these, along with the likewise real ice-deserts, the tundras, do, to
a certain extent, justify the popular impression. Dreary also are
the forests which lie between the tundra and the steppes, and form
the third zone. In them man never ventures to establish himself; on
them the industry of the settlers along their borders make relatively
little impression; within them the forces of nature hold absolute sway,
creating and destroying without interference. The flame of heaven sets
the trees ablaze, the raging winter-storm hurls them to the ground;
the forests rise and disappear without any human control, and may in
the fullest sense of the word be called primeval. Full of mystery
they attract, and at the same time inhospitably repel; inviting they
seem to the hunter, but resistant they bar his steps; rich gain they
promise the eager merchant, but postpone the fulfilment of his wishes
to the future. This girdle of forest extends, as we have mentioned,
between the steppes and the tundra. Here and there it encroaches on
both; here and there they intrude upon it. At certain places in both
the unwooded zones, a compact wood may dispute possession with the
characteristic vegetation of steppes or of tundra, as the case may be,
but such isolated woods are almost always like islands in the sea,
for whose presence there is no obvious justification. In the steppes
they are restricted to the northern slopes of the mountains and to the
valleys, in the tundra to the deepest depressions. But in both cases
they are unimportant in comparison with the measureless extent of
the forest zone, in which it is only here and there that a stream, a
lake, or a swamp interrupts the continuity of the wilderness of trees
which extends on all sides. A conflagration may make a clearing, or,
at the extreme fringe, man may make a gap, but otherwise there is no
interruption. Whole countries, as we know them, might find space in one
of these immense forest tracts; and there are kingdoms of smaller area
than some of them. What the interior is like no one can tell, for not
even by the streams which flow from them can one penetrate far, and
even the boldest sable-hunters do not know more than a margin of at
most fifty or sixty miles.
The general impression which the Siberian forests make on the German
traveller is by no means favourable. At the apparently boundless
tracts which are wooded, he is of course astonished, but he cannot
be enthusiastic, or at least very rarely. The creative, productive,
renewing power of the North does not seem to be adequate to balance the
destructive forces. Hoary age stands side by side with fresh youth, but
somehow there is no vitality in the combination; incomputable wealth
appears in beggar’s garb; and moribund life without any promise of
vigorous rejuvenescence inhibits any feeling of joy. Everywhere we seem
to perceive the hard struggle for existence, but nowhere are we really
fascinated or attracted by the spirit of the woods, nowhere does the
interior fulfil the expectations which the external aspect suggested.
The splendour of the primitive forests in lower latitudes is entirely
and absolutely lacking in this derelict, uncared-for woodland. The life
which stirs within them seems as if it had already fallen under the
shadow of death.[28]
True forest, full of fresh life, with continuance amid a regular
succession of changes, is rare. The devastation wrought by fire is a
much more frequent spectacle. Sooner or later a lightning-flash, or
the culpable carelessness of the Siberian, sets the forest in a blaze.
Favoured by the season and the weather the conflagration spreads in
a manner scarce conceivable. Not for hours, but for days, or even
for weeks, the destruction rages. On the mossy and turfy ground the
flames smoulder and creep further and further; the quantities of dry
and mouldy débris on the ground feed them, dry branches hanging down
to the ground, or dead trunks, still upright, lead them to the tops of
the living trees. Hissing and cracking the resinous needles fall, and
a gigantic spray of sparks rises to heaven. In a few minutes the giant
tree is dead, and the destruction spreads; the rockets which radiate
from it fall in thousands of sparks, and all around fresh flames spring
from the glowing seed. Thus every minute the fire gains ground, and
destruction spreads on all sides uncontrolled. In a few hours square
miles of the forest are ablaze. Over hundreds of square _versts_
steaming clouds of smoke darken the sun; slowly, but thickly, and
ever more thickly, the ashes drizzle down, and tell by day to distant
settlers, as the glow reflected in the sky proclaims by night, that
there is a fire in the forest. Affrighted animals carry terror into
the surrounding townships. Immediately after great forest-fires, bears
appear in districts where they have not been seen for years; wolves
wander over the open country in formidable troops as if it were winter;
elks, stags, roedeer and reindeer seek new homes in distant forests;
and squirrels in countless swarms hurry through wood and plain, field
and meadow, village and town. How many of the terror-stricken beasts
fall victims to the fire no one can estimate, but it has been found
that woodlands desolated by conflagration remain for many years
thereafter without fresh settlers, and that the valuable beasts of
the chase have entirely disappeared from many of these desolated
districts. The devastation is sometimes on a scale of vast magnitude;
thus, in 1870, a fire which raged for about fourteen days destroyed a
million and a quarter acres of valuable forest in the government of
Tobolsk, while clouds of smoke and showers of ashes were borne to a
distance of a thousand miles from the seat of the conflagration.
For many years the devastated woodland remains like an immense
succession of ruins; even after a generation or two the limits of the
conflagration may be recognized and defined. The flames destroy the
life of almost all the trees, but they devour only those which were
already dry; thus stems more smoked than charred remain standing, and
even their tops may remain bereft only of their needles, young shoots,
and dry twigs. But they are dead and their destruction is in process.
Sooner or later they are bound to fall before the storm. One after
another is hurled to the ground, and one after another is robbed of
its branches, its crown, or a third or a fourth of the trunk is broken
off from the top. Across one another, at all angles, and at different
levels, thousands of these tree-corpses lie prostrate on the ground
already thickly covered with piles of débris. Some rest on their roots
and top-branches, others lean on the still upright stems of their
neighbours, and others already lie crumbling among the fallen branches,
their tops often far from their trunks, their branches scattered all
around. To the lover of the woods, those stems which still withstand
the storm have perhaps an even more doleful appearance than those which
have fallen. They stand up in nakedness like bare masts. Only a few
retain their tops, or parts of them, for several years after the fire;
but the weather-beaten twigless branches of the crowns rather increase
than lessen the mournfulness of the picture. Gradually all the crowns
sink to the ground, and the still upright trunks become more and more
rotten. Woodpeckers attack them on all sides, chisel out nesting-holes,
and make yard-long passages leading into the tree’s heart, thus
allowing the moisture free entrance and accelerating the process of
decay. In the course of years even the largest trunk has mouldered so
completely that it is really one huge homogeneous mass of rotten tinder
which has lost all stability. Indeed, a rough shake from a man’s hand
is sufficient to make it fall into a heap of shapeless débris. Finally,
even this disappears, and there is left a treeless expanse, broken only
here and there by the last traces of a trunk.
But even here a new life begins to rise from amid the ruins. Some years
after the conflagration, the charred ground, manured by ashes and
decayed débris, begins once more to be adorned. Lichens and mosses,
ferns and heaths, and above all various berry-bearing bushes cover the
ground and the débris of the trees. These flourish more luxuriantly
here than anywhere else, and they begin to attract animals as various
as those which the flames had banished. Seeds of birch borne by the
wind germinate and become seedlings, which gradually form, at first
exclusively, a thicket as dense as if it had sprung from man’s sowing.
After some years a young undergrowth has covered the field of the
dead; after a longer interval other forest trees gradually arise in
the room of their predecessors. Every forest-fire spares some parts of
the region which it embraces; even isolated trees may survive in the
midst of the burned area, and effect the re-sowing of the desolated
tract. Sheets of water and deep gorges may set limits to the fire, and
it may even happen that the flames, leaping over a gulley, continue
their devastation on the opposite bank without injuring the trees in
the depths beneath. Moreover, individual larch-trees which have been
attacked by the fire may escape destruction. The bases of the trunks
are charred and all the needles are shrivelled up, but often the crown
bursts forth afresh, and for a time the tree continues, though somewhat
miserably, to live.
In comparison with the ravages of the flames, the devastations for
which man is directly responsible seem trivial, but in themselves
they are of no slight importance. Of forest-culture the Siberian has
no conception. The forest belongs to God, and what is His is also
the peasant’s; thus, in view of the practically infinite wealth, he
never thinks of sparing, but does what he pleases, what the needs
of the moment seem to him to demand. Every Siberian fells and roots
out, where and as he pleases, and everyone destroys infinitely more
than he really requires. For a few cones he will fell a pine, even if
it be in the prime of growth; to obtain building wood he will cut
down three or four times the quantity required, leaving the residue
without a thought, often not even using it for fuel. Already, such
careless procedure has entailed serious consequences. The woods in the
neighbourhood of townships, and here and there even those near the
highways, are worked out, and appear scarce better than those which
the fire has devastated; and still the work of destruction goes on.
It is only since 1875 that there have been forest-officers in Western
Siberia, and even they give their attention rather to the exploitation
than to the renewal of the woods.
Even where neither man nor fire has ravaged them the forests present an
appearance essentially different from ours--an appearance of complete,
absolutely uncontrolled naturalness. It is but rarely, however, that
this attracts us. At first, perhaps, we are impressed by seeing at
one glance all stages of growth and decay; but the dead soon becomes
more conspicuous than the living, and this depresses instead of
stimulating.[29] In forests thus left in their natural state, thick
growth alternates with clearing, tall trees with mere thicket, hoary
senility with vigorous youth. Mouldering trees stand or lean, hang or
lie everywhere. From the remains of fallen stems young shoots sprout;
gigantic corpses bar the way within the thickets. Willows and aspens,
which, with the birch, are the most abundant foliage-trees of Western
Siberia, appear at times in irreproachable perfection, and at times as
if they had been persistently hindered from full growth. Stems thicker
than a man’s waist bear tangled crowns of small size, on which, year
after year, fresh twigs break forth without being able to grow into
branches; other apparently aged trees remain not more than bushes;
and others, broken across the middle, have their split, cracked, and
twisted upper parts connected to the trunk only by the splintered bark.
Rarely does one get a complete picture; everything looks as if it were
going to ruin, and could advance only in decay.
Yet this sketch is not true of all the woods in this vast region;
there are indeed woodlands, especially in the south of the zone, on
which the eye rests with satisfaction. Locality, situation, soil, and
other conditions are sometimes alike propitious and combine to produce
pleasing results. The growth of the individual trees becomes vigorous,
and the general composition of the wood changes; the undergrowth, which
is luxuriant everywhere, becomes diversified in the most unexpected
manner. Gladly one welcomes each new species of tree or bush which
reduces the marked poverty of species in these forests, but even from
the richest tracts many trees are awanting which we rarely miss in
Europe at the same latitude. It must be confessed that the forests of
Siberia are uniform and monotonous, like the steppes, and like the
tundra.
In the river-valleys of the forest zone the uniformity is perhaps most
conspicuous. Here the willows predominate, forming often extensive
woods by the banks and on the islands, almost to the complete exclusion
of other trees. Over wide stretches willows alone form the woods of the
valley, and in many places the trees rise to a stately height, yet even
then without often gaining in impressiveness or charm. For the isolated
willow-tree is not more, but rather less picturesque than the willow
bushes; its crown is always thin and irregular, it is not close-set
but loose and open, in fact almost scraggy. On frequent repetition it
becomes wearisome. When the willows stand, as is usual, close beside
one another, they form a dense thicket, and then, even more than the
isolated tree, they lack character, for all the stems rise like posts
and all the crowns fuse into a close, straight-contoured mass of
foliage, suggestive of a clipped hedge, in which the individual trees
are entirely merged. As pleasing additions to such monotonous woods we
welcome the sprinkling of poplars, the silver poplar in the south, the
aspen in the north, both of them giving some animation to the willows.
In the valley of the stream too, but only in those places which are not
subject to regularly-recurring floods, the birch appears in addition
to the trees already noticed; indeed birch-covered tracts occur with
some constancy as connecting links between the willow-woods and the
pine-forests. But it is only in the south of the zone that the birch
attains its full size and vigour; it is as unresisting a victim to the
flames as the most resinous pine, and is therefore incapable of greatly
affecting the general aspect of the forest. More or less unmixed birch
woods bound the forest zone to the south, and sometimes intrude far
into the steppes, yet it is but rarely that they form thick, compact,
well-established stretches of timber; and they are, when one sets foot
in them, disappointing.
On the other hand, the pine-forests which cover all the regions
between the river-courses often fascinate and satisfy the traveller
from the west. If the tundra has not gained upon them or begun to
make its desolating mark, they consist in the main of vigorous pines
and Norway spruce firs, the pichta or Siberian silver fir, the
cembra pine, and more rarely larches. Among these there are aspens
and willows, with occasional mountain-ash and bird-cherry, while
birches often appear in as great vigour as in woods which consist
exclusively of this accommodating tree. The pichta and the cembra
pine are the characteristic trees of all West Siberian pine-forests,
and vie with one another in beauty and vigour of growth. The pichta
is a particularly beautiful tree. Nearly related to our silver fir,
and representing it in all East Russian and West Siberian woodlands,
even from a distance it catches the eye, standing out impressively
from among all the other conifers. From the silver fir and from the
Norway spruce fir the pichta is distinguished by the stateliness of its
slender conical crown and by the rich, delicate, bright green needles.
Almost always it overtops the other trees of the forest; usually,
indeed, the topmost third is above the crowns of its neighbours,
thus effectively breaking the sky-line of the forest and giving an
individual character to certain regions. The cembra or stone pine,
which flourishes especially in the south of the forest zone, though it
also occurs far to the north, has round, smooth, usually compact tops
which contrast well with those of the other pines and firs; and it
also contributes not a little to the external adornment of the forest,
towards making it seem more attractive than it is. Pines and spruce
firs are nowhere absent, but they do not flourish everywhere as they
do in the mountains of Central Germany; towards the north they sink
rapidly into crippled senility. And so is it also with the larches,
whose true home is Siberia; it is only in the south of the forest zone,
especially on the mountains, that they attain the stately height of
those in our country.
The above-named species include almost all those which occur regularly
in the woodlands of Western Siberia. There seems to be a complete
absence of oak and beech, elm and ash, lime and maple, silver fir and
yew, hornbeam and black poplar. On the other hand, there are many kinds
of bushes and shrubs in abundance everywhere. Even in the north the
undergrowth of the forests is surprisingly rich and luxuriant. Currants
and raspberries flourish to a latitude of 58°, a species of woodbine
occurs up to 67°; juniper, white alder, sallow, crowberry, bilberry,
cranberry, and cloudberries increase rather than decrease as one goes
north; and even on the margins of the tundra, where dwarf-birches and
marsh-andromedas, mosses, and cowberries insinuate themselves into the
interior of the woods, the ground is still everywhere thickly covered,
for the mosses thrive the more luxuriantly the poorer the woods become.
The steppes also contribute to enrich the woods, for in the south
of the forest zone, not only most of the steppe-bushes and shrubs,
but also various herbs and flowers, enter or fringe the forest. Thus
certain wooded stretches of this border-land become natural parks,
which in spring and early summer display a surprising splendour of
blossom.
As an instance of a forest glorious in such charms, I may mention that
region known as “Taiga,”[30] which lies between the towns Schlangenberg
and Salain, in the domain of Altai. In the broad tract which this
beautiful forest covers there is a most pleasing succession of long
ridges and rounded hills, valleys, troughs, and basins. One hill rises
beyond and above another, and everywhere one sees a sky-line of forest.
Pines and pichta firs, aspen and willow, mountain-ash and bird-cherry,
are in the majority among the high trees, and are mingled in most
pleasing contrasts of bright and dark colour, of light and shade. The
soft lines of the foliage trees are pleasingly broken by the conical
summits of the pichta firs which overtop them. The two species of
Siberian pea-tree, guelder-rose and woodbine, wild rose and currant are
combined in the brightly blooming undergrowth; Umbellifers as tall as
a man, especially hemlock; spiræa; ferns such as maidenhair, larkspur
and foxglove, bluebell and hellebore all shooting up in unparalleled
luxuriance, weave a gay carpet, from which the wild hops climb and
twine up to the tall trees. It is as if the art of the landscape
gardener had been intelligently exercised, as if man had fashioned the
whole with an eye to scenic effect.
In the south, the forests show their greatest beauty in spring, in the
north, in autumn. By the first days of September the leaves of the
foliage trees begin to turn yellow here, and by the middle of the month
the north Siberian forest is more brilliant than any of ours. From the
darkest green to the most flaming red, through green and light green,
light yellow and orange yellow, pale red and carmine, all the shades of
colour are represented. The dark Norway spruce firs and pichta firs are
followed by the cembra pines and larches; and next in order come the
few birches which are not yet yellowed. The white alders display all
gradations from dark to light green and to greenish yellow; the aspen
leaves are bright cinnabar red, the mountain-ash and the bird-cherry
are carmine. So rich and yet so harmonious is the mingling of all these
colours that sense and sentiment are satisfied to the full.
Such are the pictures which the woodlands of Western Siberia display
to the traveller. But all the sketches we have attempted to give have
been taken from within a narrow fringe. To penetrate further into the
primeval forests, in summer at least, seems to the western traveller
absolutely impossible. On the slopes of the mountains he is hindered
by thickets and masses of débris, on highland and plain alike by
prostrate trees and a tangle of bushes, in the hollows and valleys by
standing and flowing water, by brooks and swamps. Wide-spread talus
from the rocks, blocks and boulders rolled into heaps and layers
form barriers on all the hills; lichens and mosses form a web over
the rocks, and treacherously conceal the numerous gaps and clefts
between them; a young undergrowth is rooted between and upon the old
possessors of the soil; and the old trees as well as the young increase
the risk of attempting to traverse these regions. On the low ground
the obstacles which the forests present are hardly less formidable.
Literally impenetrable thickets such as exist in the virgin forests of
equatorial countries there are none, but there are obstacles enough.
The prostrated trunks are all the more troublesome because most of
them lie, not on the untrodden path, but at an inconvenient height
above it; they are turnpikes in the most unpleasant sense of the word.
Sometimes it is possible to climb over them or to creep under them; but
equally often neither is possible, and one is forced to make a circuit,
which is the more unwelcome, since, without constant reference to the
compass, it is only too easy to stray from the intended direction. Real
clearings are met with but rarely, and if one tries to walk across
them, deep holes and pools full of mud and decayed débris soon show
that here also the greatest caution is necessary. If the traveller
trusts to one of the many cattle-tracks, which, in the south of the
forest-zone, lead from every village to the forest, and penetrate
into it for some distance, even then sooner or later he finds himself
at fault. It is impossible to tell, or even to guess, whither such a
path leads, for it intersects hundreds of others, and runs through
tangled brushwood, through tall grass concealing unpleasant débris of
trees, through moss and marsh; in short, they are not paths for human
foot. Thus, though there are not everywhere insuperable obstacles, one
meets everywhere and continuously with hindrances so numerous and so
vexatious, that even where the plague of mosquitoes is not intolerable,
the traveller is apt to return much sooner than he had intended. Only
in winter, when hard frost has covered all the pools, bogs, and swamps
with a trustworthy crust, when deep snow has smoothed off most of the
roughnesses, and is itself coated with a hard layer of ice, only then
are the forests accessible to the hunter equipped with snow-shoes, and
accompanied by weather-hardened dogs; only then can even the natives
think of making long expeditions.