open with violence, some brigand-looking men jump in, and as suddenly
as they came disappear again, but alas! with all my luggage. How long it
took to gather and regain it altogether, I do not remember; and the
extent of my walks from one end of the long platforms to the other I
cannot calculate. On the chilly platform of Irkutsk station all ideas of
time and space vanish completely. I think I should be seeking to the
present hour if a martial-looking officer had not come to my help. His
height is imposing, his gestures commanding, and his voice resounding.
He uses all his enviable qualities at once, and all for the same
purpose--to find my kit. He fights his way to achieve this by cutting
through ground heavily barricaded by cases, sacks, travelling-bags, and
furniture. He makes people stand up and clear out of his way, scolds and
threatens all the porters and every mujik he comes across. And, strange
as it seems to me, his efforts are crowned with success. He hands me
over all my belongings! I thank him heartily for his kindness and
express my sincere hope that, owing to his great strategical abilities,
I may find him, if ever I return to Siberia, promoted to the rank of
general. At the same time I cannot omit remarking that the general
civility and kindness which were shown to me, by employes and passengers
alike, were most gratifying. Everybody seemed to wish to help, to give
information, and offer whatever they possessed. Their manners, from the
highest to the lowest, were irreproachable. I will go further, and say
that on no railway have I ever met guards showing more attention and
more good-nature. And much patience they require. The electric bells of
the different compartments seemed to tinkle incessantly, as if the only
occupation of some of the travellers was to ask what they already know,
and to order what they do not require.
Whips crack, horses neigh, coachmen yell, travellers scream, porters
quarrel. Such is the scene which awaits me in front of the station. I
secure one of the many small droshkies, of which there are hundreds, and
all shaky and open like the public vehicles of sunny Naples. The only
difference is that instead of sunbeams there is sleet falling on us from
above. My belongings are put on another droshky, skilfully fitted
together like an elaborate mosaic. We start in a sea of mud--dark and
liquid as a sauce--which covers everything like a shiny varnish. The
depths beneath must be great, for sometimes my droshky is nearly
submerged, and the lava-like stream floods our small vehicle. But it
seems to be built for use on land or on water, for sometimes I have a
sensation of floating in a canoe, rather than rolling along on wheels.
We reach terra firma in the shape of a bridge formed of logs, nailed and
tied together. The bridge is long, but at last, on coming to the end of
it, the driver announces with pride, "We are at Irkutsk." I cannot help
asking, "Where?" for I do not see any buildings or any sign of a town.
It takes some time before I can distinguish in the depths of the night
high palisades, looking very much like those surrounding soldiers'
encampments in the Middle Ages. Above the palisades a few roofs emerge,
low and sloping, very much like a tent. But at a sharp turn a brilliant
electric globe spreads its beams, like those of a lighthouse at sea, to
lead the wanderer to a secure harbour. Following its course, we land at
the doorway of the famous Hotel du Metropole.
For famous it is! I shall certainly not forget it, and hope never to see
it again, for I think it contains all that Western bad taste and Eastern
filth combined can produce. Along a passage carpeted with red Brussels
and mud a waiter, in evening dress, but apparently without linen, shows
me to an apartment furnished with green plush, but devoid of bedding. I
am told that travellers are expected to bring their own sheets and
blankets. I have none, and after some rushing about I am provided with
sheets which I prefer not to use, and would rather content myself for my
night's rest with an easy chair and some travelling-rugs. There is,
moreover, no washstand, for the queer apparatus in the corner, bearing,
apparently as an ornament, only one basin about the size of a
finger-bowl, cannot be so described. No hot water! And if you call for
any they bring a few drops in a cream-jug. Finally, there is no air
either! The windows are nailed up all the year through. On trying to
open one it nearly fell to pieces. So if people nowadays ask me what
hotels in Siberian towns are like, I am bound to say you have plush and
gold, but no fresh air and no hot water!
VI
THE SIBERIAN METROPOLIS
[Illustration: IRKUTSK "As I walk down to the Angara's banks I am short
of adjectives" To face page 48]
How shall I record all the tumultuous impressions of the first
twenty-four hours passed in Irkutsk? After the gloom of the night a
brilliant morning broke forth, brilliant as it is only seen on these
high plateaux. As I took my first glance round, everything seemed to
swim in a blaze of light. The small log houses seemed to have grown into
palaces. The palisades presented colours of hundreds of different
shades. Monuments and gilded domes seemed to have arisen out of the
ground. All the gloomy picture of last night vanished altogether,
dispersed by the light of the sun like the melting away of a nightmare.
What a magician this celestial body is! Painter, sculptor, and
architect, he can construct and raise marvels out of nothing, and
make us see and admire where all is only glamour.
As I walk down to the Angara's banks I am short of adjectives. Language
fails to describe the pureness of the atmosphere, the variety of the
tints of the distant mists, and the whole scenery of the plain with its
vibrating mirages. I think it is at the early hours of the morn and at
sunset that one can best realize the charm of this strange country,
understand the dreamy legends which were born on the soil, realize the
soul of its people, and penetrate into its wondrous atmosphere, full of
enigmas and mysteries.
Irkutsk is a large and important centre, the seat of the military and
civil governors, of the Catholic bishop, of the commander of the forces.
There are high schools, many public institutions, and factories. Irkutsk
is a famous commercial town, and is one of the most prominent markets
for international trade. The high street is an endless row of shops,
full of goods made in Germany, and some in America. I do not see much
English merchandise; but, as I hear, English commercial interests are
only represented in a few of the larger mines and building enterprises.
The Siberian national museum deserves special mention. It is a fine
stone building, rich in all that relates to the origin, history, and
folk-lore of Siberia. A few hours passed in its halls give one a most
extensive insight into the conditions of the different races and tribes
which have peopled these regions for centuries.
Irkutsk from a social standpoint seems to offer some advantages too.
Government employes, officers, and others regard it as a special favour
to get an appointment here. There is a great deal of entertainment, and
in the centre of the town is a most pretentious building--the Imperial
Opera House. Life is expensive, and the population shows a great
tendency to luxury, and even more, what one might call waste. Money is
spent easily and uselessly, as is generally the case in growing places
and recent settlements. In this respect there is a slight resemblance
between Irkutsk and a Western American ranch or an Australian mining
town; and in the afternoon, when everybody promenades on the wooden
pavements, which run like bridges across and along the muddy streets,
the inhabitants show exactly the same variety of origin and of social
condition as in those towns beyond the seas.
Besides Russian, I hear German spoken. Poles are numerous too, and all
the different Baltic provinces have a fair number of representatives.
Nearly all the trade is in their hands. Russians are not commercial
people as a rule. And there is a large Chinese colony, mostly occupied
with the famous overland tea trade _via_ Kiahta. They walk for hours
and hours up and down all these endless pathways, and a great many sit,
covered with furs, in front of their house doors to see the show. About
eight o'clock everything becomes quiet; streets are deserted, doors are
closed, shutters fastened, lights extinguished; and there are only the
watchmen sauntering slowly from corner to corner, monotonously tapping
their wooden rattles to let householders know that they are awake, and
to give the robber at the other side of the street time to escape.
It is worth while! I should, after all, recommend travellers to stop for
a few days in some of the largest Siberian towns, in spite of the rough
hotels and the primitive ways; it gives such a definite idea of their
buildings, inhabitants, and mode of living, as could never be procured
from books.
VII
TRANS-BAIKALIA
I have arrived at the climax of the journey. We are crossing Lake
Baikal. It is the most celebrated passage of the whole overland journey;
the scenery is fine: an extensive sheet of water, brilliant like a
mirror, surrounded by high mountains and majestic rocks; but I am
inclined to repeat what I said before about hilly scenery: lake
districts do not appeal to me. A sea in its greatness, and a marsh in
its diverse variations of colour, are both perfect in their artistic
values, only different in conception. The former imposing, like a
picture of Meesdag; the latter, hazy like a Corot, each perfect in its
style. But a lake, even the prettiest, does not rise above the effects
of a chromo-lithograph. Lake Baikal, viewed from the north, loses its
banks, and so has the advantage of appearing as an ocean.
[Illustration: LAKE BAIKAL "There are some enormous rocks as if thrown
in by the hand of a Titan" To face page 52]
The whole distance is flat, veiled in silver mists and pierced through
here and there by the crystal peaks of the distant mountains. There are
a few islands scattered about, some enormous rocks, as if thrown in by
the hand of a Titan. To each a legend is attached. Each has a different
fairytale. All of them, I am told, were inhabited by dwarfs and fairies,
possessed of marvellous gifts, and belonging to a wondrous past. At
least the mythical minds of these archaic people endowed each striking
spot with a different tale, and there are many such, especially on the
south-eastern shore, which displays a great variety of scenery, and this
proves to be a serious hindrance to the completion of the railway track.
The line around Lake Baikal is not completed yet, for there are several
tunnels still to be bored and a great many rocks to be cut through;
but it is, after all, the only portion of the track which offers any
serious difficulty to the engineer. All the rest has been easy to
accomplish, and, with the exception of building the great railway
bridges, consisted mainly of simply laying the rails on level ground.
But although it was not difficult to construct, it might have been
better done. The rails are altogether too light, and after a few years
of traffic working it is already under constant repair, and will have to
be altered altogether very soon, as it is so defectively ballasted.
At present the train is carried across the lake by a huge vessel built
in Newcastle. In winter they sometimes use an ice-breaker, which
apparently works very slowly, for generally the railway provides, for
passengers and goods, sledges on which to traverse the frozen waters.
Our boat is overcrowded. Passengers of all nations and of all grades.
Besides Russian officials, there are foreign tradesmen, a few Germans,
one American, and a Dane, a detachment of soldiers guarding convicts,
and a few settlers. And so I have an opportunity of watching the four
leading classes of this new country. These are, indeed, the four
different elements by which Siberia is becoming populated. I am rather
impressed by the perfect cordiality with which they share the common
fate in their new home. The soldiers are Cossacks, a kind of irregular
troops, and enjoy perfect freedom. The Government gives them a certain
territory, where they go in for agriculture and raise cattle and horses,
and at the same time are liable for some military service. They are fine
men, excellent soldiers, and deserve their long-established fame for
courage. The settlers are all of a different race, coming mostly from
central and southern Russia. They are indifferent-looking, miserably
clad, poor folk, with sallow faces and sad eyes. Whole families--fathers
and mothers, grandparents and grandchildren--have all gone together to
the far-away promised land to live and to die.
The Russian Government is very anxious to settle agriculturists in these
Eastern Siberian regions, for the land is as yet barely cultivated at
all. Farmers are very scarce, and the famous mines are also short of
labourers. It seems that possibilities here are even greater than in
Western Siberia, the only drawback being the enormous distance. Yet the
journey scarcely costs anything, as I mentioned before; the fare is
merely a nominal sum. It is evident that Russian railways can afford to
lose; their deficits last year amounted to the sum of fourteen million
roubles. But the main object of these State railways is not to make
money--anyhow, not at present. They are designed to colonize this
newly-acquired country, and settle Slavs among the native Mongolian and
Tartar tribes. And besides--and I think before and above all--there are
the strategical interests to be considered. Undoubtedly the Siberian
Railway is a military one, and with all its junctions and crossings
seems to have been planned with the view to forwarding troops and
ammunition speedily. And even the often-discussed puzzle--why does the
Siberian Railway so very frequently avoid entering the most important
townships?--might be partly explained from a military standpoint.
Opinions differ as to whether the railway in its present state can prove
entirely satisfactory for the conveyance of large army corps. At the
same time, we must not forget that it is partly under construction
still, and its final completion seems to be far in the future.
The crossing of Lake Baikal takes between four and five hours. The
passage is extremely rough, and squalls burst forth very unexpectedly.
We arrived about sunset on the eastern shore, at a place called Myssowa,
where there are a few log houses scattered about, and a rough railway
station; but in the dining-room there is a table laid out in a lavish
style, and, like the smallest of them on the line, it does not lack its
pride--a gilt centre-piece and five-armed candelabra. We do not start
again until midnight, so I have time to go for a walk, though soon
return from it, for it is very dreary. There are but few buildings, and
I am afraid every one is a public-house, for Myssowa, being the centre
of a rich mining district, shows all the sad sides of the miners' life.
The money they earn during a hard day's work is thrown away in the hours
of the night. In the front of the station are a few dozen of them
standing about; dismal and stolid-looking creatures, emerged from the
slums of Western towns and launched in Eastern Siberia. In these
far-away regions, workmen are rather well paid, and that is the reason
so many remain for some time in the course of their flight.
It is snowing hard. The feathery flakes fly and skim like so many
white-winged butterflies against the pale grey sky. It is bitterly cold,
and the windows of my railway carriage are thickly frozen over, and when
they clear there is not much to be seen. The high mountains have
disappeared, and there is no majestic plain before us. The whole
district is hilly, with here and there a river, and very scant
vegetation. Villages seem to be unknown, and the first place of any
importance we stop at is Petrovsk, a locality which owes its origin to
its deep mines, enormous factories, and a large prison to furnish the
workmen. What a gloomy site! Never have I seen factories and forges more
desolate, and never has smoke appeared heavier and blacker to me than
that which I see puffing from the numberless chimneys. It is an inferno,
whose horrors only the genius of a Dante could describe. And if Petrovsk
had a city gate, its sole inscription could be "Lasciate ogni speranza
voi ch' entrate."
And how many have entered this ghastly place! How many of the Russian
and Polish nobles have been exiled here! Nariskins, Mouravievs,
Anenkoffs, Volkonskys, Troubetzkois--we find descendants of all. How
many historical families have had their political aspirations stranded
here! The miseries of Omsk have been described by Dostoievsky, but those
of Petrovsk will never be entirely known. Many of the exiles have been
followed by their brave wives, ladies of marvellous courage, leaving
palaces to follow their husbands and to suffer voluntary exile.
Through the frozen lands of Trans-Baikalia we continue our way. I am
told the country is very rich. There are over thirty mines in work at
present, and there might be a great many more. Where they have already
started farming it has proved a great success, and some of the towns
show signs of rising commercial activity; but I know not why this part
of Siberia misses altogether the great charm, in admiration of which I
was lost a few days ago. The high plateau of the Baskirs, the steppes
of the Kirghiz, and the dense forests of the Kalmuks, all had a peculiar
charm and atmosphere; but Trans-Baikalia, though undoubtedly possessing
great economic possibilities, seems to have no beauty at all. The
inhabitants are Buriats, and nomads, like the others, but lack their
sympathetic features, and seem so strange--so entirely different. Their
yellow, parchment-like skins and beady eyes lack all expression, or if
they have any, it is so incomprehensible to us that we look at them as
mere curiosities--as children belonging to another planet.
They live in tents or in huts covered with a kind of felt prepared from
horsehair and furnished with skins; and breed horses, of which they
possess large studs of their own. Men and women are famous riders, and
live in saddles from the cradle to the grave. Men and women wear very
much the same kind of garments, heavy boots and low felt hats, and leave
their long hair hanging in greasy tresses. They resemble the Chinese
very much, and even more so the Tibetans and Bhutanese, and profess the
same religion too--for nearly all are Buddhists. Hundreds of Lamas swarm
all over the country, and there are several monasteries belonging to
them. The Government, which is generally hostile to any creed except the
Greek Church, not only tolerates, but apparently supports their claims
to a certain extent. Russia seems of late to be taking a great interest
in its Buddhist subjects, of whom it possesses several hundred
thousands. It even accords them every facility to make their great
pilgrimages to the Lama of Lhassa, in mysterious Tibet, and by this
means gets into constant communication with the forbidden land.
The last day of our journey is passed in the Amur region; that enormous
district, which was granted to Russia without the drawing of a sword and
without any cost, by a single stroke of the pen of Count Muraviev after
the Treaty of Pekin in 1860. From Chitta the line turns to the
south-east, and we are proceeding to the so-called Chinese frontier. At
midnight we reach our destination, a settlement called Manchury, lost in
a corner of the desert of Gobi. On the other side extends Manchuria,
which I am emphatically assured belongs to the Yellow Empire. From here
the railway runs under a different title. Instead of being the "Russian
State," it is called the "Eastern Chinese Railway Company." It has three
main branches. One runs from Siberia to Harbin, the second from Harbin
to Vladivostok, the third from Harbin to Port Arthur. They unite the
Yellow with the Black Sea through Moscow, and the Pacific with the
Baltic through St. Petersburg. What may have appeared to be a dream only
a few years ago is a reality today.
A saloon car containing a bedroom, study with verandah, servant's
quarters, and a kitchen, which the Company very kindly put at my
disposal, and which is to serve as my home while getting as far as
Niu-chwang and Port Arthur, is now being attached to the new train, and
while it is being got ready I have time to sum up recollections and
arrange my papers.
[Illustration: THE STATION OF MANCHURY "Lost in a corner of the desert
of Gobi" To face page 60]
There is more to note than I expected, for I found interest in every
direction and in every respect. Siberia is more than a country, it is a
continent--I might even say a world of its own. It has its
characteristics and special features; its own soil and its own folk; its
own geography, ethnography, and climate. It is an unknown land
altogether; new or old, as you like to call it. To understand it
requires more instinct than erudition, more sympathy than analysis. The
observer must have sentiment; and even so it may or may not appeal to
him, and he may like it or not, yet he cannot fail to regard it as
impressive and imposing. It is a land of nearly five million square
miles, and it has eight organized provinces, of which each is larger
than most of the Western kingdoms. It can be maintained and developed
from its unlimited resources, and guarded by an army amounting, if
required, to millions. It is grand in every respect. It is watered by
the largest streams of Asia, and possesses the most extensive
fresh-water lake of one hemisphere. It has a greater area of
productive land than all Europe put together; its forests are hardly
measurable; its mountains tower high to the sky; its reputed monotony
should rather be called vastness, for variety it does not lack, only it
occurs at enormous intervals.
The same distinctions prevail with regard to the inhabitants; they
belong to various tribes and descend from different races. Some belong
to the Tartar, some to the Mongolian, some to the Caucasian family. Some
are yellow, and some are white. To-day the rulers are the latter, but it
is the home of the former. Will the white remain the dominating race, or
will it be overwhelmed by the yellow, or will it become amalgamated and
swallowed up by the great majority? What an interesting problem, and how
inexplicable! It is, indeed, hard to understand the nature of these
people; to read their thoughts; to comprehend their lives; and to
realize their ideals.
Once mighty, now in decay; leading a subordinate, unorganized existence,
lacking energy, unfit for higher aspirations. And yet physically all
these nomads are fine creatures, possessing all the power of their
forefathers of the time of Genghis Khan. How long will it take them to
awaken? How long will it require to realize and acquire all the
advantages of Western civilization and the elevating power of
Christianity?
These are questions which can only be answered by the history of the
future. The best forecast, I am afraid, will fall short of what will
prove to be the reality. I fear there may yet be many wars, and I hope
peace too, and conferences and treaties; but racial struggles cannot be
settled on battle-fields or in houses of parliament. The destiny of
mankind has a higher tribunal.
Whatever may be the future of the Far East, the Siberian Railway will
have undoubtedly a certain share, if not by altering, certainly by
hastening its course.
It was a mighty step forward. The step of a Colossus!
III
MANCHURIA UNDER RUSSIAN RULE
Am I on Chinese territory? Does Manchuria really belong to the Yellow
Empire? Since I crossed the Russian frontier several days ago there has
not been the slightest change that I could see. Everything has remained
Russian.
Our train was in charge of Muscovite soldiers, the railway officials at
the stopping places were Russian officers, the barracks around were
inhabited by Cossacks. The line was guarded by Russian troops, and if
the latest reports could be trusted, public safety seemed far from
secured. Hardly a day passed without atrocities of some kind being
reported, and skirmishes between Manchu marauders and Russian scouts
were of frequent occurrence. The railway itself was constantly
threatened, the banks destroyed, and the rails torn up; so even our
train was provided with a military escort to defend it in case of
necessity.
The "Eastern Chinese Railway Company," so called in order that there
might be something Chinese at all events about the name, is an
exclusively Russian enterprise, and no one disputes its entirely
strategic object, which is to connect Vladivostok and Port Arthur with
Moscow and St. Petersburg. This became very evident to me during my
journey. The line is constructed by Russian troops and military
engineers under the direction of officers. It is still far from
complete, and I was therefore the better able to watch the progress of
this interesting undertaking. The work is carried on at great
speed--thousands of coolies are employed upon it under the supervision
of Cossacks. The sand is moved in wheelbarrows, sleepers are laid and
rails fixed, all at one and the same time, by different gangs of
workmen. The system of construction is the same as that so successfully
adopted by General Annenkoff for the Trans-Caspian Railway.