Through Siberia

Travelling by post-horses.—The courier, crown, and ordinary podorojna.—The tarantass.—Packing.—Harness.—Horses.—Roads.—Pains and penalties.—Crossing rivers.—Cost.—Speed.—Post-houses.—Meat and drink.

When you purpose to travel “post” in Russia, your first business is to get a podorojna, or permit, of which there are three kinds. The first is a “courier’s” podorojna, which is used by passengers travelling in hot haste upon important—generally Government—business. Each post-master reserves three horses in case a courier should arrive, in which event only a certain number of minutes is allowed for changing the horses, and away goes the courier at breathless speed. Not long before my visit an exile, condemned to the east, had reached the city of Tomsk, a distance of nearly 3,000 miles from the capital, when, for some reason, his presence was required by the authorities in Petersburg. They telegraphed, therefore, that he was to be brought back couriersky; whereupon he was placed between two gendarmes, and then over the stones they rattled the bones of that unfortunate man, till in 11 days they brought him to his destination. This sort of podorojna is reserved for special messengers and persons of importance; but, after hearing the foregoing story, I came to the conclusion that it is not every one who would appreciate the privilege of travelling couriersky.

Number 2 is a “crown” podorojna, recognised by post-boys who cannot read by its having two seals. This is not paid for, and is usually given to officers and persons on Government service, and sometimes to favoured private individuals. The bearer crosses bridges and ferries free, and need not pay for greasing his wheels; but its great advantage is that, when there is a lack of horses, the owner of a crown podorojna has a preferential claim. Podorojna number 3 is that used by ordinary travellers, for which at the outset you have to pay, by way of tax, a trifling amount per verst, according to the distance you intend to travel.

And now, having secured your podorojna, your next concern is for a vehicle. If you simply take that to which your podorojna entitles you, it will be a roofless, seatless, springless, semi-cylindrical tumbril, mounted on poles which connect two wooden axletrees, and out of this at every station you will have to shift yourself and your baggage. This is called travelling pericladnoi. From such a fate, gentle reader, may you be delivered! No, better buy a conveyance of your own. The vehicle I have alluded to is called by the general name of tarantass. The one you will purchase, though in many respects similar, and by some called also a tarantass, will be dignified by the post-boys with the appellation of an “equipage.” Like the other, it will be mounted on poles for springs, but the axles and body of the carriage will be of iron, and it will have a seat for the driver, and a hood, with a curtain and apron, under which you may sit by day and wherein you can sleep by night. The equipage may cost you from £20 to £30, and, if given to mercantile transactions, you may consider on the way how much you will gain or lose (for that is possible) by the sale of your vehicle at the end of the journey. A third way is to get a vehicle from one who—having come to Tomsk, for instance, to proceed to Russia—wishes his carriage taken back to Irkutsk. It was our good fortune to borrow the two we used, one being kindly lent by Mr. Oswald Cattley.

The packing of the vehicle requires nothing short of a Siberian education. Avoid boxes as you would the plague! The edges and corners will cruelly bruise your back and legs. Choose rather flat portmanteaus and soft bags, and spread them on a layer of hay at the bottom of the tarantass. Then put over them a thin mattress, and next a hearth-rug. When we entered Tiumen, women besieged us with these hearth-rugs, as I thought them. Not knowing what they were for, I could not conceive what they meant by such conduct. Had my companion been a lady, I should have deemed that they thought us on a bridal trip, and about to set up housekeeping. But I was innocent of all such devices, and chased the women away. When it was discovered what the carpets were for, I regretted not having bought one. Next, put at the back of the carriage two or more pillows of the softest down, for which please send on your order in advance, because these must be bought as opportunity offers. If a housewife has finished the manufacture of a down pillow she wishes to sell, she will bring it into Ekaterineburg to market; but, if you want such a thing on a given day, you may search the town and not get one.

You may now get in, cover your legs with a rug, and watch them harness the horses. Siberian post-horses are sorry objects to look at, but splendid creatures to go. A curry-comb probably never touches their coats; but, under the combined influence of coaxing, scolding, screaming, and whip, they attain a pace which in England would be adjudged as nothing short of “furious driving.” They are smaller than English horses, but much hardier, and are driven two, three, four, or even five or more, abreast. The Russian harness is a complicated affair, the most noticeable feature being the douga, or arched bow, over the horse’s neck. To the foreigner this looks a needless incumbrance, but the Russian declares that it holds the whole concern together. The rods are fastened to the ends of the bow, and the horse’s collar in turn to the shafts, so that the collar remains a fixture, against which the horse is obliged to push. The shafts are supported by a saddle and pad on the back, and do not touch the horse’s body. The centre horse only is in rods; those on either side, how many soever they be, are called a “pair,” and are merely attached by ropes. If you have been wise, you have bought at the Gostinnoi Dvor about 20 yards of inch-rope to go all round the back of the vehicle, and to which are attached the two outer horses. The post-men are supposed to supply such a rope, but theirs are often thin and rotten. It is well, too, to take several fathoms of half-inch rope. One of the wheels may become rickety, and threaten to fall to pieces, in which case the rope will be needed to interlace the spokes. A third supply should be laid in of still smaller cord, in case of spraining a pole or the rods. Do not forget to purchase besides a hatchet. All these we took, and more than all were wanted.

When the driver, or yemstchik, has taken his seat, the horses will not stay a minute. Indeed, in some districts, the horses’ heads are held while the driver mounts, and, when freed, they start with a bound. And now begin your pains and penalties!

When, at Nijni Tagilsk, we descended by ladders 600 feet into a copper-mine, and came up in the same manner, we were warned that on the following day we should be terribly stiff; but I aver that the consequences were as nothing compared with those of the first day’s travelling by tarantass. The roughness of the roads and the lack of springs combine to cause a shaking up, the very remembrance of which is painful. Let the reader imagine himself about to descend a hill at the foot of which is a stream, crossed by a corduroy bridge of poles. The ordinary tarantass has no brake, the two outer horses are in loose harness, and the one in rods has no breeching. The whole weight of the machine, therefore, is thrown on his collar, and the first half of the hill is descended as slowly as may be. But the speed soon increases, first because the rod-horse cannot help it, and next because an impetus is desired to carry you up the opposite hill. All three horses, therefore, begin to pull, and, long before the bridge is reached, you are going at a flying pace, and everybody has to “hold on.” The bridge is approached, and now comes the excruciating moment. Most likely—almost to a certainty—the rain has washed away the earth a good six inches below the first timber of the bridge, against which bump! go your fore-wheels, and thump! go your hind ones; whilst fare and driver are alike shot up high into the air. I have a lively recollection of these ascents, some of which were so high that, when travelling from Archangel to Lake Onega, we had the hood removed, lest our skulls should strike the top. Happily, all roads are not so perilously rough, and, briefly to summarize my experience of them, I should say that those of Tobolsk and Tomsk are muddy, causing the yemstchiks, when possible, to avoid them—to go into lanes and by-ways, over hillocks and fallen timber, and down into holes and ditches, all of which give variety to the route. The Yeneseisk roads deserve nothing but praise; they are well kept, and would be reckoned good in England. The Irkutsk ways deteriorate, and those beyond Baikal are worse than all; for the Buriat yemstchiks drive you furiously over hillocks, rocks, and stones.

Nor are roads the only things to be traversed; there are numerous streams and rivers—some with bridges, but more without. Through some of these your horses simply walk; on others there is a well-kept ferry, upon which you and your carriage are drawn or rowed. On one occasion our vehicle was put on the ferry, and the horses made to swim the stream. It sometimes happens, however, especially in early spring, that the ice or floods have carried away or damaged the ferry, and a flat-bottomed boat is temporarily substituted. In this manner we crossed the Tom. The tarantass was lifted by degrees into the boat, one wheel at a time. The boat was only just wide enough to take the vehicle, and we were advised to let down the hood, lest the wind should blow us over. This was about the only time I felt nervous, and I confess being thankful when we safely reached the opposite shore.

The cost of these pleasures of travel is not so great in Siberia as might be supposed. In the western division, where pasture is abundant, the hire of each horse is only about a halfpenny per mile. In Eastern Siberia the fare is exactly double. Horses are changed about every ten or fifteen miles, and each new driver looks for a gratuity, euphemistically called “money for tea.” On the amount of the “tip” depends your speed. Ten kopecks are often given, but we found fifteen put the boys in better humour, and we made from 100 to 130 miles a day. Two hundred versts in a day and night, for summer travelling, is considered good, and we sometimes did it; but given a Russian merchant, bound for a fair, where his early arrival will give him command of the market, and then a “tip” of, say, a rouble a stage will in winter get him over 300 versts, or 200 miles a day. It is common to hear Siberians boast of quick journeys made thus, but they are usually attained only at cruel cost to the horses. The reader may judge what speed can be made from a story told us at Tiumen of a Governor-General of Eastern Siberia, whom the late Emperor, some 12 winters ago, required on an emergency at Petersburg, a distance from Irkutsk of 3,700 miles. The General was put in a bear’s skin, wrapped up like a bundle, placed in a sledge, and in 11 days was brought to the capital. Several horses dropped dead on the way, an ear was cut from each as a voucher, and the journey continued. When governors of provinces travel, they are supplied with the best horses in the villages, and sometimes have them changed at the half stage, so as to spare the animals whilst securing extra speed.

Having said this much about the vehicles, horses, and roads, the reader may wonder how it fares with the traveller in the matters of lodging and board, which brings me to the subject of post-houses. These, like the post-horses, are the property of the Government, and are of very varied quality, from the best—which have all the appearance and the comfort of a roomy, well-established English farm-house or country inn—to the worst, which are little better than hovels. Certain features, however, are common to them all. On one side of the door, as you enter, will be found the room in which the post-folks and their children live, and on the other will be one or more rooms reserved for travelling guests. The guests’ room will never contain less than the following articles: a table, a chair, a candlestick, a bed, or rather a bench—padded, if in a good house, but of bare boards in the humbler ones—an ikon or sacred picture, a looking-glass, and sundry framed notices. One of these notices is a tariff of meat and drink—not that you are to suppose for a moment that any amount of money would purchase the luxuries named thereon, but the Government makes every post-master take out a victualler’s licence, and named thereupon are the prices which he would charge for the delicacies IF HE HAD THEM! No—bed and board are the rub of Siberian travel. You may safely rely upon getting at any station a supply of boiling water, and probably some black bread; but beyond this all is uncertainty. In Western Siberia milk and eggs are plentiful and cheap—the latter a farthing each; and everywhere, if you arrive at dinner-time, there is a chance of getting some meat, which you may or may not be able to eat. The fact is, you must take your own provisions, and for this winter is better than summer, because then you have simply to freeze your meat and chop off a piece with your hatchet when required. It is easy, moreover, to start with a stock of frozen meat pies, one of which, thrown in hot water, is eatable in a few minutes; and so with lumps of frozen cream. Tea and sugar are carried, of course, by every traveller in Russia; and to these were added a small quantity of tinned meat, fresh butter, anchovy paste, and marmalade—the last two as qualifiers in case we were reduced to black bread. These things, with a stock of white bread taken from the larger towns, formed a base, for which we were thankful. If anything better fell in the way, it was so much to the good; if white bread and butter failed, then we hoped for improved circumstances. These remarks apply, of course, to the hundreds of miles of country between the towns. In the towns we fared comparatively well. Such are some of the features of tarantass travel for which we prepared ourselves at Tomsk. What occurred will be related in its proper place.