I woke after a few hours to find her sleeping soundly, and I began to consider how I could best rid myself of the girl, who would probably kill me if we continued living together.  Whilst I was absorbed in these thoughts she awoke, and falling at my feet wept and professed her utter repentance, and promised never to touch another card as long as I kept her.

At last I could resist her entreaties no longer, so I took her in my arms and forgave her; and we did not part till she had received undeniable proofs of the return of my affection.  I intended to start for Moscow in three days, and she was delighted when she heard she was to go.

Three circumstances had won me this young girl’s furious affection.  In the first place I often took her to see her family, with whom I always left a rouble; in the second I made her eat with me; and in the third I had beaten her three or four times when she had tried to prevent me going out.

In Russia beating is a matter of necessity, for words have no force whatever.  A servant, mistress, or courtezan understands nothing but the lash.  Words are altogether thrown away, but a few good strokes are entirely efficacious.  The servant, whose soul is still more enslaved than his body, reasons somewhat as follows, after he has had a beating: 

“My master has not sent me away, but beaten me; therefore he loves me, and I ought to be attached to him.”

It is the same with the Russian soldier, and in fact with everybody.  Honour stands for nothing, but with the knout and brandy one can get anything from them except heroical enthusiasm.

Papanelopulo laughed at me when I said that as I liked my Cossack I should endeavour to correct him with words only when he took too much brandy.

“If you do not beat him,” he said, “he will end by beating you;” and he spoke the truth.

One day, when he was so drunk as to be unable to attend on me, I began to scold him, and threatened him with the stick if he did not mend his ways.  As soon as he saw my cane lifted, he ran at me and got hold of it; and if I had not knocked him down immediately, he would doubtless have beaten me.  I dismissed him on the spot.  There is not a better servant in the world than a Russian.  He works without ceasing, sleeps in front of the door of his master’s bedroom to be always ready to fulfil his orders, never answering his reproaches, incapable of theft.  But after drinking a little too much brandy he becomes a perfect monster; and drunkenness is the vice of the whole nation.

A coachman knows no other way of resisting the bitter cold to which he is exposed, than by drinking rye brandy.  It sometimes happens that he drinks till he falls asleep, and then there is no awaking for him in this world.  Unless one is very careful, it is easy to lose an ear, the nose, a cheek, or a lip by frost bites.  One day as I was walking out on a bitterly cold day, a Russian noticed that one of