"Soloveiki," says the conductor disparagingly.
"Well," says a Russian, "I don't suppose they're heroes. Poland swarms with thieves and smugglers, and people smuggling themselves across the frontier in order to get to America."
"They are human beings," says another. "They are in chains and we free. It is a heavy sight."
But the second bell and the third bell sound, and the train moves gradually out of the station and nearly every one lies down to sleep. Even when we arrive at Warsaw many of the passengers are snoring and have to be awakened up by acquaintances or porters.
Across the two miles of the slush-covered cobbles of Warsaw, through driving rain and sleet, in an open droshky at dawn, from the Vienna to the Brest station.
"A vam ne skoro!" says the Russian porter who greets me. "Your train is not soon. The next for Kief is at four o'clock in the afternoon."
I have breakfast. I stroll into the rainy city and back, have a plate of hot soup, read the papers, write letters.
Opposite me in the Kief train was a little girl in simple but antique national attire, in soiled clothes, but having a fresh and delicate classical face and black hair in two plaits, one about each little ear—a rare beauty: it was a piquant pleasure just to look at her.
"When do we get to Kharkof?" she asked.
