Just ten days after leaving Kharbin we got out of the train at the handsome station of Tashkent, which seemed ablaze with light in comparison with the dimness to which we had been recently accustomed. We inquired for the porter of the Hotel de France to which we had been recommended by an acquaintance at Moscow, but there was none at the station. A friendly official said that other hotels were better, and their porters eagerly urged us to go with them. We thought it best, however, to stick to what we had been advised, especially as our letters had been directed to the Hotel de France; so we got into a droshky and drove away into the darkness. What a heavenly drive it seemed after the long days in the train. Our horses were all too nimble as we drove on and on through the warm and scented air, under apparently never ending avenues of tall poplars and bushy elms. A crescent moon shone amongst myriads of stars, and we wondered how long this mysterious drive would last, as after a time the driver appeared to have lost his bearings and turned to us for instructions. Naturally we were utterly unable to direct him, but after half-an-hour, by the aid of local advice, we drew up beside the open doorway of a house surrounded by trees. There was not even “hotel” written up, and instead of a Frenchman coming at our summons, a person appeared who seemed unable even to recognise the name “Hotel de France,” though he gave a voluble but quite unintelligible answer in Russian. However, we crossed the murmuring rivulet which characterises most of the roads here, and entered the house. We found that it certainly was an hotel, though there was no one who spoke any language but Russian, and in the letter case there were no letters for us.

We were shown into a nice large bedroom, and then began the pantomime. We were extremely hungry, but disinclined to try the fancy dishes which we feared would be served to us if we failed to be explicit in our orders. We had not yet learnt the names of many things in Russian, and we totally disagreed with the one universal sentiment, expressed in the word “nitchevo = it doesn’t matter,” which met us at every turn, so I betook myself to my pencil and drew—or tried to draw—a chicken au plat. Not having sufficiently studied the works of art which adorn cookery books, I failed ignominiously to convey any meaning to mine host. I next attempted to draw the creature au naturel, and the attempt was crowned with success; but alas, mine host soon returned with graphic gestures to acquaint us that chicken was not to be had. I then drew chicken in embryo, which was instantly recognised with an emphatic nod which heralded success.

The next matter to be dealt with was bed and bedding, but that was more easily accomplished, and we found the people thoroughly pleasant and obliging, anxious to get all we wanted and make us comfortable; they brought an extra bedstead, sheets, and pillows, all thoroughly clean. In fact our quarters were so comfortable that we rather regretted that we were only going to spend twenty-four hours there.

Next morning we were awakened by the familiar sound of growling camels and screeching peacocks in a neighbouring garden. We were soon abroad and found the pleasant impression gained by our drive of the night before fully justified, for every road is bordered with trees, and the poplars are the most beautiful and lofty I have ever seen; their silver stems stretch up erect as darts into the clear blue sky. There are shady public gardens where the ash tree and the acacia were in full blossom, filling the air with their fragrance; on the roofs of the smaller houses poppies and grass made a brave show of colour against the sky. All the houses were well shaded by trees except in the centre of the town, where fashionable shops displayed the latest novelties in hats and other things dear to the fashionable world of Tashkent. We made our way to the post-office, where most of the officials were women, and found quite a large budget of letters. Evidently there is no regular delivery, as they were all addressed to the hotel, and some of them had been lying there at least a week. Later in the day we returned to inquire for a book, which from my letters I learnt had been forwarded there, and after some searching it was duly produced, but I afterwards found that difficulty had attended its despatch as well as its delivery; the London post-office at first declined to send it on the score of not knowing where Turkestan was.

Tashkent was conquered by the Russians in 1863, and it is only since then that the Russian town has grown up at a short distance from the old city; it boasts over 50,000 inhabitants, and has a considerable trade. At this time of year the climate is delicious, but in the summer it is said to be intensely hot, and in the rainy season the mud is so deep that the streets become almost impassable, and the men have to go about in what we should call wading boots. It is on this account that the natives have such peculiar carts, with spidery wheels about eight or ten feet in diameter. The driver sits on a saddle on the horse, with a foot resting on each shaft. Many of the tall, lean beasts, have handsomely embroidered horse cloths of blue and scarlet; they also wear broad scarlet or orange neck cloths, and beaded trappings hang from their manes and over their hind quarters; altogether they are most attractive.

We were delighted with the beautiful oriental colours of the clothing of the natives, as they rode about on handsome Arab steeds, looking the embodiment of pride amongst their prosaic conquerors. Turbaned servants might be seen holding the horses outside houses while their masters were within, or the horses might be attached to rings in beams fastened in the roadway outside shops and offices for the purpose. Ladies, fashionably dressed, were driving about in troïkas, with three horses harnessed abreast. The centre horse has to trot, and the side ones canter with their heads turned away, so that they look all the time as if they were trying to pull away from the horse in the middle. It my opinion it has a most unnatural and unpleasant appearance to have one horse trotting while the others canter, and I cannot understand how they manage to drive so swiftly under such adverse circumstances. The Siberian horses are capable of doing twenty versts (about thirteen miles) an hour, says Capus. Travellers going any distance by carriage continue day and night without stopping longer than for meals and to change horses, but it must require an iron constitution to do this. Nearly every one at Tashkent seemed to ride or drive; in fact we learnt that it was considered quite infra dig to go on foot anywhere in Turkestan.

The town boasts two good new hotels; a fine public library, especially rich in works on Central Asia; an observatory; a museum; two large public schools; an experimental agricultural station and school; a seminary; a bank, and various public buildings. There is also a park containing a bicycle track, where they have races; at the entrance we saw a large monument commemorating the conquests of the Russians in different parts of Turkestan. They first invaded it in 1863, and took this city and also Chemkend; in 1866 they took Khojend and Kokand, and completely destroyed the power of the latter, this proving the beginning of Turkestan as a Russian province. In the next two years they pushed their conquests further westward, and defeated the troops of the Emir of Bokhara and entered Samarkand. In 1873 Khiva was invaded and navigation rights obtained over the whole of the Oxus River, now known as the Amu Daria. Russia decided to leave Bokhara under the rule of the Emir, merely maintaining a protectorate, but the remainder of Turkestan has since that time been under Russian rule.

We called at the office of the Wagons Lits Company for information about our journey to Samarkand, and the manager obligingly got a young Russian, attached to the newspaper staff, to act as our guide for the afternoon. He spoke English with a strong American accent, and was extremely garrulous, having attained a thoroughly journalistic style of conversation. We took a carriage and drove to the old city, of which the walls, alas, have completely disappeared. It is buried in the midst of trees and gardens, for there is a fine system of irrigation there. All through both the Russian and also the native town we saw streams flowing; the watering is done by a simple process; a man goes down each side of the road simultaneously, armed with a long wooden scoop, with which he sweeps the water out of the little canals as far as the centre, even on a wide road. This takes place at intervals during the day. Here and there in the native city is a good pond surrounded by trees. The houses are low and made of sun-dried bricks, looking more ruinous than the other cities we visited. Tashkent, it seems, is subject to earthquakes, which probably accounts for its dishevelled appearance, and it is difficult to believe that the population inhabiting it is both large and growing. According to the latest census the inhabitants number over 100,000, so evidently its decadent look is entirely misleading.

We first visited the old tombs of Sheikh Zenedjin-baba and Zenghiata, saints who flourished some centuries ago, and whose tombs are visited by thousands of pilgrims every year. The graveyard was picturesque; a dead tree was still standing among the tombs, which a stork had selected to crown with her nest. A little alley led us to the tomb, in which a devout worshipper was rocking himself to and fro, while he recited his prayers. I ventured to sketch him, as he was evidently oblivious (or pretended to be so) of observers.

It was somewhat difficult for our carriage to make its way through the narrow, tortuous lanes, but we were in no hurry to go fast for the people were so picturesque. They are mostly Sarts, “a name,” says Prince Krapotkin, “which has reference more to manner of life than to anthropological classification, although a much stronger admixture of Iranian blood is evident in the Sarts, who also speak Persian at Khojend and Samarkand.” They are noted for their honesty and independence. There are also Persians and Uzbegs, the latter speaking a pure Jagatai dialect, and various other tribes are found among the bazaars of Tashkent. These bazaars are most fascinating, but as it was Friday there were but few merchants willing to do business, and the whole place had a deserted air. The bazaars are roofed in at the top, which makes them dark and stuffy, but they are sufficiently wide for carriages as well as foot-passengers to go through them. Our guide bargained for some silk scarves, which we thought rather attractive, but as the merchants refused to come down to what he thought a reasonable price, we did not buy more than a couple. The different trades occupy different parts of the bazaar, and one of the most important was the grain and another the tobacco market. Tashkent is also noted for its boots and harness.

In one way it was fortunate that our visit happened to be on a Friday, for we saw the people at prayer. We visited several of the mosques, but they have little artistic merit, and the oldest one has been so hideously redecorated with metal work and the crudest painting, that its 700 years of existence have been entirely obliterated, both within and without. The chief mosque was crowded with men herded within a rather small sort of verandah, where they stood while service was conducted in a loud discordant series of shrieks. A crowd of veiled women and children pressed against the bars of the enclosure, but Mohammedanism has no place for women within her gates. Once for all Mohammed made the position of the women in the Moslem world unspeakably low and degraded: he said, “Woman was made from a crooked rib, and if you try to bend it straight it will break.” A woman, according to the universal Mohammedan belief, has no soul. Years ago I saw the Sultan going to the weekly worship one Friday at Constantinople, and it was part of the programme for his principal wife to see him go there from a certain spot; that she should ever have accompanied him was unthinkable. Another large party of women and children we saw gathered on a neighbouring roof like Peris outside Paradise. But we were not allowed to remain long; we were almost thrust out of the precincts of the mosque, for they have the greatest aversion, we were told, to Russians looking on at their worship. As our guide was Russian, I suppose they imagined us to be the same; elsewhere they treated us with great civility.

The children amused us much by their quaint costumes, and some of them were extremely pretty. The caps, ornaments, and embroideries they wear are charming, and a bizarre effect is produced by a bunch of feathers stuck upright in their caps and attached to their shoulders from the back like incipient wings.

The houses usually have verandahs outside them, where groups of men were reclining. They were highly picturesque, red being the predominating colour of their clothes, heightened by the contrast of their white turbans. They were mostly smoking, gossiping, and drinking, and for all these pursuits they seem to have an untiring capacity.

There is only one Madressah (Mohammedan school) now left at Tashkent, which used to be a seat of learning, and it has few students, and is in a state of decay.

After dinner we regretfully set out for the station to pursue our way to the still more attractive city of Samarkand. The train was crowded, but as we arrived in good time we secured a coupé to ourselves, a most important matter with a journey of some fourteen hours before us. During the night we heard a crash of glass in the adjoining carriage; evidently it was merely accidental, for we heard nothing further; but it accounted for the rigid scrutiny to which the railway carriages are continually submitted in the course of every journey by the conductors, who keep the compartments always locked when unoccupied. One is never allowed to forget the hateful system of espionage, that has been brought to a rare perfection throughout the Russian Empire.