My Life As An Explorer

CHAPTER I; How It All Began

CHAPTER II; Across The Elburz Range To Teheran CHAPTER III; On Horseback Through Persia CHAPTER IV; Through Mesopotamia To Bagdad

CHAPTER V; An Adventurous Ride Through Western Persia

CHAPTER VI; Constantinople

CHAPTER VII; An Ambassador To The Shah of Persia CHAPTER VIII; A Burial-Ground

CHAPTER IX; To The Top Of Demavend

CHAPTER X; Through Khorasan, The Land Of The Sun CHAPTER XI; Meshhed, The City Of Martyrs CHAPTER XII; Bokhara And Samarkand

CHAPTER XIII; Into The Heart Of Asia

CHAPTER XIV; With The Emir Of Bokhara

CHAPTER XV; Two Thousand Miles In A Carriage-A Winter Ride On The "Roof Of The World"

CHAPTER XVI; With The Kirghiz

CHAPTER XVII; My Struggle With The "Father Of The Ice-Mountains"

CHAPTER XVIII; I Approach The Desert

CHAPTER XIX; The Sand-Sea

CHAPTER XX; The Caravan Meets With Disaster CHAPTER XXI; The Last Days

CHAPTER XXII; Robinson Crusoe

CHAPTER XXIII; Second Expedition To The Pamirs

CHAPTER XXIV; I Discover 2000-Year-Old Cities In The Desert

CHAPTER XXV; The Wild Camels' Paradise CHAPTER XXVI, Retreating Twelve Hundred Miles

CHAPTER XXVII; A Detective-Story From The Heart Of Asia

CHAPTER XXVIII; My First Entry Into Tibet

CHAPTER XXIX; Wild Asses, Wild Yaks, And Mongolians CHAPTER XXX; In The Land Of The Tangut Robbers CHAPTER XXXI; On To Peking

CHAPTER XXXII; Back To The Deserts!

CHAPTER XXXIII; Our Life On The Largest River In The Very Heart Of Asia

CHAPTER XXXIV; Struggling With The Ice

CHAPTER XXXV; A Hazardous Journey Across The Great Desert

CHAPTER XXXVI; We Discover An Ancient City In The Lop Desert

CHAPTER XXXVII; Our Final Weeks On The Branching Tarim

CHAPTER XXXVIII; Adventures In Eastern Tibet CHAPTER XXXIX; A Death-Strewn Retreat

CHAPTER XL; Through The Gobi Desert Without Water CHAPTER XLI; Lou-lan, The Sleeping Town

CHAPTER XLII; Back To High Tibet

CHAPTER XLII; Toward Lhasa Disguised As A Pilgrim CHAPTER XLIV; A Prisoner Of The Tibetans

CHAPTER XLV; Stopped By An Armed Force

CHAPTER XLVI, Through Tibet To India, And Back To Tibet

CHAPTER XLVII; Fighting Four Governments CHAPTER XLVIII; Stormy Journeys By Water

CHAPTER XLIX; Marching With Death Through Northern Tibet

CHAPTER L; Through The Large White Spot-"Unexplored" CHAPTER LI; The Pilgrims' Journey On The Holy Water

CHAPTER LII; With The Tashi Lama At The New-Year Festival

CHAPTER LI; Our Experiences In Tashi-Lunpo And Shigatse

CHAPTER LIV; Strange Monasteries-Walled-In Monks

CHAPTER LV; New Trans-Himalaya Passes-Mohammed Isa's Last Journey

CHAPTER LVI; The Discovery Of The Source Of The Brahma-Putra

CHAPTER LVII; Manasarovar, The Holy Lake CHAPTER LVIII; Rakas-Tal, The Devil's Lake

CHAPTER LIX; From The Holy Mountain To The Source Of The Indus

CHAPTER LX; Desperate Winter Days In Northern Tibet CHAPTER LXI; I Become A Shepherd CHAPTER LXII; A Tibetan Captive Again

CHAPTER LXIII; New Travels Through The Unknown Land

CHAPTER LXIV; To India

CHAPTER LXV; In Conclusion

ILLUSTRATIONS IN BLACK AND WHITE

CHAPTER I

Moscow

The Military Road Across the Caucasus

Kasbek, 16,530 Feet High, One of the Highest Peaks of the Caucasus Apsheron

Oil-well in Balakham

A Blazing Lake of Crude Oil

CHAPTER XXI Kasim and I Creeping and Struggling for Life

A Dark Line of Forest Far Away Inspired Us With New Hope I Crept, Dying, Through the Forest in Search of Water

The Pool Which Saved My Life

March of the Caravan

CHAPTER XLII Attacked by Robbers, Who Stole Two of Our Best Horses

Riding Through the Pouring Rain

Crossing a Big River in Pouring Rain

The Great Tea Caravan. Everything Was Black, the Men, the Yaks, the Rifles

A Plastic Representation of the Mountain Systems of Tibet

CHAPTER XLIV The Tibetans Charged Straight Down upon Us

Kamba Bombo, Accompanied by 67 Men on Horseback A Bear Digging Up a Marmot-hole

Lhasa and Route to India

CHAPTER XLV A Herd of "Goa" Gazelles CHAPTER XLVI Testing the Strength of the Ice

Camels Crossing the Big Boulders Along the Northern Shore of Panggong-tso

The Road to Ladak Through Tibet

CHAPTER XLVIII

Sailing Across a Strange Lake at Night

We Had to Jump into the Water and Haul the Boat Ashore

We Used the Boat as a Protection against the Wind

Wolves Waiting on the Shore

Attacked by Wolves. One of our Horses Ran Out into the Lake and Was Drowned

Mountain Range and Physical Features of Tibet

CHAPTER XLIX

The Wounded Wild Yak Came Down from the Steep Glen

In Another Moment He Would Have Taken Me and My Pony on His Horns

The First Nomads We Met

CHAPTER L "I'm Very Glad to See You Again, Hedin Sahib," Said Hlaje Tsering CHAPTER LI

In a Yak-hide Boat on the Upper Brahmaputra Pilgrims on Their Way to the New-Year Festival in Tashi-lunpo

CHAPTER LII

Blowing the Shell Trumpets to Start the Religious Plays Three Tombs of Tashi Lamas in Tashi-lunpo The Devil Dance

Steep Staircases and Open Altars on the Way to the Tashi Lama CHAPTER LIII

Pilgrims Worshipping at the Tomb of the Fifth Tashi Lama The Wife of Duke Kung Gushuk and Sister-in-law of the Tashi Lama The Holy Lake and the Devil's Lake

CHAPTER LIV

Four Lamas Reading the Prayers for the Dead

The God of the Dead

Nuns in the Convent of Gandan-choding

The Gigantic Cylindrical Prayer Wheel in Tashi-gembe

Some of the Golden, Red, and Yellow Lacquered Gods in the Monastery of Tashi-gembe

A Gigantic Buddha Near Lingo and a Man Sitting Below

Mrs Putin, in the Valley of My-chu, Who Was Supposed to Be a Beauty

Singing Lamas in One of the Temple-halls of Linga-gompa Samde-puk, a Part of Linga-gompa, Situated High Up in the Valley The Sacred Lama Walking to the Cave Where He Is to Be Immured for the Rest of His Life

A Last Glimpse of Daylight

CHAPTER LVI

The Gigantic Kubi-gangri Mountains, Eternally Covered with Snow and Large Glaciers

CHAPTER LVII

Lamas Making Their Accounts with the Indian Merchants Three Lama Boys The Monastery of Gosul on the Rocky Shore of the Holy Lake

CHAPTER LVIII

The Twelve-year-old Abbot of Langbo-nan-gompa in His Cell CHAPTER LIX

The Gigantic Granite Block Beside the Diripu-gompa CHAPTER LX

The Girls of Shayok Dancing Round the Fire

Our Half-dead Animals Climbing the Pass in Deep Snow Four Old Yaks in the Deep Snow

CHAPTER LXI

How the Antelope Traps Are Constructed

Wild Asses Running in Single File

Keeping the Sheep in Order

Our Favorite Dog, Left Alone in the Cold and Lonely Tibetan Wilderness

Takkar Had to Be Held by Two Men

Takkar Anchored

CHAPTER LXII

The Transhimalaya as Seen from Our Camp I Delivered Myself into Their Hands

The Author in Tibetan Dress

Nima Tashi, the Chief of Our Camp Unexplored Regions in Tibet

CHAPTER LXIII

A Group of Tibetans Tagla Tsering and a Few of His Men The Abbot of Selipuk-gompa

CHAPTER LXIV

The Frightened Horse Jumped from the Shaky Bridge into the Foaming River

Crossing the Boundary Between Tibet and India

Tibetan Boy from the West

MY LIFE AS AN EXPLORER

Chapter I How It All Began

HAPPY is the boy who discovers the bent of his life-work during childhood. That, indeed, was my good fortune. At the early age of twelve my goal was fairly clear. My closest friends were Fenimore Cooper and Jules Verne, Livingstone and Stanley, Franklin, Payer, and Nordenskiold, particularly the long line of heroes and martyrs of Arctic exploration. Nordenskiold was then on his daring journey to Spitsbergen, Novaya Zemlya and the mouth of the Yenisei River. I was just fifteen when he returned to my native city—Stockholm— having accomplished the North-east Passage.

In June, 1878, Nordenskiold had sailed from Sweden, in the Vega, under the command of Captain Palander. He followed the northern shores of Europe and Asia until he became stuck in the ice at the extreme eastern end of the Arctic coast of Siberia. The ice held him there for ten months. At home a great anxiety was felt regarding the fate of the explorer and his scientific staff and crew. The first movement towards the rescue of the expedition came from the United States. James Gordon Bennett, famous for his command to Stanley, “Find Livingstone!” sent Captain De Long in July, 1879, in the American ship Jeannette, to seek the North Pole, complete the Northeast Passage, and attempt to relieve the Swedish expedition.

Terrible misadventures awaited the Americans. The Jeannette was wrecked in the ice and most of the party perished. The Vega's ice-bonds loosened, however; and, aided by her steam power she passed through Bering Strait into the Pacific. The Northeast Passage was accomplished with not a man lost. The first cable-message came from Yokohama, and I shall never forget the enthusiasm it aroused in Stockholm.

The voyage home, along the southern shores of Asia and Europe, was a journey of triumph beyond comparison. The Vega steamed into the harbour of Stockholm on April 24, 1880. The entire city was illuminated. Buildings near the waterfront were lit up by countless lamps and torches. On the royal palace, a star, Vega, shone forth in bright gas-flames; and amid this sea of lights, the famous ship came gliding into the harbour.

With my parents, sisters and brothers, I enjoyed a view of the city from the heights on the south side. I was a prey to the greatest excitement. All my life I shall remember that day. It decided my career. From the quays, streets, windows and roofs, enthusiastic cheers roared like thunder. And I thought, “I, too, would like to return home that way.”

Thereupon I delved into everything about Arctic expeditions. I read books, old and new, on the struggle for the Pole, and drew maps of every expedition. During our northern winters, I rolled about in the snow and slept by open windows, to harden myself. For as soon as I should be grown up and ready, and a benevolent Maecenas should appear, throwing a bag of gold at my feet, with “Go and find the North Pole!” I was determined to equip my own ship with men, dogs and sleds, and travel through night and ice-fields straight to the point where only south winds blow.

But it was written otherwise in the stars. One spring day in 1885, shortly before I left school, the principal asked me if I would like to go to Baku on the Caspian Sea, to serve for half a year as tutor to a boy in a lower class, whose father was chief engineer in the employ of the Nobel brothers. I lost no time in accepting. I might have to wait a long time for my Msecenas with his bag of gold. But here was a direct offer of a long journey to the threshold of Asia which was not to be slighted. Thus Fate led me towards Asiatic highways; and as the years ran their course, my youthful dreams about the North Pole gradually faded. And for the rest of my life I was to be held by the enchanting power that emanates from the largest continent in the world.

During the spring and summer of 1885, I was consumed with impatience for the moment of departure. Already, in imagination, I heard the roar of the waves of the Caspian Sea and the clangour of caravan-bells. Soon the glamour of the whole Orient was to unfold before me. I felt as if I possessed the key to the land of legend and adventure. A menagerie had just pitched its tents on a plot in Stockholm, and among the animals was a camel from Turkistan. I looked upon this camel as a fellow-countryman from a distant land, and visited him again and again. Before long it would be my opportunity to convey greetings to his relatives in Asia.

My parents, sisters and brothers were afraid of letting me go on such a long journey. But I did not go alone. Not only my pupil, but his mother and a younger brother also went along. After a touching farewell from my family, we boarded a steamer which took us across the Baltic and the Gulf of Finland. From Kronstadt we saw the gilded dome of St. Isaac’s, gleaming like the sun; and a few hours later we landed at the Neva Quay in St. Petersburg.

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Moscow

We had no time to stay. After a few hours in the Tsar’s capital, we left on the fast train which passed through Moscow on its four-day journey through European Russia to the Caucasus. Endless plains rushed by rapidly. We shot through thin pinewoods and past fertile fields, where the ripening autumn grain swayed in the wind. South of Moscow we rattled along on shining rails across the undulating steppes of South Russia. My eyes devoured all of these prospects; for it was my first journey abroad. Small white churches lifted their green, onion-shaped cupolas above pleasant villages. Peasants in red blouses and heavy boots worked in the fields, and transported hay and edible roots in four-wheeled carts. On the poor, undrained roads, which harboured no dream of American motor-cars then, troikas (three-horse teams) dashed by like a streak, pulling telegas and tarantasses, to the accompaniment of jingling bells.

Leaving Rostov we crossed the mighty Don, not far from its outlet into the Sea of Azov, an arm of the Black Sea. The train rushed south indefatigably. At the stations there were Cossacks, soldiers, and gendarmes, and handsome, well-built specimens of Caucasian tribes, tall men in brown coats and fur caps, with silver cartridges across their breasts, and pistols, kinshals or daggers in their belts.

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The military road across the Caucus

The train mounted slowly towards the northern base of the Caucasus Mountains, carrying us in between its foothills. Gn the bank of the Terek River lav the pretty little town of Vladikavkaz, the “Ruler of the Caucasus,” just as Vladivostok is the “Ruler of the East.” There my pupil's father, the chief engineer, met us with a carriage, in which we were to make one hundred and twenty miles in two days across the Caucasus, along the Grusian army road. This stretch was divided into eleven stages and horses had to be changed at every station. Seven horses were needed to haul the heavy carriage up to the Godaur Station, 7,870 feet above sea-level. The down journey required only two or three. The slope was uneven. Sometimes we drove up to the ridge of a steep mountain, only to descend again by four or five zigzag curves to the bed of the valley on the other side of the mountain; after which a new height had to be scaled.

It was a magnificent journey. Never before in my life had I participated in anything comparable with it. All around us rose the giants of the Caucasus; and wonderful prospects, with snow-covered peaks in the background, unfolded between steep mountain walls. Highest of all, Kasbek bathed its dome, 16,540 feet high, in the sun.

Kasbek, 16,540 feet high, one of the highest peaks of the Caucasus

The road itself was good. It was built during the reign of Nicholas I, at so great a cost that, upon opening it, the Tsar exclaimed: “I had expected to see a road of gold, but I find it all of grey stones.” At the outer edge, a low stone parapet afforded protection against the abyss yawning below. On the slopes, where in winter huge avalanches come down across the road and fill the valley, we drove through snow-sheds, strongly built with ten-feet walls.

All the day the horses maintained full speed. We moved at an insane rate. Seated next to the driver I got dizzy every time the road turned abruptly; for it seemed to vanish into space, and I felt in danger of being hurled into the depths at any moment.

But nothing happened; and we drove into Tiflis, the principal city of the Caucasus, safe and sound. What a swarming life! What colourful pictures! The houses rose amphitheatre-like on the steep, barren mountain-slopes, from the banks of the Kura. Streets and lanes were crowded with camels, mules, vehicles, and people of various races—Russians, Armenians, Tatars, Georgians, Circassians, Persians, gipsies, and Jews.

At Tiflis, we resumed the journey by rail. The summer was in full swing, and it was burning-hot. Taking a_ third-class compartment, because it was the airiest, we found ourselves in the company of Persian, Tatar and Armenian merchants, with their children and wives, and other wonderful Orientals, picturesque in mien as well as in garb. In spite of the heat, they all wore big lambskin caps. I remember my feeling of wonder, when some pilgrims, returning from Mecca, spread their thin prayer-rugs on the floor of the compartment, while the train rolled on. The pilgrims all turned in the direction of the Holy City, and said their prayers as the sun sank below the horizon.

Sometimes we were north of the River Kura and sometimes south of it. Its fresh, green, cultivated banks frequently gleamed in the distance. Otherwise the country was desolate, mostly a steppe, where shepherds tended their herds; but in spots it was almost a desert. To the north, the mountain range of the Caucasus appeared like an illuminated drop-scene, blue tones, with white streaks on the ridges. This was Asia! I could not look my fill at the fascinating picture. Already I felt that I would love this endless wilderness, and that during the years to come I would be drawn farther and farther toward the East.

At Ujiri, following my usual custom, I alighted to make some sketches in my book. I had not gone far, when heavy hands were laid on my shoulders, and I was seized by three gendarmes, with vice-like grips. Brusque and suspicious, they fired questions at me. An Armenian girl, who spoke French, became my interpreter; for I did not yet understand Russian. The gendarmes seized my sketchbook and laughed scornfully at my explanations. Evidently they scented a spy, who might be dangerous to the existence of the Tsar’s country. A dense crowd surrounded us. The gendarmes wanted to take me away, to lock me up, perhaps. The first signal for the train’s departure sounded. The stationmaster made his way through the crowd to see what had happened. He took my arm and escorted me back to the train. The bell sounded the second time. I got up on a platform, the gendarmes at my heels. Creakingly the train started. Supple as an eel, I dashed through two or three coaches, and hid in a corner. By the time I returned to my companions, the gendarmes had jumped off the train.

We approached the Caspian Sea. There was a strong wind. Clouds of dust were swept along the ground. First the mountains disappeared and then the whole country was shrouded in an impenetrable haze. The wind increased. It became a gale, a hurricane. The engine worked desperately against the opposing head-wind. We puffed and panted heavily along the shore, seeing only indistinctly the white-capped waves as they tossed and broke. The train stopped at last, at Baku, the “City of the Winds,” which that evening surely deserved its name.

Apsheron

The peninsula of Apsheron extends almost fifty miles eastward into the Caspian Sea. Baku is situated on the south coast of this peninsula, and east of it we found the “Black Town,” where Nobel and other oil-kings have their huge refineries. From here the refined oil is piped through all of southern Caucasus to the Black Sea, where tank-steamers carry the precious fluid across the Caspian Sea to Astrakhan and Tsaritsyn on the Volga. The field which contains most of the oil-wells centres about Balakhany, a Tatar village thirteen versts* northeast of Baku. It was long known that this region contained crude oil, but it was not until 1874 that the brothers Ludwig and Robert Nobel came and introduced the American drilling-method. During the following years the industry prospered greatly; and in 1885, when I first visited Balakhany, there were three hundred and seventy drills, and as many wells, yielding oil by the hundreds of millions of puds annually. Sometimes it happened that the subterranean pressure caused the oil to gush like a spring. A single well would often eject half a million puds in twenty-four hours.

* A verst is two-thirds of a mile.

Oil-well in Balakhan

I spent seven months in the midst of this strange forest of derricks. I crammed history, geography, languages and other useful subjects into my pupil; but I derived greater pleasure from accompanying Ludwig Nobel on his inspections of the oil-field. Above everything else, I loved to go through the villages on horseback, making sketches of the Tatars, their women, children and houses, or gallop into Baku on a frisky horse, there to stroll round the “Black Bazaar,” where Tatars, Persians, and Armenians, sitting in their dark little shops, sold rugs from Kurdistan and Kerman, hangings and brocades, slippers and papashs,or big fur caps. I watched the goldsmiths hammering their ornaments and the armourers working iron into knives and kinshals. Everything was enchanting and interesting to me, the dervishes in their rags, as well as the begs, or princes, in their long dark-blue coats.

A tempting objective for shorter trips was the temple of the fire-worshippers. Formerly, the sacred fire burned there day and night, beneath the cupola of the temple, fed by natural gas; but now it was permanently extinguished; and at night the old sanctuary lay on the steppe surrounded by darkness and silence.

A blazing lake of crude oil

Late one winter evening, as we sat around the lamp, ominous cries of “Yango, yango!” (Fire, fire!) were heard from the roadway outside our windows. Tatars were running from house to house, rousing and warning people, and shouting at the top of their voices. We hurried out. The whole oil-field was lit up as bright as day. The heart of the fire was only a few hundred yards away. It was a blazing lake of crude oil, flaming between walls of piled-up earth; and a derrick was ablaze too! The wind whipped the flames like torn, streaming flags, and heavy clouds of brown smoke welled up. Things were sputtering, boiling and seething. The Tatars tried to choke the fire with earth, but in vain. The derricks were fairly close to one another. The wind carried sparks from derrick to derrick, destroying everything in the field that rose above its surface. The nearest drills looked like white phantoms in the glaring light. The Tatars were chopping them down as fast as they could. By superhuman effort they thus succeeded in checking the fire, and after a few hours the lake was burnt out, and darkness again reigned over the land.

Chapter II Across The Elburz Range To Teheran

DURING the winter evenings, in Balakhany, I learned to speak the Tatar and Persian languages quite fluently. Baki Khanoff, a young Tatar of rank, was my teacher. Early in April, my term of service concluded, I decided to spend the three hundred rubles I had earned on a horseback-journey, southward through Persia, and thence down to the sea. Baki Khanolf was to go with me.

I took leave of my fellow-countrymen and late one evening boarded a Russian paddle-wheel steamer. A violent northern gale was sweeping over Baku and the captain dared not leave port. By morning the gale had subsided. The paddles began their wrestling with the waves, and the steamer proceeded southward. After a thirty-hours’ sail we landed at Enseli, on the southern shore of the Caspian Sea and immediately went by launch across the big freshwater lagoon, called Murdab, or the “Dead Water,” to a lake village embedded in luxuriant green. From there we were to proceed on horseback to Resht, a trading-town.

I had changed all my funds into Persian kran, and at that time a kran was valued at a franc. The small silver coins were sewn in leather belts which we wore around our waists. I had half the money and Baki Khanoff the other. With this exception we were dressed as lightly as possible. I carried no clothes except the winter suit I wore, a short winter coat, and a blanket. I was armed with a revolver. Baki Khanoff had a gun strapped over his Tatar coat, and a kinshal in his belt.

The Royal Bengal tiger prowled in the dense jungles around Resht, and from the teeming marshes there rose fever-producing miasmata, which sometimes caused fearful epidemics. On one occasion six thousand people perished in the little town, and the survivors, having no time to bury their dead, threw the bodies into the mosques. These mosques looked very picturesque, with their low minarets and red-slate roofs. The merchants’ booths were covered with multi-coloured draperies, as protection against the sun. Silk, rice, and cotton were the chief products of the country along this coast.

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A mosque in Resht

There was a Russian consul in Resht, a Mr. Vlassoff. I called on him, and was invited to dinner that same evening. Dressed in my simple travelling-suit and riding-boots, I entered a house decorated with Persian splendour, and regally illuminated; so that I felt very unhappy when my host appeared in formal evening clothes. I regretted that I had not stayed with Baki Khanoff in our humble caravansary. But I had no evening suit; and I simply had to make the best of this Lucullian dinner for two.

The next morning two rested horses stood pawing at the door of the caravansary with two boys guarding them. A Tatar kurchin, or soft, double bag, tied behind the saddle, held all my luggage. We mounted, the boys following on foot, half running. The road led through a luxuriant forest. We met riders and pedestrians, and big mule-caravans with goods for transport over the sea to Russia, among them being dried fruits in leather-covered boxes. The forest resounded with the tinkle of mule-bells; and the first animal of each caravan wore a huge bronze bell, which sounded dully.

We spent the night in Kodom, at an inn, where hundreds of swallows nested in the moss-covered roof, and flew in and out of the nests and through open windows.

Farther on the ground sloped towards the mountains. We went along the valley-bed of the Sefeed-Rud, or the “White River,” staying overnight in beautifully-situated villages, set among olivegroves, fruit trees, plane trees, and willows. We carried no provisions, but lived on what the country offered— poultry, eggs, milk, wheat-bread, and fruit—at an incredibly small cost. The road grew steeper. We were in the Elburz mountain-range and were ascending towards the heights. The forest thinned out and came to an end.

Across the Elburz Mountains in a snowstorm

At Mendjil we rode across an old stone bridge with eight arches. The day was grey and windy. All of the mountains were completely covered with a snow-blanket, which grew thicker the higher we mounted. And now, too, snow began to fall. The whole country was enveloped in a blinding snow-storm. I was not dressed for that kind of weather. I was literally held fast to my saddle by snow and felt the cold gradually penetrate bone and sinew. The blanket of snow obliterated the trail, the horses plunged into the drifts like dolphins, the driving snow beat on our faces, everything was white, and we thought we had lost our way, when something appeared dimly through the whirling snow. It was a caravan of horses and mules moving in the same direction as we. Two men were riding in advance, probing the snow with long, thin lances, so as to avoid any treacherously-hidden crevices or menacing precipices. Chilled through and through, we finally reached the village of Masra; and there, in a dirty hovel resembling a cave, we built a fire on the ground. Thus four Tatars, two Persians, and one Swede were seated, thawing out their stiff joints and drying their wet clothes in front of the fire.

In the rest-house of Marsa

The road wound up across the highest ridge of the Elburz Mountains. The snow soon disappeared on the southern slope, and the steppe slowly gave towards the city of Kazvin, concerning which the Prophet himself has said: “Honour Kazvin, for that city lies at the threshold of one of the doors of Paradise.” Haroun ar- Raschid, the great Caliph, beautified Kazvin, and Shah Thamas I made it his own capital, as well as that of Persia (A.D. 1548), calling it Dar-es-Saltanet, or the “ Seat of Royalty.” Its glamour faded forty years later, when Shah Abbas the Great transferred his capital to Ispahan.

Legend has it that the Arabian poet Lokman, who lived in Kazvin, when he felt death approaching, called his son to him and said: “Treasures I have none to give you, but here are three bottles, filled with miracle-working medicine. If you pour a few drops from the first bottle over a dead man, his soul will return to the body. If you sprinkle him with the contents of the second bottle, he will sit up. If the contents of the third bottle are poured over him, he will be completely restored to life. But use this precious medicine sparingly. Arrived at old age and knowing that his end was near, the son called his servant and directed that the remedy be applied to him as soon as he was dead. The servant carried his dead master to the bath-house, and poured the first and second bottles over him. Thereupon the son of Lokman arose, shouting at the top of his voice: “Pour, pour!” But the servant was so terrified at the dead body speaking that he dropped the third bottle on the stone floor and ran away. There sat the poor son of Lokman, who had to return to the kingdom of the dead. But from the vault of the bath-house, still shown in Kazvin the ghastly shouts of “Pour, pour!” are still to be heard.

Kazvin is situated on the plain south of the Elburz Mountains. A road ninety miles long, divided into six stages, runs from Kazvin to Teheran, the capital of the country. Travelling is done by means of tarantasses and troikas in the Russian fashion, the horses being changed five times.