The Kama is a very dull river. To realise its beauties one would have to be
a native sitting motionless on a barge beside a barrel of naphtha, or a
sack of dried fish, continually taking a pull at the bottle. The river
banks are bare, the trees are bare, the earth is a dull brown, there are
patches of snow, and there is such a wind that the devil himself could not
blow as keenly and hatefully. When a cold wind blows and ruffles up the
water, which now after the floods is the colour of coffee slops, one feels
cold and bored and miserable; the strains of a concertina on the bank sound
dejected, figures in tattered sheepskins standing motionless on the barges
that meet us look as though they were petrified by some unending grief. The
towns on the Kama are grey; one would think the inhabitants were employed
in the manufacture of clouds, boredom, soaking fences and mud in the
streets, as their sole occupation. The stopping-places are thronged with
inhabitants of the educated class, for whom the arrival of a steamer is an
event....
... To judge from appearances not one of them earns more than thirty-five
roubles, and all of them are ailing in some way.
I have told you already there are some legal gentlemen in the steamer: the
president of the court, one of the judges, and the prosecutor. The
president is a hale and hearty old German who has embraced Orthodoxy, is
pious, a homoeopath, and evidently a devotee of the sex. The judge is an
old man such as dear Nikolay used to draw; he walks bent double, coughs,
and is fond of facetious subjects. The prosecutor is a man of forty-three,
dissatisfied with life, a liberal, a sceptic, and a very good-natured
fellow. All the journey these gentlemen have been occupied in eating,
settling mighty questions and eating, reading and eating. There is a
library on the steamer, and I saw the prosecutor reading my “In the
Twilight.” They began talking about me. Mamin-Sibiryak, who has described
the Urals, is the author most liked in these parts. He is more talked of
than Tolstoy.
I have been two and a half years sailing to Perm, so it seems to me. We
reached there at two o’clock in the night. The train went at six o’clock in
the evening. I had to wait. It rained. Rain, cold, mud ... brrr! The
Uralsky line is a good one.... That is due to the abundance of
business-like people here, factories, mines, and so on, for whom time is
precious.
Waking yesterday morning and looking out of the carriage window I felt an
aversion for nature: the earth was white, trees covered with hoar-frost,
and a regular blizzard pursuing the train. Now isn’t it revolting? Isn’t it
disgusting? ... I have no goloshes, I pulled on my big boots, and on my way
to the refreshment-room for coffee I made the whole Ural region smell of
tar. And when we got to Ekaterinburg there was rain, snow, and hail. I put
on my leather coat. The cabs are something inconceivable, wretched, dirty,
drenched, without springs, the horse’s four legs straddling, huge hoofs,
gaunt spines ... the droshkies here are a clumsy parody of our britchkas. A
tattered top is put on to a britchka, that is all. And the more exactly I
describe the cabman here and his vehicle, the more it will seem like a
caricature. They drive not on the middle of the road where it is jolting,
but near the gutter where it is muddy and soft. All the cabmen are like
Dobrolyubov.
In Russia all the towns are alike. Ekaterinburg is exactly the same as Perm
or Tula. The note of the bells is magnificent, velvety. I stopped at the
American Hotel (not at all bad), and at once sent word of my arrival to A.
M. S., telling him I meant to stay in my hotel room for two days.
The people here inspire the newcomer with a feeling akin to horror. They
are big-browed, big-jawed, broad-shouldered fellows with huge fists and
tiny eyes. They are born in the local iron foundries, and at their birth a
mechanic officiates instead of an accoucheur. A specimen comes into your
room with a samovar or a bottle of water, and you expect him every minute
to murder you. I stand aside. This morning just such a one came in,
big-browed, big-jawed, huge, towering up to the ceiling, seven feet across
the shoulders and wearing a fur coat too.
Well, I thought, this one will certainly murder me. It appeared that this
was our relation A. M. S. We began to talk. He is a member of the local
Zemstvo and manager of his cousin’s mill, which is lighted by electric
light; he is editor of the _Ekaterinburg Week_ which is under the
censorship of the police-master Baron Taube, is married and has two
children, is growing rich and getting fat and elderly, and lives in a
“substantial way.” He says he has no time to be bored. He advised me to
visit the museum, the factories, and the mines; I thanked him for his
advice. He invited me to tea to-morrow evening; I invited him to dine with
me. He did not invite me to dinner, and altogether did not press me very
much to visit him. From this mother may conclude that the relations’ heart
is not softened.... Relations are a race in which I take no interest.
There is snow in the street, and I have purposely let down the blind over
the windows so as not to see the Asiatic sight. I am sitting here waiting
for an answer from Tyumen to my telegram. I telegraphed: “Tyumen. Kurbatov
steamer line. Reply paid. Inform me when the passenger steamer starts
Tomsk.” It depends on the answer whether I go by steamer or gallop fifteen
hundred versts in the slush of the thaw.
All night long they beat on sheets of iron at every corner here. You need a
head of iron not to go crazy from the incessant clanging. To-day I tried to
make myself coffee. The result was a horrid mess. I just drank it with a
shrug. I looked at five sheets, handled them, and did not take one. I am
going to-day to buy rubber overshoes.
* * * * *
Shall I find a letter from you at Irkutsk?
Ask Lika not to leave such big margins in her letters.
Your Homo Sachaliensis,
A. CHEKHOV.