The journey to the “Oil City”--First view of the Caspian--Armenians and Tartars--Russia’s monstrous misrule--Tiflis blood-stained and battered--How to wield a Caucasian dagger--Daily perils--Chiaroscuro of officers’ life--A stirring departure. The officers occupied the first-class compartments of two cars attached to a regular train, run from Moscow to Baku and Tiflis, and the escort of some forty odd Cossacks who accompanied our party were relegated to a fourth-class car somewhere at the rear of the train. The first two cars immediately behind the engine were filled with political prisoners who were being transferred from one prison to another. For the most part conversation among the officers was on topics very remote from the political situation of their country, remote even from the business in hand. Whenever I cared to bring up the subject, however, my questions were always readily and frankly answered. They accepted the revolutionary situation as unfortunate and unhappy, but a situation to be solved through military measures rather than through political concessions or altered civil administration. I shared a compartment with a dashing young captain, the son of one of the most distinguished families in Caucasia. The father of my friend was at one time the viceroy of the region. In discussing with him his own personal sensations when combating the revolutionary activity, I was startled to have him tell me that “nowadays in shooting at a human being he felt precisely the same as he used to feel when, as a younger man, he used to shoot deer in the mountains.” “The people here,” he added, “are all deserving of what they get.” Thereupon he dilated upon the wicked ways of the Tartars and the Armenians, whose constant feuds were then spattering Baku and Tiflis, and much of the country which lies between, with crimson stains. This same officer who spoke with such carelessness of the taking of human life had all of the instincts and the fineness of a man of refined and poetic temperament. At night, for example, I found him sitting at the car window, hour after hour, entranced with the marvelous beauty of the night; the snow-capped peaks of the mountains, fast receding from us as we sped toward Daghestan; the glorious vault of blue studded with bright, but cold, metallic stars; and as I asked him why he did not sleep, he answered: “I am fond of sleeping but not in the night-time; this beauty attracts me more than my couch.”