A little steam-launch puts out from Ashdurada, bringing the mails and several naval officers bound for Krasnovodsk and Baku.  The scenery of the Mazanderan coast is magnificent.  The bold mountains seem to slope quite down to the shore, and from summit to surf-waves they present one dark-green mass of forest.

The menu of these Caspian steamers is very good, based on the French school of cookery rather than English.  No early breakfast is provided, however; breakfast at eleven and dinner at six are the only refreshments provided by the ship’s regular service—­anything else has to be paid for as extras.  At eleven o’clock we descend to the dining saloon, where we find the table spread with caviare, cheese, little raw salt fishes, pickles, vodka, and the unapproachable bread of Russia.  The captain and passengers are congregated about this table, some sitting, others standing, and all reaching here and there, everybody helping himself and eating with his fingers.  Now and then each one tosses off a little tumbler of vodka.  We proceed to the table and do our best to imitate the Russians in their apparent determination to clean off the table.  The edibles before us comprise the elements of a first-class cold luncheon, and we sit down prepared to do it ample justice.  By and by the Russians leave this table one by one, and betake themselves to another, on the opposite side of the saloon.  As they sit down, waiters come in bearing smoking hot roasts and vegetables, wine and dessert.

A gleam of intelligence dawns upon my companion as he realizes that we are making a mistake, and pausing in the act of transferring bread and caviare to his mouth, he says to me, impressively:  “This is only sukuski, you know, on this table.”  “Why, of course.  Didn’t you know that.  Your ignorance surprises me; I thought you knew.”.  And then we follow the example of everybody else and pass over to the other side.

The sukuski is taken before the regular meal in Russia.  The tidbits and the vodka are partaken of to prepare and stimulate the appetite for the regular meal.  Not yet, however, are we fully initiated into the mysteries of the Caspian steamer’s service.  Wine is flowing freely, and as we seat ourselves the captain passes down his bottle.  Presently I hold my glass to be refilled by a spectacled naval officer sitting opposite.  With a polite bow he fills it to the brim.  The next moment, I happen to catch the captain’s eye, it contains a meaning twinkle of amusement.  Heavens! this is not a French steamer, even if the cookery is somewhat Frenchy; neither is it a table-d’hote with claret flowing ad libitum.  The ridiculous mistake has been made of taking the captain’s polite hospitality and the liberal display of bottles for the free wine of the French table-d’hote.  The officer with the eyeglasses lands at Tchislikar in the afternoon, for which I am not sorry.