Even In This Well-Warmed Compartment
One Can Barely Keep Feet And Fingers From Getting Numbed.
It is almost dark when, towards six o'clock, there appears, far ahead,
a thin streak of silver, separating the dreary brown landscape from
the cold grey sky.
"We have nearly arrived, monsieur," says Gerome. "There is the Caspian
Sea."
[Footnote A: The sacred image of the Saviour or Holy Virgin.]
[Footnote B: The name Tiflis is derived from _Tbilis Kalaki_, or "Hot
Town," so called from the hot mineral springs near which it stands.]
[Footnote C: _Bourka_, a long sleeveless coat made of goatskin.]
[Footnote D: _Bashlik_, the soft camel-hair hood and neckerchief in
one, worn by Russian soldiers.]
[Footnote E: A _verst_ is about three-quarters of a mile.]
CHAPTER II.
THE CASPIAN - ASTARA - RESHT.
I arrived in Baku on (the Russian) New Year's Eve, and found railway
officials, porters, and droshki-drivers all more or less fuddled with
drink in consequence. With some difficulty we persuaded one of the
latter to drive us to the hotel, a clean and well-appointed house, a
stone's throw from the quay. Our Isvostchik [A] was very drunk. His
horses, luckily for us, were quiet; for he fell off his box on the
way, and smilingly, but firmly, declined to remount. Gerome then
piloted the troika safely to our destination, leaving Jehu prone in
the mud.
Baku, a clean, well laid-out city of sixty thousand inhabitants, is
the most important town on the shores of the Caspian. Its name is said
to be derived from the Persian words _bad_, "the wind," and _kubeda_,
"beaten," signifying "Wind-beaten;" and this seems credible, for
violent storms are prevalent along the coast. The town is essentially
European in character. One can scarcely realize that only fifty years
ago a tumble-down Persian settlement stood on the spot now occupied
by broad, well-paved, gas-lit streets, handsome stone buildings,
warehouses, and shops. Baku has, like Tiflis, a mixed population.
Although Russians and Tartars form its bulk, France, Germany, Italy,
Greece, Turkey, and Persia are all represented, most of the Europeans
being employed in the manufacture of petroleum. The naphtha springs
are said to yield over 170,000 tons of oil yearly.
A French engineer, Mr. B - - , whose acquaintance I made at the hotel,
described Baku as terribly monotonous and depressing to live in after
a time. There is not a tree or sign of vegetation for miles round the
town - nothing but bleak, desolate steppe and marsh, unproductive of
sport and cultivation, or, indeed, of anything save miasma and fever.
In summer the heat, dust, and flies are intolerable; in winter the sun
is seldom seen. There is no amusement of any kind - no _cafe_, no band,
no theatre, to go to after the day's work. This seemed to distress the
poor Parisian exile more than anything, more even than the smell of
oil, which, from the moment you enter until you leave Baku, there is
no getting away from. Although the wells are fully three miles away,
the table-cloths and napkins were saturated with it, and the very
food one ate had a faint sickly flavour of naphtha. "I bathed in the
Caspian once last summer," said Mr. B - - - , despairingly, "and did
not get the smell out of my skin for a week, during which time my
friends forbade me their houses! Mon Dieu! Quel pays!"
The steamer for Enzelli was to leave at eleven. Having wished my
French friend farewell, and a speedy return to his native country, we
set out for the quay. The night was fine, but away to our left dense
clouds of thick black smoke obscured the lights of the town and
starlit sky, while the furnaces of the "Tchornigorod" [B] blazed out
of the darkness, their flames reflected in the dark waters of the
Caspian, turning the little harbour into a lake of fire.
The landing stage is crowded with passengers - a motley crowd of
Russian officials, soldiers, peasants, and Tartars. With difficulty we
struggle through the noisy, drunken rabble, for the most part engaged
in singing, cursing, fighting, and embracing by turns, and succeed at
last in finding our ship, the _Kaspia_, a small steamer of about a
hundred and fifty tons burthen. The captain is, fortunately for us,
sober, which is more than can be said of the crew. Alongside us lies
the _Bariatinsky_, a large paddle-steamer bound for Ouzounada, the
terminus of the Trans-Caspian Railway. She also is on the point of
departure, and I notice, with relief, that most of the crowd are
making their way on board her.
The passenger-steamers on the Caspian are the property of the
Caucase-Mercure Company, a Russian firm. They are, with few
exceptions, as unseaworthy as they are comfortless, which says a great
deal. All are of iron, and were built in England and Sweden, sent to
St. Petersburg by sea, there taken to pieces and despatched overland
to Nijni-Novgorod, on the Volga. At Nijni they were repieced and taken
down the Volga to the Caspian.
The _Bariatinsky_ was first away, her decks crammed with soldiers
bound for Central Asia. They treated us to a vocal concert as the ship
left port, and I paced the moonlit deck for some time, listening to
the sweet sad airs sung with the pathos and harmony that seems born
in every Russian, high or low. I retired to rest with the "Matoushka
Volga," a boat-song popular the length and breadth of Russia, ringing
in my ears.
There are no private cabins on board the _Kaspia_. I share the stuffy
saloon with a greasy German Jew (who insists on shutting all the
portholes), an Armenian gentleman, his wife, and two squalling
children, a Persian merchant, and Gerome.
The captain's cabin, a box-like retreat about eight feet square,
leads out of our sleeping-place, which is also used as a drawing and
dining-room. As the latter it is hardly desirable, for the German and
Persian are both suffering violently from _mal-de-mer_ before we
have been two hours out, and no wonder.
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