[Page Heading:  SOME “MALADES IMAGINAIRES”]

I am rather amused by those brave strong people who “don’t make a fuss about their health.”  One hears from them almost daily that their temperature has gone up to 103 deg.; “but it’s nothing,” they say heroically, “or if it is, it’s only typhoid, and who cares for a little typhoid?” Does a head ache, there is “something very queer about it, but”—­pushing back hair from hot brow—­“no one is to worry about it.  It will be better to-morrow; or if it really is going to be fever, we must just try to make the best of it.”  A sty in the eye is cataract, “but lots of blind people are very happy;” and a bilious attack is generally that mysterious, oft-recurring and interesting complaint “camp fever.”  Cheer up, no one is to be discouraged if the worst happens!  A thermometer is produced and shaken and applied.  The temperature is too low now; it is probably only typhus, and we mean to be brave and get up.

3 February.—­Last night we played bridge.  All the princes and princesses moistened their thumbs before dealing, and no one is above using a “crachoir” on the staircase!  Oh for one hour of England!  In all my travels I have only found one foreign race which seemed to me to be well-bred (as I understand it), and that is the native of India.  The very best French people come next; and the Spaniard knows how to bow, but he clears his throat in an objectionable manner.  None of them have been licked!  That is the trouble.  An Eton boy of fifteen could give them all points, and beat them with his hands in his pockets.

I am quite sure that the British nation is really superior to all others.  Ours is the only well-bred race, and the only generous or hospitable nation.  Fancy a foreigner keeping “open house”!  Here the entertainment is a glass of thickened tea, and the stove is frequently not lighted even on a chilly evening.  Since I have been in Russia I have had nothing better or more substantial given to me (by the Russians) than a piece of cake, except by the Grand Duke.  We brought heaps of letters of introduction, and people called, but that is all, or else they gave an “evening” with the very lightest refreshments I have ever seen.  Someone plays badly on the piano, there is a little bridge, and a samovar!

6 February.—­The queer epidemic of “gathered fingers” continues here.  Having two I am in the fashion.  They make one awkward, and more idle than ever.  A lot of people come in and out of my sitting-room to “cheer me up,” and everyone wants me to tell their fortune.  Mrs. Wynne and Mr. Bevan are still at Baku.

Last night I went to Prince Orloff’s box to hear Lipkofskaya in “Faust.”

My car has come back, and is running well, but the weather has been cold and stormy, with snow drifting in from the hills.  I took Mme. Derfelden and her husband to Kajura to-day.  Now that I have the car everyone wants me to work with them.  The difficulty of transport is indescribable.  Without a car is like being without a leg.  One simply can’t get about.  In order to get a seat on a train people walk up the line and bribe the officials at the place where it is standing to allow them to get on board.{11}