The ideas of a man on horseback are different to those which occur to
him when he is on foot. The difference is even more noticeable when he
is on the railway. The association of his thoughts, the character of
his reflections are all affected by the speed of the train. They "roll"
in his head, as he rolls in his car. And so it comes about that I am in
a particularly lively mood, desirous of observing, greedy of
instruction, and that at a speed of thirty-one miles an hour. That is
the rate at which we are to travel through Turkestan, and when we reach
the Celestial Empire we shall have to be content with eighteen.
That is what I have just ascertained by consulting my time-table, which
I bought at the station. It is accompanied by a long slip map, folded
and refolded on itself, which shows the whole length of the line
between the Caspian and the eastern coast of China. I study, then, my
Transasiatic, on leaving Uzun Ada, just as I studied my Transgeorgian
when I left Tiflis.
The gauge of the line is about sixty-three inches--as is usual on the
Russian lines, which are thus about four inches wider than those of
other European countries. It is said, with regard to this, that the
Germans have made a great number of axles of this length, in case they
have to invade Russia. I should like to think that the Russians have
taken the same precautions in the no less probable event of their
having to invade Germany.
On either side of the line are long sandhills, between which the train
runs out from Uzun Ada; when it reaches the arm of the sea which
separates Long Island from the continent, it crosses an embankment
about 1,200 yards long, edged with masses of rock to protect it against
the violence of the waves.
We have already passed several stations without stopping, among others
Mikhailov, a league from Uzun Ada. Now they are from ten to eleven
miles apart. Those I have seen, as yet, look like villas, with
balustrades and Italian roofs, which has a curious effect in Turkestan
and the neighborhood of Persia. The desert extends up to the
neighborhood of Uzun Ada, and the railway stations form so many little
oases, made by the hand of man. It is man, in fact, who has planted
these slender, sea-green poplars, which give so little shade; it is man
who, at great expense, has brought here the water whose refreshing jets
fall back into an elegant vase. Without these hydraulic works there
would not be a tree, not a corner of green in these oases. They are the
nurses of the line, and dry-nurses are of no use to locomotives.
The truth is that I have never seen such a bare, arid country, so clear
of vegetation; and it extends for one hundred and fifty miles from Uzun
Ada. When General Annenkof commenced his works at Mikhailov, he was
obliged to distil the water from the Caspian Sea, as if he were on
board ship. But if water is necessary to produce steam, coal is
necessary to vaporize the water. The readers of the _Twentieth Century_
will ask how are the furnaces fed in a country in which there is
neither coal nor wood? Are there stores of these things at the
principal stations of the Transcaspian? Not at all. They have simply
put in practice an idea which occurred to our great chemist,
Sainte-Claire Deville, when first petroleum was used in France. The
furnaces are fed, by the aid of a pulverizing apparatus, with the
residue produced from the distillation of the naphtha, which Baku and
Derbent produce in such inexhaustible quantities. At certain stations
on the line there are vast reservoirs of this combustible mineral, from
which the tenders are filled, and it is burned in specially adapted
fireboxes. In a similar way naphtha is used on the steamboats on the
Volga and the other affluents of the Caspian.
I repeat, the country is not particularly varied. The ground is nearly
flat in the sandy districts, and quite flat in the alluvial plains,
where the brackish water stagnates in pools. Nothing could be better
for a line of railway. There are no cuttings, no embankments, no
viaducts, no works of art--to use a term dear to engineers, very
"dear," I should say. Here and there are a few wooden bridges from two
hundred to three hundred feet long. Under such circumstances the cost
per kilometre of the Transcaspian did not exceed seventy-five thousand
francs.
The monotony of the journey would only be broken on the vast oases of
Merv, Bokhara and Samarkand.
But let us busy ourselves with the passengers, as we can do all the
more easily from our being able to walk from one end to the other of
the train. With a little imagination we can make ourselves believe we
are in a sort of traveling village, and I am just going to take a run
down main street.
Remember that the engine and tender are followed by the van at the
angle of which is placed the mysterious case, and that Popof's
compartment is in the left-hand corner of the platform of the first car.
Inside this car I notice a few Sarthes of tall figure and haughty face,
draped in their long robes of bright colors, from beneath which appear
the braided leather boots. They have splendid eyes, a superb beard,
arched nose, and you would take them for real lords, provided we ignore
the word Sarthe, which means a pedlar, and these were going evidently
to Tachkend, where these pedlars swarm.
In this car the two Chinese have taken their places, opposite each
other. The young Celestial looks out of window. The old one--Ta-lao-ye,
that is to say, a person well advanced in years--is incessantly turning
over the pages of his book. This volume, a small 32mo, looks like our
_Annuaire du Bureau des Longitudes_, and is covered in plush, like a
breviary, and when it is shut its covers are kept in place by an
elastic band. What astonishes me is that the proprietor of this little
book does not seem to read it from right to left. Is it not written in
Chinese characters? We must see into this!
On two adjoining seats are Ephrinell and Miss Horatia Bluett. Their
talk is of nothing but figures. I don't know if the practical American
murmurs at the ear of the practical Englishwoman the adorable verse
which made the heart of Lydia palpitate:
"Nee tecum possum vivere sine te,"
but I do know that Ephrinell can very well live without me. I have been
quite right in not reckoning on his company to charm away the tedium of
the journey. The Yankee has completely "left" me--that is the word--for
this angular daughter of Albion.
I reach the platform. I cross the gangway and I am at the door of the
second car.
In the right-hand corner is Baron Weissschnitzerdörfer. His long
nose--this Teuton is as short-sighted as a mole--rubs the lines of the
book he reads. The book is the time-table. The impatient traveler is
ascertaining if the train passes the stations at the stated time.
Whenever it is behind there are new recriminations and menaces against
the Grand Transasiatic Company.
In this car there are also the Caternas, who have made themselves quite
comfortable. In his cheery way, the husband is talking with a good deal
of gesticulation, sometimes touching his wife's hands, sometimes
putting his arms round her waist; and then he turns his head toward the
platform and says something aside. Madame Caterna leans toward him,
makes little confused grimaces, and then leans back into the corner and
seems to reply to her husband, who in turn replies to her. And as I
leave I hear the chorus of an operetta in the deep voice of Monsieur
Caterna.
In the third car, occupied by many Turkomans and three or four
Russians, I perceive Major Noltitz. He is talking with one of his
countrymen. I will willingly join in their conversation if they make me
any advances, but I had better maintain a certain reserve; the journey
has only begun.
I then visit the dining car. It is a third longer than the other cars,
a regular dining room, with one long table. At the back is a pantry on
one side, a kitchen on the other, where the cook and steward are at
work, both of them Russians. This dining car appears to me capitally
arranged. Passing through it, I reach the second part of the train,
where the second-class passengers are installed. Kirghizes who do not
look very intelligent with their depressed heads, their prognathous
jaws stuck well out in front, their little beards, flat Cossack noses
and very brown skins. These wretched fellows are Mahometans and belong
either to the Grand Horde wandering on the frontier between China and
Siberia, or to the Little Horde between the Ural Mountains and the Aral
Sea. A second-class car, or even a third-class car, is a palace for
these people, accustomed to the encampments on the Steppes, to the
miserable "iourts" of villages. Neither their beds nor their seats are
as good as the stuffed benches on which they have seated themselves
with true Asiatic gravity.
With them are two or three Nogais going to Eastern Turkestan. Of a
higher race than the Kirghizes, being Tartars, it is from them that
come the learned men and professors who have made illustrious the
opulent cities of Bokhara and Samarkand. But science and its teaching
do not yield much of a livelihood, even when reduced to the mere
necessaries of life, in these provinces of Central Asia. And so these
Nogais take employment as interpreters. Unfortunately, since the
diffusion of the Russian language, their trade is not very remunerative.
Now I know the places of my numbers, and I know where to find them when
I want them. As to those going through to Pekin, I have no doubt of
Ephrinell and Miss Horatia Bluett nor the German baron, nor the two
Chinese, nor Major Noltitz, nor the Caternas, nor even for the haughty
gentleman whose bony outline I perceive in the corner of the second car.
As to these travelers who are not going across the frontier, they are
of most perfect insignificance in my eyes. But among my companions I
have not yet found the hero of my chronicle! let us hope he will
declare himself as we proceed.
My intention is to take notes hour by hour--what did I say? To "minute"
my journey. Before the night closes in I go out on the platform of the
car to have a last look at the surrounding country. An hour with my
cigar will take me to Kizil Arvat, where the train has to stop for some
time. In going from the second to the first car I meet Major Noltitz. I
step aside to let him pass. He salutes me with that grace which
distinguishes well-bred Russians. I return his salute. Our meeting is
restricted to this exchange of politeness, but the first step is taken.
Popof is not just now in his seat. The door of the luggage van being
open, I conclude that the guard has gone to talk with the driver. On
the left of the van the mysterious box is in its place. It is only
half-past six as yet, and there is too much daylight for me to risk the
gratification of my curiosity.
The train advances through the open desert. This is the Kara Koum, the
Black Desert. It extends from Khiva over all Turkestan comprised
between the Persian frontier and the course of the Amou Daria. In
reality the sands of the Kara Koum are no more black than the waters of
the Black Sea or than those of the White Sea are white, those of the
Red Sea red, or those of the Yellow River yellow. But I like these
colored distinctions, however erroneous they may be. In landscapes the
eye is caught by colors. And is there not a good deal of landscape
about geography?
It appears that this desert was formerly occupied by a huge central
basin. It has dried up, as the Caspian will dry up, and this
evaporation is explained by the powerful concentration of the solar
rays on the surface of the territories between the Sea of Aral and the
Plateau of the Pamir.
The Kara Koum is formed of low sandy hills which the high winds are
constantly shifting and forming. These "barkans," as the Russians call
them, vary in height from thirty to ninety feet. They expose a wide
surface to the northern hurricanes which drive them gradually
southward. And on this account there is a well-justified fear for the
safety of the Transcaspian. It had to be protected in some efficacious
way, and General Annenkof would have been much embarrassed if provident
Nature had not, at the same time as she gave the land favorable for the
railway to be laid along, given the means of stopping the shifting of
the barkanes.
Behind these sand hills grow a number of spring shrubs, clumps of
tamarisk, star thistles, and that _Haloxylon ammodendron_ which
Russians call, not so scientifically, "saksaoul." Its deep, strong
roots are as well adapted for binding together the ground as those of
_Hippophaë rhamnoides_, an arbutus of the Eleagnaceous family, which is
used for binding together the sands in southern Europe.
To these plantations of saksaouls the engineers of the line have added
in different places a series of slopes of worked clay, and in the most
dangerous places a line of palisades.
These precautions are doubtless of use; but if the road is protected,
the passengers are hardly so, when the sand flies like a bullet hail,
and the wind sweeps up from the plain the whitish efflorescences of
salt. It is a good thing for us that we are not in the height of the
hot season; and it is not in June or July or August that I would advise
you to take a trip on the Grand Transasiatic.
I am sorry that Major Noltitz does not think of coming out on the
gangway to breathe the fresh air of the Kara Koum. I would offer him
one of those choice regalias with which my case is well provided. He
would tell me if these stations I see on my time-table, Balla-Ischem,
Aïdine, Pereval, Kansandjik, Ouchak, are of any interest--which they do
not seem to be. But it would not do for me to disturb his siesta. And
yet his conversation ought to be interesting, for as a surgeon in the
Russian army he took part in the campaigns of Generals Skobeleff and
Annenkof. When our train ran through the little stations that it honors
only with a whistle, he could tell me if this one or that one had been
the scene of any incident of the war. As a Frenchman I am justified in
questioning him about the Russian expedition across Turkestan, and I
have no doubt that my fellow passenger will be pleased to gratify me.
He is the only one I can really trust besides Popof.
But why is Popof not in his seat? He also is not insensible to the
charms of a cigar. It would seem that his conversation with the
engineer has not finished yet.
Ah! Here he is coming from the front of the luggage van. He comes out
of it and shuts the door; he remains for a moment and is about to take
a seat. A hand which holds a cigar, is stretched out toward him. Popof
smiles and soon his perfumed puffs are mingling voluptuously with mine.
For fifteen years I think I said our guard had been in the Transcaspian
service. He knows the country up to the Chinese frontier, and five or
six times already he has been over the whole line known as the Grand
Transasiatic.
Popof was on duty on the section between Mikhailov and Kizil Arvat when
the line opened--a section which was begun in the December of 1880 and
finished in ten months, in November, 1881. Five years later the
locomotive entered Merv, on the 14th July, 1886, and eighteen months
later it was welcomed at Samarkand. Now the road through Turkestan
joins the road through the Celestial Empire, and the ribbon of iron
extends without interruption from the Caspian Sea to Pekin.
When Popof had given me this information, I asked if he knew anything
of our fellow travelers, I meant those who were going through to China.
And in the first place of Major Noltitz?
"The major," said Popof, "has lived a long time in the Turkestan
provinces, and he is going to Pekin to organize the staff of a hospital
for our compatriots, with the permission of the Czar, of course."
"I like this Major Noltitz," I said, "and I hope to make his
acquaintance very soon."
"He would be equally pleased to make yours," replied Popof.
"And these two Chinese, do you know them?"
"Not in the least, Monsieur Bombarnac; all I know is the name on the
luggage."
"What is that?"
"The younger man's name is Pan-Chao, the elder's is Tio-King. Probably
they have been traveling in Europe for some years. As to saying where
they come from, I cannot. I imagine that Pan-Chao belongs to some rich
family, for he is accompanied by his doctor."
"This Tio-King?"
"Yes, Doctor Tio-King."
"And do they only speak Chinese?"
"Probably; I have not heard them speak any other language together."
On this information from Popof, I will keep to the number nine I have
given to young Pan-Chao, and to the ten with which I have labelled
Doctor Tio-King.
"The American," began Popof.
"Ephrinell?" I exclaimed, "and Miss Horatia Bluett, the Englishwoman?
Oh! You can tell me nothing about them I don't know."
"Shall I tell you what I think about that couple, Monsieur Bombarnac?"
"What do you think?"
"That as soon as they reach Pekin, Miss Bluett will become Mrs.
Ephrinell."
"And may Heaven bless their union, Popof, for they are really made for
each other."
I saw that on this subject Popof and I held similar ideas.
"And the two French people, that couple so affectionate." I asked, "who
are they?"
"Have they not told you?"
"No, Popof."
"You need not be anxious, Monsieur Bombarnac. Besides, if you wish to
know their profession, it is written at full length on all their
luggage.
"And that is?"
"Stage people who are going to a theater in China."
Stage people! If that explains the attitudes, and mobile physiognomy,
and demonstrative gestures of Caterna, it does not explain his maritime
allusions.
"And do you know what line these players are in?"
"The husband is comic lead."
"And the wife?"
"She is leading lady."
"And where are these lyrical people going?"
"To Shanghai, where they have an engagement at the French theater."
That is capital. I will talk about the theater, and behind the scenes,
and such matters, and, as Popof said, I shall soon make the
acquaintance of the cheery comedian and his charming wife. But it is
not in their company that I shall discover the hero of romance who is
the object of my desire.
As to the scornful gentleman, our guide knew nothing beyond that his
luggage bore the address in full: Sir Francis Trevellyan, Trevellyan
Hall, Trevellyanshire.
"A gentleman who does not answer when he is spoken to!" added Popof.
Well, my number eight will have to be dumb man, and that will do very
well.
"Now we get to the German," said I.
"Baron Weissschnitzerdörfer?"
"He is going to Pekin, I think."
"To Pekin and beyond."
"Beyond?"
"Yes; he is on a trip round the world."
"A trip round the world?"
"In thirty-nine days."
And so after Mrs. Bisland who did the famous tour in seventy-three
days, and Train who did it in seventy, this German was attempting to do
it in thirty-nine?
True, the means of communication are more rapid the line is more
direct, and by using the Grand Transasiatic which puts Pekin within a
fortnight of the Prussian capital, the baron might halve the old time
by Suez and Singapore--but--
"He will never do it!" I exclaimed.
"Why not?" asked Popof.
"Because he is always late. He nearly missed the train at Tiflis, he
nearly missed the boat at Baku--"
"But he did not miss the start from Uzun Ada."
"It doesn't matter, Popof. I shall be much surprised if this German
beats an American at globe trotting."
* * * * *