row (a rare fault in a Russian),
superstitious, dogmatically religious, and entirely without tact. She
quite honestly thought us a poor lot and would say to me: "I hope, Mr.
Durward, you don't judge Russia by the specimens you find here," and
was, of course, always overheard. She was a strict moralist, but was
also generous with all the warmth of Russian generosity in money
matters. She was a marvellous hard worker, quite fearless, accurate,
and punctual in all things. She fought incessant battles with Anna
Petrovna who hated her as warmly as it was in her quiet, unruffled
heart to hate any one. The only thing stranger than the fierceness of
their quarrels was the suddenness of their conclusion. I remember that
at dinner one day they fought a battle over the question of a clean
towel with a heat and vigour that was Homeric. A quarter of an hour
later I found them quietly talking together. Anna Petrovna was showing
Sister K---- a large and hideous photograph of her children.

"How sympathetic! How beautiful!" said Sister K----.

"But I thought you hated her?" I said afterwards in confusion to Anna
Petrovna.

"She was very sympathetic about my children," said Anna Petrovna
placidly.

Then, of course, Sister Sofia Antonovna, the sister with the red eyes,
made trouble when she could. She was, as I discovered afterwards, a
bitterly disappointed woman, having been deserted by her fiance only a
week before her marriage. That had happened three years ago and she
still loved him, so that she had her excuse for her view of the world.
My friends seemed to me, during those first weeks at Mittoevo, simply a
company of good-hearted, ill-disciplined children. I had gone directly
back to my days in the nursery. Restraint of any kind there was none,
discipline as to time or emotions was undreamed of, and with it all a
vitality, a warmth of heart, a sincerity and honesty that made that
Otriad, perhaps, the most lovable company I have ever known. Russians
are fond of sneering at themselves; for him who declares that he likes
Russia and Russians they have either polite disbelief or gentle
contempt. In England we have qualities of endurance, of reliability,
of solidity, to which, often enough, I long to return--but that warmth
of heart that I have known here for two long years, a warmth that
means love for the neglected, for the defeated, for the helpless, a
warmth that lights a fire on every hearth in every house in
Russia--that is a