Probably about sunrise on the third day something like a range of mountains will appear on the horizon.  It may be well to say at once, to prevent disappointment, that in reality nothing worthy of the name of mountain is to be found in that part of the country.  The nearest mountain-range in that direction is the Caucasus, which is hundreds of miles distant, and consequently cannot by any possibility be seen from the deck of a steamer.  The elevations in question are simply a low range of hills, called the Zhigulinskiya Gori.  In Western Europe they would not attract much attention, but “in the kingdom of the blind,” as the French proverb has it, “the one-eyed man is king”; and in a flat region like Eastern Russia these hills form a prominent feature.  Though they have nothing of Alpine grandeur, yet their well-wooded slopes, coming down to the water’s edge—­especially when covered with the delicate tints of early spring, or the rich yellow and red of autumnal foliage—­leave an impression on the memory not easily effaced.

On the whole—­with all due deference to the opinions of my patriotic Russian friends—­I must say that Volga scenery hardly repays the time, trouble and expense which a voyage from Nizhni to Tsaritsin demands.  There are some pretty bits here and there, but they are “few and far between.”  A glass of the most exquisite wine diluted with a gallon of water makes a very insipid beverage.  The deck of the steamer is generally much more interesting than the banks of the river.  There one meets with curious travelling companions.  The majority of the passengers are probably Russian peasants, who are always ready to chat freely without demanding a formal introduction, and to relate—­with certain restrictions—­to a new acquaintance the simple story of their lives.  Often I have thus whiled away the weary hours both pleasantly and profitably, and have always been impressed with the peasant’s homely common sense, good-natured kindliness, half-fatalistic resignation, and strong desire to learn something about foreign countries.  This last peculiarity makes him question as well as communicate, and his questions, though sometimes apparently childish, are generally to the point.

Among the passengers are probably also some representatives of the various Finnish tribes inhabiting this part of the country; they may be interesting to the ethnologist who loves to study physiognomy, but they are far less sociable than the Russians.  Nature seems to have made them silent and morose, whilst their conditions of life have made them shy and distrustful.  The Tartar, on the other hand, is almost sure to be a lively and amusing companion.  Most probably he is a peddler or small trader of some kind.  The bundle on which he reclines contains his stock-in-trade, composed, perhaps, of cotton printed goods and especially bright-coloured cotton handkerchiefs.  He himself is enveloped in a capacious greasy khalat, or dressing-gown, and wears a fur cap, though the thermometer may be