und ourselves in an extraordinarily pretty little village, and
were given shelter in the very cleanest house I ever saw. The woman was
a perfect treasure, and made us soup and gave us clean beds, and honey
for breakfast. The chauffeur found that our shaft was broken, and the
whole piece had to go back to Tiflis.

It was a real blow, our trip knocked on the head again, and now how were
we to get on? The railway was 48 versts away, and the railway had to be
reached. We hired one of those painful little carts, which are made of
rough poles on wheels, and, clinging on by our eyelids, we drove as far
as an Armenian village, where a snowstorm came on, and we took shelter
with a "well-to-do" Armenian family, who gave us lunch and displayed
their wool-work and were very friendly. From there we got into another
"deelyjahns" of the painful variety, and jolted off for about 25 miles,
till, as night fell, we struck the railway, and were given two wooden
benches to sleep on in a small waiting-room. People came and went all
night, and we slept with one eye open till 2 a.m., when the chauffeur
took a train to Tiflis. We sat up till 6 a.m., when the train, two hours
late, started for Erivan, where we arrived pretty well "cooked" at 11
p.m.

[Page Heading: ERIVAN]

_Erivan. 20 January._--Last night's experiences were certainly very
"Russian." We had wired for rooms, but although the message had been
received nothing was prepared. The miserable rooms were an inch thick in
dust, there were no fires, and no sheets on the beds! We went to a
restaurant--fortunately no Russian goes to bed early--and found the
queerest place, empty save for a band and a lady. The lady and the band
were having supper. She, poor soul, was painted and dyed, but she
offered her services to translate my French for me when the waiters
could understand nothing but Russian. I was thankful to eat something
and go to bed under my fur coat.

To-day we have been busy seeing the Armenian refugees. There are 17,000
of them in this city of 30,000 inhabitants. We went from one place to
another, and always one saw the same things and heard the same tales.

Since the war broke out I think I have seen the actual breaking of the
wave of anguish which has swept over the world (I often wonder if I can
"feel" much more!). There was Dunkirk and its shambles, there was ruined
Belgium, and there was, above all, the field hospital at Furnes, with
its horrible courtyard, the burning