Chapter VII: Introduction (2)

THROUGH EUROPEAN RUSSIA

The fading disc of the sinking sun disappears slowly beneath the horizon of the waving corn-fields. The first day of the journey is over. It was uneventful, calm, but it has not lacked interest. We have ploughed through endless fields of rich land, with a peaceful agricultural aspect. Here and there a few scattered villages of dark mud huts, and large white churches. Sometimes there is a country seat of some landed gentleman, buildings which remind me very much of an Indian bungalow. They are very long and of only one storey high, half hidden by ancient trees. On the high roads peasants are just returning in endless streams, with carts and kettles, from their daily work. However far off they may have been working, they always return home for the night, for Russian peasants seldom live on their farms. The whole picture speaks of such perfect peace: the slowly moving and singing workmen, and the little villages bathed in the afterglow, express such simple happiness, that I can scarcely realize that some of those very districts have been the scene of violence and cruel outrages. It is indeed difficult to believe the reports of the latest troubles and dissatisfaction which have burst forth in the midst of the quietest of mujiks. How difficult it is to understand the inner feelings of these quaint folk! Sleepy as they may look, uncultured, and a couple of centuries behind the rest of the world, they can yet occasionally awaken; and when they awake, their passions burst out like as a stream of lava without restraint.

During the day we stop at many smaller and larger places, nearly all 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!

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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!

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.

The train stops with a sudden jerk. The door of my compartment is torn 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

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.

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.

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.

I had plenty of time to give my full attention to it, for there was 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.