CYCLISTS LAND IN RUSSIA--TIFLIS, "THE PARIS OF THE CAUCASUS"--IN
SIGHT OF MOUNT ARARAT--SUICIDE OF THE PET MONKEY.
We left Resht Monday, March 21, on board the nondescript steamer
"B." There were but two cabins afforded by the steamer, and to one
of these Capt. Ahrninckie assigned the Inter Ocean tourists. The run
to Baku is less than the Chicago-Milwaukee or Cleveland-Detroit runs,
but owing to delays we did not reach Baku until Thursday, March 24. We
formed a number of friends in the city, dinners, teas and drives being
of daily occurrence. We also attended the opera, but as great as was
our diversion, we pined for the days that we should again be in the
saddle, with our feet upon the pedal. Our Easter Sunday of 1898 we
spent in Tiflis, the quaintest of all Russian cities. Tiflis is called
the "Paris of the Caucasus," but the real significance of the name
is "Hot Springs." Hot Springs there are at Tiflis, not of valuable
mineral nature, but most grateful to the weary traveler who visits
the bath-houses, and after a thorough steaming is kneaded into supple
activity by Persian attendants. Here, of all the cities on earth,
I do not know of any one which will afford the visitor more varied
and interesting street scenes. New Orleans, when in the regalia
of its annual Mardi-Gras, is not more picturesque. It is not only
the fanciful appearance of the street, but the unique procession of
pedestrians, men of all nations, that makes Tiflis and its streets
appear like the dancing room of a bal masque. The Russian and the
natives of the Caucasus are more hospitable than any people we ever
met. Officials of the city heaped upon us courtesies and seemed to
enter into a contest with each other in paying us attention. The last
few days of our stay in Tiflis were unusually busy. The ruined tires
of Mrs. McIlrath's bicycle and the badly damaged front tire of my own
had to be replaced by new ones, and the best we could make out was to
purchase inner tubes and alter our old tires to suit the available
article. We left Tiflis on April 14, many friends being present to
see us off. We were all happy, even including Rodney, the monkey,
to be again awheel. I should mention that it was not until after our
sojourn in Tiflis that Mrs. McIlrath was able, for the first time since
her horrible night in the mountains of Persia, to put her feet again
to the pedals of her machine. Lost twice on the road, and with many
an inconvenience and delay, an account of which would be but to go
over in part our misfortunes in other climes, we arrived during the
latter part of April at Ahkty, 60 miles from Mount Ararat, the most
famed mountain in the world's history, the resting place of the ark
in which Noah preserved the family, human animal, reptile and winged.
The day after our arrival in Ahkty was a fete day in Russia, the
birthday of the Grand Duke. The town was rich in color with the
red, blue and white flags, the shops were closed and bands played
in the park. Troops in dress uniform swarmed the streets; women and
children in holiday clothes promenaded through the groves of trees
'neath the window of our hotel; and above all, shown in glittering,
lofty beauty Mount Ararat, immaculate and cold as if, since her duty
done in receiving the ship of God, she had locked herself in frigid
mail against the frivolous people beneath.
An oil-laden tramp steamer, after three days of wallowing along the
shores of Asia Minor, placed us in Constantinople on June 9. We had
been directed to several hotels in the city, but as our informants
had confessed that all were uniformly piratical in their practices,
we selected one directly opposite the American Consulate. Galatea,
the section of the city in which we landed, is the water front and
wholesale commercial portion of the town, and as we threaded our way
through the crowded street, following closely the coolies who carried
our luggage, we had excellent opportunity of witnessing the sights
of the most interesting quarter of the great city. To those who
have not visited the interiors of China, India, Burmah and Persia,
Constantinople may appear truly Oriental, but to the Inter Ocean
cyclists the city presented anything but a resemblance to manners
and customs Eastern. We spent seven days in diligent search for
curious sights, and of them all we decided that the most attractive
features were the Salaamlik, or public reception at prayer by the
Sultan; "the dogs of Stamboul" and Constantinople, the fires and fire
department, and the museum and the tomb of Alexander. The religious
day of Mussulmans is Friday, and we were present when Abdul Hamid,
the Sultan, wended his way to the mosque to pray. The populists
turned out to greet him, and soldiers flashed their way through the
streets; it was a gala day in Constantinople. We saw the face of
the Sultan squarely, but it did not please us. If it were possible
for human face to resemble a hawk, the Sultan of Turkey certainly
bore that resemblance to the cruel bird. The eyes were glittering,
the brows big and slanting, the nose hooked, and the lips thin and
compressed. The face was not one to be forgotten. Features do not
always bespeak the character of a man, but, after looking into the
eyes of the Sultan, one could readily understand how such a man could
order the extermination of the opposing sect of a religious people,
and calmly read the report of his subordinates who informed him
that 3,500 of his Armenian subjects had been slain in the streets of
Constantinople and Stamboul in less than thirty-six hours.
Fires are a serious event in Constantinople, much more so than
my American brethren, in whose country conflagrations are daily
affairs, can well imagine. The city, with its sea breeze, the hills
and valleys as a flue, and with houses of wood, and streets so
narrow that flames overreach, a fire, with ordinary start, has an
advantage which only exhaustion and skill will overcome. As we saw
for ourselves, "exhaustion" is the only method of the Constantinople
firemen. There is so much ceremony about going to a fire that the
chief and his men are well nigh put out by fatigue before the blaze
is extinguished. When I say extinguished, I mean before the fire burns
itself out. It is prevented only from being a conflagration by the fact
that those members of the department not laid out for want of breath,
and assisted by zealous citizens, grab long poles and push and pull
down the adjacent buildings. "The dogs of Stamboul" are numbered by
the thousands. They are quiet and well behaved, do not bark at wagons
and pedestrians, and sleep on the sidewalk, in the gutter and in the
middle of the street. They are the scavengers of the city, and woe
to the man who abuses them. Sleeping by day, they wake into activity
as night advances and the shops close. Meat markets, restaurants,
bakeries, private residences and hotels throw the leavings from
counter and table into the gutters, and the dogs "do the rest."
I must record, while in Constantinople, the untimely death of
Rodney, the monkey. The following quotation appeared in the Servet of
Constantinople, and is a fair example, at the same time, of a Turkish
newspaper joke: "Suicide at the Maison Tokatlian.--Effendi McIlrath,
an American journalist, who is resting at the Maison Tokatlian,
is completing a remarkable journey through the interior of Asia and
Europe, using bicycles to transport himself and wife. The sights of
Constantinople have proven so attractive that the gentleman has had
little time to devote to a pet monkey, which has been his companion
for several thousand miles. After sunset of the past day the monkey was
left alone in the gentleman's room, and upon returning from dinner the
master found the animal hanging by his neck from the window sash. As
no papers were left and no warning given, jealousy is ascribed as
the cause, but the police will investigate."
I do not know that jealousy was the cause of the little fellow's
self-inflicted end, but I am inclined to believe that the desire
to reach some strawberries which lay upon the table near him, the
twisting of the strap on his neck, and the consequent choking, had
more to do with the ending of Rodney's erratic career.
We departed for Constantza, Roumania, Saturday, June 18, on one of
the coasting steamers carrying mail and passengers to the Oriental
express, bound for Paris via Buda-Pesth and Vienna. I would not
attempt to fix the date when Roumania was populated, but during
the ages when Romans required visitors to do as Romans did, the
toga-clad nation utilized Roumania as a sort of ancient Australia,
a dumping-ground for incorrigible criminals. Some of the hotel and
restaurant keepers in Roumania at the present day should be able to
trace their ancestry without trouble. The traits of the pioneers are
still exhibited. Constantza is pretty; it is one of those white, clean
little places which only exist on the sea fronts where coal dust, soot
and factories and black dust is unknown. It is called the "Brighton
of Roumania," but since the water off Long Island is just as salt, and
the hotel prices almost as exorbitant, the name might be improved on.
We selected the Hotel Union in Bucharest as our stopping place,
but scarcely had we entered the corridors one evening than a crowd
hemmed us in and began the usual catechism in the three popular
languages, French, German and Roumanian. Though I managed to slip
Mrs. McIlrath through the crowd and up to her chamber, I was unable
to leave the throng until two hours later. The next day we were
visited by the various members of the "Clubul Ciclistilar Bucharest,"
which means Bucharest's Cycling Club, and, after luncheon with some
of the English-speaking members, we were made honorary members
of the organization. Principally Germans, the club is a jolly
set. They were our guides, companions and entertainers during our
sojourn in the city. They sent flowers to Mrs. McIlrath, dined us,
invited us to their meetings, and presented us with souvenirs of the
occasion. We fared well in the city, and our ride over the miserable
roads was the chief topic in cycling circles. It is inconceivable
to me why a country so intensely interesting as Roumania, a city
so wickedly fascinating and beautiful as Bucharest, should be so
little frequented by travelers. Paris, with all its world-wide
reputation as a city of gold-plated vice, cannot compare with the
more obscure Bucharest. Lovers of beautiful architecture will find
in the palaces, museum and academy all that they desire; admirers of
glittering uniforms and lovely women will be able to feast their eyes
each evening, when all the capital turns out in dress parade on the
beautiful boulevarde; artists will find quaint characters, costumes,
landscapes and romantic homes, and the novelist of Zolaism will
be able to weave plots of realism that will horrify the morals and
titillate the perverted palate of the sensation-loving gourmand. As
a kingdom, Roumania enjoys liberties which are not to be equaled in
any republic extant. The press is free to the extent that monarch
and private character, private history and personal characteristics
are not exempt from type. Were American editors to write as do
their Roumanian brothers, the vocation would be one excluded from
the lists of acceptable risks of life insurance companies. Rains
delayed our departure from Bucharest until Sunday, July 26. We were
escorted on our start from the city, at 1 o'clock in the afternoon,
by Messrs. Furth and Jensen, two of the most hardy road riders of the
Bucharest Cycling Club, and we whirled off thirty-one kilometers ere
we entered Ploesti, the half-way stop.