From Moufshkaya to Kiakhta I had the choice of two roads—one, the regular Government post-road, which passes through Verchni Udinsk, and then branches off to the frontier; the other, a private track made by the merchant princes of Kiakhta, which goes straight there without touching at any town, thus saving at least two days’ journey. This road, I had been informed, could be used without any special permission, so, after my recent experiences of Siberian posting, I did not hesitate which of the two to go by, especially as I had been told that the “Kupetski track,” or merchants’ route, was by far the more picturesque, while Verchni Udinsk and the few scattered villages on the post-road offered but the usual monotony of Siberian travel, which I knew only too well. I was well repaid for my choice; for not only did the road pass through some magnificent mountain and forest scenery, but the post-houses, with only two exceptions, were better than I had usually found on the Government roads.

For many miles after leaving the lake the road passed through a narrow gorge with high mountains and dense pine forest on either side. Night was coming on, and in the deepening gloom around me, whence issued the sound of a rushing torrent, the effect was very weird. Here the snow lay thick, so there was no doubt about the practicability of sledging, and we got along very well; but we did not reach the next post-house till it was quite dark. After but a very short delay, just to get fresh horses, I started again. The night was so black that had it not been for the snow on the road it would have been a most difficult matter to find it at all; as it was, we shortly after had a slight accident. In one part of the road, where it was exceptionally narrow, one of the horses somehow got out of the track and fell into a deep hole full of snow. The other two sagacious animals fortunately had the instinct to stop, or we might have had an awkward time had they started kicking. The yemschik was evidently used to these little contretemps, for the incident did not seem to put him out very much, and we soon got the half-buried brute on terra firma again. It occurred to me that all such incidents might not end equally well, so I decided to wait in the next post-house till daybreak, as the road seemed to get darker and darker, and more and more uneven. On reaching the station, however, one look was sufficient; it was so infested with cockroaches and other vermin that rather than spend the night in it I determined to push on at all hazards. So uninhabitable, in fact, was the place that I positively could not remain in it even while the horses were being got ready.

After leaving this station the road appeared to get more sandy and with less snow on it; so, in order to make it easier for his horses, the yemschik followed a narrow track leading right through the forest. I soon fell asleep, and was in the midst of a delightful dream when I was awakened by the man calling to me to get up. At first I thought we had reached the next station, but on looking round I saw we were in a sort of clearing in the very depths of the forest. It was snowing so thickly at the time that one could scarcely make out anything a few yards distant. On either side of the sledge were two trees so close to it that I immediately suspected what was wrong, so without hesitation I jumped out, and the yemschik explained to me that he had lost his way, and had somehow got the sledge wedged between these two trees. Here was a predicament! For the next hour we were trying all we knew to get the clumsy vehicle free, and it was only after endless futile efforts that we literally had to cut it out—with no little difficulty, for the wood seemed as hard as iron. By the time we got under way again, and after searching for the track, day was beginning to break, and it was broad daylight when we reached the station. It had taken over five hours to do the last fifteen miles. The postmaster here, who spoke German fluently, informed me that it was out of the question attempting to proceed any further in a sledge, and that I should have now to continue my journey in a tarantass, or post-cart. As he agreed to purchase my sledge for exactly what I had given for it, I could not object, though I felt that the remainder of the route to Kiakhta would not be enjoyable, as I should, at every station, have to repack my baggage in a fresh conveyance. However, there was no help for it. A Tarantass is a most curious and distinctively Russian vehicle. In shape it is not unlike a very unwieldy barouche, with a large fixed hood at the back. As in a sledge, the luggage is packed inside so as to form a seat, and, though not an elegant-looking conveyance, it is well adapted to the rough roads of the country. I was once more travelling on wheels, for the first time since I had left England.

The country now began to assume a much more barren and steppe-like appearance, and there was hardly a trace of snow anywhere. The trees also seemed to have disappeared, and for miles ahead there was a bare undulating plain. I could not help noticing that everything was now beginning to look more Chinese, or, rather, Mongolian. Even the tea caravans we passed were composed of quaint-looking carts, undoubtedly of Chinese origin, whilst the drivers, with their swarthy sunburnt faces, looked strangely out of keeping with the cold landscape.

In the afternoon we reached a small river, over which, as usual, the road passed on the ice. My yemschik, quite a young lad, was, however, in no hurry to cross when we saw a cart which was coming towards us suddenly half disappear through the ice, which was evidently very rotten. The water, fortunately, was only four feet deep at the utmost, so beyond the difficulty of getting his horse and cart out again he ran no risk. After watching the fellow (who was standing up to his waist in the icy-cold water) in his vain efforts to move the lumbersome vehicle, I decided that we could not stay where we were all day, and that we had to get across somehow, so I persuaded my youthful Jehu to try a narrower spot a little further down, in the hopes of the ice being stronger there. Well, we went at it full tilt, hoping to get across with a rush; and so we did till within about twenty yards of the opposite bank, when, with a sickening crash, the ice gave way, and we were in the water. The horses immediately began kicking and plunging to such an extent that I expected every moment the heavy tarantass would turn over and all my baggage be lost. For a few minutes my driver absolutely lost his head; but, finding that the horses in their mad endeavours to get out had so loosened the ice as to clear the way, he cooled down, and we managed to reach the bank without any further mishap than getting slightly wet. As we drove full gallop along the road to make up for lost time, I looked back and saw the peasant with his horse and cart still in the water, and taking it very quietly. A basin of hot Bouillon Fleet at the next station soon set me right, and I felt no ill effects from the cold water.

I was now rapidly nearing my destination, when on reaching the last station but one, as evening was coming on, the postmaster said something which I did not quite understand, that he did not like to let me go on, about its being soon dark and the road a bad one, also something which I did not catch. However, I had made up my mind to reach Kiakhta that night if it could be done, so I peremptorily ordered the fresh tarantass and horses at once, and after but a short delay I was soon on the move again. The road now lay right across the turf, and, owing to the nature of the soil, was scarcely visible in the rapidly failing light; in fact, in many places I wondered how the driver found his way at all, for I could see no sign of any track.

It was quite dark when we came to what looked like an immense white plain. This, the yemschik told me, was the river Selenga. This majestic river, which flows into Lake Baikal, was here as wide as the Thames at Gravesend, and in the darkness the opposite bank was scarcely visible. Our road lay right across its ice-bound surface. At the edge of the ice my driver drew up, and, getting down, said he would go and look round before venturing on it, as a man who had that afternoon came in from the next station reported that the ice was beginning to break up. I immediately remembered the incident which had happened only a few miles back, and visions rose up before me of what would be the result in the event of such an accident occurring on this mighty river, so I felt just the least little bit uncomfortable when, after being absent some twenty minutes, he came back and said he thought it would be all right, so on we went. It may have been my fancy, but the heavy lumbering vehicle seemed to weigh more than ever now, as it rattled over the ice of the river. We had reached, I suppose, about the middle, when suddenly the horses drew up of their own accord, snorting with fear. A large dark mass was in front of them. Nothing could induce them to go on, so the driver got down to see what it was, and almost immediately returned and, getting up, hastily drove in another direction, informing me, in an awed whisper, that it was water. I then made out that the dark mass was a huge gap in the ice. The instinct of the horses had undoubtedly saved us!

After a considerable détour we reached what appeared to be the opposite bank, only to find that it was an island, and that there was another broad piece of ice still to be crossed. The driver had now the greatest difficulty in getting the terror-stricken animals to go on at all. It was only after a lot of coaxing, and eventually leading them himself, that they could be persuaded to venture on the treacherous surface. This time, however, we got across without further incident, and it was with a genuine feeling of relief that I felt the tarantass once more rolling over the grass.

After a short search the track was again found, and an hour later I reached the last post-house before Kiakhta, after a most exciting “stage.” There is, of course, no other means of crossing Siberian rivers during the winter but on the ice. Towards the end of the winter, just before the debâcle begins, it is always advisable, where possible, to cross the big rivers by daylight, on account of the many fissures in the ice. I remember nothing of the next twenty versts, for I went off into a deep sleep, probably occasioned by the recent excitement, and never moved till I was woke up by the yemschik calling out to me that we had reached our destination, and wanting to know where he should drive me.

I sat up and looked round me; no easy matter, for it was snowing so thickly that I could scarcely see anything, and the dreary-looking deserted street looked still more wretched as, in the piercing wind, the blinding flakes were whirled about in clouds. It was as uninviting and wintry a scene as could be well imagined, and for a moment I wished myself back in my comfortable quarters at Irkutsk.

So this was the frontier city of Kiakhta, the delightful place where, as I had read, it never snows, and where, pinning my faith on this outrageous statement, I had been fondly imagining I should find a genial temperature; but the Siberian winter evidently holds good to its reputation to the furthermost confines of the vast country. However, it was no time for this fanciful musing, for we were in the middle of the night, and the road also, and I knew not where to turn for a lodging. The only hotel of Kiakhta was not strongly recommended (which means a great deal in Siberia), so I had made up my mind to seek accommodation elsewhere; but the whole town was asleep. The yemschik then said he knew of some people who had a room to let, if we could manage to wake them up. So we went to the house, and, happily, were successful. The room, on inspection, proved not only comfortable and clean, but wonderfully cheap in the bargain. So I decided to remain there during my stay in the town. And how thankful I was when I at length “turned in” for a good night’s rest after my somewhat eventful and fatiguing journey!

My lodgings were in the High Street of Troitzkosavsk, the business suburb of Kiakhta, for in the frontier city itself there are not above fifty houses, nearly all of which belong to the great merchants. The frontier commissioner also lives there. I suppose it was the recollection of all the gaieties at Irkutsk, for I found Kiakhta and Troitzkosavsk terribly dull after the capital—so much so, in fact, that had I not made up my mind to complete my work I should have pushed on towards Ourga without delay, more especially as the weather continued bitterly cold and it snowed almost every day. There was only one redeeming feature in this dead-alive little frontier city, and that was the novel sights one occasionally sees in the streets. After the unvaried monotony of costume in other Siberian towns, it was refreshing here to see wild-looking Mongolians dashing up the quiet street on their wiry little ponies; or an occasional camel-caravan, with tea, arriving from the desert. It was a sign that a warmer and more picturesque country was close at hand, and made me long the more to get out of cold Siberia. But the novel and interesting sights at Kiakhta were but poor specimens of what I hoped to see further on; so I decided not to begin sketching them till I saw the genuine article in Mongolia itself.

By the way, a somewhat interesting incident occurred whilst I was here. I had made friends with a local photographer, a man of some considerable talent, and would frequently while away an hour in his company. One day that I was visiting his studio for the first time, I was much struck with a “background” painted on a large canvas lying against the wall. It was so exceptionally good that I could not refrain from making a remark upon it, when I was informed, to my astonishment, that it was the work of his assistant, who was standing by. One does not expect to meet artists of talent in local photographers’ employ in these far-away places, and I could not help saying so. I was still further impressed when the young fellow, in reply to my question as to whether he had any other work to show, produced a portfolio of sketches which indicated a talent rarely met with. Becoming enthusiastic, I told him he must be mad to be wasting his time at photography in this out-of-the-way town when St. Petersburg would be acclaiming him as a born artist. After a deal of beating about the bush, and evident reluctance on his part, I learnt the true facts of the case, that he and his employer (both eminent artists, as I was afterwards informed), were political exiles, suffering a long term of banishment. Many of the sketches shown to me (one of which I give in facsimile) related to prisoners’ life, and were evidently done during the long march across Siberia. I could not help being strongly impressed with the idea that a system which would allow a prisoner to beguile the tedium of the march by following his artistic proclivities cannot, however faulty its theory may be, in practice be so cruelly disciplinaire as many would have us believe.

Meanwhile, my work progressed rapidly, and after a little over a fortnight’s stay, I saw my way clear to arrange for my further journey to the sacred city of Ourga, and then across the Gobi desert to China; but of all this I will tell you in my next chapter.