Some of my friends were as inveterate dreamers as I, notably Mr. M. Gringmuth, the editor of _The Moscow Gazette_, who, in 1908, announced his determination of struggling energetically against drunkenness in our beloved Russia. "We must convince our Government," he said, "of the absolute necessity of stopping this evil and of finding better sources of revenue--sources more worthy of a great country." I remember with what thankfulness I read these patriotic words. In alcohol I saw a greater enemy {166} to Russia than Nihilism and all its kindred influences. It was the secret enemy eating into our country's very vitals. Then came the day when, with a stroke of the pen, our Tsar did the greatest thing that any monarch has ever done for his subjects--he killed the foe that had been for generations menacing millions of homes. There have been many dreamers in Russia who, like Mr. Gringmuth, have fought the common enemy. I remember in the year 1899 I was travelling in Finland. It was a bitterly cold September day, and I was glad when we reached Terioki (a station an hour's distance from Petrograd) to get some refreshment. Sitting in a corner of the room I was enjoying my cup of tea, when suddenly I heard a rough and imperious voice. "A glass of gin (vodka). Be quick!" "But we have no gin," replied the waiter. "We sell no alcohol here." "What is the meaning of this? Well, then, give me some wine." Again the waiter answered quietly, "We sell no wine at this station." "Dear me! How absurd!" exclaimed the rough voice. "Well, then, give me some beer at once." "Very well, sir, I can offer you beer, but only if you also take some solid food. Here are beef-steak, chops, patties--choose what you like." "All right, all right; give me beer and anything you like besides," shouted the thirsty traveller. Grumbling and vexed, he swallowed his steak and drank his beer, looking with disappointed eyes at the half-bottle that had been placed before him. {167} I followed the scene from my corner, and was greatly amused. During that time a gentleman who was studying my face seemed to read the meaning of my satisfied and joyful look. "Madam," he said politely, taking off his hat, "pardon the liberty I take in addressing you, but I see you are pleased with this little scene." "Pleased," I repeated; "no, I am not pleased, I am delighted." "Well," continued he, "let me tell you that our struggle against drunkenness has not been in vain. And I am happy to meet people who seem to sympathise with the results of our work." "Tell me more about it," I said. "I must know how you manage to paralyse drunkenness, even at railway stations, where there are so many sorts of people."