SEPTEMBER 17TH. _Hango, Finland._ It is evening, we have just put in at Hango, a Finnish port. No one is allowed off the ship, by order of the Port authorities. Finland is not yet at peace with Russia, and Kameneff would probably be arrested if he set foot on shore. The last time that he walked into Finnish territory in 1917, not knowing that the Whites were in possession of the town, he was put in prison for three months, and by a miracle was not shot. So far we have had a pretty good journey; the little boat has hugged the coast of the Aland islands. We have had to put into Hango for the night, because we can only steam by day on account of the floating mines between here and Reval that have not yet been cleared. I have spent half the day in my cabin sleeping, the other half on deck talking. I have lost all track of days and dates; we seem to have been journeying for ever. There are no pleasure trippers or any of the idle curious on board. Everyone practically is bound for Russia, and we look at one another curiously, wondering what each other’s mission is. There are Comrades returning, and there are journalists, traders and bankers; people who hope to get through from Reval, people who probably _will_, and others who certainly will not. Kameneff is watched by everyone, and we have made innumerable acquaintances. Already there is around us a little group of friends, whom one has the feeling of having known a long time. To-morrow we go on to Reval. It seems to me too wonderful and unbelievable that I am really on this boat of fears and dreams: fears of not getting on board, and dreams of the world into which it would sail with me. SEPTEMBER 18TH. _Reval, Esthonia._ At dawn we left Hango, but there was such a wind blowing that the ship anchored just at the entrance of the harbour, and for a few hours we swung round. No one complained of delay and no one seemed to be in a hurry. There was no attempt to keep a scheduled time: a calm atmosphere of fatalism, which is probably Russian, seemed to hang over us. The sun was shining brilliantly when we finally set out to sea, and I was having a most interesting conversation with Mr. Aschberg, a Swedish banker, who did me the compliment of talking to me on political economy, of which I understood nothing. He told me interesting things about Bolshevik business transactions with Germany, in which it seemed that the Bolsheviks were alienating the German workers by negotiating with the German capitalists.