CHAPTER XVI—THE WAYS OF THE FINNS
It was evening and we had arrived at Petrograd. For many years I had wanted to see the northern capital. I had thought of it as a town planned by a genius, slowly growing amid surrounding swamps, and in my childhood I had pictured that genius as steadily working as a carpenter—in a white paper cap—having always in his mind's eye the town that was to grow on the Baltic Sea, the seaport that should give his country free access to the civilisation of the West. He was a great hero of mine because of his efficiency; after all I see no reason why I should dethrone him now that I realise he had the faults of his time and his position.
But in life I find things always come differently to what one pictures them. The little necessities of life will crop up and must be attended to first and foremost. The first thought that came to me was that I had to part with the friends I had made on the journey. Right away from the borders of China the Cossack officer and I had travelled together; I had met the Hussar officer and his wife soon after I had joined the train, and we seemed to have come out of one world into another together. It made a bond, and I for one was sorry to part. They were going to their own friends or to a Russian hotel, and the general consensus of opinion was that I would be more comfortable in a hotel where there were English or at least French people.
“Go to the Grand Hotel, Madame,” suggested the Hussar officer's wife, she who spoke perfect French.
So Buchanan and I loaded our belongings on to a droshky that looked smart after the ones I had been accustomed to in Asia, bade farewell to our friends “till after the war”—the Cossack was coming to England then “to buy a dog”—and drove to the Grand Hotel.
The Grand Hotel spoke perfect English, looked at me and—declined to take me because I had a little dog. I was very much astonished, but clearly I couldn't abandon Buehanan, so I went on to the Hotel d'Angleterre, which also declined. I went from hotel to hotel and they all said the same thing, they could not think of taking in anyone accompanied by a dog. It was growing dark—it was dark, and after a fortnight on the train I was weary to death. How could I think of the glories of the Russian capital when I was wondering where I could find a resting-place? I couldn't turn Buchanan adrift in the streets, I couldn't camp in the streets myself, and the hotel porters who could speak English had no suggestions to make as to where I could bestow my little friend in safety. Six hotels we went to and everyone was firm and polite, they could not take a dog. At last a hotel porter had a great idea, the Hotel Astoria would take dogs.
“Why on earth didn't someone tell me so before?” I said, and promptly went to the Hotel Astoria. It was rather like going to the Hotel Ritz, and though I should like to stay at the Hotel Ritz I would not recommend it to anyone who was fearing an unlimited stay in the country, who had only forty pounds to her credit and was not at all sure she could get any more. Still the Hotel Astoria took little dogs, actually welcomed them, and charged four shillings a day for their keep. I forgot Peter the Great and the building of the capital of Russia, revelling in the comforts of a delightful room all mirrors, of a bathroom attached and a dinner that it was worth coming half across the world to meet. My spirits rose and I began to be quite sure that all difficulties would pass away, I should be able to get back to England and there would be no need for that desperate economy. It was delightful to go to bed in a still bed between clean white sheets, to listen to the rain upon the window and to know that for this night at least all was well. I had seen no English papers; I knew nothing about the war, and it is a fact one's own comfort is very apt to colour one's views of life. Buchanan agreed with me this was a very pleasant world—as a rule I do find the world pleasant—it was impossible anything could go wrong in it.
And the next day I received a snub—a snub from my own people.
I went to the British Consulate full of confidence. Every foreigner I had met all across the world had been so pleased to see me, had been so courteous and kind, had never counted the cost when I wanted help, so that I don't know what I didn't expect from my own countrymen. I looked forward very mueh to meeting them. And the young gentleman in office snubbed me properly. He wasn't wanting any truck with foolish women who crossed continents; he didn't care one scrap whether I had come from Saghalien or just walked down the Nevsky Prospekt; I was a nuisance anyway, his manner gave me to understand, since I disturbed his peace and quiet, and the sooner I took myself out of the country the better he would be pleased. He just condescended to explain where I could get a ticket straight through to Newcastle-on-Tyne; people were doing it every day; he didn't know anything about the war, and his manner gave me to understand that it wasn't his business to supply travellers with news. I walked out of that office with all the jauntiness taken out of me. Possibly, I have thought since, he was depressed at the news from France, perhaps someone was jeering him because he had not joined up, or else he had wanted to join up and was not allowed. It was unlucky that my first Englishman after so long should be such a churlish specimen. I felt that unless my necessity was dire indeed I should not apply to the British Consulate for help in an emergency. I did not recover till I went to the company who sold through tickets, across Finland, across Sweden and Norway, across the North Sea to Newcastle-on-Tyne. There I bought a ticket for fifteen pounds which was to carry me the whole way. It was a Swedish company, I think, and the office was packed with people, Poles, Letts, Lithuanians and Russians, who were naturalised Americans and who wanted to go home. Everybody took the deepest interest in Buchanan, so much interest that the man in charge asked me if I was going to take him, I said “Of eourse,” and he shook his head.
“You will never get him through Sweden. They are most strict.”