Chapter V: THE BIOLOGICAL TYPE. In some ways the most important scientific (19)

During these amusements the bride sits concealed behind a curtain in the back of the yurt. The young people of the aul take advantage of her solitude to steal her away, while the bridegroom’s friends are occupied with the singing competition. They make an opening between the pieces of felt covering the yurt, drag her through it, put her on horseback, and carry her off unresisting to the yurt of one of her relatives, where she is given into the hands of the assembled older women. If the robbery succeeds, the robber challenges the youths to find the bride and to deliver her from the women. The company hastily breaks up, and they beg her guardians to restore the bride to them. But, however persuasive their words may be, their request is refused. The bride sits before their eyes in a yurt from which a portion of the felt cover has been removed, but violence is out of the question, so the youths begin to bargain. The women demand nine different dishes prepared by the young men’s own hands, but, after a time, they agree to accept nine gifts instead, and they give up the bride, stipulating that she shall be taken back to her father’s yurt.

Meanwhile the bridegroom sits waiting in his tent. He has not been quite alone, for some of the young married women had gone to seek him as soon as his companions arrived, and had been received by him with a respectful greeting called “taschim”. He had bowed so low before them that his finger-tips had touched the ground, and had then raised himself slowly, letting his hands glide up his shins until he had reached his full height; the women had accepted his homage, and had borne him company all day, giving him food and drink, and whiling away the time with talk and jesting, but not allowing him to leave the tent. Not before sundown, and only after much coaxing does he receive permission to sing a song within the aul and before the bride’s yurt. He mounts his horse, rides into the aul, sings his greeting to the inhabitants, and, stopping before the yurt of his bride-elect, expresses his lover’s plaint in a song, original or otherwise.

Sweetheart, my love brings me dule and pain,
For it’s thrice that I’ve tried to win thee;
Thou would’st not waken; my heart is fain;
For it’s thrice thou would’st not hear me.

But late in night, when the camels rest,
All fixed by their hairy tether,
My heart shall fly to its own warm nest,
Our hearts shall be one together.

Let me but see thy face, sweetheart,
And I shall be brave and strong;
Thou hast stolen away my peace, sweetheart,
And left me with only a song.

I pray for a draught of koumiss, love,
For dry and parched is my soul;
Thou wilt hearken and give me bliss, love,
And make my bleeding heart whole.

But should all my pleading tease thee,
And thine ear be deaf to my song,
The friends will help me to please thee,
And the wedding shall be ere long.

Without entering the yurt he returns to his tent. Soon an old woman comes to him and promises that she will take him to the bride if he will make her a present. He at once agrees, and they set out together. But they do not attain their object without having to overcome various obstacles. Another woman lays the fork which is used to lift the ring of the yurt to its place, across his path; to step over it would be unlucky, for the person who laid it down must take it away again. A gift overcomes this difficulty, but a second is met with very soon. A woman, apparently dead, lies on the path; but a second gift calls the dead to life again, and the way is clear to within a short distance of the yurt. But there stands a figure which snarls like a dog. Shall it be said that the dog snarled at the bridegroom? Never! A third gift closes the snarling mouth, and the much-tried youth reaches the yurt without further hindrances. Two women keep the door shut, but do not refuse to open it when a gift is offered; within, two others hold the curtain fast; on the bride’s couch lies her younger sister; but he succeeds in getting rid of them all; the yurt is almost empty; the old woman lays the bridegroom’s hands in those of the bride and leaves them. At last they are alone together.

Under the supervision of the old woman, who is called “dyenke”, the bridegroom visits the bride many times, without, however, presenting himself before her parents until what remains of the kalüm is paid. Then he sends a messenger to the bride’s father to ask if he may take his bride to his own yurt. Permission is given, and the bridegroom sets out for the aul, once more with a large following and many gifts, pitches his tent at a suitable distance, receives visits from the women as before, spends the night alone in the tent, and, next morning, sends from it to the aul all the necessary woodwork for the erection of a yurt, which he has to provide. Thereupon the women assemble and hastily finish the sewing together of the felt covering supplied by the bride, if it is not already done, and then they set to work to erect the new yurt. The favourite woman of the aul has the honour of lifting the roof-ring, and holding it in position until the spars are fitted into it; the others share the rest of the work of setting up and covering it. While this is going on the bridegroom makes his appearance; the bride, too, is brought upon the scene, and both are told to walk from their places to the yurt to decide the great question as to who shall be supreme within it. The mastery will fall to the lot of the one who reaches it first.

A sheep brought by the bridegroom has been slaughtered, and a meal prepared to be eaten within the new yurt. During the course of the meal, the young master wraps up a bone in a piece of white cloth, and throws it, without looking upwards, through the hole at the top of the yurt into the open air. If he succeeds in doing so, it is a sign that the smoke from this yurt will always rise straight to heaven, which betokens happiness and prosperity for the inhabitants.

After the preliminary repast in the new yurt, the guests repair to that of the bride’s father, where a second meal awaits them. The younger people remain in the new yurt, and for them the bride’s mother prepares food and drink; and she must provide it bountifully, lest the young people should break up the light structure over their heads, and, to punish her niggardliness, scatter its parts in all directions far away in the steppe. Not even the abundantly filled dish itself is safe from the boisterous spirits of these unruly wedding guests; one of them pulls it from the hostess, and rides away with it; others attempt to catch him and secure the spoil, and so the fun goes on till the dishes are in danger of becoming cold.

The following morning the bride’s father asks for the first time to see the bridegroom, invites him to his yurt, greets him warmly, praises his looks and talents, wishes him happiness in his married life, and gives him all sorts of presents as the bride’s dowry. This takes place in the presence of the whole company who had assembled in the yurt before the bridegroom’s entrance. Finally, the richly adorned bride enters it also. If there is a mollah in the aul, or if one can be procured, he pronounces a blessing over the young pain.

Then the farewell song, the “jar-jar”, is sung to the bride, and, with tearful eyes, she responds to every verse, every strophe, with the lament of departing brides.

When this is at an end, camels are brought up to be loaded with the yurt and the bridal presents, and gaily caparisoned horses to carry the bride and her mother to the bridegroom’s aul. The young man himself rides in advance of the procession, and, assisted by his companions, he urges the camels to their utmost speed, so as to have time to erect the yurt in his aul with the same ceremonies as had been previously observed. The bride, having taken tearful leave of her father, relatives, and companions, the yurt, and the herds and flocks, rides closely veiled by a curtain which completely envelopes her, and which is carried by her attendant riders, till she reaches the yurt in which she is henceforth to reign as mistress. Her father-in-law, who has meantime inspected the dowry, and praised or found fault with it, calls her soon after her arrival to his yurt, and she enters it with three such deep inclinations, that she is obliged to support herself by laying her hands on her knees; these are to signify that she will be as obedient to her father and mother-in-law as to her lord and master. During this greeting, her face remains veiled, as it does thenceforward before her father and brothers-in-law, and for a year before every stranger. Later, she veils herself in the presence of her husband’s eldest brother, but of no one else, for she must marry the brother if her husband dies, and she must not rouse or foster evil desires in his heart.

In the case of a second marriage, the Kirghiz woos for himself and without special formalities. If he marries a second wife during the life of his first, and lets her live in the same yurt, as usually happens where the man is not very well-to-do, her lot is a pitiable one. The first wife insists upon her rights, condemns the second to a certain part of the yurt, and only allows her lord himself to exercise his conjugal rights within strict limits. The wife is held in high esteem among the Kirghiz: “We value our wives as we do our ambling nags, both are priceless,” my Kirghiz friend Altibei said to me. The men seldom leave their wives, the women still more rarely run away from their husbands; but even in the steppe, love does sometimes break all the bonds of tradition and custom. Abductions also occur, and are not considered disgraceful. To carry off a maiden whose father’s claims are exorbitant is considered by many as praiseworthy rather than blameworthy on the part of both the abductor and abducted.

Among the Kirghiz, a new-born infant is washed in very salt water as soon as it opens its eyes on the world. The washing is repeated for forty days in succession, and then given up entirely. The suckling is laid at first in a cradle filled with warm, soft, down-like camel wool, so that it is completely covered, and does not suffer from cold in the severest winter; later, it is dressed in a little woollen shirt, which the mother holds over the fire about once in three days, to free it from the parasites abundant in every yurt, but she never changes it for another as long as it holds together. In winter, the careful mother adds a pair of stockings, and, as soon as the child can walk, it is dressed like a grown-up person.

Both parents are exceedingly fond of their children, treat them always with the greatest tenderness, and never beat them, but they take a pleasure in teaching them all kinds of ugly and unseemly words as soon as they begin to speak, and when these are repeated by the child’s innocent lips, they never fail to cause general amusement. The different ages of the child are described by the name of some animal; thus it may be “as old as a mouse, a marmot, a sheep, or a horse”. When a boy reaches the age of four years, he is placed for the first time on the back of a horse about the same age, richly adorned and saddled with one of the children’s saddles which are usually heirlooms in a family. The happy parents promise all sorts of pretty things to the independent little rider, who has, for the first time, escaped from the protecting arms of his mother. Then they call a servant or some willing friend, and give horse and rider into his charge to be led from one yurt to another, to announce the joyful event to all their relatives and friends. Wherever the little boy goes, he is warmly welcomed and overwhelmed with praises and dainties. A festival in the father’s yurt celebrates the important day.

The child’s instruction in all that he requires to know begins about his seventh year. The boy, who in the interval has become an accomplished rider, learns to tend the grazing herds, the girl learns to milk them, and to perform all the other work of a housewife; the son of rich parents is taught to read and write by a mollah or anyone able to impart such knowledge, and later he is instructed in the laws of his religion. Before he has completed his twelfth year his instruction is at an end, and he himself is ripe for life.

The Kirghiz honours his dead and their memory even more than he does the living. Every family is ready to make the greatest sacrifices to celebrate the funeral and memorial feast of a deceased member of the family with as much pomp as possible; everyone, even the poorest, strives to decorate as well as he can the grave of his departed loved ones; everyone would consider it a disgrace to fail in paying full respect to any dead person, whether relative or not. All this they have in common with other Mohammedans; but the ceremonies observed at the death and burial of a Kirghiz differ materially from those customary among others of the same faith, and they are, therefore, worthy of detailed description.

When a Kirghiz feels his last hour approaching, he summons all his friends, that they may make sure that his soul gets into Paradise. Pious Kirghiz, who are expecting death, have the Koran read to them long before the end comes, though the words sounding in their ear may be quite unintelligible. According to the custom among true believers, the friends of a dying man gather round his bed and repeat to him the first phrase of the confession of faith of all the Prophet’s followers, “There is but one God”, until he responds with the second, “And Mohammed is his prophet”. As soon as these words have passed his lips the angel Munkir opens the gates of Paradise, and therefore all who have heard the words exclaim, “El hamdu lillahi”,--Praise be to God!

As soon as the master of a yurt has closed his eyes in death, messengers are sent in all directions to bear the tidings to his relatives and friends, and, according to the rank and standing of the dead man, these messengers may ride from ten to fifty or sixty miles across the steppe from aul to aul. A relative in one aul may also carry on the news to those in another. While the messengers are on their way, the corpse is washed and enveloped in its “lailach”, which last every Kirghiz procures during his lifetime, and stores up with his valuables. When this duty has been fulfilled, the corpse is carried out of the yurt and laid upon a bier formed by a half-extended yurt-trellis. The mollah, who has been sent for, pronounces a blessing over the dead; then the trellis with its burden is lifted up and fastened to the saddle of a camel, and the train of assembled friends and kinsmen sets out on its way to the burial-place, which is often far distant.

Whenever the dying man has breathed his last, the women begin the lament for the dead. The one most nearly related to him begins the song and gives vent to her heart’s grief in more or less deeply-felt words; the others join in simultaneously at the end of every phrase or verse, and one after another does her best to clothe her ideas in fit words. The dirge becomes more and more mournful up till the moment when the camel rises with his burden, and not by sounds and words only, but by their whole conduct the women testify to their increasing grief. At length they tear their hair and scratch their faces till blood flows. Not till the funeral procession, in which the women take no part, has disappeared from sight, do the cries and tears gradually cease.

Some men on swift horses have been sent in advance of the funeral train to prepare the grave. This is an excavation, at most reaching only to a man’s breast; at the end which points towards Mecca, it is vaulted to receive the head and upper part of the body. When the corpse has been laid to rest, the grave is covered with logs, planks, bundles of reeds, or stones. It is not filled with earth, but a mound is heaped up on the top of the covering and decorated with flags or the like, unless when a dome-like structure of wood or bricks is built over the grave. When a child dies its cradle is laid upon its grave. After the burial the mollah pronounces a blessing over the corpse for the last time, and all take part in heaping up the mound of earth. But the ceremonies do not end here.

Whenever the head of a family dies, a white flag is planted beside the yurt and left for a whole year in the same place. Every day during the year the women assemble beside it to renew their lamentations. At the time the flag is planted the dead man’s favourite horse is led up, and half of its long tail is cut off. From that time forward no one mounts it; it is “widowed”. Seven days after the death, all the friends and relatives, even those from a distance, assemble in the yurt, hold a funeral banquet together, distribute some of the dead man’s clothing among the poor, and consult as to the future of those he has left behind and the guardianship of the property. Then the bereaved family is left alone with its sorrow.

When a woman dies almost the same ceremonies are observed, except that, of course, the body is washed and dressed by women. But even in this case the women remain within the aul to sing the mourning song. The departed woman’s riding-horse has its tail cut, but no flag is planted.

When the aul is taken down, a youth selected for the honourable service leads up the “widowed” riding-horse, puts the saddle of its former master reversed on its back, loads it with his clothing, and leads it by the bridle to its destination, carrying in his right hand the lance which bears the mourning-flag.

On the anniversary of the death all the friends and relatives are summoned once more to the bereaved yurt. After greeting and condoling with the women, who are still shrouded in mourning garments, they fetch the horse, saddle and load it in the same manner as when moving the aul, and lead it before the mollah to be blessed. This done, two men approach, seize its bridle, unsaddle it, throw it to the ground, and stab it through the heart. Its flesh serves as a meal for the poor of the company, its skin falls to the mollah. Immediately after the horse has been killed, the lance is handed to the most important man among the relatives; he takes it, pronounces a few words, breaks the shaft in pieces, and throws these into the fire.

Now the horses come snorting up, eager to prove their speed in the race; the young riders who guide and bridle them start off at a given signal and disappear in the steppe. The bard takes the mollah’s place, and commemorates the dead once more, but also extols the living and seeks to gladden their hearts. The women lay aside the singular head-dress, which serves as a sign of mourning, and don their gala attire. After the abundant repast, the vessel of intoxicating milk-wine circulates freely, and sounds of joy mingle with the tones of the zither.

Mourning for the dead is over; life asserts its rights once more.

COLONISTS AND EXILES IN SIBERIA.

Those who regard Siberia as merely a vast prison are as far from the truth as those who look upon it as one immeasurable waste of ice. Russia does indeed send thousands of criminals or others under sentence of punishment to Siberia every year; and there are among these some who, having been convicted of serious crimes against life and property, are not free during the whole of their enforced sojourn. But only a very small proportion of all the criminals are really in confinement for the whole period of their sentence, and every one of them has it in his power to render this confinement less severe, or even to free himself from it altogether by his behaviour, and thus he enjoys advantages which do not fall to the lot of the inmates of our prisons and houses of correction. Wide tracts of the vast territory which is governed by the Russian sceptre, great countries according to our ideas, have never been used as penal colonies at all, and will probably always remain free of those forced immigrants, who cause the settled population much more disagreeableness, not to say suffering, than they have to endure themselves. And along the same paths, which formerly were never trodden save in sorrow, there now pass many free human beings, hoping and striving to better their lot in the distant East. Voluntary colonists join the compulsory ones even in such districts and tracts of country as were formerly dreaded and shunned as the most inhospitable regions on earth. A new era is opening for Siberia; for blinding fear is gradually being replaced by illuminating knowledge even among those classes of society which are more prone to fear than desirous of knowledge.

The descriptions of Siberia with which we are familiar come, for the most part, from the mouth or the pen of educated exiles, that is to say, from people whom the settled inhabitants call “unfortunate”, and treat as such. Probably only a very small proportion of the descriptions in question are untrue, but they are, nevertheless, inaccurate in most cases. For misfortune clouds the eyes and the soul, and destroys that impartiality which is the only possible basis of a correct estimate of the conditions of life. These conditions are much better than we are accustomed to believe, much better, indeed, than they are in more than one of the mountainous districts of our Fatherland; for the struggle for existence in Siberia is an easy one as far as man is concerned. Want in the usual sense of the word, lack of the ordinary necessaries of life, is here almost unknown, or at least, only affects those whose power of work has been weakened by illness or other misfortune. Compared with the hardships against which many a poor German dwelling among the mountains has to contend during his whole life, without ever emerging victorious from the struggle, the lot of even the convict in Siberia appears in many cases enviable. Privation oppresses only the mental, not the bodily life of the residents in Siberia, for whoever is faithful to the soil receives from it more than he needs, and if any one forsakes it for some of the other occupations customary in the country, he can earn quite as much by the honest work of his hands as he could have reaped from the soil itself. Thus do the present conditions of life appear to one who studies them with unprejudiced eyes.

I have honestly striven to form an unbiassed judgment on the present conditions of life among the inhabitants of the parts of Siberia through which we travelled. I have descended into the depths of misery, and have sunned myself on the heights of prosperity, I have associated with murderers, highwaymen, incendiaries, thieves, swindlers, sharpers, vagabonds, scoundrels, insurgents and conspirators, as well as with fishermen and huntsmen, shepherds and peasants, merchants and tradesmen, officials and magistrates, with masters and servants, educated and uneducated, rich and poor, contented and discontented, so that I might confirm my observations, widen my knowledge, test my conclusions, and correct erroneous impressions; I have begged the police officers to describe the exiles’ lot to me, and have questioned the exiles themselves; I have sought out criminals in their prisons, and have observed them outside of these; I have conversed with peasants, trades-people, and colonists generally, whenever and wherever it was possible, and have compared the statements made to me by these people with the detailed communications made to me by the government officials: I may therefore believe that I gathered as much information as was possible, taking into account the speed and shortness of our journey. In any case, I have collected so much material that I may confine myself solely to the results of my own investigations in attempting to give a rapid sketch of the life of exiles in Siberia. My description will not be free from errors, but it will certainly be a just estimate of the state of affairs.

With the exception of government officials, soldiers, and enterprising trades-people, chiefly merchants, the stream of emigrants from Russia to Siberia was made up, until 1861, solely of those who went under compulsion: serfs of the Czar who worked in his own mines, and criminals who were sent, chiefly, to those of the state. With the suppression of serfdom, which had a deeper influence on the state of society than was supposed, or than is even now recognized, the emigration of the former class ceased at once. Millions of men were set free by a word from their mild and large-hearted ruler; thousands of them forsook the mines and turned their attention to the fruitful soil, which their relatives had already been cultivating; the Czar’s mines were almost depopulated, and even now they have scarcely recovered from the effects of the blow. But the great imperial or crown-estate of the Altai gained, instead of its former colonists, a new element which it had lacked, a free peasantry, not indeed possessing heritable property, but yet at full liberty to cultivate the rich soil. The suppression of serfdom also altered the condition of those tracts of country which had been chiefly colonized by convict exiles, for there, too, it became possible to establish a free peasantry. But here the continuous emigration-stream proves rather a hindrance than an advantage; for in most cases the convicts who are exiled to parts of the country already peopled introduce an element of disquiet among the settled inhabitants, and prevent such hopeful and prosperous colonization as in the crown-estate of the Altai, which has never been used as a convict settlement, and never will be so used as long as it remains the property of the Czar. On the other hand, many voluntary emigrants make their way to the Altai, and on that account the population increases more rapidly there than in the rest of Siberia.

It is a magnificent tract of country this crown-estate of the Altai, and, as a landed property, it is also remarkable as being the largest which can be found anywhere. For its superficial area may be stated in round numbers at 400,000 square versts, or about 176,000 English square miles. It includes within itself mountain ranges and plains, hill chains and table-lands; it lies between navigable rivers, and contains others which could be made navigable without special difficulty; it still contains vast and utilizable forests, and wealth immeasurable above and beneath the ground. Ores of various kinds have been discovered at no fewer than eight hundred and thirty different places within its boundaries, without taking into account other two hundred and seventy spots at which it has been found, but which have never been thoroughly examined. In the Altai, one literally walks upon silver and gold; for auriferous silver-ore as well as lead, copper, and iron intersect the mountains in veins, more or less rich, but usually worth working; and the rivers flowing from them carry down golden sand. A stratum of coal, whose extent has not yet been determined, but in which a depth of seven or eight yards has been proved in various places, underlies such an extensive tract, that, judging from the composition of the exposed masses of rock, one is justified in concluding that the whole northern portion of the estate stands above a great coal-basin.[86] And yet the real wealth of the estate of the Altai lies, not in its subterranean treasures, but in its rich black soil, which spreads over mountain slopes and plains, and is swept together in river-basins and hollows, so that it covers them to the depth of a yard and a half. Beautiful, often grand, mountain districts alternate with pleasing hilly tracts of arable land, and gently-undulating plains, which the farmer prefers above all else, steppe-like landscapes with fruitful valleys watered by a brook or river, forests of luxuriantly sprouting trees, low and tall, with groves or park-like shrubbery. The climate, though not mild, is by no means intolerable, and nowhere hinders profitable cultivation of the exceedingly fertile, and, for the most part, virgin soil. Four months of hot, almost unvarying summer, four months of severe continuous winter, two months of damp, cold, and changeable spring, and a similar autumn, make up the year, and though the mean warmth of the best half of the year is not sufficient to mature the grape, it ripens all the kinds of grain which we grow in Northern and Central Germany; and in all the southern portions of the crown property the temperature is high enough to admit of melon culture.

Such is the character of the land which has been free, for more than two generations, from exiled criminals, and which now harbours such colonists as, within certain limits, one would like to see throughout the whole remaining and not less rich and fertile southern portion of Siberia. Of course these farmers of the Altai cannot be compared with our peasants who inherit their land; but they compare favourably with any ordinary Russian peasants. One can see that their fathers and grandfathers have been serfs of the greatest and most exalted Lord of the Empire, not half-slaves of a master who, powerless himself, demands the most absolute subjection; one can also assure oneself in many ways that the lack of landed property has in no wise hindered them from becoming prosperous, that is, from earning more than enough to supply their necessities.

From the time that the Altai was declared the property of the Czar, the lot of its inhabitants was comparatively fortunate, not to say happy. Until their release from serfdom, they had all been employed either in mining, or in some work connected therewith. Those who were not actually in the mines were occupied, some with the felling and charring of trees, others with conveying of the charcoal to the smelting-houses, and others again with the transport of the metal. With the increase of the population the burden of compulsory service became lighter. In the fifties, there were so many able-bodied men available, that the compulsory service to their lord, the Czar, was limited to one month in the year, with the condition, however, that each serf-workman should furnish a horse. The distance which a workman had to cover with his horse was taken into account according to its length. As compensation for absence from home, each serf-workman received 75½ _kopeks_ for the period of his work, but, in addition to this nominal pay, he had the right to cultivate as much of the Czar’s land as he could, and to till it as he pleased, as well as to cut down as much wood in the Czar’s forests as he required for building his house, and for fuel, and he was burdened with no taxes or tribute whatever. The number of workmen which a village was obliged to furnish was in proportion to the number of its inhabitants; the distribution of the burden of service among the different heads of families was left to the members of the community themselves.

The work of the miners was less easy. They were drawn from the towns and villages of the crown-estate, instead of the soldiers levied elsewhere, were treated like soldiers in every respect, and were only freed after twenty-five years of service. They were divided into two classes: the miners proper, who worked in regular relays, and the workers connected with the mine, who were obliged to perform a certain prescribed amount of work each year, the time being left to their own choice. The latter were engaged in charcoal-burning, felling trees, making bricks, transport, and the like, and they received 14 roubles yearly. Having yielded the required service, they were free for the rest of the year, and might do as they pleased. Those who worked in the mines, on the other hand, were compelled to give their services year in, year out. They worked in twelve-hour relays, one week by day, the next by night, and every third week they were free. Each miner received, according to his capability, from six to twelve roubles a year for such necessaries as had to be paid for in money, but in addition he was allowed two _pood_ (72 lbs.) of flour a month for himself, two _pood_ for his wife, and one _pood_ for each of his children. He was also at liberty to till as much land, and breed and keep as many cattle as he could. Each of his sons was obliged to attend school from his seventh to his twelfth year; from his twelfth to his eighteenth he was engaged as an apprentice, and rewarded at first with one, later with two roubles a year. At the age of eighteen his compulsory service in the mines began.

On the first of March, 1861, the day of the emancipation of all the serfs in the Russian Empire, there were in the crown property of the Altai 145,639 males, of whom 25,267 were at work in the mines or smelting works. All these were released from their compulsory service, not indeed in a single day, but within two years. No fewer than 12,626 of them forsook the mines, returned to their native villages and began to till the soil; the rest remained in the mines as hired labourers.

I do not think I am mistaken in referring the more comfortable conditions of life on the crown-property of the Altai, as compared with the rest of West Siberia, back to its own past. The parents and forefathers of the present inhabitants, notwithstanding their bondage, never felt oppressed. They were serfs, but of the lord and ruler of the vast land in which the cradle of their fathers stood. They were obliged to labour for their master, and to yield up their sons for nearly a generation to his service; but this master was the Czar, a being in their eyes almost divine. In return, the Czar maintained them, freed them from all the obligations of citizenship, permitted them to wrest from his land what it would yield, placed no hindrances in the way of their prosperity, protected them, as far as possible, from the oppressions of unjust officials, and was, besides, a benefactor to their children in that he compelled at least some of them to attend school. The officials under whose superintendence they were, stood far above the majority of the servants of the crown as regards culture; nearly all had studied in Germany, not a few were even of German extraction, and brought, if not German customs, at least widened views into the country over which they ruled in the name of the Czar. Even now, Barnaul, the capital of the crown-lands, is a centre of culture such as can be found nowhere else in Siberia; and, while the mining industry was at its best, it was the undisputed intellectual capital of Northern and Central Asia, and the light emanating from it shone the more brilliantly because it found in every mining centre a focus which helped to spread it more widely. Thus the royal domain of the Altai has always held a prominent position among the districts of Siberia.

It was probably never the intention of the administration of the Altai to specially favour the peasant class. Until the suppression of serfdom, at all events, the class was regarded much as a necessary adjunct to the working of the mines. But times have changed. From the day on which the serfs were emancipated, mining has retrograded as steadily as agriculture has advanced. The authorities have not yet been able to make up their minds to abandon the old routine of work, but they have to pay such high sums to get it carried on that the net profit from the mines is now inconsiderable. Throwing open the mines freely to energetic workers, probably the only thorough means of improving the present state of things, has been proposed in some districts, but is still far from being an accomplished fact. The free use of the soil, as far as the plough penetrates, has been customary so long that it has become, to a certain extent, a prescriptive right. To be sure, as I have already pointed out, no one owns the land he tills, not even the spot on which his house stands, but, in the peasants’ eyes, what belongs to the Czar belongs to the “good Lord God”, and the latter willingly permits every believer to make use of it. As a matter of fact, the administration of the crown-lands levies forty _kopeks_ of annual rent on every _hektar_ of land (2½ acres) which is brought under the plough; but it is not particularly strict in the matter, and the peasant on his side does not feel it at all incumbent on him to be very precise. Thus each peasant, in reality, cultivates as much as he can, and chooses it wherever he pleases.

It is doing the peasant of to-day on the crown-lands no more than justice to describe him as well-built, wide-awake, handy, skilful, intelligent, hospitable, good-natured and warm-hearted, and it is not too much to say that his prosperity has given him considerable self-esteem and a certain appreciation of freedom. His bearing is freer and less depressed than that of the Russian peasants. He is polite and obliging, submissive, and therefore easily managed; but he is not servile, cringing or abject, and the impression he makes on a stranger is by no means unfavourable. But he possesses all the qualities which we call loutishness in a high degree, and several others as well, which are calculated to weaken the first impression. Although he has had more educational advantages than any others of his class in Siberia, he is anything but in love with school. He is strictly religious and ready to give up what he possesses to the Church, but he looks upon school as an institution which spoils men rather than educates them. With a lasting recollection of a former state of things, when the old discharged soldiers, who held the educational sceptre in the times of his fathers, did not scruple to send the scholars for “schnaps”, and even to maltreat them while under its influence, he is exceedingly suspicious of everything connected with “education”. He also clings, peasant-like, to whatever has been in the past, and imagines that more knowledge than he himself possesses will be injurious to his children, and it is by no means easy to convert him from this opinion. The state of education is thus very low. It is only exceptionally that he has acquired the art of writing, and he invariably regards books as entirely superfluous articles. But he clings, on that account, so much the more firmly to the superstition which his Church countenances and promulgates. He rarely knows the names of the months, but can always tell off the names of the saints and their festivals on his fingers: God and the saints, archangel and devil, death, heaven, and hell occupy his mind more than all else. He cannot be described as easily satisfied, yet he is perfectly contented. He does not wish for more than the necessaries of life, and therefore only works as much as he absolutely must. But neither his farm premises nor the fields which he calls his can be too large, neither his family nor his flock too numerous.

“How is it with you here?” I asked, through an interpreter, one of the heads of a village whom we picked up on the way.

“God still bears with our sins,” was the answer.

“Are your wives good, faithful, kindly, and helpful to you?”

“There are good and bad.”

“Are your children obedient, and do they cause you joy?”

“We have nothing to complain of in regard to them.”

“Is the land you till fruitful; does it yield you a rich harvest?”

“If it yields us corn tenfold, we are content.”

“Do your cattle thrive?”

“We are content.”

“How many horses have you?”

“Thirty-two; there may perhaps be thirty-five.”

“And how many of these do you require for your work?”

“Eight, ten, and sometimes twelve.”

“Then you bring up the rest to sell?”

“I may perhaps sell one of them some day.”

“And what shall you do with the others?”

“_Nitschewo._”

“How many cows and sheep have you?”

“I do not know. My wife takes charge of the cows, sheep, and pigs.”

“Have you heavy taxes to pay?”

“I am content.”

“Have you anything to complain of?”

“I am content.”

“So you have no complaints whatever to make; everything is quite satisfactory?”

“No, not everything; I have one complaint.”

“What is that?”

“The land is becoming uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable; what does that mean?”

“Why, it is getting too small for us.”

“Too small; in what way?”

“Oh, the villages are springing up everywhere like mushrooms from the soil. One has scarcely room to turn now, and does not know where to lay out one’s fields. If I had not been too old I should have left this part.”

“The villages spring up like mushrooms from the soil? But where? I see none. How far is the next village from yours?”

“Fifteen _versts_” (ten miles).

Thus does the peasant of the crown estate speak and think. The vast land is not spacious enough for him, and yet the twentieth part of what he has at his disposal would suffice for him if he would cultivate it. For the land is so fertile that it richly rewards even a very small amount of labour. But if it does once fail, if the harvest does not turn out as well as usual, if the peasant suffers from want instead of from superfluity, he regards this not as the natural consequence of his own laziness, but as a dispensation of God, as a punishment laid upon him for his sins.

In reality, however, he is very comfortable in spite of his sins and their punishment, and has more reason to talk of his reward. For not scarcity but superfluity troubles him. The government allows each peasant fifteen _hektars_ of the best land, usually at his own choice, for every male member of his family; but of the 400,000 square _versts_ of the crown-estate, only 234,000 had been taken up till 1876, so it does not matter much even now whether a peasant restricts himself to what he has a right to or not. Some families use not less than twelve or fifteen hundred _hektars_, and to these it is certainly a matter of indifference whether they keep only the number of horses necessary for their work, or twenty or thirty more. In reality, it often happens that the superfluous animals relieve the peasants from a heavy care--that of turning to account the over-abundant harvest which the extremely deficient means of transport prevent his converting into money. In a country in whose capital, under ordinary circumstances, the _pood_ or thirty-six pounds of rye-meal is sold at sixpence, of wheat-meal at ninepence, of beef in winter at about one shilling and twopence at most; where a sheep costs four shillings, a weaned calf ten, a pig eight, and an excellent horse seldom more than five pounds of English money, an unusually good season lowers prices so far that the too-abundant harvest becomes a burden. When the peasant, who in any case works only when he must, can only get about one shilling and twopence for about two hundredweights of grain, the flail becomes too heavy in his hand, and the harvest, according to his limited ideas, becomes a curse.

These conditions, which apply to the present day, explain most of the vices as well as many of the virtues of our colonist: his laziness, his incorrigible contentment, his indifference to losses, his liberality to the needy, his compassion for the unfortunate. They also explain the intense desire, innate in all Siberians, to increase the population. The vast land is hungry for inhabitants, if I may so speak. Therefore even now the Siberian looks with pride on a numerous family; and there is no foundling asylum in the whole country. Why should there be? Every woman who cannot bring up the child she has borne, or who wants to be rid of it, finds someone willing and anxious to take the little creature off her hands. “Give it to me,” says the peasant to the faithless mother: “I will bring it up;” and he looks as pleased as if a foal had just been added to his stock. In former times, when the population was considerably less than it is now, children were married while still immature, or scarcely mature, so that they might become parents as soon as possible and gain other hands to help them; now youths do not usually marry until the beginning of their eighteenth year, but they frequently wed older women who give promise of early child-bearing, and the designs of such women upon marriageable youths are not only winked at but encouraged by the bridegroom’s parents.

In order that romance may not be altogether awanting, I may mention that elopements of young girls with love-struck youths, and secret marriages, are by no means rare occurrences among the peasants of the Altai. But the great majority of these elopements take place with the consent of all concerned, thus also of the parents of both bride and bridegroom--to avoid the customary entertaining of the whole village at a meal, simple in itself, but accompanied by a great deal of brandy. As may be imagined, however, love overcomes all obstacles, particularly the disapproval of parents, on the crown-lands as elsewhere. The maiden, like every other on the round earth, is soon won over by the youth who desires to run away with her; a holy servant of the Church can also be procured at all times by the payment of an exorbitantly high fee; but the angry parents are not so easily reconciled. The mother curses her daughter, the father his son; both swear by all the saints never to see their depraved children again.

“And Heaven, full of kindness,
Is patient with man’s blindness.”

But it is not from above that the reconciliation comes; that is brought about by a magic power beyond compare, known as _schnaps_ among the races who inhabit German territory, as _vodki_ among those living on the sacred soil of Russia. As soon as the father-in-law drinks, the young bridegroom has gained the day; for the mother-in-law drinks too, and the luscious nectar softens her inflexible heart also. If some friends arrive, as if by chance, to assist at the reconciliation festival, they are not denied admittance, for the cost of entertaining them is much less than if the whole village had assembled, and, drinking fervently, had called down the blessing of Heaven upon the newly-united pair. Who can deny after this that love, pure, holy love, makes even a peasant youth of the Altai inventive?

The bride of the Altai receives no dowry; her mother, on the other hand, expects a gift from the bridegroom, and sometimes demands it with much storming, weeping and howling, after the manner of women. Only under special circumstances, as, for instance, when, on the morning after the wedding, the nuptial linen does not fulfil the expectations of the assembled guests, the contrary takes place. The intelligent and experienced father-in-law makes use of the magic means already mentioned, produces an inspiriting number of bottles thoughtfully laid in beforehand, promises the indignant, or at any rate downcast son-in-law a foal, an ox, a sucking-pig, and the like; the minds of all are made easy again, and the reconciliation is effected.

And why should the bridegroom be angry for ever? Others have fared no better, and the future will equalize much. Paternal joys often blossom even under irregular circumstances, and they are paternal joys all the same. For even the poorest couple have no cares about their household expenses, if they will use their hands at all; people are willing to help them with this and that, and if a bountiful Heaven will only be moderate enough for a few years in the outpouring of its blessings, so that the price of grain and stock may not fall too low, a tea-caddy and cups will adorn a corner table, and silk coverlets the big double-bed, shining images the right-hand corner, and indescribably noble pictorial representations of the hunting of the lion, tiger, bear, wolf, elephant, stag, and crocodile the walls of the cleanly-kept “best room”, which is never awanting in the better class of peasant houses.

A domestic life scarcely differing from that already described beckons to every convict who is exiled to Siberia, to one sooner, to another later, if he wishes to attain to it, if he lives long enough, and is to a certain extent favoured by fortune. While in Siberia I came to have views about exiles and banishment very different from those I had held before visiting the country; but I may remark at the outset that I am not one of those who bestow more sympathy upon a murderer, a robber, an incendiary, a thief, or any other scoundrel, than upon the industrious paterfamilias who strives, in the sweat of his brow, to bring up a numerous family honestly, and that I have never been able to soar to that loftiness of view which seeks to mitigate all punishment and relax all confinement.

On an average, fifteen thousand people are sent from Russia, “verschickt”, as the expression is among the German Russians. Those who have been guilty of grave crimes are sentenced for life, of less serious offences for a number of years. It is not within my province to discuss the severities or deficiencies of the Russian penal code; but the fact that the penalty of death is imposed only for the gravest and rarest of all crimes does not suggest too great severity. But it is undoubtedly a hardship that exiles sentenced for political causes should be treated on the way to Siberia, and often when there, exactly like common criminals.

Condemned exiles are first transferred from the prison in the district town to that in the capital of the government, and thence transported by rail or by the ordinary peasant-wagon to Nijni-Novgorod, Kasan, or Perm. Whether criminals are still forced to march in chains, two abreast, and thus to carry their fetters for the whole journey, I do not know; I have never seen this, and I am firmly convinced that the well-known mildness of the late Czar would never have suffered this barbarous proceeding. In the towns already mentioned, as well as in Tjumen and Tomsk, there are spacious prisons, and, at intervals along such routes as have not been deserted because of the railway, there are less roomy buildings for the safe housing of the exiles during night. Whenever it can be avoided, the exiles are not compelled to travel on foot, but are conveyed to their destination by rail, by the wagons already referred to, or by regularly plying steamers: thus from Nijni-Novgorod or Kasan to Perm, from Tjumen _via_ Thura, Tobolsk, Irtish, Ob, and Tom, to Tomsk. The prisons are simple buildings, but thoroughly clean; the hospitals connected with, but sufficiently far apart from them, are model institutions; the river-boats are unusually long, two-decked vessels, which may best be described as gigantic floating cages, for the whole upper portion above the deck is latticed after the fashion of a bird-cage. Each of these boats, which is towed by a steamer, affords the necessary accommodation for six hundred persons, and contains also a large kitchen, a sick-room, a small dispensary, quarters for the accompanying soldiers and for the crew. Between Perm and Tjumen run wagons, which also resemble bird-cages, and which serve for the transport of dangerous criminals.