Through Deserts and Oases of Central Asia
9781465686565
213 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
On March 5, 1915, my brother and I started off on our long journey to Kashgar, the capital of Chinese Turkestan, where he was to act for Sir George Macartney, the well-known Consul-General, who was taking leave. Owing to the War, we were obliged, as the first stage of our journey, to travel to Petrograd by the circuitous route through Norway, Sweden and Finland. The small Norwegian steamer, the Iris, in which we embarked at Newcastle, made its way up the coast of Scotland to a point opposite Peterhead in order to avoid mines and submarines, after which it crossed to Bergen. We passed two choppy nights in stuffy cabins with the portholes tightly screwed up, and I was too prostrate with sea-sickness to care when the engines of our steamer stopped dead during the first afternoon. My brother rushed up on deck to see if we were held up by a German submarine, which might mean the unpleasant experience of internment for him, but after a couple of hours we went on again, and no explanation of the delay was given us. Some three months later this same vessel was attacked in reality, two torpedoes being fired at her, and only the zigzag course skilfully pursued by the captain saved her from destruction. Amundsen, the discoverer of the South Pole, was on board, and wrote to the papers describing the incident, and strongly reprobated Germany’s policy towards neutral shipping, which, he declared, had converted him to the side of the Allies. To return to our journey, we finally steamed in safety up a long fiord, and Bergen stood up picturesquely against its background of snow-covered hills. We thought that the pleasant-mannered Norwegians were decidedly Scotch in appearance, and a sturdy youth, quite of the type of a Highland gillie, soon guided us to the Hospidset Hotel, which had originally belonged to the Hanseatic League in Bergen. In old days the apprentices lived in this house, being locked up safely at night, and though the building has undergone considerable restoration, it is still a characteristic piece of architecture. Next morning we tramped round Bergen in our snow-boots, finding the steep roads very slippery with frozen snow, even the inhabitants falling headlong now and again. Here and there children were merrily tobogganing, dashing recklessly across the main street through which the trams were running, and hurling themselves down steep inclines on the other side in a way that made me shudder. They were all sensibly clad in woollen garments, their rosy faces peering out from fur caps or fur-trimmed hoods, and it did one good to see them. A graver note was struck as a funeral passed by, with all the mourners on foot; and the pastor, in a stiff ruff with muslin frills at his wrists, seemed to have returned from the sixteenth century, and might have posed for a portrait of Calvin. Sleighs were everywhere, drawn by sturdy little ponies that raced along at a great pace with jingling bells and kept their feet wonderfully. We left by the night train for the twenty-seven hours’ run to Stockholm, changing at Christiania, and next day were speeding through a land of snow and pine inhabited by a hardy-looking, fur-clad race. Fish seemed a staple article of food, and we were offered salted prawns, herring-salad, raw sardines and anchovies; veal, ham and tongue, with pickles or cold fried bacon, forming the meat course. There were no sweets or fruit, but for compensation we had delicious coffee and cream. In the restaurant car the bread and rolls were fastened up in grease-proof paper, sugar in tiny packets, and biscuits in sealed bags, in order to prevent unnecessary handling.
