nothing else to see. We were crossing the north-eastern border of the
Gobi desert, and if ever desert was rightly so named, it is this one.
The Sahara has at least the charm of the tropics, the Arabian desert has
the beauty of a cloudless sky, the desert of Bikanir possesses the
golden hues of the Indian sun; but the Gobi desert has nothing to
commend it; it is absolutely desolate. There is neither colour nor
charm, but a leaden sky hangs over an endless expanse of grey dust--or
rather, ashes--which, when whirled about in the wind, obscures heaven
and earth and covers everything as with a shroud. Not a village was in
sight, not even a solitary dwelling. The only living creatures in this
desolate region seemed to be the Russian troops and the legions of
coolies working under their orders.
Before going any further I must explain that I was travelling by goods
train. The line, as already said, was not finished, the rails hardly
laid, and there were no proper stations; guards and officials being
accommodated in temporary huts and encampments. There was no regular
tariff and no tickets were issued. Trains of trucks with materials for
construction plied between the main junctions, and these same trains
also conveyed the workmen and the persons connected with the
undertaking, to their various destinations.
It was necessary to get a special permission from the authorities to
travel by this route. Of course I was prepared to rough it, and the
directors had not disguised from me the fact that as yet no arrangements
had been made for the convenience of passengers. They could not even
promise that I should reach Port Arthur without delay, for some of the
temporary bridges had been destroyed by the autumn rains, and the
railway banks in various parts were washed away by the floods. But a
special car was placed at my disposal for the whole journey across
Manchuria, and this semi-saloon car became my domicile for several
weeks.
To give some idea of my movable house, I may say that although the
exterior was extremely simple, the interior was comfortable enough. It
consisted of a bedroom, a study, a passage, a lavatory, and a small
balcony; besides these, there were a kitchen and sleeping accommodation
for my servant. The balcony was my favourite resort: many a peaceful
hour have I spent there in reading or writing, and looking out upon that
dismal landscape unfolding itself in its monstrous immensity.
Sometimes my home was shunted and I was left for days to amuse myself in
the vicinity of some place of interest. Then it would be hooked on again
behind trucks carrying bricks, iron, and all kinds of machinery. My
carriage was my home, my stronghold. And indeed it was not unlike a
fortified castle when it stood motionless near one of the stations, with
sentries and watches patrolling round or halting in the neighbouring
encampment. I was never quite sure whether they regarded me as a convict
or whether they kept a kindly watch over me.
Along the route various stations were in process of building, some
already roofed. Unpretentious structures they were, never more than one
storey high, and roofed with black tiles. Outwardly they resemble the
Chinese houses, and the beams are curved in the "Ting" style. Although
unfinished, they impress one as if encumbered with a weary past, rather
than as having a bright future in store.
Everything, in fact, has a doleful aspect here. There are no gardens and
no cultivation of any kind worth mentioning. The station yards are
swamps, or pools of mud. Here and there an attempt has been made to
improve matters, and stones or planks are laid down at intervals to
assist the traveller in crossing.
Refreshment rooms are liberally provided on the Trans-Siberian line, and
occasionally they even have some pretence to luxury; but in Manchuria
they are of the most primitive description, scarcely provided with the
barest necessities. A wooden table and a rough bench are the usual
accommodation, and the cabbage soup or the national _kasha_ made of
buck-wheat is served by an amateur cook with all the air of a novice in
the profession. At the junctions, where trade is somewhat brisker, one
is able to get _piroshki_, which means, as it is, one of the favourite
Russian dishes.
Primitive as the refreshment places are--a bare tent sometimes serving
the double purpose of kitchen and dining-room, with an old kerosene-oil
case for table and dresser--they are always much frequented. On the same
principle as that adopted for the construction of the railway, the
Russian "chefs" make the Chinese coolies do all the work.
Travelling through Manchuria in this leisurely manner, I had plenty of
time to obtain a thorough acquaintance with its different regions. From
a geographical point of view the northern portion consists of a barren
tableland; towards the south it becomes wooded, and in the vicinity of
the towns the ground is fairly well cultivated.
[Illustration: TSI-TSI-KAR "The capital of Northern Manchuria is
Tsi-tsi-kar"
To face page 68]
The capital of Northern Manchuria is Tsi-tsi-kar. The Governor of the
province resides there, and it is the centre of that part of the
country. But the town itself is very primitive, and far behind the other
two chief towns, Kirin and Mukden. The population is a mixture of
Manchus, Chinese, and Buriats, who do a small trade in raw materials,
more especially in skins of all sorts.
From a very early date caravans have made this place one of their
stopping stations on their way from the southern provinces to the
districts north of the Amur. The people still use the same primitive
carts as in those remote times, sometimes drawn by Mongolian ponies--I
have seen as many as sixteen or eighteen to one cart--more often by
oxen.
The peculiar way in which the harness was fixed always amused me: it
seemed an inextricable confusion of straps and cords. How do they
manage it? It is a problem which only Chinese patience can solve.
I had equally good opportunities of studying the local dress and the
customs of the natives. In this vast, barren region, where no European
had ever penetrated before the construction of the railway, everything
is still in its primitive state. The people live partly by agriculture,
such as it is, and partly by fishing. The houses are extremely poor; we
should call them hovels, built of bricks or dried mud. There they live,
together with their cattle and other domestic animals. Like all
Asiatics, they are devoted to horse-breeding, and I visited several
large _haras_.
Flocks and herds abound, but the animal one meets with most frequently
is the pig; but the pigs of this region are very different from ours.
They are usually black, with long, thin tails, looking rather like
boars. Numbers of them are to be seen in every yard, rooting up the
ground and giving the Manchu homestead about as untidy and dirty an
appearance as is possible to conceive.
Of poultry there is no lack either. Geese, ducks, and fowls share the
family abode. The entrance to every house is guarded by half-savage
dogs, like so many wolves, and certainly not less ferocious. More than
once I was nearly devoured by them, and as it is not advisable to fight
them I always took care to have my pockets full of biscuits.
A Manchu home, in short, has the appearance of a cattle show, or a
Noah's ark, and the life lived is unquestionably antediluvian.
Speaking generally, the cultural standard of the Manchus is much below
the average Chinese level. The people look more barbarous to begin with,
their occupations are all of a rough nature, and the old Confucian
doctrines have never penetrated to them. They have always led a merely
animal rather than an intellectual life, an existence of strife rather
than of thought, and to this day the Imperial army consists almost
exclusively of Manchu soldiers.
Our progress was very slow. For many days we travelled on leisurely,
with occasional stoppages long enough to enable me to make excursions
into the interior. I tried every means of conveyance--bullock-carts,
Mongol ponies, Cossack horses. It was tiring work, but gave me
extraordinary opportunities of making myself familiar with the country
and its inhabitants. At last I reached Kharbin, a famous town, being the
junction where the three railways of Manchuria meet, viz. the
Vladivostok, the Port Arthur, and the Siberian lines.
[Illustration: KHARBIN "Of all the places I have visited during this
long journey, Kharbin seems to me the dreariest" To face page 70]
Of all the places I have visited during this long journey, Kharbin seems
to me the dreariest, the most desolate. A dull, cold autumn afternoon
greeted me on my arrival. The rain fell in torrents; not only did the
water pour down from the skies, but it oozed up from the ground as well.
The river had overflowed, and all the land was inundated. Half the place
stood under water. The railway station looked like a little island in
the midst of a marsh. Together with the few passengers for Vladivostok I
was carried on men's shoulders into the waiting-room, a mere barn, where
we found a mixed crowd of mujiks and Cossacks with their luggage, which
consisted of bedding, cooking utensils, packages and bundles of all
sorts and sizes, tied together, piled around them.
The same place also served as refreshment room, and at one end of it
about a dozen officers were dining at a big table. A pretentious gilded
chandelier--ironically reminding one of Western luxury--formed the
centre-piece. But I had no time to admire its beauty or even to sit down
to my meal, although I was nearly famished. The station-master came
bustling up to me with a very disconsolate countenance and informed me
that he had received a telegram intimating that a bridge near Liaoyang
had been carried away by the floods, and that in consequence of the
defective state of the roads it was impossible to say when the next
train would start.
It would be difficult to describe my consternation on hearing this
depressing announcement, for I fully realized the awfulness of my
position should I be compelled to make a prolonged stay in this place.
The roads were so bad that excursions would be out of the question, and
I should have to remain a prisoner in my carriage until the road was
open again.
Meanwhile, I gladly accepted the offer of a seat in a _tarantass_ to
drive round the town. Kharbin is of interest from a modern point of view
because it is one of the headquarters of the Russians in Manchuria.
The town has sprung up within recent years, about the time of the
Chino-Japanese war. It consists of barracks and military quarters,
ammunition stores, railroad factories, and a few private houses for the
families of officers, railway officials, and employes. It has no
pretence to beauty, and in the flooded condition in which I saw it, its
gloomy buildings, streaming with rain, looked deplorable. We came past
some shops where tinned meats, vegetables, and other provisions are
sold. There is also a hotel, which I prefer not to describe. I was told
that the place even boasts a cafe and music-hall, the only place of poor
amusement for the officers and their wives in garrison there. Kharbin is
supposed to have about fifteen thousand inhabitants, but where were
they? Were they dead, asleep, or hiding? I could not see a single living
being. Could this be altogether accounted for by the weather, even
allowing that the water in the streets rose to the knees of the horses,
and that the wheels of our vehicle were submerged to the axle?
As we drove along my amiable guide explained to me that Kharbin is a
military place, destined to see much active service in the event of a
war, because, being situated on the junction of three great railway
lines, it would be the centre for the mobilization and concentration of
the troops. It would probably become the headquarters of the intendant
and of the ammunition service. Hospitals, too, would be erected and the
Red Cross would have a large staff there. I listened with interest to
all these conjectures and plans for the future.
It was night when we returned to the station, where an agreeable
surprise awaited me. I was told that a goods train with a convoy of
coolies and troops to repair the line which had been destroyed, would be
ready to start a little after midnight. Could my carriage be attached to
it? I inquired. At first it seemed doubtful. No one appeared to know how
far we could get, and there was even some question as to whether the
road would bear the weight of the train. However, anything, no matter
what, would be better than Kharbin, I thought; even the uncertainty of
the future was preferable to the certainty of the present.
About three o'clock in the morning, after an interminable night of
bustling, coming and going of troops, rushing about of coolies, shunting
and whistling of engines, we at last began to move. The train presented
a curious appearance. It consisted chiefly of open trucks and a few
wagons in which the soldiers lay huddled together, with their winter
coats tucked under their heads for pillows, while hundreds of coolies
were packed like cattle in the open carriages.
At first we passed slowly through a vast, partially submerged plain.
Often the road was entirely under water, and in various places so badly
damaged that we had to proceed with the greatest possible caution. More
than once the coolies had to turn out with pickaxe, shovel, and building
material to repair the line, under the strict supervision of the
officers of the railway service. I availed myself of the frequent
stoppages and our altogether casual progress to study the country.
When at last we reached the large province of Central Manchuria there
was a notable change in the geographical aspect. The ground became hilly
and wooded. We followed several winding valleys, irrigated by tortuous
watercourses, and surrounded by mountain ridges. In some parts it was
decidedly pretty. The soil is fertile, and nature has endowed it with
many precious gifts. The mountain slopes are rich in minerals and the
woods abound with game. The mineral wealth of Manchuria is as yet
unexplored, and there are comparatively few gold, silver, and copper
mines in process of exploitation. Some foreign syndicates have been
formed, more especially in the south, and these have proved successful,
but since the Russian occupation of the railway district they have been
hampered by all sorts of difficulties, and except in the free port of
Niu-chwang, the introduction of foreign capital has been stopped.
In actual size Central Manchuria is considerably smaller than the
northern district of Tsi-tsi-kar--also known as Halung-kiang--but the
population of the north is only about one million, while Central
Manchuria contains twice as many inhabitants. The seat of government for
this latter district is at Kirin, a very ancient town with quaint houses
built in the old Chinese style, yamens with shining roofs, temples and
pagodas, all very picturesque.
Kirin itself is famous for the battlemented wall which, with its heavy
ramparts and pagoda-like towers, is very imposing. But the chief
attraction of this provincial capital is the surrounding scenery.
Valleys and mountains, dark forests and distant blue mountain peaks,
form a most charming picture. It is indeed a glorious region, and a joy
both to the sportsman and to the artist. The fishing in the mountain
streams is excellent, and there are still numbers of leopards, bears,
wolves, a certain kind of deer, foxes, and hares in the forests. For the
artist the opportunities here are not less ample; pretty woodland
scenery, attractive bits of street corners, and town scenery, and above
all the historical monuments, the celebrated royal tombs, and the
commemorative tablets on the river banks, or hidden in the sacred
groves; all these are excellent subjects for sketches.
The great difficulty at the present moment is how to reach these
beautiful regions. There are, so far, only a very few stations in
process of building on this route, and it must be remembered that even
these, though called by the names of the various places, are often
twenty or thirty miles distant from the towns they represent, and that
there are scarcely any means of conveyance, and that in many cases there
is not even a road!
It would seem as if the Eastern Chinese Railway scrupulously avoided all
inhabited regions, and certainly in its present condition, and as long
as there are no branch lines, it is useless for all purposes of ordinary
traffic or commercial enterprise. The Russian officers who have
projected it appear to have had only one object in view, to connect in
the most direct manner Vladivostok and Port Arthur with the Siberian
line, for the sole purpose of transporting troops in case of need
with the least possible delay.
[Illustration: A STREET IN KHARBIN "The water in the streets rose to the
knees of the horses" To face page 76]
All this great work has been done quietly, unostentatiously, and without
arousing any ill-feeling among the natives. At the present moment one
may travel for a whole day without catching sight of anything more
conspicuous than railway buildings, barracks, and encampments with
Russian soldiers lining the entire length of the route.
After several days' travelling we emerged into cultivated plains, rich
pasture land intersected by patches of Indian corn, beans, etc. Crops of
all kinds presented themselves before our eyes. The country no longer
showed the barren desolation of the Gobi desert, nor the romantic
wildness of Central Manchuria. It was peopled! There were men working in
the fields, and I could see houses and little farms, poor and miserable
enough it is true, but at least indicative of human life.
FROM MUKDEN STATION TO MUKDEN TOWN
It was dawn when I looked out of my carriage window--a dull grey dawn.
The sky was covered with leaden clouds and the rain came down in
torrents. The river banks were entirely submerged, and the train stood
still in a sea of mud. The scene of general deluge vividly recalled my
ideas of the Flood, and it was like stepping out of the ark when I
alighted from my carriage. Close by I saw a modest structure, one storey
high, more like a peasant's hut than anything else, and I could scarcely
believe that this was the station intended for Mukden, the capital of
Manchuria. To my consternation I learnt that the train would go no
farther that day. It might go on to-morrow or perhaps in a week's time.
There was plenty of time therefore to explore Mukden, although the town
was over twenty miles away. But how was I to get there? There was no
road to be seen and no vehicle anywhere about. I made inquiries from the
station-master, a Russian officer, with a long beard and resplendent
with gold lace. He advised me to send my interpreter to one of the
neighbouring farms, where I might possibly obtain a Chinese cart, a
driver, and a couple of mules, to convey me to Mukden in as short a time
as the state of the roads would permit. I followed this advice. The
courier wasted the greater part of the day in arguing with the farmers,
while I was left in my carriage at the mercy of the hurricane, and
occupied the time in writing down my unpleasant impressions, wind and
rain supplying the accompaniment of music.
Towards the close of the afternoon my faithful Sancho returned, and
pointed to a kind of cabriolet on two wheels with three mules harnessed
in tandem fashion, and driven by a crooked little Chinaman. I cannot
deny that the effect was extremely picturesque. The car was lacquered
yellow, the hood covered with blue; the mules were grey, and the little
driver was sheltered by a huge umbrella of gold-coloured oil-cloth. But
although picturesque, it was far from comfortable. The vehicle had no
springs and no seat; in fact, it consisted simply of a wooden board
about two and a half feet square, on which one had to sit cross-legged
like a Turk or a tailor. If the occupant happens to be neither the one
nor the other, he suffers agonies before five minutes have passed. The
only attempt at comfort was a small calico rug at the bottom of the
cart, but this was a poor protection against the extremely hard wood of
Manchuria.
I hesitated a moment before venturing to enter this uncomfortable
conveyance, and pictured vividly to myself the horrors of a night's
journey in it. But I had promised to visit, if possible, the site of our
Mission station, which had been pillaged and burned in the last Boxer
insurrection, and which had been the scene of so much noble martyrdom.
So after all I made up my mind to go.
Little Li-Hu cracked his long whip, which, by the by, looked more like a
fishing rod than a whip. And indeed, I might have amused myself with
some angling on the way, for the mules were up to their fetlocks in
chocolate-coloured liquid mud.
The first sight which attracted my attention on the road was a
one-storeyed building, used as barracks and occupied by Cossacks. I
learnt that it served as an encampment for the protection of the railway
station.
Then followed a long stretch of road without anything remarkable to be
seen.
[Illustration: FROM MUKDEN FLATS ON TO THE TOWN AFTER A WATER-COLOUR
DRAWING BY THE AUTHOR "Then followed a long stretch of road without
anything remarkable to be seen" To face page 80]
There were fields on both sides of the way, but they could not be seen
because all the land was entirely submerged as in Egypt at the rising of
the Nile. I presumed that we were on a road, for we advanced between two
rows of irregularly planted trees; I also concluded that at one time
this road had been paved, perhaps centuries ago, but it was decidedly
bumpy now.
These speculations were presently confirmed when we arrived at a bridge
delicately arching a creek. It was a very fine structure, carved in
Chinese fashion, and of great architectural beauty. I left my carriage
to examine it more closely, and when I had scraped off some of the mud
with which it was encrusted, I found that it was entirely built of white
marble.
After crossing the river the road became still worse. I was jolted up
and down, thrown from side to side, my head was knocked against the
wooden frame of the hood, and after a mile or so of this torture I could
bear it no longer and decided to try the back of one of the mules.
Riding without a saddle on the back of a thin Manchu mule cannot be said
to be a comfortable mode of travelling, and my agonies are better
imagined than described.
Here was I, in an unknown country, surrounded by a desert which seemed
more desolate than ever in its flooded condition, the rain coming down
as if all the sluices of heaven had been opened, while the tiny driver
at whose mercy I was, might, for all I knew, be a cut-throat.
My vocabulary was as yet limited to two words, _how-di_ and _poo-how_.
Perhaps they are written quite differently, but this is how they sound.
The former stands for everything that is good, pretty, pleasant (I have
never had occasion to use it); the other expresses the reverse, and I
was quite tired of saying it, because it never proved to be of the
slightest effect.
We encountered no one on the road, but passed one little vehicle like
mine, in which I counted at least ten visible occupants. Four were
seated on the shafts, some on the mules, and the others outside on the
hood. I could not see how many there were inside. All the outside
passengers had large umbrellas of oil-cloth, the same as my driver, and
they looked like big sunflowers. It was quite cheering to see those
people so perfectly happy, laughing and joking under such wretched
conditions.
Their stoicism gave me relief, and I shook the water from my dripping
clothes and felt a little better too. But as night approached and the
desolation became more oppressive, my self-confidence fell from hour to
hour. Darkness magnified all the surroundings, and gave them a fantastic
aspect. The lights in the distant farm-houses looked like
will-o'-the-wisps; the trees became phantoms, and the barking of the
dogs sounded like the roar of the dragons, which, as every one knows,
are natives of the Yellow Empire. All the fairy stories of my childhood
came back to my memory, and assumed a shape in the reality of my
surroundings.