There Is Not A Tree Or Sign Of Vegetation For Miles Round The
Town - Nothing But Bleak, Desolate Steppe And Marsh, Unproductive Of
Sport And Cultivation, Or, Indeed, Of Anything Save Miasma And Fever.
In Summer The Heat, Dust, And Flies Are Intolerable; In Winter The Sun
Is Seldom Seen.
There is no amusement of any kind - no _cafe_, no band,
no theatre, to go to after the day's work.
This seemed to distress the
poor Parisian exile more than anything, more even than the smell of
oil, which, from the moment you enter until you leave Baku, there is
no getting away from. Although the wells are fully three miles away,
the table-cloths and napkins were saturated with it, and the very
food one ate had a faint sickly flavour of naphtha. "I bathed in the
Caspian once last summer," said Mr. B - - - , despairingly, "and did
not get the smell out of my skin for a week, during which time my
friends forbade me their houses! Mon Dieu! Quel pays!"
The steamer for Enzelli was to leave at eleven. Having wished my
French friend farewell, and a speedy return to his native country, we
set out for the quay. The night was fine, but away to our left dense
clouds of thick black smoke obscured the lights of the town and
starlit sky, while the furnaces of the "Tchornigorod" [B] blazed out
of the darkness, their flames reflected in the dark waters of the
Caspian, turning the little harbour into a lake of fire.
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