The girl cried with anguish, shame, and pain. The public was dissatisfied. Only later, when the second sister was killing the next bull, the first one was given an opportunity to rehabilitate herself, and quite deftly she let the bull run past her an inch from her hip, having deceived him with the red cape. Applause broke out, the girl again blossomed forth and bowed to the crowd, making several ballet curtsies.

Rag in hand, the thinnish Mexican was busily wiping the blood off the sword which had been returned to him. The horses dragged off the dead animal, and a second bull was led into the arena. This one was as small and black as his predecessor, and this bull, too, knew that something bad was about to be done to him. He, too, was cut up painfully, tortuously long and clumsily, and finally was killed with a dagger. Frightful is the moment of passage from life to death! Suddenly the bull fell, something happened inside his coarse body, and his end came. It was shameful and terrible to gaze upon it, and we felt as if we had abetted a murder around the corner.

Perhaps a fight between ferocious bulls and a famous toreador has its sporting aspect—perhaps! But what we saw in a small provincial Mexican town was repulsive.

However, worse was still ahead. Three toreadors in clownish masks and costumes, protected from blows by pillowed breasts, sides, and behinds, made fun for half an hour of another bull. In the beginning it looked like an ordinary circus interlude, which usually ends with the clowns running away from the arena and then again appearing in order to bow to the public, remove their masks and show their real unpainted faces.

But here the interlude ended with the killing of the bull. This was so unexpected and horrible that we rose from our seats. We scarcely managed to reach the exit when we saw that the bull was being carried off. His noble black snout dragged heavily and disgracefully across the sand, while his blinded eyes stared intently and reproving at the mooing and neighing spectators. The public flung its hats at the toreadors, and the latter deftly threw them back.

It was already dark. "We walked slowly through the badly lighted streets of the famous city of Juarez. Guitars tinkled. Young men plucked the strings, leaning against the peeling walls of the one-story huts. From the restaurant "Lobby No. 2" came a passionate Mexican song. Our hearts were gloomy.

Walking past Juan Ferdinand Cristobal Colbajos, who, as before, paid no attention whatever to us, and casting a last glance at Mexico, we crossed the bridge. To our surprise, and even to our dismay, the official who should have let us pass back into the States was not there. In his place stood another, who looked so forbidding that we did not expect anything good to happen. But no sooner did we present our passports than the forbidding official cried out:

"These are the two Russian gentlemen who this morning went to Mexico. Yes, yes, I have been told about them! I was told everything. The two Russian gentlemen may freely pass into the United States. They have nothing to worry about."

And he turned to the official in the booth:

"These are the two Russian gentlemen who are returning from Mexico to the United States. Let them pass!"

When we walked past the border stations, Mr. Adams said :

"No, gentlemen, this is an organized country. Our morning official went away, but he did not forget to tell his successor that in the evening two Russians would come from Mexico. After all, this is service, isn't it ? And do you know what I want to tell you ? I want to tell you that this is a country where you can calmly drink raw water out of a tap without catching typhoid fever—the water will always be perfect. This is a country where you need never look suspiciously at the linen in your hotel, for the linen will always be clean. This is a country where you don't have to think of how to drive by automobile from one city to another. The road will always be good. This is a country where in the cheapest restaurant you will not be poisoned. The food may not be to your taste, but it will always be of good quality. This is a country with a high standard of living. And this becomes especially clear, gentlemen, when you happen, as we did today, to visit another American country. No, no, I don't mean to say that the United States is a remarkable country, but it has its attributes and you must always remember that."

Before reaching El Paso, we had spent quite a long time in the United States and had travelled considerably through the country. We had become so accustomed to good roads, to good service, to cleanliness and comfort that we stopped taking any note of it. But after one day in Mexico we began to appreciate once again according to their deserts all the material achievements of the United States.

It is useful at times, in order to know a country the better, to leave it for a day.

42 New Year's Eve in San Antonio

IT WAS NEW YEAR'S EVE when our grey car drove into San Antonio the largest city in the state of Texas.

"I know this city," said Mr. Adams, "I was here last year. I assure you, gentlemen, this is a fine city."

The city was unusually lively. After the desert its centre, with its several twenty-story buildings, seemed like real New York. The lights came from the thin gaseous pipettes of advertising signs and from the show windows of stores. Passing through the small American towns, we had become unused to crowds, so now like country bumpkins we gaped in surprise at sidewalks crowded with pedestrians. Among the ordinary soft hats and the short sideburns common in these places, we found occasional broad-brimmed hats and most impressive sideburns, indicating the proximity of Mexico and ranches.

We had been driving by automobile nearly two months. We wanted to rest and to have a good time. The lively crowd, the open fruit markets, the odour of coffee and tobacco smoke, all this strange, busy world filled our hearts with a lyric sadness and at the same time with a secret hope for a miracle. Suppose suddenly something remarkable should happen to us, something that never happened with ordinary travellers in a strange city where they do not know a single soul. On this New Year's Eve we felt keenly that we were unusually far from our native land, from Moscow, from friends and near ones. To tell the truth, we wanted to have a good swig of vodka, a bite of herring and black bread, we wanted to make merry and to declaim gay, senseless toasts.

"Yes, yes, gentlemen, in Moscow there is snow now, no doubt," said Mr. Adams, looking solicitously at our harassed faces.

The gentlemen groaned.

"No, seriously, we must properly celebrate New Year's Eve today, come what may. I have a plan. It is now only eight o'clock in the evening. I suggest that we drive directly to the Robert E. Lee Hotel: I gave the address of that hotel to my correspondents. There we will shave, get dressed, leave our automobile in a garage, and then sally forth. I know a fine little restaurant in San Antonio. It is not very far from the hotel. There poets and artists meet. San Antonio reminds one of Santa Fe and Carmel in that it is beloved by people of the arts. Yes, yes! In this little restaurant the food is excellent... And on this day we will not be economical. We shall meet poets and artists, and we shall feast. Gentlemen, what do you think of that plan?"

And Mr. Adams smacked his bald head with the palm of his hand in the audacious manner of a hopeless roisterer.

We fell in enthusiastically with this plan. In less than an hour, cheery, washed, with traces of powder on our shaved cheeks and hope in our hearts, we went out into the street and mixed with the crowd.