FROM IRKUTSK TO THE MONGOL CHINESE FRONTIER—_continued_.
The road from Lake Baikal to Kiakhta—The “Kupetski
track”—Incidents on the way—I change my sledge for a
tarantass—Exciting adventures—Arrival at Troitzkosavsk, the
business suburb of Kiakhta.
[Illustration: THE KUPETSKI TRACK.]
From Moufshkaya to Kiakhta I had the choice of two roads—one, the regular
Government post-road, which passes through Verchni Udinsk, and then
branches off to the frontier; the other, a private track made by the
merchant princes of Kiakhta, which goes straight there without touching
at any town, thus saving at least two days’ journey. This road, I had
been informed, could be used without any special permission, so, after
my recent experiences of Siberian posting, I did not hesitate which
of the two to go by, especially as I had been told that the “Kupetski
track,” or merchants’ route, was by far the more picturesque, while
Verchni Udinsk and the few scattered villages on the post-road offered
but the usual monotony of Siberian travel, which I knew only too well.
I was well repaid for my choice; for not only did the road pass through
some magnificent mountain and forest scenery, but the post-houses,
with only two exceptions, were better than I had usually found on the
Government roads.
For many miles after leaving the lake the road passed through a narrow
gorge with high mountains and dense pine forest on either side. Night
was coming on, and in the deepening gloom around me, whence issued the
sound of a rushing torrent, the effect was very weird. Here the snow
lay thick, so there was no doubt about the practicability of sledging,
and we got along very well; but we did not reach the next post-house
till it was quite dark. After but a very short delay, just to get fresh
horses, I started again. The night was so black that had it not been for
the snow on the road it would have been a most difficult matter to find
it at all; as it was, we shortly after had a slight accident. In one
part of the road, where it was exceptionally narrow, one of the horses
somehow got out of the track and fell into a deep hole full of snow. The
other two sagacious animals fortunately had the instinct to stop, or we
might have had an awkward time had they started kicking. The yemschik
was evidently used to these little _contretemps_, for the incident did
not seem to put him out very much, and we soon got the half-buried brute
on _terra firma_ again. It occurred to me that all such incidents might
not end equally well, so I decided to wait in the next post-house till
daybreak, as the road seemed to get darker and darker, and more and more
uneven. On reaching the station, however, one look was sufficient; it was
so infested with cockroaches and other vermin that rather than spend the
night in it I determined to push on at all hazards. So uninhabitable, in
fact, was the place that I positively could not remain in it even while
the horses were being got ready.
[Illustration: A POST-HOUSE ON THE KUPETSKI TRACK.]
After leaving this station the road appeared to get more sandy and
with less snow on it; so, in order to make it easier for his horses,
the yemschik followed a narrow track leading right through the forest.
I soon fell asleep, and was in the midst of a delightful dream when I
was awakened by the man calling to me to get up. At first I thought we
had reached the next station, but on looking round I saw we were in a
sort of clearing in the very depths of the forest. It was snowing so
thickly at the time that one could scarcely make out anything a few
yards distant. On either side of the sledge were two trees so close to
it that I immediately suspected what was wrong, so without hesitation I
jumped out, and the yemschik explained to me that he had lost his way,
and had somehow got the sledge wedged between these two trees. Here was
a predicament! For the next hour we were trying all we knew to get the
clumsy vehicle free, and it was only after endless futile efforts that
we literally had to cut it out—with no little difficulty, for the wood
seemed as hard as iron. By the time we got under way again, and after
searching for the track, day was beginning to break, and it was broad
daylight when we reached the station. It had taken over five hours
to do the last fifteen miles. The postmaster here, who spoke German
fluently, informed me that it was out of the question attempting to
proceed any further in a sledge, and that I should have now to continue
my journey in a _tarantass_, or post-cart. As he agreed to purchase my
sledge for exactly what I had given for it, I could not object, though I
felt that the remainder of the route to Kiakhta would not be enjoyable,
as I should, at every station, have to repack my baggage in a fresh
conveyance. However, there was no help for it. A Tarantass is a most
curious and distinctively Russian vehicle. In shape it is not unlike a
very unwieldy barouche, with a large fixed hood at the back. As in a
sledge, the luggage is packed inside so as to form a seat, and, though
not an elegant-looking conveyance, it is well adapted to the rough roads
of the country. I was once more travelling on wheels, for the first time
since I had left England.
The country now began to assume a much more barren and steppe-like
appearance, and there was hardly a trace of snow anywhere. The trees
also seemed to have disappeared, and for miles ahead there was a bare
undulating plain. I could not help noticing that everything was now
beginning to look more Chinese, or, rather, Mongolian. Even the tea
caravans we passed were composed of quaint-looking carts, undoubtedly of
Chinese origin, whilst the drivers, with their swarthy sunburnt faces,
looked strangely out of keeping with the cold landscape.
[Illustration: A TEA CART.]
In the afternoon we reached a small river, over which, as usual, the road
passed on the ice. My yemschik, quite a young lad, was, however, in no
hurry to cross when we saw a cart which was coming towards us suddenly
half disappear through the ice, which was evidently very rotten. The
water, fortunately, was only four feet deep at the utmost, so beyond the
difficulty of getting his horse and cart out again he ran no risk. After
watching the fellow (who was standing up to his waist in the icy-cold
water) in his vain efforts to move the lumbersome vehicle, I decided that
we could not stay where we were all day, and that we had to get across
somehow, so I persuaded my youthful Jehu to try a narrower spot a little
further down, in the hopes of the ice being stronger there. Well, we went
at it full tilt, hoping to get across with a rush; and so we did till
within about twenty yards of the opposite bank, when, with a sickening
crash, the ice gave way, and we were in the water. The horses immediately
began kicking and plunging to such an extent that I expected every moment
the heavy tarantass would turn over and all my baggage be lost. For a few
minutes my driver absolutely lost his head; but, finding that the horses
in their mad endeavours to get out had so loosened the ice as to clear
the way, he cooled down, and we managed to reach the bank without any
further mishap than getting slightly wet. As we drove full gallop along
the road to make up for lost time, I looked back and saw the peasant with
his horse and cart still in the water, and taking it very quietly. A
basin of hot Bouillon Fleet at the next station soon set me right, and I
felt no ill effects from the cold water.
I was now rapidly nearing my destination, when on reaching the last
station but one, as evening was coming on, the postmaster said something
which I did not quite understand, that he did not like to let me go on,
about its being soon dark and the road a bad one, also something which
I did not catch. However, I had made up my mind to reach Kiakhta that
night if it could be done, so I peremptorily ordered the fresh tarantass
and horses at once, and after but a short delay I was soon on the move
again. The road now lay right across the turf, and, owing to the nature
of the soil, was scarcely visible in the rapidly failing light; in fact,
in many places I wondered how the driver found his way at all, for I
could see no sign of any track.
It was quite dark when we came to what looked like an immense white
plain. This, the yemschik told me, was the river Selenga. This majestic
river, which flows into Lake Baikal, was here as wide as the Thames at
Gravesend, and in the darkness the opposite bank was scarcely visible.
Our road lay right across its ice-bound surface. At the edge of the ice
my driver drew up, and, getting down, said he would go and look round
before venturing on it, as a man who had that afternoon came in from
the next station reported that the ice was beginning to break up. I
immediately remembered the incident which had happened only a few miles
back, and visions rose up before me of what would be the result in the
event of such an accident occurring on this mighty river, so I felt just
the least little bit uncomfortable when, after being absent some twenty
minutes, he came back and said he thought it would be all right, so on we
went. It may have been my fancy, but the heavy lumbering vehicle seemed
to weigh more than ever now, as it rattled over the ice of the river.
We had reached, I suppose, about the middle, when suddenly the horses
drew up of their own accord, snorting with fear. A large dark mass was
in front of them. Nothing could induce them to go on, so the driver got
down to see what it was, and almost immediately returned and, getting up,
hastily drove in another direction, informing me, in an awed whisper,
that it was water. I then made out that the dark mass was a huge gap in
the ice. The instinct of the horses had undoubtedly saved us!
[Illustration: DAY-DREAMS: A SKETCH IN THE TRANS-BAIKAL.
(_The curious hanging arrangement is a cradle._)]
After a considerable _détour_ we reached what appeared to be the opposite
bank, only to find that it was an island, and that there was another
broad piece of ice still to be crossed. The driver had now the greatest
difficulty in getting the terror-stricken animals to go on at all. It
was only after a lot of coaxing, and eventually leading them himself,
that they could be persuaded to venture on the treacherous surface. This
time, however, we got across without further incident, and it was with
a genuine feeling of relief that I felt the tarantass once more rolling
over the grass.
After a short search the track was again found, and an hour later I
reached the last post-house before Kiakhta, after a most exciting
“stage.” There is, of course, no other means of crossing Siberian rivers
during the winter but on the ice. Towards the end of the winter, just
before the _debâcle_ begins, it is always advisable, where possible, to
cross the big rivers by daylight, on account of the many fissures in the
ice. I remember nothing of the next twenty versts, for I went off into a
deep sleep, probably occasioned by the recent excitement, and never moved
till I was woke up by the yemschik calling out to me that we had reached
our destination, and wanting to know where he should drive me.
I sat up and looked round me; no easy matter, for it was snowing so
thickly that I could scarcely see anything, and the dreary-looking
deserted street looked still more wretched as, in the piercing wind,
the blinding flakes were whirled about in clouds. It was as uninviting
and wintry a scene as could be well imagined, and for a moment I wished
myself back in my comfortable quarters at Irkutsk.
So this was the frontier city of Kiakhta, the delightful place where,
as I had read, it never snows, and where, pinning my faith on this
outrageous statement, I had been fondly imagining I should find a
genial temperature; but the Siberian winter evidently holds good to its
reputation to the furthermost confines of the vast country. However, it
was no time for this fanciful musing, for we were in the middle of the
night, and the road also, and I knew not where to turn for a lodging.
The only hotel of Kiakhta was not strongly recommended (which means a
great deal in Siberia), so I had made up my mind to seek accommodation
elsewhere; but the whole town was asleep. The yemschik then said he knew
of some people who had a room to let, if we could manage to wake them
up. So we went to the house, and, happily, were successful. The room, on
inspection, proved not only comfortable and clean, but wonderfully cheap
in the bargain. So I decided to remain there during my stay in the town.
And how thankful I was when I at length “turned in” for a good night’s
rest after my somewhat eventful and fatiguing journey!
[Illustration: THE HIGH STREET, TROITZKOSAVSK.
[_To face p. 245._]
My lodgings were in the High Street of Troitzkosavsk, the business suburb
of Kiakhta, for in the frontier city itself there are not above fifty
houses, nearly all of which belong to the great merchants. The frontier
commissioner also lives there. I suppose it was the recollection of all
the gaieties at Irkutsk, for I found Kiakhta and Troitzkosavsk terribly
dull after the capital—so much so, in fact, that had I not made up my
mind to complete my work I should have pushed on towards Ourga without
delay, more especially as the weather continued bitterly cold and it
snowed almost every day. There was only one redeeming feature in this
dead-alive little frontier city, and that was the novel sights one
occasionally sees in the streets. After the unvaried monotony of costume
in other Siberian towns, it was refreshing here to see wild-looking
Mongolians dashing up the quiet street on their wiry little ponies; or
an occasional camel-caravan, with tea, arriving from the desert. It was
a sign that a warmer and more picturesque country was close at hand,
and made me long the more to get out of cold Siberia. But the novel and
interesting sights at Kiakhta were but poor specimens of what I hoped to
see further on; so I decided not to begin sketching them till I saw the
genuine article in Mongolia itself.
[Illustration: MY FIRST GLIMPSE OF MONGOLIA.
[_To face p. 246._]
By the way, a somewhat interesting incident occurred whilst I was here.
I had made friends with a local photographer, a man of some considerable
talent, and would frequently while away an hour in his company. One day
that I was visiting his studio for the first time, I was much struck with
a “background” painted on a large canvas lying against the wall. It was
so exceptionally good that I could not refrain from making a remark upon
it, when I was informed, to my astonishment, that it was the work of his
assistant, who was standing by. One does not expect to meet artists of
talent in local photographers’ employ in these far-away places, and I
could not help saying so. I was still further impressed when the young
fellow, in reply to my question as to whether he had any other work to
show, produced a portfolio of sketches which indicated a talent rarely
met with. Becoming enthusiastic, I told him he must be mad to be wasting
his time at photography in this out-of-the-way town when St. Petersburg
would be acclaiming him as a born artist. After a deal of beating about
the bush, and evident reluctance on his part, I learnt the true facts
of the case, that he and his employer (both eminent artists, as I was
afterwards informed), were political exiles, suffering a long term of
banishment. Many of the sketches shown to me (one of which I give in
facsimile) related to prisoners’ life, and were evidently done during the
long march across Siberia. I could not help being strongly impressed with
the idea that a system which would allow a prisoner to beguile the tedium
of the march by following his artistic proclivities cannot, however
faulty its theory may be, in practice be so cruelly _disciplinaire_ as
many would have us believe.
[Illustration: A BOURRIATE LADY.]
Meanwhile, my work progressed rapidly, and after a little over a
fortnight’s stay, I saw my way clear to arrange for my further journey to
the sacred city of Ourga, and then across the Gobi desert to China; but
of all this I will tell you in my next chapter.
[Illustration: SKETCH BY A POLITICAL PRISONER MADE WHILST ON THE MARCH
ACROSS SIBERIA.
(_The original is in sepia and white._)
[_To face p. 248._]