We left Kazan for the homeward journey, intending only to stop at Vienna on the way, but fate decreed otherwise. The train started in the evening, and we travelled two nights and a day through flat country to the Caspian Sea. The railway through Turkestan runs parallel first with the Afghan frontier—across which no Russian dare step on pain of his life—and then parallel with the Persian border. The mountains of Persia formed a beautiful outline against the stormy sky as we passed through Askabad, the southernmost point of the line, and when the rain came down in blinding torrents we watched the patient camels and their drivers on the plain, behaving as if completely oblivious of the storm. Not so the Cossack on his fiery steed; he looked as if possessed by the storm demon, tearing across the plain as if the furies were behind him. A land of strange contrasts—the immovable calm of the East, and, vainly beating against it, the restless West. The question forces itself irresistibly upon the mind—which will conquer?

The sun shone brightly next morning as we woke on the shores of the Caspian Sea, and it looked calm and inviting, so different from the description of his stormy journey given by Anthony Jenkinson in the sixteenth century. He says: “This sea is freshwater in many places, and in other places as salt as our great Ocean. It hath many goodly Rivers falling into it, and it avoideth not itselfe except it be underground. During the time of our Navigation wee set up the redde crosse of S. George in our flagges, for honour of the Christians, which I suppose was never seen in the Caspian Sea before.” The terminus of the railway line is a miserable little sun-baked village called Krasnovodsk, with only one imposing edifice, the railway station. We took our things at once to the boat, through a maze of railway trucks and carriages, and were delighted to find it a comfortable little steamer, with a Finnish captain who had served long on English ships and looked like a Scotchman. There was a gigantic sturgeon lying on the landing-stage, and he told us some have been caught in the Caspian Sea weighing two tons. Our voyage only lasted about thirteen hours, but none of the passengers save myself faced dinner, and I was surprised to see next morning that there had been some eight or nine on board. During the night a little child died, so there was a delay while the health officer made his inquiry, and we were all duly inspected.

The view of Baku, although seen through driving rain, was eminently picturesque, and the old ruined maiden’s tower (in the centre of my sketch) which is close to the wharf stands up boldly from amongst the modern buildings. Forty years ago Baku was a small town with its picturesque eastern quarter, but now it is a city boasting more than a quarter of a million inhabitants, as cosmopolitan as a seaport on the Mediterranean. The extraordinary change is of course due to the discovery of oil, which has brought wealth, ugliness, and other undesirable things to the surrounding country.

The country round Baku is hideous, a sort of eruption of oil derricks covers miles of it. These are pyramidal buildings like square mill chimneys, only considerably thicker at the base, and there are no less than 2000 at Balakhani closely packed together. There is such an abundance of oil that in many parts it is only necessary to make a hole in the ground with a stick and a jet of flame will rise in the air. On still nights it is possible to set light to the oil which gathers on the surface of the sea. No wonder that the Parsees worshipped the strange fire, and there still exists a curious temple at a place called Surakhany, about half a day’s journey from Baku, where the so-called “eternal fires” burn, though the last worshippers left it some quarter of a century ago. The modern spirit has changed it into a profitable petroleum factory.

The town is evidently well worth seeing, but the pitiless rain drove us to the Hotel d’Europe, and we were glad to resume our journey, deciding to go round by Tiflis instead of direct from Baku to Vienna. There is a through train to the frontier, Volochisk, which takes four nights and three days, and from thence it is another day and night journey to Vienna. We were told that it would be only a difference of hours if we took the other route, and that by so doing we could see the magnificent pass through the Caucasus, travelling from Tiflis to Vladikavkaz by public automobile. It was impossible in Baku to ascertain anything definite as to the hours of starting or arriving of the automobile, but as our train was due at 6.30 A.M. we fondly imagined we should be in time to catch it. Nothing of the sort. With Russian perversity it started in connection with no train, but at 6 A.M. We could hardly regret the delay, however, for we found ourselves in such comfortable quarters at the quiet Hotel de Londres, which had been recommended to us, and we should have appreciated it the more had we known then that they were the last beds we should occupy till we reached London a week later.

Tiflis is well worth a visit: it is situated on the lofty banks of a tumultuous river, and its green and red roofs, varied by the gleaming domes of the churches, are most picturesque. There is a large number of these, and Tiflis has become the home of many religious refugees, for in order to stamp out heresy, orthodox Russia exiles her Baptists, Stundists, &c., to the outlying parts of the empire, such as Siberia and the Caucasus. It boasts a fine German church, also a Swedish mission, and a depôt of the Bible Society. The Swedish missionaries have been working there for twenty-two years, but are not allowed by the Government to have any medical or educational work, which greatly limits their usefulness. It is hard work, but bravely done.

Tiflis is noted for its sulphur baths, and attracts many visitors from different parts of Russia on that account. After a drive round the town we went up the funicular railway, and from the summit a magnificent panoramic view is to be had, for Tiflis is in the heart of the mountains. The ruins of the old walls can be traced on the north side of the river, and the old Georgian fortress, now included in the botanical garden. Tiflis was founded in the fifth century, and became the capital of the Georgian kingdom in the beginning of the sixth century. It fell into the hands of Russia in 1801, and the feelings of the Georgians are still intensely bitter after a century of foreign rule. It is a cosmopolitan city, and Professor Brugsch estimates that seventy languages may be heard in it. One unusual feature of the population is that the men are double the number of the women.

At 5.30 next morning we set out for the automobile and secured our seats; it was a covered car to seat nine passengers, but we were only six, which certainly seemed a sufficient load for the road we had to cover. The earlier part of the way we sped through pretty wooded country, with picturesque villages and ruined fortresses dotted among the crags on either side of the road. They were not so numerous as to punctuate the scenery in the way they do on the Rhine, but just to remind one that this was the Georgian military road in the old days. Our chauffeur was a good one, but unfortunately his hooter was as hoarse as a raven and not even as loud, so that there was no means of warning the vehicles ahead, which caused constant delay on the narrow road. Before we had proceeded far we saw a comical accident owing to the soft condition of the road; a private motor car on one side and a cart on the other had each sunk deep into the soil in trying to avoid one another. Fortunately there was plenty of assistance at hand, for the cart belonged to a party of emigrants, and soon both vehicles were dug out and pushed on to solid ground.

The day was beautiful, and the scent of hawthorn, wild roses and thyme, yellow azalea and lime-trees filled the air, and the scenery became increasingly wild and beautiful. After three hours’ drive we halted for half-an-hour near a town on the outskirts of which musketry practice was going on, then we began the main ascent of the pass. The road became very steep, and the air cold and damp as we zig-zagged up the mountain. There were brilliant patches of kingcups, and amongst them beautiful tall snowdrops in great profusion. Instead of cultivated land there were pastures full of flocks of sheep and goats, shepherded by bright-looking boys. Of all the passes I have seen in Europe this is certainly the finest. One seems to be right amongst the snow fields, and the road sometimes passes between high walls of snow or through sheds built with great solidity. We stopped one hour for lunch at the village where we met the automobile going the reverse way, and again later at the foot of Mt. Kasbec for another half-hour. Kasbec is 16,546 feet in height, namely, 100 feet higher than Mont Blanc. On its slope there is a typical Caucasian village, as seen in the sketch. From the time when we started on the down-hill road, however, we lost all pleasure in the scenery. Our driver suddenly became utterly reckless under the influence (as we learnt later on) of pressure brought to bear on him by one of the passengers, who wanted to arrive early at Vladikavkaz. We simply dashed down the road and round corners, at the imminent peril of our necks, scattering horses and carts in wild confusion into the ditch or up banks to what seemed to be certain destruction. Only once did the chauffeur stop, on the demand of a man with a rifle; he admitted that he was frightened, for not long ago the auto had been held up by brigands. It was a momentary pause, however, and we dashed on as recklessly as before. Finally on entering the town a horse took fright and dragged its cart into the ditch, overturning it completely, but the chauffeur merely smiled and drove on. How thankful we were to draw up safely at last at the Grand Hotel at Vladikavkaz at 6 P.M. We had some hours to spare before our train started, so we made our way to the telegraph office in order to wire home. The polite clerk, in answer to our inquiry, said that it took much less time to telegraph to England than to any place in Russia, and that it would probably be delivered in London in an hour’s time; in point of fact, the telegram was never delivered at all. German we found the foreign language best understood in Russia, and for the benefit of inexperienced travellers I will conclude my volume with a brief account of our crossing the frontier.

At Tiflis we gave up our passports (according to regulation) to the hotel-keeper, stating where we had come from and our next halting place, namely Vienna. The police have to put their official signatures on the passport wherever you stop on Russian soil, but also in addition something further when you wish to leave the country, and every time the passport is visé-ed the traveller has to pay. We presumed that this had been properly done at Tiflis, having paid for it, but when we reached Volochisk and the officials came for all the passengers’ passports, they looked at ours and returned them to us in a rough, surly way, saying something that we could not understand, instead of carrying them off with the others. Every one was locked up in the train, and in due course of time the officials returned with the passports and gave them back to their owners. They pointed us to the door, and proceeded to put our luggage out. A lady from an adjoining carriage came and explained the situation; the passports had not been properly signed for leaving the country, and we should have to telegraph to the police at Tiflis before we should be allowed to leave. “How long will it take?” we asked in dismay. “Oh! not more than three or four days!” We inquired if there was no method of tipping by which we could escape such a dismal prospect, but she was emphatic in denying it. She suggested, however, that by treble payment we could send a quick telegram instead of a slow one, and she got her husband to go and explain our sad condition to the officer in charge of the station. He was fortunately able to speak a little German, and he ordered an underling to go and write the necessary telegram to the police at Tiflis. The little colonel was in full regimentals, and wore spurs, and the station had a military guard; he had to be there on arrival of every train apparently, and acted as stationmaster. He reassured us by saying that we might hope for an answer in the course of the afternoon (it was now about ten in the morning), in which case we could take the evening train to Vienna. We had the melancholy satisfaction of finding that we were not the only people whose passports were unsatisfactory; in fact no one seemed surprised about it except ourselves. We tried to beguile the weary hours by watching the custom-house officials enjoying themselves over the parcel post; a number of muslin dress lengths were unpacked and inspected, as well as sundry other things. The restaurant was a source of amusement as well as comfort to us, and was far superior to an English one at a similar station. At long intervals trains arrived, and we visited the telegraph office from time to time.

We studied the “toilette” that went on in the ladies’ waiting-room, and when night came and still no answer, we debated what to do next. At 9.30 we saw our hopes of a comfortable bed next night disappear, but we still felt it would be well to leave at 2.30 A.M. if fate permitted. The “hotel,” a small cottage within sight of the station, we did not fancy, so we resigned ourselves to the small rest obtainable on a wooden bench and the window ledge. Every time a train arrived the colonel appeared also, and I fear he got rather tired of our polite request for information; the importunate widow would have had no chance with him. What an extraordinary occupation for an officer; but he sought to beguile the time by hob-nobbing with the large staff of employees who, doubtless for an absurdly small wage, spend most of the twenty-four hours loafing about the railway.

At last the night ended, and we saw with pity a group of emigrants trying to breakfast under a dull drizzling sky opposite the station. A friendly porter gave us the news we were longing for—a telegram had arrived. No words can express our delight, for we seemed to know every stone of that railway platform, and we rushed to the office to demand our passports, of which the officials had taken possession. Our detention had lasted twenty-four hours, and as we shook the dust from our feet we failed not to be thankful for the Providence which caused us to be citizens of a land of liberty instead of tyranny. It is only in Russia that one thoroughly realises it; and the irksomeness of it becomes intolerable. “Implicit obedience, silent subjection, and the irresistible power of despotism are here brought home effectively to the stranger. But this impression remains with the traveller throughout the entire journey—

An Empire of one hundred and thirty millions of prisoners and of one million gaolers—such is Russia.”