communication are concerned, this may be true, but beyond that it is a delusion.  The Russian has not, any more than the West-European, received from Nature the gift of tongues.  Educated Russians often speak one or two foreign languages fluently, but the peasants know no language but their own, and it is with the peasantry that one comes in contact.  And to converse freely with the peasant requires a considerable familiarity with the language—­far more than is required for simply reading a book.  Though there are few provincialisms, and all classes of the people use the same words—­except the words of foreign origin, which are used only by the upper classes—­the peasant always speaks in a more laconic and more idiomatic way than the educated man.

In the winter months travelling is in some respects pleasanter than in summer, for snow and frost are great macadamisers.  If the snow falls evenly, there is for some time the most delightful road that can be imagined.  No jolts, no shaking, but a smooth, gliding motion, like that of a boat in calm water, and the horses gallop along as if totally unconscious of the sledge behind them.  Unfortunately, this happy state of things does not last all through the