_we_ have got a move on, and, barring accidents, we shall
be in Tiflis next week. It's rather a fearsome journey, as the train
only takes us to the foot of the mountains in four days, and then we
must ride or drive across the passes, which they say are too cold for
anything. You must imagine us like Napoleon in the "Retreat from Moscow"
picture.

Petrograd is a singularly unpleasant town, where the sun never shines,
and it rains or snows every day. The river is full of ice, but it looks
sullen and sad in the perpetual mist. There are a good many English
people there; but one is supposed to know the Russians, which means
speaking French all the time. Moscow is a far superior place, and is
really most interesting and beautiful, and very Eastern, while Petrograd
might be Liverpool. I filled up my time there in the hospital and
soup-kitchen.

The price of everything gets worse, I do believe! Even a glass of
filtered water costs one shilling and threepence! I have just left an
hotel for which my bill was L3 for one night, and I was sick nearly all
the time!

[Page Heading: "WHEN WILL THE WAR END?"]

Now, my dears, I wish you all the best Christmas you can have this year.
I am just longing for news of you, but I never knew such a cut-off place
as this for letters. Tell me about every one of the family. Write
lengthy letters. When do people say the war will end?

Your loving
SARAH BROOM.

* * * * *

_Tiflis. 12 December._--It is evening, and I have only just remembered
it is Sunday, a thing I can't recollect ever having happened before. I
have been ill in my room all day, which no doubt accounts for it.

We stayed at Moscow for a few days, and my recollection of it is of a
great deal of snow and frequent shopping expeditions in cold little
sleighs. I liked the place, and it was infinitely preferable to
Petrograd. Mr. Cazalet took us to the theatre one night, and there was
rather a good ballet. These poor dancers! They, like others, have lost
their nearest and dearest in the war, but they still have to dance. Of
course they call themselves "The Allies," and one saw rather a stale
ballet-girl in very sketchy clothes dancing with a red, yellow, and
black flag draped across her. Poor Belgium! It was such a travesty of
her sufferings.

Mr. Cazalet came to see us off at the station, and we began our long
journey to Tiflis, but we changed our minds, and took the local train
from ---- to Vla