One doesn’t get to see very much of a country from a train window. If we could afford it and had the time, we would have undertaken this journey on horseback, in the saddle, and made long side trips into the branch valleys. Now we were limited to watching the landscape we rushed through from a window and to observing our fellow travelers. For that matter, doing both was far more than we could handle.
We travel for many, many hours and the landscape is barren, but gradually it changes and eventually we are in one of the most fertile regions of Caucasia. The vegetation is so luxuriant, I’ve never seen anything like it. The forests appear impenetrable, and when we stop at the stations and can look more closely, we see that the trees are intertwined with a continuous web of creepers. There are chestnuts, walnut trees, and oaks; the underbrush consists of hazel thickets. On small cleared patches, corn, grapes, and all kinds of fruit are cultivated; everything seethes and grows and ripens on the stalk, and there is a fragrance of apples. We look out upon this wonderful landscape without a peer; it’s so beautiful and rich, and we have seen it! The moon rises before the sun goes down, and here too the stars come out in drifts, while the train sails into a silver sea above the earth.
We cannot see much more than outlines by now, but the outlines are fine. There are ridges, hills and dales, and silhouettes of mountains. A bonfire in an occasional village appears like blood in the white light. And the evening and night are unwaveringly peaceful and warm. I notice that there is a heavy dewfall; my gloves stick to my hands, and my yellow silk jacket darkens a shade from the moisture. And the fever chases me in from the platform.
But the dreary compartment is pretty unbearable; the light is so poor, too, and my reading was the same as ever, that old newspaper. I passed an hour or so trying to get my watch to run; it had stopped. And I wasn’t surprised that it had finally grown tired, with my having constantly moved the time back and forth, back and forth during the last few weeks. St. Petersburg had one time, Moscow another; when we got down to the Don, there was an entirely different time, and in Vladikavkaz we had to set our watches ahead half an hour. But on the way to Tiflis, traveling through the mountains, the time changed every day, to give way to a fixed time during the days we spent in the city. But no sooner had we arrived in Baku than all the oil people smiled at our wretched Tiflis time and made us adopt theirs. And when we again came to Tiflis, Baku time was unusable both for meals and for train departures. My watch had previously put up with everything; now it had stopped. It was actually quite amusing to discover it was that independent, after I had led it by the nose for so long.
After struggling with the watch for an hour or so, taking it apart and being unable to put it together again without more tools, I packed it all into my handkerchief. Then I took a stroll back to third class. Here people were still up. Caucasians don’t sleep. I look for a place as though I belong there, and two Imeretians move apart a little and offer me a seat. In return, I give them cigars, for which they thank me; but I had no more cigars left for those sitting directly opposite us.
There was an inexcusable amount of bedbugs; it was better to stay up than to sleep in such squalor, and I smoked and observed my fellow travelers to my heart’s content. They all appeared to be poor folk, but everyone was dressed in the uniform of the Circassians, with weapons and accessories. A few of the men had bedizened themselves with a flat embroidered cloth on their heads, a kind of runner that was held together by ribbons around their back hair. They were handsome people. There were no women.
Still, in a while it became rather boring for me to sit there without understanding a single word of what was said, and since there was no music or singing, I got up and went to the next car. Here, apart from a couple of Persians, who were sleeping, they were all awake and quietly chatting. On one seat, among other luggage, lies a balalaika, and I ask those sitting nearest to me to play, but they don’t answer. They look unfriendly, as if they knew I didn’t have any more cigars on me. So I walked away from them.
I wander from one car to another most of the night, and when the train stops I jump off and enjoy myself mingling with people on the stations. Meanwhile, the fever is running riot inside me, and I know full well that I feed the flames by the senseless nightlife that I lead; but I would also feed it by going to sleep—that is, giving in—and so I choose to stay up because it’s more fun. But I did eventually make it back to my seat and got some sleep.
I’m lucky enough to wake up just as the day is breaking, so I can take another look at this fabulous country. We are up in the mountains going down, down through a landscape of riotous fertility. Here fruit and grapes grow wild, and there is a lively bustle of birds and animals everywhere in the woods.
It’s getting light; in a moment the sun appears on the horizon at the same time as the locomotive blows a loud whistle. We are going around a curve, and leaning out over the platform I can see the shiny limbs of the machine in operation. I have an impression of being lifted high up, that I’m flying—everything is marked by a proud grandeur. The screeching locomotive, invincible and roaring, passes between the cliffs like a god.
We will soon be at our destination. Farther down and to the right, we see ocean, the Black Sea.