We spend our promised clay in Tiflis, enjoy it thoroughly, and then
proceed to Batoum. The Tiflis railway-station is a splendid building,
with fountains and broad nights of stone terrace leading up to it from
the street behind. Our drosky-driver rattles up to the foot of these
terraced approaches at 8 a.m., and draws up a steed with an abruptness
peculiar to the half-wild Jehus of the Caucasus. The same employee of the
Hotel de Londres who had mysteriously hailed us by name from the platform
as our train glided in from Baku the morning before, accompanies us to
the depot now. All English travellers in Russia are supposed to be
millionaires; all Americans, possessed of unlimited wealth. Bearing this
in mind, our Russian-Armenian henchman has from first to last been most
assiduous in his attentions, paying out of his own pocket the few odd
copecks to porters carrying our luggage up from drosky to depot, in order
to save us bother.
The station is crowded with people going away themselves or seeing
friends off. As usual, the military overshadows and predominates
everything. Between civilians and the wearers of military uniforms one
plainly observes in a Russian Caucasus crowd that no love is lost. The
strained relationship between the native population and the military
aliens from the north is generally made the more conspicuous by the
comparative sociability of the Georgians among themselves and kindred
people of the Caucasus.
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