rolls in his car. And so it comes about that I am in
a particularly lively mood, desirous of observing, greedy of
instruction, and that at a speed of thirty-one miles an hour. That is
the rate at which we are to travel through Turkestan, and when we reach
the Celestial Empire we shall have to be content with eighteen.
That is what I have just ascertained by consulting my time-table, which
I bought at the station. It is accompanied by a long slip map, folded
and refolded on itself, which shows the whole length of the line
between the Caspian and the eastern coast of China. I study, then, my
Transasiatic, on leaving Uzun Ada, just as I studied my Transgeorgian
when I left Tiflis.
The gauge of the line is about sixty-three inches—as is usual on the
Russian lines, which are thus about four inches wider than those of
other European countries. It is said, with regard to this, that the
Germans have made a great number of axles of this length, in case they
have to invade Russia. I should like to think that the Russians have
taken the same precautions in the no less probable event of their
having to invade Germany.
On either side of the line are long sandhills, between which the train
runs out from Uzun Ada; when it reaches the arm of the sea which
separates Long Island from the continent, it crosses an embankment
about 1,200 yards long, edged with masses of rock to protect it against
the violence of the waves.
We have already passed several stations without stopping, among others
Mikhailov, a league from Uzun Ada. Now they are from ten to eleven
miles apart. Those I have seen, as yet, look like villas, with
balustrades and Italian roofs, which has a curious effect in Turkestan
and the neighborhood of Persia. The desert extends up to the
neighborhood of Uzun Ada, and the railway stations form so many little
oases, made by the hand of man. It is man, in fact, who has planted
these slender, sea-green poplars, which give so little shade; it is man
who, at great expense, has brought here the water whose refreshing jets
fall back into an elegant vase. Without these hydraulic works there
would not be a tree, not a corner of green in these oases. They are the
nurses of the line, and dry-nurses are of no use to locomotives.
The truth is that I have never seen such a bare, arid country, so clear
of vegetation; and it extends for one hundred and fifty miles from Uzun
Ada. When General Annenkof commenced his works at Mikhailov, he was
obliged to distil the water from the Caspian Sea, as if he were on
board ship. But if water is necessary to produce steam, coal is
necessary to vaporize the water. The readers of the
Twentieth Century
will ask how are the furnaces fed in a country in which there is
neither coal nor wood? Are there stores of these things at the
principal stations of the Transcaspian? Not at all. They have simply
put in practice an idea which occurred to our great chemist,
Sainte-Claire Deville, when first petroleum was used in France. The
furnaces are fed, by the aid of a pulverizing apparatus, with the
residue produced from the distillation of the naphtha, which Baku and
Derbent produce in such inexhaustible quantities. At certain stations
on the line there are vast reservoirs of this combustible mineral, from
which the tenders are filled, and it is burned in specially adapted
fireboxes. In a similar way naphtha is used on the steamboats on the
Volga and the other affluents of the Caspian.
I repeat, the country is not particularly varied. The ground is nearly
flat in the sandy districts, and quite flat in the alluvial plains,
where the brackish water stagnates in pools. Nothing could be better
for a line of railway. There are no cuttings, no embankments, no
viaducts, no works of art—to use a term dear to engineers, very
"dear," I should say. Here and there are a few wooden bridges from two
hundred to three hundred feet long. Under such circumstances the cost
per kilometre of the Transcaspian did not exceed seventy-five
a particularly lively mood, desirous of observing, greedy of
instruction, and that at a speed of thirty-one miles an hour. That is
the rate at which we are to travel through Turkestan, and when we reach
the Celestial Empire we shall have to be content with eighteen.
That is what I have just ascertained by consulting my time-table, which
I bought at the station. It is accompanied by a long slip map, folded
and refolded on itself, which shows the whole length of the line
between the Caspian and the eastern coast of China. I study, then, my
Transasiatic, on leaving Uzun Ada, just as I studied my Transgeorgian
when I left Tiflis.
The gauge of the line is about sixty-three inches—as is usual on the
Russian lines, which are thus about four inches wider than those of
other European countries. It is said, with regard to this, that the
Germans have made a great number of axles of this length, in case they
have to invade Russia. I should like to think that the Russians have
taken the same precautions in the no less probable event of their
having to invade Germany.
On either side of the line are long sandhills, between which the train
runs out from Uzun Ada; when it reaches the arm of the sea which
separates Long Island from the continent, it crosses an embankment
about 1,200 yards long, edged with masses of rock to protect it against
the violence of the waves.
We have already passed several stations without stopping, among others
Mikhailov, a league from Uzun Ada. Now they are from ten to eleven
miles apart. Those I have seen, as yet, look like villas, with
balustrades and Italian roofs, which has a curious effect in Turkestan
and the neighborhood of Persia. The desert extends up to the
neighborhood of Uzun Ada, and the railway stations form so many little
oases, made by the hand of man. It is man, in fact, who has planted
these slender, sea-green poplars, which give so little shade; it is man
who, at great expense, has brought here the water whose refreshing jets
fall back into an elegant vase. Without these hydraulic works there
would not be a tree, not a corner of green in these oases. They are the
nurses of the line, and dry-nurses are of no use to locomotives.
The truth is that I have never seen such a bare, arid country, so clear
of vegetation; and it extends for one hundred and fifty miles from Uzun
Ada. When General Annenkof commenced his works at Mikhailov, he was
obliged to distil the water from the Caspian Sea, as if he were on
board ship. But if water is necessary to produce steam, coal is
necessary to vaporize the water. The readers of the
Twentieth Century
will ask how are the furnaces fed in a country in which there is
neither coal nor wood? Are there stores of these things at the
principal stations of the Transcaspian? Not at all. They have simply
put in practice an idea which occurred to our great chemist,
Sainte-Claire Deville, when first petroleum was used in France. The
furnaces are fed, by the aid of a pulverizing apparatus, with the
residue produced from the distillation of the naphtha, which Baku and
Derbent produce in such inexhaustible quantities. At certain stations
on the line there are vast reservoirs of this combustible mineral, from
which the tenders are filled, and it is burned in specially adapted
fireboxes. In a similar way naphtha is used on the steamboats on the
Volga and the other affluents of the Caspian.
I repeat, the country is not particularly varied. The ground is nearly
flat in the sandy districts, and quite flat in the alluvial plains,
where the brackish water stagnates in pools. Nothing could be better
for a line of railway. There are no cuttings, no embankments, no
viaducts, no works of art—to use a term dear to engineers, very
"dear," I should say. Here and there are a few wooden bridges from two
hundred to three hundred feet long. Under such circumstances the cost
per kilometre of the Transcaspian did not exceed seventy-five
Similar Books
