Authors: Claudius Bombarnac
Beyond we shall run due east, and by Marghelan and Och pass through the
gorges of the Pamirs so as to reach the Turkesto-Chinese frontier.
The train had only just started when the travelers took their seats at
the table, where I failed to notice any fresh arrival. We shall not
pick up any more until we reach Kachgar. There the Russian cookery will
give place to the Chinese, and although the name does not recall the
nectar and ambrosia of Olympus, it is probable that we shall not lose
by the change.
Ephrinell is in his usual place. Without going as far as familiarity,
it is obvious that a close intimacy, founded on a similarity in tastes
and aptitudes exists between Miss Horatia Bluett and the Yankee. There
is no doubt, in our opinion, but what it will end in a wedding as soon
as the train arrives. Both will have their romance of the rail.
Frankly, I like that of Kinko and Zinca Klork much better. It is true
the pretty Roumanian is not here!
We are all very friendly, and by "we" I mean my most sympathetic
numbers, the major, the Caternas, young Pan Chao, who replies with very
Parisian pleasantries to the actor's fooleries.
The dinner is a pleasant one and a good one. We learn what is the
fourth rule formulated by Cornaco, that Venetian noble, and with the
object of determining the right amount for drinking and eating. Pan
Chao pressed the doctor on this subject, and Tio-King replied, with a
seriousness truly buddhic:
"The rule is founded on the quantity of nourishment proportionate for
each temperament as regards the difference of ages, and the strength
and the food of various kinds."
"And for your temperament, doctor?" asked Caterna, "what is the right
quantity?"
"Fourteen ounces of solid or liquid—"
"An hour?"
"No, sir, a day," replied Tio-King. "And it was in this manner that the
illustrious Cornaro lived from the age of thirty-six, so as to leave
himself enough strength of body and mind to write his fourth treatise
when he was eighty-five, and to live to a hundred and two."
"In that case, give me my fifth cutlet," said Pan Ghao, with a burst of
laughter.
There is nothing more agreeable than to talk before a well-served
table; but I must not forget to complete my notes regarding Kokham. We
were not due there till nine o'clock, and that would be in the
nighttime. And so I asked the major to give me some information
regarding this town, which is the last of any importance in Russian
Turkestan.
"I know it all the better," said the major, "from having been in
garrison there for fifteen months. It is a pity you have not time to
visit it, for it remains very Asiatic, and there has not been time yet
for it to grow a modern town. There is a square there unrivalled in
Asia, a palace in great style, that of the old Khan of Khondajar,
situated on a mound about a hundred yards high, and in which the
governor has left his Sarthe artillery. It is considered wonderful, and
there is good reason for it. You will lose by not going there a rare
opportunity of bringing in the high-flown words of your language in
description: the reception hall transformed into a Russian church, a
labyrinth of rooms with the floors of the precious Karagatch wood, the
rose pavilion, in which visitors receive a truly Oriental hospitality,
the interior court of Moorish decoration recalling the adorable
architectural fancies of the Alhambra, the terraces with their splendid
views, the harem where the thousand wives of the Sultan—a hundred more
than Solomon—live in peace together, the lacework of the fronts, the
gardens with their shady walks under the ancient vines—that is what
you would have seen—"
"And which I have already seen with your eyes, dear major," said I. "My
readers will not complain. Pray tell me if there are any bazaars in ."
"A Turkestan town without bazaars would be like London without its
docks."
"And Paris without its theaters!" said the actor.
"Yes; there are bazaars at Kokhan, one of them on the Sokh bridge, the two
arms of which traverse the town and in it the finest fabrics of Asia
are sold for tillahs of gold, which are worth three roubles and sixty
kopeks of our money."
"I am sure, major, that you are going to mention mosques after bazaars."
"Certainly."
"And medresses?"
"Certainly; but you must understand that some of them are as good as
the mosques and medresses of Samarkand of Bokhara."
I took advantage of the kindness of Major Noltitz and thanks to him,
the readers of the
Twentieth Century
need not spend a night in Kokhan. I
will leave my pen inundated with the solar rays of this city of which I
could only see a vague outline.
The dinner lasted till rather late, and terminated in an unexpected
manner by an offer from Caterna to recite a monologue.
I need scarcely say that the offer was gladly accepted.
Our train more and more resembled a small rolling town It had even its
casino, this dining-car in which we were gathered at the moment. And it
was thus in the eastern part of Turkestan, four hundred kilometres from
the Pamir plateau, at dessert after our excellent dinner served in a
saloon of the Grand Transasiatic, that the
Obsession
was given with
remarkable talent by Monsieur Caterna, grand premier comique, engaged
at Shanghai theater for the approaching season.
"Monsieur," said Pan Chao, "my sincere compliments. I have heard young
Coquelin—"
"A master, monsieur; a master!" said Caterna.
"Whom you approach—"
"Respectfully—very respectfully!"
The bravos lavished on Caterna had no effect on Sir Francis Trevellyan,
who had been occupying himself with onomatopic exclamations regarding
the dinner, which he considered execrable. He was not amused—not even
sadly, as his countrymen have been for four hundred years, according to
Froissart. And yet nobody took any notice of this grumbling gentleman's
recriminations.
Baron Weissschnitzerdörfer had not understood a single word of this
little masterpiece, and had he understood it, he would not have been
able to appreciate this sample of Parisian monologomania.
As to my lord Faruskiar and his inseparable Ghangir, it seemed that in
spite of their traditional reserve, the surprising grimaces, the
significant gestures, the comical intonations, had interested them to a
certain extent.
The actor had noticed it, and appreciated this silent admiration.
As he rose from the table he said to me:
"He is magnificent, this seigneur! What dignity! What a presence! What
a type of the farthest East! I like his companion less—a third-rate
fellow at the outside! But this superb Mongol! Caroline, cannot you
imagine him as 'Morales' in the
Pirates of the Savannah
?"
"Not in that costume, at any rate," said I.
"Why not, Monsieur Claudius? One day at Perpignan I played 'Colonel de
Montéclin' in the
Closerie des Genets
in the costume of a Japanese
officer—"
"And he was applauded!" added Madame Caterna.
During dinner the train had passed Kastakos station, situated in the
center of a mountainous region. The road curved a good deal, and ran
over viaducts and through tunnels—as we could tell by the noise.
A little time afterward Popof told us that we were in the territory of
Ferganah, the name of the ancient khanate of Kokhan, which was annexed by
Russia in 1876, with the seven districts that compose it. These
districts, in which Sarthes are in the majority, are administered by
prefects, sub-prefects, and mayors. Come, then, to Ferganah, to find
all the machinery of the constitution of the year VIII.
Beyond there is an immense steppe, extending before our train. Madame
de Ujfalvy-Bourdon has justly compared it to a billiard table, so
perfect in its horizontality. Only it is not an ivory ball which is
rolling over its surface, but an express of the Grand Transasiatic
running at sixty kilometres an hour.
Leaving the station of Tchontchai behind, we enter station at nine
o'clock in the evening. The stoppage is to last two hours. We get out
onto the platform.
As we are leaving the car I am near Major Noltitz, who asks young Pan
Chao:
"Have you ever heard of this mandarin Yen Lou, whose body is being
taken to Pekin?"
"Never, major."
"But he ought to be a personage of consideration, to be treated with
the honor he gets."
"That is possible," said Pan Chao; "but we have so many personages of
consideration in the Celestial Empire."
"And so, this mandarin, Yen Lou?"
"I never heard him mentioned."
Why did Major Noltitz ask the Chinaman this question? What was he
thinking about?
Kokhan, two hours to stop. It is night. The majority of the travelers
have already taken up their sleeping quarters in the car, and do not
care to alight.
Here am I on the platform, walking the deck as I smoke. This is rather
an important station, and from the engine house comes a more powerful
locomotive than those which have brought the train along since we left
Uzun Ada. These early engines were all very well as long as the line
lay over an almost horizontal plain. But now we are among the gorges of
the Pamir plateau, there are gradients of such steepness as to require
more engine power.
I watch the proceedings, and when the locomotive has been detached with
its tender, the baggage van—with Kinko in—is at the head of the train.
The idea occurs to me that the young Roumanian may perhaps venture out
on the platform. It would be an imprudence for he runs the risk of
being seen by the police, the "gardovois," who move about taking a good
look at the passengers. What my No. 11 had better do is to remain in
his box, or at least in his van. I will go and get a few provisions,
liquid and solid, and take them to him, even before the departure of
the train, if it is possible to do so without fear of being noticed.
The refreshment room at the station is open, and Popof is not there. If
he was to see me making purchases he would be astonished, as the dining
car contains everything we might want.
At the bar I get a little cold meat, some bread, and a bottle of vodka.
The station is not well lighted. A few lamps give only a feeble light.
Popof is busy with one of the railway men. The new engine has not yet
been attached to the train. The moment seems favorable. It is useless
to wait until we have left. If I can reach Kinko I shall be able to
sleep through the night—and that will be welcome, I admit.
I step onto the train, and after assuring myself that no one is
watching me, I enter the baggage van, saying as I do so:
"It is I."
In fact it is as well to warn Kinko in case he is out of his box.
But he had not thought of getting out, and I advise him to be very
careful.
He is very pleased at the provisions, for they are a change to his
usual diet.
"I do not know how to thank you, Monsieur Bombarnac," he says to me.
"If you do not know, friend Kinko," I reply, "do not do it; that is
very simple."
"How long do we stop at? "
"Two hours."
"And when shall we be at the frontier?"
"To-morrow, about one in the afternoon."
"And at Kachgar?"
"Fifteen hours afterward, in the night of the nineteenth."
"There the danger is, Monsieur Bombarnac."
"Yes, Kinko; for if it is difficult to enter the Russian possessions,
it is no less difficult to get out of them, when the Chinese are at the
gates. Their officials will give us a good look over before they will
let us pass. At the same time they examine the passengers much more
closely than they do their baggage. And as this van is reserved for the
luggage going through to Pekin, I do not think you have much to fear.
So good night. As a matter of precaution, I would rather not prolong my
visit."
"Good night, Monsieur Bombarnac, good night."
I have come out, I have regained my couch, and I really did not hear
the starting signal when the train began to move.
The only station of any importance which the railway passed before
sunrise, was that of Marghelan, where the stoppage was a short one.
Marghelan, a populous town—sixty thousand inhabitants—is the real
capital of Ferganah. That is owing to the fact that does not enjoy a
good reputation for salubrity. It is of course, a double town, one town
Russian, the other Turkoman. The latter has no ancient monuments, and
no curiosities, and my readers must pardon my not having interrupted my
sleep to give them a glance at it.
Following the valley of Schakhimardan, the train has reached a sort of
steppe and been able to resume its normal speed.
At three o'clock in the morning we halt for forty-five minutes at Och
station.
There I failed in my duty as a reporter, and I saw nothing. My excuse
is that there was nothing to see.
Beyond this station the road reaches the frontier which divides Russian
Turkestan from the Pamir plateau and the vast territory of the
Kara-Khirghizes.
This part of Central Asia is continually being troubled by Plutonian
disturbances beneath its surface. Northern Turkestan has frequently
suffered from earthquake—the terrible experience of 1887 will not have
been forgotten—and at Tachkend, as at Samarkand, I saw the traces of
these commotions. In fact, minor oscillations are continually being
observed, and this volcanic action takes place all along the fault,
where lay the stores of petroleum and naphtha, from the Caspian Sea to
the Pamir plateau.
In short, this region is one of the most interesting parts of Central
Asia that a tourist can visit. If Major Noltitz had never been beyond
Och station, at the foot of the plateau, he knew the district from
having studied it on the modern maps and in the most recent books of
travels. Among these I would mention those of Capus and Bonvalot—again
two French names I am happy to salute out of France. The major is,
nevertheless, anxious to see the country for himself, and although it
is not yet six o'clock in the morning, we are both out on the gangway,
glasses in hand, maps under our eyes.