Tiflis. 24 January.—­I left Erivan on Sunday, January 23rd.  It was cold and sharp, and the train was crowded.  People were standing all down the corridors, as usual.  Nothing goes quicker than eight miles an hour, nothing is punctual, nothing arrives.  The stations are filthy, and the food is quite uneatable.  I often despair of this country, and if the Russians were not our Allies I should feel inclined to say that nothing would do them so much good as a year or two of German conquest.  No one, after the first six months, has been enthusiastic over the war, and the soldiers want to get home.  One young officer, 26 years old, has been loafing in Tiflis for six months, and has at last been arrested.  Another took his ticket on eight successive nights to leave the place and never moved.  At last he was locked in his room, and a motor-car ordered to take him to the station.  He got into it, and was not heard of for three days, when his wife appeared, and found her husband somewhere in the town.

Mrs. Wynne and Mr. Bevan have gone on ahead to Baku, but I must wait for my damaged car.  A young officer in this hotel shot himself dead this morning.  No one seems to mind much.

[Page Heading:  RUSSIAN SOCIETY]

25 January.—­Last night I was invited to play bridge by one of the richest women in Russia.  Her room was just a converted bedroom, with a dirty wall-paper.  The packs of cards were such as one might see railway-men playing with in a lamp-room.  Our stakes were a few kopeks, and the refreshments consisted of one tepid cup of tea, without either milk or lemon, and not a biscuit to eat.  We all sat with shawls on, as our hostess said it wasn’t worth while to light a fire so late at night.  A nice little Princess Musaloff and Prince Napoleon Murat played with me.  We were rich in titles, but our shoulders were cold.

I have not seen a single nice or even comfortable room since I left England, and although some women dress well, and have pretty cigarette-boxes from the renowned Faberje, other things about them are all wrong.  The furniture in their rooms is covered with plush, and the ornaments (to me) suggest a head-gardener’s house at home with “an enlargement of mother” over the mantelpiece; or a Clapham drawing-room, furnished during some happy year when cotton rose, or copper was cornered.  In this hotel the carpets are in holes in the passages, and there are few servants; but I don’t fancy that the people here notice things very much.

I went to see Mme. ——­ one day in her new house.  The rooms were large and handsome.  There was a picture of a cow at one end of the drawing-room, and a mirror framed in plush at the other!

I must draw a “character” one day of the very charming woman who is absolutely indifferent to people’s feelings.  The fact that some humble soul has prepared something for her, or that a sacrifice has been made, or that one kind speech would satisfy, does not occur to her.  These are the people who chuck engagements when they get better invitations, and always I seem to see them with expensive little bags and chains and Faberje enamels.  Men will slave for such women—­will carry things for them, and serve them.  They have “success” until they are quite old, and after they have taken to rouge and paint.  A tired woman hardly ever gets anything carried for her.