The Russians are a people of great emotions.
There is a candor in their recognition of the needs of the senses which
does not obtain in our self-conscious nature. These strangely
constituted people of the North--a budding nation, a nation which shall
some day overrun the world--are easily intoxicated. And there is a
deliberation about their methods of seeking this enjoyment which appears
at times almost brutal. There is nothing more characteristic than the
ice-hill.
Imagine a slope as steep as a roof, paved with solid blocks of ice,
which are subsequently frozen together by flooding with water; imagine a
sledge with steel runners polished like a knife; imagine a thousand
lights on either side of this glittering path, and you have some idea of
an ice-hill. It is certainly the strongest form of excitement
imaginable--next, perhaps, to whale-fishing.
There is no question of breathing, once the sledge has been started by
the attendant. The sensation is somewhat suggestive of a fall from a
balloon, and yet one goes to the top again, as surely as the drunkard
will return to his bottle. Fox-hunting is child's play to it, and yet
grave men have prayed that they might die in pink.
Steinmetz was standing at the foot of the ice-hill when an arm was
slipped within his.
"Will you take me down?" asked Maggie Delafield.
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