Chapter VII: Kiakhta to Irkoutsk (2)

Monshafskaya is surrounded by dense pine forest, through which runs the great post-road fringed by high banks, on which were hedges of hops and wild raspberries in full bearing. The fruit was quite equal in flavour to the real thing, though much smaller. The soil round here seemed wonderfully adapted for fruit-growing. Raspberries, currants, strawberries, and gooseberries grew luxuriantly in all the cottage gardens, and the natives preserve them largely for sale at Irkoutsk and other towns of Eastern Siberia. The place has rather a depressing appearance, nevertheless, the houses of unpainted wood giving a sombre look at first sight, for the only spot of colour against the dark forest was the rest-house, with its white walls and bright green roof. Turning seaward, or rather lakeward, however, the view was very different. It was a clear, though rather cold day, with a strong north-wester blowing, just sufficiently strong to cover the bright blue waters with curling white waves, and show one that if the wind rose any higher things might be unpleasant before we reached Listvenitz, for Radovitch gave us lamentable accounts of the steamer. It was just like being at the seaside in England. One almost fancied one smelt the ozone, while the sound of the waves, beating on the beach, heightened the illusion. The opposite coast was quite invisible, clear day though it was, while to the left and right of us extended broad stretches of shingly beach alternating with patches of bright golden sand standing out bright and distinct against the dark green pines growing down to the water’s edge. To complete the resemblance, a wooden jetty, with a lighthouse at the end, ran out for a distance of fifty yards into the lake, forming a small harbour in which lay moored a number of small fishing-boats and two large black hulks, prison barges, waiting to be towed back to Listvenitz for a fresh convoy. Such was the scene from our rest-house on the hill. Has the reader ever seen the village of Clovelly, in Devonshire? If so, let him substitute pines for oak and beech-trees, unpaved paths for cobbled streets, wooden huts for stone houses, and he has seen Monshafskaya as I saw it that bright August morning, when for the first time I looked on the waters of the Holy Sea of Siberia, for by this name alone is Lake Baikal known by the natives inhabiting its shores. To call it a lake to a Siberian is an insult. He will invariably correct you with the rebuke, “I suppose you mean our Sea.” Among the peasantry it is believed to bring dire misfortune on any one daring to call it by any other name. Lake Baikal was first discovered by one Ivanoff, who, travelling downwards from Yakoutsk, was prospecting for silver. Like Magellan, “He was the first that ever burst into that silent sea,” about the year 1600. The first caravan crossed the lake from China to Europe A.D. 1670.

Lake Baikal is three hundred and fifty miles long by about forty at the lowest point, and is the largest fresh-water lake in Asia, or indeed the whole world, America excepted. The most peculiar characteristic about Baikal is its enormous depth. Soundings have been taken in parts of four thousand feet in the centre, in other parts lines of five thousand and six thousand feet have been used, but no bottom found, and some of the smaller rivers running into the lake, streams of fifty or sixty yards broad, have been found to be over one hundred and fifty fathoms deep. There are many rivers running into the Baikal, but only one that runs out, the “Angara,” which, eventually joining the Yenisei river, flows into the gulf of that name in the Arctic Ocean, thus traversing nearly half the breadth of Asia. The current of this immense body of water is so impetuous that although the distance is only thirty miles, vessels sometimes take four and even five days to do the distance from Irkoutsk to Lake Baikal, which is sixty feet higher above sea-level than the capital of Eastern Siberia, the lake being twelve hundred feet above the level of the sea. Baikal is occasionally visited by terrible hurricanes. On such occasions the loss of life is great, for the ramshackle boats in which the natives fish soon go to pieces in a sea. The Garra or mountain wind is the one most dreaded by the natives, and when this is blowing even the steamers do not put out. Lake Baikal that derives its name of Holy Sea, from the fact our Saviour, when visiting this part of Asia, is supposed to have mounted to the summit of Olkon, an island about sixty miles long by fifteen broad, in the middle of the lake, and surveyed the surrounding countries. Having blessed the land on the north and west, He turned to the south-west, and, stretching out His hands, cried, “_Beyond this shall be desolation_.” On this account, say the natives, the “Dauria” region is so sterile that not a grain of corn will grow there.

I think I am right in saying that Baikal is the only fresh-water lake in the world wherein seals are found. About two thousand are killed annually, and sent to Irkoutsk for sale. Bell, the English traveller, 1788 (the first Englishman, by the way, who ever got as far east as this), mentions this circumstance, and says, “Bay-Kall (sic), is furnished with excellent fish, particularly sturgeon. It also produces great numbers of seals, whose skins are preferred in quality to those caught in salt water. I am of opinion that both the seals in Bay Kall came originally from the Northern Ocean, as the communication between them is open, though the distance be very great.” The above, though written in 1788, is perhaps the most likely explanation of the matter.

Atkinson, the English traveller, is the only European who has ever thoroughly explored Baikal. He made, forty years since, a most interesting journey from its northern to its southern extremity in an open boat, a hazardous experiment, for Baikal is a miniature Mediterranean in the way of sudden and violent squalls. Atkinson found the shores surrounding the lake at the southern end to be chiefly granite cliffs capped by dense forests. Proceeding due north, the granite changes to an imperfect conglomeration of stone, the beach being composed of mixed _débris_. The northern shore is the steepest, and its precipices nine hundred to twelve hundred feet high, with soundings of one hundred and fifty fathoms a boat’s length from their base. “The whole country round,” says the same traveller, “shows unmistakable signs of volcanic eruption, and in the ravines are lava strata of great magnitude. This is probably the outcome of an extinct crater to the north of the Baikal chain in whose neighbourhood hot mineral springs are plentiful.”

M. Menshikoff, an Irkoutsk tea-merchant, was the first to introduce steamers on Lake Baikal. The passage, as it was made forty years ago, in open boats, was very dangerous, and travellers were frequently obliged to remain for days exposed to great hardships, without being able to approach the land. The cost of the steamer was of course enormous, the engines having to come over four thousand miles from St. Petersburg. But the difficulty was at length surmounted, and rather more than twenty years ago bi-weekly steam communication between the eastern and western shores of the lake was established, which has been kept up ever since. There were, at the time of our visit, two steamers on the lake, and another building at Listvenitz. The navigation of the Baikal is suspended about the end of October, sometimes earlier, according to the severity of the season. Although there has been a road within late years round the southern side of the lake, it is rarely used, and the usual mode of crossing in winter is by sleigh. The ice is over seven feet thick, so there is no danger of immersion, although I must confess I should not care to do the journey myself. In mid-winter, when the ice is in good condition, the distance of thirty miles across is frequently done in two to three hours, but in the spring, huge cracks appear in the track, which impede the horses a good deal. There were also formerly rest-stations at intervals of every seven or eight miles, but on one occasion, the ice melting suddenly, one of them was found missing, since which the traveller embarks upon the frozen waters with no prospect of rest or refreshment till he gets to the other side.

The steamer hove in sight about mid-day with a large convict barge in tow. By two o’clock she was alongside the jetty, and we walked down to see the prisoners land. Thirty or forty Cossacks, with loaded rifles, stood in a double row at the gangway, and as soon as the huge, unwieldy barge was safely moored, some three hundred convicts stepped on to the landing-stage. All wore the prison dress, a long loose grey cloak covering a coarse drab suit, and many wore leg-irons. There were no political prisoners or women among this batch, though pretty nearly every race of Asiatic or European Russia was represented. Swarthy Caucasians, Kirghiz Tartars, Jews from Odessa, thieves from Moscow and St. Petersburg, every race and age, from beardless boys to decrepit old men, were represented. One got callous to it after a time, but my first meeting with a gang of prisoners _en route_ to the mines was one I shall never forget. One poor old fellow especially excited sympathy: a man of sixty or seventy years old, with a refined, aristocratic face, who had evidently seen better days, and who could scarcely stagger along under his heavy chains. It would have been ridiculous, had it not been pitiable, to see the little luxuries the old fellow had provided himself with: a little brass teapot, a bag of tea slung round his neck, a loaf of white bread in his arms, and a huge umbrella! At length the hulk was empty, the officer gave the word, “Quick march,” and the long grey procession filed off up the hill and into the drab-coloured prison, which the gang we had seen in the morning had just vacated for their use. The incident cast quite a gloom over our spirits, and I remembered for many days the sad, wistful look the poor old fellow gave, as he entered the prison-gate, at the bright blue waters of the lake, beyond which lay the home he would never see again——for his crime was forgery——his sentence, life at the gold-mines of Nertchinsk.

It was nearly six o’clock before we got away, for there were three tarantasses besides our own to be hoisted on board. The fare across was not ruinous, eight roubles first, and five roubles second class, the freight of the tarantass being twelve roubles. I was rather relieved at this, for funds were running, uncomfortably short, and I did not relish the idea of being stranded on the road. Counting our combined purses, we found the amount was under forty roubles, and we were still more than thirty miles from Irkoutsk, and a night’s lodging to pay. Our course was an oblique one across the lake about W.S.W. to Listvenitz, near the mouth of the river Angara. Some distance from the shore the water became marvellously transparent. From the bows, before the ripple had disturbed the surface, one could distinguish large fish swimming about at least thirty feet down, so clear was the water. The steamer, though crowded with people, was clean and well appointed. There was no food on board, though a huge samovar, flanked by glasses, hissed in the cabin, for the use of those who wished to make tea.

It became very cold after sundown, and we retired to the tarantass forward, where, the head being to the wind, we kept pretty warm. In the hold were twenty convicts returning to their homes after a captivity of twenty years at Nertchinsk and Chita. One of them, who looked at least fifty, was, he told Radovitch, only thirty-three, and had been in the mines ever since he was sixteen. All were still in prison dress, and seemed rather ashamed of mixing with the other passengers. When it became dark, however, they lost their shyness, and, seated in a ring on deck, sang several prison songs——melancholy, dirge-like airs in the minor key. One appeared to be a great favourite, for passengers and sailors alike joined in the chorus. It was, Radovitch told us, composed originally by a prisoner, the refrain being, “Whither leads the dark road of Siberia?” and was so weird and beautiful, that it rang in my ears for days afterwards.

The passengers on board were of a mixed kind, but civil and good-humoured. It was rather trying, till one got used to it, being stared at in our tarantasses like wild beasts in a show, but one got used to it in time. After all it was only natural, for few of our fellow-passengers had ever seen an Englishman before. There were many Jews among them: fat, greasy fellows, with large gold thumb-rings, and flowing hair, and some of the loveliest children I ever beheld. One, a little girl of about fourteen, with very light flaxen hair, the lightest of blue eyes, and thick, black lashes, was a perfect picture.

We arrived at Listvenitz about 1 a.m., having taken about eight hours to do the passage, a little more than the distance from Dover to Calais! On landing we were ushered into the Custom-House, a long, bare room, where our luggage was minutely examined, two Cossacks being on guard the while to see that no one escaped inspection. It was not the brief examination we are accustomed to in Europe. A Customs’ officer, gorgeous in green and gold, stood in the centre of the room, and called out our names one by one, each having to bring up his luggage as best he could, for there were no porters. As there were over one hundred passengers, this performance lasted some hours, no one being allowed to leave till every box in the place had been opened and carefully searched. By the time we got to the rest-house it was nearly three o’clock in the morning. It was a dirty, ill-smelling place, and we were devoured by vermin, but managed to get something to eat before we turned in, the only food we had tasted the whole day being a couple of eggs and some black bread at mid-day.

But another difficulty now arose. The duty that we had paid on tobacco, &c, had dwindled our little store down to ten roubles and a few kopeks. The bare posting-fare to Irkoutsk was, we ascertained, six roubles, and there would be our night’s lodging to pay, which would come to five roubles more at the very least. Money was awaiting us at Irkoutsk, but how to get at it? There was but one way out of the dilemma; one of us must remain at Listvenitz while the other posted on to Irkoutsk and procured the needful. Radovitch entering while we were discussing the subject, overheard part of our conversation. “You are short of money?” said the friendly Russian; “why did you not ask me before?” at the same time producing a fifty rouble note. “Here, take this; you can pay me back at Irkoutsk, or where you like. I am off now. We shall meet again to-morrow. I suppose you will go to the Moskovskaya,” and he had gone, and we heard him jingle away in his tarantass before we could stammer out a word of thanks.

A message came shortly after from the Chief of Police, to say that he would call at eleven o’clock, and that we must not leave Listvenitz till our tarantass had been searched. This was vexing, as, the Customs’ examination over, we had replaced all our luggage, and any one who has ever packed one of these vehicles knows what a weary, heart-breaking job it is. However, it was no use grumbling, and we set to work and laid the things open on the ground, pending the great man’s arrival.

He turned up about mid-day, a tall, strapping fellow, with long Dundreary whiskers, accompanied by his interpreter, a Polish exile. The examination took over an hour, for he looked at everything, more, I soon saw, from curiosity than anything else. My journal especially attracted his attention.

“Read some of it out,” he said to his attendant, settling himself comfortably on the steps of the rest-house and lighting a cigarette. I was somewhat nervous at this, having expressed my views as to Russian habits and customs rather freely since leaving Kiakhta. The Pole opened the book at the very place I wished him to avoid, but, to my surprise, he turned hastily over to the next page, winking covertly at me as he did so, and I breathed again. On being told there was nothing offensive in the MS., his chief became quite jocose and friendly, insisted on our drinking with him, pumping me the while as much as he was able on the subject of India. What area was it? what population? were there many railways? Did we allow Russians to enter? &c. “Tell him,” he said as he rose to go, and I had answered as best I could his somewhat vague questions, “that we shall take it from them some day,” with which polite remark he bade us good day, swaggered away down the street, and we saw him no more.

Listvenitz is built in a sort of lagoon, or landlocked harbour. It is used by the people of Irkoutsk as a watering-place in summer, and there were many pretty villas and lodging-houses built about on the beach, which is of hard sand, and affords capital bathing, though it shelves in a few feet to a depth of twenty or thirty fathoms. We were to have horses at six that evening, and took a stroll after the mid-day meal to a low hill about a mile distant, whence there was a picturesque view of the little cluster of pretty villas nestling in woods and gardens. It was a lovely day, with a blue, cloudless sky; and the civilized surroundings, picturesque peasantry, and great sheet of water sparkling in the sunshine, reminded one not a little of Swiss or Italian lake scenery.

The Polish interpreter called on us in the afternoon, bringing with him a book of photographs, the portraits of brethren who were suffering in the cause of freedom. His story was, if true, a remarkable one. Sent to Vologda in European Russia in 1867 for a trifling offence, he managed to escape to Odessa, and thence to New York, returning to Paris in 1870 to take a prominent part in the Commune. He again managed to escape when the Imperial troops entered Paris, and luckily, for himself, for if caught he would assuredly have been shot. After a short residence in Geneva, he was sent by his society on a secret mission to St. Petersburg; but this time his luck deserted him, and he was captured and sent to Siberia, first to the mines of Kara, then to Listvenitz for life. Among the photographs was one of a young and pretty girl about eighteen or twenty years old. “That,” said the Pole with pride, “is Vera Figner, who shot dead the Police Commissary of Odessa. She is my sister-in-law,” he added. “This is my wife, who was concerned in Alexander’s assassination. Would you like to know her? My house is but a stone’s throw from here.” But we politely refused the invitation, and, to our great relief, he shortly afterwards left us, with the remark, “Well, good-bye, gentlemen, you have been a ray of sunshine in my life. It is dark enough, God knows, but I do not despair. I hope to do some _good work_ yet!” He was a mean-looking, insignificant little fellow, but we heard afterwards at Irkoutsk that he was one of the most dangerous characters in Siberia. His greatest punishment was, he told us, being shunned by everybody in the place (for he was the only exile there) and being deprived of books and papers. Murderer and Nihilist though he was, one could not help pitying him.

Our horses arrived about seven o’clock, and after a final examination of the tarantass, we rattled away from Listvenitz, hoping to reach Irkoutsk by midnight. The country west of Baikal is densely wooded, but not mountainous. There is a good deal of cultivated ground between the mouth (or rather source) of the Angara and the city, and the country is fairly populated. The road, too, was in better order than any we had yet experienced, and we dashed along merrily to the end of the second stage, Patrone, where our high spirits underwent a slight check. We could have no horses till 5 a.m. It was now ten o’clock, and though only eighteen versts from Irkoutsk, we were compelled to sleep, or rather wait in the filthy post-house till morning. It is curious that we invariably found, throughout our journey, the nearer the town the dirtier the post-house. The one or two first stages from Irkoutsk, on the other side, were simply uninhabitable.

The road follows the banks of the Angara all the way to Irkoutsk. The river, rather more than a mile wide at the mouth, rolls down a tremendous volume of water, a steep incline at the inlet, and forms a huge rapid nearly three miles long. Half-way across is the “Shaman Kamen,” or Spirit Stone, a bare rock nearly hidden in the seething mass of foam and breakers. There is a legend among the peasantry, that were this island washed away, Lake Baikal would overflow, destroy the capital, and turn the whole Angara Valley into one huge sea. The “Chamans,” a sect now nearly died out, believe that the souls of the departed are transported to the “Shaman Kamen,” and are compelled to cling for a night to the steep, slippery rock; a very difficult proceeding. If they succeed in remaining till the following morning, they are saved, and received into eternal bliss; if not, they are engulfed for ever. Seen from above the rapids, the seething mass of white foam, the precipitous, rugged cliffs on either side, thickly clad with pine and cedars, and the blue waters of the lake stretching away to the foot of the Amar Daban, with its snowy summit on the Trans-Baikal shore, combine, on a clear evening, to make this one of the most weird and beautiful panoramas imaginable.

We called for the samovar, and beguiled the weary hours with “chi” till past midnight. The post-house swarmed with vermin, and we here made the acquaintance, for the first time, of a small white bug, peculiar to Siberia. Its bite is very poisonous, and sets up a state of intolerable irritation and inflammation, for it burrows under the skin. Nothing but copious applications of ammonia gave relief, and our clothes and bodies swarmed with these when we reached Irkoutsk a few hours later. I give these details, which may seem repulsive to the reader, to show exactly the amount of discomfort one has to go through in the shape of minor annoyances as well as greater ones on the great Post-Road.

About daybreak the jingle of collar-bells announced the arrival of the horses. The landscape now became less wooded, the broad blue river running through fields of rye and barley, while the banks on either side of the road were covered with lilies of the valley and violets, which deliciously perfumed the clear morning air. Presently we left the river, to emerge on a sandy plain. Here our driver alighted, and removed the yoke-bells, a law prevailing in Siberia which forbids their being used in cities. A few minutes more and we were well in sight of the white buildings, golden domes, and green roofs, of the capital of Eastern Siberia, Irkoutsk.

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Footnote 8:

Russian for a team of three horses.

Footnote 9:

A pretty English lady.

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