Already a wintry wilderness of garden without, upon which snow and sleet are pitilessly beating, is barely discernible.

By the window looms, through the dusk, the shadowy shape of an enormous stuffed tiger, crouched as if about to spring upon a spare white-haired man in neat dark green uniform, who, seated at a writing-table covered with papers and official documents, has just settled himself more comfortably in a roomy armchair.

With a pleasant smile, and a long pull at a freshly lit "papirosh," he gives vent to his feelings with the remark that heads this chapter.
There is silence for a while, unbroken save by the crackle of blazing logs and occasional rattle of driving sleet against the window-panes.
It is the 5th of January (O.S.).

I am at Tiflis, in the palace of Prince Dondoukoff Korsakoff, Governor of the Caucasus, and at the present moment in that august personage's presence.
"Ceci non!" repeats the prince a second time, in answer to my request; adding impatiently, "They should know better in London than to send you to me.

The War Minister in St.Petersburg alone has power to grant foreigners permission to visit Central Asia.