Through Siberia

Approach to Irkutsk.—The city entered.—Remains of a fire.—A second fire.—Our flight.—Crossing of the Angara.—A refuge.—Inhabitants fleeing.—Salvage.—Firemen’s efforts.—Spread of the catastrophe.—Return to lodging.—A chapel saved.—Spectacle of fire at night.—Reflections.

What a vivid recollection I have of the lovely morning of that 7th of July! The sun was bright and warm, but the air was not yet hot. The road lay near the cold and swiftly-flowing Angara, and the plains over which we passed were stocked with cattle. Before us lay Irkutsk. This city, or perhaps Kiakhta, I had thought originally to make the eastward limit of our travels. Many friends had prophesied that we should never get there. Some said that I was undertaking more than I could carry out, and others that I should not be permitted by the Russians to go so far. A subtle feeling of satisfaction, therefore, stole over us as we posted along, and saw how soon these prophecies were to be falsified. The town, built on a tongue of land, formed by the confluence of two rivers, with its dozen churches, domes, and spires pointing to heaven, looked extremely pretty; and on the hills around, handsome villas, nestling among the trees, added not a little to the picturesqueness of the scene. The prospect before us, therefore, the retrospect of what we had done, the pleasant morning, and the repose to which we were looking forward, all combined to raise our spirits, and cause us to hasten onward. Alas! we little knew how speedily the face of things would change.

At the ferry was collected a large number of common vehicles, before which, however, our post-horses took precedence. We speedily crossed, and drove through a triumphal arch, erected at the time of the annexation of the Amur, and situated at the entrance of the town. We did not proceed far before we saw where fire had destroyed two blocks of buildings, the embers of which were still smoking. But it was only similar to what we had seen at Perm and Tagil, so that we were not greatly surprised. Worse was to come. We drove to Decocq’s hotel, and took apartments, paid and dismissed the yemstchiks, moved our belongings from the larger of the tarantasses, and arranged them in our rooms—or, rather, we were doing so, when the alarm was given that another fire had broken out. I clambered to the roof of the stables, and there, plainly enough, were flames mounting upwards, not a dozen houses off, and in the same street, though on the other side of the way.

The waiter said he thought the fire would not come towards the hotel, as the wind blew from the opposite direction; but I was disinclined to wait and see, and so we bundled our things back into the tarantass, and told the yemstchiks, who fortunately had not left the yard, to put to their horses, and in a few minutes we were out in the street, witnesses of a sight that is not easy to describe. Men were running from all directions, not with the idle curiosity of a London crowd at a fire, but with the blanched faces and fear-stricken countenances of those who knew that the devastation might reach to them. They looked terribly in earnest; women screamed and children cried, and it was hard for me in the street to get an answer to any ordinary question.

Meanwhile the yemstchiks asked, Where should they go? I tried to discover where some of the persons to whom I had introductions lived, but people were too excited to tell me; and at last my companion suggested that we should go out of the town across the river. We soon put nearly a mile between us and the flames, and reached the bank of the Angara, where was a swinging ferry. The ferry was all but loaded, and would not take more than one of our two tarantasses. I therefore went with the first, leaving the interpreter to follow. On landing, the yemstchik drove along a bridge, at the end of which he motioned to me as to whether he should turn to the left or the right. To me it was just the same, but I pointed to the left; and that turning proved to be of not a little importance. I could say nothing to the yemstchik, and had therefore to wait till the ferry returned, and then crossed again, which occupied the greater part of an hour.

Meanwhile the increased smoke in the distance showed that the fire was spreading, and the inhabitants of the small suburb called Glasgova, to which I had come, were looking on in front of their houses. Among the people I noticed a well-dressed person, whom I addressed, asking if she spoke English or French. She at once inquired who I was and what I wanted. I replied that I was an English clergyman travelling, that I had just arrived in Irkutsk, had run away from the fire, and was seeking a lodging. She answered that there were no lodgings to be had in any of the few houses on that side of the river; “but,” said she, “pray come into my little house, where you are welcome to remain at least during the day.” I was only too glad to do so; and, seeing that there was a small yard adjoining, I asked permission to put therein our two vehicles, in which we might sleep until some better place could be found. And thus we were a second time landed at Irkutsk, poorly enough, perhaps the reader may think, but in a far better condition, as will presently be seen, than before nightfall were many thousands of the inhabitants.

We soon found that our hostess was of good family, and an exile, though not a political, but a criminal one. On arriving at Irkutsk, the Governor-General had shown her kindness in allowing her to remain in the city, where she partly supported herself by giving lessons, and was living for the summer in this quasi country-house with a young man whom she called her brother, her little girl she had brought from Russia, and a small servant whom she spoke of as “ma petite femme de chambre.” There was one tolerably spacious dwelling-room in the house, and in this were sundry tokens of refinement brought from a better home. On the wall hung a photograph of herself, as a bride leaning on the arm of her husband in officer’s uniform, whilst several other photographs and ornaments spoke also of a better past.

The occasion, however, was not suited to long conversation, for the conflagration in the town was increasing. Whilst dining, we bethought ourselves whether we could be of some service, and the outcome of our deliberations was that I offered to accompany Madame to her friends residing in the town, to see if we could be of use, whilst my interpreter stayed with the tarantasses and the little girl to guard the premises.

Madame and I, therefore, set out, accompanied by her maid. At the ferry we met a crowd of persons fleeing from the city, and carrying with them what was most valuable or most dear—an old woman tottering under a heavy load of valuable furs piled on her head; a poor half-blind nun, hugging an ikon, evidently the most precious of her possessions; a delicate young lady in tears, with her kitten in her arms; and boys tugging along that first requisite of a Russian home, the brazen samovar. Terror was written on all countenances. We pushed on to the principal street, and tried to hire a droshky, but it was in vain to call—they were engaged in removing valuables from burning houses, as were the best vehicles and carriages the town possessed. Even costly sleighs, laden with such things as could be saved from the flames, were dragged over the stones and grit in the streets.

Before long we came to the wide street in which were situated the best shops and warehouses, and where the fire was raging on either side and spreading. Those who were wise were bringing out their furniture, their account-books, and their treasures as fast as possible, and depositing them in the road and on vehicles, to be carried away. A curious medley these articles presented. Here were costly pier-glasses, glass chandeliers, and pictures such as one would hardly have expected to see in Siberia at all; whilst a little further on, perchance, were goods from a grocer’s or provision merchant’s shop, and all sorts of delicacies—such as sweets and tins of preserved fruit, to which they who would helped themselves; and working-men were seen tearing open the tins to taste, for the first time in their lives, slices of West India pine-apples or luscious peaches and apricots. Other prominent articles of salvage were huge family bottles of rye-brandy, some of which people hugged in their arms, as if for their life, whilst other bottles were standing about, or being drunk by those who carried them. The effects of this last proceeding soon became apparent in the grotesque and foolish antics of men in the incipient stage of drunkenness.

It was curious to watch the conduct of some of the tradesmen, who seemed to hope against hope, and kept their shops locked, as if to shut out thieves, and in the hope that the fire would not reach their premises. I noticed one man, a grocer, whose doors were barred till the flames had come within two houses of his own; and then, throwing open the entrance, he called in the crowd to carry out his wares. They entered, and brought out loaves of sugar and similar goods, until one man carried out a glass-case full of bon-bons, at which there was a general onset in the street, every one filling his pockets amid roars of laughter. With this laughter, however, was mingled the crying of women, who wrung their hands as they emptied their houses, and saw the destroying flames only too surely approaching their homes.

In the street were all sorts of people—soldiers, officers, Cossacks, civilians, tradesmen, gentlemen, women and children, rich and poor, young and old—but not gathered in dense crowds; some were making themselves useful to their neighbours, and a few were looking idly on. At every door was placed a jug of clean water for those to drink who were thirsty, and it would have been well if nothing stronger had been taken. The fire brigade arrangements seemed to me in great confusion. There were some English engines in the town,—one of them, of a brilliant red, bore the well-known name of “Merryweather and Sons,”—but the Siberians had not practised their engines in the time of prosperity, and the consequence was that the pipes had become dry and useless, and would not serve them in the day of adversity. The arrangements, too, for bringing water were of the clumsiest description. A river was flowing on either side of the city, but the firemen had no means of conducting the water by hose, but carried it in large barrels on wheels.

Now and then one saw a hand-machine in use, about the size of a garden engine, or a jet such as London tradesmen use to clean their pavements and their windows. Moreover, no one took command. I noticed in one case, as the flames approached the corner of a street, it evidently occurred to some that, if the house at the opposite corner could be pulled down, the fire might stop there for want of anything further to burn. They therefore got to the top of the house, and, with crowbars, unloosed the beams and threw them below; but, before they had gone on long, they changed their minds, and seemed oblivious of the fact that the fire would burn the beams equally well on the ground as when standing in a pile.

It must be confessed, however, that the fire had everything in its favour. Nearly all the houses were of wood—so completely so, that, after the calamity, there was often nothing to mark the spot where a house had stood save the brickwork of the stove in the centre. There was a fresh breeze blowing too, and though the houses were in many cases detached, yet it frequently happened that the intervening spaces were stacked with piles of firewood, which helped to spread the conflagration.

A wooden house burning is of course a spectacle much grander than that of flames coming through the windows of a brick structure, and the heat much more intense. At Irkutsk it was sufficient to set fire to a building on the opposite side of the street, without the contact of sparks. In one case—that of a handsome shop—I noticed that the first things that caught were the outside sunblinds, which were so scorched that they at last ignited, and then set fire to the window-frames, and so to the whole building.

It soon became apparent that Madame could not reach her friends, who lived on the other side of the city, and therefore we made our way back towards the ferry, calling here and there and offering help. One friend asked us to take away her little daughter, which we did, and her husband’s revolver, which I carried, and a bottle of brandy—put into the arms of the femme-de-chambre. Thus laden, we walked towards the river, whilst on all hands men and women were pressing into their service every available worker for the removal of their goods. A religious procession likewise was formed by priests and people with banners, headed by an ikon, in the hope that the fire would be stayed. Had such taken place, the ikon would no doubt have acquired the reputation of having the power, in common with many others, of working miracles. As it was, there was a small chapel or oratory in the centre of the town that escaped the flames, though the houses on either side were burned. I heard this spoken of as something very wonderful, if not miraculous, and I am under the impression that it was so telegraphed to Petersburg; but, on looking at the place after the fire, the preservation of the little sanctuary seemed easily accounted for, by the fact not only that it was itself built of brick, and left no part exposed that could well take fire, but that the houses on either side happened also to be of brick, so that they did not, in burning, give off the same heat they would have done had they been of wood. One rejoiced, of course, that the building was saved; but I could not help suspecting that, half a century hence, the chapel will be pointed out as having been preserved by a miracle from the great fire of 1879.

It was evening before we reached our temporary lodging, and as the day closed the workers grew tired. Many were drunk, and others gave up in despair. The impression seemed to gain ground that nothing could be done, but that the devouring element must be left to burn itself out. Hope therefore fled, and the flames continued to spread till the darkness showed a line of fire and smoke that was estimated at not less than a mile and a half in length. It seemed as if nothing would escape. Now one large building caught, and then another, the churches not excepted. To add to the vividness of the scene, an alarm of church bells would suddenly clang out, to intimate that help was needed in the vicinity. Perhaps shortly afterwards the flames would be seen playing up the steeple, and fancifully peeping out of the apertures and windows; then reaching the top, and presenting the strange spectacle of a tower on fire, with the flames visible only at the top, middle, and bottom. At last the whole would fall with a crash, and the sky be lit up with sparks and a lurid glare such as cannot be forgotten.

Meanwhile the inhabitants continued to flee by thousands—the swinging ferry near us crossed and recrossed incessantly, bringing each time its sorrowful load, either bearing away their valuables, or going back to fetch others. Many of the people brought such of their goods as they could save to the banks and islands of the two rivers, and there took up their abode for the night in a condition compared with which ours was comfortable.

Towards midnight the town presented a marvellous spectacle. I have already spoken of the enormous length of the line of fire when looked at laterally; but, as the darkness deepened, I walked down to a point on the bank from which could be seen the apex of the triangle, in the form of which the town was built, and where appeared a mass of flames estimated as covering an area of not less than half a square mile.

We were supposed to sleep that night in the tarantass, but I rose continually to watch the progress of the fire, which towards morning abated, but only because it had burnt all that came in its way. About eleven o’clock the last houses standing on the opposite bank caught fire, and thus, in about four-and-twenty hours, three-fourths of the town were consumed.⁠[1]

As for myself, I had watched the fire with mingled feelings, for we had narrowly escaped. And then came the recollection of the previous delays which had contributed to our preservation—the delay in going to the Alexandreffsky prison, the runaway horse in the wood, and our subsequent impatient waiting on the road. All these played an important part in saving us, for, had we arrived ten minutes earlier, our affairs might have gone very differently. Had we reached the town on the previous day, we should, in all probability, have been at church when the fire broke out; and then it is very doubtful whether we could have saved our effects, such was the difficulty of getting assistance. Moreover, the hotel was burnt within a very short time of our leaving it, so that, when looking back upon the chain of mercies by which we had been saved, I could not feel otherwise than deeply thankful.