Through Siberia

Farewell ceremonies.—Writing home of changed plans.—Caravans.—An iron foundry.—Buriat yemstchiks.—Methods of driving.—Salutations.—Insignificant post-stations.—Visit to a missionary to the Buriats.—Russian missions in Japan.—A remarkable meeting.—The Yablonoi mountains.—Chita.—Visit to the Governor and prison.

We had determined, after dining at Maimatchin, to continue our journey eastwards. Mr. Koecher, however, would not let us go without giving us a supplementary dinner; for the Chinese spread is looked upon as a matter of curiosity rather than of genuine gastronomy, and we did not expect to get another respectable meal for many hundreds of miles. After this supplementary dinner, therefore, we prepared to start. The hospitality and kindness of the Siberians to departing friends is unbounded; and, among other customs, they have one method of doing honour to a guest at a feast which is considered a mark of great respect. It is called the podkeedovate, and is done by seizing the unfortunate victim and laying him flat on the extended and clasped hands of two rows of guests, who toss him up and catch him. When Mr. Collins, their first American visitor, was at Kiakhta, they tossed him up in this manner to the ceiling, which he touched, palpably. In our own case, happily, we were spared this honour, and were dismissed with the repeated shakings of the hand of which the Russians are so fond; provided, however, it be not over the threshold. Twice I found myself transgressing in this respect—once to an American, who had become half Russianized, and once to a Russian lady. Both of them smiled, and asked me to come right in before shaking hands. What superstition they have upon the subject I know not. Another Russian custom with departing friends is to drive alongside for a few miles, perhaps to the first post-station, and then take a last farewell. This our host did when we left Kiakhta on the evening of Wednesday, the 16th July, and we were then fairly started for a drive of 600 miles. We passed along the road by which we came as far as Verchne Udinsk, or, as I have called it, “the Amur and China junction.” Here we took the opportunity to post letters to England, to say that to return from hence would be to leave my work half done, and that we were going on to the Amur, from which Mr. Interpreter was to turn back, whilst I was to continue to the Pacific, and so reach home by completing the circle of the globe; and as I thought to finish the journey in person sooner than a letter would cross Asia and Europe, and I did not know what holes and corners I might get into, or how be detained, my friends were exhorted not to be alarmed if they heard nothing of me for many days. And the exhortation was needed, for I subsequently got into two places from which I could not stir, nor well communicate my whereabouts, so that, notwithstanding my warning, serious and anxious doubts were entertained for my safety.

Whilst travelling eastwards we had frequently met caravans of carts carrying tea. These caravans sometimes reach to upwards of 100 horses; and, as they go at walking pace, and when they come to a river are taken over by ferry, it is not matter for surprise that merchandise should be three months in coming from Irkutsk to Moscow. In winter the rivers, of course, present no difficulty, and hence this season is on some accounts preferred for transport. The number of drivers required for a large convoy is not numerous, and they lighten their work by hanging a bundle of hay on the hinder part of every cart, so that a horse, if hungry, takes good care to keep up with his leader. As we proceeded, from Verchne Udinsk we met trains of two-wheeled carts with manufactured iron.⁠[1] There was one driver to every four or five carts, and this driver had a dormitory on one of his loads, consisting of a rude frame, two-and-a-half by six feet, with a covering of birch-bark, and under this, clad in a sheepskin coat, a man contrives to sleep for many an hour of the night and day. They usually travel about 16 hours (though not at a stretch) out of the 24, and in the summer graze their horses at the side of the road.

We had now left the great highway between China and Europe, and of this we were sternly reminded by the amount of shaking to which we were forced to submit. Also we were introduced to a new set of yemstchiks; for most of our drivers now were Buriats, who tie up their horse’s mane like a horn between his ears, and who, like the Russians, have a wonderful knack of sending their horses along without harassing them, the driving being done by the voice and by threatening with the hand. Whip-cracking is unheard in Siberia, and the long, slender, snapping whips of Western Europe are unknown. The Siberian uses a short stock with a lash of hemp, leather, or other flexible substance, but having no snapper at its end. The Russian drivers talk a great deal to their horses, and the speech they use depends much upon the character and performance of the animals. Do they travel well? Then the driver calls them his “brothers,” his “doves,” his “beauties,” his “jewels.” On the contrary, an obstinate or lazy horse is called a variety of names the reverse of endearing. He may be called a sabaka, or dog, and his maternity disrespectfully ascribed to the race canine. Sometimes the driver rattles off his words as if the creatures understood all the praise he is giving them, after which, on proper occasion, he storms at and scolds them as the veriest hags and jades he ever drove. But I do not remember that this fashion of talking to the horses was so observable among the Buriats, though they drove exceedingly well.

These people have a curious method of salutation, as have several of the peoples with whom we were brought in contact. The Chinese, for instance, fold the hands together, and raise them up and down several times. The Mongols hold up their thumb to salute, and to clench a bargain one places his hand on the sleeve of the other. The Buriats do much the same, whilst the Russians shake hands for everything, and if they are friends they also kiss.

As we drove along we saw abundance of black and white jackdaws; small birds, like a cross between a canary and a linnet; and, on the distant hills, flocks of sheep. Further south, I have been told, herds of camels are reared, for the sake of their wool, which in these parts grows to a considerable length. The post-stations we passed were far apart and poor, and the villages few. In these last live many Buriats, some Russians, and a few Jews. In one village we saw some very good-looking Jewish women, whom I saluted with a word or two of Hebrew. This, and the showing of our podorojna that we were English, attracted attention to us as strangers. Not long before, some Chinese ambassadors had passed the same way; and one yemstchik, hearing that we were foreigners, thought we too must be ambassadors, and inquired whether he should go and put on his best suit, from which, however, we excused him.

On the evening of the second day after leaving Verchne Udinsk, we reached Koordinska, where lives a Russian priest who is a missionary to the Buriats, and upon whom I wished to call, though, as it was getting towards midnight, I feared we might find the good man in bed. But it was “now or never,” and I therefore persisted in going to the house, notwithstanding the Buriat yemstchik’s remonstrances, which I afterwards thought, may have proceeded from the fear that he should be bewitched, or in some way influenced by the missionary, for I could not get him to stop his horses within many yards of the house. The missionary did not appear at first particularly amiable on being visited at such an unusual hour; but, when he found that we had good books to give him, he began to change his demeanour, and readily imparted to us information respecting the progress of the mission, telling us that during the previous year 300 Buriats had been baptized east of the Baikal, and more than 1,000 on the west. He showed us, however, that he had already a sufficiency of the Buriat Scriptures—of the same edition, in fact, as those we were distributing—and he did not care to accept more, which rather led me to surmise, what was afterwards confirmed, that the amount of knowledge required by the Russian priests of their converts before baptism is very slender. I do not know either how far they press upon the Buriats the study of the Scriptures, or whether the Buriats are averse to the book. The old man at Selenginsk, Ivlampi Melnikoff, told us that many copies of the Scriptures were left in the hands of his father when the English missionaries took their departure, and that the Buriats would not receive them. They were therefore handed over to a Russian priest; but he was speaking of things as they were forty years ago.

When our missionary friend found that we were really interested in his work, he pressed us, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, to drink tea; but this we declined, as we could not keep the post-horses standing. He was very eager to tell us, before we went, that the Russians were carrying on a successful mission to the Japanese (the liturgy being sung in Russian style in the vernacular), under the directorship of the Archimandrite Nicolai; and the missionary, dwelling in the Buriat wilderness, was considerably perturbed because someone in Japan had been writing a book, attempting to show that Confucius was greater than Jesus Christ; and as I said that I expected to pass through Japan, he begged that I would get a copy of the life of Confucius, and consult with the Archimandrite how the heretical book might be extinguished. This was the first I heard of the Archimandrite, but, on reaching Nikolaefsk, I found him exceedingly well spoken of by a Lieutenant Yakimoff, who gave me a letter to him to deliver on my arrival in Japan.⁠[2] Accordingly I hoped to see the said Archimandrite Nicolai, but, before I reached Yokohama, he had returned home to be consecrated bishop. I therefore thought no more of the matter till last autumn, when my hopes were singularly and unexpectedly fulfilled, whilst staying at Kieff on my way to the Caucasus. My companion and I were trying to find someone in the Pechersky monastery who could speak English or French. At last appeared with the monks a tall man in a cassock, dressed like the others, save that his cassock was brown. He said he could speak English, and, after having taken us round to see the sights, he inquired of me where I was labouring in England, or, as he put it, “where I was in service.” I told him, and then asked where he was “in service.” “Oh,” said he, “very far off.” “Well,” I said, “where?” “In Japan,” he replied. “Then,” said I, “you must be the Father Nicolai, to whom I had a letter last year from Siberia, and who has lately been consecrated bishop.” And so it turned out, and thus we had casually fallen in each other’s way, thousands of miles from the place of our expected meeting. I dined with him, and we then parted, he to continue his return journey to Japan, whilst I pushed forward to Mount Ararat.

All this, however, was in the unknown future when we were talking to the Russian missionary at Koordinska, who regretted that our visit was so short, and whom we left to continue our journey all night to Chita. In doing so we traversed hilly roads, and on the following day had some extended views as we approached the Yablonoi, or Apple-tree Mountains. This range runs in a north-easterly direction, right through the Za-Baikal province; and when, after gradually rising from Verchne Udinsk, which is 1,500 feet, we reached the summit of the range, 4,000 feet above the sea, we were then about 20 miles from Chita. Before us a well-defined range of mountains bounded the horizon to the east, while to the north and south the valley stretched away for miles. We had a fine morning for the descent, and bounding along over a rolling prairie, where herds of cattle were grazing, had a beautiful view as we approached the town. Moreover, we were at last on the eastern side of the great Altai chain, and consequently the rivers before us differed from all that we had yet seen in Siberia. All the others had been flowing northwards to be emptied into the Arctic Ocean, whereas in the river Chita, from the left, joining the Ingoda from the right, the current was flowing eastward, through a delightful valley, to find its way, 2,000 miles off, into the Pacific. We had before us now, in fact, one of the valleys of the head waters of the Amur, of which valley Baron Rosen says that it is remarkable for its flora, and is called the “garden of Siberia.”

Chita stands on the left bank of the Ingoda on a height, bounded on two sides by lofty mountains. To the north lies Lake Onon, on whose shores Genghis Khan, as he marched westwards, held his court of justice, and in whose waters he drowned the condemned. Below this point the Ingoda is navigable for boats and rafts. During the early years of the Amur occupation, much material was floated down from Chita. The town was founded in 1851, when it had a population of 2,600; now it has 3,000. Many of the houses are large and well fitted, and all are of wood. We found shops, at which, however, we had to pay 1s. a pound for loaf-sugar, and white bread cost just three times what we had paid for it at Tobolsk.

The Governor’s house was the best in the place, and there we presented our letters. His Excellency, M. Pedashenko, gave us a kind reception. I had met on the road, at a post-station, the father of Madame Pedashenko, and he had given me an introduction to his daughter; but Madame was unwell. The Governor, however, spared no pains to do for us all he could. On learning that I wished to visit the penal colony and gold-mines of Kara, he telegraphed that arrangements might be made for my being conveyed thither; and after this we proceeded to inspect the prison in the town. Outside the building was a black cart, which might be placed in a similar category with our old-fashioned English stocks. Formerly prisoners were taken in this cart to the market-place, and there exposed as outlaws and felons—their accusation being carried on the breast, and a notification attached that they had “lost all their rights.” This punishment was said to be abolished now, but I heard of its having been used at Blagovestchensk as lately as the previous year.

The prison at Chita contained 169 prisoners, and cannot, I suppose, be that in which the 30 Decembrists were confined in 1826; for Baron Rosen speaks of Chita in his day as a little village of 300 people. At the time of our visit, they were expecting a new place of confinement to be built—not a day before it was wanted; for the Chita prison was apparently the oldest, and I thought it the poorest and dirtiest, we had seen. The prisoners, too, were shabbily clad, and dirty. One of them was reading a religious book lent him, I think he said, by the priest; but there was no prison library. Indeed, it was very rare to find one, though at Ekaterineburg we were told that a prisoner who wished to read might have a prayer-book. Several of the Chita prisoners were from Russia, and condemned to hard labour. There was a carpenters’ shop, in which some were forced to work, and others did so for their own pleasure. Speaking generally, those in the building appeared to be enjoying an easy time; for the doors of the wards were open to allow their going in and out of the yard as they chose, and many were lying about sleeping in the sun. We were told that they found it difficult to sleep at night by reason of vermin, and so were sleeping instead by day. This illustrates a remark of Goryantchikoff in “Buried Alive,” to the effect that his prison was never free from fleas even in winter, and that in summer they increased. In the prison kitchen we saw them cutting up rhubarb leaves to put in the soup (fresh cabbage not being ready at the time of our visit), which reminds me of another remark of Goryantchikoff, who writes as if it were a normal thing with him to have black-beetles swimming in his soup. His remark about fleas I can readily believe; but by “black-beetles” I presume he refers to little brown insects, about half an inch long, called “Tarakans,” which swarm in the houses of the Siberian peasants. Happily, however, they are non-belligerent, and I was told by an Englishman that the people are not averse to them. Why they should daily walk into the copper to be boiled in Mr. Goryantchikoff’s soup, I know not; but one thing about prison soup I do know, that, in the irregular, uncomfortable (I was going to say half-starved) condition in which I have sometimes travelled in certain parts of Russia, I have more than once tasted prison soup, of which, but for appearance sake, I would fain have eaten, not a mere spoonful to give my opinion thereon, but a plateful to satisfy my appetite. I should not have chosen that, however, seasoned with rhubarb leaves.