IRKOUTSK (continued).
THE shock-headed youth who fulfilled the duties of chambermaid awoke me
one morning at the Moskovskaya with the news that that day (the 19th of
August) was to witness in Siberia a total eclipse of the sun. I did not
learn till afterwards that scientific men had been sent from London,
Paris, Berlin, and Petersburg, to Krasnoiarsk, a town about six hundred
versts west of Irkoutsk, to witness and report on the eclipse, but the
expedition was a failure, the weather at these places being dull and
overcast. At Irkoutsk, however, a bright sun and cloudless sky ushered
in the eventful morning. The eclipse was to take place at 11.30, but for
quite half an hour previously a perceptible change took place in the
temperature, which, though it had been close and sultry up till eleven
o’clock, now became quite cool, while the light breeze that had been
blowing dropped as if by magic. About eleven the bright sunshine became
obscured by a mist something like the lurid glare that precedes a
thunderstorm on a summer’s day in England. Up till now nothing was
observable on the sun’s surface as it shone out, like a ball of fire,
from the woolly sky, but at 11.20 one could discern, by the aid of an
opera-glass, a thin black line creeping from right to left over the
great fiery disc, increasing in size to a semicircular blotch, till, at
a quarter to twelve, the sun presented the appearance of an apple with a
large piece bitten out. Ten minutes more, and nothing was visible but a
thin streak of brilliant light surrounding a circular patch of black,
while darkness crept over the city, and the stars, one by one, appeared
in the heavens.
One could see, in the square below the hotel, a crowd of eager, upturned
faces, many of whom had never even heard that the eclipse was expected,
and were much disconcerted in consequence. Droshki drivers pulled up
their horses and stared open-mouthed; market-women left their stalls, to
kneel and cross themselves; every one’s face wore an anxious, concerned
look, which added not a little to the weirdness of the scene. The effect
produced on the animal creation was extraordinary. Horses neighed, dogs
howled, while birds in great flocks flew silently across the starlit
sky, apparently bewildered and alarmed at the sudden fall of night.
About ten minutes past twelve the black veil over the sun diminished in
size, and the darkness commenced to clear away, as, almost
imperceptibly, the light of day once more crept slowly over the earth,
while one by one the stars faded in the brightening heavens. The air,
too, grew gradually warmer, till, at half-past twelve not a trace of the
phenomenon was visible, except in the dense, excited crowds discussing
it in the market-place. The fall of the temperature during the eclipse
was twelve degrees.
Rain fell in torrents, shortly after. This did not, however, prevent us
from walking out with R. to the drill-plain, and witnessing a review of
the troops. Walking in Irkoutsk on a rainy day is, to say the least of
it, unpleasant. The streets are undrained. Great pools of water lie in
the roadway, rendering it almost impassable, while the thick dust
converts the streets into morasses of deep black mud. We had to wade
knee-deep more than once before reaching the parade-ground. The garrison
of Irkoutsk is composed mainly of Cossacks, in number about 10,000. They
were not taking to look at, their dingy drab uniforms and dirty white
linen caps rendering them far from smart in appearance, though in drill
and steadiness they were perfect. All were armed with the “Berdan”
rifle.
I strolled into a barber’s on the way home, to have my hair cut, a
somewhat necessary operation, for it had remained untouched since
Shanghai, and was falling about my shoulders in uncomfortable
luxuriance. The art of hair-cutting is evidently learnt early at
Irkoutsk. On inquiring of a small boy of about eight years old, whether
any one was in, he dragged me to a chair, and arming himself with a huge
pair of shears, commenced, although he had to mount on a stool to do so,
to operate upon me himself. I expected every moment to find myself minus
an ear, and was relieved when he had finished, and not a little
surprised to find that he had done it extremely well. I felt constrained
to buy a bottle of Atkinson’s White Rose in consequence, as an
encouragement to the youthful disciple of Figaro.
The museum at Irkoutsk is well worth a visit, and is a handsome stone
building, erected at considerable cost by one of the millionaires. We
spent a long morning there, inspecting the trophies collected from all
parts of Siberia by M. Bogdanovitch, a Russianized Frenchman, who spends
most of his spare time among the Yakoutz, Tungouses, and other
aboriginal Siberian tribes. A word here may not be amiss as to the
natives of the vast country through which we are about to take the
reader, for the term “Siberian” is a very vague one, comprising as it
does the skin-clad aborigines of the shores of the Frozen Ocean to the
semi-Chinese “Bouriat,” the wild and primitive Kamchatdale to the
civilized citizens of Tobolsk or Irkoutsk.
We will work from east to west, and commence with the Kamchatdale. I
imagine there are few places in the world so little known as this
desolate peninsula, which most people look upon as the uttermost end of
the earth when they say, to convey an idea of unlimited distance, “Oh!
so-and-so’s gone to Kamchatka or some other outlandish place.” I have
met one of the few Englishmen who have ever visited this dreary
peninsula, and can give the reader the benefit of his experience and
observations.
The peninsula of Kamchatka is about eight hundred miles long, by one
hundred and thirty miles wide, and is situated in the Sea of Okhotsk.
Flat and marshy at Cape Lopatka, its southern extremity, the country to
the northward becomes mountainous, rocky, and barren, stunted birch and
willow trees forming, in most parts, the sole vegetation, save in the
valley watered by the Kamchatka River. Here the soil is good and grass
abundant, the latter sometimes growing six feet high. Poplar, willow,
and cedar of large size are met with, while cabbages, potatoes, and
carrots also grow in this oasis, which is situated in the centre of the
peninsula. The wild raspberry, currant, and cranberry also abound, and
in the springtime many wild and beautiful flowers. But the greater part
of Kamchatka is rocky and sterile. A chain of mountains to the east of
the peninsula has many volcanoes. The highest and most active, Mount
Kluchevski, a peak of greater altitude than Mont Blanc, is near the
coast, and visible for many miles out at sea, the base of the mountain
having a circumference of over one hundred and fifty miles. Kamchatka is
subject to severe shocks of earthquake, as many as ten (on an average)
occurring annually at Petropaulosk, the chief town or settlement. The
climate of Kamchatka, though severe, is not so trying to a European
constitution as that of the mainland of Eastern Siberia. Frost sets in
about the end of October, but up to January the temperature rarely falls
to more than 10° below freezing point (Fahr.). February to March are the
most trying times, when “Poorgas,” or snowstorms, accompanied by
tempestuous winds, sweep over the bleak, rocky coast and valleys,
occasioning great loss of life and sometimes burying whole villages
under the snow.
The population of Kamchatka is roughly estimated at four thousand souls,
about five hundred of whom reside at the capital, Petropaulosk, on the
eastern coast, which is said to possess the finest harbour in the world,
and where the allied French and English fleets were repulsed by the
Russians during the Crimean war. The aboriginal tribes, however, are
seldom met with in or near the capital, where society consists almost
entirely of Government officers and Cossacks, stationed here to preserve
law and order among these remote subjects of the Czar, who, however,
give them little or no trouble. The chief complaint among military men
at this dreary outpost is that they have nothing to do in the way of
fighting to keep their hands in.
The aboriginal inhabitants of Kamchatka are divided into three distinct
races: the Koriaks, in the north, the Kamchatdales, in the south, and
the Kuriles, a tribe inhabiting the islands of that name, which, lying
to the southward of Kamchatka, were lately ceded by Russia to Japan in
exchange for the island of Sakhalien. Of these three the Kamchatdales
are the most civilized and friendly, probably on account of their more
frequent intercourse with Europeans from Petropaulosk and other
settlements. They are of a copper colour, with narrow black eyes, thick
lips, and flat noses, and long, streaming hair, which they take great
delight in plastering over with seal oil, blubber, and other fishy
abominations.
A Kamchatdale may be smelt a mile off, their bodies exuding a strong
smell of fish, on which they subsist, eaten raw; but they are friendly,
hospitable fellows, and, unlike the fierce and savage Koriaks, always
glad to welcome or help a stranger. Up till some years since many of the
Kamchatdales were Chamans, but this religion has died out a good deal
since the advent of Russian traders, who have replaced it by introducing
vodka and debauchery. The Kamchatdales have, curiously enough, a
practice identical with one among the Dyaks of Borneo: that of kindling
a light by rapidly turning in the hands a dry stick in a hole made in a
plank of wood, and using a piece of dry grass as fuel. They are also,
like the Dyaks, capital dancers and mimics, imitating in their dances
the movements of animals and birds with surprising grace and accuracy.
The Koriaks, on the other hand, are said to be the most treacherous and
degraded race in Siberia. Many are nomad, and have no fixed abode, the
stationary ones being much finer in physique and less wild than their
wandering brothers. Strangely enough, however, they allow the latter to
treat them as slaves, and obey them without a murmur. While the nomads
are savage, cruel, and treacherous, the settled Koriak is a contented,
cheerful being, always glad to see strangers, and, though not so
civilized, as hospitable in his way as the Kamchatdale. The settled
Koriaks, like the latter, gain their livelihood by fishing, while the
nomad’s life is occupied with hunting and his flocks of reindeer. The
dwelling of the settled Koriak is comfortable enough, and is built of
wood in the shape of an =X=, fifteen to twenty feet high. The entry is
by clambering up a pole on the outside and dropping through a hole in
the top (in the centre of the =X=), which serves for door, window, and
chimney, there being no other egress. The tents of the nomad Koriaks are
of reindeer skin, and much smaller, but in neither can a European stay
more than a few moments, the smoke and stench being intolerable to any
but a Koriak’s eyes and stomach. Drunkenness among the Koriaks is rarer
than among the Kamchatdales, for the good reason that they cannot get
drink. A mushroom or fungus, however, found in the north-east portion of
their territory, makes an admirable substitute. Happily, it is rare, for
a mouthful of it produces intoxication for three or four days. Although
the wandering Koriaks treat their animals with kindness, their cruelty
to women is proverbial. Unlike the Kamchatdales and their nearer
neighbours, they are extremely jealous, and very often kill their wives
on a mere suspicion of infidelity, the more often that they have a right
to slay them if really guilty. No Koriak’s wife is ever permitted by her
lord to beautify herself, or even wash, for fear of attracting the
notice of others. To make assurance doubly sure these northern Othellos,
from time to time, compel their wretched women to cover their entire
bodies with a thick coating of rancid oil, which effectually keeps even
the most amorous lover at a safe distance. When the Koriaks, male or
female, become old and unfit for work, they are killed by their family,
being allowed the privilege of choosing whether they shall be stoned to
death, or have their throats cut. Part of a Koriak youth’s education is
learning to give the _coup de grâce_ as painlessly as possible.
The Kuriles, as I have said, inhabit the small islands of that name
south of Cape Lopatka. They are essentially fishermen, their clothes,
tents, and even boots being made of fish-skin. I saw, in the museum at
Irkoutsk, a long cloak made by them of this material as light and thin
as goldbeater’s-skin, and absolutely waterproof. The framework of their
canoes is of wood, with this fabric four or five thicknesses tightly
stretched across it, and these apparently fragile craft will live in the
roughest sea, the crew looking, a short distance off, as if they were
sitting on the water, so low is the gunwale. The Kuriles have become
more civilized since the ceding of their islands to Japan, though they
still preserve queer customs with regard to their women. When a Kurile
has proved his wife faithless, he does not, like the Koriak, visit it on
her, but on the seducer, whom he is bound to challenge to mortal combat.
The weapons are thick cudgels, the challenger first receiving three
blows on the head or bare back from his opponent. It is then the turn of
the latter, and so they go on till one of the combatants dies of his
injuries, the duels sometimes lasting an hour. When a Kurile woman gives
birth to twins, one is slain by the father as a sacrifice to the
spirits.
There is plenty of wild fowl in Kamchatka, and the country abounds with
geese, duck, and snipe at the proper seasons. It is probably the only
country in the world where the real wild dog exists. These are found on
the mountains, are of a buff or grey colour, the size of a huge mastiff,
and very fierce, so much so that natives have been killed when
attempting to capture them for purposes of sleighing. They are fed (in
their civilized state) on fish, and, the rivers of Kamchatka teeming
with salmon, do not have any difficulty in procuring a meal whenever
they want it, merely walking into the stream, and seizing their prey
with their teeth.
To the north of Kamchatka is the Chukchee coast, which extends from
Chanskaia Bay round Behring’s Peninsula to the river Anadyr. This region
is inhabited by the Chukchee tribe——a race of men very similar to the
wandering Koriaks——who live a nomadic life in tents made of reindeer
skins, for here the reindeer roam about in thousands. This part of
Siberia also swarms with lemmings, a species of large rat. At times
these loathsome creatures migrate in myriads, and woe to the luckless
traveller that meets a swarm, for nothing will turn them aside. Rivers
and lakes are crossed, even arms of the sea, and should they meet a
native in the open country, they will not deviate an inch from their
line, swarming up his legs and body one side to clamber down his back on
the other. If not attacked, they are harmless enough, though it must be
a severe strain on the patience to have to wait till an army of the
brutes has passed over one, an operation which sometimes lasts a couple
of hours! The white Polar bear is also found in the Chukchee country.
The language of the Kamchatdales, Koriaks, and Chukchees is a harsh,
guttural one, and almost synonymous.
We now come to the Yakouts, or aborigines of Yakoutsk——the largest
province in Siberia, which extends from south of the town of Yakoutsk to
the mouth of the Lena River in the Frozen Ocean, and is nearly the size
of the whole of Europe——Russia excepted. The total population of this
huge province is under two hundred and thirty thousand, consisting of
Russians, Tungouses, Yukagirs, and Yakouts.
Perhaps with the exception of Yakoutsk and Sakhalien, the town or
village of Okhotsk, situated on the sea of that name, is the most
utterly desolate place in the whole of Siberia. Its population in 1810
numbered only one hundred and fifty, and these existed solely by trading
in furs and fish with the nearest settlements. Okhotsk may literally be
called the end of the world. Not a tree or blade of grass is visible
within miles of the wretched huts and two or three wooden
officials’-houses that constitute the colony. The summer at Okhotsk
consists of three months of damp and chilly weather, which is succeeded
by nine months of cold as raw as it is intense. The food of the
inhabitants is fish, nothing but fish, of which they certainly have a
large and varied choice, for there are at least fourteen varieties of
salmon found here. From the absence of fresh vegetables, however, scurvy
rages in winter. To the south of Okhotzk lies the island of Sakhalien.
The climate is even worse here than at Okhotzk. In July, the hottest
month of the year, the thermometer seldom if ever rises above 60° F.,
while in January it never exceeds 14° F. Scarcely two days together ever
pass without rain, followed by dense fogs. The sun is seldom seen, and
never felt. It will be a bad day for prisoners when exile to Siberia is
abolished, and all convicts are sent direct to Sakhalien by sea.
The town of Yakoutsk has a population of under five thousand, many of
whom are political exiles, and, saving Kara and Sakhalien, there are few
places more dreaded by prisoners throughout Siberia than this desolate
city, which is over five thousand miles from Petersburg! It has, too,
the unenviable notoriety of being the hottest place in summer, and the
coldest in winter in the world, while in the former season people have
been known to die from the effects of mosquito bites, from dense swarms
of which the inhabitants are never free in summer for a moment, night or
day. Most of the buildings in Yakoutsk are of wood, though there is a
handsome stone cathedral, and the Governor’s house is of the same
material. The town presents a queer patchwork appearance, the more
solidly built mission-houses being mixed up pell-mell with the winter
dwellings of the Yakouts, who mix freely with the European population.
It is rare to meet a Yakout out of his own province, though I came
across two or three as far south as Ziminskaia, near Irkoutsk. They are
smallish men, of light copper colour, with black, close-cropped hair,
and are a genial, hospitable race. Although robust and capable of going
through great fatigue and privation, the majority are timid, not to say
cowardly, in disposition, though as hunters they are unsurpassed, and
from Yakoutsk are exported the most valuable furs in Siberia. A great
number of the latter are sent to China, but the majority find their way
to Moscow and Petersburg.
Life must be dreary indeed to the wretched exiles sent to Yakoutsk,
where in winter there is only daylight for four hours out of the
twenty-four! The winter dwellings of the Yakouts are made of logs
protected by banks of earth, which reach to the windows——which latter
are made of blocks of solid ice; and an idea of the temperature may be
formed by the fact that, notwithstanding the heat inside the building,
these seldom melt till the return of spring. Human beings, cows, calves,
and even reindeer, all live together inside these tents for the sake of
warmth. In summer the tents are of birch bark and reindeer skin, of the
same shape, but naturally much cooler than the winter quarters.
The Yakouts, unlike most of the aboriginal Siberian tribes, are cleanly
enough in their habits. They may be said to live literally on reindeer,
for the latter is their beast of burthen, and provides them with food,
covering, and drink. A species of fermented liquor which they concoct
from its milk is even more intoxicating than the “airak” of the Mongols.
Reindeer flesh is, however, only eaten among them on great occasions, or
when an animal dies from natural causes, the staple food being a sort of
cake made of fir-tree bark powdered very fine, and reindeer milk. I saw
one at the Irkoutsk museum, which, though four or five years old, still
reeked of turpentine, and must, when fresh from the oven, have been
somewhat trying even to the gastric juices of a Yakout.
Though a Yakout has few vices but gluttony, he is, like all Siberian
races, a sad drunkard when he gets the chance. They are, however, as a
rule, a clever, intelligent race. A Russian we met at Tomsk, had spent
many years among them in exile. Being in want of a fork, he commissioned
some Yakouts to make him one of wood, at the same time giving them a
silver one as a model. What was his surprise when, a fortnight later,
they brought him a perfect copy of his own model made of iron, with one
exception; the handle of the model was of ebony. To get over this
difficulty, they held the handle of the iron fork in wood-smoke till it
had attained a dirty grey colour!
With the exception of small-pox, epidemics are rare in Yakoutsk, though
the former disease sometimes lays whole settlements waste. It is a
common thing for Russian fur-traders to come upon a Yakout village
deserted by every living being but dogs and reindeer, while the corpses
of those who have succumbed to this loathsome disease lie rotting above
ground. When a Yakout is attacked, his companions desert him, leaving a
cup of water and a bundle of firewood within his reach; and this,
curiously enough, is the practice of many of the inland tribes in
Borneo. Indeed, in appearance and customs the Yakout strikingly
resembles the Dyak.
The Chaman religion, though dying out among the more civilized
Bouriattes, is still practised to a large extent among the Yakouts. But
very few Europeans have ever beheld the strange, weird ceremonies
performed by these Chamans, who worship a deity supposed to inhabit the
sun. Their rites are held in secret either in the depths of the forest,
or the solitude of the “Toundras,” vast desert marshes; for none but the
true Christian religion is recognized by the Czar’s government. A
Russian fur-trader who witnessed, in hiding, one of their ceremonies a
few years ago, thus describes the scene:——
“The officiating priest appears as soon as a select body of worshippers
is ready, and enters a circle of flaming logs which has been kindled in
readiness. He is clad entirely in white. Round his neck is slung a large
circular brass plate, signifying the sun, while from his shoulders,
sides, and thighs hang innumerable bells and the stuffed bodies of
stoats, weasels, seals, and other wild animals. Fitting closely to him
is a kind of light framework typifying the human body (I saw one of
these at Irkoutsk), a perfect iron skeleton, showing the ribs,
breast-bone, thighs, legs, &c. Sacrifices of reindeer and calves’ flesh,
fish, airak, sable furs, &c, are then cast into the flames while he
turns slowly round and round inside the ring of fire, till, like a Cairo
dervish, he has worked himself into a kind of mad frenzy. He then falls
helpless in a fit of exhaustion, brought on by excitement and exertion.”
This ends the ceremony, which no one has ever succeeded in getting at
the meaning of.
The “Tungouses” inhabiting the region to the north and east of Yakoutsk,
are perhaps the wildest, as they are the filthiest, of any Siberian
tribe. They are comparatively few (at most some four thousand), and are
yearly diminishing in number. They profess no religion, are nomads, and
gain a living by fishing and selling furs to Russian traders, who, by
the aid of vodka and debauchery, are slowly but surely decimating them.
The dwellings of the Tungouses are the same summer and winter, and are
made of reindeer skins stretched tightly over a light wooden framework.
It is somewhat curious to note that the tents of all these tribes are of
different shapes, that of the Yakouts being square, the Bouriattes
round, and the Koriaks and Kamchatdales triangular, and the Tungouses
conical. The latter, though the dirtiest, are the most picturesquely
dressed of any: some of their costumes of fur and birdskins being
especially graceful and handsome.
The Yurakis, Samoyedes, and Ostiaks are so analogous to the two
last-mentioned races as to need no description, though the latter are
the race of which, on the Great Obi River, we saw the most. I have
touched upon the least civilized races of Siberia, and will now conclude
with a few remarks on the link between the civilized Siberian and the
aborigines of this great country——the Bouriattes.
The Bouriattes may be said to form the greater part of the population of
Irkoutsk, and are treated almost as equals by the Russian Siberian (the
offspring of the convict population), who are gradually colonizing this
part of Asia. Though as wild and uncivilized as the Yakouts one hundred
years ago, the Bouriatte is now Russianized, has given up his old
religion of “Chamanism,” dresses in European costume, and performs the
duties of yemstchik, post-house clerk, policeman, and other Government
officials so efficiently, that he is preferred by some, in these menial
capacities, to the European Russian. The Bouriattes originally came from
the region north of the Trans-Baikal region, known as Trans-Baikalia, on
the eastern shores of Lake Baikal. They are now, however, to be found in
almost any part of Siberia on the great post-road from Irkoutsk to
Tomsk. Many, too, have amassed large fortunes as gold-diggers. This race
differs but little in physiognomy from the Mongol Tartar. They are
thrifty, industrious people, and ordinarily of an honest, hospitable
disposition, though civilization has already begun to do its work, and
they are becoming somewhat unscrupulous in their love of filthy lucre.
The Bouriattes number some two hundred and seventy thousand, and are the
most populous aboriginal tribe that exists in Eastern Siberia. Their
language is a kind of patois, composed of Mongol and Chinese, in which,
oddly enough, a few Turkish words occasionally crop up. How the latter
language ever drifted here is a mystery, but some of the words are
precisely similar in meaning and expression. Like their neighbours, the
Mongols, the Bouriattes are Buddhists, although some very few have
remained Chamans (their old and primitive religion), and fewer still are
Christians. European missionaries find the conversion of Chaman
Bouriattes tolerably easy, that of Buddhists impossible. About every
fourth Bouriatte becomes a Lama, and takes vows of celibacy. One of the
Buddhist laws precludes a Lama from killing anything, be it only a flea;
and I have seen the poor fellows writhing under the torture inflicted by
vermin, but suffering in silence, till some friend in need has come up
and annihilated their tormentors.
Such is a brief sketch of the aboriginal tribes of Siberia, a people I
have passed over lightly, as we saw little or nothing of them during our
transit through Siberia, and I wish to present that country to the
reader exactly as I saw it. Siberia is now almost as much the “land of
the stranger” as Australia, and it is more than probable that less than
a century hence, the aboriginal tribes of Eastern Siberia will, with the
exception of the Russianized Bouriatte, have disappeared altogether from
the face of the earth.
We now set about making preparations for the journey to Tomsk. Our
tarantass was again overhauled, a very necessary proceeding after our
rough journey through Trans-Baikalia, or what we then thought rough. It
was a mere trifle to what was in store for us. Embarking on a journey in
Siberia means a preparation of at least three days. One cannot, as in
England, pack up a portmanteau and be off at a few hours’ notice. There
is firstly the permission of the police required to enable one to leave
a town or city at all, secondly that most important item in Siberian
travel, horses, and thirdly a document authorizing the holder to procure
them. This is called the “Podarojna,” and is of two kinds.
The “Kasiomné” or Imperial Podarojna is used only by Government
officials of all classes, who, though they pay nothing for horses, are
always served first at a post-station, even though the luckless holder
of a privatne or second-class podarojna, may have been waiting for his
two or three days. We found this to our cost on several occasions,
notably on one, where, though our horses were already harnessed, and we
were about to start, a Government engineer dashed up, and producing his
kasiomné, had them taken away from us and proceeded calmly on his way,
leaving us to curse him and our fate, and wait another twenty-four
hours. In urgent cases, such as an imperial messenger with despatches
from Moscow or Petersburg, the kasiomné is written in red ink, and
marked “Courier,” when, though there may be no horses available in the
station, the inhabitants of the village are bound to provide them.
The ordinary podarojna is called the “Privatne,” and costs twenty-five
roubles. This entitles the holder to horses at any station where they
may be available, but they must always be taken out and handed over to
the fortunate possessor of a first-class podarojna, should the latter
make his appearance before the tarantass has actually started. To
obviate this difficulty a private company has lately been started at all
the stations on the Great Post-Road, to provide the holders of
second-class podarojnas with horses. They charge exorbitant fares,
however, and we always preferred to wait even two or three days for the
regular Government horses. In some cases we found that the Government
post-master and manager of the private company were in league to rob
travellers.
Provisions also had to be thought of, and those of the most portable
kind——sardines, Liebig’s Extract, a small chest of tea, sugar, and half
a dozen pots of jam constituted our commissariat department, together
with two bottles of cognac, and half a dozen flasks of vodka, for with
the exception of milk, black bread, and eggs, nothing is to be got as a
rule at the post-stations. We invariably found a menu with prices
affixed on the walls of every waiting-room, even in the smallest
villages, but on inquiry, the tempting list of cutlets, beefsteak, &c.,
&c., usually dwindled down to the homely but unappetizing egg and black
bread! Indeed, with the exception of Krasnoiarsk, Nijni-Udinsk, and
Kansk, this constituted our sole fare from Irkoutsk to Tomsk, with one
exception, where, delayed for a couple of days at Sonkovskaya, we were
regaled with a basin of broth at the village ostrog, or prison. I think
that plate of soup did more towards dispelling any wild notions I may
have had anent the ill-treatment of Siberian exiles than pages of
writing! Many a time, when delayed on the road, have I smelt the savoury
fumes from the ostrog cook-house with envy, as I slunk back disgusted to
my stale egg and black bread at the post-house. Sad though their lot
undoubtedly is, the Siberian convicts are not only well clad, but
considerably better fed than our own criminals in England. Be it
understood that I speak of criminals, and not political prisoners or
nihilists, to whom, notwithstanding all that ardent Russophiles may say,
Siberia is a veritable hell upon earth. The Russian “criminal” is exiled
to colonize, the Russian “nihilist” (in most cases) to die.
Personally, I would very much sooner undergo a term of imprisonment for
a criminal offence in Siberia than in England. The work in summer is
undoubtedly harder, but during the winter months, when mining is
suspended, convicts at Irkoutsk are employed for the most part in
cigarette-making, or work of a similar light nature, while they are
treated with more laxity, and enjoy far more liberty, than in our
convict-prisons at home. Smoking is not forbidden, card-playing and
other games allowed, and free conversation, for in Siberia solitary
confinement among criminals is unknown, while, as a rule, their friends,
if they have any in the neighbourhood, are permitted to see them once a
month, and on these occasions are allowed to bring the prisoner tobacco,
food, and any other luxuries, excepting alcoholic liquors. Even in this
respect, however, the rules are by no means stringent.
[Illustration: A SIBERIAN CRIMINAL CONVICT.]
I am now writing of what came under my own personal observation at
Irkoutsk and Tomsk, for save on one or two occasions we were never
allowed to enter a village ostrog, nor at any time to exchange words
with political prisoners while in confinement. As, however, a
considerable portion of the population at Irkoutsk consisted of
political exiles living under police surveillance, I was able to gather
some interesting details from this class relative to their life while in
prison and at the mines, which soon convinced me that even a murderer is
better off in Siberia than the writer of a so-called offensive political
article, in a Petersburg or Moscow journal, or the enthusiastic student
who has too openly expressed his views on the great social question.
Where the criminal is allowed to mix freely with his fellows and receive
his friends, the “political” is kept in solitary confinement, forbidden
not only to address his warders, but also, which is a far greater
punishment, deprived of the use of books, pens, ink, and paper. Smoking
is also in his case strictly tabooed, and any food but that specially
laid down by prison rules. And if the men are harshly treated, let the
reader imagine the torture it must mean to women of refinement and
education who have been accustomed to the comforts of civilized life, to
be suddenly thrust into the midst, if not the company, of a gang of
murderers, thieves, and vagabonds. I met, while at Irkoutsk, one of the
female political exiles whose portrait appears in these pages (but whose
name I suppress for obvious reasons), and heard from her own lips the
outrages and indignities which she had been subjected to by her guards
on the long ten months’ march from Tomsk to Nertchinsk. Her life, she
said, had indeed been a hell. It was only on arrival at the mines that
she got comparative rest, for though the work was harder, it was
preferable to the society of the brutes who had persecuted her during
the long, lazy summer marches. She is now at Irkoutsk for life, and with
the exception of daily reporting herself at the police registry, is a
free woman, so long as she keeps to a radius of ten miles of that city.
But although barely five and twenty, the march and two years at the
mines have turned her once auburn hair snow white.
There are, no doubt, those who richly merit their fate. Vera Anitchkoff,
for instance, who will never leave the mines again. The prisoner
depicted in prison dress is Count ————, a Polish nobleman, who not ten
years ago had a hotel in Paris, a villa at Cannes, and who, stoic and
brave fellow as he is, remarked that he would not mind so much had they
not given him “_cette coiffure ridicule_!” The French journalist, M.D.,
was one of the most prominent members of the Paris commune, and is
certainly well out of the way, for a more desperate and dangerous
character never harangued a mob from the barricades. There are at least
a dozen communists in various parts of Siberia, who, escaping from
France in 1870, have made their way to Petersburg and other Russian
cities, only to get into fresh trouble and receive their quietus in the
gold-mines of Trans-Baikal and forests of Sakhalin. We, however, saw but
two, M.D. and our friend the Pole, on the shores of Baikal. The other
two portraits represented are criminal types, one that of a man, a
native of Nijni Novgorod, who had murdered his mother and two sisters.
On being asked why he had committed the murders, he replied, “Oh, I was
sick of my family, and wanted to go to Siberia. There is money to be
made there, and I could not afford to go at my own expense!” And such
men as this are to be the pioneers and colonizers of Asiatic Russia! for
no criminal, however bad, ever goes to Siberia without a notion that one
day, sooner or later, he will obtain his ticket of leave, and with it a
house, a piece of ground, and a sum of money to start him in life. No
wonder that most of the gangs we met on the road were composed of
cheery, happy-go-lucky fellows, chaffing their guards, singing, smoking,
and laughing, a striking contrast to the dozen or so of wretched men and
women in plain clothes jolting along the rough road in tumbrils behind
them, some of the women pale, delicate-looking creatures with a baby at
the breast, who looked as if death, and not the gloomy prison-gates of
Irkoutsk or Kara, would end their journey.
It is not, I imagine, generally known that a political exile is divorced
from wife or husband the day that the Ourals are crossed from Europe
into Asia. This is voluntary on the part of the man or woman; but, as
may be imagined, the law is frequently abused. “My wife is guilty of
conspiring against the Government,” says the henpecked husband, or, “My
husband has compromising papers in his possession: search the house,”
says the wife, who is jealous or has transferred her affections, and the
thing is done. There is no delay in such cases. A couple of hours
settles the matter one way or another. The accused is not tried
publicly, nor is he allowed to plead or call witnesses for the defence.
This is called in Russia, “Exile by administrative process.” Within a
week of the denunciation the victim is over the border, the marriage
dissolved. Such cases are, however, rare. Russian ladies, to their
honour be it said, accompany as a rule their husbands into exile, little
knowing, however, the hardships and dangers before them; little dreaming
of the insults which, though free, they will have to put up with _en
route_, under the very eyes of the husband powerless to help them. As
for the unmarried women (politicals) that are sent to the mines alone,
their end is pretty much the same as a rule. Their two or five years of
prison over, they are allowed to settle down in Tomsk or Irkoutsk. If
possessed of private means (as many are), they are allowed to enjoy
their income. Is it not for the benefit of Siberia? Many take to trade,
become dressmakers, confectioners, milliners, &c, &c.; but the majority,
if young and pretty, take up a more lucrative though less respectable
profession. Some of the latter class almost vie with the
“Demi-Mondaines” of Paris or Vienna in their extravagance and the
splendour of their houses, carriages, and diamonds. Every liberty is
allowed them, save, as I have said, the trifling inconvenience of the
registry of their names every morning at eleven at the police office,
and the somewhat uncomfortable feeling of not being able to drive or
ride more than ten miles out of Irkoutsk, or whatever town they may be
located in. I dined on one occasion with one of these ladies, and one
could scarcely realize that the clever and pretty hostess who
entertained us, dressed in the height of Parisian fashion, and who,
after dinner, charmed us with her rendering of Beethoven and
Mendelssohn, had, but six short months before, been sifting gold and
washing prisoners’ clothes at the gold-mines of Nertchinsk!
One hears little of Nihilism in Irkoutsk. It is a sealed subject, and,
except on rare occasions, never broached. Here, as throughout Siberia,
however, we took care not to mix in any political discussions, a piece
of advice I would tender to any one intending to make this journey.
Russians, and especially Siberians, are quick to take offence, and on
one occasion we were nearly being embroiled, though quite innocently, in
a serious “Fracas.”
It was in a café on the outskirts of the town. In every public room, be
it post-house, hotel, restaurant, or government office, there is a
portrait of His Majesty the Czar, flanked in a corner by the “Ikona,” or
Sacred Image. Ignorant of the custom of the country, Lancaster and I one
evening entered one of these places without removing our hats. The room
was crowded, for it was a public holiday, and all were more or less
under the influence of copious libations of vodka and other drinks they
had imbibed during the day. Seating ourselves at a small table in their
midst, I was not a little surprised to feel, the moment after, a violent
blow at the back of my head, and at the same moment to see my hat
whizzing through the air to the other side of the “Salle.” We were both
armed, but luckily for ourselves had the presence of mind to keep our
revolvers in our pockets. Had they been produced, I doubt if either of
us would have left the place alive. Fortunately the owner of the café
spoke French, and apologizing for the conduct of his guests, explained
that the sole cause of their annoyance was that we had omitted to doff
our hats to the Czar’s picture. The affair was soon settled, for the
gentleman who had assaulted us came up and profusely apologized for his
conduct in not knowing that we were unacquainted with the customs of the
country! There must have been fifty or sixty Siberians (all more or less
drunk) in the place. Had there been a third that number, or even half, I
should have felt sorely tempted to go for the swaggering bully, who was
meek enough when, peace being restored, we showed him our newest patent
in American “six-shooters.”
The Irkoutsk police is utterly inadequate to the size of the city. Any
one creating a disturbance at night is not, as in London and other
European cities, incarcerated for the night and brought before the
magistrate in the morning. That worthy, in Irkoutsk, sits up all night,
and disposes of cases summarily by fine or imprisonment as may be
necessary. A somewhat amusing incident happened while we were there,
showing the manner in which these gentlemen administer justice. Half a
dozen young men, who had dined not wisely but too well, were returning
homewards, when they encountered a decrepit old man, whom, by way of a
joke, they fell upon, and nearly beat to death. The police patrol
happening to pass at the moment, two of these spirited youths were taken
into custody, the remainder managed to escape. On arrival at the police
station, one of the offenders discovered an old acquaintance in the
inspector, who, however, declined to allow the bond of friendship to
interfere with his stern sense of duty. “I must fine you Rs. 50 each,”
said the Siberian Nupkins, “but as we are old friends, you shall pay it
to me, and we will drink it in champagne. How we shall get the laugh
over those idiots who ran away!” History does not state whether the old
man died. He was still in hospital when we left. Such is magisterial
justice in Siberia!
The morality of Irkoutsk is, as I have said, at an exceedingly low ebb.
Our Danish friend Madame R., was on her arrival called upon by a young
and handsome woman, beautifully dressed, with whom in less than a week
she had struck up a violent friendship, for both had tastes in common,
and were fond of music and art. A few days afterwards, Madame R., to her
great delight, found another friend, the Baroness Podorski, who had
spent many months at Copenhagen. But it was somewhat disappointing, said
Madame R., to find soon after, that the baroness had done five years at
the mines for murdering her niece, a rich heiress, by slow poison at
Moscow, and was now living on the proceeds as a queen of society at
Irkoutsk. Calling to see her other friend one afternoon, Madame R. found
her gone. “It is sad,” said her host, “but we have quarrelled, and she
has gone to live with B————, of the Cossacks. You know we were not
married.” The state of things in the country is little better. When a
peasant is about to be married, he lives in a state of single
blessedness with his fiancée for six months. If at the end of that
period she is found to be _enceinte_, the wedding takes place, if not,
they separate and form new liaisons. But this custom exists only in
Siberia, and even there is gradually dying out in the more civilized
districts.
One morning, about five days before our departure, we were seated at
breakfast, when a stout and portly old gentleman was shown in. The
stranger must have weighed at least sixteen stone, and was broad in
proportion. After a deal of palaver, we elicited that this good
gentleman desired to become our fellow-traveller as far as Tomsk,
proposed in other words to use our tarantass, eat our provisions, and do
the journey for exactly a third the amount it would otherwise have cost
him. In vain we pointed out that our vehicle was already full, that
there was no room for a third. “No matter,” he said, smiling blandly, “I
will lie between you.” The prospect of arriving at Tomsk as flat as a
pancake, to say nothing of being asphyxiated by the fumes of garlic and
tobacco, were too much, and we therefore intimated to our visitor
politely but firmly that we declined his company. He, however, as firmly
declined to take a refusal or leave our room till about 5 p.m., having
sat in a chair and watched our every movement for three mortal hours
without uttering a syllable. We had at last to ring the bell and insist
on his being shown out. “Then you will not take me?” he said with a
sigh. “Ah! you are wrong. Read that. I will call again to-morrow,” and
leaving a slip of paper on the table, he slowly left the room.
Translation from the _Irkoutsk Gazette_ of July 7th, 1887:——
“The roads between Tomsk and Irkoutsk are infested with runaway
convicts, so that travelling in this region, especially at night, is
extremely dangerous. Lately, a whole family was murdered at the distance
of a few versts from Irkoutsk, and we hear of such cases frequently
enough.”
So ran the paper. I did not at first pay much heed to what I imagined
was a scheme of our fat friend to make us take him as an additional
protection. It was not pleasant news, though; so I took it to R————,
who, good Russian scholar, would be able to enlighten us as to whether
it ever _had_ appeared in the Irkoutsk paper. The file was soon found,
and somewhat to my disappointment, the paragraph in black and white,
with an additional piece of advice from the Police Department not to
travel on the Great Post-Road, except in urgent cases, at night.
Our fat friend called again next day, but we were obdurate. “Ah! you
will be sorry for it, my friends,” he said. “This,” producing a horse
pistol, apparently some centuries old, “this would have been no mean
help in a skirmish. News has come to-day by telegraph that a party of
merchants have been attacked by escaped convicts near Krasnoiarsk, two
killed and the others severely maltreated and robbed. Well, good-day,
and may you reach Tomsk alive.”
We found on inquiry that the roads, so far as robbers were concerned,
were in a highly dangerous state. Nor was this the only difficulty with
which we had to contend. Heavy rains had flooded the country and made it
almost impassable between Nijni Udinsk, and Kansk, a couple of hundred
versts from Irkoutsk. Of this we had practical proof, for the last mail
from Petersburg had been delayed five days. We hoped, all being well, to
make Moscow by the 1st of October; but in no country, as far as travel
is concerned, is the old proverb so clearly demonstrated of “Homme
propose, et Dieu dispose,” as in Siberia. If by any chance we were
detained in Eastern Siberia till after the 1st of October, we should
have to wait at Tomsk for the snow to set, and sleigh on to Nijni
Novgorod, not a pleasant prospect. We had seen quite enough of a
Siberian city to know that a residence therein of a week or ten days is
more than enough. Irkoutsk, the R.’s said, was far pleasanter in every
way than Tomsk, a circumstance that made us all the more dread an
enforced residence of two, or perhaps three, months in the latter city,
in the worst season of the year——autumn.
We were luckily well armed, and took pains to show it to the servants of
the hotel, for in nine cases out of ten the latter and the yemstchiks
(or drivers) are in league with the thieves, who rarely attack in the
day-time, which was a comfort. Still the prospect of a journey of over a
thousand miles through a country infested with bandits and vagabonds did
not sound cheering, especially as, in the case of the murdered family,
the robbers were armed with revolvers. On the latter occasion, when a
man, his wife, and two children had been killed, the yemstchik alone had
escaped, which fact, significant as it seemed, did not induce the
authorities to detain or even examine him. The murders had taken place
at Tiretskaya, a lonely village about sixty versts from Irkoutsk. We
were furnished before starting with a small printed guide at the
Irkoutsk station, whereon were marked, by black stars, the stages most
infested by foot-pads. Beyond Nijni Udinsk, or about a hundred and
twenty versts from Irkoutsk, the roads were practically safe.
We now had but two things to purchase, literature and furs. We commenced
by ransacking the book-shops, but, alas! found nothing but the works of
Jules Verne, with an occasional book of Zola’s. English books there were
absolutely none, but of German works, ancient and modern, there was no
lack. The latter, however, were no use to us, and we were forced to be
content with a copy of Jules Verne’s “Voyage dans la Lune,” “Michel
Strogoff,” by the same author, and Zola’s “Assommoir.” I verily believe
I could say any of the three off by heart, for we got no other books
till we reached Nijni Novgorod. I do not know what I should have done
without Reiff’s Russian Grammar and Dictionary, with the help of which I
managed to scrape up a little Russian, which on more than one occasion
stood me in good stead. Contrary to general belief, a superficial
knowledge of this language is very soon learnt. In less than a month I
was able to converse fairly well, and ask for what I wanted, though I
cannot vouch for my grammar.
Furs were the next consideration, and I was surprised to find how dear
they were; but the fact that all, even the commonest, have to be sent to
Moscow to be cured and made up, explained this. A pelisse of the
cheapest kind, reindeer skin outside and sea-bear in, cost me nearly
22_l._, and then R———— told me that I had not paid too dear. The same
skins unmade would have cost about 12_l._ My friend the Polish barman
attempted to dissuade me from buying one at all, saying we should find
fur clothes useless, the weather would be so hot, but I was very glad of
my “dacha” and seal cap on more than one occasion before we got to
Tomsk. The most costly fur procurable in Siberia is the silver fox, or
rather the paws of that animal. No _comme-il-faut_ person ever thinks of
wearing any other part, for the whole skin is only worth one-tenth part
of one of the tiny, velvety paws. The next in value is the beaver, then
the sable, the marten, and astrakan, the last being bear, elk, and
reindeer, which latter are, however, only worn by the lower orders.
A great Russian speculator, M. Siberakoff, arrived at the Moskovskaya
the evening before we left. I heard with regret that he had left early
next morning for Nicolaiefsk, for I was most anxious to see the
individual who may be called the Rothschild and Lesseps of Siberia. No
enterprise of any magnitude is ever attempted without first consulting
and, if possible, obtaining M. Siberakoff’s name on the board of
directors, and his last venture may indeed be called a leviathan
one——establishing a waterway between Petersburg and Irkoutsk. How many
million roubles this will cost I should be afraid to say, but it is a
private speculation, and undertaken solely at M. Siberakoff’s cost. The
idea was first started by the difficulty and annoyance created by
constantly changing goods, tea, silk, &c, from boats on to caravan carts
on the Great Post-Road. A waterway, thought Siberakoff, would obviate
all this. There was but one way of doing it: to join the Obi river with
the Gulf of Archangel, one great drawback to this being that Burroughes
Straits, in the Frozen Ocean, through which vessels would have to pass,
is hardly ever free from ice. To obviate this difficulty, Siberakoff cut
a canal from the River Petchora to Obdorsk, on the Obi river. The
magnitude of the undertaking may be estimated when I say that this had
to be cut through the Oural Mountains. From Obdorsk Siberakoff’s boats
will descend the Obi river as far as Piatko, where they will enter the
Chulim river, a small tributary of the Obi. From here another canal has
been cut into the Yenisei river. From this point they will go north
again till the junction of the Angara and Yenisei is reached, and thence
they will descend the former stream to Irkoutsk. The work is now nearly
completed, and we saw at Tiumen two of the small steamers destined for
the towing of barges. There will thus be (in summer) an unbroken
waterway between the Baltic and Lake Baikal.
It is certainly hard on the promoter of this scheme, that since all this
has been carried out, surveys for a railway between Tomsk and Irkoutsk
have been made by the Russian Government, indeed the work has already
been commenced, and will be completed, it is confidently expected, by
the end of 1889. It will then be possible to go from Petersburg to Pekin
overland in under two months, though the Great Gobi Desert must always
remain a stumbling-block to entirely connecting the capitals of Russia
and China by railway. This part of the journey will always have to be
made, as at present, with camels or horses, for the very good reason
that two most important things——fuel and water——are lacking throughout
Mongolia. The canal, however, will probably be carried on as far as
Khabarofka, and the voyage thence to Pekin be made by aid of steamers
now running on the River Amoor as far as Nicolaiefsk, and thence by
ocean steamer to Tientsin. The question of a railway from Irkoutsk to
Tomsk has often been mooted within the past ten years, but never till
the present time with any practical result. Six years since, an American
firm offered to build one the whole distance, from Wladivostok, on the
Sea of Japan, to Tomsk, in Central Siberia. Their conditions were a
lease of 99 years, and a free grant from Government of fifty versts on
each side of the rail the whole distance. As the line would have passed
through districts teeming with gold and platinum, the offer was
declined. The line will now be a purely Government affair, is being
constructed almost entirely by soldiers, and engineered by the same
officials who lately superintended the construction of the Trans-Caspian
Railway.
At length, on the 23rd of August, our final preparations were completed,
and we now only needed the permission of the Inspector of police to
embark upon our journey. In this we were singularly lucky, receiving it
two days after application, though not before a police agent had called
and thoroughly searched our boxes and effects. “You are taking no
letters, I trust,” said the official suspiciously. “I presume you know
the penalty of being found in the Czar’s dominions with compromising
papers, no matter what your nationality.” I assured him that no being
existed more loyal than myself to his Imperial master, mentally thanking
Providence at the same time that I had not acceded to the prayer of my
dirty friend with the letter for Greek Street, Soho.
Our good friends the R————s insisted on entertaining us to a dinner in
honour of our departure the night before we left, a banquet in which the
chef of the “Moskovskaya” excelled himself, and to which we did ample
justice. Poor little Madame R———— alone cast a gloom over the
entertainment by her sad face, and indeed considering she was doomed to
two years’ exile in Irkoutsk, it was not to be wondered at. After dinner
we adjourned to the opera, where the poor little woman forgot her
troubles in the pretty, sparkling music of “La Grande Duchesse” and the
antics of a wonderfully well acted Fritz. It was difficult to imagine
oneself in this far-away corner of the earth. The large, brightly-lit
theatre, gold and crimson boxes, and stalls, crowded with well-dressed
men and women, were different, indeed, from one’s preconceived notions
of the capital of Eastern Siberia, as gleaned from “Called Back,” and
works of a similar nature. R———— insisted on our supping after the play,
and it was daylight ere we sought our couch, the last soft bed we were
destined to enjoy for many days to come.
We found a telegram that evening on our return to the hotel, announcing
the murder of Stanley, the African explorer, and the whole of the
expedition under his command. The report seemed to cause as much
excitement in Irkoutsk as if war had broken out between England and
Russia, though what possible interest the Eastern Siberian could have in
Central Africa puzzled me. The telegram coming from Petersburg (and not
from England), I strongly doubted the news being correct, though it
caused me some uneasiness, a great friend forming part of the
expedition.[11]
Considering the remote position of Irkoutsk and difficulty of obtaining
European stores, &c., we were agreeably surprised at the moderate
charges made by our host of the “Moskovskaya.” Our bill, including
everything, was only 11_l._ a head, and we by no means stinted
ourselves.
All was ready by eleven o’clock the next morning (24th August). A little
crowd had assembled in the market-place to witness the strange sight of
a couple of Englishmen about to cross Siberia! Madame R———— witnessed
the start from the balcony, and her neat little grey-clad figure and
pretty face is the last fair vision of the city that I can recall, as
having seated ourselves in the tarantass, the yemtschik cracked his
whip, the game little horses dashed into their collars, and we rattled
away with a loud jangle of bells, past the sunny deserted streets and
into the open country. Half an hour later and Irkoutsk, a glittering
speck on the dark green horizon, was barely discernible.
—————
Footnote 11:
Mr. J. Jameson, an experienced traveller and naturalist, whose sad
death from fever, since these pages were written, has added another
honoured name to the list of those who have fallen in the cause of
science and civilization in Central Africa.
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