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.
MOUNT KASBEC
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—
‘Be silent; keep yourselves in curb—
We are watched in look and word.’
An Empire of one hundred and thirty millions of prisoners and of one million gaolers—such is Russia.”