My Russian Christmas (Which Falls, O.S., On Our 6th Of January) Was
Not A Cheerful One.
A prisoner in a stuffy bedroom of the Hotel de
Londres, I sat at the window most of the
Day, consuming innumerable
glasses of tea and cigarettes, watching the steadily falling snow, and
wondering whether the weather would ever clear and allow me to escape
from a place so full of unpleasant associations, and which had brought
me so much disappointment and vexation. The loud laughter and
bursts of song that ascended every now and then from the crowded
_salle-a-manger_ (for the Hotel de Londres is the "Maison Doree" of
Tiflis) only served to increase my depression and melancholy. Had
there been a train available, I verily believe I should have taken a
ticket then and there, and returned to England!
But morning brings consolation in the shape of blue sky and dazzling
sunshine. The snow has ceased, apparently for good. Descending
to breakfast full of plans for the future, I find awaiting me an
individual destined to play an important part in these pages - one
Gerome Realini, a Levantine Russian subject, well acquainted with the
Persian language - who offers to accompany me to India as interpreter.
His terms are moderate, and credentials first-rate. The latter include
one from Baker Pasha, with whom he served on the Turkoman frontier
expedition. More for the sake of a companion than anything else, I
close with Gerome, who, though he does not understand one word of
English, speaks French fluently.
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