THE LAND OF THE STALKING DEATH 



401 



The Pontic Mountains' snow peaks 

 dwindled away behind us ; we crossed the 

 fertile plains where lay Kutais, the an- 

 cient Colchis, reminiscent of Greek colo- 

 nization and of the fabled Argonauts; 

 we passed sandy and sterile tracts, where 

 rock-hewn caverns in the overhanging 

 heights represented the long-emptied cells 

 of medieval monasticism ; and at last one 

 evening we slid down into an encircling 

 cup of hills wherein glimmered the out- 

 stretched lights of Tiflis. 



TlEUS A CITY OF SURPRISES 



Though one has penetrated fairly far 

 into the East at Tiflis, if one expects 

 vistas of caravans, camels, and Rebekahs- 

 at-the-well, he will suffer disillusionment 

 in his first impressions. The Golovinsky 

 Prospekt, which runs through the heart 

 of the Georgian capital, is as handsome 

 a bit of modern metropolitanism as can 

 be found anywhere. With its restaurants 

 and cafes, its jewelers, art shops and 

 opera, its vice-regal palace — now ousted 

 of the Romanoff dynasty's last grand 

 ducal viceregent, and flying the Georgian 

 republic's black and cerise flag — the Pros- 

 pekt, especially when seen in the loung- 

 ing hour, is undeniably chic. 



Here stroll Russians, Georgians, Ar- 

 menians, and the representatives of a 

 score of mountain tribes who have busi- 

 ness in the new capital. There is a splen- 

 dor of uniforms and of side-arms, the 

 Caucasian national costume dominating 

 the picture. A very long, swagger over- 

 garment of brown or gray, padded square 

 at the shoulders, with wasp-like waist, 

 and descending as a smartly flared 

 skirt — this, together with high, heel-less 

 boots, a square astrakhan cap, a clanking 

 sword, two magnificently chased daggers, 

 a brace of pistols, and sixteen fountain- 

 pens strung across his chest represents 

 what I would term the picturesque scen- 

 ery worn by your typical Georgian in 

 war, in peace, and in the bosom of his 

 countrymen. 



What I have called fountain-pens 

 turned out to be more weapons — hollow 

 tubes, anciently designed to contain pow- 

 der and shot. 



One looks at these magnificently ac- 

 coutered swaggerers, with their stiff mus- 

 taches and close-shaven skulls, and thinks 



of comic opera and of the dear old King- 

 dom of Zenda ; also one trembles for the 

 League of Nations, fearing that the 

 Georgian will never consent to a reduc- 

 tion of his armament. 



WHERE EVERY ONE WEARS A UNIFORM 



Mere militarism has no mortgage on 

 uniforms at Tiflis. Everybody wears one, 

 including school children and their teach- 

 ers, according to Russian custom ; and 

 hundreds upon hundreds of civilians are 

 thus attired because, clothes being scarce 

 and expensive, they prefer buying some 

 officer's cast-off outfit. 



I had almost overlooked the presence 

 of the British uniform along the Pros- 

 pekt ; and perhaps that is because the 

 British, being in occupation, comport 

 themselves so quietly. Compared to the 

 arsenal-carrying Georgian, the British 

 officer, with his little swagger stick, is an 

 exemplification of that "invisible force" 

 principle which makes one believe in the 

 League of Nations. 



The Tommy, too, is seen everywhere, 

 having adapted himself to the ways and 

 speech of the Georgian, after his own 

 peculiar method. 



THE ART OE CONVERSATION IN GEORGIA 



The Doctor and I were puzzled by one 

 Tommy who stood on the street corner 

 with a Georgian soldier, carrying on 

 what seemed to be fluent conversation. 

 We afterward questioned him about it. 



"You don't speak Georgian?'' asked 

 the Doctor. 



"No, sir," answered Tommy. 



"And that Georgian doesn't understand 

 English ?" 



"No, sir." 



We stared at each other. 



"How on earth, then, do you manage 

 it?" asked the Doctor. 



"Well, you see it's this way, sir," re- 

 plied Thomas with the utmost solemnity. 

 "One of these 'ere foreign chaps '11 come 

 up and say to me, 'Xitcliy villa, nitchy- 

 villa?' And I'll say to 'im, 'Don't mind 

 if I do 'ave one.' And then maybe 'ee '11 

 say to me 'Bittsky-ittsky, boo !' And then 

 T biffs 'im one on the jaw." 



"But why?" T asked. "Why knock 

 him down ?" 



"Because, sir," answered Thomas with 



