One morning while I was in Barnaool the doctor left me writing, and
went out for a promenade. In half an hour he returned accompanied by a
tall, well-formed man with a brunette complexion, and hair and
mustache black as ebony. His dress was Russian, but the face impressed
me as something strange.
“Let me introduce you,” said the doctor, “to an officer of the Persian
army. He has been eight years from home, and would like to talk with
an American.”
We shook hands, and by way of getting on familiar footing, I opened
my cigar case. Dr. Schmidt translated our conversation, the Persian
speaking Russian very fairly. His story was curious and interesting.
He was captured in 1858 near Herat, by a party of predatory Turcomans.
His captors sold him to a merchant at Balkh where he remained
sometime. From Balkh he was sold to Khiva, and from Khiva to Bokhara,
whence he escaped with a fellow captive. I asked if he was compelled
to labor during his captivity, and received a negative reply. Soldiers
and all others except officers are forced to all kinds of drudgery
when captured by these barbarians. Officers are held for ransom, and
their duties are comparatively light.
Russian slaves are not uncommon in Central Asia, though less numerous
than formerly. The Kirghese cripple their prisoners by inserting a
horse hair in a wound in the heel. A man thus treated is lamed for
life. He cannot use his feet in escaping, and care is taken that he
does not secure a horse.
The two fugitives traveled together from Bokhara, suffering great
hardships in their journey over the steppes. They avoided all towns
through fear of capture, and subsisted upon whatever chance threw in
their way. Once when near starvation they found and killed a sheep.
They ate heartily of its raw flesh, and before the supply thus
obtained was exhausted they reached the Russian boundary at Chuguchak.
One of the twain died soon afterward, and his companion in flight came
to Barnaool. The authorities would not let him go farther without a
passport, and he had been in the town nearly a year at the time of my
visit.
Through the Persian ambassador at St. Petersburg, he had communicated,
with his government at Teheran, and expected his passport in a few
weeks.
During the eight years that had elapsed since his capture this
gentleman heard nothing from his own country. He had learned to speak
Russian but could not read it. I told him of the completion of the
Indo-European telegraph by way of the Euphrates and the Persian Gulf,
and the success of electric communication between England and India.
Naturally he was less interested concerning the Atlantic cable than
about the telegraph in his own country. We shook hands at parting, and
mutually expressed a wish to meet again in Persia and America.
After his departure, the doctor commented upon the intelligent bearing
and clear eye of the Persian, and then said:
“I have done several strange and unexpected things in my life, but I
never dreamed I should be the interpreter between a Persian and an
American at the foot of the Altai mountains.”
I met at Barnaool, a Prussian gentleman Mr. Radroff, who was sent to
Siberia by the Russian Academy of Science. He knew nearly all the
languages of Europe, and had spent some years in studying those of
Central Asia. He could converse and read in Chinese, Persian, and
Mongol, and I don’t know how many languages and dialects of lesser
note. His special mission was to collect information about the present
and past inhabitants of Central Asia, and in this endeavor he had
made explorations in the country of the Kirghese and beyond Lake
Balkask. He was preparing for a journey in 1867 to Kashgar.
Mr. Radroff possessed many archaeological relics gathered in his
researches, and exhibited drawings of many tumuli. He had a curious
collection of spear heads, knives, swords, ornaments, stirrup irons,
and other souvenirs of ancient days. He discoursed upon the ages of
copper, gold, and iron, and told the probable antiquity of each
specimen he brought out. He gave me a spear head and a knife blade
taken from a burial mound in the Kirghese country. “You observe,” said
he, “they are of copper and were doubtless made before the discovery
of iron. They are probably three thousand years old, and may be more.
In these tumuli, copper is found much better preserved than iron,
though the latter is more recently buried.”
At this gentleman’s house, I saw a Persian soldier who had been ten
years in captivity among the Turcomans, where he was beaten and forced
to the lowest drudgery, and often kept in chains. After long and
patient waiting he escaped and reached the Siberian boundary. Having
no passport, and unable to make himself understood, he was sent to
Barnaool and lodged in prison where he remained nearly two years! The
Persian officer above mentioned, heard of him by accident, and
procured his release. Mr. Radroff had taken the man as a house servant
and a teacher of the Persian language. I heard him read in a sonorous
voice several passages from the Koran. His face bore the marks of deep
suffering, and gave silent witness to the story of his terrible
captivity in the hands of the Turcomans. His incarceration at Barnaool
was referred to as an “unfortunate oversight.” Escaping from barbarian
slavery he fell into a civilized prison, and must have considered
Christian kindness more fanciful than real. He expected to accompany
his countryman on his return to Persia.
The day before our departure, we were invited to a public dinner in
honor of our visit. It took place at the club rooms, the tables being
set in what was once the parquet of the theatre. The officials, from
General Freeze downward, were seated in the order of their rank, and
the post of honor was assigned to the two strangers. No ladies were
present, and the dinner, so far as its gastronomic features went, was
much like a dinner at Irkutsk or Kiachta.
At the second course my attention was called to an excellent fish
peculiar to the Ob and Yenesei rivers. It is a species of salmon under
the name of Nalma, and ascends from the Arctic Ocean. Beef from the
Kirghese steppes elicited our praise, and so did game from the region
around Barnaool. At the end of the dinner I was ready to answer
affirmatively the inquiry, “all full inside?”
At the appearance of the champagne, Colonel Taskin of the mining
engineers made a brief speech in English, and ended by proposing the
United States of America and the health of the American stranger. Dr.
Schmidt translated my response as well as my toast to the Russian
empire, and especially the inhabitants of Barnaool. The doctor was
then honored for his mammoth hunt, and made proper acknowledgment.
Then we had personal toasts and more champagne with Russian and
American music, and champagne again, and then we had some more
champagne and then some champagne.
When the tables were removed, we had impromptu dancing to lively
music, including several Cossack dances, some familiar and others new
to me. There is one of these dances which usually commences by a woman
stepping into the centre of the room and holding a kerchief in her
right hand. Moving gracefully to the music, she passes around the
apartment, beckoning to one, hiding her face from another,
gesticulating with extended arms before a third, and skilfully
manipulating the kerchief all the while. When this sentimental
pantomime is ended, she selects a partner and waves the kerchief over
him. He pretends reluctance, but allows himself to be dragged to the
floor where the couple dance _en deux_. The dance includes a great
deal of entreaty, aversion, hope, and despair, all in dumb show, and
ends by the lady being led to a seat. I saw this dance introduced in
a ballet at the Grand Theatre in Moscow, and wondered why it never
appeared on the stage outside the Russian empire.
One of the gentlemen who danced admirably had recovered the use of his
legs two years before, after being unable to walk no less than
twenty-eight years. He declared himself determined to make up for lost
time, and when I left the hall, he continued entertaining himself.
During the dancing, a party gathered around where I stood and I
observed that every lady was assembling as if to witness some fun. “Be
on your watch,” a friend whispered, “they are going to give you the
_polkedovate_.”
The _polkedovate_ is nothing more nor less than a tossing up at the
hands of a dozen or twenty Russians. It has the effect of intoxicating
a sober man, but I never heard that it sobered a drunken one. Major
Collins was elevated in this way at Kiachta, and declares that the
effect, added to the champagne he had previously taken, was not at all
satisfactory. Remembering his experience, and fearing I might go too
high or come too low, I was glad when a diversion was made in my favor
by a gentleman coming to bid me good night.
[Illustration: THE POLKEDOVATE.]
The custom of tossing up a guest is less prevalent in Siberia than ten
or twenty years ago. It was formerly a mark of high respect, but I
presume few who were thus honored would have hesitated to forego the
distinguished courtesy.
One of the gentlemen I met at dinner had a passion for trotting
horses. He asked me many questions about the famous race horses in
America, from Lady Suffolk down to the latest two-twenties. I answered
to the best of my abilities, but truth required me to say I was not
authority in equine matters. The gentleman treated me to a display of
trotting by a Siberian horse five years old, and carefully trained. I
forget the exact figures he gave me, but believe they were something
like two-thirty to the mile. To my unhorsy eye, the animal was pretty,
and well formed, and I doubt not he would have acquitted himself
finely on the Bloomingdale Road. The best horses in Siberia are
generally from European Russia, the Siberian climate being unfavorable
to careful breeding. Kirghese horses are excellent under the saddle,
but not well reputed for draught purposes.
I gave out some washing at Barnaool, and accidentally included a paper
collar in the lot. When the laundress returned the linen, she
explained with much sorrow the dissolution of the collar when she
attempted to wash it. I presume it was the first of its kind that ever
reached the Altai mountains.
[Illustration: MAKING EXPLANATION.]
We arranged to leave Barnaool at the conclusion of the dinner at the
club room. First we proceeded to the house of Colonel Taskin where we
took ‘positively the last’ glass of champagne. Our preparations at our
lodgings were soon completed, and the baggage carefully stowed. A
party of our acquaintances assembled to witness our departure, and
pass through a round of kissing as the yemshick uttered ‘gotovey.’
They did not make an end of hand-shaking until we were wrapped and
bundled into the sleigh.
It was a keen, frosty night with the stars twinkling in the clear
heavens as we drove outside the yard of our hotel. Horses, driver, and
travelers were alike exhilarated in the sharp atmosphere and we dashed
off at courier pace. The driver was a musical fellow, and endeavored
to sing a Russian ballad while we were galloping over the glistening
snow.
We had a long ride before us. The wide steppe of Baraba, or
Barabinsky, lies between Barnaool and the foot of the Ural mountains.
There was no town where we expected to stop before reaching Tumen,
fifteen hundred versts away. As the luxuries of life are not abundant
on this road we stored our sleighs with provisions, and hoped to add
bread and eggs at the stations. Our farewell dinner was considered a
sufficient preparation for at least a hundred and fifty versts. I
nestled down among the furs and hay which formed my bed, leaned back
upon the pillows and exposed only a few square inches of visage to the
nipping and eager air.
A few versts from town we stuck upon an icy bank where the smooth feet
of our horses could not obtain holding ground. After a while we
attached one horse to a long rope, and enabled him to pull from the
level snow above the bank. I expected the yemshick would ask us to
lighten the sleigh by stepping out of it. An American driver would
have put us ashore without ceremony, but custom is otherwise in
Siberia. Horses and driver are engaged to take the vehicle and its
burden to the next station, and it is the traveler’s privilege to
remain in his place in any emergency short of an overturn.
The track was excellent, having been well trodden since the storm. We
followed our former road a hundred versts from Barnaool, and then
turned to the left to strike the great post route near Kansk. It was
necessary to cross the river Ob, and as we reached the station near it
during the night, we waited for daylight. The ice was sufficiently
thick and firm, but the danger arose from holes and thin places that
could not be readily discovered in the dark. While crossing we met a
peasant who had tumbled into one of these holes, and been fished out
by his friends. He looked unhappy, and no doubt felt so. His garments
were frozen stiff, and altogether he resembled a bronze statue of
Franklin after a freezing rain storm.
[Illustration: AFTER THE BATH.]
The thermometer fell on the first night to fifteen degrees below zero,
and to about -20° just before sunrise. The colder it grew the better
was our speed, the horses feeling the crisp air and the driver being
anxious to complete his stage in the least time possible. With uniform
roads and teams one can judge pretty fairly of the temperature by the
rate at which he travels. From Barnaool we did not have the horses of
the post, but engaged our first troikas of a peasant who offered his
services. Our yemshick took us to his friend at the first station, and
this operation was regularly repeated. Occasionally our two yemshicks
had different friends, and our sleighs were separately out-fitted.
When this was the case the teams were speedily attached out of a
spirit of rivalry. We frequently endeavored to excite the yemshicks to
the noble ambition of a race by offering a few copecks to the winner.
When the teams were furnished from different houses the temper of
emulation roused itself spontaneously.
Twice we left the post route to make short cuts that saved thirty or
forty miles travel. On those side roads we found plenty of horses,
and were promptly served. The inhabitants of the steppe are delighted
at the opportunity to carry travelers at post rates. The latter are
saved the trouble of exhibiting their _padarashnia_ at every station,
and generally prefer to employ private teams. The horses were small,
wiry beasts of Tartar breed, and utter strangers to combs and brushes.
While at breakfast on the second morning we were accosted by an old
and decrepid beggar. The fellow wore a decoration consisting of a box
six or seven inches square, suspended on his breast by a strap around
his neck. Though seedy enough to set up business on his own account,
he explained that he was begging for the church. His honesty was
evidently in question as the box was firmly locked and had an aperture
in the top for receiving money. We each gave ten copecks into his
hand, and I observed that he did not drop the gratuity into the box. I
was reminded of the man who owed a grudge against a railroad line, and
declared that the company should never have another cent of his money.
A friend asked how he would prevent it, as he frequently traveled over
the road.
“Easy enough,” was the calm reply, “I shall hereafter pay my fare to
the conductor.”
The morning after reaching Barnaool, I had a fine twinge of rheumatism
that adhered during my stay. Quite to my surprise it left me on the
second day after our departure, and like the bad boy in the story
never came back again. The medical faculty can have the benefit of my
experience, and prescribe as follows for their rheumatic patients.
“st. nt. o. lg. sl. S. r. = ther. - z
“Start at night on a long sleigh ride over a Siberian road with the
thermometer below zero.”
A bouran arose in the afternoon of the second day, but was neither
violent nor very cold. At Barnaool I had my sleigh specially prepared
to exclude drifting snow. I ordered a liberal supply of buttons and
straps to fasten the boot to the hood, besides an overlapping flap of
thick felt to cover the crevice between them. The precaution was well
taken, and with our doors thoroughly closed we were not troubled with
much snow. The drivers were exposed on the outside of the sleigh, and
had the full benefit of the wind. At the end of the first drive after
this storm commenced our yemshick might have passed for an animated
snow statue. The road was tolerable, and a great improvement upon that
from Krasnoyarsk to Tomsk.
[Illustration: TAIL PIECE]