MY JOURNEY FROM KRASNOIARSK TO IRKUTSK.
My servant Matwieff—The Great Post Road—The post-houses—Tea
caravans—Curious effect of road—Siberian lynch law—Runaway
convicts—A curious incident—The post courier—An awkward
accident—Arrival at Irkutsk.
[Illustration: MY SERVANT.]
Travelling in Siberia is evidently altered very much for the better
during the last three years, for my experiences on the Great Post Road
were very different indeed to those described by the author of a recent
book of travel in these parts. Perhaps, however, the fact of my doing
the journey during the winter may to a certain extent account for it;
but whatever the cause, the impressions received are the same, and the
eight days’ journey, though certainly a somewhat tedious one, will
remain in my memory as one amongst the many interesting episodes of my
Siberian wanderings. After all I had read about the many difficulties and
discomforts, not to say dangers, of this long journey, I must confess
that it was not without certain misgivings that I at last decided to make
a move and to start from my comfortable quarters in the Gostinnitza
Gadaloff and push on further East, in accordance with the route I had
planned out for myself. My numerous friends, on learning this, were so
unanimous in their advice to me not to travel alone, in case of my being
taken ill on the road or meeting with an accident, that I was at length
persuaded, almost against my will, to listen to them and take a servant
with me; and, as will be seen, it was very fortunate I did so.
Once it was known I was in want of a servant, I had no difficulty in
finding men who were willing to go with me to Irkutsk, even on the off
chance of my not requiring a servant when once there; in fact, it was
an _embarras de richesses_, and I had my choice. The principal question
was to find some one who was accustomed to travelling. Luckily, I
suddenly heard of an ex-sergeant of gendarmes who was anxious to get to
the capital, and who would be glad to give his services as servant to
me in return for a “free passage.” The mere fact of his having been in
the Gendarmerie was in itself sufficient recommendation, as only men
of exceptionally good character are admitted into this branch of the
service; so without hesitation I decided on taking him, and he eventually
turned out to be the best and most conscientious servant I have ever
had; he also was the biggest, for he stood no less than 6 ft. 3 in., and
was a typical fellow of his class. My journey to Irkutsk was therefore
_une affaire arrangée_, for from the moment I arranged with Sergeant
Matwieff all trouble on my part ceased, for he simply took charge of the
arrangements as though he had travelled with me for years, and all I had
to do was to decide when to start, and leave the rest to him, even to
packing my things, ordering the horses, and the host of minor details
inseparable from Siberian travel. It is almost unnecessary to add that
he spoke no language but Russian, so our means of conversation were very
limited, and most of the time I had to make him understand by means of
pantomime.
At last my preparations were complete, and on the evening of Sunday,
January 25, I started towards the next stage of my long journey, and
shortly after Krasnoiarsk, with its many pleasant associations, was but a
reminiscence of the past.
The road for some miles, after leaving the town, lay along the ice in
the very centre of the river Yenisei. As it was a very bright moonlight
night, the effect was novel and beautiful, the track was smooth and
level, and the horses went along at their top speed. I was gradually
lulled into a deep sleep, and woke to find the first stage of twenty-nine
versts accomplished and the sledge in the post-yard of Botoiskaya. The
little village was slumbering; not a light was to be seen in any of the
windows; in the post-house was the only sign of life. Looking up the
quaint street, which in the moonlight had a weird appearance, with its
tumble-down cottages, I saw a most curious sight. The centre of the
road had exactly the appearance of being laid with railway sleepers; as
far as one could see, the long ridges in the snow followed each other so
regularly, that I could not help asking what was the reason of so cutting
up the road. To my astonishment I was told that these ridges were caused
by the thousands of horses of the caravans which had passed along the
road since the commencement of the winter. The horses instinctively know
that they can get a better foothold by walking in each other’s footsteps,
and fall into the habit of doing so almost mechanically. I shortly after
had the first of many opportunities of noting this for myself, for
presently a large tea caravan came along, and I observed that it hardly
ever happened that a horse stepped out of the grooves, so much so that
the drivers strolling alongside seemed to have very little to do, as the
animals appeared to know all that was expected of them.
This, my first sight of a caravan on the Great Post Road, was but the
forerunner of what we met or passed both day and night almost without
intermission the whole way to Irkutsk. While many were laden with
European goods bound eastward, most of them were coming from China
with tea. So great, in fact, was this traffic that I could not help
wondering where all this immense quantity of tea can possibly go to, more
especially when one comes to consider that what comes to Europe by the
Great Post Road is only a small proportion of the annual amount exported
from China. The tea of China, packed in bales of hide, is brought across
the Gobi desert by ox-waggons or by camels as far as Kiakhta, the Russian
frontier town, where it is transferred to sledges or Siberian carts,
according to the season, and the long journey to Tomsk is then commenced,
a journey taking over two months. The same horses go the whole way; but
they are allowed to take their own pace, and seldom do more than three
miles an hour. At Tomsk the tea is stored till the spring, when it is
taken by river steamer into Russia. Tea brought overland is said to
retain more of its original flavour than that which, packed in lead, has
made a sea voyage, but the difference is probably so slight that only an
expert could detect it.
There are comparatively very few men in charge of these immensely
valuable consignments, which often consist of as many as two hundred
and fifty sledges—one man to about seven horses as a rule—and these
at night take it in turns to keep watch; for on the Great Post Road a
peculiar form of highway robbery exists: bales of tea are frequently cut
loose and stolen in the dark hours by thieves, who lurk around to take
advantage of a driver dozing on his sledge. The poor fellow then has to
pay dearly for his “forty winks,” as he has to make good the loss out of
his wages—a very serious matter, considering the value of a large bale
of tea. Last year, I am informed, these thefts became so frequent and
the thieves so daring that at last the drivers combined to have their
revenge, and when on one or two occasions they managed to catch a thief
_flagrante delicto_ they actually lynched him in quite a North-American
Indian style. Bending a stout birch sapling to the ground by means of a
rope, they fastened the back of the victim’s head to it by the hair, and
then cut the rope, releasing the tree, which immediately sprang back to
its original position, and the unfortunate wretch was literally scalped.
He was then left to his fate. It is probable that a few examples of this
kind will have as deterrent an effect on intending thieves as on the
victims themselves. But to return to my narrative.
We had no difficulty in getting horses, and, after a stoppage of
twenty-five minutes, were rattling merrily along the frost-bound highway.
It was a bitterly cold night, no less than 40 deg. below zero (Réaumur),
but till now I had not felt it much, as the wind was at our backs.
Unfortunately, a turn in the road brought it right against us, and then
I felt such cold that in all my life I never experienced any like it.
Although I was buried in furs, and the hood of the sledge down, there was
no keeping it out. Moustache, nostrils, and eyelashes were frozen hard,
and my dacha, where it came in contact with my face, was one solid mass
of ice, caused by my breath, and to this my skin actually stuck.
The wonder to me was how the yemschiks stand it as they do; but I suppose
they get case-hardened to it in time—frost-proof, in fact, for rolled up
in their sheepskins they seem impervious to temperature, taking it all
as a matter of course. As to the horses, although they were always so
covered with frost as to have the appearance of being thickly coated with
snow, they never seemed to mind it a bit, and would keep up the same pace
the whole stage; standing afterwards in the post-yard as quiet as sheep
while their icy coats were, so to speak, broken off with a primitive sort
of curry-comb attached to the handle of the driver’s whip. Twenty-five
versts, or about two and a half hours of this sort of temperature was
quite enough at a stretch, as I soon found, and the sight of the village
boundary fence was always a welcome sight as betokening the end of
another spell.
The novelty of sledge-travelling soon wears off, especially on a road
like this, where there is so little to vary the eternal monotony of the
dense forests or rolling plains on either side of one. The same dreary
aspects seemed to repeat themselves over and over again almost at every
turn of the road, whilst the various villages resembled each other so
much that it was at times hard to believe we were not returning to the
one we had just left. I do not propose wearying you with a detailed
account of the forty-three stations between Krasnoiarsk and Irkutsk, for
a description of one, which I have already given, suffices for all—so
much so, in fact, that although I tried hard to see something more to
sketch, I could discover nothing I had not already seen and sketched on
our journey up the Yenisei or in Yeniseisk or Krasnoiarsk. Where, for
instance, in France every little “pays” has its individual character,
so to speak, here in Siberia from one end to the other of this enormous
continent all is the same, and if you have studied one portion of it,
you have studied all (of course, with the exception of the aborigines,
who naturally differ according to their tribes). For my own part, I can
assert that I saw absolutely no difference, either in the build of the
houses, or the dress or customs of the inhabitants, all the way from
Golchika, the tiny settlement on the tundras far away within the Arctic
circle, and Kiakhta, a distance of nearly three thousand miles; and, from
what I hear, it is the same from the Urals to the Pacific. It almost
seems as though it had been ordained by Imperial Ukase that all over this
vast empire the inhabitants should everywhere adopt the same costumes and
build and furnish their houses always on the same pattern.
[Illustration: ARRIVAL AT A POST STATION.]
What strikes one most on the long stretches of road is the total absence
of isolated cottages or farmhouses which so help to enliven a landscape
in Europe. Once beyond the fence which encircles the limits of each
village commune, all signs of habitation and even cultivation instantly
cease, and no more are seen till the next commune is reached. The road
then passes through a big wooden gate, with high posts on either side;
just inside this is a small sentry-box, in which a watchman is always
stationed during the summer months to see that the gate is kept closed,
and so keep the cattle from straying outside the boundary. (In the winter
the gate is always open.) In the distance one then sees the long dreary
stretch of village street, with the green-roofed _ostrog_, or prison, and
the public granary standing out in relief against the dilapidated wooden
hovels. Everywhere, as a rule, there seems an entire absence of human
life. The post-house is only distinguishable from the other houses by its
having black and white lamp-posts on either side of the door, and the
Russian coat-of-arms painted on a board over it.
Of course there were flourishing villages here and there, but so few.
Kansk, Nijni Udinsk, Touloung, and the large village of Koutoulik, are
really the only places worth mentioning in this long road. At Touloung
the streets were actually lighted up at night. At these places, of
course, the post-houses were better furnished and looked after, but they
were but oases among the number of wretched and uncomfortable ones;
although I must in justice admit that with only one or two exceptions
they were all as clean as soap and water could make them; but then, soap
and water does not restore dilapidations or rebuild ramshackle places,
unfortunately, and many were very dilapidated indeed, and scarcely worthy
being called “Government post-houses.”
The same ideas of ventilation evidently prevail all over Siberia, for
everywhere I found the windows hermetically sealed, and in most instances
when the stove was in full blaze the atmosphere was simply stifling, as
may be imagined after it has been confined in these stuffy rooms for
the six long winter months, and being breathed over and over again by
hundreds and hundreds of travellers. However, _à la guerre comme à la
guerre_, and in the wilds of Siberia it would have been absurd to expect
to find European notions of sanitation.
With but one exception I had no difficulty whatever in getting horses at
each station; in fact, in most instances the fresh team was generally
ready to start before I was, so I could not complain about being kept
waiting. The one exception I refer to occurred at Kansk, where I arrived
unfortunately too late at night to be able to look round this interesting
and flourishing little town, as I should have had ample time to have
done, for on reaching the post-house, the _staroster_ (as the postmaster
is called) courteously informed me that no horses could be had till three
the next morning—six hours to wait. Luckily the waiting-room was as clean
and comfortable as one could have wished it, so I decided to have supper
at once and “turn in” on the sofa for a few hours. A tin of Irish stew,
washed down (the Irish stew, not the tin) by a glass or two of vodka and
a cup of black coffee, seemed a feast for a king after the hasty meals
I had been having since leaving Krasnoiarsk, so when I did turn in an
hour later it was to immediately fall into the deep sleep which naturally
follows when one has “got outside” a square meal and one has a good
digestion. Although I had particularly asked the station-master to call
me as soon as the horses arrived, I suppose, like the Irish servant in
Lever’s story, “he did not like to knock too hard at the door for fear
of waking me;” for I was only awakened at eight o’clock the next morning
by the sun streaming into my eyes. Still, I was not exactly sorry for
the few hours I had lost, as I had had a splendid rest, and after a good
sluice in a bucket of ice-cold water felt “fit as ninepence” (though why
ninepence should be fit I know not), and did ample justice to a good
breakfast before starting.
[Illustration: INTERIOR OF A POST HOUSE.
[_To face p. 166_]
Moreover, as it turned out, after leaving the town we passed through
some of the finest forest scenery I have ever seen, and which it would
have been a pity to have missed, for there was really so little that
was interesting that I should have been sorry to have passed any that
was, during the night. Either the big road, for some reason or other,
was blocked, or else the driver thought he knew a near cut; anyway,
we shortly after made a _détour_ of several miles and went straight
across the forest itself by a rough sort of track. It was a wild,
desolate-looking place, the trees meeting overhead causing a dim twilight
which considerably helped to heighten the effect—just the sort of place
one would not have been astonished to meet a bear or a pack of wolves in;
in fact, I was fondly hoping to see something and got my rifle ready.
But in the still mysterious depths of the dense jungle no sign whatever
of life was visible; over the thick carpet of snow, the sledge glided
noiselessly, even the sound of horses’ hoofs was muffled, and the deadly
silence of the surroundings was only broken now and again by the subdued
jingle of the duga bells. I could not help thinking how serious it would
have been if an accident had occurred to the sledge or horses just about
here; for the “near cut” was evidently not the usual road, as the whole
length of it we were entirely alone.
It must have taken us at least three hours to do the next fifteen miles
or so, for the track was so narrow in places, and so blocked by abutting
trees, that at times it seemed doubtful whether the sledge would pass at
all, so tight a squeeze was it. However, at last we got through and out
into the broad daylight on the high-road again, when for a few seconds
the light seemed absolutely dazzling after the semi-obscurity we had just
left. Although we passed through many miles of dense forest after this,
we did so on the regular road and in the full glare of the midday sun, so
my impressions were very different to those received in the lonely track
we had just come through.
The next day or two were uneventful, and as there was nothing new to see,
the stoppages at the different post-houses usually came as a pleasant
break to the journey, and an excuse to get out of the sledge and call for
the samovar. By the way, talking of samovars, it is really astonishing
how quickly one takes to the Russian way of drinking weak tea without
milk, boiling hot, out of a tumbler. There is no doubt about it that
one can appreciate the full flavour of the tea better that way than as
we drink it in England, although to drink out of a cup appears to me to
be much more convenient than out of a tumbler; and I am surprised the
Russians don’t think so, for there is not the slightest doubt which is
the more practical.
An interesting incident occurred shortly after leaving the village of
Rasgonnaiaa. I had learnt at the station that a large gang of prisoners
had passed a few days previously, so hurried on as much as possible in
the hope of overtaking it, and at any rate seeing something which would
break the monotony of the journey. The road, which hitherto had passed
through forest-land, was now open on either side, and for miles ahead
the rolling, snow-covered plains stretched, relieved, so to speak, only
by the winding road and its endless vista of telegraph-poles. During the
morning I had noticed that we were continually passing rough-looking
men on foot, hurrying along, always in the same direction, as though
on important business. Now, in any other country than Siberia such an
occurrence would pass unnoticed, for “Shank’s pony” is a cosmopolitan
beast, and among certain classes generally the only means of locomotion.
Here, however, in the wilds of Siberia, a foot-traveller is an extreme
rarity outside a village. Hence my surprise. At last it occurred to me to
ask Matwieff if he could tell me what these curious-looking men were,
and what they were doing on the road so far from a village. Imagine my
surprise when, without the slightest hesitation, he told me they were
_bradiagga_, or runaway prisoners, from the _parti_ on ahead. I could
scarcely believe it, so he suggested our stopping the next one we met,
and he would then convince me of the truth of his statement. To him there
was evidently not so much novelty in the incident as to me, for as an
ex-gendarme he could probably “spot” a prisoner at a glance.
I had not long to wait, for in a short time there appeared in the far
distance another of these gentlemen hurrying towards us. I thought it
would not be a bad idea to “take his photo,” so ordered the yemschik
to stop, and, getting out of the sledge, waited till the fellow got up
abreast of us. Matwieff then called out to him to come over to where
we were, for he was on the far side of the road, which (as is usual in
Siberia) was of enormous width. The fellow, in his anxiety to get along
as quickly as possible, had evidently not noticed that we were stopping,
for when he heard us call out to him and he looked up and caught sight
of us, a most curious look came over his face, which we could not help
remarking. Whether it was the sight of my revolver (which I always wore
outside my coat) or the gendarme cap Matwieff had on, I cannot tell,
but he looked round wildly for a second over the snow-covered plain as
though meditating a “bolt;” then realizing, perhaps, that he could not
possibly get away, he seemed to make up his mind, and came slowly over
towards us.
When he got close up we then saw that he was simply trembling in every
limb with fright, whilst his mouth was quivering to such an extent that
it was positively painful to see such a picture of abject fear. Although
he was a great big hulking fellow, and had an ugly looking cudgel under
his arm, he was as unnerved and cowed as a beaten dog, and evidently
expected us to immediately handcuff him and take him back at the tail of
the sledge to the _parti_ he had escaped from. The delight of the poor
wretch when he learnt that I only wanted to photograph him was almost
curious to witness, and he offered no objection to my carrying out my
fell purpose. Matwieff then, to prove to me that the man really was as he
said, a _bradiagga_, coolly went up to him, and, lifting up his sheepskin
coat, lo and behold, underneath were his prison clothes, whilst hidden
by his high peasant boots were the ends of his chains still attached to
the anklets, which he had not yet had time to remove. His head also, he
showed me by removing his cap, had been half shaved in the usual convict
manner. Whatever his crime, it was certainly no business of ours to
re-arrest him, so I took the photo of him and then gave him a few kopeks
for standing. Before letting him go, out of curiosity I asked him where
he was going to. To my astonishment he replied, “Moscow.” The idea of his
setting out, on foot, to accomplish over three thousand miles home, in
the depth of winter, struck me as being an awful task to undertake.
At the next station, the staroster, on my mentioning the incident,
informed me that in the village they were simply infested with runaway
convicts after a convoy had passed, and that at night the barns and
outhouses were always occupied; he had known as many as a dozen men
sleeping in the bath-house of the station. (The baths in a Russian
village are generally in wooden outbuildings.) The peasants, he further
informed me, so far from interfering with the fuyards, or thinking
even of giving them up, supply them on the quiet with bread and broken
victuals, so that, at any rate, there is no fear of them dying of hunger
within the village commune. As a matter of fact, the men themselves know
that they can always reckon on something to eat in every place they have
to pass through, and it has grown to be such a regular custom, this
providing of food for them, that they take it as a matter of course.
The wind, which hitherto had somewhat lulled, now recommenced with
renewed force. Fortunately, however, owing to the road going in a
different direction, it was at our backs; for so hard did it blow, that
the country presented the effect almost of steaming under it owing to
the driving particles of snow, and one could only see a few yards ahead
through the sort of white fog enveloping everything, and we should have
doubtless had an unpleasant time if we had been going against it.
[Illustration: THE IMPERIAL MAIL.
[_To face p. 173._]
I was much struck with the scarcity of travellers we met, either on the
road or in the stations, for only on two or three occasions did we meet
any one or find the waiting-room occupied. At one place the Imperial
Mail, bound for Irkutsk, came up while we were there—half a dozen of the
shabbiest and most ramshackle of sledges, in charge of an equally seedy
and shabby individual in a dirty old sheepskin coat, and with an enormous
revolver in his belt. I could not help feeling somewhat disappointed,
for from what I had previously read I had expected to see a dashing
courier, resplendent in green and gold, and armed to the teeth, so had my
sketch-book in readiness as soon as I heard that the mail had arrived.
At another station I found the room occupied by a family, consisting of
a lady and gentleman, and no less than four children and a maid. By some
accident I discovered that the lady spoke German, so we had quite a long
chat together. She informed me that they had come straight away from far
Vladivostock, and were going to St. Petersburg, a journey which, from
start to finish, would probably take them _ten weeks_, that is, if they
stopped nowhere on the road. Her husband, who was a Government official,
she told me, had been in bad health for some time past, and had been
recommended to go to St. Petersburg to get the highest of medical advice.
This is the longest journey I ever heard of “to see a doctor.” I saw
them start again shortly after, and although there were so many of them,
they had such a huge sledge that they all seemed to pack into it quite
comfortably.
You may imagine how refreshing, so to speak, it was, after the sort of
wilderness we had come through, to find that the next station, Touloung,
was quite a busy little town, its many and well-built streets actually
lighted up, whilst several important-looking shops and large houses
helped to give quite a lively appearance to the place. The post-house
itself was also quite “up to” the town, and not only boasted of several
large and well-furnished rooms, but also a big apartment, most handsomely
decorated, in which, I was informed, the Governor of Irkutsk held
receptions when he had occasion to visit the town. Touloung, though an
old town, was certainly one of the prettiest and most flourishing I had
passed through, and my only regret was that it was night when we got
there, for I should like to have sketched some of the bits I saw, notably
the beautiful house of the merchant, Mr. Shokounoff, which stands exactly
opposite the post-station, for it struck me as being a splendid specimen
of Russian architecture. After doing a little shopping, and a look round,
and a “feed,” once more I got under weigh.
The next few stations were wretchedly uncomfortable, or anyway they
seemed so, perhaps out of contrast to the nice one we had just left; so
there was little temptation to loiter in them longer than was absolutely
necessary whilst waiting for the fresh horses. At Tiretskaya, where we
had to cross the Oka, the road went along the centre of the river on the
ice for several miles, and the high wooded banks on either side gave it a
most peculiar and striking appearance, not unlike a railway cutting.
The next place of interest we came to was the large village of
Koutoulik (or, rather, small town, for it contains over eleven hundred
inhabitants). The post-house here was without exception the smartest on
the whole road. The waiting-room, which was really well-furnished, was
not only full of plants and flowers, but actually had pictures on the
walls, not the usual cheap, religious ones, but good oleographs; whilst
to add to the good impression caused by these attempts at luxury, I
learnt that there was a “real dinner” ready if I cared to take of it.
You may imagine I jumped at it after living on tinned food for nearly a
week. The wife of the staroster had evidently been a professed cook in
her time, judging from the result and the way I was served. After dinner
I lit my pipe and had a stroll through the village, whilst Matwieff was
looking after the horses. The streets presented so lively and animated an
appearance that I spent more time than I had intended to, wandering about
in search of subjects. The inhabitants were evidently used to artists,
for neither my sketch-book nor my camera attracted any particular
attention.
During the night after leaving Koutoulik occurred the accident which I
have already referred to. We had started from the station of Polovilnaya
at about 1.30 a.m., and I was soon fast asleep. How long I had been
asleep I know not, but I was suddenly woke up by an indescribable sort
of sensation that the sledge had “changed front.” I sprang up and,
raising the hood, looked out, when, to my no slight dismay, I discovered
that we were on a long and steep hill and that the horses had lost all
control over the sledge which was “skidding” down sideways at a rate
that increased every instant. Matwieff was immediately as wide awake as
myself, and we both sat and looked out and waited breathlessly for the
result, which was absolutely inevitable, for it would have been utter
madness to have attempted to jump out, encumbered as we both were with
our heavy furs and the stiff apron of the sledge. Although the driver
urged the horses to their very top speed they could not get ahead of the
heavy vehicle, which had obtained complete mastery over them and was
simply dragging them along with it. Just before reaching the bottom of
the hill was a slight rise in the road such as one sees on a switchback
railway; here the driver was shot off his seat as out of a catapult,
and a few yards further down the sledge turned completely over into a
huge drift of snow by the side of the road. The luggage was so firmly
wedged in that it barely moved, and both Matwieff and I were also so
firmly boxed in that we found ourselves lying on our sides completely
helpless. Fortunately a large caravan was coming along at the moment,
and the men, seeing our predicament, immediately hurried up and soon
righted the sledge again. The horses, I forgot to add, stopped at once as
soon as they felt the resistance offered by the deep snow. This little
misadventure was evidently a usual occurrence to them, and also to the
driver, who turned up unhurt and smiling a few seconds after, and soon we
were off again as fast as ever.
For the moment I thought we had got off scot free, for the sledge was
uninjured, and neither Matwieff nor I felt any ill effects from the
spill. A few stations further on, however, when going to get out of the
sledge I felt a nasty pain in my right ankle, and found, on trying to
walk, that my leg was so stiff I could not use it. Here was a pretty
go! I was evidently in for a bad sprain, and I knew what that meant.
Luckily Matwieff was an old soldier in every sense of the word, and rose
to the occasion, for without the slightest hesitation he insisted on my
not moving, and also on his putting me on a snow compress. In the mean
time it was decided that we should hurry on to Irkutsk, which was now
only some forty versts off, without any unnecessary delay. In spite,
however, of the cold compress, the pain in my foot, probably aggravated
by the movement of the sledge, increased to such an extent that I was in
positive agony when at last we came in sight of our destination, and the
many golden cupolas and minarets of the capital of Eastern Siberia stood
out clear and defined as a picture against the bright morning sky.
The scene was a beautiful one, and I could not help enjoying it in spite
of the acute pain I was suffering. Our road lay right across the frozen
river Angara, “the most beautiful river in the world,” as it has been
called. It was a Sunday morning, and crowds of gaily dressed peasants
on foot and in sledges were making their way towards the city in the
brilliant sunshine. The air resounded with the merry ring of sledge
bells, whilst the many quaint costumes and curious conveyances gave an
aspect of gaiety and life to a scene the like of which I had not yet
witnessed in Siberia. My only regret was that owing to my being unable
to move I could not get out of the sledge to make a sketch or take a
photograph. However, I promised myself not to lose sight of the subject,
and to return on the very first occasion when my foot would allow me. A
few minutes afterwards the driver drew up outside a large triumphal arch
standing at the entrance to the city and removed the duga bells before
passing through, as nowhere in Siberia are these allowed except on the
high-road.
My eight days’ tedious journey was at last ended, and it was with a
veritable feeling of relief that I found myself passing through the
broad, well-built streets, with the prospect of soon being once again in
a comfortable and well-appointed hotel.