The shock-headed youth who fulfilled the duties of chambermaid awoke me one morning at the Moskovskaya with the news that that day (the 19th of August) was to witness in Siberia a total eclipse of the sun. I did not learn till afterwards that scientific men had been sent from London, Paris, Berlin, and Petersburg, to Krasnoiarsk, a town about six hundred versts west of Irkoutsk, to witness and report on the eclipse, but the expedition was a failure, the weather at these places being dull and overcast. At Irkoutsk, however, a bright sun and cloudless sky ushered in the eventful morning. The eclipse was to take place at 11.30, but for quite half an hour previously a perceptible change took place in the temperature, which, though it had been close and sultry up till eleven o’clock, now became quite cool, while the light breeze that had been blowing dropped as if by magic. About eleven the bright sunshine became obscured by a mist something like the lurid glare that precedes a thunderstorm on a summer’s day in England. Up till now nothing was observable on the sun’s surface as it shone out, like a ball of fire, from the woolly sky, but at 11.20 one could discern, by the aid of an opera-glass, a thin black line creeping from right to left over the great fiery disc, increasing in size to a semicircular blotch, till, at a quarter to twelve, the sun presented the appearance of an apple with a large piece bitten out. Ten minutes more, and nothing was visible but a thin streak of brilliant light surrounding a circular patch of black, while darkness crept over the city, and the stars, one by one, appeared in the heavens.

One could see, in the square below the hotel, a crowd of eager, upturned faces, many of whom had never even heard that the eclipse was expected, and were much disconcerted in consequence. Droshki drivers pulled up their horses and stared open-mouthed; market-women left their stalls, to kneel and cross themselves; every one’s face wore an anxious, concerned look, which added not a little to the weirdness of the scene. The effect produced on the animal creation was extraordinary. Horses neighed, dogs howled, while birds in great flocks flew silently across the starlit sky, apparently bewildered and alarmed at the sudden fall of night. About ten minutes past twelve the black veil over the sun diminished in size, and the darkness commenced to clear away, as, almost imperceptibly, the light of day once more crept slowly over the earth, while one by one the stars faded in the brightening heavens. The air, too, grew gradually warmer, till, at half-past twelve not a trace of the phenomenon was visible, except in the dense, excited crowds discussing it in the market-place. The fall of the temperature during the eclipse was twelve degrees.

Rain fell in torrents, shortly after. This did not, however, prevent us from walking out with R. to the drill-plain, and witnessing a review of the troops. Walking in Irkoutsk on a rainy day is, to say the least of it, unpleasant. The streets are undrained. Great pools of water lie in the roadway, rendering it almost impassable, while the thick dust converts the streets into morasses of deep black mud. We had to wade knee-deep more than once before reaching the parade-ground. The garrison of Irkoutsk is composed mainly of Cossacks, in number about 10,000. They were not taking to look at, their dingy drab uniforms and dirty white linen caps rendering them far from smart in appearance, though in drill and steadiness they were perfect. All were armed with the “Berdan” rifle.

I strolled into a barber’s on the way home, to have my hair cut, a somewhat necessary operation, for it had remained untouched since Shanghai, and was falling about my shoulders in uncomfortable luxuriance. The art of hair-cutting is evidently learnt early at Irkoutsk. On inquiring of a small boy of about eight years old, whether any one was in, he dragged me to a chair, and arming himself with a huge pair of shears, commenced, although he had to mount on a stool to do so, to operate upon me himself. I expected every moment to find myself minus an ear, and was relieved when he had finished, and not a little surprised to find that he had done it extremely well. I felt constrained to buy a bottle of Atkinson’s White Rose in consequence, as an encouragement to the youthful disciple of Figaro.

The museum at Irkoutsk is well worth a visit, and is a handsome stone building, erected at considerable cost by one of the millionaires. We spent a long morning there, inspecting the trophies collected from all parts of Siberia by M. Bogdanovitch, a Russianized Frenchman, who spends most of his spare time among the Yakoutz, Tungouses, and other aboriginal Siberian tribes. A word here may not be amiss as to the natives of the vast country through which we are about to take the reader, for the term “Siberian” is a very vague one, comprising as it does the skin-clad aborigines of the shores of the Frozen Ocean to the semi-Chinese “Bouriat,” the wild and primitive Kamchatdale to the civilized citizens of Tobolsk or Irkoutsk.

We will work from east to west, and commence with the Kamchatdale. I imagine there are few places in the world so little known as this desolate peninsula, which most people look upon as the uttermost end of the earth when they say, to convey an idea of unlimited distance, “Oh! so-and-so’s gone to Kamchatka or some other outlandish place.” I have met one of the few Englishmen who have ever visited this dreary peninsula, and can give the reader the benefit of his experience and observations.

The peninsula of Kamchatka is about eight hundred miles long, by one hundred and thirty miles wide, and is situated in the Sea of Okhotsk. Flat and marshy at Cape Lopatka, its southern extremity, the country to the northward becomes mountainous, rocky, and barren, stunted birch and willow trees forming, in most parts, the sole vegetation, save in the valley watered by the Kamchatka River. Here the soil is good and grass abundant, the latter sometimes growing six feet high. Poplar, willow, and cedar of large size are met with, while cabbages, potatoes, and carrots also grow in this oasis, which is situated in the centre of the peninsula. The wild raspberry, currant, and cranberry also abound, and in the springtime many wild and beautiful flowers. But the greater part of Kamchatka is rocky and sterile. A chain of mountains to the east of the peninsula has many volcanoes. The highest and most active, Mount Kluchevski, a peak of greater altitude than Mont Blanc, is near the coast, and visible for many miles out at sea, the base of the mountain having a circumference of over one hundred and fifty miles. Kamchatka is subject to severe shocks of earthquake, as many as ten (on an average) occurring annually at Petropaulosk, the chief town or settlement. The climate of Kamchatka, though severe, is not so trying to a European constitution as that of the mainland of Eastern Siberia. Frost sets in about the end of October, but up to January the temperature rarely falls to more than 10° below freezing point (Fahr.). February to March are the most trying times, when “Poorgas,” or snowstorms, accompanied by tempestuous winds, sweep over the bleak, rocky coast and valleys, occasioning great loss of life and sometimes burying whole villages under the snow.

The population of Kamchatka is roughly estimated at four thousand souls, about five hundred of whom reside at the capital, Petropaulosk, on the eastern coast, which is said to possess the finest harbour in the world, and where the allied French and English fleets were repulsed by the Russians during the Crimean war. The aboriginal tribes, however, are seldom met with in or near the capital, where society consists almost entirely of Government officers and Cossacks, stationed here to preserve law and order among these remote subjects of the Czar, who, however, give them little or no trouble. The chief complaint among military men at this dreary outpost is that they have nothing to do in the way of fighting to keep their hands in.

The aboriginal inhabitants of Kamchatka are divided into three distinct races: the Koriaks, in the north, the Kamchatdales, in the south, and the Kuriles, a tribe inhabiting the islands of that name, which, lying to the southward of Kamchatka, were lately ceded by Russia to Japan in exchange for the island of Sakhalien. Of these three the Kamchatdales are the most civilized and friendly, probably on account of their more frequent intercourse with Europeans from Petropaulosk and other settlements. They are of a copper colour, with narrow black eyes, thick lips, and flat noses, and long, streaming hair, which they take great delight in plastering over with seal oil, blubber, and other fishy abominations.

A Kamchatdale may be smelt a mile off, their bodies exuding a strong smell of fish, on which they subsist, eaten raw; but they are friendly, hospitable fellows, and, unlike the fierce and savage Koriaks, always glad to welcome or help a stranger. Up till some years since many of the Kamchatdales were Chamans, but this religion has died out a good deal since the advent of Russian traders, who have replaced it by introducing vodka and debauchery. The Kamchatdales have, curiously enough, a practice identical with one among the Dyaks of Borneo: that of kindling a light by rapidly turning in the hands a dry stick in a hole made in a plank of wood, and using a piece of dry grass as fuel. They are also, like the Dyaks, capital dancers and mimics, imitating in their dances the movements of animals and birds with surprising grace and accuracy.

The Koriaks, on the other hand, are said to be the most treacherous and degraded race in Siberia. Many are nomad, and have no fixed abode, the stationary ones being much finer in physique and less wild than their wandering brothers. Strangely enough, however, they allow the latter to treat them as slaves, and obey them without a murmur. While the nomads are savage, cruel, and treacherous, the settled Koriak is a contented, cheerful being, always glad to see strangers, and, though not so civilized, as hospitable in his way as the Kamchatdale. The settled Koriaks, like the latter, gain their livelihood by fishing, while the nomad’s life is occupied with hunting and his flocks of reindeer. The dwelling of the settled Koriak is comfortable enough, and is built of wood in the shape of an X, fifteen to twenty feet high. The entry is by clambering up a pole on the outside and dropping through a hole in the top (in the centre of the X), which serves for door, window, and chimney, there being no other egress. The tents of the nomad Koriaks are of reindeer skin, and much smaller, but in neither can a European stay more than a few moments, the smoke and stench being intolerable to any but a Koriak’s eyes and stomach. Drunkenness among the Koriaks is rarer than among the Kamchatdales, for the good reason that they cannot get drink. A mushroom or fungus, however, found in the north-east portion of their territory, makes an admirable substitute. Happily, it is rare, for a mouthful of it produces intoxication for three or four days. Although the wandering Koriaks treat their animals with kindness, their cruelty to women is proverbial. Unlike the Kamchatdales and their nearer neighbours, they are extremely jealous, and very often kill their wives on a mere suspicion of infidelity, the more often that they have a right to slay them if really guilty. No Koriak’s wife is ever permitted by her lord to beautify herself, or even wash, for fear of attracting the notice of others. To make assurance doubly sure these northern Othellos, from time to time, compel their wretched women to cover their entire bodies with a thick coating of rancid oil, which effectually keeps even the most amorous lover at a safe distance. When the Koriaks, male or female, become old and unfit for work, they are killed by their family, being allowed the privilege of choosing whether they shall be stoned to death, or have their throats cut. Part of a Koriak youth’s education is learning to give the coup de grÂce as painlessly as possible.

The Kuriles, as I have said, inhabit the small islands of that name south of Cape Lopatka. They are essentially fishermen, their clothes, tents, and even boots being made of fish-skin. I saw, in the museum at Irkoutsk, a long cloak made by them of this material as light and thin as goldbeater’s-skin, and absolutely waterproof. The framework of their canoes is of wood, with this fabric four or five thicknesses tightly stretched across it, and these apparently fragile craft will live in the roughest sea, the crew looking, a short distance off, as if they were sitting on the water, so low is the gunwale. The Kuriles have become more civilized since the ceding of their islands to Japan, though they still preserve queer customs with regard to their women. When a Kurile has proved his wife faithless, he does not, like the Koriak, visit it on her, but on the seducer, whom he is bound to challenge to mortal combat. The weapons are thick cudgels, the challenger first receiving three blows on the head or bare back from his opponent. It is then the turn of the latter, and so they go on till one of the combatants dies of his injuries, the duels sometimes lasting an hour. When a Kurile woman gives birth to twins, one is slain by the father as a sacrifice to the spirits.

There is plenty of wild fowl in Kamchatka, and the country abounds with geese, duck, and snipe at the proper seasons. It is probably the only country in the world where the real wild dog exists. These are found on the mountains, are of a buff or grey colour, the size of a huge mastiff, and very fierce, so much so that natives have been killed when attempting to capture them for purposes of sleighing. They are fed (in their civilized state) on fish, and, the rivers of Kamchatka teeming with salmon, do not have any difficulty in procuring a meal whenever they want it, merely walking into the stream, and seizing their prey with their teeth.

To the north of Kamchatka is the Chukchee coast, which extends from Chanskaia Bay round Behring’s Peninsula to the river Anadyr. This region is inhabited by the Chukchee tribe——a race of men very similar to the wandering Koriaks——who live a nomadic life in tents made of reindeer skins, for here the reindeer roam about in thousands. This part of Siberia also swarms with lemmings, a species of large rat. At times these loathsome creatures migrate in myriads, and woe to the luckless traveller that meets a swarm, for nothing will turn them aside. Rivers and lakes are crossed, even arms of the sea, and should they meet a native in the open country, they will not deviate an inch from their line, swarming up his legs and body one side to clamber down his back on the other. If not attacked, they are harmless enough, though it must be a severe strain on the patience to have to wait till an army of the brutes has passed over one, an operation which sometimes lasts a couple of hours! The white Polar bear is also found in the Chukchee country. The language of the Kamchatdales, Koriaks, and Chukchees is a harsh, guttural one, and almost synonymous.

We now come to the Yakouts, or aborigines of Yakoutsk——the largest province in Siberia, which extends from south of the town of Yakoutsk to the mouth of the Lena River in the Frozen Ocean, and is nearly the size of the whole of Europe——Russia excepted. The total population of this huge province is under two hundred and thirty thousand, consisting of Russians, Tungouses, Yukagirs, and Yakouts.

Perhaps with the exception of Yakoutsk and Sakhalien, the town or village of Okhotsk, situated on the sea of that name, is the most utterly desolate place in the whole of Siberia. Its population in 1810 numbered only one hundred and fifty, and these existed solely by trading in furs and fish with the nearest settlements. Okhotsk may literally be called the end of the world. Not a tree or blade of grass is visible within miles of the wretched huts and two or three wooden officials’-houses that constitute the colony. The summer at Okhotsk consists of three months of damp and chilly weather, which is succeeded by nine months of cold as raw as it is intense. The food of the inhabitants is fish, nothing but fish, of which they certainly have a large and varied choice, for there are at least fourteen varieties of salmon found here. From the absence of fresh vegetables, however, scurvy rages in winter. To the south of Okhotzk lies the island of Sakhalien. The climate is even worse here than at Okhotzk. In July, the hottest month of the year, the thermometer seldom if ever rises above 60° F., while in January it never exceeds 14° F. Scarcely two days together ever pass without rain, followed by dense fogs. The sun is seldom seen, and never felt. It will be a bad day for prisoners when exile to Siberia is abolished, and all convicts are sent direct to Sakhalien by sea.

The town of Yakoutsk has a population of under five thousand, many of whom are political exiles, and, saving Kara and Sakhalien, there are few places more dreaded by prisoners throughout Siberia than this desolate city, which is over five thousand miles from Petersburg! It has, too, the unenviable notoriety of being the hottest place in summer, and the coldest in winter in the world, while in the former season people have been known to die from the effects of mosquito bites, from dense swarms of which the inhabitants are never free in summer for a moment, night or day. Most of the buildings in Yakoutsk are of wood, though there is a handsome stone cathedral, and the Governor’s house is of the same material. The town presents a queer patchwork appearance, the more solidly built mission-houses being mixed up pell-mell with the winter dwellings of the Yakouts, who mix freely with the European population. It is rare to meet a Yakout out of his own province, though I came across two or three as far south as Ziminskaia, near Irkoutsk. They are smallish men, of light copper colour, with black, close-cropped hair, and are a genial, hospitable race. Although robust and capable of going through great fatigue and privation, the majority are timid, not to say cowardly, in disposition, though as hunters they are unsurpassed, and from Yakoutsk are exported the most valuable furs in Siberia. A great number of the latter are sent to China, but the majority find their way to Moscow and Petersburg.

Life must be dreary indeed to the wretched exiles sent to Yakoutsk, where in winter there is only daylight for four hours out of the twenty-four! The winter dwellings of the Yakouts are made of logs protected by banks of earth, which reach to the windows——which latter are made of blocks of solid ice; and an idea of the temperature may be formed by the fact that, notwithstanding the heat inside the building, these seldom melt till the return of spring. Human beings, cows, calves, and even reindeer, all live together inside these tents for the sake of warmth. In summer the tents are of birch bark and reindeer skin, of the same shape, but naturally much cooler than the winter quarters.

The Yakouts, unlike most of the aboriginal Siberian tribes, are cleanly enough in their habits. They may be said to live literally on reindeer, for the latter is their beast of burthen, and provides them with food, covering, and drink. A species of fermented liquor which they concoct from its milk is even more intoxicating than the “airak” of the Mongols. Reindeer flesh is, however, only eaten among them on great occasions, or when an animal dies from natural causes, the staple food being a sort of cake made of fir-tree bark powdered very fine, and reindeer milk. I saw one at the Irkoutsk museum, which, though four or five years old, still reeked of turpentine, and must, when fresh from the oven, have been somewhat trying even to the gastric juices of a Yakout.

Though a Yakout has few vices but gluttony, he is, like all Siberian races, a sad drunkard when he gets the chance. They are, however, as a rule, a clever, intelligent race. A Russian we met at Tomsk, had spent many years among them in exile. Being in want of a fork, he commissioned some Yakouts to make him one of wood, at the same time giving them a silver one as a model. What was his surprise when, a fortnight later, they brought him a perfect copy of his own model made of iron, with one exception; the handle of the model was of ebony. To get over this difficulty, they held the handle of the iron fork in wood-smoke till it had attained a dirty grey colour!

With the exception of small-pox, epidemics are rare in Yakoutsk, though the former disease sometimes lays whole settlements waste. It is a common thing for Russian fur-traders to come upon a Yakout village deserted by every living being but dogs and reindeer, while the corpses of those who have succumbed to this loathsome disease lie rotting above ground. When a Yakout is attacked, his companions desert him, leaving a cup of water and a bundle of firewood within his reach; and this, curiously enough, is the practice of many of the inland tribes in Borneo. Indeed, in appearance and customs the Yakout strikingly resembles the Dyak.

The Chaman religion, though dying out among the more civilized Bouriattes, is still practised to a large extent among the Yakouts. But very few Europeans have ever beheld the strange, weird ceremonies performed by these Chamans, who worship a deity supposed to inhabit the sun. Their rites are held in secret either in the depths of the forest, or the solitude of the “Toundras,” vast desert marshes; for none but the true Christian religion is recognized by the Czar’s government. A Russian fur-trader who witnessed, in hiding, one of their ceremonies a few years ago, thus describes the scene:——

“The officiating priest appears as soon as a select body of worshippers is ready, and enters a circle of flaming logs which has been kindled in readiness. He is clad entirely in white. Round his neck is slung a large circular brass plate, signifying the sun, while from his shoulders, sides, and thighs hang innumerable bells and the stuffed bodies of stoats, weasels, seals, and other wild animals. Fitting closely to him is a kind of light framework typifying the human body (I saw one of these at Irkoutsk), a perfect iron skeleton, showing the ribs, breast-bone, thighs, legs, &c. Sacrifices of reindeer and calves’ flesh, fish, airak, sable furs, &c, are then cast into the flames while he turns slowly round and round inside the ring of fire, till, like a Cairo dervish, he has worked himself into a kind of mad frenzy. He then falls helpless in a fit of exhaustion, brought on by excitement and exertion.” This ends the ceremony, which no one has ever succeeded in getting at the meaning of.

The “Tungouses” inhabiting the region to the north and east of Yakoutsk, are perhaps the wildest, as they are the filthiest, of any Siberian tribe. They are comparatively few (at most some four thousand), and are yearly diminishing in number. They profess no religion, are nomads, and gain a living by fishing and selling furs to Russian traders, who, by the aid of vodka and debauchery, are slowly but surely decimating them. The dwellings of the Tungouses are the same summer and winter, and are made of reindeer skins stretched tightly over a light wooden framework. It is somewhat curious to note that the tents of all these tribes are of different shapes, that of the Yakouts being square, the Bouriattes round, and the Koriaks and Kamchatdales triangular, and the Tungouses conical. The latter, though the dirtiest, are the most picturesquely dressed of any: some of their costumes of fur and birdskins being especially graceful and handsome.

The Yurakis, Samoyedes, and Ostiaks are so analogous to the two last-mentioned races as to need no description, though the latter are the race of which, on the Great Obi River, we saw the most. I have touched upon the least civilized races of Siberia, and will now conclude with a few remarks on the link between the civilized Siberian and the aborigines of this great country——the Bouriattes.

The Bouriattes may be said to form the greater part of the population of Irkoutsk, and are treated almost as equals by the Russian Siberian (the offspring of the convict population), who are gradually colonizing this part of Asia. Though as wild and uncivilized as the Yakouts one hundred years ago, the Bouriatte is now Russianized, has given up his old religion of “Chamanism,” dresses in European costume, and performs the duties of yemstchik, post-house clerk, policeman, and other Government officials so efficiently, that he is preferred by some, in these menial capacities, to the European Russian. The Bouriattes originally came from the region north of the Trans-Baikal region, known as Trans-Baikalia, on the eastern shores of Lake Baikal. They are now, however, to be found in almost any part of Siberia on the great post-road from Irkoutsk to Tomsk. Many, too, have amassed large fortunes as gold-diggers. This race differs but little in physiognomy from the Mongol Tartar. They are thrifty, industrious people, and ordinarily of an honest, hospitable disposition, though civilization has already begun to do its work, and they are becoming somewhat unscrupulous in their love of filthy lucre.

The Bouriattes number some two hundred and seventy thousand, and are the most populous aboriginal tribe that exists in Eastern Siberia. Their language is a kind of patois, composed of Mongol and Chinese, in which, oddly enough, a few Turkish words occasionally crop up. How the latter language ever drifted here is a mystery, but some of the words are precisely similar in meaning and expression. Like their neighbours, the Mongols, the Bouriattes are Buddhists, although some very few have remained Chamans (their old and primitive religion), and fewer still are Christians. European missionaries find the conversion of Chaman Bouriattes tolerably easy, that of Buddhists impossible. About every fourth Bouriatte becomes a Lama, and takes vows of celibacy. One of the Buddhist laws precludes a Lama from killing anything, be it only a flea; and I have seen the poor fellows writhing under the torture inflicted by vermin, but suffering in silence, till some friend in need has come up and annihilated their tormentors.

Such is a brief sketch of the aboriginal tribes of Siberia, a people I have passed over lightly, as we saw little or nothing of them during our transit through Siberia, and I wish to present that country to the reader exactly as I saw it. Siberia is now almost as much the “land of the stranger” as Australia, and it is more than probable that less than a century hence, the aboriginal tribes of Eastern Siberia will, with the exception of the Russianized Bouriatte, have disappeared altogether from the face of the earth.

We now set about making preparations for the journey to Tomsk. Our tarantass was again overhauled, a very necessary proceeding after our rough journey through Trans-Baikalia, or what we then thought rough. It was a mere trifle to what was in store for us. Embarking on a journey in Siberia means a preparation of at least three days. One cannot, as in England, pack up a portmanteau and be off at a few hours’ notice. There is firstly the permission of the police required to enable one to leave a town or city at all, secondly that most important item in Siberian travel, horses, and thirdly a document authorizing the holder to procure them. This is called the “Podarojna,” and is of two kinds.

The “KasiomnÉ” or Imperial Podarojna is used only by Government officials of all classes, who, though they pay nothing for horses, are always served first at a post-station, even though the luckless holder of a privatne or second-class podarojna, may have been waiting for his two or three days. We found this to our cost on several occasions, notably on one, where, though our horses were already harnessed, and we were about to start, a Government engineer dashed up, and producing his kasiomnÉ, had them taken away from us and proceeded calmly on his way, leaving us to curse him and our fate, and wait another twenty-four hours. In urgent cases, such as an imperial messenger with despatches from Moscow or Petersburg, the kasiomnÉ is written in red ink, and marked “Courier,” when, though there may be no horses available in the station, the inhabitants of the village are bound to provide them.

The ordinary podarojna is called the “Privatne,” and costs twenty-five roubles. This entitles the holder to horses at any station where they may be available, but they must always be taken out and handed over to the fortunate possessor of a first-class podarojna, should the latter make his appearance before the tarantass has actually started. To obviate this difficulty a private company has lately been started at all the stations on the Great Post-Road, to provide the holders of second-class podarojnas with horses. They charge exorbitant fares, however, and we always preferred to wait even two or three days for the regular Government horses. In some cases we found that the Government post-master and manager of the private company were in league to rob travellers.

Provisions also had to be thought of, and those of the most portable kind——sardines, Liebig’s Extract, a small chest of tea, sugar, and half a dozen pots of jam constituted our commissariat department, together with two bottles of cognac, and half a dozen flasks of vodka, for with the exception of milk, black bread, and eggs, nothing is to be got as a rule at the post-stations. We invariably found a menu with prices affixed on the walls of every waiting-room, even in the smallest villages, but on inquiry, the tempting list of cutlets, beefsteak, &c., &c., usually dwindled down to the homely but unappetizing egg and black bread! Indeed, with the exception of Krasnoiarsk, Nijni-Udinsk, and Kansk, this constituted our sole fare from Irkoutsk to Tomsk, with one exception, where, delayed for a couple of days at Sonkovskaya, we were regaled with a basin of broth at the village ostrog, or prison. I think that plate of soup did more towards dispelling any wild notions I may have had anent the ill-treatment of Siberian exiles than pages of writing! Many a time, when delayed on the road, have I smelt the savoury fumes from the ostrog cook-house with envy, as I slunk back disgusted to my stale egg and black bread at the post-house. Sad though their lot undoubtedly is, the Siberian convicts are not only well clad, but considerably better fed than our own criminals in England. Be it understood that I speak of criminals, and not political prisoners or nihilists, to whom, notwithstanding all that ardent Russophiles may say, Siberia is a veritable hell upon earth. The Russian “criminal” is exiled to colonize, the Russian “nihilist” (in most cases) to die.

Personally, I would very much sooner undergo a term of imprisonment for a criminal offence in Siberia than in England. The work in summer is undoubtedly harder, but during the winter months, when mining is suspended, convicts at Irkoutsk are employed for the most part in cigarette-making, or work of a similar light nature, while they are treated with more laxity, and enjoy far more liberty, than in our convict-prisons at home. Smoking is not forbidden, card-playing and other games allowed, and free conversation, for in Siberia solitary confinement among criminals is unknown, while, as a rule, their friends, if they have any in the neighbourhood, are permitted to see them once a month, and on these occasions are allowed to bring the prisoner tobacco, food, and any other luxuries, excepting alcoholic liquors. Even in this respect, however, the rules are by no means stringent.

I am now writing of what came under my own personal observation at Irkoutsk and Tomsk, for save on one or two occasions we were never allowed to enter a village ostrog, nor at any time to exchange words with political prisoners while in confinement. As, however, a considerable portion of the population at Irkoutsk consisted of political exiles living under police surveillance, I was able to gather some interesting details from this class relative to their life while in prison and at the mines, which soon convinced me that even a murderer is better off in Siberia than the writer of a so-called offensive political article, in a Petersburg or Moscow journal, or the enthusiastic student who has too openly expressed his views on the great social question. Where the criminal is allowed to mix freely with his fellows and receive his friends, the “political” is kept in solitary confinement, forbidden not only to address his warders, but also, which is a far greater punishment, deprived of the use of books, pens, ink, and paper. Smoking is also in his case strictly tabooed, and any food but that specially laid down by prison rules. And if the men are harshly treated, let the reader imagine the torture it must mean to women of refinement and education who have been accustomed to the comforts of civilized life, to be suddenly thrust into the midst, if not the company, of a gang of murderers, thieves, and vagabonds. I met, while at Irkoutsk, one of the female political exiles whose portrait appears in these pages (but whose name I suppress for obvious reasons), and heard from her own lips the outrages and indignities which she had been subjected to by her guards on the long ten months’ march from Tomsk to Nertchinsk. Her life, she said, had indeed been a hell. It was only on arrival at the mines that she got comparative rest, for though the work was harder, it was preferable to the society of the brutes who had persecuted her during the long, lazy summer marches. She is now at Irkoutsk for life, and with the exception of daily reporting herself at the police registry, is a free woman, so long as she keeps to a radius of ten miles of that city. But although barely five and twenty, the march and two years at the mines have turned her once auburn hair snow white.

There are, no doubt, those who richly merit their fate. Vera Anitchkoff, for instance, who will never leave the mines again. The prisoner depicted in prison dress is Count ————, a Polish nobleman, who not ten years ago had a hotel in Paris, a villa at Cannes, and who, stoic and brave fellow as he is, remarked that he would not mind so much had they not given him “cette coiffure ridicule!” The French journalist, M.D., was one of the most prominent members of the Paris commune, and is certainly well out of the way, for a more desperate and dangerous character never harangued a mob from the barricades. There are at least a dozen communists in various parts of Siberia, who, escaping from France in 1870, have made their way to Petersburg and other Russian cities, only to get into fresh trouble and receive their quietus in the gold-mines of Trans-Baikal and forests of Sakhalin. We, however, saw but two, M.D. and our friend the Pole, on the shores of Baikal. The other two portraits represented are criminal types, one that of a man, a native of Nijni Novgorod, who had murdered his mother and two sisters. On being asked why he had committed the murders, he replied, “Oh, I was sick of my family, and wanted to go to Siberia. There is money to be made there, and I could not afford to go at my own expense!” And such men as this are to be the pioneers and colonizers of Asiatic Russia! for no criminal, however bad, ever goes to Siberia without a notion that one day, sooner or later, he will obtain his ticket of leave, and with it a house, a piece of ground, and a sum of money to start him in life. No wonder that most of the gangs we met on the road were composed of cheery, happy-go-lucky fellows, chaffing their guards, singing, smoking, and laughing, a striking contrast to the dozen or so of wretched men and women in plain clothes jolting along the rough road in tumbrils behind them, some of the women pale, delicate-looking creatures with a baby at the breast, who looked as if death, and not the gloomy prison-gates of Irkoutsk or Kara, would end their journey.

It is not, I imagine, generally known that a political exile is divorced from wife or husband the day that the Ourals are crossed from Europe into Asia. This is voluntary on the part of the man or woman; but, as may be imagined, the law is frequently abused. “My wife is guilty of conspiring against the Government,” says the henpecked husband, or, “My husband has compromising papers in his possession: search the house,” says the wife, who is jealous or has transferred her affections, and the thing is done. There is no delay in such cases. A couple of hours settles the matter one way or another. The accused is not tried publicly, nor is he allowed to plead or call witnesses for the defence. This is called in Russia, “Exile by administrative process.” Within a week of the denunciation the victim is over the border, the marriage dissolved. Such cases are, however, rare. Russian ladies, to their honour be it said, accompany as a rule their husbands into exile, little knowing, however, the hardships and dangers before them; little dreaming of the insults which, though free, they will have to put up with en route, under the very eyes of the husband powerless to help them. As for the unmarried women (politicals) that are sent to the mines alone, their end is pretty much the same as a rule. Their two or five years of prison over, they are allowed to settle down in Tomsk or Irkoutsk. If possessed of private means (as many are), they are allowed to enjoy their income. Is it not for the benefit of Siberia? Many take to trade, become dressmakers, confectioners, milliners, &c, &c.; but the majority, if young and pretty, take up a more lucrative though less respectable profession. Some of the latter class almost vie with the “Demi-Mondaines” of Paris or Vienna in their extravagance and the splendour of their houses, carriages, and diamonds. Every liberty is allowed them, save, as I have said, the trifling inconvenience of the registry of their names every morning at eleven at the police office, and the somewhat uncomfortable feeling of not being able to drive or ride more than ten miles out of Irkoutsk, or whatever town they may be located in. I dined on one occasion with one of these ladies, and one could scarcely realize that the clever and pretty hostess who entertained us, dressed in the height of Parisian fashion, and who, after dinner, charmed us with her rendering of Beethoven and Mendelssohn, had, but six short months before, been sifting gold and washing prisoners’ clothes at the gold-mines of Nertchinsk!

One hears little of Nihilism in Irkoutsk. It is a sealed subject, and, except on rare occasions, never broached. Here, as throughout Siberia, however, we took care not to mix in any political discussions, a piece of advice I would tender to any one intending to make this journey. Russians, and especially Siberians, are quick to take offence, and on one occasion we were nearly being embroiled, though quite innocently, in a serious “Fracas.”

It was in a cafÉ on the outskirts of the town. In every public room, be it post-house, hotel, restaurant, or government office, there is a portrait of His Majesty the Czar, flanked in a corner by the “Ikona,” or Sacred Image. Ignorant of the custom of the country, Lancaster and I one evening entered one of these places without removing our hats. The room was crowded, for it was a public holiday, and all were more or less under the influence of copious libations of vodka and other drinks they had imbibed during the day. Seating ourselves at a small table in their midst, I was not a little surprised to feel, the moment after, a violent blow at the back of my head, and at the same moment to see my hat whizzing through the air to the other side of the “Salle.” We were both armed, but luckily for ourselves had the presence of mind to keep our revolvers in our pockets. Had they been produced, I doubt if either of us would have left the place alive. Fortunately the owner of the cafÉ spoke French, and apologizing for the conduct of his guests, explained that the sole cause of their annoyance was that we had omitted to doff our hats to the Czar’s picture. The affair was soon settled, for the gentleman who had assaulted us came up and profusely apologized for his conduct in not knowing that we were unacquainted with the customs of the country! There must have been fifty or sixty Siberians (all more or less drunk) in the place. Had there been a third that number, or even half, I should have felt sorely tempted to go for the swaggering bully, who was meek enough when, peace being restored, we showed him our newest patent in American “six-shooters.”

The Irkoutsk police is utterly inadequate to the size of the city. Any one creating a disturbance at night is not, as in London and other European cities, incarcerated for the night and brought before the magistrate in the morning. That worthy, in Irkoutsk, sits up all night, and disposes of cases summarily by fine or imprisonment as may be necessary. A somewhat amusing incident happened while we were there, showing the manner in which these gentlemen administer justice. Half a dozen young men, who had dined not wisely but too well, were returning homewards, when they encountered a decrepit old man, whom, by way of a joke, they fell upon, and nearly beat to death. The police patrol happening to pass at the moment, two of these spirited youths were taken into custody, the remainder managed to escape. On arrival at the police station, one of the offenders discovered an old acquaintance in the inspector, who, however, declined to allow the bond of friendship to interfere with his stern sense of duty. “I must fine you Rs. 50 each,” said the Siberian Nupkins, “but as we are old friends, you shall pay it to me, and we will drink it in champagne. How we shall get the laugh over those idiots who ran away!” History does not state whether the old man died. He was still in hospital when we left. Such is magisterial justice in Siberia!

The morality of Irkoutsk is, as I have said, at an exceedingly low ebb. Our Danish friend Madame R., was on her arrival called upon by a young and handsome woman, beautifully dressed, with whom in less than a week she had struck up a violent friendship, for both had tastes in common, and were fond of music and art. A few days afterwards, Madame R., to her great delight, found another friend, the Baroness Podorski, who had spent many months at Copenhagen. But it was somewhat disappointing, said Madame R., to find soon after, that the baroness had done five years at the mines for murdering her niece, a rich heiress, by slow poison at Moscow, and was now living on the proceeds as a queen of society at Irkoutsk. Calling to see her other friend one afternoon, Madame R. found her gone. “It is sad,” said her host, “but we have quarrelled, and she has gone to live with B————, of the Cossacks. You know we were not married.” The state of things in the country is little better. When a peasant is about to be married, he lives in a state of single blessedness with his fiancÉe for six months. If at the end of that period she is found to be enceinte, the wedding takes place, if not, they separate and form new liaisons. But this custom exists only in Siberia, and even there is gradually dying out in the more civilized districts.

One morning, about five days before our departure, we were seated at breakfast, when a stout and portly old gentleman was shown in. The stranger must have weighed at least sixteen stone, and was broad in proportion. After a deal of palaver, we elicited that this good gentleman desired to become our fellow-traveller as far as Tomsk, proposed in other words to use our tarantass, eat our provisions, and do the journey for exactly a third the amount it would otherwise have cost him. In vain we pointed out that our vehicle was already full, that there was no room for a third. “No matter,” he said, smiling blandly, “I will lie between you.” The prospect of arriving at Tomsk as flat as a pancake, to say nothing of being asphyxiated by the fumes of garlic and tobacco, were too much, and we therefore intimated to our visitor politely but firmly that we declined his company. He, however, as firmly declined to take a refusal or leave our room till about 5 p.m., having sat in a chair and watched our every movement for three mortal hours without uttering a syllable. We had at last to ring the bell and insist on his being shown out. “Then you will not take me?” he said with a sigh. “Ah! you are wrong. Read that. I will call again to-morrow,” and leaving a slip of paper on the table, he slowly left the room.

Translation from the Irkoutsk Gazette of July 7th, 1887:——

“The roads between Tomsk and Irkoutsk are infested with runaway convicts, so that travelling in this region, especially at night, is extremely dangerous. Lately, a whole family was murdered at the distance of a few versts from Irkoutsk, and we hear of such cases frequently enough.”

So ran the paper. I did not at first pay much heed to what I imagined was a scheme of our fat friend to make us take him as an additional protection. It was not pleasant news, though; so I took it to R————, who, good Russian scholar, would be able to enlighten us as to whether it ever had appeared in the Irkoutsk paper. The file was soon found, and somewhat to my disappointment, the paragraph in black and white, with an additional piece of advice from the Police Department not to travel on the Great Post-Road, except in urgent cases, at night.

Our fat friend called again next day, but we were obdurate. “Ah! you will be sorry for it, my friends,” he said. “This,” producing a horse pistol, apparently some centuries old, “this would have been no mean help in a skirmish. News has come to-day by telegraph that a party of merchants have been attacked by escaped convicts near Krasnoiarsk, two killed and the others severely maltreated and robbed. Well, good-day, and may you reach Tomsk alive.”

We found on inquiry that the roads, so far as robbers were concerned, were in a highly dangerous state. Nor was this the only difficulty with which we had to contend. Heavy rains had flooded the country and made it almost impassable between Nijni Udinsk, and Kansk, a couple of hundred versts from Irkoutsk. Of this we had practical proof, for the last mail from Petersburg had been delayed five days. We hoped, all being well, to make Moscow by the 1st of October; but in no country, as far as travel is concerned, is the old proverb so clearly demonstrated of “Homme propose, et Dieu dispose,” as in Siberia. If by any chance we were detained in Eastern Siberia till after the 1st of October, we should have to wait at Tomsk for the snow to set, and sleigh on to Nijni Novgorod, not a pleasant prospect. We had seen quite enough of a Siberian city to know that a residence therein of a week or ten days is more than enough. Irkoutsk, the R.’s said, was far pleasanter in every way than Tomsk, a circumstance that made us all the more dread an enforced residence of two, or perhaps three, months in the latter city, in the worst season of the year——autumn.

We were luckily well armed, and took pains to show it to the servants of the hotel, for in nine cases out of ten the latter and the yemstchiks (or drivers) are in league with the thieves, who rarely attack in the day-time, which was a comfort. Still the prospect of a journey of over a thousand miles through a country infested with bandits and vagabonds did not sound cheering, especially as, in the case of the murdered family, the robbers were armed with revolvers. On the latter occasion, when a man, his wife, and two children had been killed, the yemstchik alone had escaped, which fact, significant as it seemed, did not induce the authorities to detain or even examine him. The murders had taken place at Tiretskaya, a lonely village about sixty versts from Irkoutsk. We were furnished before starting with a small printed guide at the Irkoutsk station, whereon were marked, by black stars, the stages most infested by foot-pads. Beyond Nijni Udinsk, or about a hundred and twenty versts from Irkoutsk, the roads were practically safe.

We now had but two things to purchase, literature and furs. We commenced by ransacking the book-shops, but, alas! found nothing but the works of Jules Verne, with an occasional book of Zola’s. English books there were absolutely none, but of German works, ancient and modern, there was no lack. The latter, however, were no use to us, and we were forced to be content with a copy of Jules Verne’s “Voyage dans la Lune,” “Michel Strogoff,” by the same author, and Zola’s “Assommoir.” I verily believe I could say any of the three off by heart, for we got no other books till we reached Nijni Novgorod. I do not know what I should have done without Reiff’s Russian Grammar and Dictionary, with the help of which I managed to scrape up a little Russian, which on more than one occasion stood me in good stead. Contrary to general belief, a superficial knowledge of this language is very soon learnt. In less than a month I was able to converse fairly well, and ask for what I wanted, though I cannot vouch for my grammar.

Furs were the next consideration, and I was surprised to find how dear they were; but the fact that all, even the commonest, have to be sent to Moscow to be cured and made up, explained this. A pelisse of the cheapest kind, reindeer skin outside and sea-bear in, cost me nearly 22l., and then R———— told me that I had not paid too dear. The same skins unmade would have cost about 12l. My friend the Polish barman attempted to dissuade me from buying one at all, saying we should find fur clothes useless, the weather would be so hot, but I was very glad of my “dacha” and seal cap on more than one occasion before we got to Tomsk. The most costly fur procurable in Siberia is the silver fox, or rather the paws of that animal. No comme-il-faut person ever thinks of wearing any other part, for the whole skin is only worth one-tenth part of one of the tiny, velvety paws. The next in value is the beaver, then the sable, the marten, and astrakan, the last being bear, elk, and reindeer, which latter are, however, only worn by the lower orders.

A great Russian speculator, M. Siberakoff, arrived at the Moskovskaya the evening before we left. I heard with regret that he had left early next morning for Nicolaiefsk, for I was most anxious to see the individual who may be called the Rothschild and Lesseps of Siberia. No enterprise of any magnitude is ever attempted without first consulting and, if possible, obtaining M. Siberakoff’s name on the board of directors, and his last venture may indeed be called a leviathan one——establishing a waterway between Petersburg and Irkoutsk. How many million roubles this will cost I should be afraid to say, but it is a private speculation, and undertaken solely at M. Siberakoff’s cost. The idea was first started by the difficulty and annoyance created by constantly changing goods, tea, silk, &c, from boats on to caravan carts on the Great Post-Road. A waterway, thought Siberakoff, would obviate all this. There was but one way of doing it: to join the Obi river with the Gulf of Archangel, one great drawback to this being that Burroughes Straits, in the Frozen Ocean, through which vessels would have to pass, is hardly ever free from ice. To obviate this difficulty, Siberakoff cut a canal from the River Petchora to Obdorsk, on the Obi river. The magnitude of the undertaking may be estimated when I say that this had to be cut through the Oural Mountains. From Obdorsk Siberakoff’s boats will descend the Obi river as far as Piatko, where they will enter the Chulim river, a small tributary of the Obi. From here another canal has been cut into the Yenisei river. From this point they will go north again till the junction of the Angara and Yenisei is reached, and thence they will descend the former stream to Irkoutsk. The work is now nearly completed, and we saw at Tiumen two of the small steamers destined for the towing of barges. There will thus be (in summer) an unbroken waterway between the Baltic and Lake Baikal.

It is certainly hard on the promoter of this scheme, that since all this has been carried out, surveys for a railway between Tomsk and Irkoutsk have been made by the Russian Government, indeed the work has already been commenced, and will be completed, it is confidently expected, by the end of 1889. It will then be possible to go from Petersburg to Pekin overland in under two months, though the Great Gobi Desert must always remain a stumbling-block to entirely connecting the capitals of Russia and China by railway. This part of the journey will always have to be made, as at present, with camels or horses, for the very good reason that two most important things——fuel and water——are lacking throughout Mongolia. The canal, however, will probably be carried on as far as Khabarofka, and the voyage thence to Pekin be made by aid of steamers now running on the River Amoor as far as Nicolaiefsk, and thence by ocean steamer to Tientsin. The question of a railway from Irkoutsk to Tomsk has often been mooted within the past ten years, but never till the present time with any practical result. Six years since, an American firm offered to build one the whole distance, from Wladivostok, on the Sea of Japan, to Tomsk, in Central Siberia. Their conditions were a lease of 99 years, and a free grant from Government of fifty versts on each side of the rail the whole distance. As the line would have passed through districts teeming with gold and platinum, the offer was declined. The line will now be a purely Government affair, is being constructed almost entirely by soldiers, and engineered by the same officials who lately superintended the construction of the Trans-Caspian Railway.

At length, on the 23rd of August, our final preparations were completed, and we now only needed the permission of the Inspector of police to embark upon our journey. In this we were singularly lucky, receiving it two days after application, though not before a police agent had called and thoroughly searched our boxes and effects. “You are taking no letters, I trust,” said the official suspiciously. “I presume you know the penalty of being found in the Czar’s dominions with compromising papers, no matter what your nationality.” I assured him that no being existed more loyal than myself to his Imperial master, mentally thanking Providence at the same time that I had not acceded to the prayer of my dirty friend with the letter for Greek Street, Soho.

Our good friends the R————s insisted on entertaining us to a dinner in honour of our departure the night before we left, a banquet in which the chef of the “Moskovskaya” excelled himself, and to which we did ample justice. Poor little Madame R———— alone cast a gloom over the entertainment by her sad face, and indeed considering she was doomed to two years’ exile in Irkoutsk, it was not to be wondered at. After dinner we adjourned to the opera, where the poor little woman forgot her troubles in the pretty, sparkling music of “La Grande Duchesse” and the antics of a wonderfully well acted Fritz. It was difficult to imagine oneself in this far-away corner of the earth. The large, brightly-lit theatre, gold and crimson boxes, and stalls, crowded with well-dressed men and women, were different, indeed, from one’s preconceived notions of the capital of Eastern Siberia, as gleaned from “Called Back,” and works of a similar nature. R———— insisted on our supping after the play, and it was daylight ere we sought our couch, the last soft bed we were destined to enjoy for many days to come.

We found a telegram that evening on our return to the hotel, announcing the murder of Stanley, the African explorer, and the whole of the expedition under his command. The report seemed to cause as much excitement in Irkoutsk as if war had broken out between England and Russia, though what possible interest the Eastern Siberian could have in Central Africa puzzled me. The telegram coming from Petersburg (and not from England), I strongly doubted the news being correct, though it caused me some uneasiness, a great friend forming part of the expedition.^[11]

Considering the remote position of Irkoutsk and difficulty of obtaining European stores, &c., we were agreeably surprised at the moderate charges made by our host of the “Moskovskaya.” Our bill, including everything, was only 11l. a head, and we by no means stinted ourselves.

All was ready by eleven o’clock the next morning (24th August). A little crowd had assembled in the market-place to witness the strange sight of a couple of Englishmen about to cross Siberia! Madame R———— witnessed the start from the balcony, and her neat little grey-clad figure and pretty face is the last fair vision of the city that I can recall, as having seated ourselves in the tarantass, the yemtschik cracked his whip, the game little horses dashed into their collars, and we rattled away with a loud jangle of bells, past the sunny deserted streets and into the open country. Half an hour later and Irkoutsk, a glittering speck on the dark green horizon, was barely discernible.

11. Mr. J. Jameson, an experienced traveller and naturalist, whose sad death from fever, since these pages were written, has added another honoured name to the list of those who have fallen in the cause of science and civilization in Central Africa.