PERM--THE ROAD TO CATHERINEBURG.
Hotel accommodation in Siberia--A councillor--Opinions and
examples of Russian administration--National music--The passion
for aggrandizement of territory--Entry into Asia.
Though Perm is still within the limits of Europe, it has quite the
aspect of a Siberian city: the houses are constructed of wood, without
upper stories, and disposed without regularity with regard to one
another. Its position reminds one a little of that of Nijni-Novgorod.
Overlooking the Kama from the summit of a hill, Perm commands beyond
also, from the same eminence, an immense plain covered with forests.
I put up at the Hôtel de la Poste. The reader would smile, no doubt, if
he could only see the building to which I give the name of _hôtel_. And
yet the poverty of our language obliges me to use this term: I could
not give the name of _auberge_ or _gargote_ to the most important
resting place the traveller could find in a city--a city which is the
capital of a province as large as France.
In the way of familiar terms, the Russian language has a richness
almost disheartening to those who have had the courage to commence its
study. Constantine would frequently attempt to gratify his curiosity
by putting questions to me like these: “What do you call in French,
monsieur, a field of corn whose ears are just beginning to show?” “What
do you call in your language a book that has its leaves cut by the
reader as he proceeds with the reading?” Sometimes I replied: “We have
no special term corresponding to the meaning of this periphrasis”; but
more frequently I said I didn’t know; preferring that he should have a
less favourable opinion of my knowledge than of the comprehensiveness
of our language.
The walls of my room, like all those in Siberia, were whitewashed. The
furniture consisted of a few chairs and a sofa; but no toilet table nor
washstand, nor even a bed. This, in Siberia, is the traveller’s room,
and indeed, one of the most luxurious; for the sofa, here quite an
_objet de luxe_, is often wanting. Nobody, moreover, in this land of
primitive manners, knows the refreshing comfort of reposing on a bed.
At Kiachta, where I accepted the hospitality of a rich merchant, he
found it quite sufficient for his night’s slumber to roll himself up
in a blanket, and thus stretch himself on two chairs standing front to
front.
The substitute for a washstand and its accessories is, to the stranger,
even less satisfactory than the makeshift for a bed. In every hotel,
this consists of a little reservoir of water, furnished at the bottom
with a minute copper tube, and fixed against the wall in the passage.
The traveller, desirous of performing his usual ablutions, lifts this
tube, and a tiny jet of water spurts forth and trickles over his
hands, which he endeavours to appropriate and utilize as well as he
can, though he allows it to “slip through his fingers.” This cleansing
operation, however, is apparently deemed by every Siberian of either
sex, if not as effective, certainly quite as serviceable, as the more
elaborate process of a Turkish bath.
I rarely experienced in the whole course of my travels so much
disappointment as at Perm, where, after a long and fatiguing sledge
journey, I had looked forward to the refreshing comfort of a thorough
ablution, and found nothing more than this trickling stream to stand
under. Knowing well it was perfectly useless to go elsewhere in search
of any superior accommodation, I determined to enter my pro test
against it at once, and went out to buy a big copper basin, which I
procured, had brought into my room, and insisted on having filled
with water. My ablutions then became, more than once, the subject
of very lively altercations between the proprietors of the hotel
and Constantine. The latter, fortunately, fully understanding the
importance I attached to them, took upon him my defence so warmly,
that he invariably came off victorious, but not without strenuous
efforts, and not without much reproach for my _want of_ cleanliness, as
manifested by the splashing all around.
There is also another very great inconvenience for the traveller, and
that is, there are no means of ventilating the chamber: he is shut in
there with every chink closely puttied, and the temperature raised
to twenty-eight, thirty, and even thirty-five degrees centigrade of
heat,--that is to say, the summer temperature of Bombay. And since
the winter cold of Central Siberia is seldom less than thirty degrees
centigrade, one has to submit, on going out of doors, to a difference
of sixty or seventy degrees.
When they had brought everything out of my sledge into my room,--for
when these objects, however diverse they may be, are no longer in
movement they should always be before the traveller’s eyes,--and I had
almost retired for the night, Constantine led into my room a gentleman
who was introduced to me as a member of the general council of Perm.
A councillor, whatever may be his origin, his rights, or his functions,
seems to be a sign of liberal institutions. This dignitary, with
his ideas savouring a little of decentralisation, and an ambition
to augment his prerogatives, is not generally met with, except in
democratic lands. Therefore, I must admit, I was not a little surprised
to find, breathing in Russian atmosphere, a man marked with the title
of ‘councillor.’ I found him very communicative and courteous, knowing
thoroughly our history and our institutions, and expressing himself
easily in French. He held besides the office of engineer of mines.
I therefore felt I could enter into many subjects with him, and I
received some encouragement to do so from the courtesy of his manners
and his desire to be communicative. Perhaps, under the colour of
holding similar views, he might have allied himself with the old noble
I met at Kazan against the Emperor, reserving the disguised power to
get rid of the aristocracy when they had fully served his purpose.
When I complimented him on the dignity of his office, the exercise of
which then drew him to Perm--“I can do very well without this honour,”
he replied, “for our provincial assemblies are far from enjoying the
prerogatives of yours. The Emperor, in creating them, would fain
make believe in his liberalism, but in reality, he has given them
but illusory rights. In the first place, the members of the council
are nominated by important proprietors in the province of Perm, who
have received from the Czar the faculty to send to the sessions one
or several representatives. The president of the council is nominated
by the Government. It is in no case whatever permitted to discuss
politics. The Governor-General of Perm may, if so disposed, disregard
entirely the wishes or votes of the council. The council may, it is
true, appeal to the Senate of St. Petersburg, but the response is
invariable: it emanates directly from the cabinet of the Emperor, and
pronounces the dissolution of the council. Our votes, therefore, are
very far from having the force of law. Three times have we demanded
some repair of the road from Perm to Catherineburg: you will soon see
in what state it still is for your journey.”
Among the interesting opinions with which this agreeable and
well-informed man entertained me, I will mention one regarding the
finances of the empire. I expressed my astonishment at not seeing
in Russia, a country supposed to be rich, more coin in circulation.
“The Government,” he said, “is wrong in not seeking its principal
revenue in agriculture, and in the metallic resources in which the
country abounds. It has been dazzled by the auriferous riches of the
Trans-Baikal district, and hopes with these to maintain its financial
position. A decree punishes, with the severest penalties, proprietors
of gold mines who neglect to send to St. Petersburg all the precious
metal they extract from the earth. The Emperor thus monopolizes, at
its source, all the Russian gold, and then reimburses his subjects
with bank-notes only. This state of things can only get worse, unless
immediate and important reform be duly made in the administration and
in the distribution of the tax. The budget, in fact, amounts to four or
five hundred millions of roubles, whilst the State draws from the mines
no more than seventy-five to eighty millions of roubles. To what rate
of depreciation will not Russian paper fall, if they continue issuing
such a quantity?”
This interesting mining engineer then turned from finance to the
more comprehensive subject of politics in general, and added: “It is
impossible for a single man to know all that takes place over such
an immense territory. But if the Emperor could indeed be enlightened
through the interpolations of a wise and intelligent opposition, he
would still take good care not to introduce this element into the
Constitution. To give you an instance of the ignorance of the high
administration of the empire, I will only tell you that I regularly
receive every year four thousand roubles, officially as engineer, for
superintending the working of a Government manufactory that has been
closed for five years!”
I could not help smiling at this candid avowal; and on learning this
significant fact it seemed to me conclusive and peremptory.
I thanked my visitor for his agreeable society, and thought that this
Russian proverb might justly be applied to him: “No one lets a bird of
the Government escape without plucking out some feathers.” I begged him
to introduce me in the evening to a sitting of the Council General,
and then went with Constantine to visit an important cannon foundry
situated at about three miles from Perm.
The director of this foundry pretends that the cannon turned out here
are superior to anything that has been hitherto made in Prussia.
This sitting of the Council General was void of interest, and soon
ended from default of speakers. The members, having replied to their
names, left at once to be present at a concert given by a company of
travelling musicians under the direction of Monsieur Slavenski.
The Russian people, essentially musical, sing on all occasions.
After a marriage ceremony the guests mount into eight or ten sledges
and then make an excursion, following one after the other in line,
singing all the time. They do the same at funerals and baptisms;
sometimes--provided the season is not too severe--for no other
reason than because it is winter and there is no work to do. These
songs, which were executed by a company of forty _artistes_, who
travel over the country to give their popular airs, constituted the
entire entertainment: their voices united an exuberant richness to a
remarkable simplicity of harmony.
The nearer one approaches an object he is intent on, the more impatient
he becomes; I was longing, therefore, to tread at last on Siberian
ground. As the distance was not very great that separated me from
Catherineburg, I imagined I should get over it very speedily. But,
alas! the Councillor was quite right. The road was, indeed, in a
deplorable state. I do not know, indeed, how they could give the
name of _road_ to a long course of land whose surface was not level
for a single yard, and where wide pits succeeded each other without
interruption--not simple ruts, but pits three, four, nay, five feet
deep! The yemschik has to calculate very nicely the fall of the sledge
into these pits, that the horses’ legs be not broken by the shock of
the vehicle shooting forward against them; then he has to climb up the
other side of the ditch, but not without great efforts, and no sooner
does he get out of it than he has to prepare to dive into another.
The reader may easily conceive what the result of such a locomotion
must be to a poor traveller: he is doubly wearied on account of the
creeping pace accompanying the usual fatigue. It took me twenty-four
hours to get over twenty-eight English miles! I was exasperated. My
hope was to get a glimpse at the chain of the Ural Mountains, but a
boisterous wind swept up the snow and whirled it round and round in
moving columns reaching to the sky; beyond a few hundred yards nothing
was visible.
To pass away the tedious hours I began questioning Constantine. “What
is there in summer under this snow?” “Grass.” “Of what use is it?”
“None at all.” “Who takes it?” “Nobody.” “Who cuts these woods?” “No
one.” “Do all these lands belong to any one?” “Not always.” “This land
then is not capable of producing anything?” “On the contrary; it would
be very productive if they cultivated it.” “But then, why has your
Emperor such a passion for conquest, when he can get so much out of
his own land? Why does he go in search of gold in the Trans-Baikal, in
the valley of the Issoury, and will soon perhaps in the Corea, as it
is said among you, when he has at home more abundant and surer sources
of riches? Why does he lead his armies into the burning deserts of
Tartary, that were formerly independent? Why does he waste so much
money in the conquest of Khiva when he could make far more on his own
lands?”
When I waited for a reply to these questions, Constantine, who clung
like a burr to the glory of his Emperor--and I congratulate him for his
spirit--gave me one disdainfully: “I can easily understand, that the
French, whose country is less extensive than our government of Perm,
should be jealous of the immensity of our territory. You see, monsieur,
that we are marching to the conquest of Asia entirely, which is the
cradle of our race, and to Constantinople also, where our religion
originated.”
My companion was much offended; it was easy to perceive that; and I
held my tongue to give him time to recover his equanimity. An hour
after this conversation, I wished to see if he continued to have a
grudge against me; “How I long to come to the end!” I exclaimed,
“this long route tires me out.” “Ah! Indeed, monsieur,” he exclaimed,
bridling up, “how grand Russia is! There is not another empire in the
whole world of such vast extent!” “You are mistaken,” I replied, duly
estimating the lands uncultivated and absolutely useless, we had just
traversed. “And which, if you please?” “The empire of the seas!” I
replied gravely. His flattened nostrils then distended and quivered
with indignation, and I patiently waited to be greeted with some
emphatic Russian execration.
In spite of his _amour-propre_, Constantine was, nevertheless, of a
congenial humour,--towards me at least. Sometimes he excited in me
a feeling almost of pity, which I could hardly conceal. Just while
we were passing the Ural--that almost imperceptible elevation that
is called mountain because it is in Russia, but which would be a
mere hill in the Vosges, a mere hillock amid the Alps, a ridge in
the Himalayas,--just here, we came on a village of wooden houses,
like all Russian villages, but perched against a slope that gave it
a picturesque air. A little further down stood a house of less wood
construction than the others, and surrounded with a few trees. On this
spot Constantine’s eyes were riveted in a kind of reverie. “What a
charming abode! Those people should indeed be happy!” he exclaimed.
This remark moved me a little with commiseration, and I wondered what
enthusiasm he would feel if he could only see our smiling Pyrenees or
our Norman valleys, beaming with joy on a sunny May day.
Two days after our departure from Perm, on the 30th of December, about
nine in the morning, we passed the boundary that marks the separation
of Europe from Asia. It is a construction of stone, neither very
high nor very fine, but which strikes the traveller on account of its
simplicity and isolation.
Providence has decidedly withheld from this portion of the Russian
Empire the imposing marks of its European limits. The quarters of
the world generally (their states also, not unusually) have their
boundaries defined by grand and prominent frontiers, such as the sea,
high mountains, the desert, or some noble river. But here the border of
the Ural is so little elevated, so unworthy of its _rôle_ of boundary,
that man has thought it his duty to interpose with his pigmy work, and
say: _It is here!_
And here it is at last! We will enter with a beating heart, and advance
as far as possible into the strange lands of ancient Asia--the dream
of every traveller. We will endeavour to reach, as soon as we can, the
shores of Lake Baikal, Mongolia, and the frontiers of China; for I fear
my readers are tiring from the monotony of my narrative, as I have
myself suffered since I left Perm from the monotony of this long route.