The Face of Manchuria, Korea, & Russian Turkestan by Emily Georgiana Kemp

Just ten days after leaving Kharbin we got out of the train at the handsome station of Tashkent, which seemed ablaze with light in comparison with the dimness to which we had been recently accustomed. We inquired for the porter of the Hotel de France to which we had been recommended by an acquaintance at Moscow, but there was none at the station. A friendly official said that other hotels were better, and their porters eagerly urged us to go with them. We thought it best, however, to stick to what we had been advised, especially as our letters had been directed to the Hotel de France; so we got into a droshky and drove away into the darkness. What a heavenly drive it seemed after the long days in the train. Our horses were all too nimble as we drove on and on through the warm and scented air, under apparently never ending avenues of tall poplars and bushy elms. A crescent moon shone amongst myriads of stars, and we wondered how long this mysterious drive would last, as after a time the driver appeared to have lost his bearings and turned to us for instructions. Naturally we were utterly unable to direct him, but after half-an-hour, by the aid of local advice, we drew up beside the open doorway of a house surrounded by trees. There was not even "hotel" written up, and instead of a Frenchman coming at our summons, a person appeared who seemed unable even to recognise the name "Hotel de France," though he gave a voluble but quite unintelligible answer in Russian. However, we crossed the murmuring rivulet which characterises most of the roads here, and entered the house. We found that it certainly was an hotel, though there was no one who spoke any language but Russian, and in the letter case there were no letters for us.

We were shown into a nice large bedroom, and then began the pantomime. We were extremely hungry, but disinclined to try the fancy dishes which we feared would be served to us if we failed to be explicit in our orders. We had not yet learnt the names of many things in Russian, and we totally disagreed with the one universal sentiment, expressed in the word "nitchevo = it doesn't matter," which met us at every turn, so I betook myself to my pencil and drew-or tried to draw-a chicken _au plat_. Not having sufficiently studied the works of art which adorn cookery books, I failed ignominiously to convey any meaning to mine host. I next attempted to draw the creature _au naturel_, and the attempt was crowned with success; but alas, mine host soon returned with graphic gestures to acquaint us that chicken was not to be had. I then drew chicken in embryo, which was instantly recognised with an emphatic nod which heralded success.