What a rush of insect life there was in the air, new-born fritillary butterflies like little flames, dragon-flies, bee-hawks, fat sun-beetles, gorgeous flies, the sinister green praying-mantis!  The Athena of the air expressed herself in all her wonder.

* * * * *

Ghilendzhik is a collection of datchas (country-houses) and Caucasian dwelling-places.  Its name signifies “The White Bride,” and it is a quiet, beautiful watering-place in a pure bay, beloved of all Russians who have ever visited it.  It is the healthiest resort on the whole Black Sea shore, continually freshened by cool breezes from the steppes.  It is yet but a village, utterly undeveloped, unpavemented, without shops or trams or bathing-coaches, or a railway station, and those who visit it in the season regard themselves rather as a family party.  The beach is private, and a bathing costume is rather a rarity.  It is an amazing testimony to the simplicity of the Russian that the upper classes behave at the seaside with little more self-consciousness than the peasant children by the village stream.  When Ghilendzhik is commercialised to a Russian Brighton it will be difficult to imagine what an Eden it once was.

I had looked forward to my arrival, for I had a Russian friend there, living for the summer in her own datcha, and I had received a very warm invitation to stay there some days.

The welcome was no less warm than the invitation.  I arrived one evening all covered with dust, my face a great flush of red from the sun, my limbs agreeably tired.  The house was a little white one on the very edge of the sea.  Part of the verandah had lately been washed away in a storm, so close was the datcha to the waves.  I went in, washed, clad myself in fresh linen—­the road-stained clothes were taken away with a promise of return clean on the morrow—­borrowed some slippers, and sitting in an easy-chair on the verandah, lounged happily and chatted with my hostess.

Varvara Ilinitchna is a Russian of the old type—­you don’t find many of them nowadays, most of her friends would add—­simple, quickwitted, full of peasant lore, kind as one’s own mother, hospitable as those are hospitable who believe from their hearts that all men are brothers.

I was introduced to all the neighbours, to the visitors and the natives, and of course invested with much importance as one who wrote books, had no fear, who even intended pilgrimaging to Jerusalem.

“You sleep under the open sky—­that means you have outlived fear,” said Varvara Ilinitchna with some innocence.