And so I asked the major to give me some information
regarding this town, which is the last of any importance in Russian
Turkestan.
"I know it all the better," said the major, "from having been in
garrison there for fifteen months. It is a pity you have not time to
visit it, for it remains very Asiatic, and there has not been time yet
for it to grow a modern town. There is a square there unrivalled in
Asia, a palace in great style, that of the old Khan of Khondajar,
situated on a mound about a hundred yards high, and in which the
governor has left his Sarthe artillery. It is considered wonderful, and
there is good reason for it. You will lose by not going there a rare
opportunity of bringing in the high-flown words of your language in
description: the reception hall transformed into a Russian church, a
labyrinth of rooms with the floors of the precious Karagatch wood, the
rose pavilion, in which visitors receive a truly Oriental hospitality,
the interior court of Moorish decoration recalling the adorable
architectural fancies of the Alhambra, the terraces with their splendid
views, the harem where the thousand wives of the Sultan--a hundred more
than Solomon--live in peace together, the lacework of the fronts, the
gardens with their shady walks under the ancient vines--that is what
you would have seen--"
"And which I have already seen with your eyes, dear major," said I.
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