The contrast between the prosaic present and the wild romance of that past which is fast fading into legend must be bitter indeed to the half-tamed Turkomans. Nature, we know, _nihil facit per saltum_; and governments, however despotic, are incapable of suddenly changing the trend of a nation’s instincts, the legacy of unnumbered generations. It may, however, be said with perfect truth that the Russians in Central Asia strive earnestly, and with a great measure of success, to promote the greatest good of the greatest number. CHAPTER VIII ASKABAD AND MERV Krasnovodsk, the western terminus of the Transcaspian Railway, stands on the northern side of the Balkan Bay, through which the Oxus once discharged into the Caspian. It is protected from the groundswell by a natural breakwater of jagged rock which stretches nearly twenty-five miles southwards; and from icy Siberian blasts by a range of barren limestone hills. The little town which nestles in this bleak amphitheatre is of recent origin, for it was only in 1897 that it superseded Uzun Ada, a shallow and insecure port on the south of the bay. The Government offices, substantially built of a warm brown freestone, surround a central square, where a patch of grass and a few scraggy trees strive in vain to relieve the desolation which recalls the surroundings of Aden to the Eastern traveller. Nor is the parallel confined to externals, for Krasnovodsk is dependent on distillation for its water-supply. The building where the precious fluid is manufactured from the briny Caspian is well worth a visit, inasmuch as its designer, M. Yagen, has solved the problem how to extract a maximum of fresh water at a minimum expenditure of fuel. The steam, generated in tubular boilers heated by a roaring fire of petroleum refuse,[677] passes through a series of iron vats sheathed with felt, losing some of its heat and aqueous particles in each. But the chief ornament of Krasnovodsk is, strange to say, the railway terminus. Unlike those which disgrace so many English towns, it is a highly successful effort to blend the ornamental with the useful. The trains which leave Krasnovodsk for the heart of Central Asia twice a week are made up of second and third-class carriages on the corridor system. They are warmed in the abominable fashion peculiar to Russia, by air heated in a roaring stove, and their lavatories are on the most primitive model. The stuffy compartments contain narrow wooden benches; and upper berths, which let down at night, form very indifferent beds. In one of these little purgatories the traveller bound for Samarkand ensconces himself at 4.30 p.m., after a substantial meal at the railway buffet, which differs in no wise from those met with on the Caucasian railways. But the jolting and discomfort are soon forgotten in the novelty of the surroundings. For seventy miles the line skirts the deep blue Caspian, which is covered in winter with wild