IRKUTSK.
The gold miners--Their luxury; their wealth; their wives--A few
words about the clergy, and the code of religion--The Polish
exiles--Travelling maniacs--A dinner _en famille_.
I have spoken of the gold-seekers of Eastern Siberia, and given an
instance of their prodigality in the wonderful cigar ash receptacle of
M. Kousnietzof. The miners of Irkutsk are still more extravagant in
their fancies, favoured by their greater wealth.
But it is not every gold-seeker that makes his fortune; many even ruin
themselves when they have insufficient capital for the preliminary
outlay and this is not rewarded with immediate success. It is rare
in Siberia to search for gold in a comminuted and commingled state,
and I doubt if the Siberians would trouble themselves about so hungry
a pursuit, at least to their eyes, accustomed to see it in a less
occult form, and their hands to test its weight more sensibly. What
they here call a gold mine is a place where great glittering nuggets of
pure gold are found here and there in the sand, and where they may be
extracted without having recourse to expensive machinery and chemical
manipulation. The greatest accumulations of ingots, though not at the
surface, are generally at about two or three yards below, and where
they may be won by open workings.
The machines, the most commonly used for separating the gold from the
sand, consist of large inclined cylinders, into which the auriferous
sand is thrown and there submitted to the action of a stream of water.
The sand, comparatively light, is soon carried off by the force of the
water, whilst the heavy gold falls to the bottom of the apparatus.
The smaller particles of gold, too light to resist the force of the
water, and that are consequently carried away with the sand, become the
property of the labourers.
The most prolific mine in all Siberia yields _annually_ one million
two hundred thousand pounds sterling! It is the property of three
proprietors only, MM. Bazanof, Nemptchinof, and Trapeznikof.
The latter, who is a young man, displays beyond the others the
extravagancies of a millionaire that would seem senselessly lavish
in Europe, but which in this country of exaggerated profusion do not
appear to exceed the bounds of reason. Finding, one day, the road too
muddy for the wheels of his carriage, and being desirous of taking the
air, he had carpets laid down the whole length of his drive. When he
came back, he had the satisfaction of regarding his carriage and horses
perfectly free from the serious disfigurement of a spot of mud!
This example of luxury unhappily is imitated in a feebler degree,
though perhaps not with a feebler spirit, by the labourers, the effects
of which are the more frequently felt when they come home in autumn to
their wives, who have barely a crust left, and not a kopeck to receive
from the pretty round sum earned by their devoted partners during their
summer’s work at the mines. M. Silegnikof, the governor-general, has
tried to remedy this evil. An official nominated by him makes it his
duty to hold in deposit the sums gained by these workers in the mine,
and to restore these savings to them on their arrival at the village.
The first year this functionary received in deposit from the miners of
a single commune fifteen thousand roubles. But since this organization
had not been generally accepted by those for whose benefit it was
designed, and had been resorted to, it was supposed, by a small number
only, it may be calculated that the depositors had gained thirty-five
or forty thousand roubles, from £3,500 to £4,000. If these thoughtless
miners would amend and acquire habits of economy, they could easily
become rich; but these poor deluded creatures imagine that the mines
are inexhaustible, and it is by no means clear to the engineer that the
Government is not equally credulous.
To show to what extent gold is squandered at Irkutsk, even among the
humbler classes, I will give an instance. On arriving at this city, I
found I could not open one of my trunks, in consequence of having lost
the key during my journey, and sent for a locksmith, thinking I should
have to pay about twenty-five or thirty kopecks, such as I should pay
in Paris. This locksmith said to my messenger: “How much will your
master give me for this job?” “Two or three roubles, I suppose.” “Then
I am not going to bother myself for such a trifle.” I was therefore
obliged to break open my trunk.
Perhaps it may be asked why these lucky mine proprietors do not go
to St. Petersburg and Paris, to get something more tempting for the
big nuggets they have found, and how they manage to gratify their
exaggerated wants in the cheerless depths of Siberia. They prefer, no
doubt, to be seen and known by every inhabitant of Irkutsk and Kiachta,
than to pass unnoticed in the immense crowds on the banks of the Neva,
in Hyde Park, or in the Bois de Boulogne. I have already given an idea
of the cost of the merest trifle in this land of gold mines, void of
all industry. In spite of the exorbitant price of everything, indeed,
perhaps for that very reason, these nabobs indulge their fancies in
building immense palaces in stone, and in filling their apartments
and conservatories with orange trees, banana trees, and all kinds of
tropical plants, which have been dragged half across the globe at an
enormous cost to furnish insipid fruit or sickly flowers and some
visible sign of wealth.
They must have grand pianos from Erard’s, or the best makers of St.
Petersburg. They give magnificent dinners of a hundred _couverts_,
where sterlets, brought alive from the Volga, are served in the most
_recherché_ style beside the choicest wines France can produce. They
mantle themselves in sable, beaver, and furs of blue fox, or even
blue fox feet, a luxury that involves the purchase of four or five
hundred of these animals; they shackle their fingers with heaps of
rings. In short, their living, their clothing, their display in
general, are in complete and constant opposition to this precept of
Montesquieu, which they all certainly ignore: “En fait d’apparat, il
faut toujours rester au-dessous de ce qu’on peut.” And then their
wives, whose lot, doubtlessly, the reader will be curious to know.
It is very simple, at least from the husbands’ point of view, for
they are necessarily neglected. Being absorbed with this passion for
aggrandizing their fortune, the pressing need of satisfying ridiculous
vanities, of what importance is a wife beside a nugget? what are
the soft whispers of love beside the delicious music of the gold in
the cylinder? During the summer all the lords are at the mines, and
their ladies are left to themselves at Irkutsk. During winter the
former are still absorbed in their business, and when they are not
these votaries to feverish pastimes are at the gaming table, watching
the fall of the dice, and their wives are still forgotten at home.
There is one thing very curious, and which in this instance, though
subordinate to a dominant passion, proves, perhaps, the strong spirit
of contradiction in woman. The ladies of Irkutsk manifest in no way a
taste for the costly vanities of their husbands. They are ambitious of
assimilating themselves to the ladies of St. Petersburg; they learn
foreign languages, translate Jules Verne or Paul Féval into Russian,
and imagine themselves to be endowed with high mental qualities. But
the instances are rare where these gifts and accomplishments exist in
reality and not simply subjectively in the imagination. These need too
active an alimentation to develop and fructify in so petty a colony
as Irkutsk. Mischievous intrigues and _cancans_ form the staple of
all the gossiping that usurps the place of conversation. It would not
be too severe to apply to the society of this city the judgment of
Madame de Maintenon on the society of Versailles: “Nous menons ici une
vie singulière. Nous voudrions avoir de l’esprit, de la galanterie,
de l’invention, et tout cela nous manque entièrement. On joue, on
baîlle, on ramasse quelques misères, les uns des autres, on se hait, on
s’envie, on se caresse, on se déchire.”
The gold mine proprietors at Irkutsk and--to finish with these
instances of the flaunting of stupendous riches--the tea merchants of
Kiachta, gratify their passion for exciting envy and wonder, in a way
by no means displeasing to themselves nor to the recipients of their
roubles, by considerable donations to the churches.
At Irkutsk, the convent of St. Innocent is the principal object of
their attention. It is quite _haut ton_ among these millionaires never
to set out on a journey before having made a gift to the monastery.
Therefore, in a few years, a stupendous church rose over the tomb of
the old Siberian metropolitan, where immense wealth is now heaped
together. The rivalry between this convent of St. Innocent and the
cathedral of the village of Kiachta is not at all inactive, and is
certainly to the advantage of both.
At the time of my visit, the latter bore the palm. It is singular
to find, in the midst of a group of houses which in France would be
considered a mere hamlet, a church where the altar is of massive silver
and gold, and where the _iconostasis_, hiding the sanctuary from the
eyes of the congregation, is sustained by fourteen columns in rock
crystal. These columns, each three feet high, are formed with three
blocks of crystal a foot high and a foot in diameter, and are very
remarkable.
I will not enter on the subject of the orthodox religion, inasmuch as
it is not a question exclusively Siberian. Certain writers in France
have given a deplorable aspect to the manners of the Russian clergy.
I am far from assuming that the conduct of all the Greek popes is
irreproachable, for I have myself seen several of them tippling and
committing even greater faults, but it would be rash to deduce from
so limited a number of isolated facts general conclusions. In what
hierarchy shall we not find lamentable exceptions? The Russian clergy
are distinctly divided into two classes: the secular priests, who may
marry, but to whom are closed the high ecclesiastical honours; and the
regular priests, who live at first in the convents, to rise afterwards
to bishops, archimandrites, and metropolitans. The first live retired
in their villages, bringing up their children in their homes in
the fear of God and with a taste for the ministry. The second are
restrained in their youth by a severe rule, and later by the respect
for their high dignity.
The most striking feature at the first view of the orthodox religion
is its organization as a political power. In this empire of supreme
despotism, the Church stands out, _imperium in imperio_, an actual
republic. This republic, it is true, is subject to the authority of the
Emperor. It is his will and pleasure to ratify or not the decisions
arrived at, but all the questions are nevertheless discussed by a
synod, held at St. Petersburg, composed of all the metropolitans. What
could be more ingenious than this system of complete dependence,
enjoying the appearance of liberty? It would be interesting to
conjecture what would have been the state of Europe if the Catholic
Church had been thus subjected either to the emperors of Germany or
to the kings of France. Frederick Barbarossa would probably have made
himself master of the world; he would, in any case, have driven the
infidels, not only out of Europe, but from Western Asia. It is also
equally probable that, without the authority and wise foresight of the
popes, the great revolution of the Crusades would never have occurred,
and that Europe, then subject to civil authorities more bellicose than
warlike, more chivalrous than politic, would have been swamped with the
flood of Islamism, against which the popes alone were able to raise a
barrier.
If the Russians, in adopting the religion of the Greek Church, had not
inherited its inconsiderate hatred of the Roman, they would certainly
recognise this great work of the popes. Unfortunately, human motives of
action absolutely prevent every Russian from embracing the Catholic or
any other religion. Intolerant laws punish with the severest penalties
the converted, and especially those who attempt to convert others.[12]
[12] See note 5.
The Czar, invested in the eyes of his people with an imposing sacred
character, profits by the inviolability it confers to dominate over the
revolution whilst accomplishing the reforms he deems efficient. Liberty
of conscience is therefore a long way from the advent of its enjoyment
in Russia. May the Emperor, in preserving the respect of the masses,
suffer no derogation in the eyes of his enlightened subjects, who are
already, as I have seen everywhere, breaking loose from all ties of
religious faith, and who may well one day claim by force, and before
all other rights, the liberty to embrace a new faith.
This religious intolerance is painful to all, and especially to the
peoples recently subjected to the authority of the Czar, to the Polish
exiles for example, who, although sincerely Catholic, are compelled
to bring up their children in the orthodox faith. Alas! since the
insurrection this grievance is only a part of the sufferings these poor
wretches have had to endure.
They have, at first, been led on foot, with their hands bound behind
their backs, to the spot of exile that has been assigned to them in
Eastern Siberia: some to Irkutsk, and these were the most favoured;
others to Yakutsk, or the island of Tarakai, known to the Russians by
the name of Saghalien, or to Kamtchatka. Many perished on the way,
as may easily be supposed, and those who were strong enough to brave
exhausting fatigues were, on their arrival, thrown into the gaol, to
keep company with thieves and assassins.
It is singular to remark a circumstance that clearly shows the
fetishism with which the Emperor’s person is surrounded; these
assassins at the gaol look down on their comrades from Poland with the
utmost disdain, and often refrain from speaking to them, under the
pretext that the crime of the Poles was rebellion against the Czar. The
Russian assassins have therefore, it seems, a kind of conscience when
it involves a question of conspiracy.
The Polish exiles I saw here were submitted, for five years, to the
same treatment as the other convicts. They were numbered in red on the
back, and for a mere trifle were punished with the strait-jacket, or
twenty strokes with the rod. During five years, they passed the winter
in this prison I have mentioned, sixty or eighty thrown together into
this horrible chamber without air and almost without light, and the
summer in working at the mines with an hour’s rest during the day and a
nourishment barely sufficient.
Their lot, happily, is now much better: except the liberty of going
beyond the limits of a certain assigned district, they enjoy the
same advantages as other Russian subjects. They constitute, besides,
at Irkutsk, it must be admitted, the most intelligent part of the
population; and receiving no assistance from the Government, they gain
not only their living, but sometimes even a fortune. They are medical
practitioners, professors, musicians, or theatrical performers. Some
even, who in Poland formed a part of the aristocracy, have taken to
opening shops, where they sell all kinds of objects from Moscow, St.
Petersburg, or Warsaw, articles which, brought from such a distance,
fetch a high price and reward their sellers with a considerable income.
One among these enjoying the title of count, and for this reason
unwilling to follow from the beginning the general example, was, at the
time of my visit, reduced to the humble occupation of cabdriver.
Among the exiles I saw at Irkutsk, I will mention, in particular,
M. Schlenker, because I met at his house certain persons already
introduced to the reader. This gentleman was occupied during the day in
selling linen, cloth, _pâtés de foies gras_, wines, in short the usual
wares of a bazaar, and in the evening, after the hours of business,
forgot all his affairs to become in his _salon_ a perfect man of the
world, such as he had formerly been in Poland. He took in the _Revue
des Deux Mondes_, many French and Russian periodicals, played the
piano, and had ingratiated himself with the military governor, with
whom he often went hunting; he was, in fact, a man very well informed,
and, having seen and read a great deal, could speak in the most
interesting manner on many subjects.
To remember the date of any occurrence, it was calculated from the year
of his condemnation to hard labour. Nothing seemed so odd and sad at
the same time as to hear this distinguished man say calmly: “I am sure
that such a thing took place at such a time, because I know it was so
many months after I was thrown into gaol.”
And yet, fully alive to all these severities, I must abstain from
recriminating too readily: in the first place, because I learnt on my
arrival in China that fresh liberties had been accorded to the Poles
in Siberia; and next, because chastisements undoubtedly severe have
probably preserved Russia from great evils and the necessity of making
the punishment still heavier if a more lenient one had been found
insufficient. We must not be blind to the fact that the Poles are
not always patriots, and when they demand liberty, it is not always
on the side of law and order. How many Poles were there not mixed up
in our Commune of 1871, and how many other lawless adventurers shut
themselves up in Carthagena with the last Spanish insurgents! Russia,
that has these smouldering embers of insurrection on its hearth, has
been more fortunate than France in preventing them from bursting
into a consuming conflagration. But I cannot help pitying their
sufferings, and especially the sufferings of those who, with all their
faults, possessed in the highest degree the noblest of God’s gifts--an
intelligent head obeying the dictates of a tender heart.
Having been invited to dine one day at M. Schlenker’s, I met there,
to my great delight, the whole of the little caravan with whom I had
made my entry into Siberia. Mrs. Grant, Miss Campbell, M. Pfaffius,
Madame Nemptchinof and her son Ivan Michäelovitch, had just arrived at
Irkutsk, and were about to start again for Kiachta. Constantine was
also among the guests, as well as a young Russian, M. Isembech, an
intimate friend of M. Schlenker, who was a complete personification of
those travellers in perpetual movement of whom I have spoken.
“You are going to Japan,” he remarked, “and I hope to have the pleasure
of meeting you again there, for I am going there shortly.” “Come with
me,” I said; “the pleasure of the trip will be doubled.” “That will be
impossible: I must go to-morrow to the Amoor river, and shall not have
returned before a fortnight.” “I intend to remain longer than that
here, and shall have no trouble in waiting for you.” “But before going
to Japan, I must go to St. Petersburg for a fortnight.” “Then we shall
see each other no more.” “Why not?” “How long then do you take to go to
St. Petersburg?” “Twenty-three days and twenty-three nights.” “And you
do not stop on the way?” “Four hours at Omsk only, in order to transact
some business with the governor-general. In two months to the day, I
shall be here again; it will be the time of the breaking up of the
Amoor, and then it will take hardly a month to get to Japan; I shall
therefore want three months to accomplish the whole, and will meet you
on the 25th of June at the Hôtel d’Orient in Yokohama.”
This hardy mercurial traveller had little else than his winged feet,
for the whole of his luggage consisted of some linen and a black dress
coat.
The black coat, in fact, is here, even in the morning, the costume
_de rigueur_: from ten in the morning to noon, the residents pay and
receive visits; at half-past two they dine, always in formal dress;
in the evening, at the theatre and supper, the same coat, and one is
obliged to retain the whole day this inconvenient garment.
Our party at M. Schlenker’s passed off most gaily. We recalled the
incidents of our journey between Kamechlof and Tumen, the fear we
indulged in on parting, the tender reminiscences that followed; and
when dinner was over, our agreeable host sat down at the piano to
accompany the sweet voice of Miss Campbell. Thus ended a delightful
evening.
What delicious enjoyments are obtained through a few days passed
thus, in the interval of a long arduous journey! One muses over the
adventures of the road already passed, and speculates over those that
may come; the novelty of the scene and situation, the society and
topics of conversation, the fresh direction to one’s habitual current
of thought, the total change, in short, of one’s surroundings, brings
an exhilaration that nothing else can supply. Every incident during
these days seemed to gleam serenely in a sunshine of poesy. And yet,
when sensation becomes thus more keenly alive to the enjoyment of
congenial society, we see in the persons around us but the brightest
sides of their character, and the hour when the disillusion comes we
have already parted each on our way. How many perfections of this kind
have I not met with on my route which, unhappily, I have never had the
chance to live with more than one short day!
“S’il est des jours amers, il en est de si doux!
Hélas! quel miel jamais n’a laissé de dégoûts?”