KIACHTA TO LAKE BAIKAL.
We got out of Troitskosarfsk about three o'clock in the afternoon,
for as we intended to travel as the Russians do, night and day, it
made no difference at what time of the day or night we commenced the
journey. The first stage led us over rather hilly roads, in many
places heavy with sand. The hills around have a sandy appearance,
but after crossing the first ridge we opened out fine broken scenery
with richly wooded heights. Our _yemschik_, or driver, being a
Bouriat, we were able to converse with him in his mother-tongue, for
though the Bouriats grow up speaking Russian, they preserve their
own domestic institutions, and among themselves speak their own
language, which, with some slight differences, is identical with
that spoken by the Mongols of the Great Desert.
The first station we arrived at was Ust Kiachtinské, which is
a fair-sized village of small wooden houses, with a very neat
little church. We were prepared for all the horrors of a Siberian
post-station, but found instead a new station-house, well kept and
scrubbed inside, warm and clean. It is twenty-three and a-half
versts, or nearly sixteen miles, from Troitskosarfsk. Our doubts and
fears regarding our ability to deal with Russians, of whose language
we were ignorant, awed us into great circumspection at this, the
first point where we were left to our unaided resources. Our first
anxiety was to maintain our prestige among the Russians, for,
that failing, we should have been helpless indeed. The only sure
way of saving our name under the circumstances was to decline all
discussion, and as far as possible hold our tongues. This succeeded
very well at Ust Kiachtinské--four horses were put to our tarantass,
and no extra fare asked. The post had left that day, and the poor
jades allotted to us had already performed one stage over very heavy
roads, and were in no condition to drag our unwieldy equipage. Our
Bouriat yemschik had not gone very far over the soft sand before he
discovered this, and after exhausting all his persuasion to no good
purpose, he sent a message to the station by a chance Russian whom
we met on the road. In answer to this a fifth horse was sent from
the post-house. The yemschik resumed his efforts to proceed, and by
dint of yelling, carressing, and whipping, we got along a few miles
further. A nasty steep hill lay before us, and arrested our progress
finally for the night. When the yemschik had bawled himself hoarse,
and had goaded his horses to despair, he entreated us, first in
Russian, and then in Mongol, to get out and unload the carriage. It
was a cold dark night, and we were warmly wedged into the carriage
in a way that if we got out we could never have readjusted our beds
in the dark. Finding us deaf to remonstrance, our poor yemschik took
the horses out and let them graze--made a fire for himself of the
end of a fallen tree, and waited patiently for morning.
When daylight came we found ourselves in a thick wood, half way up
the hill. An hour and a half was spent in unloading and getting
the vehicle over the hill. After which we proceeded slowly to the
station Piravolofské, which we reached at 8 o'clock. On the road we
passed several villages, with some cultivated enclosures farmed by
Russians, who also keep a good many cattle.
It was plain that we could not go on so heavily laden, for even
if horses could draw our tarantass, the machine itself would
certainly break down, and we should run the risk of being wrecked
on the road beyond the reach of assistance. We therefore determined
if possible to secure an extra carriage at Piravolofské. To this
the station-keeper demurred, and told us that with only one
padaroshna it was impossible to horse two equipages. The pass
from the commissary was efficacious in removing his doubts, and
after expending all his eloquence in proving the impossibility of
complying with our request, he quietly ordered a _kibitka_, into
which we transferred a portion of our dead weight, and we went on
our way rejoicing. The roads were rather sandy and a good deal up
and down hill. At 2 o'clock we passed Paravotné station, where we
had _shtchee_. We then proceeded by a good road up a long valley
through which runs a tributary of the Selenga. Turning with the
river into another valley to our left, we again encountered sandy
and hilly roads. We soon struck the Selenga, a fine deep river,
running through a wide valley, hemmed in by steep and well-wooded
hills. A ferry-boat which was in attendance carried us across
easily, horses, carriages, and all. The people who manned the boat
were Russians and Bouriats, some of them showing unmistakeable marks
of mixed blood. The river had fallen about twelve feet by the marks
on the rock. A few miles from the ferry lies the small, but rather
pretty town of Selenginsk. It has commodious barracks, one fine
church, and some good houses. The station-master at Selenginsk was
an old, fat, consequential and surly fellow. His room was adorned
with some poor pictures, among which was an engraving of Catherine
II. The companions of his solitude were a wretched-looking girl,
maid-of-all-work, and a small cur, trained to perform certain
tricks before travellers, on whom it seemed to depend for its daily
bread. This old fellow was too important a personage in his own
estimation to allow us to pass without challenging our right to the
two carriages, but by dint of holding our tongue we conquered his
objections as effectually as if we had greased his palm with roubles.
Night was on before we got away from Selenginsk. At 11 o'clock we
passed Arbusofské, and at 5 next morning we passed Nijni Ubukunské.
A bitterly cold morning was the 9th of October. Passed through a
well-peopled valley, in good cultivation compared with what we had
seen, though still far short of what it might be. The valley runs
north-east to Verchne Udinsk, a considerable town. We did not go
round by that town, but turned off at Mohinski into a valley on
our left, and struck the Selenga again, keeping on the left bank
of the river. We now began to experience the effects of the recent
inundations. Although the flood had abated very much, the water in
the river was still high, and the flat banks were great marshes. The
road had been almost obliterated by the flood, and new tracks had
been struck out through the driest parts, over large boulders, deep
holes filled with water, and heavy mud. The horses floundered, but
struggled bravely, and the yemschiks vociferated for miles, through
this impracticable compound of land and water. We were five hours in
going sixteen miles.
The valley narrows to a steep gorge through which the Selenga forces
its way under a shade of overhanging trees that almost conceals
it from view. The river was running about four miles an hour, but
so smoothly and silently, that the current would have been hardly
perceptible but for the floating branches of trees borne on its
surface. The scenery is most beautiful. The perpendicular walls of
rock that form the gorge are thickly wooded with pine and birch,
which, combined with the willows that grow in great luxuriance on
the low banks of the river, and seem to stretch their branches
almost across the water, give quite a tropical appearance to the
valley.
The road through the gorge is scarped out of the rock, and rises
to a good height above the river. It is narrow in the parts which
are entirely artificial, so narrow that in some places there is
not room for two vehicles to pass. The grandeur of the scenery
faded away before our eyes as we looked down from the height into
the deep abyss below. The edge of the precipice is guarded by a
rough, strong, wooden parapet, without which, restive horses and
drunken yemschiks would inevitably be immolated by the score at this
dangerous place.
At 3 p.m. we arrived at Poloviné station, simultaneously with
a number of other travellers from various quarters. The long
interruption of travelling from the flooding of the country, had
accumulated a great many on the west of Baikal lake, and now they
crowded on all at once. Amongst our fellow-travellers were several
government officers, and two loquacious Poles from Irkutsk. The
station could not furnish horses for half of the number, and as we
had all arrived together, it was a question who should get them.
We required seven for our two carriages in the then state of the
roads, and it was no small satisfaction to us to find that the
postmaster assigned to us the precedence. The government officers
made no remark, but simply ordered the samovar to make tea. The
Russian travellers also took it very quietly. But the two Poles were
not so easily appeased. We could glean a few words from the volleys
of abuse with which they indulged themselves, the gist of which
was anathemas on the Russian government, the postal system, and
things in general, winding up with a threat to set up a "republic"
in Siberia. Leaving our exasperated friends to digest the venom of
their spleen, we rattled away over good roads along the left bank of
the Selenga, till we arrived at dusk at the post station of Ilyensk,
six versts short of the town of that name. The postmaster here was
an old sergeant who kept house with his aged wife. She seemed to
be a good sort of woman, for the house was in capital order, the
wooden floor clean scrubbed, and the walls beautifully white. Tables
and chairs were in the like good trim, as were also the pots and
pans and crockery. The sergeant received us with open arms, and
was obsequiously civil. It is probable that the yemschiks who had
conducted us from Poloviné had passed the word to him of our being
distinguished personages, whom all good postmasters delighted to
honour. When the little man had acquitted himself of his bowing and
scraping, he began to expatiate on the coldness of the night and
the badness of the road that lay before us. The end of it was that
he pressed us, with his most winning grimaces, to make ourselves
comfortable under his roof for the night, and proceed at daylight
next morning towards the Baikal. We were but too willing to listen
to the voice of the charmer, for experience had taught us that night
travelling in Siberia is no great luxury. Having therefore satisfied
ourselves that we should be in good time to catch the steamer on the
Baikal, which makes two trips a week, we resigned ourselves with a
good conscience to the kind solicitations of our host. When supper
was over and bedtime came, visions of Russian vermin began to haunt
us, and seriously disturbed our prospects of rest. The most careful
scrutiny of the apartment, however, led to no discoveries of a
disagreeable nature, beyond the shoals of small cockroaches which
the heat of the room brought out in high condition. These animals
are inoffensive enough in their habits, but restless, and ever on
the move, running to and fro over the room and everything in it.
They emit a fetid odour, which is the most unpleasant thing about
them, particularly when you inadvertently crush them. But the close,
oven-heat of the room itself was in my case a sufficient objection
to sleeping there, and the tarantass was to me the more attractive
dormitory of the two. Indeed, when well wrapped up with furs, and
only a part of the face exposed to the frost, the tarantass affords
sleeping accommodation that might well be envied by a king, provided
always there is no jolting over rough roads to disturb the sleeper.
The jingling of bells at various periods of the night announced
the arrival of other travellers, and in the morning we found that
one party of Russian officers, whom we had left drinking tea at
Poloviné, had come and gone without stopping at Ilyensk. Another
party of merchants had arrived later, and were all ready to start
again when we got out of bed. We were naturally, though perhaps
unjustly, suspicious of the Russians, and the first thought that
flashed across our minds, on surveying our situation, was that
we had been duped by the post-master into remaining all night at
Ilyensk in order to let the others get a clear start of us on the
road. It was of the last importance to reach the shore of Lake
Baikal, from which we were still ninety versts distant, in time
to save the steamer, and in the bad state of the roads it was
impossible for us to calculate the length of time we should require
to travel the distance. The advantage we had been induced to yield
to our fellow-travellers might prove fatal to our own success, for
although horses would be kept for us at Ilyensk, there might be a
scarcity at the following stations, and our neighbours having the
lead might take every available beast, leaving none for us. Under
such circumstances the old sergeant was regarded with very different
feelings from those we entertained of him when we retired to rest
the night before. He did not escape a fair quota of abuse, but he
still protested that his intentions were honourable. Great haste was
made to get our horses in, and we had faint hopes of overtaking some
of our friends.
The road from Ilyensk was good for fifteen versts, and quite level.
Beyond that it had been completely destroyed by the recent floods,
and the country was full of lagoons. The bridges were washed away,
and their _débris_ were scattered about over the fields. The main
road was quite impracticable, and by-paths were struck out wherever
the fancy, or topographical knowledge of the yemschik directed him.
It was a wild chase for many weary miles, through great sheets of
water, over high banks, and wide deep ditches, which were charged
at full gallop, the lumbering machine being got over apparently by
the sheer force of momentum. We then plunged into a dense forest
where a lane had been cut out, leaving the stumps of the trees
still sticking up. The ravines had been roughly bridged over with
new-cut trees, overlaid with branches. This road, besides being as
rough as wheeled carriage ever travelled on, was very circuitous,
and our stage of twenty-four versts by the main road was stretched
out to not much short of double that distance by the tracks we were
compelled to follow. It says something, however, for the energy of
the government, that the emergency should have been met so promptly.
Their postal communication had not been interrupted a fortnight
before this new road had been cut through the wood, on the slope of
a hill above the reach of inundation.
Changed horses at Tarakanofské, a small miserable station, and at
1.30 reached Kabansk, a neat town with a pretty church. Here we
dined, and proceeded at 2.30. The high mountains west of the Baikal
were now distinctly visible. At the next station, Stepné-dvaretské,
the postmaster was a Pole, a fine old gentleman, who was exiled
under Nicholas in 1854. He appeared very anxious to talk about the
affairs of Poland, but we had not acquired enough Russian to make
conversation very interesting to either party, and besides we were
in a hurry, and daylight was fast failing. The old fellow exulted
in the expectation of foreign intervention in Poland, and became
radiant with delight when we revealed our respective nationalities.
After leaving Stepné-dvaretské we soon reached the shore of the
lake, when we turned to the left, and followed the coast-line,
through occasional thickets and wide lagoons, till we reached
Pasoilské, the terminus of the Trans-Baikal post-road. The
station-house was full of travellers waiting for the steamer to
cross the water. The fixed time of her departure was 9 o'clock
the next morning, and the crowd of travellers spent the night
in the post-house. No beds, and few seats are provided at these
places. Men, women, and children roll themselves down on the floor
indiscriminately, and sleep soundly through the incessant turmoil
and noise that would make night hideous to nervous people. It is
often impossible to thread one's way into the dormitory without
treading on half the people who are sleeping among the bundles of
clothing that cover the floor; but aggressions of that sort, being
of common occurrence, are borne with stoical indifference. I slept
as usual in the tarantass, and was lulled to sleep by the harmony of
a howling wind, and the loud murmur of the waves of the lake that
washed the sandy beach within a few yards of me.
The Selenga is formed in Mongolia by the junction of a number of
small streams south of Lake Kosgol, 230 miles south-west from
Kiachta. It is afterwards joined by the Orkhon, and its tributaries
from the Kinghan mountains. The length of this river has been
computed at 300 miles, which is probably near the mark. It is
singularly rich in fish, among which is the sturgeon. The fisheries
are a great blessing to the people who inhabit the valley, among
whom fish forms a staple article of diet.
The Selenga falls into the Baikal, by several mouths, about twenty
miles north of Pasoilské. That part of the coast would not be so
convenient for the steamer to cross at, and would moreover make the
crossing so much longer. But as the Selenga itself is navigable, by
properly constructed vessels, from its mouth to a point higher than
Selenginsk, the steamer route may possibly be eventually diverted to
the river.
The valley of the Selenga is hemmed in to a narrow compass by
mountains as far down as Ilyensk. Thence, downwards, the two
mountain barriers diverge gradually, leaving a fine open valley,
which widens to about forty miles on the coast of the lake. This
valley supports a pretty large agricultural population, and the
peasants seem all well-to-do. Agriculture is certainly not in an
advanced state, if Europe be taken as a standard, but still a large
portion of the valley is enclosed and cultivated; weeds are kept
down; and stubble looks like stubble, and not merely grass of a
different shade of colour from the surrounding pastures, which is
the characteristic of the fields nearer Kiachta. The soil is light,
dry, and friable; furrows don't hold their shape. The crops are
chiefly cereals--wheat, barley, rye, and oats.
There is an immense tract of uncleared country in the Selenga
valley, only wanting hands to fell trees and bring the soil under
the plough, to make this a rich and fertile region. The slopes
of the hills are also capable of cultivation, but centuries will
probably elapse before they are required. In the meantime, both
hills and plains bear magnificent crops of timber, which will keep
the Siberians in fuel and building material for a thousand years to
come.
Cattle are abundant, but under-bred and rather small. The milk cows
are poor, which is singular considering that milk is such a valuable
item in the subsistence of the people. They have a good hardy breed
of sheep, which are nearly all black. Pigs are also very common in
the villages. They are a peculiar breed, very active, do not grow
to any size, rather long in the legs, and bristly. Their owners do
not seem to feed their stock much, if at all, and consequently the
animals have to follow their own instincts of self-preservation.
They may be seen in the morning trooping it down the street at a
steady trot, turning neither to the right hand nor to the left,
until some edible substance arrests their attention. They are not
very particular about what they eat, and they manage, by dint of
rapid movements, to eke out a subsistence off the odds and ends to
be found in the streets, and the roots they can burrow out of the
fields. Many of these Siberian pigs are of a brown colour, which is
uncommon in the porcine race.
The dogs of Siberia are of the ubiquitous breed which is common all
over China, Japan, and many other countries, and is nearly akin to
our own collie dog.