TOMSK.
THE city of Tomsk, which is situated on the river Tom, a branch of the
Obi, contains over 40,000 inhabitants. Though scarcely as large as
Irkoutsk, it is a more imposing place at first sight. The streets are
broad and, though unpaved, in good order, notwithstanding the incessant
stream of caravan traffic that pours through them in the tea season. The
public buildings are fine, even handsome (of two, three, and four
stories high), without the draggled, unfinished appearance of those at
Irkoutsk and Krasnoiarsk, and there are shop-windows to enliven the
appearance of the principal thoroughfares.
The steamer was not to leave for two days, a time we devoted to
unpacking and overhauling our clothes. We found them in a sorry plight,
while the leather portmanteaus were swollen like drowned dogs after the
pitiless storms of rain. We also took the opportunity of writing home to
announce our safe arrival so far. Posting letters in Siberia is somewhat
wearisome. It took us nearly half an hour to despatch them, and then
only by the aid of a Polish interpreter called in by the landlord of the
Hotel. I signed my name at least six times before the necessary
formalities were completed. Then, would I have them sent with one stamp
or two? If the latter and the letter were lost, I might claim ten
roubles from the Government, said the hotel-keeper, “Which you probably
wouldn’t get,” added the Pole; so I trusted to Providence and sent them
with one. All were opened several times by the authorities, one reaching
London with no less than five different seals upon it.
Tomsk is built in two parts. The lower portion of the town, consisting
nearly exclusively of merchants’ offices, shops, and warehouses, while
on the heights overlooking them are the Governor’s palace, Government
offices, and private residences of the better class of merchants. But
although, as I have said, Tomsk is less depressing than other Siberian
cities, the absence of trees or gardens gives the place the usual bare,
cheerless appearance. The surrounding country is flat and marshy, and a
fruitful cause of malaria and fever during spring and autumn. The summer
is the busy season, when the tea from China and Trans-Baikalian
merchandise is unloaded from the small carts which have brought it from
Irkoutsk, Kiakhta, Stratensk, &c., and shipped on the steamers running
by the Tom and Obi rivers to Tiumen. Just outside the town is a huge
plain cut up in all directions by caravan roads, and at the extremity of
which are the wharves where steamers lie to receive their cargoes. A
dreary, desolate place it looked, the dull, wintry day we saw it, but in
summer the whole place is alive with caravan carts, while in dry weather
an eternal dust-cloud hangs like a pall over the huge plain. The railway
which is now being projected between Tomsk and Irkoutsk, will do away
with all this. This line completed, the tea will be sent to Wladivostok
from China by sea, thence to Stratensk by the Amour river, and on by
rail from Irkoutsk to Tomsk and European Russia.
The Hôtel d’Europe afforded us very fair accommodation (for Siberia).
The cooking was excellent, and we managed to make ourselves comfortable
enough. Tomsk is famed for two delicacies, sterlet and caviare. I have
seldom tasted anything to equal the former in flavour, and the caviare,
fresh from the fish and eaten a couple of hours after it had been taken,
was food for the gods, and as unlike the potted abomination sold in
England as can well be imagined. In all other respects, however, the
hotel was sadly deficient. Our room swarmed with vermin, and there was
not a bath to be had in the place for love or money; the only washing
appliance in the hotel being a small tin vessel nailed up against the
wall of the corridor, and holding about a pint, a small tap turning on a
tiny, trickling stream of water, which ran over one’s hands and on to
the floor. I asked our host why he did not provide wash-hand basins for
his customers. “They are so dirty,” was the reply, “half the time you
are washing your hands in dirty water. By our plan it runs over you
fresh and clean!”
We attended a performance at the Opera House of “Barbe Bleu,” but it was
poorly performed, and the artists very inferior to those of Irkoutsk.
The streets of Tomsk are, unlike those of Irkoutsk, fairly safe after
dark, for they are well lit by gas and patrolled throughout the night by
a strong force of police. Although invited to a public ball the third
evening of our stay, we were unable to put in an appearance, having so
many arrangements to make, and the steamer leaving at 4 a.m. the
following day. With previous experiences of the manners and customs of
Siberians after 12 a.m., we determined not to risk losing it. They must
be amusing sights, these Siberian dances. It is not customary to walk
about a ball-room, even in the intervals of dancing. Each guest moves
about with a sort of dancing step, _à la Polonaise_. Judging from their
evening parties, a Siberian ball-room must become a very fair imitation
of a beer garden towards the small hours of the morning, and we were
perhaps fortunate in having stayed away.
One is struck at Tomsk by the number of well-turned-out carriages and
horses in the streets though the “droshki” or public vehicles are rough,
uncomfortable things, in shape something like an Irish jaunting car,
with a seat about half a yard broad, to hold two persons sitting back to
back. They are not built high from the ground, luckily, for the
yemstchiks are perfectly indifferent as to whether their passengers fall
out or not, and whirl round corners in the most reckless way. Although
the male population are of the same sulky, hangdog-looking appearance as
we saw at Irkoutsk, the women were distinctly pretty, and the majority
extremely well dressed. But few affected the Siberian costume, the long
cloak and white head-handkerchief, so much in vogue in Eastern Siberia,
but the smart gowns and neat figures encountered in the streets
pleasantly recalled one to the fact that we were once more nearing
civilization. I saw women in the Grande Rue of Tomsk, who would have
been considered pretty and well dressed in Bond Street, but these were
only amongst the upper classes. The peasantry, male and female, are,
with few exceptions, hideous.
It says little, however, for the intelligence or civilization of the
population of both Tomsk and Irkoutsk, that we were unable to procure a
single French or German book at either city. We had not had a single
book of any kind to read since leaving Pekin, and were naturally anxious
to get something to lighten the tedious and weary hours that lay between
us and Tiumen, but, search as we might, could discover no French or
German, to say nothing of English, work of any kind. A university has
since been founded at Tomsk, and matters may have improved in this
respect, but it seemed strange that in a population of nearly fifty
thousand souls (many of whom spoke German) there should have been
nothing but Russian works obtainable. Although art of all kinds is at a
low ebb in most of the Siberian towns, there is one thing in which they
certainly do excel——in photography. For clearness and finish some of
their productions are equal to those of the best photographers in London
or Paris, notably those of Bogdanovitch in Irkoutsk. I was told by the
latter that the best are taken in winter time, when the clear, rarefied
atmosphere and dazzling sunshine offer excellent opportunities for
obtaining good negatives.
We were somewhat staggered by the hotel bill presented us by the host of
the Hôtel d’Europe, the total amounting to two hundred and seventy
roubles (or nearly 30_l._) for barely four days’ bed and board. In vain
I protested against the enormity of the items (not one of which, by the
way, could I read), in vain threatened sooner than be thus swindled, to
stop in Tomsk and bring the matter before a court of justice. But the
old Jew was inexorable, and only smiled blandly and rubbed his hands,
murmuring now and then, “The gospodin must not lose his temper.” He
laughed outright at my threat of bringing the matter into court, his
amusement being accounted for by the interpreter, who told us that he,
being the chief magistrate, would himself have tried the case. To make
matters worse, we had that morning sold the old rascal our tarantass for
sixty roubles (about one-third of its real value), on the express
understanding that he would charge as little as possible for
accommodation.
We set out at 4 a.m. on the morning of the 19th of September for the
steamer. Our way was fraught with considerable difficulty, for it was as
dark as pitch out on the plain, which was covered in places with deep
holes and pitfalls. Though only four versts, it took two hours to do the
distance, and we were right glad when, a little before daybreak, the
green and red lights of the _Kazanetse_ shone out bright and clear,
while at the same time her steam whistle sounded for departure,
recalling us to the fact that we were now no longer at the mercy of
drunken drivers and broken-down axles, but well within reach of Europe
by means of that blessed invention, steam!
The _Kazanetse_ would have been a fairly comfortable boat anywhere. To
us, fresh from the discomforts of the road, she seemed positively
luxurious. The fleet to which she belonged is one of fourteen vessels,
each ranging from one hundred and fifty to two hundred tons, and owned
by two private individuals, Messrs. Kourbatoff and Ignatoff, who have
the contract for carrying mails and prisoners. These vessels are built
at Tiumen, and on the same model, the first-class accommodation forward,
the roof of the saloon forming an upper deck, while abaft the funnel the
decks are roofed over with iron for deck passengers, of whom, on the
_Kazanetse_, there were some three hundred returning to various parts of
the Obi district before the closing of that river for navigation. The
merchandise is towed in lighters of two and three hundred tons, though
drawing but two or three feet of water, for in parts even this huge
stream becomes dangerously shallow in the summer months. The steamers
burn wood, carried on the deck of the lighters, the consumption per diem
being sometimes as much as eighty tons!
It was with a sense of relief that we woke next day to hear the
paddle-wheels dashing through the water, and the little steamer shaking
with the speed at which she was being driven through the grey misty
morning. As usual, washing appliances were _nil_, but after a steaming
glass of tea and two or three “Kalatchi”[16] and preserves, we found no
difficulty in dispensing with such minor details, and felt as we had not
once felt since leaving Irkoutsk; thoroughly comfortable. A coal-barge
would have been a relief after the incessant shaking and bumping of
those fifteen hundred miles. I thought with a shudder how, had we been
delayed a week later, we should in a few more days have been ploughing
through the deep muddy roads and flooded plains to Tiumen, a distance of
quite one thousand versts. Though that by river is nearly four thousand,
we would have chosen it, had it been double or treble the distance, in
preference to the leaky, bone-shaking tarantass, a vehicle the very name
of which I shall ever recall with a shudder!
But though one felt thoroughly at rest, the unvarying monotony on board
the _Kazanetse_ was trying enough, and the winding stream, flat, muddy
banks, and slow-going steamer grew intensely depressing after the first
two days. The Obi river is neither grand nor picturesque. It is at all
seasons a cheerless, dispiriting landscape that meets the eye from Tomsk
to Soorgoot, but in late autumn its banks must present the appearance of
a howling wilderness. There are few rivers in the world with as many
tributaries, or of the same enormous length, as the Obi. The basin of
the river contains more than a million and a quarter of square miles, an
area nearly two thousand miles in length, and, at the widest part,
twelve hundred in breadth. From near the Chinese border, where it has
its source, to the Gulf of Obi in the Frozen Ocean, it has over seventy
tributaries, not including the Tom and Irtish Rivers, the source of the
latter being Lake Zaizan, near the Koochoom Mountains in Chinese
Tartary. An idea may thus be gained of what a stupendous volume of water
this is. A few days above Tomsk, it presents more the appearance of a
succession of large lakes than a river——lakes fringed with low banks of
stunted fir and beech-trees, varied by occasional stretches of sandy
waste. Early autumn is, perhaps, the best time to see the Obi, for at
this season the varied hues of decaying vegetation give a more or less
varied look to the dull landscape of dirty green and drab that stretches
away, without hut or habitation to mar its solitude, from its shores to
those of the Arctic Ocean. The end of October, sees the Obi covered with
ice, and no longer navigable. For a great part of the year, however, the
water flows on under the ice, which, even as far south as Tiumen, is
from three to four feet thick. Navigation is sometimes entirely
suspended in twenty-four hours, so suddenly does winter come on. It must
not, however, be imagined that the frozen rivers of Siberia present the
smooth, unbroken surface of glassy ice which one sees depicted in
English pictures, presumably by artists who have never been nearer
Siberia than Moscow or Petersburg. The Obi, with its impetuous torrent,
is, perhaps, the most uneven and rugged of any; but even on the Yenisei,
which is less rapid, it is common enough in winter to see hillocks and
miniature cliffs twenty to thirty feet in height, thrown up by the
current upon its frozen surface. The effect, with a blue sky and
brilliant sunshine, is, I was told, very beautiful; but on dull, days
(which, happily for Siberians, are rare), the sight of a frozen,
deserted river must be melancholy in the extreme.
We passed but two towns worthy of the name between Tomsk and
Tiumen——Soorgoot and Tobolsk. The villages touched at were simply a
collection of half a dozen log huts, the dwellings of the employés of
the steamboat company, and depôts for the firewood used by their
vessels. Of the nomadic tribes inhabiting the banks of the Obi, we saw
but little, most of them having already struck their birch-bark tents,
and migrated north to their winter-quarters and reindeer. Occasionally,
however, we passed an Ostiak encampment, with its half-dozen
grimy-looking, triangular tents, savage dogs, and fleet of canoes. The
Ostiaks inhabit the vast tract of country lying between the Obi and the
shores of the Frozen Ocean. Like the Yakoutz, their neighbours, the
Ostiaks subsist entirely upon what they kill. Fish in summer, and game
in winter. Like the Yakoutz also, scurvy and a still more loathsome
disease, introduced by Russian traders, is slowly but surely stamping
them out. They are a good-tempered, hospitable people, fond of trade,
but averse to anything like hard work. In summer, when, between the
months of June and August, night is unknown in these regions, their
chief occupation is fishing, the produce of their nets being salted and
sent on to Tobolsk for export to Tiumen, Ekaterinburg, Perm, and
European Russia. The Ostiaks number about thirteen thousand in all, and
are miserable creatures to look at, with a yellowish complexion, flat
faces, and coarse, dark hair. They are, especially skilful in the use of
the bow. In shooting squirrels, for instance, they use a blunt arrow,
and are careful to hit the animal only on the head, so as not to injure
the fur.
During summer, the Ostiaks live entirely upon fish, during the winter
months their sole diet is reindeer milk. The costume is not an
ungraceful one, and is made of reindeer skin trimmed with bright red or
blue cloth and coloured beads, some of the richer ones being hung round
with small silver coins, Russian twenty-kopek pieces, &c. It is never
safe to approach their encampments alone. I did so once, and had cause
to repent it, being attacked by half a dozen huge dogs, who would have
made short work of me, had not an old Ostiak woman emerged from a tent
upon hearing the disturbance, and beaten them off. The Ostiak breed of
dog is not unlike the Mongolian. They are sharp-looking, sagacious
creatures of a black and white colour, and are by nature the cleanest
that exist, going daily of their own accord to the river and bathing
throughout the summer months. In winter they roll themselves in the
snow. I thought of buying and bringing one home, but that it would have
been a nuisance and expense through Europe.
We anchored one evening off an Ostiak encampment and paid its inmates a
visit. It was a curious, weird scene, the broad, sullen-looking river,
the crimson sunset through the dark-green fir-trees, the two or three
flimsy, tumble-down tents with columns of thin grey smoke rising into
the still evening air, while a number of silent, skin-clad forms flitted
noiselessly about, getting in the nets and canoes for the night, on the
low sandy spit that ran for some yards into the river. Not a sound broke
the stillness, for we were quite half a mile from the steamer, and save
for the wash and ripple of the stream, the occasional bay of a dog, or
cracking of sticks as one of the women gathered fuel for the night, all
was silent as the grave. I have never seen a picture of more utter
desolation. We intended to enter one of their dwellings, but beat a
hasty retreat on coming within ten or fifteen yards of them. The stench
was overpowering, and I am not exaggerating when I say that one may
smell an Ostiak quite a quarter of a mile off with the wind in the right
quarter! It is a smell peculiar to their race, so sickening and
overpowering, that I cannot describe it. Russians ascribe it to their
invincible repugnance to salt. None will touch it, although it has
several times, and at great expense, been distributed amongst them by
the Government; and this is no doubt the cause of the majority of the
loathsome diseases from which they suffer. Some of the men were
pleasant-looking fellows, and their women would have been pretty had
they possessed any teeth, which, after the age of fourteen or fifteen,
usually loosen and drop out from the same cause. Unlike their neighbours
the Samoyédes, the Ostiaks are kind to their women. In no race in the
world is woman so badly treated as among the former. To be enceinte,
even legally, is considered degrading, and the unfortunate mothers are
beaten and worried incessantly during the time of pregnancy, and until
their child is born. During this period, too, they are tortured until
they confess with whom they have been unfaithful, very often naming an
utterly innocent person to escape further torment. When they have done
so, there is no great result; the husband simply claiming a small sum of
money (or its equivalent in fur or brandy) as damages! I was much struck
with the likeness between the Ostiaks, as regards their appearance and
habits, and the Dyaks of Central Borneo, although of course the latter
are a much finer race, both as regards physique and intellect. The
dug-out canoes used on the Obi are the same identically in shape and
construction, while on the handles of the paddles I found much the same
patterns of carving that I had come across among some of the inland
tribes in Borneo. This is indeed a case of “extremes meeting.”
The shores of the Obi river teem with game and wild fowl. I must have
seen quite a million duck during the journey from Tomsk to Tobolsk,
while in the season wild geese, teal, widgeon, and snipe abound; and I
was somewhat surprised to see quantities of sea-gull at this distance
from the ocean. There is no lack, either, of bear and wolf in these
regions, and smaller ground game, and for one who cared for sport, I can
imagine no better hunting-ground. But he would be a bold man who would
pitch his tent among this unsavoury race for two or three months. To say
nothing of their filthy habits, the tents are seldom free from
small-pox.
There were but six first-class passengers besides ourselves on the
_Kazanetse_. M. Sourikoff, a painter of some renown in Russia, his
pretty wife, and two little girls, Olga and Hélène, models in miniature
of their mother, who were returning from Tomsk to Moscow, after a
somewhat extended tour in Siberia, in search of peasant types for a new
historical picture, since completed with great success by M. Sourikoff.
It was pleasant, indeed, to make the acquaintance of these charming
people, who were true Russians (_not_ Siberians), and the long dull
evenings passed quickly enough. Although M. Sourikoff spoke but a few
words of French, madame was half a Parisienne, and returned every year,
for a few weeks to the lovely city she had forsaken for the fogs and
mists of Petersburg. We thus had many subjects in common, and this was
undoubtedly the pleasantest part of our journey.
There is no fixed time for meals on board these boats. You order your
food when and where you like, so passengers are but little thrown
together, and as the two remaining ones never appeared to take
nourishment at all, or join the Sourikoffs and ourselves at dinner or
breakfast, we did not make their acquaintance. They were a queer couple
too, one an old gentleman of semi-military appearance, who paced up and
down deck all day, wet or dry, smothered up in furs, and seemed to
subsist solely on suction. I never saw him eat, but he consumed at least
twenty bottles of beer a day, to say nothing of nips of vodka and
glasses of tea between whiles. His official cap and numerous decorations
gave him the appearance of a general at least. We put him down as
returning from an important Siberian military command, and were somewhat
surprised to hear at Tiumen that he was a simple government inspector of
mines in Siberia, and a civilian. Where he got the medals remains a
mystery. Our other fellow-passenger was a lady who might have been any
age from twenty to fifty, and whose movements and manner were so
singular and weird that Madame Sourikoff christened her “The Sphinx.”
She usually spent the whole day locked up in her cabin. It was only at
night that she emerged, muffled up in furs, and thick veils, to pace the
solitary deck till long after midnight. Only once did I catch a glimpse
of her face, a pale and determined, though sad one, framed with jet
black hair cut short and square over the temples. When alone one
moonlight night, smoking a cigar on deck, I ventured to address the
mysterious stranger in French, a language she understood perfectly. Her
history was sad enough. She had left her home near Nijni Novgorod “under
suspicion” two years ago, a girl of eighteen, to return an old woman.
Most of her term of exile had been passed at Krasnoiarsk. It was only at
Tomsk that she had learnt the death of her mother, and that her fiancé,
who had vowed to wait for her return, had married another. “I have
nothing to live for now, monsieur,” sobbed the poor woman, “for my
step-father was the means of my being sent to that hell upon earth. Let
me only ask you to keep my secret, and tell no one on board I have
spoken to you. I do not wish for society————I cannot stand it.” Poor
soul! I have often since wondered what became of her; whether she
returned to a fairly contented, though broken life, or, as is more often
the case, lived but to welcome the day when death should end her
troubles, and let her forget that she had ever been sent to accursed
Siberia.
The cuisine on board the _Kazanetse_ was excellent, a pleasant change
from the eternal _menus_ of the past six weeks, “Yaitse,” “Chi,” and
“Moloko.”[17] The “Rabchick” formed part of our daily bill of fare. This
is a bird peculiar to Russia and Siberia, something similar to a
partridge, and excellent eating. When struggling with the bill of fare,
I often thought of a poor Frenchman who left Moscow for Irkoutsk two
years since——completely ignorant of the Russian language——and who was
told by a friend whenever he felt hungry merely to mention the word
“Teliatina,” and they would bring him anything worth eating. Things went
well till he reached Tobolsk, when it suddenly dawned upon the poor
wretch that all the animal food he had eaten since leaving the Holy City
had been composed solely of _veal_! By the time our friend reached Tomsk
he was fairly rabid. Veal is an excellent thing in its way, but
“toujours veau,” like “toujours perdrix,” is apt to pall upon the palate
after a few weeks! It was only at Tomsk that he came across a
French-speaking Cossack officer who was able to change his bill of fare,
and history relates that the victim was so overcome with emotion and
gratitude that he fell upon his deliverer’s neck and wept for joy!
One is out of it on board a Siberian river-steamer if one does not eat
nuts, for every one devours day and night, hour after hour, a small kind
of cob-nut, very common in Siberia, which to my taste was extremely
insipid and flavourless. But we were told by the Sourikoffs it was the
proper thing to do, so purchased a pound or so at the first
stopping-place, and followed the example of our fellow-passengers. Every
one devoured them, from the captain downwards. Even the melancholy exile
had her bag of “brousniki,” as they are called, and the beer-drinking
inspector furtively produced them every now and then from the depths of
his fur-lined “dacha.” When the Siberian is unable to obtain these, he
chews a kind of elastic composition made of turpentine, not unpleasant
to the taste. The Russians call this “Conversation Sibérienne,” hardly a
compliment to the conversational powers of the inhabitants of Asiatic
Russia.
From the day we left Samarof, our northernmost point, the weather became
cold and raw, so much so that furs were a daily as well as nightly
necessity. Cold and blinding showers of hail and sleet kept us prisoners
in the little stuffy saloon of the steamer, and we passed the days sadly
enough, staring out of the misty windows at the flat, muddy banks,
watching the grey, woolly clouds as they swept across the
desolate-looking plains. We had now entered the river Irtish, where
navigation is extremely dangerous at this time of the year on account of
the dense fogs that prevail between Soorgoot and Tobolsk. Collisions are
of frequent occurrence, and it is not to be wondered at. There is no
rule of the road as at sea or on most European rivers. Upon meeting a
vessel a red or white flag was waved from the bridge to intimate that we
should pass to the right or left of it. At night the signal was given by
a small hand-lamp. On foggy days and dark misty nights the danger of
this system may be imagined, and we got but little sleep at nights for
fear of a smash, to say nothing of a deafening fog-horn kept going
almost without cessation from sunset till dawn. We only anchored once,
however, when the fog became so bad you could literally not see your
hand before you. It lasted seven hours, as uncomfortable ones as I ever
wish to spend, for eyes, nose, and mouth were choked with the fumes
which penetrated even into the saloon. The scenery for a couple of days
after leaving Soorgoot was still more desolate and monotonous. The
forests of birch and beech disappeared altogether, and were replaced by
vast plains of sand, varied by an occasional salt-marsh, the only signs
of vegetation being the stunted willows and scrub that fringed the banks
of the dirty, muddy-coloured river. Not a living thing is seen in these
regions, save at long intervals, perhaps, the encampment of some Ostiak,
the tiny tents only accentuating the huge landscape of desolation
surrounding it. It gives me the blues even now to recall the shores of
the Obi and Irtish on a dull day.
We reached Tobolsk at 5 p.m. on the 25th of September. The night before,
just as we were sinking into a sweet sleep, we were all roughly tumbled
out of our berths and ordered on deck. “It’s come at last,” said
Lancaster, who, like myself, had made up his mind that an accident had
happened, for there was a tremendous turmoil and scurrying about on
deck, and, looking out of the little port-hole, I made out the red and
green lights of a large steamer close alongside. Sourikoff was already
on deck. Poor Madame S. and little Olga and Hélene were sitting on a
pile of luggage, their teeth chattering and faces blue with the cold.
“Is it not disgraceful?” said the poor little lady, “we have to change
steamers.” The winter-quarters of the _Kazanetze_ were, it appeared, at
Tomsk; those of the _Reutern_, the steamer we had just met, at Tobolsk.
The latter, having been delayed by the fogs for nearly four days, would
not have time to return to her winter port before the closing of the
navigation. “The intention was,” said the captain, “to change us at
Soorgoot, but these cursed fogs have thrown out all the company’s
arrangements.”
We certainly got the worst of the bargain. The _Reutern_ was of
precisely the same dimensions as the _Kazanetze_, and whereas we had but
eight first-class passengers all told, she carried sixty or seventy
natives of Tomsk, and other riverside towns, who were hurrying back to
their homes before the freezing of the Obi. The saloon of the _Reutern_
was, as may be imagined, in a truly disgusting state. The tables covered
with grease and cigarette ash, the floor strewn with chicken bones, egg
shells, pieces of bread, squashed berries, &c., and although it was past
midnight, a great many of the passengers must have been indulging in a
meal at the time the _Kazanetse_ hove in sight, for the smell of grease
and cooking was intolerable, the windows of the saloon having evidently
been closed ever since the _Reutern_ had left Tobolsk. The Siberians
have queer notions of eating, and their meals correspond very much with
their unfinished mode of life. While on their travels they feed anyhow,
no matter how great the facility for obtaining food at proper hours. You
will see them, men, women, and children alike, subsist throughout the
day solely on tea, bread, or sweet biscuits and berries, and then, as if
struck by a sudden happy thought, rouse themselves about midnight, and
sit down to a heavy meal of two or three courses, washed down by copious
draughts of scalding tea, and preceded by three or four large glasses of
vodka. Cigarettes are incessantly smoked during meals. Cigars are
unobtainable in Siberia. I tried one at Tomsk, but felt the effects for
days afterwards. Russian cigarettes are, in my opinion, better than the
Egyptian. They are more aromatic, and certainly less injurious. Those
made by Laferme under the name of “Petits canons,” are the best, and are
to be bought almost everywhere throughout the Russian Empire, from
Kiakhta to Petersburg, Archangel to Merv. They are a beautifully made
cigarette, and the price (one rouble a hundred) is reasonable enough.
The approach to Tobolsk is picturesque. One felt, on looking at the
villages in the suburbs, with their green church spires and neat
whitewashed houses, large fields, and grazing-grounds, enclosed by neat
wooden railings, that one was indeed approaching civilization. For some
two miles before reaching the town itself, the river is lined by rocky,
precipitous cliffs topped with dense forests of pine. Here and there
huge landslips had taken place. In one instance nearly a quarter of a
mile square had sunk bodily into the river, trees and all, looking at
the point where it had broken away as clean cut as if it had been done
with a knife. The Irtish River is very subject to these convulsions of
nature. Its banks in 1753 fell a depth of nearly seventy feet.
Tobolsk is distinctly the prettiest town in Siberia, though perhaps the
fact of our being so pleased with it was not altogether unassociated
with the thought that it was the last Siberian city (except Tiumen) that
we should visit. On first appearance one is reminded not a little of
Gibraltar; one portion of the town being built on a steep cliff, the
other on the marshy plain, watered by the winding yellow Irtish, and its
smaller tributary, the Tobol river. We were to start again at midnight,
so lost no time in landing and making an excursion round the city.
It will give the reader some idea of the size of Siberia, when I say
that the district or government of Tobolsk alone is nearly eight times
as large as Great Britain and Ireland. The population of this vast
province are for the most part Russians, Tartars, Ostiaks, and
Samoyedes, the two latter aboriginal tribes. The city of Tobolsk was for
a long time the capital of the whole of Eastern and Western Siberia, and
is rich in historical associations. It belonged up to 1581 to the
Tartars, and was then known under the name of Isker, the governor or
ruler of the province being a Tartar chief of the name of Kootchoom.
It may be said that Siberia was practically unknown to the inhabitants
of European Russia up to the middle of the sixteenth century, for
although, previously to this, an expedition had penetrated as far as the
Lower Obi, yet its effects were not permanent. Later on, Ivan
Vassilovitch II. sent a body of troops across the Ourals, laid some of
the Tartar tribes under tribute, and assumed the title of “Lord of
Siberia.” Kootchoom Khan, however, a descendant of Chenghiz Khan,
punished these tribes for their cowardice, regained their fealty, and
thus put an end to further encroachments from Russia. A second invasion,
however, ended more favourably for Russian interests, and in a totally
unexpected manner. Ivan II. had extended his conquests to the Caspian
Sea, and opened up trade with Persia. The merchants and caravans were,
however, frequently pillaged by hordes of banditti called Don Cossacks,
whom the Czar was finally compelled to attack, killing many, and making
prisoners of many more. Some escaped; among the latter being some five
hundred freebooters, under the command of a chief named Yermak
Timoffeef, who, making their way to Orel, heard of an inviting field of
adventure lying east of the Oural mountains. It is not generally known
that the enormous country known as Asiatic Russia was conquered and
annexed by five hundred men. Yermak, himself an outlaw, conquered, after
a desperate battle, the Tartar hordes of Kootchoom Khan, then prince of
the Tobolsk province, and became in twenty-four hours transformed from a
lawless robber into a prince. But he had the good sense,
notwithstanding, to see that he could not hope to hold his enormous
empire without assistance. He sent, therefore, fifty of his Cossacks to
the Czar of Russia, their chief being ordered to represent to that
monarch the progress which the Russian troops under the command of
Yermak had made in Siberia, where an extensive empire had been conquered
in the name of the Czar. The latter, delighted beyond measure at this
fresh acquisition of territory, gave the rebel Yermak free pardon, and
at once sent him money and assistance. Reinforced by five hundred
Cossacks, Yermak renewed his efforts, formed fresh expeditions, and was
enabled to subdue and conquer fresh districts, which had been fomented
and incited to rebellion by the conquered Kootchoom Khan. In one of the
smaller engagements, Yermak perished, not, it is said, by the sword of
the enemy, but, having to cut his way to the water’s edge, he essayed to
jump into a boat, and stepping short, fell into the water, when the
weight of his armour drowned him.
The stream of conquest flowed apace after the death of Yermak, whose
name will live for ever in Russia as one of the greatest benefactors of
that country. Tomsk was founded in 1604, and from thence new expeditions
were formed by the Cossacks, with the result that Yeneseisk was founded
in 1619, and a few years afterwards the city of Krasnoiarsk. Crossing
the Yenisei river, the invading army advanced to the shores of Lake
Baikal, and in 1620 attacked, and conquered, the populous nation of the
Bouriattes. Then, making for the north, they founded Yakoutsk in 1632,
and subjugated, though not without difficulty, the powerful Yakout
tribe. Having accomplished this, the troops crossed the Aldan mountains,
and in 1639 reached the sea of Okhotsk. Thus in less than seventy years
was added to the Russian Empire a territory as large as the whole of
Europe, whose ancient capital was Tobolsk——thus was an empire comprising
nearly the half of Asia conquered and annexed by a simple Cossack and
five hundred men. Ought not this to warn us that Russian enterprise is
not a thing to be thought lightly of; that in most cases what a Russian,
be he noble or moujik, has said “I will do,” he does, be it at the cost
of his life.
In the public gardens of Tobolsk is a monument of grey granite, about
fifty feet in height, which was erected in 1839. On the base is
inscribed, in gold letters, the words, “To Yermak! Conqueror of
Siberia.”
It was getting dusk when we landed, and, hiring droshkis, we set out
with the Sourikoffs for a drive through the town. The Tobolsk droshki is
a terrible vehicle, a miniature jaunting car built to hold two, and
drawn by a horse three or four times too large for it. There is nothing
to hold on by, not even a guard-rail, and as the streets of Tobolsk are
anything but smooth, and our yemstchik drove at full gallop, it became a
matter of considerable difficulty to stick to the ship, especially as my
companion was a somewhat stout man, and took up more than two-thirds of
the seat. I was not sorry when, the drive over, we arrived at the summit
of the hill whereon stands the governor’s and archbishop’s palaces, and
cathedral, the latter a fine building in the Byzantine style.
The city of Tobolsk has a population of about 30,000,[18] and covers an
area four versts long by about three broad. Although many stone
buildings are springing up in various parts of the city, most of those
in the lower town or mercantile parts are of wood. Many of the streets,
though narrow and irregular, are paved completely with wooden planks
laid crosswise, so that the town presents a tidier and less unfinished
appearance than either Tomsk or Irkoutsk. I narrowly escaped being
roughly handled when walking in the streets of the lower town, when, all
unconsciously, I threw away the lighted end of a cigarette, a proceeding
which instantly surrounded me with half a dozen infuriated inhabitants.
It took Sourikoff all his time to appease them, and assure them that I
was ignorant of the ways of the place, and a stranger to Siberian
customs and manners, though, as I assured him, I had frequently done the
same thing in other towns, and no notice had been taken. As, however,
Tobolsk has been totally destroyed by fire no less than thirteen times,
one can scarcely wonder at the anxiety shown by the inhabitants.
The shops were good. Though it was past nine o’clock when we returned to
the lower town from visiting the public gardens and Yermak’s monument,
most of them were open, and the streets well lit and crowded with
people. Perhaps one of the most curious sights in Tobolsk is the
“Kamaoulie Koloko,” or, translated literally, “Bell with the ear torn
off.” Though so late, we managed to get a sight of this, which is kept
in a kind of shed close to the archbishop’s palace, and of which a brief
account may not be without interest to the reader.
Russia, during part of the fourteenth century, was governed by the Czar
Boris Godorinoff, who by the way had no right whatsoever to the crown.
The line which had then reigned for nearly one hundred and fifty years,
a long time in those days, was represented by one Prince Dimitri, a boy
of twelve years old, but on the death of Dimitri’s father in 1593, Boris
raised a revolt, with the result that he was proclaimed Czar, and the
boy Dimitri deposed from his rightful position. The seat of government
was then at Boglitch, near the site whereon now stands the city of Nijni
Novgorod, and to this place Dimitri was sent, so as to be under the
immediate supervision of the peasant king. The latter, seeing an evident
movement in favour of Dimitri, feared that if allowed to live, the
youthful pretender might one day prove troublesome, and determined to
have him assassinated. While crossing the market-place, therefore, the
boy was seized by some soldiers and stabbed in broad daylight, while the
Czar contemplated the scene from the windows of the palace, to see the
effect it might have on the population, who, however, evinced not the
slightest disposition to protect the young prince or avenge his murder.
Only one dissentient tongue was heard, and that an iron one. A priest
happening to see the crime from the cathedral belfry, and being a
partisan of the Dimitri line, commenced to toll the great bell for the
repose of the young prince’s soul, a bell which had always been regarded
as sacred, and was only rung on the occasion of the assembling of the
council or the coronation or death of a Czar. Infuriated at the priest’s
interference, Boris gave orders that he should at once be tortured and
executed. Nor was this enough. The bell itself should suffer, and as
soon as the ringer had expiated his offence, and lay a mangled corpse on
the open market-place, the bell was unhung, carried down from the
belfry, and placed beside the body of its ringer. It was then beaten
with clubs and sticks by the entire populace, Boris at their head!
But the quaintest part of the story is to come. Siberian exiles in those
days were as a rule tortured before setting out for their place of
imprisonment. The punishments inflicted were more or less severe,
according to the nature of their crime, but all, without distinction,
had their nostrils torn off with red hot pincers. This was the
distinguishing mark of the exile. The public flogging over, Boris
decided that the offending bell should be placed on a cart and exiled to
Tobolsk, where it has remained ever since. There was one difficulty,
though, the bell had no nostrils. But the czar was a man of infinite
resource, and, not without a certain grim humour, so had one of the
_hangers_ removed instead! The “Kamaoulie Koloko” is nearly all of
silver, and has a deep, beautiful tone. The Tobolskians are exceedingly
proud of their trophy. One sees bells everywhere; as signs over the inn
doors, as toys, work-boxes, handles of walking-sticks, cigarette-cases,
even sleeve-links are made in imitation of the famous “iron exile of
Boglitch.” It is as celebrated in its way as the Tun of Heidelberg or
Lion of Lucerne.
Though a rising place as far as art and commerce is concerned, Tobolsk
is very unhealthy, and is surrounded with vast stagnant marshes,
fruitful sources of malaria and fever. There is no spring, and the
summer is hot, dull, and rainy, the sun at this season of the year being
seldom seen for more than two days together. Scarlet fever and
diphtheria are seldom absent, and in the prison, which is built to
accommodate three thousand, but is often half as full again, there are
occasionally severe epidemics of small-pox and typhus. Cholera is,
however, unknown. The winter is perhaps the healthiest season, but even
then, when in most parts of Siberia the sun is shining in a cloudless
sky, Tobolsk is wreathed in damp mists from the fever swamps surrounding
it. It is hard to imagine a more melancholy and depressing place than it
must be in the summer months, and prisoners say they would rather be
sent to Nertchinsk for ten years, than have to spend two at Tobolsk,
although it is so much nearer home and European Russia. A curious
discovery was made here in 1862 by the superintendent of police. Some
excavations were being made by some workmen in the lower town, when they
came upon a number of large subterranean passages running in all
directions and obstructed every fifty yards or so by massive iron gates.
News of this was at once telegraphed to Petersburg, when, to the
surprise of the inhabitants, a message came back, ordering that the
places excavated should be closed up at once. As the order came direct
from the czar, there was nothing to be said, and the existence of the
tunnels, or how they ever came there, remains a mystery to the present
day. The passages are said to exist only in the lower town. There are
none under the hills where the government buildings are situated, which
inclines some to the belief that they were built by some former czar, to
be used in case of a revolt. Still it must be rather unpleasant for the
good people of Tobolsk to live over a possible dynamite mine!
The voyage from Tobolsk to Tiumen was pleasant enough. Narrowed to a
width of scarcely two hundred yards, the blue river meanders lazily
through green fields, past pretty villages, neatly built and
prosperous-looking, while the ruddy, happy-looking peasantry at work in
the riverside meadows were a contrast to the dirty, sullen-looking
population further east. A few hours before reaching Tiumen, however,
all vegetation disappeared as if by magic, and we entered a sterile,
sandy desert. “What a paradise for sportsmen!” said Sourikoff as we
watched, from the deck of the steamer, the flocks of geese and ducks,
and other wild fowl, wheeling backwards and forwards over the arid
plain. The sky was black with them.
About midday on the 28th of September, a glittering speck appeared on
the horizon, which presently developed into a confused mass of stone and
wooden buildings, spires and golden domes. Two hours later we had moored
alongside the busy quay and crowded wharves of Tiumen, realizing to the
full that our journey was now practically over, for there within one
hundred yards of us was the railway-station and just beyond it the
luxurious-looking Pullman car, which was to bear us to Ekaterinburg and
thence over the Oural Mountains to Perm. The whistling and puffing of
the locomotive made one feel almost at home again. We forgot, in the
excitement of the moment, that we were still in Asia, and many a weary
mile from Old England!
The line from Tiumen to Ekaterinburg has only been built two years, and
belongs to a private company. The cars are all open to each other, on
the American principle, the second class being every bit as good as the
first class on the Midland or Great Northern Railway in England, and the
fares absurdly low. That from Tiumen to Perm, a distance of nearly five
hundred miles, is only twenty-eight roubles, first-class (under 3_l._
sterling), and I can safely say that I have never in any country
travelled so luxuriously. The stations are of stone, that at Tiumen
being built in the centre of a large and beautifully kept garden. It
reminded one of a railway-station in a German Spa, so neat and
beautifully kept were the gravel-paths and flower-beds, the fountains
and iron seats under the lime-trees. As for the refreshment-room, it was
equal to any in France, and far better than any I have ever seen in
England. Marble floors, tables spread with snowy cloths and glittering
with plate and china, neat, white-aproned waiters, and a pretty barmaid
presiding over the huge sideboard, with its tempting array of caviare,
pickled salmon, _pâtés de foie gras_, and forests of champagne and
liqueur bottles, was a strange scene for Asia. It was certainly one of
the most agreeable disappointments of our voyage, and after a capital
dinner _à la carte_, washed down by an excellent bottle of Medoc,
coffee, and kümmel, we came to the conclusion that, however behindhand
they may be in other matters, the Russians certainly do understand the
art of railway travelling. The train was not leaving till 9 p.m., which
gave us time for a stroll round the town. Cab fares in these parts are
not ruinous. The distance from the railway-station to the town (about
three miles) costing us under one shilling English money.
Tiumen is a bare, unfinished-looking place, with a population of thirty
thousand, and is situated on the banks of the river Toura, a smaller
branch of the Irtish. In the centre of the town is a plain, a dusty
waste in summer and muddy swamp in winter, about three miles square.
This is surrounded on three sides by wooden and brick buildings. In the
centre is a cluster of rough wooden sheds and canvas booths, which is
dignified by the name of “Bazaar,” where vodka, provisions of all sorts,
clothes, and agricultural implements are sold. Hard by, a circular
building, built of rough planks, and covered with gaudy posters
representing impossible men performing still more impossible feats, was
pointed out to us with evident pride by an inhabitant, as the circus.
“There would be a performance that night,” said our new acquaintance,
who spoke a few words of French. “Why did we not stay for it and go on
the next day? and he would show us round Tiumen after dark.” But we
declined the offer with thanks. He was a dirty, rough-looking fellow in
Moujik kaftan and high boots, and did not inspire confidence. “Then
perhaps your excellencies would like to visit a prison barge. One
arrived this morning, and is empty,” was the next suggestion.
We accepted this offer, and accompanied our friend, when the mystery was
solved. He was a Polish exile, who, having done his time at Kara, had
been permitted to return to Tiumen, for the remainder of his life. Here
he managed to scrape up a living by doing odd jobs as porter,
droshki-driver, and what not. He had seen better days, he told us, and
knew Paris and London well, having once been employed as waiter in an
Italian restaurant in the latter city, and had he kept away from
Petersburg and politics, would now be living an honest and comfortable
life. How many poor wretches in Siberia could, I wonder, say the same
thing!
[Illustration: A PRISON BARGE ON THE OBI RIVER.]
Most of the convict barges are of the same size, while all are on the
same principle. The one we visited, _The Irtish_, was about two hundred
and fifty feet in length, by forty in width, the upper deck being
supported by two large deck-houses, one of which formed a hospital and
dispensary, the other quarters for the officers of the convoy, and
exiles belonging to the noble or privileged class. No objection was
shown by the sentry to our going on board. Indeed we were not even asked
for our passports.
I was certainly agreeably surprised. The cells were sweet and clean,
though, I must add, they had not been occupied for more than a month,
the vessel having been towed back empty from Tomsk in preparation for
her next cargo in the spring. “You should visit one of these ships on
her arrival at Tomsk,” said our guide, with a sinister smile. “I do not
think then you would be quite so impressed with the cleanliness and
comfort. The voyage is seldom made without at least five per cent. dying
of typhus, and who can wonder? Human beings were never intended to be
herded together like swine.”
The large iron cage on deck amidships, in which the convicts are allowed
to take exercise, certainly did give one rather the idea of a menagerie,
and more fitted for the reception of monkeys than human beings; and
considering that its dimensions were only seventy-five feet long by
forty wide, and that these prison ships carry eight hundred a trip,
certainly seemed rather wanting in its arrangements for fresh air.
Companion-ladders led down from this into the sleeping-quarters, of
which there were three, ranging in length from forty to seventy feet,
with a uniform width of forty feet, and a height of about seven. One of
these cabins is given up for the accommodation of women and children,
the others occupied by the men. Through the centre of each runs
longitudinally two tiers of double sleeping-platforms, upon which the
prisoners lie athwart-ships in four closely packed rows, with their
heads together over the line of the keel. These sleeping-platforms are
made of wooden boards. There are not even wooden pillows, but prisoners
are not debarred from making use of their great-coats for that purpose,
or any linen bags or cloths they may have about them. Indeed, all the
prisoners we met seemed to carry exactly what they liked, from a tin
saucepan to a gingham umbrella.
We got rid of our guide with some difficulty, for he was anxious that we
should visit the prison under his auspices. This we thought wise to
decline, not relishing the idea of being “detained on suspicion,” as we
probably should have been, by the Tiumen authorities, if seen lurking
round the prison gates in the society of a “discharged Katorgi.” A
couple of roubles, however, consoled him, and we left him standing in
the middle of the muddy road, making deep obeisances and calling down
numberless blessings on the heads of the “Ingliski gospodin.” Passing
the same spot two hours later, we found him flat on his back by the
roadside, dead drunk, with two empty vodka bottles beside him!
Tiumen must be a cheap place to live in, judging from the price of
provisions and grain. Beef and mutton are as cheap again as in most
parts of England, while wheat, which is always cheap, became in 1887 a
veritable drug in the market, and was selling at Semipalatinsk, in
Southern Siberia, for eight kopeks a pood. One speculator from that city
went to the expense of exporting a quantity to Vernoe, four hundred
miles off, on the borders of China, but then only managed to get
twenty-five kopeks a pood, the harvests having been equally good. He had
only got rid of about half, when the earthquake occurred, which the
reader may recollect destroyed the whole city, and more than half the
population in September, 1887.
Many people are under the impression that the Oural Mountains are of
great altitude, and the scenery very grand. Though the length of the
chain is something over one thousand seven hundred miles, its highest
peak does not attain to more than six thousand feet, and at the point
where the line crosses them, barely two thousand feet above sea-level.
No part of the Ourals is permanently covered with snow. Hard by the town
of Ekaterinburg, by the side of the Great Post-Road to Siberia, is a
large stone pillar, on one side of which is carved the word “Europe,”
upon the other “Asia,” and this marks the boundary between the two
quarters of the globe. There is probably no spot in the whole breadth
and length of Siberia more full of painful associations than this, for
no less than eighteen hundred thousand exiles have passed it since 1878,
more than half a million men, women, and children since the beginning of
the present century. The base of the pillar is covered with
inscriptions, letters rudely carved by those who have here looked their
last on their native land. It is the custom to make a halt and allow the
exiles to bid good-bye, many of them for ever, to Europe. Travellers no
longer pass the spot, now that the railway has obviated the long, lonely
drive from Perm to Tiumen. The frontier on the line is marked by three
stations, at intervals of ten miles or so, “Asia, Oural, and Europe.” At
ten o’clock on the morning of the 29th of September, we passed _by rail_
from one quarter of the globe into another, and reached at mid-day the
town of Ekaterinburg.
We here bade adieu, with much regret, to the Sourikoffs, who were
proceeding direct to Perm, and took up our quarters at the comfortable
_Amerikanske Gostinza_, or American Hotel, so called, perhaps, because
but two Americans have ever set foot in the place. It was evident that
we had left Asia. The broad, stone-paved streets and boulevards, the
handsome hotels, private houses enclosed in large well-kept gardens, and
last, but not least, the well-dressed men and women in the streets, were
signs that we had done with sombre, sad Siberia for good and all.
Ekaterinburg was the first really civilized place we had seen since
leaving Shanghai, it seemed ages ago, and here for the first time since
leaving Pekin we enjoyed the unwonted luxuries of a real bath, and a
clean bed with sheets and pillow-cases.
The neighbourhood of Ekaterinburg, which has a population of twenty-five
thousand inhabitants, is rich in minerals and precious stones. Among the
former iron preponderates; and there are many Englishmen settled here
working it. It seemed strange to hear one’s own tongue again spoken in
the streets and hotels, and to read in many cases the names of the
latter and of shopkeepers written in French over their doors. The
jewellers were almost as wearying and importunate as the Cinghalese
sapphire-sellers at Colombo. We had scarcely been in our room at the
hotel half an hour before we were assailed by a crowd of clamouring
dealers, who would not be denied; but insisted, though we were
performing our ablutions in a state of nudity, in laying out their wares
on the floor, till the drugget was covered with a glittering mass of
gems, among which were beryls, topaz, aquamarines, and chrysolites.
Amongst them were also one or two Alexandrites, the recently discovered
stone which shows two colours, crimson and green, the former by night,
and the latter by day. It derives its name from the Emperor Alexander,
and has also been found in Ceylon of late years. The stones were of
moderate prices, but our funds were too low to permit of our making any
investments, perhaps luckily for ourselves, for here, as in Colombo,
there are many worthless imitations.
We left Ekaterinburg on the afternoon of the 30th of September for Perm,
whence we were to take the steamer down the Kama and Volga rivers to
Nijni Novgorod. Though the railway between the two cities is worked by a
different company to that we had come by from Tiumen, we found the
comfort in every respect as great as on the other line. Each car had its
lavatory, heating apparatus, and comfortable sleeping fauteuils. At
every third or fourth station we found an excellent buffet, open
throughout the night. At one of them, Nijni Tagilsk, where we stopped to
dine, the dining-room of the station would not have disgraced a
first-class hotel in Paris or London. Down the centre of the brilliantly
lighted room ran a long table, covered with snowy table-cloth, and
glittering with silver plate and glass. The waiters were all in evening
dress, with spotless shirt fronts and white ties, and as they served one
with an excellent dinner of four courses and dessert, it was difficult
indeed to realize that one was yet but a few miles out of Asia. It was
the same everywhere. There are twenty odd stations between Ekaterinburg
and Perm, at every one of which was laid out, no matter what hour of the
day or night, a cold, if not hot, meal, or towards the chilly morning
hours steaming bowls of _café-au-lait_ or tea, with dainty rolls and
tiny glasses of vodka and cognac to cheer the inner man. We passed
Neviansk towards sunset, a picturesque village embowered in pine forest,
and surrounded by three large lakes, about two hours out of
Ekaterinburg. Neviansk is used as a summer resort and watering-place by
the inhabitants of the city, when, during June and July the heat and
dust become unbearable.
On the 1st of October, towards 6 a.m., we woke and looked out of the
frost-dimmed windows, to find ourselves in a new world. Wooden rails and
enclosures had given way to thick-set hedges and small fields, plank
huts to stone houses with corrugated iron roofs, a mineral, in this
district, as cheap as pine or fir. The pine and birch forests had
entirely disappeared. We were now passing large plains of cultivated
land, neat farm buildings surrounded by gardens and orchards, and
occasionally a village or town, approached by a poplar-lined road,
winding through the deserted fields. The landscape between Nijni Tagilsk
and Perm might well be mistaken for that lying between Boulogne and
Amiens on the Chemin de Fer du Nord.
The Oural trains are as punctual as they are comfortable, and we reached
Perm to the minute at the appointed time, 9 a.m. The scene at the
station was all confusion. The boat was only advertised to leave at
noon, and the scurry and excitement to get on board seemed very
unnecessary. We here had to encounter an unexpected difficulty. Men were
rushing about the platform with pink and yellow handbills, each
advertising a steamer bound for Nijni Novgorod, both boats to leave at
the same hour——noon. The question was which to go by, for both,
outwardly, looked exactly the same, though flying different company
flags. There was no one to help us, and my small stock of Russian was
absolutely useless in the uproar. In vain I button-holed policemen,
railway porters, soldiers——in vain gesticulated and shouted, “Loutchshi
parohode?” (Best boat?) It was no use, so we determined to do as we had
always done in the event of uncertainty, toss up. The steamer _Perm_ was
the one our coin settled on, and, fortunately for us, the right one. The
other boat, the _Nijni Novgorod_, was a wretched tub, and arrived at its
destination only five days after us, when we were already comfortably
settled in Moscow.
Perm is not a prepossessing city, though the day we saw it was perhaps
not a favourable one. A dense fog shrouded everything in damp white
mist, through which loomed the dome of the cathedral, and great, gaunt
warehouses lining the banks of the river. A steady drizzle, which had
commenced on our arrival and continued ever since with steady
persistency, extinguished all our hopes of visiting the town, and we
were glad to take refuge out of the cold and fog in the brilliantly
lighted though somewhat stuffy saloon of the steamer, where several of
the passengers (of which there were about a hundred) had already settled
down to a good square meal of stchi (cabbage soup), sterlet, and
beefsteak. A somewhat substantial menu for nine in the morning!
It was a relief to find that, by paying a few roubles extra, we could
secure a cabin to ourselves, and one considerably roomier than those
generally met with in ocean-going ships. At mid-day, punctual to the
minute, the bell was rung, the whistle sounded, and in less than ten
minutes the city of Perm was lost in a shroud of mist, and we were
steadily ploughing our way through the broad yellow stream to the last
stage of our homeward journey, Nijni Novgorod.
—————
Footnote 16:
A kind of oatmeal cake.
Footnote 17:
Eggs, tea, milk.
Footnote 18:
It is curious to note that, in 1761, the Abbé d’Autroche found the
population of Tobolsk to be 15,000 souls; in 1861, exactly one hundred
years later, it was only 16,000.
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