Ranald MacDonell, And Nothing Long (1938)

Aeneas Ranald MacDonell (1875–1941) was a British officer and diplomat. During World War I, he was assigned to the British military mission in Tbilisi, Georgia. He later published interesting memoirs, where among other things he writes about Georgians:

"Georgian hospitality in the country districts is almost an absurdity, and is one of the most exhausting experiences during a visit to their hills. The arrival of a guest is a signal for a feast and orgy; but the trying part of this engaging little custom is that the feast is never prepared until the guest is arrived. Preparations take at least a couple of hours before the sheep, or whatever it may be, is killed and cooked; during the wait bottles of red wine and boxes of cigarettes have to be consumed. It is said that this lack of preparation, even if they are expecting you, is a custom centuries old and signifies that the feast is actually prepared for you; but I have long suspected that it is really due to their innate indolence. 

The men are excitable to the degree of hysteria; they all carry arms and are quick to use them in disagreement. At weddings, dances and all ceremonies, and at the club or theatre, all arms have to be left in the cloak-room with coats and galoshes. They are great romantics and sentimentalists, with which they combine the broadest outlook on sex morals."

Nikita Khrushchev, Memoirs

Nikita Sergeyevich Khrushchev (1894-1971) was First Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union from 1953 to 1964 and Chairman of the USSR Council of Ministers from 1958 to 1964. This excerpt is from Nikita Khrushchev, Memoirs of Nikita Khrushchev: Commissar, 1918-1945, Volume 1, edited by Sergei Khrushchev (University Park:  Pennsylvania State University, 2004).

In 1934 I was on vacation in Sochi. As my vacation time was running out, [Lavrentii] Beria invited me to return to Moscow by way of Tiflis. At that time the Russian name Tiflis was still used for the capital of Georgia, which was, properly speaking, called Tbilisi. I traveled to Batumi by steamer, and from Batumi to Tiflis by rail, and spent a whole day there...

In Tiflis I became acquainted with the Georgian comrades. Georgia made a good impression on me. I remembered the past, 1921, during the Civil War, when I had been with some Soviet military units in Georgia. Our unit had been stationed in Adzhameti [Ajameti], near Kutais, and our headquarters was in Kutais. Sometimes in the line of duty I rode into Kutais on horseback, most often from Adzhameti, fording the Rioni River. I still had good memories of that time, and it was pleasant to see Georgia again, to recall the past and the year 1921. 

Stalin jokingly called me an "occupier" when I told him my impressions of how negative the Georgians, especially the Georgian intellectuals, had been toward the Red Army. Sometimes I had to make a trip to the political department of the Eleventh Army, whose headquarters were in Tiflis. It happened that I was sitting in a railroad car together with some Georgians of my age. We were still young. I addressed them in Russian, but they wouldn't answer me. They acted as though they couldn't understand Russian, although I could see that they were former officers of the tsarist army and must have had a good command of Russian. 

The Georgian common people behaved differently. The peasants always greeted us very hospitably and invariably treated us to food and drink. If a family celebration was going on, they would arrange an extravagant feast in typical Georgian style. Any Red Army men who happened to arrive at their homes at such times would be literally dragged inside the houses, given something to drink, then be accompanied back to their military unit. But there was never a single case of violence against Red Army soldiers, although such possibilities existed. There were high growths of corn, bushes, and woods all around. 

When I told Stalin about this, he seemed to object: "Why are you taking offense against the Georgians? You should understand that you were an occupier. You had overthrown the Georgian Menshevik government." 

I answered: "That's true. I understand, and I do not feel offended. Im simply telling what the situation was like."

Harold C. Armstrong, Unending Battle (1934)

Harold Courtenay Armstrong (1892-1943) was a British officer and author. He served in the British intelligence during the World War I and was captured by the Ottomans during the siege of Kut in 1916. Marched through Syria to Turkey, he attempted to flee and was imprisoned. Following the end of the war, he was later posted in the occupied Istanbul as Deputy Military Attorney at the British High Commission. During his stay in Turkey, Armstrong met numerous Georgians who had fled during the Bolshevik invasion of Georgia in 1921. He struck up close relations with some of them and remained good friends with Leo Kereselidze, a prominent Georgian military figure, politician and journalist who was involved in the Georgian national movement against the Soviet domination. After returning to Britain, Armstrong published numerous books about the Middle East. In 1934 he wrote a biography of Leo Kereselidze, entitled Unending Battle, in which he made interesting observations about the Georgians:

"They are a strange people, difficult for an Anglo-Saxon to understand, and with whom it is often difficult for him to sympathize. Their origin and the origin of their language is unknown. In the fifth century, when much of the West and all Russia was still barbarian, they were Christians, and they have retained their faith. Their culture, though based on Persia, is Western, and yet they are essentially orientals. 

They are fighters always, chivalrous, brave to folly, gay, haphazard, reckless, taking good and bad as equal chances, and while with success they grow indolent, defeat braces them to effort. Virile and handsome, both men and women are horsemen and delight in all sport and in danger. They are generous, spontaneous without any morbid mysticism of the Russians, and they are warm-hearted and yet proud as Lucifer. They are fierce and vindictive if their honor is touched, hot-headed, quarrelsome and quick to lash out and to kill at the smallest insult - and without counting the cost: tireless in revenge and as often fantastically generous in forgiving. 

To talk, to discuss, to spend hours in amiable conversation or argument [is] a habit of Georgians: they [get] an active pleasure from talking; often for them words [are] more real than actions. 

They are never bothered with saving a few cents by bargaining. When they have money they spent it with open hand, surrounded by tens of friends and relatives, carelessly and without calculation, trusting to the gods to bring them more. The fondness of celebration is in their blood and is evidenced in the patterns of incredible hospitality - the groaning board of welcome, the elaborate speeches of the Tamada (the master of the feast) as food and drink show no sign of ceasing to fill plates and glasses, the week-long festivities that are held on every occasion.

They act more by impulse and emotion than by reason, and are easily moved by a word or a gesture from tears to laughter or from savage hatred to tenderness. Illogical, their actions are as hard to follow as those of children' nor can they be foreseen. Intense individualists they lack in discipline and self-control, and resent orders or being commanded. Yet above all they are filled with a great patriotism, a love of Georgia and a love of Liberty so intense that no defeat and no disaster can destroy or temporarily break these."

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თარგმანი

"ქართველები უცნაური ხალხია, ანგლო-საქსონელი ადამიანისათვის რთულად გასაგები და რომელთანაც რთული იქონია თანაგრძნობის შეგრძნება. მათი წარმოშობა, ისევე როგორც მათი ენისა, ბურუსითაა მოცული. მეხუთე საუკუნეში, მაშინ როდესაც დასავლეთის დიდი ნაწილი და მთელი რუსეთი ჯერ კიდევ ველური იყო, ქართველები უკვე ქრისტიანები იყვნენ და მათ დღემდე შეინარჩუნეს თავიანთი მრწამსი. მათი კულტურა სპარსულს ეყრდნობა მაგრამ ამავე დროს დასავლურიცაა, თუმცა არსებითად ქართველები მაინც აღმოსავლეთის ხალხია.

ქართველები ყოველთვის მებრძოლები არიან, რაინდულები, უზომოდ მამაცები, მხიარულები, [მაგრამ ასევე] თავქარიანები, წინდაუხედავები, კარგსა და ცუდს რომ თანაბრად ეგებებიან; რაც უფრო წარმატებულები არიან, მით უფრო უსაქმურები და ზანტები ხდებიან, მაგრამ წარუმატებლობა კვლავ ძალისხმებისაკენ ამხნევებს მათ. ძლიერნი და მშვენიერნი, კაცებიც და ქალებიც კარგი მხედრები არიან და დიდ სიამოვნებას ნახულობენ სხვადასხვა შეჯიბრებებში და საფრთხეში.

ქართველები არიან გულუხვები, სპონტანურები, ყოველგვარი იმ არაჯანსაღი მისტიციზმის გარეშე რომელიც რუსებს ახასიათებთ, გულთბილები და ამავე დროს თვით ლუციფერივით ამაყნი. როდესაც საქმე ღირსებას შეეხება, ქართველი ხდება მძვინვარე და გულღრძო, ფიცხი, მოჩხუბარა, წამში შეუძლია იფეთქოს და მოკლას რაიმე წვრილმანი შეურაცყოფისათვის, იმის გაუაზრებლად თუ რად დაუჯდება ეს მას; შურისძიებაში დაუღალავნი, ისინი ასევე ფანტასტიურად გულუხვები არიან პატიებაში.

საუბარი, განხილვა, სასიამოვნო განსჯაში და დისკუსიაში საათების გატარება - ეს არის ქართველთა ჩვევა. საუბარი დიდად სიამოვნებთ მათ და მათვის სიტყვა უფრო მნიშვნელოვანია ვიდრე ქმედება. 

ისინი არასოდეს იწუხებენ თავს ფულის დაზოგვით; როდესაც ფული აქვთ, გაშლილი ხელით ხარჯავენ გარშემორტყმულნი ათობით მეგობრითა და ნათესავით, ხარჯავენ დაუდევრად და ხვალინდელ დღეზე ფიქრის გარეშე, იმის იმედით რომ იღბალი გაუმართლებთ და ისევ იშოვნიან ფულს. ქეიფი და დროსტარება მათ სისხლშია და ამის დასტურია მათი წარმოუდგენელი სტუმართმოყვარეობა - საჭმლით დახუნძლული მაგიდები, თამადას დახვეწილი სადღეგრძელოები, საჭმელ-სასმელის უწყვეტი დინება რომელსაც ბოლო არ უჩანს, მრავალ-დღიანი დღესასწაულები რომელსაც ნებისმიერ საბაბზე აწყობენ.

ქართველები უფრო მოქმედებენ იმპულსითა და ემოციებით ვიდრე საღი გონებით, ერთი სიტყვა ან ქმედებაა საკმარისი რათა ისინი ცრემლებიდან სიცილამდე მიიყვანო, ან მტრობიდან სათუთობამდე. მათი ქმედებები ხშირად არალოგიკურია და ისევე რთულად გასაგები როგორც ბავშვების საქციელი; რთულია მათი მოქმედების განჭვრეტა.

ქართველები არიან მგზნებარე ინდივიდუალისტები, რომლებსაც აკლიათ დისციპლინა და თვითკონტროლი; სძაგთ ბრძანებები და დამორჩილება. მაგრამ ყველაზე მეტად ისინი გამსჭვალულები არიან პატრიოტიზმით, საქართველოს და თავისუფლების სიყვარულით, რომელიც იმდენად მგზნებარეა რომ ვერანაირი დამარცხება ან უბედურება ვერ შეძლებს გაანადგუროს ან გასტეხოს ეს ხალხი."

Paxton Hibben, "The Republic of Mirth" [Travel Notes on Georgia] (1921)

As I searched for accounts in various periodicals, I accidentally stumbled on this fascinating article published in the American magazine "Travel" in July 1921 (Vol. XXXVII, Issue 3). 

This travelogue was written by Paxton Hibben, prominent American diplomat, journalist and humanitarian. After graduating from Princeton and Harvard, Hibben joined the US Foreign Service and served seven years at various foreign posts in Central and South America; in 1912, after committing a number of public indiscretions, he was compelled to resign from the State Department. He then joined the Progressive Party and was involved in Theodore Roosevelt's presidential campaign. With the start of World War I, Hibben became a war correspondent and reported from several fronts. In 1918-1923, he served on a military relief commission in Armenia, visited Georgia and helped the Red Cross in its efforts to rescue children during the Russian famine of 1921-23. Returning to the US, he pursued a literary career, publishing a number of books and numerous articles. Hibben died of pneumonia in New York in 1928. 

In light of Hibben's clear anti-Bolshevik sentiments in this article, it is rather ironic that his wife agreed to the Soviet request to bury him in Moscow as a way of honoring his efforts to mitigate the effects of famine in Russia. In 1929, Hibben was given a state funeral  and buried at Moscow's Novodevichy Convent.

Hibben wrote this article less than six months after the Democratic Republic of Georgia ceased to exist in the wake of the invasion of the Bolshevik forces in February 1921.

I find it difficult to conceive the Republic of Georgia turned Bolshevist, as the press dispatches have it. It is not a preoccupation that will worry anyone else, however, for when one speaks of “Georgia” in these United States it means the district immediately surrounding Atlanta - not a toy republic lying somewhere between the Black and Caspian Seas, six thousand miles from Savannah. It is the Republic, not the State, of Georgia that the press dispatches say has turned, is turning, or will turn, Bolshevist.

The report shocks me. Somehow, the ornate and charming Georgians as I knew them seem to fit ill with the stern realities of communism. Old Prince Napoleon Murat, for example, great-great-grandson of the illustrious French marshal and whose grandmother was the last Queen of Mingrelia, teetering about on his two canes, his immense shapka of silky sheepskin bobbing from side to side as he hobbles—what will he become in a government of abstemious commissars, requiring no toastmaster at their frugal feasts? What will they all become, these handsome male butterflies in a land where every other man is a prince, when there are no more Princes and every man must work or starve?

And those dancers so vividly pictured by H. G. Wells in his description of Baku, as something exotic and peculiarly Asiatic - what a pity he did not visit Tiflis, the capital of Georgia, to recognize them as just Georgians at their favorite and common pastime!

It was, I think, the happiest life in the world—the six months I spent in Transcaucasia. Not Armenia, of course. There is nothing but horror and tragedy and despair in that pitiful land. But Georgia could not be tragic  - not even reluctantly accepting a Bolshevism it does not understand and certainly at bottom does not want. “A volatile people fond of dancing and light wines,” the description of the French in an apocryphal geography of one's childhood (how wide of the truth!), fits the Georgians like a glove. Dancing, as Wells implies, is what they do best— gilt and filigree daggers balanced on the palms, the points in the corner of each eye, they dance to the tune of a barbaric strumming of two fingers on a kettledrum, and the shrill whine of wood-wind. To dance better (I can think of no other reason) they wear long boots of soft leather, like kid gloves, with pointed toes and no heels, that lend themselves nicely to dancing, but make poor marching equipment. The tcherkaskas, too, are picturesque when the wearers are in a whirl of complicated figures. They are the long coats we are accustomed to attribute to cossacks, with wasp waist, flaring skirt, artificially squared shoulders, and a double row of pockets across the chest, where cigarettes, not cartridges, are kept dry in chased silver tubes.

I lived across the street from the barracks, where there seemed to be far more dancing than drill, more skill with daggers balanced on nose or forehead than with rifle or machine gun. Officers and men alike - frequently in one democratic company - danced by the hour, generally solo, but sometimes also in competitive pairs. It is monotonous to watch. The steps and the formal postures are always the same; the music never varies; the skill is of high uniformity. One elbow of the dancer is crooked sharply, hand stiffly outstretched against the breast, the other arm outheld, hand hanging limp like a kerchief - goodness knows by what obscure symbolism: heel and toe, heel and toe, round and round he goes, the skirted tcherkaskas swinging out like a bell. And then the dagger stunts—always the same tricks, of which they never seem to weary. A childlike people!

As for the light wines - they are the best I know anywhere, and at 40 cents the quart, in restaurants. They all come numbered, and it is by the number you order: 66 is white, like a Moselwein. The first word learned by visiting naval officers from vessels stationed at Batum they pronounce shitysatshest—and the clever Georgians understand at once and produce 66. For the more initiated, there is 47—red, like the heavier Algerian wines of French Africa. There are others, less in demand among the foreigners because slightly resinated, as are the Greek vins du pays. These are the wines of Kakhetia, especially beloved by the Georgians themselves.

After nine months of British military occupation, 66 and 47 grew rare, and frequently one was forced to accept the Kakhetian wine. But if one shied at the taste, the Georgians knew a trick or two. They made a krushon—a sort of cup—of it, in a great pot-bellied glass bowl, with a hammered silver ladle. To soften the taste of resin, slices of peaches, pears, cucumbers, apples, or oranges were added, and whole cherries, while to give the krushonstrength, a generous dash of cognac was poured in, and, when obtainable, a liqueur or two to sweeten lit up. Nectar! Served with a cake of ice floating about, krushon is of deceptive potency. Almost anyone is ready to dance, Georgian or any other style, before the glass bowl is half empty.

To the Georgians, however, krushon is a drink for women and foreigners. They prefer the strawberry-colored Kakhetian wine, with all its violin-bow tang of resin. A round of drinks in the Georgian Club, sitting at little tables under the starry sky, is not a bottle and four or five glasses, but a bottle for each man. Nor are the tedious gyrations of the western corkscrew to be tolerated. An effete invention of one-handed drinkers! The dagger, always hanging from a gorgeous belt at the waist—not on one hip, but precisely in the center of the body—is your true Georgian’s bottle opener. A single blow, and the top of the bottle goes spinning, not a drop spilled or a grain of glass in the wine.

“No delays this way,” the handsome Georgian Prince (they are all Princes) explains. “One might die of thirst, otherwise.”

Vodka there is, of course, but not the aromatic zoobrovka of pre-war days, alas! Only the raw petrol-tasting product of potato or barley, like nothing so much as the secret distillations of the

amateur violator of the 18th amendment. The cognac is better. Indeed, it is quite as good as the usual French brands, and in the days before the war was frequently bottled and sold with French labels—and no one the wiser.

If dancing is the recreation of the volatile Georgians, drinking seems the principal business transacted. It is done earnestly and with an application which, in a less enlightened land, leads only to excessive income taxes. No one has ever seen a Georgian drunk— there are only twenty-four hours in the day and they are not enough to produce intoxication in such sincere drinkers. Besides, if ever a Georgian did get drunk, who would be left sober to record the miracle?

And as they drink, they sing—sing beautifully, with the clear voices of mountaineers—the sentimental ballads of the type our grandmothers sang, or the infinitely sad folk songs of a people in slavery. Music is as much the life of a Georgian as his food. The opera at Tiflis is an amazing structure of mingled late Persian and early Norddeutscher Lloyd architecture, set in a garden with trees and a pebbled enclosure, dotted with iron tables where one may sit and have a krushon between the acts.

[...]

Moreover, the Russian Art Theatre in Tifiis gave the best of Russian drama. And there was the Artistic Club, ubiquitous in Russia, where, after the opera or play, stage favorites met poets, singers, or just people fond of music and the theatre. There, for the sheer love of the thing, extra numbers were given by professionals and amateurs alike, with a spontaneity which certain Parisian cafés counterfeit. The music halls of Tiflis were tawdry and undistinguished. Russia patronizes the music hall. but produces no vaudeville talent to speak of. The Russian circuit was ever the gold mine of American negro buck and wing dancers, vapid English song and dance artists (you know that kick!), and the inextinguishable French whiner of interminable pathetic love songs or semi-indecent comic couplets. all on the same tune. The war cut off the supply of these performers, with the result that the program of the Tiflis music hall was a poor thing at best. But it is, after all, not to see but to be seen that a Georgian frequents a music hall. The private boxes are open to the main body of the hall at just a height to make the occupants most visible and most conspicuous. In these the handsome Georgian Princes, interspersed with visiting naval officers from allied ships, discussed krushon and sang in opposition to the performance on the stage.

Parties in Tiflis had a habit of lasting until dawn, not so much from any undue gaiety, but because they rarely began before midnight, when dinner ends.

After all, as I look back on the days in Transcaucasia, what stands out in memory is neither the bathing beach at Batum, where the question of propriety in bathing suits is simply solved by their being none  at all for rich and poor alike, nor the universal beauty of the Georgian women, from whose number from time immemorial the wealthiest Turks have sought the flowers of their harems. It is the food! To find in the Near East where, from Greece and Serbia to Persia, the food is horrible - inedible mutton in forty styles, and vegetables cooked in mutton tallow and served swimming in oil - to find in Georgia such food as exists nowhere else in the world, is a double delight. First, there is, of course, caviar. Caviar comes from the Caspian, a few hours by train from Tiflis. There, it is really fresh—and he who does not know fresh caviar on its native, so to speak, heath has not lived. You may buy a cupful for thirty cents, served with chopped onion and just a few drops of lemon, or spread on buckwheat cakes, with drawn butter and sour cream. Let those who have not tasted the dish of the gods turn up their noses. I’ve heard them say before now: “How can you eat such a devilish mixture!"— until they tried it.

Then there is sturgeon for those who like it, although in my estimation it was sturgeon that first justified the slang expression "a poor fish.” But to set off against the overrated sturgeon are the trout of Lake Gochka—extraordinary speckled-scaled, pink fleshed things that the Georgians serve with a nut sauce that few products of the cuisine equal and none excels. Rabchiki—I do not know what a "rabchik" is, plover, perhaps—hazel-hen, the dictionary says—but whatever the fowl may be, he or she (there are no capons) is beyond compare.

And such fruit as not even California boasts—and California is not backward about boasting. The Georgians make a great ceremony of peeling you a pear or a peach-—or a cucumber, to eat as if it were an apple—and handing it to you on a fork with all solemnity. It is a deplorable habit, especially at a large dinner, when each Georgian thinks he must perform the rite out of sheer politeness, for there are so many other and better things to eat than fruit, however excellent. Venison, partridges, duck, quail, wild goose or rabbits, are all to be had for a day’s shooting a few hours from Tiflis. Turkeys are more common than strictly fresh eggs in the United States—and not much more expensive.

Most succulent of all, however, are the soups, each a meal in itself—red borsch, with a clot of sour cream floating in the savory dish, or thick, odoriferous stschi, king of soups the world over. And for dessert, it is quite possible that the original famous “Georgia watermelon" came, not from the state lying east of Alabama, but from the Georgian Republic.

The cook who performs the infinite variety of culinary miracles costs the munificent sum of $2 per month in wages—and at that one is accused of debauching the labor market by paying extravagant rates!

A city of night life, Tiflis. The shops struggle open about nine and stagger through a hard morning, scarcely visited before eleven. At three, they close permanently, for all Tiflis goes to lunch at that hour, and returns no more during the day. There was little in the shops, after five years of war and blockade—mostly second-hand articles: field glasses at a song; cameras (but no films of later vintage than 1914) ; jewelry of all kinds, paintings, silverware, ball dresses (no need for these now!), wine-stained tablecloths, pawned after one meal to get the next—even the precious hypodermics of the addicts went the same way in order to obtain the drug of oblivion and the addicts were reduced to snuffing.

There was one large cooperative restaurant in Tiflis where students, teachers, public officials and others receiving small salaries, or none, could obtain a satisfying meal at eight cents. The patrons took turns waiting at table and washing the dishes, and expenses were accordingly light but the food was excellent. I have seen cabinet ministers there, solemnly doing their trick at dish washing, like the rest. Dinner is at ten o'clock, and there is little else to do afterwards, if one be not of roystering turn.

It is sad to think of it all changed—no more 66 or 47 ; under Soviet rule, prohibition is not an excuse for law-breaking— it is a fact. But, after all, the rest remains. All nights and matinees at the opera or ballet will be for workers, instead of once or twice a week. But opera and ballet will go on. There will still be the beautiful women (and no one has yet charged the Bolsheviki with requiring bathing suits), the ideal climate, the exquisite fruit—and the cooking.

Also, I think that even communism will dash itself to pieces against the charming, delightful, care-free laziness of the Georgian character. They inhabit an earthly paradise - why should they work—even for Lenin or Trotzky?

Ascott Robert Hope Moncrieff, The World of Today, 1907

Ascott Robert Hope Moncrieff was the Scottish author who specialized in writing general history books. In 1907 he published The World of Today, a multivolume work that explored world's cultures based on existing travel literature. When it came to Georgia, Moncrieff was clearly left unimpressed:

The Georgians, every second man of whom is said to claim the title prince, are a lazy, swaggering people, who delight in wearing gay flowing garments and richly-ornamented weapons, a striking feature of native costume being a row of cartridge-cases sewn on to the breast of their tunics. This is worn even by little boys, whose fathers strut bristling in silver-mounted arms; and in the wilder mountain glens, men may be seen arrayed in suits of chain-armour, with round bucklers, such as have served them against ruder weapons than the guns now in every Georgian's hand. Among the Asiatics, the most thriving both in business and agriculture are the Armenians. Travellers have noted that the neatest and most prosperous-looking villages here turn out to belong to Russian or German dissenters, who have crossed the Caucasus to seek such freedom of worship as our Pilgrim Fathers found beyond the Atlantic Other Russian inhabitants are chiefly soldiers and officials, little more ready to make their permanent home here than we in India; so that the Transcaucasian side of the isthmus is still very Asian in its civilization; and as yet the main benefit of European rule is greater security for life and property, under which industrial development grows up somewhat slowly.

[...]

Georgia has been celebrated for the doll-like beauty of its women, yet a recent English traveller, who, according to other accounts, must have been hard to please, complains that, in more than a week's stay, he did not see a single pretty face among the people of Tiflis. There must at least be a great variety among its population of over 100,000, since we learn that newspapers are printed here in Russian, Georgian, Armenian, and Persian; and in its bazaars may be seen a lively swarm of Turks, Tartars, Turcomans, Greeks, Albanians, Jews, Arabs, Negroes, and Parsees, mingled among the country-folk in their gay dress. The city's own reputation for picturesqueness has by some visitors been judged an exaggeration; but it certainly occupies a fine situation on broken ground at the foot of snow-topped mountains. As in most Eastern cities dominated by Europeans, there is a great contrast between the old quarter of dirty crooked lanes winding among poor buildings of stone or mud, and the modern part with its broad boulevards, open squares, large public buildings, tramways, cafes, and notably the barracks of the Russian army that has its head-quarters at Tiflis. A striking prospect of the city is commanded from the ruined castle on a bold height, beneath which has been laid out a botanical garden. Other lions are the ancient Byzantine cathedral; a new Greek cathedral, the most striking structure of the place; the gorgeously decorated palace of the viceroy; the remarkable museum, with its local collections; and the "temple of fame" preserving trophies and memorials of Russia's valour in a difficult conquest. This is a place of considerable trade, and manufactures of cotton, silk, leather, weapons, silver ware, etc. As a token, perhaps, of European influence, Mr. Freshfield observed that the shopkeepers in the bazaar showed an eagerness to attract customers, unlike the air of dignified and sleepy indifference commonly shown by Oriental merchants. Among the city's attractions are hot sulphur baths, which may some day make it a European resort. Already, indeed, it attracts a sprinkling of tourists, able to take a peep into Asia without much hardship, as Tiflis stands on the railway traversing this province from the Black Sea to the Caspian.

John Boit and Sam P. Blagden, Thirty Thousand Miles in "The Wanderer", 1903

In 1901, two New Yorkers, John Boit and Sam P. Blagden, embarked on a remarkable journey that will take them to Georgia and back. They sailed in "The Wanderer", a beautiful 480 tons yacht that built in 1897 by Ramage and Ferguson in Scotland. The yacht had excellent accommodations, with "two rooms on deck, a large dining-saloon below, nine state-rooms and four baths." The two men departed from New York on 11 December 1901 and first sailed to Florida. After exploring the Caribbean, they sailed to Europe, stopping at the Canaries and Morocco. They explored the Mediterranean Sea, passed through the Straits into the Black Sea and, in April 1902, reached the shores of Batumi.

Tuesday, April 8 [1902]

Our night's run to Batoum [Batumi] was delightfully smooth. We reached there about 6 A.M. and found many ships, for the most part oil-carriers, anchored around us; and inside of the big mole we could see dozens of large vessels.

After we had sent our passports ashore we tried to land, but were sent back to await the visit of the Custom officers, who arrived about 10 A.M., accompanied by the Chief of Customs for the District— a Russian General. After a little champagne they proved amenable to suggestions, and gave us much valuable advice as to our trip over the Georgian Military Road. Until now it had been impossible to get accurate information, and we were very glad to find that it was not too early to take the drive.

Then all ashore for luncheon, and to call on the Consul, Mr. Chambers, who was most hospitable, and who took us to the station where we engaged accommodations for the trip to-night. The town is very new and unattractive, not unlike a modern oil town in America. The Consul told us that, with the exception of the "Namouna," the "Wanderer" is the first yacht that has visited Batoum in seventeen years.

We went ashore about 10.30 P.M., and took the 11.15 P.M. train for Tiflis. Mr. Chambers was down to see us off, and he instructed the Russian porter how to take care of us. We found the Russian sleeping carriages very comfortable. Travelers must, however, themselves provide bedding and towels.

Wednesday, April 9

[We] were called about daylight to see the scenery, which is certainly wonderful. Reached Tiflis about 11.30 A.M., after many stops for "tchai," or tea. Drove to the hotel which Mr. Chambers had recommended, and were told that there were no rooms. We asked about other hotels, and were informed there were no rooms to be had in the entire city. Luckily, however, the Commodore asked if these rooms were engaged for the German steamer, adding that we expected to leave before its arrival. The hotel people then said we could have all the rooms we desired.

Although Tiflis is an attractive place, it is in many ways disappointing, as the greater part is but eighty years old, and what remains of the ancient city is across the river. The hotel was remarkably pleasant. On one side it looks out on a quaint street with a handsome plaza, and the view from the rear takes in the swift running river. After a delicious luncheon we started out to visit the bazaars. Tiflis is famous for its Persian population, and the furs and enameled work that they bring. We all purchased large quantities of furs.

In the afternoon we arranged about taking the drive over the Dariel Pass to Vladikafkaz, and we engaged Rustum, as dragoman, who apparently has been the guide and friend of every one from Norman down. We find it is better to split up the party, as the accommodations would not be good for a large party.

Thursday, April 10

All hands wandering around the town buying furs and silverware. We lunch at 12 o'clock, as Mrs. Robinson and the Commodore are to start at 1 P.M. over the Georgian Road, and the rest of the party leave at daylight to-morrow morning. At 12.30 we started with four horses abreast, a la Russe. After a little time spent in packing the luggage the driver arranges himself on the box in his many robes, and with the cracking of whips and cheers from the rest of the party, we begin our drive. The horses are fresh, and soon we swing out of the street on to the winding road, which runs along by farms and villages, with here and there an orchard in full bloom. We meet many farm wagons coming up to town with their products, and men and women on their way to work. It is hot, and the glare is disagreeable. But we can see the mountains ahead of us, and know that as soon as we begin the ascent we shall be more comfortable.

We cross the railroad track as we draw near Mtzkhete [Mtskheta], and see it no more until our journey's end. There is an old church here which dates back many centuries to the time when Tiflis was the capital of Georgia. We do the first stage in an hour and fifteen minutes, covering twenty and a half versts, equal to about fourteen miles. After a stop of about five minutes to change horses and have a cup of tea, we are off again, our next stop being Tsilkane, which we reach in an hour and ten minutes; having gone on this stretch fourteen and a half versts and being now eighteen hundred feet above the sea.

Then on again, speedily putting versts behind us, we arrive at Douchete [Dusheti] in an hour and twenty-five minutes, having traveled seventeen versts and three quarters, and are now twenty-nine hundred feet high. We again have tea, and shortly after are off for Ananour [Ananuri], which we reach after a very quick run, wholly down hill, with only two horses.

It seems more due to Providence than to our driver that we keep to the road, as we swing down and around corners on the drive to Ananour, which is twenty-three hundred feet above the sea, and where we are to spend the night. The faithful Vincent, our dragoman, sees that we get a very fair dinner and that our beds are comfortable. Shortly after dinner it began to rain, and there was a wonderful thunderstorm.

Friday, April 11

We start at 8 A.M. on a beautiful clear, sunny day. The scenery has been very much like that of the earlier stages of the drive—beautiful, picturesque, and cultivated. But when we leave Ananour and begin our climb to the next stop at Pasananour [Pasanauri], which is three thousand six hundred feet above the sea, the blossoms of flowers give place to hardier shrubs, while the mountain-walls close in, and here and there we see patches of snow high up on the rocky peaks.

As we climb up and up to Mlet [Mleta] the country grows wilder and wilder; and from the shelving rock, along one side of which we ascended, we see the river like a silver band far below us at the bottom of the rocky gorge. The snow, too, which at first lay only near the mountain-tops, was now spread far down the sides of the cliffs.

When we reached Mlet we found ourselves really in the snow-land, for it was all about the houses, the roadside, etc. Here we had a light lunch and changed horses again, and soon were off. The road is marvelous, with a moderate grade, and its general condition and character well worthy of being copied by an American park.

We now started on a sharp ascent. The road climbs some three thousand feet between here and the next station, Gaudaour [Gudauri]. The sun was bright, and although we passed several huge snow-drifts towering far above us, we did not find the cold as severe as we had expected. Many gangs of men were at work clearing the road, and digging the snow at the sides where it rose in places over fifty feet in height, the road winding like a narrow strip of black between two sheer white walls. The road had been open for the season only during three days.

At Gaudaour we changed horses, and then on, climbing for a short time longer until at last we topped the ridge and saw the cross high above us on a cliff. The cross was put there to mark the confines of Holy Russia; and here we passed from Asia into Europe. We had taken an extra man on the carriage from Gaudaour, and the two outside horses were here uncoupled to be taken back by him, while we started down the steep descent with only a pair. The descent was at a rattling pace, and one did not care to think what would happen if one of the horses fell as we swung around the corner of one of the many zigzags. From time to time, as we galloped along, we dashed from the brilliant sunshine blazing on the snow into the damp darkness of a tunnel or snowshed. One of these, the longest, is over a mile in length, and was lighted by lamps from the roof.

At Kobi, which we reached very quickly, we changed horses again, and then started for Kasbek, where we are to spend the night. The road was not quite so much of an incline, and we had four horses again, which were so harnessed as to be well-nigh uncontrollable by the driver. We reached Kasbek shortly before dark, and spent the night there. The view of the mountain from the hotel is superb. It was hard to realize that this mountain, which seemed so near, is three thousand feet higher than Mount Blanc. 

Saturday, April 12

We had a comfortable night, and at 8 A.M. started on what is really the grandest and most impressive part of the ride. We had gradually left the snow on the way from Kasbek, and for some time before reaching Lars had been winding down the side of the gorge of the Terek, which one hears rushing and roaring over its rocky bed far below. The mountains, dull brown and black, soon rose towering immediately overhead, rent with great gashes and gorges, nearly all of which show traces of land-slides. Some years ago a land-slide tore away parts of the road itself, rendering it impassable for ten years.

These walls and serrated cliffs shut us in as far as Lars, closing in from time to time until all we could see was the blue of the sky, stretching like a ribbon far above us. This is the celebrated Pass of Dariel. At one place where the defile was specially narrow we passed a small fortress, at which is stationed a post of Cossacks. Behind this fort, aloft on a pinnacle of rock, are the ruins of an old castle, which is said to have been built by Tamara, once the Queen of these parts. The legend says that she tempted travelers to visit her by tales of her great beauty, only to hurl them from the cliffs to the river below when they had served her purpose.

At Lars we changed horses again. We were in the same gorge for some time after leaving, and the sun being overhead changes the lines and shades of the scene. [...] It was [...] a never-to-be-forgotten and awe-inspiring sight. But one breathed freer as the valley opened out a little on nearing Balta. Here we changed horses again, and, instead of the two that we had from Lars to Balta, we put to four and started on our last stage.

The bare rocky walls gave place now to great rolling hills with shrubs and trees; and as they opened out wide, we saw in the soft light fields and farms with their cattle, and soon the houses of Vladikafkaz came in sight, and in about a quarter of an hour we rattled over the pavements. We found a good hotel and had an excellent luncheon, leaving about 4 P.m. by train for Novorossisk. We had to change cars several times, and were much disturbed, as we did not have too much confidence in the Russian of our dragoman. We found the sleeping carriage most comfortable, and the journey a very pleasant one....

[The travelers continued their journey to Crimea where they got back onto their yacht and resumed their journey.]

Joseph M. Hone, Persia in Revolution (1910) - Part 1

Born in Dublin in February 1882, Joseph Maunsel Hone was an Irish writer and journalist. He was educated at Wellington and Jesus College, Cambridge and soon embarked on a writing career that made him a leading figure of the Irish literary revival. He published biographies and literary criticisms as well political writings included books on modern history of Ireland. In 1909, Hone decided to travel to Persia to witness political changes there. Accompanied by Page Lawrence Dickinson, he travelled from Warsaw to Persia, where he spent several weeks visiting Resht, Tehran, Kazvin and other cities. In late 1909 Hone travelled back, passing through Georgia where he stayed for some time in Tiflis (Tbilisi) and Kutaisi before sailing across the Black Sea back to Europe. In 1910 Hone and Dickinson published a book based on their voyage, Persia In revolution, which contains an interesting discussion of the situation in Georgia.

Tiflis loses its Asiatic character, but the Georgians — although their sympathies are mostly Western — seem to take little pride in the new European dignity of their city. It stands to the credit of a hated [Russian] garrison with which the patriot must have as little as possible to do. Dumas pere, travelling 

in the Caucasus, compared Georgia to a light-hearted slave, gay even in her servitude; Russia to a heavy-hearted queen, sombre in her grandeur, bowed beneath the weight of her cares. Times have changed. To-day what strikes the visitor among the Georgians is, above all else, the serious attitude of the upper and middle classes towards public affairs — their concern for the people's education, their reforming energy, their delight in abstract thought, their hopes for the destiny of their country. 

Russia is now the enemy, no longer the Shah or the Sultan, although the Georgians hate the Turk and the Persian still. Yet their Russian governors were well disposed towards them at the beginning, when, about the middle of last century, as the conquerors of Schamyl, and certain at last of Naboth's Vineyard, they breathed freely. The great Lesghian chief who had made so mighty a war could not but have stirred their imaginations; and the traditions of this land of barbaric splendour and chivalry 

seemed worthy of incorporation in Russia's own heritage. They were in a mood to be generous, and looking round them they saw the Georgian people, who had suffered so much — like themselves at the hands of Schamyl, but back, too, beyond Schamyl's days, down the centuries, at the hands of every heathendom — a people of their own religion, a people of high and mysterious lineage, of a race, scholars said, older than the Egyptian. 

Georgia, enjoying at that moment an unaccustomed security, rejoiced. She allowed herself to be made much of by the stranger. But she has realised again that she is a disappointed nation. Now when Georgians curse their fate they curse Russia too. 

There are land questions and language questions, and other discontents exist of whose reasonableness the passer-by cannot be certain. It is said, for instance, that no Georgian need apply for work to any Russian corporation, and that this explains why the able-bodied vagrant in town and country is usually a Georgian. The Russians argue that he is lazy and idle, and less efficient than the Armenian 

and Tartar. Who knows ? Rivalries and hatreds between the Georgians, the Armenians, and the Tartars, took from the recent revolt any small chance of success it might have had. And now the Tartars have given up the struggle, while the Armenians consider that the continued unrest is bad for trade. The Armenians are the Jews of the Caucasus. The Tartars are the spoilt children — fancy a Tartar being a spoilt child ! But the Georgians say that it is so. 

They are great political theorisers, the Georgians, especially those that belong to the professional classes. We spent many an evening among men of this type. All would agree in their hatreds, but some would have their special cure for the evils of the world. Social democrats raised issues with disciples of [American political economist] Henry George, with obvious Tolstoyans in blue smocks, and with landlords who (luckily) did not want their rents. There were patriots, pure and simple, in these parties, who distrusted the theorisers. They, when Government in the abstract was denounced, would say heartily enough, Bien entendu! And yet on a point of policy they disapproved of the wild dreamings of their comrades. How could a great national movement be conducted if every man had his private ideal ? 

In method the Russian administration has been violent and probably unscrupulous, so that no one race in the Caucasus has really much advantage over another in the matter of practical grievances, although the grievances of the Georgians, the Tartars, the Armenians, are not necessarily identical. However, if one people has been at all favoured, this is the Georgian, and yet the Georgians are, least of any, likely to be reconciled to the occupation. It is because they have a stronger sense of patriotism than their fellows; the intellectual headship of the Caucasian peoples being theirs, they alone possessing a sense of nationhood. Meanwhile the intelligent Russian official occupies himself with the customs, the history, the language, the antiquities of the Caucasus, and vies in this respect with the patriotic native student. 

Michael Myers Shoemaker, The Heart of the Orient: Saunterings through Georgia, Armenia, Persia (1906) - Part 1

Michael M. Shoemaker (1853-1924) was American professional travel writer who achieved a literary success through his travelogues in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. After graduating from Cornell University in 1874, he devoted his life to traveling the world over and studying various cultures and peoples. He wrote numerous books of travel and history, including "The Heart of the Orient: Saunterings through Georgia, Armenia, Persia..." (1906) that was based on a lengthy trip he undertook in 1902-1903. Departing from Constantinople in the winter of 1802, he travelled through "the quaint and curious" Georgia (which he had first visited eight years prior) before proceeding to Iran.

TIFLIS

The day's ride is very beautiful, and as we fortunately have slight showers, there is no dust, while the air is laden with all the delicious fresh odours of spring. A Vermont boy would be amused at the attempts of these people toward tilling the soil. The plough used is of the most primitive description, and is drawn by ten yoke of young steers, guarded and conducted by seven men. The field that they are at work upon certainly is not more than three acres in extent, and at their rate of progress it should be ready for planting about October 1st, this being only March. The Vermont boy, with a good plough and stout pair of horses, would do the whole thing between the hours of milking and his noonday dinner, even allowing time for the removal of the usual rocks to be found on all New England farms. 

Numerous ruined castles and towers are passed, perched high up on the mountains or close to the rushing river. Armenian churches are now inclosed in high, strong, fortress-like walls; otherwise such jewels as adorn their shrines would prove too tempting to the robbers of the mountains.

This valley of Tiflis reminds one of many in France. Hedges of primrose, poppies, and cornflowers, roses and cherries; yet with all its resemblance to France, there is a certain indescribable something that recalls the "Land of the Vulture," and one would not be surprised to see the minarets of Cairo rise from the valley. The resemblance is even stronger when Tiflis comes in sight. 

The capital of Georgia looks very Eastern, very Oriental, in the evening sunlight. But the first entrance into her streets convinces us that we are under the dominion of the Czar. Russian police stand here, there, and everywhere, and the wide berth that is given them demonstrates better than words the control that Government exercises over this southern possession. There is a monument near the western entrance of the town, on the spot where the Czar Paul nearly lost his life through a runaway team. It would have been better if the accident had succeeded in ridding Russia of that licentious monarch. I fancy that the Empress Catherine imported her "particular friends" from this section. The men are very handsome, but of the far-famed Georgian women I can say very little. From here the Turks of old procured their beauties, and the types which pleased them are still plentiful in the streets of Tiflis—huge in size, with flabby, chalky skins, and faces with no ray of feeling or intelligence. That was their idea of beauty, and they could not have come to a better market. I have seen but one woman I could call beautiful. I shall mention her farther on.

I find, upon descending at the excellent Hotel de Londres, that I am "remembered" once more in Georgia, and all the forlorn and lonely feeling departs as the pleasant-voiced landlady, Madame Richter, advances with both hands extended, and a "Welcome again to Tiflis!" I am shown up-stairs into the same room, most comfortable in all respects, and I rub my eyes in some doubt as to whether I have ever been away.

How dirty we are! How delicious the huge baths of the town feel to our tired bodies! The water is naturally hot and I sit for half an hour under a strong spout. There is absolutely nothing that they will not furnish you at these bath-houses, if you pay for it. But all things are very expensive at Tiflis, as I discover this morning when I desire to cable home—six roubles per word ($3.00); more than from Calcutta. I know it is wrong, pure robbery, in fact, but I must send the message. As the rates from London are only one shilling per word to New York, all the rest, with the exception of our inland rate at home, goes to the lines between here and England, or to the operator's pocket here, which is much more likely.

The bazaars of Tiflis are commonplace, and, like most bazaars, dirty—but not picturesque in their dirt. In addition they are absolutely wanting in all that peculiar charm which makes those of Cairo and Tunis so delightful to wander through and linger in. Nor does one find here displayed all the thousands of attractive articles which in those other cities cause one to return laden to the hotel. 

Through the centre of the town, between deep walls of rock down which pours the sewage of the place, sweeps the river Kur, a most repulsive-looking stream. I might have described this river and the cliffs as possessed of the beauty of Eden, but it would have been somewhat wide of the truth; I might have filled these bazaars with old silver, antique firearms and swords, and fairy stuffs of all sorts; laden their air with the perfume of the roses and lilies; made you drink delicious coffee and eat "Turkish delight" therein, while you stared at the veiled women and gorgeously costumed eunuchs; I might have described a mosque that would surpass that of Sultan Hassan. But I fear, had you come here and found the river and its cliffs repulsive, the bazaars full of all that is unattractive, the coffee and Turkish delight entirely lacking, also the mosque, you might have voted me a fraud. It will surely be better to find this capital of the Georgians more pleasing than you had expected, and if you content yourself with the panorama she displays, you will vote her enchanting; for the world, I think, holds no more superb view than that presented by this city of Tiflis approached from the great Darial Pass over the Caucasus.

After the death of [Queen] Tamara [in the early 13th century], Jenghis Khan swept like a black cloud over the valley, leaving such desolation and destruction that Tiflis has never recovered her ancient glory.

I met this morning, in the court of the hotel, an Englishman who has been living here for five years —at least he has lived in the country that length of time—and when I questioned him as to the climate he replied that, to those who lived here, hell possessed no further terrors—that is, in the matter of heat.

Trees of any size are unknown in Georgia. I noticed in crossing the Caucasus that nothing larger than a scrub was to be seen: no forests of stately pines near the summits, no dense groves of majestic trees lower down, no "aisles of the forest" spreading around one; plenty of green, but all so diminutive that even the telegraph wires are supported on rails from the railroad to which are bound sticks of timber certainly not more than ten feet long, but quite as long as can be found here or anywhere around here. The result is that refuse petroleum is the usual fuel.

I am awakened this morning by a burst of martial music, which draws me out into the fresh air, and I find that the town is all alive with soldiers wending their way from all directions to the public square. At its entrance stands a small Russian church, and the music of the many bands becomes reverential and tender as they pass the holy icons, although their selections are somewhat singular. I confess to being somewhat shocked, and almost look to see one particular saint in a long purple garment strike into a skirt dance. But no; neither does he drift into a waltz as the tender notes of Auf Wiedersehen are wafted on the air. This is the anniversary of the day when Russia finally settled, in the conquest of Schamyl, the Caucasus question, in which she employed 180,000 men to conquer the 15,000 of that chieftain... To-day his conquerors celebrate all this by holding high mass in the gardens here. The soldiers are arranged in a huge square and stand at attention as the general passes around in inspection. Russia does not neglect the religious welfare of her troops. Daily attendance at service is required, and to-day her priests, gorgeous in green and gold and purple, hold high celebration of the sacred rite. Then one and all are blessed, and with a fanfare of trumpets the troops move off to their barracks.

[...]

We spend our first Sunday in sleeping late into the morning and in a long stroll in the afternoon. The hills which surround Tiflis are barren and drear to the point where they rise to the higher mountains. While every here and there an Armenian church is sharply silhouetted against their dun-coloured sides. The ruined walls of the ancient fortress crown an eminence in the centre of the valley, and as we pass along them the town itself spreads all round, some hundreds of feet below, with its flat red, green, and blue roofs offering the only bits of colour in all the prospect; but the most characteristic features are the round, lantern-like cupolas of the Armenian churches, rising here, there, and everywhere. Their sides are perpendicular and their tops like an old-fashioned extinguisher of tin. This sect [Armenians] is, from an economic point, the backbone of Georgia, and is increasing rapidly. 

There are comparatively few Russian churches in Tiflis, but those of this ancient people [Armenians] are many. Russia forces them to use her language, but she cannot bend them to her form of religion, and that is indeed a thorn in her side. They are increasing rapidly and have more than doubled in numbers since the northern power conquered Tiflis. Their holy city is Etchmiazin, and the cathedral of that city furnishes the model for all these churches, which, be they large or small, are exactly of the same form,—a Latin cross with generally three round towers, one, large, in the centre and one on either side thereof, each surmounted by the cone of metal. In the interior are three altars, a centre and two side ones, immediately under the cupolas, and before each of which hangs, as in the temple at Jerusalem, a heavy veil, drawn aside at certain times.

By making this ancient sect feel that they are outnumbered by keeping them from office and by forcing the use of the Russian language, the Government of the Czar hopes finally to absorb them into the Greek Church, but the result is more than doubtful. The Empire dares not use greater force now, the occupation of this land having been a difficult step in the march south.

It is believed here that Russia is gathering for a move farther southward, and that it is but a question of a few years before she makes her southern boundary at the Arabian Sea, absorbing all of Persia, Turkey in Asia and probably in Europe, and Western China. England has often surrendered places once occupied,— has Russia ever done so? Does she not move steadily and irresistibly onward? Is not the sale to us of Alaska the only instance of a surrender of land once in her actual possession? Does any man believe that she will ever surrender Manchuria, or, on the contrary, that Peking is not her ultimate goal?

I think in my visit to Tiflis eight years ago that I did not do justice to the modern Russian city, or rather that I did not notice it as it deserved. It is all well built. The great street [present-day Rustaveli Avenue] is magnificent in length and width. There are several museums, a fine palace and church, and an opera house that would do justice to St. Petersburg, and there are several theatres, but, as in every Russian city, the pavements are horrible.

This week in Tiflis has passed very pleasantly, and I shall depart to-night with a totally different impression from that which I carried away with me in '94. Truly, pleasant companions make a great difference. As for the Hotel de Londres, I cannot too strongly express my content and satisfaction therewith. The people who keep it are Germans, the house is cleanliness itself, the table excellent, and the rooms most comfortable. In fact, I know of no hotel in Russia, those of the great cities not excepted, which can approach it. "Madame" realizes the necessity in this land for absolute cleanliness if health is to be maintained, hence her rooms are covered with oil cloth, which is washed off each day. The Turkish mats spread over this are thoroughly shaken each morning. The beds are of iron.

I may seem to dwell too long, to make too much of all this, but those of my readers who have visited these far-off lands will understand what an oasis such a house is amidst the abominations called "hotels" throughout the Russian dominions. We are charged seven roubles (about $3.50) per day, American plan, and the food is dainty and excellent.

I have seen but one Georgian woman that could be called a beauty. She was at the circus on Sunday. Her face was a pure oval, with large, black, antelope.like eyes, over which arched delicate eyebrows; a delicate, straight nose rose above a perfect mouth, and her complexion was beautiful. She wore a straight, broad gold band across her forehead and around her glossy black hair, which was bound down over her ears; from this band an emerald green veil fell far downward over a dress of the same colour. Both were of some soft stuff.

As a rule, however, the men are finer-looking than the women; many are superb specimens, and when robed in picturesque uniform [national costume] present engaging pictures. Yonder is one superbly formed and surely six feet six in height. His face and beard would do justice to Darius the King, and the former is crowned by a most picturesque turban of silver-grey astrakhan fur. His coat is of the same colour, and falls to the top of his highly polished black boots, while across his breast are two rows of long, bright cartridges, and his sword has scabbard-handle and tip of gold. He is handsome and he knows it, possessing none of the usual ignorance on that point common to our sex. On returning to the hotel I find Casimir awaiting me with the information that all is arranged for our onward movement to-morrow.

William P. Cresson, Persia: The Awakening East" (1908)

William P. Cresson (1864-1932) was an American architect, who was born in Claymont, DE, and attended the University of Pennsylvania. He started his career as a draftsman for Cope & Stewardson company. After spending several years studying architecture in Europe, he pursued a rather diverse career as a diplomat (served in Lima, London, Quito, Panama, Portugal and finally as a secretary in the American embassy in St. Petersburg), soldier, professor of history and politics at the Princeton University (1919), and a well respected architect. Before and during the World War I, he had traveled extensively in the Russian Empire and the Middle East and later published several books about his experiences, including "Persia: The Awakening East" (1908) in which he recounted he briefly recounted his visit to Georgia at the turn of the 19th century.

Fostered by the generous colonial policy of M. de Witte [Sergei Witte,  minister, and prime minister in Imperial Russia] - a policy that dotted the far Russian border with modern cities like Dalny and Krasnovodsk, built in a night to give substance to the dream of Russian Imperialism, while it left the moujik [common men] of Central Russia to starve on his barren fields - we found the ancient towns of the Caucasus fast losing their Oriental traits and taking on the outward aspect, at least, of European cities. The Golovinsky Prospect, that strange street of Tiflis, which has its beginning among the theatres, clubs and palaces of the European quarter, and ends in the Asiatic filth and squalor of the Tatar town, was crowded with handsome equipages and gay with Russian uniforms and the bright dresses worn by the women-folk of Georgian and Armenian merchants. In the cafes of the Place de l'Europe we met moon-faced Tatar merchants and Georgian chieftains in their picturesque national costumes, who talked intelligently about the price of Standard Oil and the American Tariff question; while at the Officers' Club we saw Circassian princes (every one in the Caucasus who lives in a brick house lays claim to that title), dancing graceful Polish dances with the wives and daughters of Russian bureaucrats.

Among the motley throng of domineering officials and subservient Asiatics who filled the broad avenues of Tiflis, the native Caucasians, with their handsome physique and regular features, presented a marked contrast to the stolid Tartar-faced troopers of the conquering race. The Georgian national dress is one of the most graceful and warlike costumes in the world; clad in the flowing "tcherkeska," an arsenal of shining weapons belted about his narrow waist and wearing a tall cap of shaggy sheepskin, the native of Tiflis is a fierce and imposing figure. In private life he may be nothing more warlike than a bazar merchant or a prosperous tailor of the Golovinsky, but as he swaggers about the streets of his native town, toying with the silver hilt of his long Caucasian dagger, one realizes that the Georgian national spirit, after withstanding for centuries the onslaught of all the great conquerors of Asia, from Tamerlane to Aga Mohammed, has not yet succumbed to the despotism of a hundred years of Russian rule.

While the newspapers of St. Petersburg were talking complacently of Russia's "Manifest Destiny in Asia," and comparing the prosperous condition of the Caucasus with the famine-stricken provinces of India, the first mutterings of the approaching storm were beginning to be heard. During our visit the police were already preparing for the sudden outburst of barbarism long repressed that a few months later filled the Caucasus with familiar scenes of rapine and bloodshed.

As the Trans-Caspian Express, which was to carry us to Baku, moved out from the new railway station in Tiflis, we observed that the broad platforms between the triple line of military sidings were crowded with soldiers wearing the uniform of every branch of the Russian service: Cossacks in gray and silver; dragoons in sombre green; infantry of the line in dingy white caps and blouses; smart guardsmen from St. Petersburg and workmanlike riflemen from the Trans-Caspian, [all] waiting transportation to one point or another of the chain of patrols and garrisons established along the whole length of the railroad, and in every town and hamlet of the Caucasus. This display of armed force was the only visible sign of the fierce internal struggle against Russification that was going on all over the Caucasus, the real key-note of Russia's policy along her Turkish and Persian frontiers; the foundation for the unconvincing prosperity which astonishes the traveller towards the Shah's dominions, as he pauses on the threshold of the Eternal East to take a farewell glimpse of the blessings of European civilization. 

Victor Dingelstedt, The Riviera of Russia (1904)

In Victor Dingelstedt, the corresponding member of the Royal Scottish Geographical Society, visited Western Georgia and prepared a lengthy report on its climate, natural resources and people. The article was published in The Scottish Geographical Magazine in June 1904 and was illustrated with these three photos.

Maynard Owen Williams, Russia's Orphan Races (1918)

Maynard Owen Williams (1888-1963) was a National Geographic correspondent and photographer. Self-described "camera-coolie and a roughneck", Williams was the National Geographic's first foreign correspondent, who had traveled widely and provided the journal with a steady stream of fascinating stories and vivid photographs. In the fall of 1917, as the Russian Empire came crumbling down, Williams traveled across its southern regions, crossed the Caucasus and visited Georgia on his way to Central Asia. His later wrote a lengthy report on his experiences, which was published in October 1918 issue of the National geographic (Vol. XXXIV, No.4).

RUSSIA'S ORPHAN RACES

Picturesque peoples Who Cluster on the Southeastern borderland of the Vast Slav Dominions

A few miles south of the snow ridge of the Caucasus, there is a wretched little village whose fame should be world-wide. Mtzkhet has claims to antiquity that make New England towns appear as embryos, for its citizens assert that it was founded by one of Noah's sons, who strolled over from Mount Ararat one day after the waters had subsided and chose this site because of its excellent drainage.

Beneath its terraced homes two rivers unite: the clear, cold Aragwa, hastening from its birthplace in the eternal snows of the Caucasus to the hot depression of the Caspian, and the Kura, sullied and dirty, swinging in from the west to make its way down the Tiflis depression and across the barren Transcaucasian steppe, between the mountains of Daghestan and the highlands of Armenia.

Damascus has a verdant freshness about it that is as deceptive as grease paint, but Mtzkhet stands out from green fields and pastures new like a weathered, sharp-bowed fishing smack in an emerald sea. On a rock cliff opposite this quiet city with the cat-fight name the kings of Georgia erected their first castle, but it was in Mtzkhet itself that Georgia was born. 

The Georgians admit their descent from the Accadians and Sumerians, but there is nothing in their appearance or personality to indicate their descent from anything. They seem to have ascended from the plane of other men. Militant of appearance, handsome of countenance, chivalrous, and unfamiliar with hard toil, these lovers of wine, women, and song are as princely in bearing as the unwashed Bedouin before his desert tent. Part of them are mountaineers - the most picturesque brigands that ever carried an arsenal at their belts. The rest are agricultural people, whose contact with the soil does not prevent them from holding their chests up like soldiers in uniform.

The Georgian women conquered the Turkish rulers by the palace route, but the Georgian men are handsomer than their wives, and in Georgia the male wears the fine plumage. But he treats his wife and daughters well and never allows them to act as servants.

There is so much strength in the Georgian face that the women lose their greatest charm by the time they mature. The classic nose is too noble to be pretty, the straight, large mouth shows determination rather than a Cupid's bow, and the fine eyes soon dominate a face that is manly in its beauty. In the Tiflis Red Cross cafes one may see scores of Georgian women with short, curled hair who could pose as Belvedere Apollos, but never a Venus.

St. Nina established a Christian church in Mtzkhet about 347 A. D., which was for many years a center for Christian culture. The Georgians assert that they were Christians before the Armenians, and vice versa; yet the princely but spendthrift Georgians and the oppressed but wealthy Armenians have been so much mixed throughout their history that there are today persons who call themselves Georgians and who speak Georgian, but who attend the Armenian church, while Armenians speaking Armenian are often found in Georgian churches.

The Georgians are good hosts and the Armenians are shrewd business men. That is why the Golovinski Prospekt in Tiflis, one of the proudest avenues in the world, is owned by Armenians and brightened by the presence of the Georgians, the handsomest young people one can find in Asia.

On October 14, 1917, I attended the investiture of the Georgian Katholikos[-Patriarch Kirion II] at Mtzkhet, the first in one hundred years. This was the first step this militant people, who had chafed under the burden of Tsardom, made toward independence. The affair at Mtzkhet marked their religious autonomy and freedom from the Russian Church. On May 26, 1918, after the Turks took the Batum and Kars districts, thus leaving only historic Georgia to the Transcaucasian Republic, the Georgian Diet declared their independence, thus virtually ending the Transcaucasian Republic, in which Tatars had had four representatives to Georgia's three.

Whether Georgia can hold out against the Turks and Germans remains to be seen, but of one thing we may be sure, Georgia will never tamely submit to oppression. She flirted with Germany's Pan-Turanian schemes and as late as June 19, 1918, was forced to send delegates to Constantinople to confer with the Central Powers; but Georgia has never relished the idea of subservience and she may hold out till relief can reach her.

Every train entering Mtzkhet on October 14, 1917, was packed to the doors. Crowds of young men from Tiflis rode on the roofs in order to see the colorful drama of the rebirth of a proud nation. It was not until the procession between the tiny station and the stately church was formed that order appeared in the kaleidoscopic scene. At the head of the line was a handsome Georgian, bearing aloft a blue silk banner inscribed in silver with Georgian characters and surmounted by a silver disc which bore the picture of some great saint. He was dressed in soft black boots, a dark-brown tcherkeska,.with its narrow waist and flowing skirts and cartridge cases across the breast, and wore the small Georgian skull cap; but as necessary as his dress were the sword and dagger and, strange anachronism, an automatic pistol in a brand-new russet case at his hip. Death-dealing weapons are still articles of ordinary dress in Georgia.

The color-bearer was flanked by two swordsmen in wine-colored plush doublets edged in soft fur, scarlet trousers, soft white-leather boots with gold tassels, and anklets of soft white leather with narrow stripes of red leather trimming.

Behind them came thirty or more male singers, gaily dressed and followed by a band of young women wearing Marguerite braids which reached below the knees. Over their close-fitting bodices of figured silk in soft tints of gray and blue they wore flowing velvet cloaks of delicate blue edged in fur. Their skirts, of queenly length, were paneled in the same soft tinted material as composed their bodices and their soft boots were hidden except for the shapely toes.

Then came a huge motor-car, crawling along with all the dignity due its chief occupant, the Katholikos-to-be. Forming a daisy chain about this ecclesiastical chariot were forty or more young Georgian girls, their smooth cheeks flushed beyond their usual fine color by the excitement. Most were dressed in simple white, against which their raven hair and rosy cheeks showed lively contrast, but a few wore tailored suits and small hats in the latest European style.

Behind these lovely ladies came gaunt Khevsurs, wearing chain coats of mail and chain helmets. Their straight swords were double-edged and each carried a small shield decorated with applique figures. Their small, wiry horses sniffed restively at the fumes of the motor-cars, resenting more than did their ruddy-haired masters this anachronism of eight centuries gap.

The Khevsurs wear the cross on their clothing and are the champion religionists of the world, for they observe the Christian Sabbath, the Jewish Saturday, and the Mohammedan Friday, and their religion is a strange mixture of all three beliefs with paganism. An early French traveler started the story that they were descendants of some Frankish Crusaders who fell in love with Georgian womanhood and forgot the Holy Grail in the midst of Georgian loveliness; but a matter-of-fact and very erudite Georgian scholar in Tiflis spoiled that story.

Inside the church, erected on the spot where the unseamed vesture of the Christ was found, after "having been brought hither from Golgotha by a Jew, there lie buried many of the proud but ill-fated line of Georgian kings, the last of whom, George XIII, ceded his territory to Russia in 1801 and died that year, broken-hearted, a true ruler, who could not conquer and therefore faced the only alternative—death.

Sixteen centuries have passed since the first Christian church was erected on that site: yet in the necropolis beyond there are remains of broad-headed men of the Iron Age, compared with whom Heraclius, Queen Tamara, the Guramides, and the Pharnavasians are unromantic moderns. They could tell of times before Prometheus was bound to the heights of Kasbek and Jason came hither in search of the Golden Fleece. Mtzkhet is ancient, but it is only a way station on the great highway of history across the mountain barrier which bridges the land-masses of Europe and Asia.