Seriously, though, the insect life of that part of Russia is incredible. It is no exaggeration to say that at Astrakhan, when the meal was finished, the big black flies on the table were so many that it looked as though we had dined off a black instead of a white tablecloth. The mosquitoes are so vicious and poisonous that they often give one malaria, and the lice are inveterate conveyers of typhus. Astrakhan is the dirtiest city it has been my lot to visit. Cesspools and stagnant water pollute the streets. Piles of human excrement lie about everywhere. The water-supply is thoroughly poisoned. The market-places are abodes of filth. And it appears to be nobody’s business to alter this state of affairs. Astrakhan and cities like it should come under the supervision of an international Board of Health if their governments are powerless to alter things, for they are a menace to the well-being of the whole world. Cholera coming up the river from Astrakhan could poison all Europe in time, and may yet do so unless something drastic be done. But Astrakhan is becoming busy again. Its shipping is very active. We saw the loading of rice and fish, the curing of herrings, the preparation of caviare, the making of nets, the ferry-boats loaded with passengers, a general air of liveliness which contrasted so favourably with the deadness of Petrograd. Persian carpets are to be bought for a mere song in Astrakhan, and antique treasures of all kinds for the equivalent in English of a few shillings or pounds. The temperature at Astrakhan was 122 degrees in the shade when we were there, and we simply wilted under the blazing sun. We talked of Siberian snows and American ice cream to try to make ourselves feel cool, when to our pleased surprise, the magician, Sverdloff, contrived to conjure ice cream out of the kitchen and so saved our lives for another day’s work. Those last days on the Volga were very happy, in spite of heat and flies and the anxiety we felt for our sick friend. The tumultuous crowd had left us at Saratov; the atmosphere of politics disappeared; our talk was of more interesting things; we sang our folk-songs and read our books. In the hot evenings on the way back, we sat at the front of the ship facing the glorious red sunset, and thought of home and of dear old England, and of the kindly spirit which rules where peace and plenty abound. CHAPTER XV The Future of Russia