Walpole, Hugh, Sir, 1884-1941 / 2008-06-26 00:00:00

After his breakfast
he lay down on the bed and again fell asleep, but this time not to
dream; he slept like a Briton, dreamless, healthy and clean. He awoke as
sure of himself as ever.... The first incantation had not, you see, been
enough....
He plunged into the city. It was raining with that thick dark rain that
seems to have mud in it before it has fallen. The town was veiled in
thin mist, figures appearing and disappearing, tram-bells ringing, and
those strange wild cries in the Russian tongue that seem at one's first
hearing so romantic and startling, rising sharply and yet lazily into
the air. He plunged along and found himself in the Nevski Prospect--he
could not mistake its breadth and assurance, dull though it seemed in
the mud and rain.
But he was above all things a romantic and sentimental youth, and he was
determined to see this country as he had expected to see it; so he
plodded on, his coat-collar up, British obstinacy in his eyes and a
little excited flutter in his heart whenever a bright colour, an Eastern
face, a street pedlar, a bunched-up, high-backed coachman, anything or
any one unusual presented itself.
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