With the genius for muddling which the Russians possess in a remarkable degree no preparations had been made for me.  Rather an unpleasant Jew doctor came to the gateway with two nurses, and the officers began to flirt with the girls, and to pay them compliments.  Some young Englishmen, one of whom was the British Consul, then appeared on the scene, so we began to get forward a little (although it seemed to me that we stood about in the snow for a terrible long time and I got quite frozen!).  As it was then past midnight I felt I had had enough, so I made for the American missionary’s house, which was pointed out to me, and he and his wife hopped out of bed, and, clad in curious grey dressing-gowns, they came downstairs and got me a cup of hot tea, which I had wanted badly for many hours.  There was no fireplace in my room, and the other fires of the house were all out, but the old couple were kindness and goodness itself, and in the end I rolled myself up in my faithful plaid and slept at their house.

The next day—­Sunday, the 20th—­Mr. Cowan, the young Consul, and a Mr. Lightfoot, came round and bore me off to the Consulate.  On Monday I began to settle in, but even now I find it difficult to take my bearings, as we have been in a heavy mountain fog ever since I got here.  There is a little English colony, the bank manager, Mr. MacMurray, and his wife—­a capable, energetic woman, and an excellent working partner—­Mr. McLean, a Scottish clerk, a Mr. McDowal, also a Scot, and a few other good folk; whom in Scotland one would reckon the farmer class, but none the worse for that, and never vulgar however humbly born.

On Monday, the 21st, I called on the Russian element—­Mme. Kirsanoff, General Baratoff, etc.  They were all cordial, but nothing will convince me that Russians take this war seriously.  They do the thing as comfortably as possible.  “My country” is a word one never hears from their lips, and they indulge in masterly retreats too often for my liking.  The fire of the French, the dogged pluck of the British, seem quite unknown to them.  Literally, no one seems much interested.  There is a good deal of fuss about a “forward movement” on this front; but I fancy that at Kermanshah and at ——­ there will be very little resistance, and the troops there are only Persian gendarmerie.  No doubt the most will be made of the Russian “victory,” but compared with the western front, this is simply not war.  I often think of the guns firing day and night, and the Taubes overhead, and the burning towns of Flanders, and then I find myself living a peaceful life, with an occasional glimpse of a regiment passing by.

* * * * *

To Mrs. Charles Percival.

BRITISH VICE-CONSULATE,
HAMADAN.
23 February, 1916.

MY DEAREST TABBY,