THE PARIS OF SIBERIA
We arrived in Irkutsk on the eve of the Russian New Year, when business
throughout the Empire comes to a standstill, and revelry amongst all
classes reigns supreme. It was, therefore, useless to think of resuming
our journey for at least a week, for sleighs must be procured, to say
nothing of that important document, a special letter of recommendation,
which I was to receive from the Governor-General of Siberia. But a
resplendent _aide-de-camp_ called at the hotel and regretfully informed
me that State and social functions would keep his Excellency fully
occupied for several days. It was hopeless, he added, to think of
getting sleighs built while _vodka_ was running like water amongst the
people. So there was nothing for it but to await the end of the festival
with patience, without which commodity no traveller should ever dream of
visiting Asiatic Russia. He is otherwise apt to become a raving lunatic.
Irkutsk has several so-called hotels, the only one in any way habitable
being the "Hotel Metropole," a name which has become suggestive of
gold-laced porters and gilded halls. It was, therefore, rather a shock
to enter a noisome den, suggestive of a Whitechapel slum, although its
prices equalled those of the Carlton in Pall Mall. The house was new but
jerry-built, reeked of drains, and swarmed with vermin. Having kept us
shivering for half an hour in the cold, a sleepy, shock-headed lad with
guttering candle appeared and led the way to a dark and ill-smelling
sleeping-apartment. The latter contained an iron bedstead (an unknown
luxury here a decade ago), but relays of guests had evidently used the
crumpled sheets and grimy pillows. Bathroom and washstand were supplied
by a rusty brass tap, placed, _pro bono publico_, in the corridor. Our
meals in the restaurant were inferior to those of a fifth-rate
_gargotte_. And this was the best hotel in the "Paris of Siberia," as
enthusiastic Siberians have christened their capital.
Irkutsk now has a population of over 80,000. It stands on a peninsular
formed by the confluence of two rivers, the clear and swiftly-flowing
Angara (which rises in Lake Baikal to join the river Yenisei just below
Yeniseisk), and the small and unimportant Irkut river. It is an
unfinished, slipshod city, a strange mixture of squalor and grandeur,
with tortuous, ill-paved streets, where the wayfarer looks instinctively
for the "No-thoroughfare" board. There is one long straggling main
street with fairly good shops and buildings, but beyond this Irkutsk
remains much the same dull, dreary-looking place that I remember in the
early nineties, before the railway had aroused the town from its slumber
of centuries. Even now, the place is absolutely primitive and
uncivilised, from an European point of view, and the yellow Chinese and
beady-eyed Tartars who throng the business quarters are quite in keeping
with the Oriental filth around, unredeemed by the usual Eastern colour
and romance. On fine mornings the Market Place presents a curious and
interesting appearance, for here you may see the Celestial in flowery
silk elbowing the fur-clad Yakute and Bokhara shaking hands with Japan.
The Irkutsk district is peopled by the Buriates, who originally came
from Trans-Baikalia, but who have now become more Russianised than any
other Siberian race. The Buriat dialect is a kind of _patois_ composed
of Mongolian and Chinese; the religion Buddhism. About every fourth
Buriat becomes a Lama, and takes vows of celibacy. They are thrifty,
industrious people, ordinarily of an honest, hospitable disposition, who
number, perhaps, 300,000 in all. This is probably the most civilised
aboriginal race in Siberia, and many Buriates now wear European dress,
and are employed as Government officials.
The climate of Irkutsk is fairly good; not nearly so cold in winter as
many places on the same latitude; the summers are pleasant and equable;
but the fall of the year is generally unhealthy, dense fogs occasioning
a good deal of pulmonary disease and rheumatism. The city, too, is so
execrably drained that severe epidemics occasionally occur during the
summer months, but in winter the dry cold air acts as a powerful
disinfectant. In spring-time, when the river Angara is swollen by the
break-up of the ice, inundations are frequent, and sometimes cause great
destruction to life and property. Winter is, therefore, the pleasantest
season here, for during dry warm weather the clouds of black gritty
dust are unbearable, especially on windy days. Indeed, the dust here is
almost worse than in Pekin, where the natives say that it will work its
way through a watch-glass, no exaggeration, as I can, from personal
experience, testify.
There was little enough to do here during our five days of enforced
inactivity, and time crawled away with exasperating slowness, the more
so that the waste of every hour was lessening our chance of success. But
although harassed myself by anxiety, I managed to conceal the fact from
de Clinchamp, whose Gallic nature was proof against _ennui_, and who
managed to find friends and amusement even in this dismal city. In
summer we might have killed time by an excursion to Lake Baikal,[2] for
I retain very pleasant recollections of a week passed, some years since,
on the pine-clad margin of this the largest lake in Asia, sixty-six
times the area of the Lake of Geneva. Now its wintry shores and frozen
waters possessed no attraction, save, perhaps, the ice-breaker used by
the Trans-Siberian Railway to carry passengers across the lake, a
passage of about twenty miles. But even the ice-breaker had met with an
accident, and was temporarily disabled. So there was literally nothing
to do but to linger as long as possible over the midday meal in the
dingy little restaurant, and then to stroll aimlessly up and down the
"Bolshaya," the main thoroughfare aforementioned, until dusk. This is
the fashionable drive of the city, which on bright days presented an
almost animated appearance. There is no lack of money in Irkutsk, for
gold-mining millionaires abound, and I generally spent the afternoon
watching the cavalcade of well-appointed sleighs dashing, with a merry
clash of bells, up and down the crowded street, and sauntering amongst
the groups of well-dressed women and brilliant uniforms, until darkness
drove me back to our unsavoury quarters at the Metropole. My companions
generally patronised the skating rink, a sign of advancing civilisation,
for ten years ago there was not a pair of skates to be found throughout
the length and breadth of Siberia. Thus passed our days, and the
evenings were even longer and more wearisome. Once we visited the Opera,
a new and beautifully-decorated house, but the performance was
execrable, and "La Dame de Chez Maxim" unrecognisable in Russian dress.
There were also other so-called places of amusement, which blazed with
electric light from dusk till dawn, where refreshments were served at
little wooden tables while painted harridans from Hamburg cackled
suggestive songs to the accompaniment of a cracked piano. In these
establishments we used to see the local millionaires (and there are
many) taking their pleasure expensively, but sadly enough, amidst
surroundings that would disgrace a _dive_ in San Francisco. The company
was generally very mixed, soldiers and flashily-dressed _cocottes_ being
alone distinguishable, by their costume, from the rest of the audience.
For although the Siberian woman of the better class has learnt of late
years to dress well, wealth makes no difference to the garb of mankind.
All of the latter have the same dirty, unkempt appearance; all wear the
same suit of shiny black, rusty high boots, and a shabby slouch-hat or
peaked cap. Furs alone denote the difference of station, sable or blue
fox denoting the mercantile Croesus, astrachan or sheep-skin his clerk.
Otherwise all the men look (indoors) as though they had slept in their
clothes, which, by the way, is not improbable, for on one occasion I
stayed with an Irkutsk Vanderbilt who lived in palatial style. His house
was a dream of beauty and millions had been lavished on its
ornamentation. Priceless pictures and _objets d'art_, a Paris _chef_,
horses and carriages from London, and covered gardens of rare orchids
and exotics. No expense had been spared to render life luxurious in this
land of dirt and discomfort. Even my host's bedroom was daintily
furnished, _a la_ Louis XV., by a French upholsterer. And yet he slept
every night, fully dressed, on three chairs! There is no accounting for
tastes--in Siberia!
[Footnote 2: "Lake Baikal is about twenty miles from Irkutsk. It is 420
miles in length, its breadth varying from ten to sixty miles. Its
average depth is rarely less than 819 ft., but in parts the ground has
been touched only at 4500 ft. The natives believe it to be
unfathomable."--"Side Lights on Siberia," by J. Y. Simpson.]
Although the "Bolshaya," in which most of the _cafe chantants_ are
situated, is bright with electric light, the back streets of the city
are lit by flickering oil-lamps, and here the stranger must almost grope
his way about after dark. If wise he will stay at home, for robbery and
even murder are of frequent occurrence. A large proportion of the
population here consists of time-expired convicts, many of whom haunt
the night-houses in quest of prey. During our short stay a woman was
murdered one night within a few yards of our hotel, and a man was
stabbed to death in broad daylight on the busy "Bolshaya." The Chief of
Police told me that there is an average of a murder a day every year
within the precincts of the city, and warned us not to walk out unarmed
after dark. There was no incentive to drive, for the Irkutsk cab, or
_droshky_, is a terrible machine, something like a hoodless bath-chair,
springless, and constructed to hold two persons (at a pinch) besides the
driver. There is no guard-rail, and it was sometimes no easy matter to
cling on as the vehicle bumped and bounded, generally at full gallop,
along the rough, uneven streets.
Three days elapsed before the business of the city was resumed and I was
able to turn my attention to the purchase of sleighs. Fur coats and felt
boots we were already provided with, but I had determined to obtain the
Arctic kit destined to protect us from the intense cold north of Yakutsk
from the fur merchants of that place. Finally, when the fumes of _vodka_
had evaporated, at least a dozen sleigh-builders invaded my bedroom
early one morning, for the Irkutsk papers had published our needs. The
whole day was passed in driving about to the various workshops and
examining sleighs, some of which appeared to have been constructed about
the same period as the Ark. It was not easy to make a selection from the
score of ramshackle _kibitkas_ which were hauled out for my inspection,
especially as I had a very faint notion of the kind of sleigh required
for the work in hand. Fortunately, my friend the Chief of Police, white
with rage and blazing with orders, burst into a yard as I was
concluding the purchase of a venerable vehicle, which bore a striking
resemblance to Napoleon's travelling carriage at Madame Tussaud's, and
which would probably have come to pieces during the first stage.
"Son of a dog," furiously cried the official to the trembling
coach-builder, "don't you know that this gentleman wishes to go to
Yakutsk, and you are trying to swindle him into buying a 'Bolshaya'
_coupe_!" And in less than a minute I was being whirled away towards the
Police Station, where a number of the peculiar sleighs required for this
journey are kept on hand for the convenience of travellers.
"That man is an infernal scoundrel," said the Chief of Police, when told
that Napoleon's _barouche_ was to have cost me 150 roubles. "I will give
you a couple of good Yakute sleighs for half the money. You can only use
them on the Lena." And when I saw the primitive contrivances in question
I no longer marvelled at their low price.
Let me describe the comfortless conveyance in which we accomplished the
first two thousand miles of the journey across Siberia. A Yakute sleigh
has a pair of runners, but otherwise totally differs from any other
sleigh in the wide world. Imagine a sack of coarse matting about four
feet deep suspended from a frame of rough wooden poles in a horizontal
triangle, which also forms a seat for the driver. Into this bag the
traveller first lowers his luggage, then his mattress, pillows, and
furs, and finally enters himself, lying at full length upon his
belongings. There is a thick felt apron which can be pulled completely
over its occupant at night-time or in stormy weather. This sounds warm
and comfortable, but is precisely the reverse, for after a few hours the
porous felt becomes saturated with moisture (formed by bodily warmth and
external cold), rendering the traveller's heavy garments damp and chilly
for the remainder of the journey. There is nothing to prevent the
_Koshma_, as this covering is called (_Cauchemar_ would be a better
name!), from resting upon the face during sleep, and frost-bitten
features are the natural result. So far, therefore, as comfort is
concerned a Yakute sleigh is capable of some improvement, for, even in
fine weather, the occupant must raise himself up on his elbows to see
anything but the sky above him, while in storms the damp, heavy covering
casts him into outer darkness. Under the most favourable circumstances
little is seen of the country travelled through, but, as the Chief of
Police consolingly remarked, "Between here and Yakutsk there is nothing
to see!"
Provisions were the next consideration, and these were obtained from a
well-appointed store on the "Bolshaya." We now had but a dozen cases of
condensed foods, &c., left, and these I wished to keep intact, if
possible, for use in the Arctic regions. On the Lena road the
post-houses were only from thirty to forty miles apart, but as they only
provide hot water and black bread for the use of travellers, I laid in a
good supply of canned meats, sardines, and tea to carry us comfortably,
at any rate, through the first stage of the journey. With months of
desolation before us our English tobacco was too precious to smoke in
civilisation, so a few hundred Russian cigarettes were added to the
list.
At last came the welcome news that the Governor-General would grant us
an interview. Accompanied by an _aide-de-camp_, we drove to the Palace
on the banks of the Angara, and were ushered into the presence of the
Tsar's Viceroy, who governs a district about the size of Europe. General
Panteleyeff was a middle-aged man, with white moustache, light blue
eyes, and a spare athletic figure, displayed to advantage by a smart
dark green uniform. The General is a personal friend of the Emperor, and
the cross of St. Andrew and a tunic covered with various orders bore
witness to their wearer's distinguished career. He received me most
cordially, and asked many questions regarding the land-journey, which
had apparently aroused considerable interest in Russian official
circles. The General, however, had no great faith in the proposed line
to connect his country with the New World.
"We have our hands too full in the Far East for the next century," he
said, with a smile, "to meddle with Arctic railways."
His Excellency assured me of every assistance as far as Nijni-Kolymsk,
the most remote Cossack outpost on the shores of the Polar Sea, on
ordinary occasions a year's journey from St. Petersburg. "Beyond
Kolymsk," he added, "I fear I cannot help you. The Tchuktchi region is
nominally under my control, but even our own officials rarely venture
for any distance into that desolate country. But you will first have to
reach Nijni-Kolymsk, and even that is a voyage that few Russians would
care to undertake; and beyond Nijni-Kolymsk you will have yet another
two thousand miles to Bering Straits. Great Heavens! what a terrible
journey! But you English are a wonderful people!" Here a secretary
entered the apartment with a document, which the Governor rapidly
scanned and then signed.
"Your Imperial passport," he said, placing the paper in my hand, "which
will ensure civility and assistance from all officials you may meet as
far as the Kolyma river. Beyond that you must rely upon yourselves and
the goodwill of the natives, if you ever find them! May God preserve you
all."
So saying, with a hearty shake of the hand, the General touched a bell,
the _aide-de-camp_ appeared, and I was re-conducted to my sleigh,
rejoicing that nothing could now retard our departure. Amongst other
privileges the passport ensured immediate relays of horses at the
post-stations. As there are no less than one hundred and twenty-two of
these (from fifteen to twenty-five miles apart) between Irkutsk and
Yakutsk, and as the ordinary traveller is invariably delayed by
extortionate postmasters, this clause was of the utmost importance. In
many other ways also the document was a priceless one, and without it we
could scarcely have reached the shores of America.
It may be that I have unduly underrated the attractions of Irkutsk to
the average public. If so, the reader must remember that every hour of
delay here was of importance and meant endless worry and vexation to the
leader of an expedition which had not an hour to lose. There is no doubt
that Irkutsk must in a few years become a teeming centre of commercial
activity. The social aspects of the place will then no doubt improve
under the higher civilisation introduced by a foreign element. The
resources of this province are limitless, for the soil has up till now,
minerally speaking, only been scratched by idle fingers. Further afield
we hear of important discoveries of valuable minerals in Manchuria,
while the output of gold in the Lena district has been trebled by modern
machinery within the past four years. Coal has also been recently
discovered within a short distance of Lake Baikal, and is already being
exported in large quantities to the Pacific ports. Irkutsk has, no
doubt, a great commercial future, but should I ever return there I
shall, personally speaking, be quite satisfied to find a decent hotel.
Such an establishment run on modern lines would certainly yield fabulous
returns. At present the only available restaurant is that of the grimy
and verminous Metropole, and even here the local millionaires cheerfully
pay prices for atrocious food and worse wines which would open the eyes
of a Ritz.
Perhaps the most pleasant memory which I retain of Irkutsk is a cheery
little supper which was given in our honour by a Mr. Koenigswerther and
his wife and brother on the eve of our departure. The travellers, who
had only arrived that day, were visiting the city on business connected
with the purchase of furs, and a chance word dropped in the purest
French by Madame at the dinner-table linked our parties inseparably for
the remainder of the evening; indeed, until the next day. Madame
Koenigswerther, an attractive little _Parisienne_, seemed to cast a
gleam of sunshine over the gloomy dining-room in which we had partaken
of so many melancholy meals. The trip here from Paris had already imbued
her with a passion for further exploration, and I verily believe that
she would have accompanied the expedition to Yakutsk if not restrained
by her less enthusiastic male companions. Bed on such an occasion was
not to be thought of, so we visited the theatre and _cafe chantants_,
ending the evening with a supper at the Metropole (previously ordered by
the fur merchants) which proved that money, even in Irkutsk, will
convert a culinary bungler into a very passable _chef_. Our departure
for the North took place very early on the morning of January 19, and I
have since heard that nothing would induce our merry little hostess to
seek her couch until the tingle of our sleigh bells had died out on the
frosty air.
"A New York!" she cried, as our horses sprang into their collars and
dashed away down the frosty, silent street.
"N'ayez pas peur! Nous arriverons," answered de Clinchamp, with a cool
assurance which at the time excited my envy, if not admiration!