Jules Verne (12 page)

It will be understood that it was touching to see this honest
give-and-take, so different from the dry business style of the two
commercials who were in conversation in the adjoining car.

But here is Baron Weissschnitzerdörfer, wearing a traveling cap, coming
out of the dining car, where I imagine he has not spent his time
consulting the time-table.

"The good man of the hat trick!" said Caterna, after the baron went
back into the car without favoring us with a salute.

"He is quite German enough!" said Madame Caterna.

"And to think that Henry Heine called those people sentimental oaks!" I
added.

"Then he could not have known that one!" said Caterna. "Oak, I admit,
but sentimental—"

"Do you know why the baron has patronized the Grand Transasiatic?" I
asked.

"To eat sauerkraut at Pekin!" said Caterna.

"Not at all. To rival Miss Nelly Bly. He is trying to get around the
world in thirty-nine days."

"Thirty-nine days!" exclaimed Gaterna. "You should say a hundred and
thirty-nine!"

And in a voice like a husky clarinet the actor struck up the well-known
air from the Cloches de Corneville:

"I thrice have been around the world."

Adding, for the baron's benefit:

"He will not do the half."

At a quarter-past twelve our train passed the station of Kari Bata,
which resembles one of the stations on the line from Naples to
Sorrento, with its Italian roofs. I noticed a vast Asiatico-Russian
camp, the flags waving in the fresh breeze. We have entered the Mervian
oasis, eighty miles long and eight wide, and containing about six
hundred thousand hectares—there is nothing like being precise at the
finish. Right and left are cultivated fields, clumps of fine trees, an
uninterrupted succession of villages, huts among the thickets, fruit
gardens between the houses, flocks of sheep and herds of cattle among
the pastures. All this rich country is watered by the Mourgab—the
White Water—or its tributaries, and pheasants swarm like crows on the
plains of Normandy. At one o'clock in the afternoon the train stopped
at Merv Station, over five hundred miles from Uzun Ada.

The town has been often destroyed and rebuilt. The wars of Turkestan
have not spared it. Formerly, it seems, it was a haunt of robbers and
bandits, and it is a pity that the renowned Ki-Tsang did not live in
those days. Perhaps he would have become a Genghis Khan?

Major Noltitz told me of a Turkoman saying to the following effect: "If
you meet a Mervian and a viper, begin by killing the Mervian and leave
the viper till afterwards."

I fancy it would be better to begin with killing the viper now that the
Mervian has become a Russian.

We have seven hours to stop at Merv. I shall have time to visit this
curious town. Its physical and moral transformation has been profound,
owing to the somewhat arbitrary proceedings of the Russian
administration. It is fortunate that its fortress, five miles round,
built by Nour Verdy in 1873, was not strong enough to prevent its
capture by the czar, so that the old nest of malefactors has become one
of the most important cities of the Transcaspian.

I said to Major Noltitz:

"If it is not trespassing on your kindness, may I ask you to go with
me?"

"Willingly," he answered; "and as far as I am concerned, I shall be
very pleased to see Merv again."

We set out at a good pace.

"I ought to tell you," said the major, "that it is the new town we are
going to see."

"And why not the old one first? That would be more logical and more
chronological."

"Because old Merv is eighteen miles away, and you will hardly see it as
you pass. So you must refer to the accurate description given of it by
your great geographer Elisée Reclus."

And certainly readers will not lose anything by the change.

The distance from the station to new Merv is not great. But what an
abominable dust! The commercial town is built on the left of the
river—a town in the American style, which would please Ephrinell, wide
streets straight as a line crossing at right angles; straight
boulevards with rows of trees; much bustle and movement among the
merchants in Oriental costume, in Jewish costume, merchants of every
kind; a number of camels and dromedaries, the latter much in request
for their powers of withstanding fatigue and which differ in their
hinder parts from their African congeners. Not many women along the
sunny roads which seem white hot. Some of the feminine types are,
however, sufficiently remarkable, dressed out in a quasi-military
costume, wearing soft boots and a cartouche belt in the Circassian
style. You must take care of the stray dogs, hungry brutes with long
hair and disquieting fangs, of a breed reminding one of the dogs of the
Caucasus, and these animals—according to Boulangier the engineer—have
eaten a Russian general.

"Not entirely," replies the major, confirming the statement. "They left
his boots."

In the commercial quarter, in the depths of the gloomy ground floors,
inhabited by the Persians and the Jews, within the miserable shops are
sold carpets of incredible fineness, and colors artistically combined,
woven mostly by old women without any Jacquard cards.

On both banks of the Mourgab the Russians have their military
establishment. There parade the Turkoman soldiers in the service of the
czar. They wear the blue cap and the white epaulettes with their
ordinary uniform, and drill under the orders of Russian officers.

A wooden bridge, fifty yards long, crosses the river. It is practicable
not only for foot-passengers, but for trains, and telegraph wires are
stretched above its parapets.

On the opposite bank is the administrative town, which contains a
considerable number of civil servants, wearing the usual Russian cap.

In reality the most interesting place to see is a sort of annexe, a
Tekke village, in the middle of Merv, whose inhabitants have retained
the villainous characteristics of this decaying race, the muscular
bodies, large ears, thick lips, black beard. And this gives the last
bit of local color to be found in the new town.

At a turning in the commercial quarter we met the commercials, American
and English.

"Mr. Ephrinell," I said, "there is nothing curious in this modern Merv."

"On the contrary, Mr. Bombarnac, the town is almost Yankee, and it will
soon see the day when the Russians will give it tramways and gaslights!"

"That will come!"

"I hope it will, and then Merv will have a right to call itself a city."

"For my part, I should have preferred a visit to the old town, with its
mosque, its fortress, and its palace. But that is a little too far off,
and the train does not stop there, which I regret."

"Pooh!" said the Yankee. "What I regret is, that there is no business
to be done in these Turkoman countries! The men all have teeth—"

"And the women all have hair," added Horatia Bluett.

"Well, miss, buy their hair, and you will not lose your time."

"That is exactly what Holmes-Holme of London will do as soon as we have
exhausted the capillary stock of the Celestial Empire."

And thereupon the pair left us.

I then suggested to Major Noltitz—it was six o'clock—to dine at Merv,
before the departure of the train. He consented, but he was wrong to
consent. An ill-fortune took us to the Hotel Slav, which is very
inferior to our dining car—at least as regards its bill of fare. It
contained, in particular, a national soup called "borchtch," prepared
with sour milk, which I would carefully refrain from recommending to
the gourmets of the
Twentieth Century
.

With regard to my newspaper, and that telegram relative to the mandarin
our train is "conveying" in the funereal acceptation of the word? Has
Popof obtained from the mutes who are on guard the name of this high
personage?

Yes, at last! And hardly are we within the station than he runs up to
me, saying:

"I know the name."

"And it is?"

"Yen Lou, the great mandarin Yen Lou of Pekin."

"Thank you, Popof."

I rush to the telegraph office, and from there I send a telegram to the
Twentieth Century
.

"Merv, 16th May, 7 p.m.

"Train, Grand Transasiatic, just leaving Merv. Took from Douchak the
body of the great mandarin Yen Lou coming from Persia to Pekin."

It cost a good deal, did this telegram, but you will admit it was well
worth its price.

The name of Yen Lou was immediately communicated to our fellow
travelers, and it seemed to me that my lord Faruskiar smiled when he
heard it.

We left the station at eight o'clock precisely. Forty minutes
afterwards we passed near old Merv, and the night being dark I could
see nothing of it. There was, however, a fortress with square towers
and a wall of some burned bricks, and ruined tombs, and a palace and
remains of mosques, and a collection of archaeological things, which
would have run to quite two hundred lines of small text.

"Console yourself," said Major Noltitz. "Your satisfaction could not be
complete, for old Merv has been rebuilt four times. If you had seen the
fourth town, Bairam Ali of the Persian period, you would not have seen
the third, which was Mongol, still less the Musalman village of the
second epoch, which was called Sultan Sandjar Kala, and still less the
town of the first epoch. That was called by some Iskander Kala, in
honor of Alexander the Macedonian, and by others Ghiaour Kala,
attributing its foundation to Zoroaster, the founder of the Magian
religion, a thousand years before Christ. So I should advise you to put
your regrets in the waste-paper basket."

And that is what I did, as I could do no better with them.

Our train is running northeast. The stations are twenty or thirty
versts apart. The names are not shouted, as we make no stop, and I have
to discover them on my time-table. Such are Keltchi, Ravina—why this
Italian name in this Turkoman province?—Peski, Repetek, etc. We cross
the desert, the real desert without a thread of water, where artesian
wells have to be sunk to supply the reservoirs along the line.

The major tells me that the engineers experienced immense difficulty in
fixing the sandhills on this part of the railway. If the palisades had
not been sloped obliquely, like the barbs of a feather, the line would
have been covered by the sand to such an extent as to stop the running
of the trains. As soon as this region of sandhills had been passed we
were again on the level plain on which the rails had been laid so
easily.

Gradually my companions go to sleep, and our carriage is transformed
into a sleeping car.

I then return to my Roumanian. Ought I to attempt to see him to-night?
Undoubtedly; and not only to satisfy a very natural curiosity, but also
to calm his anxiety. In fact, knowing his secret is known to the person
who spoke to him through the panel of his case, suppose the idea
occurred to him to get out at one of the stations, give up his journey,
and abandon his attempt to rejoin Mademoiselle Zinca Klork, so as to
escape the company's pursuit? That is possible, after all, and my
intervention may have done the poor fellow harm—to say nothing of my
losing No. 11, one of the most valuable in my collection.

I am resolved to visit him before the coming dawn. But, in order to be
as careful as possible, I will wait until the train has passed
Tchardjoui, where it ought to arrive at twenty-seven past two in the
morning. There we shall stop a quarter of an hour before proceeding
towards the Amu-Daria. Popof will then retire to his den, and I shall
be able to slip into the van, without fear of being seen.

How long the hours appear! Several times I have almost fallen asleep,
and twice or thrice I have had to go out into the fresh air on the
platform.

The train enters Tchardjoui Station to the minute. It is an important
town of the Khanate of Bokhara, which the Transcaspian reached towards
the end of 1886, seventeen months after the first sleeper was laid. We
are not more than twelve versts from the Amu-Daria, and beyond that
river I shall enter on my adventure.

I have said that the stop at Tchardjoui ought to last a quarter of an
hour. A few travelers alight, for they have booked to this town which
contains about thirty thousand inhabitants. Others get in to proceed to
Bokhara and Samarkand, but these are only second-class passengers. This
produces a certain amount of bustle on the platform.

I also get out and take a walk up and down by the side of the front
van, and I notice the door silently open and shut. A man creeps out on
to the platform and slips away through the station, which is dimly
lighted by a few petroleum lamps.

It is my Roumanian. It can be no one else. He has not been seen, and
there he is, lost among the other travelers. Why this escape? Is it to
renew his provisions at the refreshment bar? On the contrary, is not
his intention, as I am afraid it is, to get away from us?

Shall I stop him? I will make myself known to him; promise to help him.
I will speak to him in French, in English, in German, in Russian—as he
pleases. I will say to him: "My friend, trust to my discretion; I will
not betray you. Provisions? I will bring them to you during the night.
Encouragements? I will heap them on you as I will the refreshments. Do
not forget that Mademoiselle Zinca Klork, evidently the most lovely of
Roumanians, is expecting you at Pekin, etc."

Behold me then following him without appearing to do so. Amid all this
hurry to and fro he is in little danger of being noticed. Neither Popof
nor any of the company's servants would suspect him to be a swindler.
Is he going towards the gate to escape me?

No! He only wants to stretch his legs better than he can do in the van.
After an imprisonment which has lasted since he left Baku—that is to
say, about sixty hours—he has earned ten minutes of freedom.