Where this Tumen was
I really did not _realize_. It should be somewhere east of the Ural
mountains, and all I recollected was that Cheliabinsk was the place to
buy a ticket. Near a large school, I think it was an Armenian school
or something, I stopped to rest and see how much money I had in the
handkerchief,--but as soon as I took the handkerchief out, a man of no
profession came to me and asked me to help him. While, like an idiot,
I tried to figure how much I could give him,--he helped himself,
grabbed my all and ran. All I could do was to send him a few greetings
in my best Russian, recollecting the sins of his Mother. That relieved
me, of course, but only as a palliative. I sat down near a door to
think over my situation. Again a motor passed and again someone asked
me who I was. I showed this time such a realistic indifference and
such a display of pure disgust with life, that the man at the wheel
inquired what was the matter. "Nothing, you beasts," I replied, "but
that some of your own scoundrels robbed me right now." "Get after
him," I continued, "perhaps you can rob him in your turn." I
thought they would shoot me; nothing of the kind--they became almost
sympathetic, and only asked how the man looked and which way he had
gone. "Hardware store," I said, "around the corner."
24
It was Saturday night when finally our train reached Tumen: a _voyage_
of eleven days by rail, by snow sledge, by foot, and again by rail,
was at an end.
Pages:
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163