insignificant, and generally very far from the station--sometimes so far
that I can scarcely understand the reason of our stopping. For miles and
miles around there is no human habitation, and we wonder by whose hands
all those fields are worked. The most important township seemed to be
Marsanka. It is a typical Russian country town, with its wooden houses,
each surrounded by a flower-garden, and each garden fenced by
lattice-work. The houses and gates are all painted in bright colours. A
river encloses the entire place like a loop, and beyond the river are
low-lying hills. The main feature of the place is given by innumerable
windmills, of all sizes and of every imaginable construction--all
equally conspicuous, equally high, and equally equipped with gigantic
sails. They all whirl--they all work as if they would never stop. I do
not think I ever saw so many windmills within view at one time; I
counted more than a hundred. What a fertile country it must be, to keep
so many busy!
[Illustration: MARSANKA AFTER A WATER COLOUR DRAWING BY THE AUTHOR "The
main feature of the place is given by innumerable windmills" To face
page 28]
It is night as we arrive at Pienza, and we can see nothing except the
railway station; but, as I hear, this is the main sight of the place. A
fine building, though constructed of wood. I must also add that the
stations all along the line are fine and convenient. They are well kept,
a great many have restaurants, abundantly stocked, with richly laid out
tables, and fair attendance. Prices are high, but this is to be
expected, considering the distance from which they sometimes procure
their provisions. Here at Pienza I find even luxury. Grapes and
peaches from the Crimea, wine from Germany and France, and all kinds of
American and English conserves; and, as ornamentation, fine old French
candelabra, derived probably from some ruined noble's residence.
The station is animated. A great many officers and a great many
officials, all dressed in uniform. Some are travellers, some have just
come from the town for mere amusement. The great express has not yet
lost its novelty, and twice a week is the object of universal
admiration. Our train consists of two first-class and three second-class
carriages, a dining-car, luggage-van, tender, and engine. A long
corridor leads from one end to the other, and affords a convenient walk
for daily exercise. The compartments are nicely fitted up; the one I
occupy, a so-called saloon, affords me a comfortable home during the
journey. The dining-car is fitted up in American style; and, as I see,
all the seats are taken from morning till night. To my fellow-passengers
their meals seem to be their only occupation, for if the train stops,
and there is a restaurant, they alight and commence each time a fresh
meal. Indeed, my fellow-passengers are great eaters and great talkers;
they seem to speak about everything with the same ease and unreserve.
Especially when they start on their own countrymen and government,
there is no end to their sarcasm and witty remarks. To any one liking to
hear about the local conditions, the Siberian journey gives an
exceptional opportunity. People soon become acquainted, and if so they
are delighted to find somebody to whom to grumble. Before twenty-four
hours had passed I learnt more about the corn-fields and little villages
we skirted; about Russian agricultural and industrial aspirations; about
agrarian Plehve and M. de Witte's commercial enterprises than I ever
should have expected.
[Illustration: SAMARA "I shall make a short stay at Samara" To face page
30]
It seems that Russia is at present passing through a serious crisis
which affects everybody, rich and poor--especially the latter. The
conditions of the peasantry are often very hard, though the reports we
read are generally exaggerated. Education and moral training might do a
great deal to lift them out of their stagnant state, to inspire
self-reliance, and awaken sound ambitions; but this is exactly what
appears to be lacking, and where so much good could be done. And the
people deserve education, for these Russian peasants, as a whole, are a
fine stock--strong and healthy, easy to lead, and not difficult to
improve. Even more, they have generally an unspoilt heart, and are
capable of gratitude. What I hear unanimously abused is the local
administration. If I were to believe half what I heard about the
unworthiness of the official employes, their untruthfulness and
bribery, it would be bad enough, and would easily explain the reason of
the continuous outbreaks. The antagonism between the so-called
Progressives and Conservatives is becoming more intolerant, and
strivings for reform on a smaller or larger scale seem to be universal.
Some are hopeful, some pessimistic; some see Russia's future secured on
the same old patriarchal and primitive foundations, others believe in
commercial prosperity, trade, and advance. It is a great problem, and it
is equally interesting to listen to the advocate of one or other theory.
Yet I am afraid that in their sanguine anticipations they are equally
far from what will prove to be the reality.
All the talk I listen to serves as a description of, or comment on, the
uninterrupted panorama which unfolds itself without ceasing before us as
we glide swiftly along. It is a kind of prologue to the epic of this
land which we shall soon leave altogether.
To-morrow we shall cross the Volga by the famous steel bridge of nearly
a mile. I shall make a short stay at Samara, and shall visit its
well-known orphanages, asylums, and other charitable establishments
which the town is so proud of; and, somewhat farther towards the east,
the train will wind along the Ural Mountains to Siberia.
IV
WESTERN SIBERIA
At half-past nine in the morning we cross the boundary of the two
continents. We are in Asia. A kind of mysterious feeling impresses
itself on my mind. New sensations infuse themselves into me. Encouraging
hopes awaken, which I trust will give me endurance to carry out my work
and aims.
Asia! What a field for exploration! What an unlimited area for higher
aspirations! Modest as our endeavours may be, the result may prove
incalculable in the future. From a commercial, civilizing, or spiritual
point of view, there is an equally vast field for action.
[Illustration: ON THE VOLGA "The famous steel bridge of nearly a mile"
To face page 32]
Our last day in Europe passed on the Baskir land--a high plateau, a
severe and cold region, covered with rich pasture and inhabited by a
semi-nomadic race of the same name. Fine people they are, of heavy
countenance and magnificent frame; very conservative in their habits,
very clannish in their intimacies, and even today living from preference
in tents. They wear sheepskins; cover their heads, like Eskimos, with
furs; and, instead of boots, roll round their feet and legs skins
fastened like a classic sandal with endless straps of leather. They look
uncouth, but picturesque. Their movements are unquestionably plastic.
This race is one of the finest of the Tartar stock, and I am sorry to
learn that they are slowly dying out.
We stop at different places, and on each platform there are many
Baskirs, men and women all looking very much alike. They are bringing
from their encampments milk, eggs, and poultry, to sell. I ask several
of them the prices of their goods, and I am astonished at the cheapness
of the market. The price of meat per pound amounts to the trifle of five
kopecks; while for twenty roubles one may buy a horse, and a good one
too. The soil is rich, its fertility is exceptional, and it possesses
every quality for agricultural purposes. The future of the district is
bound to be prosperous, and, what is more, the climate is most
invigorating--raw and windy, but withal reminding me very much of the
northern Scottish moors. Even the scenery, when it becomes a little more
hilly, has a certain likeness to Scotland, and the same charm of
solitude and melancholy. All this district impressed me very much, both
from a geographical and an ethnological point of view, and by its
magnitude it cannot fail to appeal to our minds.
The famous Ural range, I must simply confess, did not come up to my
expectations. I understand the beauty of glaciers and snow-clad peaks,
barren as they may be, and I fully appreciate all the beauty of a vast
plain, or the charm of a sand-covered desert; but the medium--what is
neither one nor the other, neither handsome nor grand, but what so many
admire and call "pretty scenery"--never appeals to me. What interested
me more was the economic possibility of this long stretch of slopes. The
extent of the treasures of this range is yet unknown, though there are
mines which were flourishing in the eighteenth century. Suleta's shafts
were sunk in 1757, and are still under the workman's tools. The mines
belong largely to the Crown; they are partly worked by societies, and
some are private property. The Strogonoffs and Beloselskys have all made
their great wealth in these mines. Some of them seem to be
inexhaustible. What is more, besides gold, silver, lead, iron, almost
every mineral seems to be contained in their depths. We met a great many
workmen as we stopped, apparently without any reason, on our way,
winding up endless zigzags to the top of the mountain. I am rather
astonished that they do not in the least look like miners. They are
neither blackened by coal-dust or smoke, nor have they the gloomy
expression and sad countenance of those people who are bound to work and
live underground, deprived of the rays of the sun for the greater part
of their lives. They look much more like farmers--people of bright
disposition. I hear the wages are low; but their needs are small, so
that they can easily procure all that seems necessary to their
happiness. On the top of the mountain there stands a lofty granite
obelisk, with a short but significant inscription. There are only two
words: on one side "Europe," on the other "Asia."
[Illustration: SIBERIAN HOME "Very conservative in their habits" To face
page 34]
We are in Western Siberia, in the midst of an expanse of steppe. It
seems to be boundless, and it has nothing to mark its space. It is like
a sea, with all the suggestiveness of the ocean. Our train crawls like a
black reptile, like a monster of a fairy tale, breathing its steam and
black smoke against the cloudless sky. What a sky it is! Pale blue, cold
and without a single cloud. I am afraid I must again contradict the
general opinion of travellers about this corner of the earth. I have
repeatedly heard travellers tell of the gloom and tediousness of the
journey across it. I cannot agree with either remark. Instead of gloom,
I rather think repose would be a more appropriate expression to describe
its true character; and tediousness is really a question of personal
disposition.
I again break my journey at several places, and always find more of
interest and more new material for study than I should have dared to
anticipate. Western Siberia is a marvellous territory, and it possesses
all that is required to make a country flourishing. I quite understand
the great interest which it arouses, and it is natural that the country
should invest money lavishly for the furtherance of its progress. They
have built up in a comparatively short time some important townships.
Petropaulovsk, and especially Omsk, Tobolsk, and Tomsk, are already
well-known centres, provided with richly endowed public institutions.
The Government maintains some large schools and colleges, and does
everything in its power to attract new settlers to the uninhabited
regions.
[Illustration: A SIBERIAN TOWN "They have built up in a comparatively
short time some important townships" To face page 36]
The colonization of Siberia is one of the most important national
questions--to people thousands and thousands of square miles; to exploit
all its resources; to make a country where there is now only surface and
space. And the Government knows how to offer attractions. Land is
granted under the most favourable conditions; there is no taxation for
the first three years, seed is provided on easy terms, and, if required,
agricultural implements and machinery are sold on the instalment system.
The journey is nearly free, the fare being reduced to a few kopecks per
hundreds of miles. Petropaulovsk is bound to become one day the junction
of Central Asia, when railway lines will run to the north along the Obi
valley and south _via_ Atmolinsk, to Tashkend and Bokhara. All this is
well thought out, and already carefully planned. Its accomplishment
seems to be a mere question of time, and, as indeed is well known as an
historical fact, time has never seemed to be an obstacle to the
achievement of any aspiration conceived by Russia.
The long line across the vast desert area is marked at intervals by
smaller or larger railway stations. For whom, and what for? one might
ask, as there is nothing in sight. No town, no village, not even one
human habitation. But, we are told, Government will soon build a
township. It already has a name, and some of those imaginary cities even
have a small Greek basilica, surmounted with glaring green cupolas.
Again, some are partly finished, and their wide streets are bordered by
a few wooden buildings. At the corners there are commodious shops; on
the open square very likely a school; near it store-houses for wheat and
temporary lodgings for settlers. It all looks so attractive from the
railway station that I wonder if they do it on purpose to make it
tempting.
Some of these new places do not entirely lack artistic beauty, and
certainly they all have the same characteristic of appearing very
national, holding firmly to the native taste and following the Muscovite
style of architecture. Everything, it must be confessed, is in keeping
with the surroundings, and at the same time practical and adequate to
the locality. The new settler builds a small house of wood, and at the
same time tries to make it look neat by carving it elaborately if he
can, and never fails to paint the wood in all kinds of bright colours.
V
CENTRAL SIBERIA
From unlimited pastures we pass to endless forests. For days we are
surrounded by magnificent vegetation, including beautiful trees of
varied hues. There are dark oaks and pale elms, copper beeches and
silver birches, the colour of which is just turning. The foliage is
fading, and as one pierces through their depths the leaves shake and
rustle and pour down in golden showers. Beautiful this Siberian woodland
is! Unknown, unpenetrated, striking in its virgin prime.
[Illustration: RAILWAY CHURCH SERVICE "A rolling Greek basilica" To face
page 38]
The railway cuts through in a straight line for hundreds of miles, and
there is nothing to be seen on either side but centenarian trees and
feathery ferns. What a field of exploration for a botanist! What a
collection of beautiful herbs and mosses! What exquisite wild flowers!
The colour of them is so deep and glorious, and the green of the grass
is of the richest shade. Many of the species are scarcely known yet,
and it is quite astonishing to find, in these far-away regions, plants
belonging to families of quite different latitudes. If the flora is so
surprising, the fauna is even more so: animals of every size and of
every description, from large bears to tiny squirrels. There are many
kinds of quadrupeds: wolves, foxes, snow-leopards, wild goats, martens,
sables, ermines, and all the innumerable members of the feline race. But
what are even more interesting than the animal nature are the fossils
found along the banks of the rivers and deep in the gloom of the earth.
Some magnificent specimens of antediluvian skeletons have been
excavated, and these are zealously kept in the museums of St.
Petersburg, Moscow, and Irkutsk. And for the ornithologist it is a
perfect land for research. The birds and their lives seem to have in
Siberia a most interesting past, and the laws of migration offer a
special field of observation. Some come from as far as Australia, while
others choose for their winter home New Zealand. The theories explaining
this mystery of nature are rather conflicting, and scientists have
devised various explanations of these far-distant wanderings. The
butterflies and beetles are unique also; in fact, it is a world in
itself lost in far-away Siberia.
The long track between Tomsk and Irkutsk has the reputation of being
the dreariest and the most desolate part of the journey. I did not
expect to find much, which may very likely be the reason that I was so
surprised to come across towns like Krasnoyark, Kanks, and Udinsk. The
first, especially, is an important centre for trade and business.
Besides wheat and other cereals, it is the great depot for the
increasing exportation of skins, furs, tallow, grease, and lately
butter. The export of butter is becoming of the greatest importance in
Siberia. Farming is increasing from day to day, and the Danes accomplish
a great deal in this respect. The yearly export to Europe, especially to
the English market, is quite astonishing, even more so when we take into
consideration that there are no winter pastures, and that all the cattle
must be kept on stable food. It is easy to understand the amount of
labour and care it requires, and yet it must pay, considering the number
of Danish families which come yearly to settle down in Siberia. For some
time Krasnoyark has been the terminus of the Western Siberian line, and
it derives its present importance partly from this fact. Udinsk is
growing rapidly too, and is the centre of a vast area. Around its
station I saw an enormous encampment of small Russian tarantas, or cars,
heavily laden with piles of sacks. Barns near the line were packed with
wheat and corn; and yet these stores do not seem to remain there
long, for all through the journey we constantly passed trains loaded
with cereals. What will it be when all of this enormous land, the whole
of Siberia, is under cultivation!
[Illustration: _Photo, Levitsky_ _Copyright, Nops Ltd._ M. DE PLEHVE To
face page 40]
It was most interesting to watch all these and many other features; to
realize all that has been done already since the railway was
constructed, and to conjecture the country in its full development; for
nature seems to have provided it with everything. I am more and more
astonished to find "dreadful Siberia" in reality as rich as, or even
richer than its neighbour across the sea--the beautiful Canada.
Behind the green forest a dark blue wall seems to fence the plain in
towards the south. This is the Altai range. Its length is six hundred
verst, and its peaks seem to be crushed under the heavy clouds. On the
other side is China. The Altai district has some of the most beautiful
scenery of the whole globe. It is densely wooded, and dotted with lakes
and watered by endless streams and rivers, for the largest streams of
Asia flow from there to the Polar Sea. The mighty Yenisei, Lena, Obi,
all have their sources among this wilderness. The Altai range was the
cradle of the most ancient races, for the earliest inhabitants of the
earth belonged to the same stock as the Finnish and Turanian, and
prehistorical remains of them are to be found to this day. Even
Herodotus mentions these early folk. Later on Mongolian hordes swept
over the calm valleys, and the present populace show visible traces of
the extraordinary mixture of the different races which arose in or
overran this country. What great people some of them became! What
extraordinary might some of them acquired! With what striking lines they
have filled the pages of history! And as in those days long gone by,
some of those tribes still preserve their independence and unlimited
freedom. They have even kept the old name of the highest peak, and call
it, as ever before, Chin-Chan, the golden mountain.
I was roused from my reflections by the clanging of the railway bell at
the Irkutsk station. At last I had arrived at the largest town, what
people here call the "Paris" of Siberia. Since yesterday morning I have
been travelling in the territory of the government bearing the same
name, of which it is the administrative centre. The district of Irkutsk
is enormous, with its five divisions of Nijni-Oudinsk, Balagansk,
Kirinsk, Irkutsk, and Erbolinsk, of which each is a territory in itself.
It extends south to China, and submerges north into the Arctic Ocean.
Its variety equals its size. Besides the flat pasture regions, it has
mountains towering up to Alpine elevations. Moonkov-Sarde is 11,430 feet
high. The fertility of the soil is equalled by the richness of the
mines; but this vast area contains scarcely a million people. The
northern part of it is entirely barren, and hardly explored at all. The
present populace derive their origin from Mongolian lineage. The most
numerous are the Buriats, Tungus, and Kalmuks, who lead nomadic lives,
and for occupation rear their herds, hunt, and fish. They are not yet
acquainted with agriculture, and when they settle by the sides of rivers
and fertile districts they leave the land to be cultivated by the Slavs,
and acquire their tools and requisites by the simple method of exchange.
Their religion is idolatry. In the south there are a great many
Buddhists, and Mohammedanism appeals especially to the Tartars.
Of all the strange folk by whom Siberia is inhabited, general curiosity
seems to be most interested in the convicts, of whom, during the last
century alone, more than one hundred thousand were sent into exile. Only
half of them ever returned to their homes again--many died; and only a
small contingent settled down after the expiration of the punishment.
But all this has often been narrated and described by famous authors:
sometimes in such vivid colours, depicted in all its gloom, lamented
with sighs of agony, that on visiting some of the prisons and workhouses
I am quite astonished to find them far above my expectations.
Considering the ordinary condition of a Russian criminal, the
difference between home and prison is not harder than in any other
country. If the officials and jailers are men with human sympathies,
there is every opportunity of spending their time in a way which will
lead to general improvement. Where the misery really comes in is with
those who are of a higher culture and greater refinement, and who are,
justly or unjustly, punished for some uproar, and who suffer merely for
their convictions.
To give an adequate idea of the Irkutsk station on a foggy and rainy
autumn night, at the hour when the express arrives, is simply beyond
possibility. And to describe the way of getting from the station to the
town is even more so. To begin with, the railway station does not look
like a station in other parts of the world at all. Roads or streets
cannot be seen, and a town, in our acceptation of the word, does not
exist. The words seem to change and to lose their meanings there. If it
had been light I should have tried to take some pictures of the
desolation; but it is pitch dark, so I will confine myself for the
moment to putting down a few notes--my first impressions.