Chapter 8 - Page 2

three, Popof was going through the luggage
van, I know not why. What must be the Roumanian's anxiety during this
movement to and fro in front of his box!

As soon as Popof reappeared I said to him: "Anything fresh?"

"Nothing, except the morning breeze!" said he.

"Very fresh!" said I. "Is there a refreshment bar in the station?"

"There is one for the convenience of the passengers."

"And for the convenience of the guards, I suppose? Come along, Popof."

And Popof did not want asking twice.

The bar was open, but there did not seem to be much to choose from. The
only liquor was "Koumiss," which is fermented mare's milk, and is the
color of faded ink, very nourishing, although very liquid. You must be
a Tartar to appreciate this koumiss. At least that is the effect it
produced on me. But Popof thought it excellent, and that was the
important point.

Most of the Sarthes and Kirghizes who got out at Askhabad, have been
replaced by other second-class passengers, Afghan merchants and
smugglers, the latter particularly clever in their line of business.
All the green tea consumed in Central Asia is brought by them from
China through India, and although the transport is much longer, they
sell it at a much lower price than the Russian tea. I need not say that
their luggage was examined with Muscovite minuteness.

The train started again at four o'clock. Our car was still a sleeper. I
envied the sleep of my companions, and as that was all I could do, I
returned to the platform.

The dawn was appearing in the east. Here and there were the ruins of
the ancient city, a citadel girdled with high ramparts and a succession
of long porticos extending over fifteen hundred yards. Running over a
few embankments, necessitated by the inequalities of the sandy ground,
the train reaches the horizontal steppe.

We are running at a speed of thirty miles an hour in a southwesterly
direction, along the Persian frontier. It is only beyond Douchak that
the line begins to leave it. During this three hours' run the two
stations at which the train stops are Gheours, the junction for the
road to Mesched, whence the heights of the Iran plateau are visible,
and Artyk where water is abundant although slightly brackish.

The train then traverses the oasis of the Atek, which is an important
tributary of the Caspian. Verdure and trees are everywhere. This oasis
justifies its name, and would not disgrace the Sahara. It extends to
the station of Douchak at the six hundred and sixtieth verst, which we
reach at six o'clock in the morning.

We stop here two hours, that is to say, there are two hours for us to
walk about. I am