which will be sure to appeal to him: in exalting people even to God we do not sin against love, but, on the contrary, we express it. One must not humiliate people--that is the chief thing. Better say to man “My angel” than hurl “Fool” at his head--though men are more like fools than they are like angels. TO HIS SISTER. 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 hears the birds sing. I see my old friends the ravens flying over the steppe. The barrows, the water-towers, the buildings--everything is familiar and well-remembered. At the station I have a helping of remarkably good and rich sorrel soup. Then I walk along the platform. Young ladies. At an upper window at the far end of the station sits a young girl (or a married lady, goodness knows which) in a white blouse, beautiful and languid. [Footnote: See the story “Two Beauties.”] I look at her, she looks at me.... I put on my glasses, she does the same.... Oh, lovely vision! I caught a catarrh of the heart and continued my journey. The weather is devilishly, revoltingly fine. Little Russians, oxen, ravens, white huts, rivers, the line of the Donets railway with one telegraph wire, daughters of landowners and farmers, red dogs, the trees--it all flits by like a dream.... It is hot. The inspector begins to bore me. The rissoles and pies, half of which I have not got through, begin to smell bitter.... I shove them under somebody else’s seat, together with the remains of the vodka.