A square, whitewashed room, its walls and uncarpeted floor reeking with filth, and devoid of all furniture save a table and two hard, straight-backed chairs, and an overpowering smell of sewage from a cesspool beneath the open window, through which a crowd of shock-headed Siberian boys watch our every movement. An old man, in greasy rags and redolent of garlic, who resolutely refuses to allow us to enter even this fetid den unless the lodging-money is prepaid. No bed, no food, no drink, no washing appliances——such were the comforts awaiting us at the “Hotel Glembodski,” Kiakhta, the only inn in the place.

It was disappointing, to say the least of it. We had passed well-built, luxurious-looking houses on our way through the town, and expected to find, at any rate, the bare necessaries of life. Nay, more; when we saw the almost palatial houses of the tea-merchants surrounded by gardens and conservatories, neat, well-kept public gardens, smart carriages of every description, and men and women dressed in the latest European fashion, visions entered the mind of a really well-cooked dinner, washed down with iced champagne; but, alas! not for long. Ice there was, certainly, but we drank it in “quass;” while for food we had to fall back on our own stale provisions.

“Can we have anything to eat?” was our first question, when, having failed in getting any water to wash in, we made up our minds to “pig it” that night, and present our credentials to the governor of Kiakhta in the morning. But there was no food in the house, the old man said, and all the shops were shut. To-morrow they would be open at six, and we could breakfast early, he added, by way of consolation.

A pleasant welcome after a journey of eight hundred miles, I thought that night as I lay down in my sheepskins on the grimy floor, wondering whether it would be as bad as this throughout Siberia. The stench, rats, and vermin, kept us awake more than half the night. I would have given a good deal to be back in mid-desert. There, at least, one had fresh air.

We were besieged next morning before eight o’clock by half a dozen Chinamen from Maimachin, who calmly walked in without knocking, and seating themselves on the ground, commenced to jabber away in Russian——not a word of which I could understand. I called for Jee Boo, and found they were tea-merchants, and had come to buy our samples. It was a long time before they could be persuaded that we had none to sell, never dreaming that any one could be mad enough to cross the Gobi Desert for pleasure!

It poured with rain all next day. Our ill-luck did not desert us, for on calling at the governor’s house in the morning, we were told he was away, and would probably not return for a fortnight at least, by which time we hoped to be many miles from Kiakhta. M. Gribooshin, a tea-merchant, on whom I had a letter of credit, was also away shooting in Mongolia; but his clerk provided us with the necessary funds, and we left his luxurious mansion with a sigh of regret to return wet and dispirited to our squalid room at the inn, and settle our plans for getting out of the dismal, inhospitable place as quickly as possible.

I have seldom passed a more miserable day. No fire (for it was cold and damp), no books, no food excepting some greasy soup, the ingredients of which I shudder to think of; and when night came on, no light but that from a flickering oil wick which just sufficed to make our wretched surroundings visible. I managed to glean from our host that he was a Polish exile, and had been sent here after the insurrection of 1864. If all his countrymen have the same notions of comfort, I thought, banishment to Siberia can affect them but little.

The town of Kiakhta is divided into two parts, Kiakhta, the town proper, where the governor or frontier commissioner lives, and where are situated most of the tea-warehouses and offices, and Troitzkosavsk, a suburb about half a mile distant, almost entirely composed of private houses belonging to the merchants. The population of Kiakhta, with Troitzkosavsk, is a little under six thousand, but this does not include the Chinese settlement of Maimachin, containing four thousand souls, all of whom are men. There is not a woman or child in the place, the Chinese law forbidding wives to accompany their husbands beyond the Great Wall of China. We visited Maimachin, and found it far cleaner than most Chinese towns. There were but eight streets, all wide and well-drained. The houses are of wood and brick, and some of them gorgeously decorated with vermilion and gold. Many of the population spoke Russian, and all the wealthier merchants. I visited the house of one while he was employed in “tasting tea,” by driving a hollow piece of metal into the chest like a cheese scoop, and drawing out a small sample.

Our hotel was situate in the main street of Troitzkosavsk, which is a sad, dreary-looking place. Most of the houses are of unpainted wood, which give it a sombre look; though the college, church, and principal merchants’ houses are built of whitewashed brick, with bright green roofs, and detract somewhat from the depressing aspect around. Kiakhta is a terrible place for bells. They were eternally going, morning, noon, and night——not a lively, cheery peal, but a slow, solemn tolling, like a continual passing-bell. But for this Troitzkosavsk is the sleepiest and most dead-alive town imaginable. Except, towards evening, when the population turn out en masse for a breath of fresh air, there is seldom a sound to break the dead silence that reigns in the unpaved, dusty street that constitutes its main thoroughfare, from morning till night.

Kiakhta is not unhealthy. It is not subject to the violent and sudden changes of temperature found further south in Mongolia. It seldom rains, and never snows. Travellers in winter have to drive out a distance of eight or ten miles before they can get into the sleigh which is to bear them to Irkoutsk, Tomsk, Yakoutzk, and other parts of Siberia. The coldest and hottest weather experienced in Kiakhta summer and winter are 95° and 33° below zero respectively, figures that may sound startling to the reader, but nothing compared to Yakoutzk, where in mid-winter it sometimes exceeds 58° below zero. The earth at the latter place is said to be always frozen below the surface to a depth of over thirty feet, summer and winter.

Five o’clock in the afternoon is the busiest part of the day in the frontier-city. Then it is that the whole population turns out, the wealthier part for its evening drive, the poorer to listen to the military band which plays every day throughout the summer in the public gardens. Had it not been for the motley crowd of Russians, Chinese, Mongolians, Bouriattes, and other queer races in their bright, gaudy costumes, one might have been in the gardens of some garrison-town in France or Germany, so civilized were all but the human surroundings. It was amusing to watch the female Élite of Kiakhta, the wives and daughters of wealthy tea-merchants, dressed in the latest Paris fashions, flirting, talking scandal, and ruining their neighbours’ reputations, just like their more civilized sisters ten thousand miles away in London or Paris. Equally interesting was it to stroll about among the crowd of Cossack officers, resplendent in white and gold, Mongol Tartars, in rags and silk, Siberian peasants in Russian dress, Chinese soldiers from Maimachin, Russian soldiers from Kiakhta, nursemaids with children and perambulators, and men in frock-coats and tall hats. The gardens at Kiakhta were a sight worth seeing. It was hard to realize that the desert of Gobi is but a stone’s throw from this scene of almost European civilization.

We took an affectionate farewell of Jee Boo two days after our arrival. The carts were returning to Kalgan, and as Chinamen have an innate horror of crossing the desert with strange Mongols, he had determined to go with them, though we offered him a good round sum if he would wait and see us out of Kiakhta, for I knew but a few words of Russian, certainly not enough to complete the purchase of our tarantass or travelling-carriage satisfactorily. He was obdurate, however, also the Mongols, so we had to make the best of it, trusting to find some one who could speak a few words of English, though that seemed improbable enough in Kiakhta.

But we found a friend in need, and when we least expected it. The town of Troitzkosavsk boasts a college, established and maintained by a private individual——an enormously wealthy gold-miner. One must have lived in a place where not a soul understands your native language to appreciate our delight when we met Professor R————, a German by birth, but professor of English at the college, who had, by the way, only just arrived here, and who greeted us in our own tongue, one morning with a familiar “Good morning, gentlemen. I think I am addressing the two travellers from Pekin.” Never did the English tongue sound so sweet to my ears, for we were now out of our dilemma, and accepting the professor’s invitation, followed him home to his rooms for breakfast.

The world is small indeed, for Professor R———— and we had many mutual friends, whose names sounded odd in the mouth of a stranger at what might well be called the uttermost ends of the earth. Our new acquaintance had had a strange career before drifting to this remote part of Asia. By birth a German, and a gentleman’s son, he had left home when a lad, and enlisted in the 22nd Regiment, where he was promoted to the rank of sergeant. Leaving the service in 1870, he was appointed teacher of the German language at Southsea Naval College, a post he afterwards left to assist Mr. F————, of Storrington, Sussex, a well-known private tutor. Professor R———— had left Storrington to take up an appointment as professor of German at the Royal Naval College, Petersburg, from whence he had been promoted to Senior Professor of English at the College of Kiakhta. A born linguist, Herr R———— was proficient in English, French, Russian, Italian, and last, but not least, Mongolian. The latter, however, he had only taken up for a few months, and was compelled to admit that the mastering of it was hardly worth the candle.

“We will go for a walk after breakfast,” said our host. “But I must first introduce you to the lions of Kiakhta, after which we will see about the tarantass.” Breakfast over, we set out with our friend for a ramble round the place.

The professor was, like all Germans, no friend of Russia. “What are they but pigs, these Siberians?” said he, as we walked down to Kiakhta. “The men are all thieves, do nothing all day but smoke, drink, and play cards. As for the women, you can easily imagine what becomes of them under such circumstances. There is no rational amusement of any kind here, no sport among the men, no music or dancing among the women, nothing but vodka, vodka, vodka, cards, cards, cards, all day long. “Ah! mon cher, n’en parlons plus. Ce sont des canailles!” I then thought our friend was a little hard upon the good people of Kiakhta, but had good cause, afterwards, to alter my opinion.

The cathedral, which was entirely built by tea-merchants, is a beautiful building of Byzantine architecture. The cost is said to have been 150,000l. sterling, and after seeing the gorgeous decorations of the interior, one had no difficulty in believing this. The altar alone, of solid gold, silver, and platinum, cost 30,000l., while the principal doors of the building are of solid silver, and weigh 200 lbs. A huge candlestick and chandelier studded with emeralds, rubies, and diamonds, and several beautifully executed oil paintings from Europe, together with some Ikons or sacred pictures, thickly encrusted with precious stones, completed the decoration of the interior of the building, which though, like most Russian churches, of a florid style, was exceedingly beautiful. A peal of eight bells, made in Moscow, and of great weight, must have added not a little to the general cost, for they had to be dragged two thousand miles through the deep, muddy roads of Siberia. There are two smaller churches in Kiakhta besides a large cemetery, lying between that town and Troitzkosavsk.

“They are perfect Rothschilds in their way,” said the professor, as walking home I noticed what palatial buildings some of the tea-merchants and gold-miners had erected, “but with no more manners than their own bullocks——in fact they are a class of themselves, and Siberia is the very best place for them. No one would stand them in Europe.”

There are, the professor told us, about fifteen of these men living in Kiakhta, one of them worth at least a million sterling. Walking back to Troitzkosavsk that day, we passed a huge building on the roadside, erected by M. Nempshinof——the millionaire in question——for a mausoleum for himself, at a cost of 40,000l. sterling. But all this is done more for vanity than anything else. Their donations to the poor, their gifts to the church, their building of churches, is not charity so much as a desire to show that they can spend more money than their neighbour. In Kiakhta, Herr R———— told us, their daily life consists in rising about mid-day, winter and summer, going down, if in the tea-season, to inspect the tea-bags and chests which sometimes burst or break in transit across Gobi, after which they visit each other’s houses and settle down to cards and champagne (at Rs. 13 [1l. 10s.] a bottle), with short intervals for refreshment, till four or five the next morning, when, helplessly drunk, they reel home to bed, or rather to a chair or sofa, for there are no beds in Kiakhta, even in the best regulated families. The favourite game in Kiakhta is nap, at which these men gamble for tremendously high sums, sometimes playing 1000l. a trick. Intellectual amusements they have none, indeed the majority cannot even read! But I shall have more to say of these strange creatures anon, and must now give the reader a full and graphic account of an evening party À la SibÉrienne!

“M. Wormoff, my colleague, has deputed me to invite you to dine this evening,” said the professor, as we were about to bid him good evening. “Will you come? Do not let me persuade you against your will, but I think you will be amused at our, or let me rather say their, manners and customs.”

We gladly accepted, and presented ourselves at M. Wormoff’s residence at nine o’clock, the hour mentioned. Rather late, we thought, but no doubt the Siberian custom, though having tasted no food since breakfast, Glembodski having (as usual) nothing in the house, we would willingly have dined an hour or two earlier.

The guests were already assembled when we arrived, including our German friend, who introduced us to all present; Professor Wormoff, his newly married wife, a pretty little woman from Tomsk, Captain Cherkoff, of the Cossacks, who evidently thought Madame Wormoff a pleasant addition to Kiakhta society, a Russian professor of music, of mathematics, and chemistry (the last a German), the post-master, and ourselves. Of these Cherkoff and the chemist spoke French, the others not a word of anything but Russian.

Wormoff had a charming house, and evidences of his wife’s good taste could be everywhere seen in the drawing-room, into which we were shown. Introductions over, everybody sat solemnly down without a word, and Madame Wormoff left the room. I confess I hoped she had gone to see about dinner, but half-past eight, nine, half-past nine came, and no signs of moving. About this time Cherkoff offered me a cigarette, which, more to stave off the pangs of hunger than anything else, I accepted and lit. There was a magnificent grand piano (by Erard) in the room, upon which I was asked to perform, and played, with as much spirit as I could muster, the Russian Hymn and other patriotic tunes, but they fell flat, and no wonder. Everybody appeared to me to be getting gradually paler and paler with hunger, nor could I, with any propriety, get anywhere near R————, who was sitting next our host, to ask him if we were ever going to have anything to eat.

At last, about 11.30, the door opened, and a servant entered, bearing a tray with two large bottles of vodka. This, I thought, looked like a preliminary to food, at any rate the spirit kept faintness off! A quarter of an hour later Madame Wormoff returned to announce that dinner (dinner at 11.30!!) was ready, and we adjourned gravely to an upstairs apartment, where the repast awaited us. In a corner of the room stood a small table set out with smoked herrings, salmon, cheese, caviar, and flanked by half a dozen huge bottles of vodka, cognac, curaÇao, kÜmmel, and other liqueurs. Here every one took a morsel of cheese or fish in his fingers, and gravely drank our health one by one, turning their glass up, if we did not drain ours to the dregs, to show that it was empty. By the time supper was served my head began to swim, for I had had to imbibe in this way, and on an empty stomach, seven or eight glasses of vodka, a liquid to which I was totally unaccustomed, and which is, I need not say, extremely potent.

One diminutive chicken and half a dozen small cutlets do not go far among half a dozen hungry men, but that was literally the only food there was. There was plenty to drink; but what drink! Brandy, vodka, and white port (English made). Beer, claret, or sherry, there were none, or even water, for after devouring salt fish like so many Esquimaux, one would gladly have put up with the latter, had there been any.

Madame Wormoff retired to rest shortly after midnight. Strangely enough, we missed our friend the Cossack at the very same moment. Such a proceeding would have seemed somewhat strange anywhere else, especially as the gallant Captain returned in half an hour, after a prolonged tÊte-À-tÊte with Madame, and joined us again. But nobody, even Wormoff, seemed in the least surprised.

The lady’s departure was the signal for real hard drinking to commence, though, indeed, our companions had lost no time before she left. In vain I protested that I never drank port, that strong liquor disagreed with me; my hosts either would not or could not understand, and insisted on my drinking with them separately and in turn. “Do not refuse, or they will pick a quarrel with you,” whispered R————; and not wishing to be mixed up in a mÊlÉe with these giants, not one of whom was under six feet high, I made a virtue of necessity. It reminded me of the scene between the celebrated Mr. Jorrocks and his huntsman, who, when they had exhausted all other toasts, drank the healths of all the hounds separately. When our friends had exhausted the Czar, the army, the navy, the Queen of England, and all reigning potentates, including the Emperor of China, they fell back on themselves. I must have drunk at least three bottles of port that night, to say nothing of vodka, and by the time we left the table to adjourn to the piano and wind up the evening, or rather morning with song, my throat was like a lime-kiln, and my head spinning like a teetotum.

All at the table were the worse for liquor; but the scholastic representatives of mathematics and chemistry were, to say the least of it, very drunk indeed. I was the innocent cause of a severe and sanguinary combat between them. Earlier in the evening, our conversation having turned upon duelling, I had related to the Cossack captain, much to his amusement, the story of the three-cornered duel in “Mr. Midshipman Easy,” which is probably familiar to the reader. The mathematical professor insisted on the joke being translated to him by the professor of chemistry, which, with no little difficulty, the latter did, but it instantly led to a wrangle. No three men, said the mathematician, could fire at each other. The thing was absurd, unfair, preposterous; one of them must be at a disadvantage. The discussion became so heated at last that Wormoff had to put a stop to it, thinking every instant the pair would come to blows, and peace was, for a time, restored.

We then adjourned to the drawing-room, where all sang and shouted at the top of their voices, regardless of time or tune, till past 4 a.m. If poor Madame Wormoff slept anywhere near, she must have had a bad time of it. Suddenly, while at the piano, a low, choking sound attracted my attention, and I looked underneath to find Russia (represented by the mathematician), lying on the top of Germany (represented by the chemist), and slowly but surely throttling her. The thing had been done so gently that neither Lancaster nor myself had noticed it. The others had returned to the dining-room and vodka. Quickly summoning Wormoff, we managed to get them apart, but not without difficulty. The Russian had decidedly the best of the combat, for the chemist was half dead, his face purple, and eyes protruding. It took at least half a bottle of vodka to bring him round again, and enable him to inform us that the casus belli was still the triangular duel! The Cossack was all for blood, and wanted them to fight it out with pistols in the morning. Nothing, he said, would settle the question but practical demonstration, and he would be charmed to make a third, but this was fortunately averted.

It was broad daylight when we separated, English bottled stout being handed round as a finale to the entertainment. It costs about a guinea a bottle in Kiakhta, and we drank it out of small wine-glasses. Then every one kissed every one else (this we found one of the most trying ordeals in Siberia), and we separated, having accepted an invitation to dine next evening with the post-master, but dearly hoping by that time to have left Kiakhta, little knowing that he alone had the power to grant us a Podarojna and horses to take us to Irkoutsk. Cherkoff insisted on seeing us home to the door of the hotel, where, after affectionately kissing me on the forehead, he left us, and tacked up the street, his sword rattling between his legs, to morning parade at 5.30. So ended our first evening party in Siberia!

We bought a tarantass next morning, and were lucky enough to get a very good one, though it had just done a long journey, and necessitated a delay of a couple of days to have the wheels, axles, &c., thoroughly overhauled before setting out on the two thousand miles of rough and trying road that lay between us and Tomsk. There was little trouble about stores. A small box of tea, a bag containing sugar, two or three loaves of white bread, and half a dozen lemons are all the Siberian travels with, and we resolved to do the same, indeed there would have been no room for more, for the tarantass was already full to overflowing with our portmanteaus and gun-cases. It may here be as well to give the reader a brief description of the vehicle, which in summer replaces the sleigh in Siberia, and which is admirably adapted for long journeys and rough roads.

A tarantass resembles a large cradle on four wheels. The body of our vehicle was about seven feet in length by five feet broad, and the bottom being concave, gave us plenty of room wherein to pack our portmanteaus and other luggage impedimenta. There are neither seats or springs, the occupants lying at full length on a mattress placed over the luggage or bottom of the carriage. A hood, capable of being folded back, covers the occupant partially, and from this hood to the driver’s seat in front can be spread an apron to serve as a further protection. The body of the tarantass rests on poles, and these rest in turn on the axletrees and wheels. The poles are generally springy, and much longer than the body of the vehicle, the fore and hind wheels are placed as far apart as the length of the poles will allow, and the body is placed mid-way between the wheels, so the want of proper springs is partially compensated for, inasmuch as the occupant does not feel the force of the jolting as he would do if he were seated directly over the wheels. Such is a brief description of the vehicle in which we travelled a distance of considerably over a thousand miles, from Kiakhta to Tomsk. The price we paid for ours was 280 roubles, which, considering all things and the distance we were from civilization, was not out of the way.

The next thing was to get rid of our ponies, Chow and Kharra. I knew the kind of life they would lead had we sold them to our Kiakhta friends, so we gave them away to a party of Mongols setting out for the desert. Poor little Kharra! He has, at any rate, a better time of it on his native breezy steppes, than in the streets of hot, dusty Pekin. Nearly the whole day was spent in preparations for departure; packing the tarantass, obtaining our Podarojna, and so forth. For the latter we had to apply to our friend of the evening before, the post-master, who was most reluctant to give us the document, and begged us to make a longer stay in Kiakhta. Seeing we were determined, however, he gave it us at last, reminding us that dinner would be on the table at ten o’clock sharp that evening.

The market at Troitzkosavsk is an interesting sight. It is a square open building, the shops around belonging partly to Chinese and partly to Europeans, and the medley of eastern and western population was most curious. The Russian shops were principally for the sale of stores, tobacco, provisions of all kinds, and ironmongery, but those of the Chinese devoted exclusively to tea and silks, in both of which there is an enormous trade in Kiakhta. Adjoining this was the fish-market, where sturdy Siberian fishwives appeared to be doing a roaring trade in salted salmon, trout, “Omul,” carp, and other fish from Lake Baikal. Fresh fish is seldom obtainable at Kiakhta, the Little Bura river which flows through being nothing more than a dry ditch in summer, and frozen over in winter. Having occasion to send a telegram, I went to the office on my way home, and was surprised at the absurdly low tariff, one rouble, or rather under one and eightpence for ten words to Petersburg, and all other parts of the Russian empire from the Baltic to the Sea of Okhotzk.

We were to start for Lake Baikal at nine next morning——at least horses had been promised us for that hour, yet when we arrived at the postmaster’s with R————, it was getting on for 10.30, there were no signs of dinner. The party was in point of fact nothing more nor less than a repetition of the night before, with the addition of about a dozen male and half a dozen female guests. We saw, with a shudder, that the postmaster had resolved to make a night of it, and our hopes of getting away anything like early on the morrow vanished into thin air.

The company was rather more orderly, however, at first, and we had, for a wonder, something to eat. Among the ladies was a young “Bouriatte” lady, who had just returned from a finishing school in Irkoutsk. The Bouriattes are an aboriginal tribe inhabiting the country north and east of Irkoutsk, and were but a short time since very little removed from the Mongols in point of civilization. This young lady had the queer physiognomy peculiar to her race, the flat nose, high cheek bones, thick lips, and narrow, twinkling eyes, which made a strange contrast to a European gown of the latest fashion that she wore. Still more curious was it when she sat down at the grand piano and gave us Mendelssohn’s “Lieder,” and one of Liszt’s “Rhapsodies” with an execution and feeling that I have seldom heard surpassed by an amateur. Classical music was evidently not appreciated in Kiakhta, and the bright jingling music of the “Cloches de Corneville” and “Le petit Duc” were much more enthusiastically received when Madame B————, a pretty little woman, the wife of the military doctor, sat down to the instrument and rattled them off.

Our friend, Captain Cherkoff, came in rather late, having been out with his men at target practice by moonlight——the order for this practice had only just been promulgated from Petersburg, and it really seems a very sensible proceeding. Three times a week, wet or dry, the troops were exercised at this manoeuvre from ten o’clock till midnight.

The first part of the evening was pleasant enough, though the manners of some of the guests were, to say the least of it, curious. Many had never been fifty miles from Kiakhta in their lives, so were to be pardoned, though it did not make their behaviour any the less unpleasant to their neighbours. The women, poor things, noticed this, and kept apologizing for the behaviour of their male relatives. We took leave of them at about two o’clock, on the plea that we should have to be leaving early. I noticed at the time a covert smile pass over the face of the postmaster, but attributed no importance to it, and sought my hard couch with a feeling of relief that to-morrow would see us fairly off for Irkoutsk.

The horses were to be in by nine, we were told, but we waited till eleven o’clock, without a sign of their arrival. Losing all patience, I walked up to the post-master’s, and found him still sleeping off the effects of the night’s debauch on two chairs. I knew that the slightest show of temper would only have made matters worse, so waking him as gently as I could, asked politely why the horses had not arrived. For some minutes his fuddled brains could not grasp my meaning, till a sudden light burst on him: “Ah, to be sure, the horses. Alas! my friend, there are none for you: besides, you cannot go to-day. After you had left, our mutual friend Cherkoff commissioned me to ask you to breakfast with him at the barracks, and I took upon myself to accept for you, and gave your ‘Troika’ to some one else. There is no hurry. You shall go to-night. In the meantime I will dress, and we will go up to the barracks together. It is already past twelve.”

I could have shaken the little wretch with vexation. While he was dressing, however (an operation that consisted of putting on his boots and coat), I came to the conclusion that it was better to appear pleased, a Russian post-master being as omnipotent in his small way as the veriest African tyrant. I was beginning to think that Siberian travel is not unlike African. The difficulty is not so much getting to a place as getting away from it!

The barracks contained two or three hundred men, a company of Cossacks under the command of Cherkoff, who, like all captains of the Russian army, had obtained his brevet colonelcy on crossing the Ourals into Siberia. The garrison of Kiakhta is over eight hundred strong, but this is mostly made up of militia. Several of the men were standing about the barrack-yard as we entered, broad, swarthy, sunburnt fellows in white linen uniforms, who looked fit to go through anything, but had not a trace of smartness about them.

On arrival at the barracks we were ushered into a large, bare, whitewashed room crowded with people, who had apparently just risen from a table covered with the usual salt fish and other thirst-producing comestibles. One could hardly see across the room for cigarette-smoke. Nor did it take us long to discover that most of the party, some twenty in number, had already breakfasted not wisely but too well. All our old friends were there. The ladies (in low dresses) had wisely retired into an inner apartment, where they sat alone. “You are late,” said Professor R————, “but will not miss anything, unless you care for salt fish. This is a true Siberian breakfast,” he added, with a smile at our astonishment.

Never shall I forget that afternoon. The place reeked with the fumes of tobacco and spirits, mingled with a sickening smell of fish. Though barely three o’clock in the afternoon, half the men were intoxicated, alternately singing, fighting, and drinking. Cherkoff, I am bound to say, looked ashamed of his guests, as well he might. The bright sun streaming in on their drink-heated faces and disordered dress was not a pretty spectacle. Little Madame B————, a native of Moscow, confided to me, with tears in her eyes, what a dog’s life it was for a woman. I sincerely pitied her. It seemed hard that one of her refined taste and ideas should be condemned to live in such a human Zoological Garden.

The tarantass arrived about four o’clock, much to our relief, and we commenced to take leave of our hosts. I say commenced, for the operation lasted quite three-quarters of an hour, we having to drink a glass of vodka separately with each man.

This ordeal over, we descended on either side of Cherkoff, the entire party following, to the barrack-square, where the whole company of Cossacks was drawn up in line. Upon our appearance all struck up a hymn which, upon any other occasion, I could have listened to with pleasure, but which, now that I felt it made another hour of delay, bored me beyond measure. The song finished, a sergeant approached us, bearing in each hand a huge tumbler of vodka. “One of you must drink it off,” whispered our guide, philosopher, and friend, Herr R————. “This is considered a great honour.” Handing me one glass, the captain took another, and facing me in front of his men, cried out, “À la Reine d’Angleterre!” to which I replied, “À l’Empereur de Russie!” tossing off at the same time the whole of the vodka at a gulp. It was like liquid fire! but I was not allowed much time for thought, for in a second, at a sign from Cherkoff, the Cossacks had seized Lancaster and myself, and sent us whirling ten feet into the air, catching us again in their hands and arms as we alighted. Once, twice, three times I was sent up; and then, giddy and out of breath, we returned to the balcony. By this time, what with the shouting, the tossing, and the vodka, I hardly knew whether I was on my head or my heels! A dance among the men followed this performance, a dance favourite with the Cossacks, accompanied on a kind of tom-tom, with much shouting and clapping of hands. Having watched this for a few moments we first quietly took leave of R., then bidding good-bye to Cherkoff (whom we left dancing with his men), we jumped into the carriage while the remainder of the guests were looking the other way. But they were too quick for us, for just as we were moving off, two of them caught sight of the tarantass, and, dashing through the crowd, leapt in, to accompany us, Siberian fashion, to the outskirts of the town. One of them had concealed a bottle of vodka, which he produced when we reached the town-gates, and insisted on our drinking with him and his friend. But we were firm, and they very drunk, so we soon managed to give them the slip. They were sitting in the road, the last we saw of them, embracing each other, the empty vodka bottle beside them.

It was growing dusk as we left Kiakhta; but the cool night-air, rapid motion, and exhilarating jingle of the bells as the three sturdy little horses tore along the hard, level road, soon cleared the cobwebs from our brain, and made one forget the scenes of debauch of the past three days. The entertainments we had attended left the same impression on my mind as a head-feast I once witnessed in Central Borneo——a kind of wonder that human beings, however uncivilized, could become so animal, not to say bestial, in their minds and habits. I have not exaggerated the state of things at Kiakhta, though must, in justice, add that it was the most dissolute and drunken place we came across. Some excuse, too, must be made for people living in a land with such squalid, depressing surroundings, and having absolutely no intellectual pursuits.

There are two roads from Kiakhta to Lake Baikal; one the old post-road, the other a private one, made and used by the tea-merchants, or by those having their permission. The latter is a hundred and eighty versts shorter than the old government post-road. By the intervention of Herr R., we were permitted to use the private road, and luckily, for we had but three days before us to catch the steamboat at Moushafskaya, on the eastern shore of the lake. We reached the first stage, twenty versts from Kiakhta, just before midnight. Here we first began to taste the delights of Siberian posting, for there were no horses, nor would there be till next morning. The post-house was, however, brand new, and as clean as a new pin inside and out; and we were not sorry for the rest afforded by the delay. Had all the post-houses in Siberia been as clean and comfortable as those in the Trans-Baikal, we should have had little to complain of. But the Russian government has a very different way of doing things to its wealthy and luxurious purveyors of tea.

We were away again shortly after seven o’clock, but began the day badly. Of our “Troika,”^[8] two were bolters and one a jibber; and a slight difference of opinion at the start ended by the bolting of the two outside horses, who dragged the jibber along with them by main force. They tore along at a mad gallop for a couple of hundred yards, the heavy tarantass swaying to and fro, till a friendly sand-bank brought us up all standing, the off-wheel buried in the earth, the near one whirling round in the air. As for the yemstchik, he had disappeared, and presently emerged like a water-god, dripping with water, and covered with duck-weed, for he had been shot into a pond the other side of the bank. We got righted with the aid of some peasants, and by dint of lashing, yelling, and cursing, got the unruly team off again at a gallop; and though for a mile or so we were as often off the road as on it, we met with no further misadventure, for a time, at least. “Pour une personne qui n’aime pas les Émotions,” as the French say, posting in Siberia is rather a strain on the nerves. The yemstchik has no idea of danger, will drive at full gallop down a hill like the side of a house, though it may be half a mile long, and there is nothing to stop you at the bottom but a river or precipice without a guard-rail, or standing up on the box and lashing the horses into a furious gallop in places where a broken rein or the falling of one horse would send the whole concern to kingdom come——yourself included. And yet it is surprising how few serious accidents do occur on the great post-road. Yemstchiks seem, like drunken men, to be under the special care of Providence.

We reached the Selenga river about mid-day, a deep, swift stream about half a mile broad, and crossed by a ferry. This was our first experience of a Siberian ferry, but we were not allowed to examine it long, for turning on to the wooden landing-stage, our yemstchik shaved the side so close that the bank gave way, and the off-side of the tarantass fell bodily over almost into the stream. Luckily, one of the posts of the bridge caught the axle of the wheel, and we jumped out quick as lightning, only to see that our vehicle was hanging, saved only by a thread from utter destruction. Had not the post been of the strongest pine, it must have given way. The yemstchik stood by whimpering, evidently expecting what he would have had if his passengers had been Russians, a sound thrashing, and I felt sorely inclined to give it him, except that it would have lost time, and every moment the strain on our sole hope, the wooden post, was getting more severe. It took us some time to get the horses out, for they were plunging and kicking so that I expected every moment to see them dislodge the heavy, cumbersome carriage, and send it plunging into the river. There was but one thing to do, cut the traces, and as soon as this was done Lancaster and I set to work and got all the luggage out to lighten it as much as possible. The yemstchik, delighted to find his skin whole, worked away like a Trojan, and with the aid of some men from the ferry, we managed to get two or three planks from the stage. These we placed under the carriage, and I breathed again. Our tarantass was saved. But though all actual danger of losing it was over, it was by no means an easy task to hoist it on terra firma. There were but two peasants in charge of the ferry——a very old man and a very small boy, and our united efforts never made it budge an inch. There was nothing left but to send for help to a village about three miles off, and patiently sit down and wait with the pleasing conviction that we had for a certainty lost the steamer at Shamoufskaya.

It was not till nearly four o’clock that the men arrived, and past five before we had got the things in again, rigged up some traces, a simple job enough in Siberia, where they are made of rope, and got our carriage safely hoisted on to the ferry. We then crossed safely, and proceeded on our journey.

The ferry across the Selenga is constructed on the same plan as over every other Siberian river we crossed. A large barge is moored mid-stream about two hundred yards above the ferry. To this is attached a stout chain, connected by means of a number of smaller boats, to the bows of the ferry. On being cast off from the shore, the mere force of the stream is sufficient to propel the ferry from bank to bank. This seemed a simple and effectual plan, particularly in Siberia, where the rivers are mostly of great size and swiftness.

The scenery from here to Monshafskaya was lovely, and perhaps the more civilized nature of the landscape made one appreciate it more from just leaving the bare, monotonous steppes of Mongolia. It seemed almost as if one were home again, to see the large enclosed meadows, the ruddy peasantry in the hay-fields, and the pretty, rustic-looking villages, with their gabled cottages, and picturesque church towers. The bright warm sun lent an air of gaiety to the scene, and everything looked happy and contented, from the rosy-cheeked peasant girls with their hay-rakes and milk-pails, to the fat sleepy cattle browsing in the fields.

There were no horses to be had till midnight at the next stopping-place, so we made ourselves comfortable and got the post-master’s wife to give us some supper, a delicious meal of black bread, eggs, and thick clotted cream, with some berries of her own preserving. All was excellent but the black bread, a substance not unlike suet mixed with soot and treacle. The postmistress herself brought us supper, but her lord and master was terribly jealous, and never let her out of his sight for a moment, a circumstance that seemed to afford her the greatest amusement. She was a true Russian from Nijni Novgorod, she told us, and not a Siberian. Her name was Olga, and she’d just had a baby, and would, I believe, have told us the whole particulars of its birth, had not Benedick, who scowled in a corner the whole time, sent her off to bed. We carried on the conversation by means of a dialogue book, and she laughed till she cried at my attempts at Russian. The walls of the post-house were covered with pictures cut from illustrated papers. Among others one of Mrs. Langtry out of the Graphic. “Krasivia Dama Ingliska,”^[9] said pretty Olga, as she pointed it out. I have often wondered how it ever drifted to this outlandish place, and if Mrs Langtry is aware that her fair fame has spread as far as the Russo-Chinese frontier.

The country became more mountainous after this and less cultivated, though one passed every now and again fertile valleys well stocked with rye, corn, and barley, and prosperous-looking, fair-sized villages nestling in the hills. The roads were excellent, far better than any others we met with throughout Siberia. Their comparative newness, and the small amount of traffic that goes this way compared to the other, no doubt accounts for this. We were fairly lucky too in obtaining horses, and were only detained twice, once on the occasion I have mentioned, and the other the night before we reached Monshafskaya on the Baikal at Abukansk. As, however, we made the acquaintance of a charming fellow-traveller on the second occasion, who was in the same plight as ourselves, we did not mind the delay. Had it not been for this chance friend, we should have been quite ten days reaching Irkoutsk instead of five. M. Radovitch was a Russian in Government employ, on his way to Irkoutsk. He had already been at Abukansk some hours when we got there, and when we entered the post-house addressed us in excellent French, much to our delight. We spent quite a pleasant evening, for the post-house was clean and comfortable, and next morning at 4 a.m., the horses being ready, started off together for Monshafskaya, Radovitch in a tÉlÉga or public travelling-carriage, a vehicle built on the same lines as a tarantass, but having the great disadvantage, that the traveller must change into another at every station.

The approach to Lake Baikal lies through a valley or gorge with steep rocky mountains, pine-clad almost to their summits, on either side. So narrow is the road in parts that there is barely room for two vehicles abreast, while a precipitous torrent about fifty feet below dashes along amid huge rocks and boulders to fall into the lake just below Monshafskaya. A great part of the road is cut out of the solid rock and must have cost a fabulous sum to make. We arrived at this, the most difficult and dangerous part of the road, just before sunset. It was rather nervous work, for there was no guard-rail or attempt at protection, and the slightest shy or false step of the horses, who were not of the steadiest, would have precipitated one on to the rocks below. Presently we left the ravine to ascend a steep hill, so steep indeed that four horses could hardly get us along. Luckily it was barely a quarter of a mile to the summit. Resting here awhile for our tired horses to regain breath, we heard a sound as of waves beating on a rocky shore. Walking on a few yards, we came to the edge of a cliff. The thick undergrowth and dense forest had up till now hidden it from view, for suddenly there at our feet, the snow-clad summits of its coasts glowing in the sunset, a sea of sapphire flecked with white waves, lay fathomless Lake Baikal.

We skirted the lake for some time, now on a level with the shingly beach, now hundreds of feet above it, before we got to Monshafskaya, at dusk. The steamer, to our great relief, was a day late, and would not be leaving for Listvenitz (the port for Irkoutsk) till the following day at noon. The rest-house was crowded with travellers, one a special Government courier from Nicolaiefsk, whom Radovitch knew and introduced us to: a pleasant, chatty fellow, who had once held a commission in a crack cavalry regiment, but having lived not wisely but too well, had sold out and joined the Courier Service. On the occasion of the late Czar’s assassination he was sent (in winter) from Irkoutsk to Nicolaiefsk (on the sea of Okhotzk) and performed the journey in twelve days, an unprecedented feat, though on arrival at Nicolaiefsk he was lifted out of his sleigh more dead than alive, and did not recover for some months.

Monshafskaya is but a small village consisting of the rest-house, half a dozen cottages, and the “Ostrog” or prison. A sentry, with loaded rifle, stood at the gate, and eyed us rather suspiciously when we approached to look closer at the faces that, pressed against the iron bars of the small square windows, were watching our every movement. Most of them were, Radovitch told us, on their way to the gold-mines of Nertchinsk, and were of the lowest order of criminals, the sweepings of Moscow and St. Petersburg. More villainous faces I have seldom seen. The four large windows of the cells reserved for political prisoners showed us but one, a young and good-looking man, who when we looked at him, instantly averted his gaze. “He is for Karra,” said the sentry, with a leer, to Radovitch. “Won’t he enjoy himself?” None but Black Nihilists, of which he was one, and murderers are sent to this hell upon earth, which is, except Sakhalien, the most dreaded prison in Siberia. The unhappy wretches exiled to Siberia for political offences, are undoubtedly far worse off than the criminals sent there for theft or murder. Pens, ink, and paper, to say nothing of books, are rigorously forbidden, and this is the cruellest punishment for men of intellect who, taken from a life of mental activity in civilized Europe, are thrust perhaps for life into a prison with absolutely nothing, not even physical work to divert their thoughts from their shame and misery. As for the criminal classes, they care little so long as they get their vodka smuggled in, in the entrails of a pig or sheep, or can bribe or cajole their guards out of a screw of tobacco. Siberia may truly be called the criminal’s heaven and the Nihilist’s hell. Once past the Oural mountains, every liberty, every indulgence, is accorded to the former to induce them to colonize and become respectable citizens; for the latter there is nothing but insult, harsh treatment, and injustice.

Monshafskaya is surrounded by dense pine forest, through which runs the great post-road fringed by high banks, on which were hedges of hops and wild raspberries in full bearing. The fruit was quite equal in flavour to the real thing, though much smaller. The soil round here seemed wonderfully adapted for fruit-growing. Raspberries, currants, strawberries, and gooseberries grew luxuriantly in all the cottage gardens, and the natives preserve them largely for sale at Irkoutsk and other towns of Eastern Siberia. The place has rather a depressing appearance, nevertheless, the houses of unpainted wood giving a sombre look at first sight, for the only spot of colour against the dark forest was the rest-house, with its white walls and bright green roof. Turning seaward, or rather lakeward, however, the view was very different. It was a clear, though rather cold day, with a strong north-wester blowing, just sufficiently strong to cover the bright blue waters with curling white waves, and show one that if the wind rose any higher things might be unpleasant before we reached Listvenitz, for Radovitch gave us lamentable accounts of the steamer. It was just like being at the seaside in England. One almost fancied one smelt the ozone, while the sound of the waves, beating on the beach, heightened the illusion. The opposite coast was quite invisible, clear day though it was, while to the left and right of us extended broad stretches of shingly beach alternating with patches of bright golden sand standing out bright and distinct against the dark green pines growing down to the water’s edge. To complete the resemblance, a wooden jetty, with a lighthouse at the end, ran out for a distance of fifty yards into the lake, forming a small harbour in which lay moored a number of small fishing-boats and two large black hulks, prison barges, waiting to be towed back to Listvenitz for a fresh convoy. Such was the scene from our rest-house on the hill. Has the reader ever seen the village of Clovelly, in Devonshire? If so, let him substitute pines for oak and beech-trees, unpaved paths for cobbled streets, wooden huts for stone houses, and he has seen Monshafskaya as I saw it that bright August morning, when for the first time I looked on the waters of the Holy Sea of Siberia, for by this name alone is Lake Baikal known by the natives inhabiting its shores. To call it a lake to a Siberian is an insult. He will invariably correct you with the rebuke, “I suppose you mean our Sea.” Among the peasantry it is believed to bring dire misfortune on any one daring to call it by any other name. Lake Baikal was first discovered by one Ivanoff, who, travelling downwards from Yakoutsk, was prospecting for silver. Like Magellan, “He was the first that ever burst into that silent sea,” about the year 1600. The first caravan crossed the lake from China to Europe A.D. 1670.

Lake Baikal is three hundred and fifty miles long by about forty at the lowest point, and is the largest fresh-water lake in Asia, or indeed the whole world, America excepted. The most peculiar characteristic about Baikal is its enormous depth. Soundings have been taken in parts of four thousand feet in the centre, in other parts lines of five thousand and six thousand feet have been used, but no bottom found, and some of the smaller rivers running into the lake, streams of fifty or sixty yards broad, have been found to be over one hundred and fifty fathoms deep. There are many rivers running into the Baikal, but only one that runs out, the “Angara,” which, eventually joining the Yenisei river, flows into the gulf of that name in the Arctic Ocean, thus traversing nearly half the breadth of Asia. The current of this immense body of water is so impetuous that although the distance is only thirty miles, vessels sometimes take four and even five days to do the distance from Irkoutsk to Lake Baikal, which is sixty feet higher above sea-level than the capital of Eastern Siberia, the lake being twelve hundred feet above the level of the sea. Baikal is occasionally visited by terrible hurricanes. On such occasions the loss of life is great, for the ramshackle boats in which the natives fish soon go to pieces in a sea. The Garra or mountain wind is the one most dreaded by the natives, and when this is blowing even the steamers do not put out. Lake Baikal that derives its name of Holy Sea, from the fact our Saviour, when visiting this part of Asia, is supposed to have mounted to the summit of Olkon, an island about sixty miles long by fifteen broad, in the middle of the lake, and surveyed the surrounding countries. Having blessed the land on the north and west, He turned to the south-west, and, stretching out His hands, cried, “Beyond this shall be desolation.” On this account, say the natives, the “Dauria” region is so sterile that not a grain of corn will grow there.

I think I am right in saying that Baikal is the only fresh-water lake in the world wherein seals are found. About two thousand are killed annually, and sent to Irkoutsk for sale. Bell, the English traveller, 1788 (the first Englishman, by the way, who ever got as far east as this), mentions this circumstance, and says, “Bay-Kall (sic), is furnished with excellent fish, particularly sturgeon. It also produces great numbers of seals, whose skins are preferred in quality to those caught in salt water. I am of opinion that both the seals in Bay Kall came originally from the Northern Ocean, as the communication between them is open, though the distance be very great.” The above, though written in 1788, is perhaps the most likely explanation of the matter.

Atkinson, the English traveller, is the only European who has ever thoroughly explored Baikal. He made, forty years since, a most interesting journey from its northern to its southern extremity in an open boat, a hazardous experiment, for Baikal is a miniature Mediterranean in the way of sudden and violent squalls. Atkinson found the shores surrounding the lake at the southern end to be chiefly granite cliffs capped by dense forests. Proceeding due north, the granite changes to an imperfect conglomeration of stone, the beach being composed of mixed dÉbris. The northern shore is the steepest, and its precipices nine hundred to twelve hundred feet high, with soundings of one hundred and fifty fathoms a boat’s length from their base. “The whole country round,” says the same traveller, “shows unmistakable signs of volcanic eruption, and in the ravines are lava strata of great magnitude. This is probably the outcome of an extinct crater to the north of the Baikal chain in whose neighbourhood hot mineral springs are plentiful.”

M. Menshikoff, an Irkoutsk tea-merchant, was the first to introduce steamers on Lake Baikal. The passage, as it was made forty years ago, in open boats, was very dangerous, and travellers were frequently obliged to remain for days exposed to great hardships, without being able to approach the land. The cost of the steamer was of course enormous, the engines having to come over four thousand miles from St. Petersburg. But the difficulty was at length surmounted, and rather more than twenty years ago bi-weekly steam communication between the eastern and western shores of the lake was established, which has been kept up ever since. There were, at the time of our visit, two steamers on the lake, and another building at Listvenitz. The navigation of the Baikal is suspended about the end of October, sometimes earlier, according to the severity of the season. Although there has been a road within late years round the southern side of the lake, it is rarely used, and the usual mode of crossing in winter is by sleigh. The ice is over seven feet thick, so there is no danger of immersion, although I must confess I should not care to do the journey myself. In mid-winter, when the ice is in good condition, the distance of thirty miles across is frequently done in two to three hours, but in the spring, huge cracks appear in the track, which impede the horses a good deal. There were also formerly rest-stations at intervals of every seven or eight miles, but on one occasion, the ice melting suddenly, one of them was found missing, since which the traveller embarks upon the frozen waters with no prospect of rest or refreshment till he gets to the other side.

The steamer hove in sight about mid-day with a large convict barge in tow. By two o’clock she was alongside the jetty, and we walked down to see the prisoners land. Thirty or forty Cossacks, with loaded rifles, stood in a double row at the gangway, and as soon as the huge, unwieldy barge was safely moored, some three hundred convicts stepped on to the landing-stage. All wore the prison dress, a long loose grey cloak covering a coarse drab suit, and many wore leg-irons. There were no political prisoners or women among this batch, though pretty nearly every race of Asiatic or European Russia was represented. Swarthy Caucasians, Kirghiz Tartars, Jews from Odessa, thieves from Moscow and St. Petersburg, every race and age, from beardless boys to decrepit old men, were represented. One got callous to it after a time, but my first meeting with a gang of prisoners en route to the mines was one I shall never forget. One poor old fellow especially excited sympathy: a man of sixty or seventy years old, with a refined, aristocratic face, who had evidently seen better days, and who could scarcely stagger along under his heavy chains. It would have been ridiculous, had it not been pitiable, to see the little luxuries the old fellow had provided himself with: a little brass teapot, a bag of tea slung round his neck, a loaf of white bread in his arms, and a huge umbrella! At length the hulk was empty, the officer gave the word, “Quick march,” and the long grey procession filed off up the hill and into the drab-coloured prison, which the gang we had seen in the morning had just vacated for their use. The incident cast quite a gloom over our spirits, and I remembered for many days the sad, wistful look the poor old fellow gave, as he entered the prison-gate, at the bright blue waters of the lake, beyond which lay the home he would never see again——for his crime was forgery——his sentence, life at the gold-mines of Nertchinsk.

It was nearly six o’clock before we got away, for there were three tarantasses besides our own to be hoisted on board. The fare across was not ruinous, eight roubles first, and five roubles second class, the freight of the tarantass being twelve roubles. I was rather relieved at this, for funds were running, uncomfortably short, and I did not relish the idea of being stranded on the road. Counting our combined purses, we found the amount was under forty roubles, and we were still more than thirty miles from Irkoutsk, and a night’s lodging to pay. Our course was an oblique one across the lake about W.S.W. to Listvenitz, near the mouth of the river Angara. Some distance from the shore the water became marvellously transparent. From the bows, before the ripple had disturbed the surface, one could distinguish large fish swimming about at least thirty feet down, so clear was the water. The steamer, though crowded with people, was clean and well appointed. There was no food on board, though a huge samovar, flanked by glasses, hissed in the cabin, for the use of those who wished to make tea.

It became very cold after sundown, and we retired to the tarantass forward, where, the head being to the wind, we kept pretty warm. In the hold were twenty convicts returning to their homes after a captivity of twenty years at Nertchinsk and Chita. One of them, who looked at least fifty, was, he told Radovitch, only thirty-three, and had been in the mines ever since he was sixteen. All were still in prison dress, and seemed rather ashamed of mixing with the other passengers. When it became dark, however, they lost their shyness, and, seated in a ring on deck, sang several prison songs——melancholy, dirge-like airs in the minor key. One appeared to be a great favourite, for passengers and sailors alike joined in the chorus. It was, Radovitch told us, composed originally by a prisoner, the refrain being, “Whither leads the dark road of Siberia?” and was so weird and beautiful, that it rang in my ears for days afterwards.

The passengers on board were of a mixed kind, but civil and good-humoured. It was rather trying, till one got used to it, being stared at in our tarantasses like wild beasts in a show, but one got used to it in time. After all it was only natural, for few of our fellow-passengers had ever seen an Englishman before. There were many Jews among them: fat, greasy fellows, with large gold thumb-rings, and flowing hair, and some of the loveliest children I ever beheld. One, a little girl of about fourteen, with very light flaxen hair, the lightest of blue eyes, and thick, black lashes, was a perfect picture.

We arrived at Listvenitz about 1 a.m., having taken about eight hours to do the passage, a little more than the distance from Dover to Calais! On landing we were ushered into the Custom-House, a long, bare room, where our luggage was minutely examined, two Cossacks being on guard the while to see that no one escaped inspection. It was not the brief examination we are accustomed to in Europe. A Customs’ officer, gorgeous in green and gold, stood in the centre of the room, and called out our names one by one, each having to bring up his luggage as best he could, for there were no porters. As there were over one hundred passengers, this performance lasted some hours, no one being allowed to leave till every box in the place had been opened and carefully searched. By the time we got to the rest-house it was nearly three o’clock in the morning. It was a dirty, ill-smelling place, and we were devoured by vermin, but managed to get something to eat before we turned in, the only food we had tasted the whole day being a couple of eggs and some black bread at mid-day.

But another difficulty now arose. The duty that we had paid on tobacco, &c, had dwindled our little store down to ten roubles and a few kopeks. The bare posting-fare to Irkoutsk was, we ascertained, six roubles, and there would be our night’s lodging to pay, which would come to five roubles more at the very least. Money was awaiting us at Irkoutsk, but how to get at it? There was but one way out of the dilemma; one of us must remain at Listvenitz while the other posted on to Irkoutsk and procured the needful. Radovitch entering while we were discussing the subject, overheard part of our conversation. “You are short of money?” said the friendly Russian; “why did you not ask me before?” at the same time producing a fifty rouble note. “Here, take this; you can pay me back at Irkoutsk, or where you like. I am off now. We shall meet again to-morrow. I suppose you will go to the Moskovskaya,” and he had gone, and we heard him jingle away in his tarantass before we could stammer out a word of thanks.

A message came shortly after from the Chief of Police, to say that he would call at eleven o’clock, and that we must not leave Listvenitz till our tarantass had been searched. This was vexing, as, the Customs’ examination over, we had replaced all our luggage, and any one who has ever packed one of these vehicles knows what a weary, heart-breaking job it is. However, it was no use grumbling, and we set to work and laid the things open on the ground, pending the great man’s arrival.

He turned up about mid-day, a tall, strapping fellow, with long Dundreary whiskers, accompanied by his interpreter, a Polish exile. The examination took over an hour, for he looked at everything, more, I soon saw, from curiosity than anything else. My journal especially attracted his attention.

“Read some of it out,” he said to his attendant, settling himself comfortably on the steps of the rest-house and lighting a cigarette. I was somewhat nervous at this, having expressed my views as to Russian habits and customs rather freely since leaving Kiakhta. The Pole opened the book at the very place I wished him to avoid, but, to my surprise, he turned hastily over to the next page, winking covertly at me as he did so, and I breathed again. On being told there was nothing offensive in the MS., his chief became quite jocose and friendly, insisted on our drinking with him, pumping me the while as much as he was able on the subject of India. What area was it? what population? were there many railways? Did we allow Russians to enter? &c. “Tell him,” he said as he rose to go, and I had answered as best I could his somewhat vague questions, “that we shall take it from them some day,” with which polite remark he bade us good day, swaggered away down the street, and we saw him no more.

Listvenitz is built in a sort of lagoon, or landlocked harbour. It is used by the people of Irkoutsk as a watering-place in summer, and there were many pretty villas and lodging-houses built about on the beach, which is of hard sand, and affords capital bathing, though it shelves in a few feet to a depth of twenty or thirty fathoms. We were to have horses at six that evening, and took a stroll after the mid-day meal to a low hill about a mile distant, whence there was a picturesque view of the little cluster of pretty villas nestling in woods and gardens. It was a lovely day, with a blue, cloudless sky; and the civilized surroundings, picturesque peasantry, and great sheet of water sparkling in the sunshine, reminded one not a little of Swiss or Italian lake scenery.

The Polish interpreter called on us in the afternoon, bringing with him a book of photographs, the portraits of brethren who were suffering in the cause of freedom. His story was, if true, a remarkable one. Sent to Vologda in European Russia in 1867 for a trifling offence, he managed to escape to Odessa, and thence to New York, returning to Paris in 1870 to take a prominent part in the Commune. He again managed to escape when the Imperial troops entered Paris, and luckily, for himself, for if caught he would assuredly have been shot. After a short residence in Geneva, he was sent by his society on a secret mission to St. Petersburg; but this time his luck deserted him, and he was captured and sent to Siberia, first to the mines of Kara, then to Listvenitz for life. Among the photographs was one of a young and pretty girl about eighteen or twenty years old. “That,” said the Pole with pride, “is Vera Figner, who shot dead the Police Commissary of Odessa. She is my sister-in-law,” he added. “This is my wife, who was concerned in Alexander’s assassination. Would you like to know her? My house is but a stone’s throw from here.” But we politely refused the invitation, and, to our great relief, he shortly afterwards left us, with the remark, “Well, good-bye, gentlemen, you have been a ray of sunshine in my life. It is dark enough, God knows, but I do not despair. I hope to do some good work yet!” He was a mean-looking, insignificant little fellow, but we heard afterwards at Irkoutsk that he was one of the most dangerous characters in Siberia. His greatest punishment was, he told us, being shunned by everybody in the place (for he was the only exile there) and being deprived of books and papers. Murderer and Nihilist though he was, one could not help pitying him.

Our horses arrived about seven o’clock, and after a final examination of the tarantass, we rattled away from Listvenitz, hoping to reach Irkoutsk by midnight. The country west of Baikal is densely wooded, but not mountainous. There is a good deal of cultivated ground between the mouth (or rather source) of the Angara and the city, and the country is fairly populated. The road, too, was in better order than any we had yet experienced, and we dashed along merrily to the end of the second stage, Patrone, where our high spirits underwent a slight check. We could have no horses till 5 a.m. It was now ten o’clock, and though only eighteen versts from Irkoutsk, we were compelled to sleep, or rather wait in the filthy post-house till morning. It is curious that we invariably found, throughout our journey, the nearer the town the dirtier the post-house. The one or two first stages from Irkoutsk, on the other side, were simply uninhabitable.

The road follows the banks of the Angara all the way to Irkoutsk. The river, rather more than a mile wide at the mouth, rolls down a tremendous volume of water, a steep incline at the inlet, and forms a huge rapid nearly three miles long. Half-way across is the “Shaman Kamen,” or Spirit Stone, a bare rock nearly hidden in the seething mass of foam and breakers. There is a legend among the peasantry, that were this island washed away, Lake Baikal would overflow, destroy the capital, and turn the whole Angara Valley into one huge sea. The “Chamans,” a sect now nearly died out, believe that the souls of the departed are transported to the “Shaman Kamen,” and are compelled to cling for a night to the steep, slippery rock; a very difficult proceeding. If they succeed in remaining till the following morning, they are saved, and received into eternal bliss; if not, they are engulfed for ever. Seen from above the rapids, the seething mass of white foam, the precipitous, rugged cliffs on either side, thickly clad with pine and cedars, and the blue waters of the lake stretching away to the foot of the Amar Daban, with its snowy summit on the Trans-Baikal shore, combine, on a clear evening, to make this one of the most weird and beautiful panoramas imaginable.

We called for the samovar, and beguiled the weary hours with “chi” till past midnight. The post-house swarmed with vermin, and we here made the acquaintance, for the first time, of a small white bug, peculiar to Siberia. Its bite is very poisonous, and sets up a state of intolerable irritation and inflammation, for it burrows under the skin. Nothing but copious applications of ammonia gave relief, and our clothes and bodies swarmed with these when we reached Irkoutsk a few hours later. I give these details, which may seem repulsive to the reader, to show exactly the amount of discomfort one has to go through in the shape of minor annoyances as well as greater ones on the great Post-Road.

About daybreak the jingle of collar-bells announced the arrival of the horses. The landscape now became less wooded, the broad blue river running through fields of rye and barley, while the banks on either side of the road were covered with lilies of the valley and violets, which deliciously perfumed the clear morning air. Presently we left the river, to emerge on a sandy plain. Here our driver alighted, and removed the yoke-bells, a law prevailing in Siberia which forbids their being used in cities. A few minutes more and we were well in sight of the white buildings, golden domes, and green roofs, of the capital of Eastern Siberia, Irkoutsk.

8. Russian for a team of three horses.