It was a pleasant journey, and the train arrived on time at the Klein-Tantow station, from which a turnpike led to Kessin, ten miles away.  In the summer time, especially during the tourist season, travelers were accustomed to avoid the turnpike and take the water route, going by an old sidewheel steamer down the Kessine, the river from which Kessin derived its name.  But the “Phoenix”—­about which the wish had long been vainly cherished, that, at some time when there were no passengers on board, it might justify its name and burn to ashes—­regularly stopped running on the 1st of October.  For this reason Innstetten had telegraphed from Stettin to his coachman Kruse:  “Five o’clock, Klein-Tantow station.  Open carriage, if good weather.”

It certainly was good weather, and there sat Kruse in the open carriage at the station.  He greeted the newly arrived couple with all the prescribed dignity of a first-class coachman.

“Well, Kruse, everything in order?”

“At your service, Sir Councillor.”

“Then, Effi, please get in.”  As Effi was doing as bid, and one of the station porters was finding a place for a small satchel by the coachman, in front, Innstetten left orders to send the rest of the luggage by the omnibus.  Then he, too, took his seat and after condescendingly asking one of the bystanders for a light called to Kruse:  “Drive on, Kruse.”  The carriage rolled quickly over the rails of the many tracks at the crossing, then slantingly down the slope of the embankment, and on the turnpike past an inn called “The Prince Bismarck.”  At this point the road forked, one branch leading to the right to Kessin, the other to the left to Varzin.  In front of the inn stood a moderately tall, broad-shouldered man in a fur coat and a fur cap.  The cap he took off with great deference as the District Councillor drove by.  “Pray, who was that?” said Effi, who was extremely interested in all she saw and consequently in the best of humor.  “He looked like a starost, though I am forced to confess I never saw a starost before.”

“Which is no loss, Effi.  You guessed very well just the same.  He does really look like a starost and is something of the sort, too.  I mean by that, he is half Polish.  His name is Golchowski, and whenever we have an election or a hunt here, he is at the top of the list.  In reality he is a very unsafe fellow, whom I would not trust across the road, and he doubtless has a great deal on his conscience.  But he assumes an air of loyalty, and when the quality of Varzin go by here he would like nothing better than to throw himself before their carriages.  I know that at the same time he is hostile to the Prince.  But what is the use?  We must not have any misunderstandings with him, for we need him.  He has this whole region in his pocket and understands electioneering better than any one else.  Besides, he is considered well-to-do and lends out money at usury which is contrary to the ordinary practice of the Poles.”