There is probably no country in the world of which the generality of English people are so ignorant as Siberia. The very word conveys to the mind visions of frozen steppes and lonely pine forests, with nothing to break the monotony of the white and dreary landscape but an occasional gang of prisoners or pack of wolves. Many asked, on my return to England, if I had not suffered terribly from the cold, and seemed quite surprised to hear that the Siberian climate is, in summer, often too warm to be pleasant, that the country itself is in many parts one of the most fertile and beautiful in the world.

The city of Irkoutsk, which has a population of over 50,000, was founded in the year 1680, and is situated on a peninsula formed by the confluence of two rivers, the Angara, which, rising in Lake Baikal, joins the river Yenisei just below Yeniseisk, and falls with it into the frozen ocean, and the small and less important Irkout River. In spring, when the Angara is swollen by the breaking of the ice in Lake Baikal, inundations at Irkoutsk are frequent, and cause great destruction to life and property.

The great province or Government of Irkoutsk is bounded on the east by the Pacific Ocean, on the north by the Frozen Ocean, on the west by the province of Tomsk (Western Siberia), and on the south by the vast chain of mountains known as the Altai range, which divide Siberia from the Chinese possessions in Mongolia. The Government is divided into four districts, viz. Irkoutsk proper, Nertchinsk, Yakoutsk and Okhotsk. A great proportion of the inhabitants of this enormous area are Toungouses and Yakouts, wandering semi-savage tribes who live by hunting and fishing, and of which the Toungouses are the most numerous. The residence of the Governor-General of Eastern Siberia, who at the time of our visit was General Ignatieff, a brother of the famous diplomat, is at Irkoutsk.

The climate is, on the whole, good. Irkoutsk is not nearly so cold in winter as many other Siberian towns. In summer the temperature is pleasant and equable, the unhealthiest time of year being the autumn, when dense fogs are productive of much rheumatism and lung disease, but as a rule the public health is excellent, for the city is beautifully drained. It would be strange were it otherwise, with the broad, resistless flood of the Angara for ever foaming by. Epidemics are rare, with the exception of small pox, a disease frequently brought to Irkoutsk and other towns of Eastern Siberia by tea-caravans from China. Cholera is unknown.

My ideas of Siberia were, before I left England, extremely vague. It is a country in which, before I undertook this voyage, I had taken but little or no interest. There are but few works written bearing upon the region we passed through. The only ones I had ever read on the subject were “Michel Strogoff” and “Called Back”! The reader will judge for himself how faithfully these authors have portrayed Irkoutsk, the scene of the “Courier of the Czar’s” triumph, and the meeting between “Dr. Ceneri,” and “Gilbert Vaughan!”

It was a bright sunny morning, when, about 8 a.m. on the 12th of August, we dashed into the city, and, after a longish drive through its broad and deserted streets, drew up with a flourish at the door of the “Moskovskaya PodovoriÉ,” the principal hotel. Let not the reader imagine a dilapidated wooden hut, such as I myself had conjured up visions of, but a handsome, four-storied stone building, with gorgeously furnished apartments, a lift, electric bells, and “Table-d’hÔte À 6 heures”! As we ascend the broad, well-carpeted stairs, with a polite and white-waistcoated manager leading the way, while a gold-lace-capped porter follows with our luggage, it is hard to realize that we are still on the borders of China, and over four thousand miles from a railway.

Irkoutsk presents, at first sight, an untidy, unfinished appearance. Like most Siberian towns, its buildings are a strange mixture of squalor and grandeur. The majority are of brick, for since the great fire of 1879 a law has been passed forbidding the construction of any more wooden dwellings. The consequence is that the greater part of the city presents a patchwork appearance, the lofty mansion of a millionaire gold-miner, with its conservatories and gardens, often standing next door to the dilapidated wooden hovel of some peasant with half its roof off, which has been partially saved from the flames. One’s first feeling on walking through the streets is one of intense depression, for a more melancholy-looking city does not exist. The streets, though wide and regular, give one the idea of being continually up for repair. One looks instinctively for the “No Thoroughfare” board. Although so much care is lavished on the architecture and decoration of buildings, the streets are apparently left to look after themselves. Unpaved and uneven, one comes across holes that would play sad havoc with a springed carriage, which article, however, does not exist here, at least among the public vehicles. The pavements, which are of rough pine with light wooden guard-rails, are barely three feet wide.

The “Grande Rue” is the principal street; a thoroughfare nearly a mile long, which would not disgrace a European city, so far as buildings are concerned. It is the only street whence the old wooden dwellings have entirely disappeared, to give place to fine, well-built houses and Government offices. The principal shops are situated here, but, though one may buy almost anything in this far-away corner of the globe, from an English steam plough to a Parisian bonnet, there is no outward or visible sign in any of the windows of the goods sold within. Merely a roughly painted board over the doorway indicating the name and business of the proprietor, and a notice to the effect that from twelve o’clock mid-day till three p.m. he is not at home. To the nakedness of the shop-windows, perhaps, among other reasons, may be attributed the dismal appearance the place presents. Perhaps, too, the black roads, total absence of trees or gardens, or indeed of colour of any kind, has much to do with the sense of depression that fastens on one after ever so short a residence in any Siberian town. I cannot say exactly why, but one’s only thought, after a couple of days was invariably, “When shall I get away?” and this though the sun was shining brightly at the time, and the day in any ordinary country would have been one to raise and enliven the spirits. Here the sunshine only served to reveal more plainly the dirty, unwashed appearance which everything, including the natives, presented.

You can seldom tell a Siberian (so-called) gentleman apart from the lower orders, though the income of the wealthier gold-miners would enable them to live in luxury in London or Paris. It should, one would think, also provide them with an occasional collar and a clean shirt once a week, but it doesn’t. Wealth in Siberia apparently makes no difference to the garb of an individual. All, high or low, wear the same suit of rusty black; all have the same dirty, unkempt look. A pair of high boots, with square toes and very high heels, and small, narrow-peaked caps, complete the costume. All look as if they slept in their clothes, which, by the way, they probably do, for sheets are unknown in Siberia (except at the Moskovskaya PodovoriÉ), and in many houses, beds also. I heard, when at Tomsk, of a gold-miner, worth some thousands sterling a year, who always slept on two chairs, but at the same time imported his horses and carriage, grapes and hothouse pines from St. Petersburg, and had had a grand piano sent out to him from Paris. The women in Irkoutsk dressed well as a rule, and some, but not many, were good-looking. A Siberian lady seldom wears a hat in summer, but a black or white silk handkerchief twisted round the head. Nor is this head-dress with a pretty face beneath it, by any means unbecoming.

We were not sorry to turn in to bed and enjoy a good ten hours’ rest after the fatiguing journey from Kiakhta, and slept none the less soundly for the knowledge that when we woke what the Americans call a good square feed would be awaiting us, a luxury we had not enjoyed since leaving Pekin. The hasty snatches of food we got at Kiakhta were too frequently interrupted by pugilistic encounters and toasts in “Vodka” to be dignified by the name of meals!

A slight disappointment awaited us, though, on waking, at the scanty washing appliances this gorgeous hostelry provided. Baths there were of course none. We did not expect it, but we had at any rate looked forward to a wash-hand basin. But, the only appliance furnished was a small tin vessel holding about a pint of water, and nailed up against the bedroom wall. On turning a small tap, a thin trickling stream of water ran out, so that by holding your hands under it for half a minute or so, you could just manage to wet them all over, and with this, we had to manage. One had at any rate the advantage of privacy, and could wash (so to speak) in one’s own bedroom. It was better than at Tomsk, where the hotel only boasted one of these tin abominations, and it was fixed up in the passage, pro bono publico.

We strolled out in the evening to the public gardens, gardens in name only, for the stunted shrubs are not worthy of the name of trees, and there were no flowers and very little grass. The lovely night, had brought out all the Élite of Irkoutsk, to listen to the band of a Cossack regiment, which performed in a brilliantly lighted kiosk in the centre of the square. But our light tweed suits and high brown boots attracted so much attention and created such consternation among the rook-like garments of the inhabitants, that we nearly beat a hasty retreat. The temptation of good music and a cigar in the moonlight, however, was too much for us, and we remained undeterred by the searching and not altogether complimentary glances of those around us, who seemed to look upon the appearance of any stranger in their midst as an unwarrantable intrusion and insult. I am bound to say that for downright rudeness and vulgarity, the Siberian male, pur et simple, is unequalled. It seems the more strange that their countrymen west of the Ourals are undoubtedly, next the French, the most courteous and polite nation in the world.

There are three distinct classes of society in Irkoutsk: the Government officials, millionaire gold-miners, and tradespeople. It is probably the only city in the world where the latter are in reality the most aristocratic portion of the community, for the simple reason that they are most of them political exiles who, in Russia or Poland, were of good birth and position till they lost name and individuality in a prison number. The Government officials and military stationed in Irkoutsk form a clique of their own, from which they rigidly exclude the gold-mining millionaire, a class of men the like of which I have never met, thank Heaven, out of Siberia.

Most of the latter commence life as common miners, and gradually rise, more by luck than anything else, to a position of affluence; indeed many of them make colossal fortunes. In summer they live at the mines, working like the very labourers nature intended them to be; but the early part of November sees them back in Irkoutsk or Tomsk, as the case may be. Then commences a life of unbridled debauchery and dissipation, which only ends with the return of the spring.

Vanity and snobbishness are the chief failings of these men, who will not notice you, though you may have dined with them the preceding evening, if you happen to be walking, not driving, in the street, or wearing astrakhan instead of beaver. I asked one why he did not go to St. Petersburg or Paris and enjoy his enormous income instead of burying himself in the wilds of Asia. The reply was characteristic: “Here in Irkoutsk I am a great man, what should I be in Paris or St. Petersburg?” I knew, but did not tell him.

The find of gold is yearly increasing in Siberia. It is found in large quantities at Nertchinsk and Kara in the Trans-Baikal districts, but the most productive mines are those lying around Yeneseisk, Kansk, and the sources of the great Lena River, Yuz and Abakansk in Southern Siberia. Any one (being a Russian subject) may work the gold, but all that is found must be sold to Government only, a private individual discovered with nuggets or gold dust in his possession is severely punished, be he owner or the lowest workman in the mine. At first sight the rent of a mine in Siberia seems absurdly low. For instance the Yuz Gold-field in Southern Siberia, a tract of land five versts long by four broad, is leased to the workers at 300 roubles^[10] per annum. On the other hand, the royalty is high, and the cost of labour enormous. The commonest miner earns his 1800 to 2000 roubles during the season, which lasts from April to the middle or end of October, according to the severity or mildness of the weather.

But the outlay is well worth it. Two mine-owners round Krasnoiarsk made, in less than ten years, over two million pounds sterling, and there is now in Irkoutsk a M. Trapeznikoff who is worth his four millions at the very least. The latter, a bachelor under fifty years of age, hardly ever leaves his palace at Irkoutsk, except for a few weeks in the summer to visit the mines. He is, unlike the majority of his confrÈres, an educated man and a gentleman. Here is a chance for mothers with marriageable daughters. The journey to Irkoutsk will be easily made in another year or so by railway from Tomsk.

It seems a pity that millions of money should be thrown away on such savages. Though there is plenty of sport in the immediate neighbourhood, good deer and bear shooting, and excellent salmon fishing in the Angara, they never dream of taking out a gun or rod. The millionaires of Irkoutsk have, with few exceptions, but little idea of real comfort. You call upon one of these Siberian Vanderbilts at 11 a.m., and he will produce champagne, and be offended if you refuse to drink with him. Dine with him, and though you may be raging with thirst, you will only get KÜmmel, Chartreuse, or sticky messes of a like nature, to wash down your dinner, though it be prepared by a “Chef” from Paris, in receipt of a higher salary than many an English rector. Stay the night with your host, and you will be shown to a bedroom gorgeously furnished, and a chef-d’oeuvre of the upholsterer’s art, replete with every luxury that money can buy, with one exception: you will search in vain for a bed, and must turn in, as you are, clothes and all, on the sofa. Look under the thick Turkey carpets, and you will find the flooring an inch thick with dust, and, behind the curtains, the plate-glass windows coated with dirt; comfort and cleanliness everywhere given up to ostentation and swagger. In one house that I dined at, an enormous gold nugget was placed on the table, and used as an ash-tray, our host announcing in a loud voice that its use in this capacity lost him annually 300l. sterling in interest! We had a couple of introductions to these merchant-princes, but only handed one, fearing that on a second occasion our temper might get the better of our good manners. On our entry into the drawing-room, only the hostess and her daughters favoured us by shaking our hands. The men stood round, made remarks to each other on our personal appearance, and every now and then burst into fits of half-suppressed laughter. I am bound to admit the women looked ashamed of their male relations, as well they might. Be it understood I am now talking of a particular class, for among the Siberian peasantry rudeness is very rare, and we met with nothing but hospitality and kindness. I have already described the manner in which the merchants of Eastern Siberia spend their evenings. There is no difference, except that in some houses the givers of the entertainment do precede their orgies with a hurried meal, eaten standing. The sooner over the better, so that the real business of the evening, drinking, may commence. I only twice assisted at these evening parties in Siberia, once at Kiakhta, and once at Irkoutsk. As I have said, each left the same impression on my mind as a head-feast I once witnessed anions a race of savages in Central Borneo, who after a victory, deliberately got drunk for three days on end. But the “untutored savage” was far less idiotic and revolting on these occasions than the Siberian “Gentleman,” could such an anomaly as the latter exist.

The ladies of Irkoutsk are for the most part lazy, indolent creatures, with no ideas beyond immoral intrigues, dress (on which they spend thousands), and Zola’s novels, which, translated into Russian, have an enormous sale in the towns of Siberia. The greater part of the day is spent in sleeping and smoking cigarettes, for in winter they seldom retire to rest till five or six in the morning. Though most of their houses boast a grand piano, the instrument is solely kept for ornament, and seldom opened. Two schools for girls have, however, lately been established, and many of them now speak French and German, and are well educated in other ways, but morality at Irkoutsk is at a very low ebb. One can scarcely wonder at it, considering the frivolous, excitable lives of the women, and drunkenness and sensuality of the men.

Strange as it may seem, we found the society of the tradespeople in Irkoutsk far more congenial to our taste than that of their so-called superiors. Many of the former are exiles sent to Siberia after the Polish insurrection of 1862, and permitted after their five years of imprisonment at Nertchinsk or Kara to settle and obtain employment in the capital. I met one (a photographer) who had had hotels at Paris and Warsaw and his villa on the Riviera in happier times, a charming old man with an only daughter, a pretty girl of sixteen, who, he used to say with tears in his eyes, would probably never see dear Poland. His wife had died on the road in giving birth to the child, who, in sad memory of those dark days, the old man had named “Kara.”

We had many a laugh together over the vulgar eccentricities of his rich customers. “They are terrible, are they not?” he would say with a shrug of his shoulders, “mais que voulez-vous? What can this cursed country produce but men like that, convicts, bears, and wolves!”

I never could discover who my old friend was, for, like most of his countrymen, he abandoned his name or title the day he crossed the Ourals into Asia. Nor would he ever volunteer any information respecting his past life; but he seemed, on the whole, fairly contented with his lot. Sixteen years of exile had reconciled him more or less to the loss of the home he would never see again.

A common expression among exiles, even of a higher class, when they want to fix the date of any past event is, “It was six months after I left prison.” “It was a year before I got my discharge,” &c. They do not seem the least ashamed of their incarceration; on the contrary, are rather proud of it. The barman of the Moskovskaya PodovoriÉ, who presided over a glittering array of champagne and liqueur bottles, smoked ham, caviare, pickled salmon, and other delicacies, in the cafÉ just below our window, had served five years in the Nertchinsk mine. This same cafÉ, by the way, was rather a nuisance, for it formed the favourite trysting-place of the Jeunesse DorÉe of Irkoutsk at the closing of the theatres, and they sometimes kept it up till four in the morning. Another custom in Siberian towns extremely irritating to those of a wakeful disposition, is the incessant beating together, by the watchman, of two pieces of metal, which produces a sharp, ringing sound. This noise, which goes on in every street without intermission from sunset to sunrise, is made to warn thieves and malefactors that the police are on the alert, a watchman to every street. I could never understand why such pains should be taken to herald their approach, and fancy some of our English burglars would give a good yearly subscription to have the same practice instituted.

One was constantly being assailed in Irkoutsk by mysterious individuals with documents which they wished delivered to their friends in Europe. I was asked to do this by at least a dozen suspicious-looking characters, who forced their way into our room at the hotel without knocking, and often declined to leave. The mention of the word “Police,” though usually had the desired effect. One of these letters was, I remember, addressed to a house in Greek Street, Soho. I passed the latter only the other day, and was sincerely glad that I had not undertaken the commission. Judging from the look of the place, one would have stood a good chance, even in the day-time, of being robbed and murdered, to say nothing of the danger of being caught by the Siberian police with a compromising paper in one’s possession.

The exiles do not have such a bad time of it as we, in England, are generally led to believe. Their term of imprisonment over, they are free to come and go as they please, and enjoy absolute freedom so long as they behave themselves, and do not give vent to their opinions too freely. I met many, of good birth and position, but from none did I hear the harrowing tales of persecution and cruelty that in England seem inseparable from the very name of Siberia. Cruelty may, and no doubt does, exist in the convict settlements of Kara and Nertchinsk in the Trans-Baikal districts, where the worst characters are sent,——Black nihilists, for instance, or those who have attempted the life of the Czar. The latter do not, like minor political offenders, get their ticket-of-leave, but remain in the mines for life. There is a prevailing impression at home that “in the mines” means literally what the words convey, that prisoners are sent down a pit to work all day and a greater part of the night, never again to see daylight till they have become reduced to a dying state by the poisonous exhalations of quicksilver. As a matter of fact, there is not a quicksilver mine in the whole of Siberia, those at Kara and Nertchinsk being of gold and silver. Quicksilver may exist in small quantities, but is not, and never has been, worked.

In former days exiles made the journey from European Russia to Irkoutsk, or whatever district they were sentenced to, on foot, but nearly half the journey to Kara (the most remote penal settlement excepting Yakoutzk and Sakhalien) is now done by steamboat and railway. Prisoners are sent from all parts of Russia to Moscow, where they are divided into gangs of three or four hundred. From Moscow they travel by rail to Nijni Novgorod, and thence to Perm in a prison ship or barge. From Perm the railway conveys them to Tiumen, whence another prison barge carries them down the Obi River, distributing en route all those destined for places in Western Siberia, until at Tomsk the remainder are disembarked, and the long tramp across Asia commences. No travelling is done in winter. The transportation season commences on the 15th of April and ends on the 7th of October. As for the march itself, it is a very different thing to what I pictured it before I saw with my own eyes how well Russian prisoners are treated. I shall perhaps hardly be believed when I say that crimes are sometimes committed by the lower orders in European Russia on purpose to be sent to Siberia. The criminals know that their term of imprisonment over, they will (if well behaved) have a grant of land and a house given them, and begin life afresh in a new country.

We passed many hundreds of prisoners on the post-road between Irkoutsk and Tomsk, but in no single instance did I see a case of cruelty such as that mentioned by the author of “The Russians of To-day.” Were the voyage to Siberia anything like the following description, it would indeed be a “Via Dolorosa.” He says:——

“The convicts are forwarded to Siberia in convoys which start at the commencement of spring, just after the snows have melted and left the ground dry. They perform the whole journey on foot, escorted by mounted Cossacks, who are armed with pistols, lances and long whips, and behind them jolt a long string of springless tumbrils to carry those who fall lame or ill on the way. The start is always made in the night, and care is taken that the convoys shall only pass through the towns on their road after dark. Each man is dressed in a grey kaftan, having a brass numbered plate fastened to the breast, knee-boots and a sheep’s-skin bonnet. He carries a rug strapped to his back, a mess-tin and a wooden spoon at his girdle. The women have black cloaks with hoods, and march in gangs by themselves with an escort of soldiers like the men, and two or three female warders, who travel in carts.”

In another part of the book:——“Nihilist conspirators, patriotic Poles, and young student girls are all mixed up, and tramp together with the criminals.”

This is indeed a sensational picture, but I cannot think the author has ever visited the scene he so graphically describes. As for “care being taken that convoys shall only pass through towns on their road after dark,” the largest gang of prisoners I ever saw was in the streets of Irkoutsk at three o’clock in the afternoon. The Cossacks who accompany the prisoners are not mounted at all, nor are they armed with lances or whips, but simply loaded rifles.

Whenever we passed a gang, once a day on an average, the prisoners seemed to be the last thing the Cossacks were thinking of, as, at intervals of about twenty yards, the latter lounged slowly along, picking berries and smoking cigarettes, while the convicts in the roadway chatted, laughed and joked among themselves (and sometimes with their guards) in a very different frame of mind from that described by the author I have mentioned. The women, it is true, marched with the men, but the bare idea of “nihilist conspirators” being “mixed up and tramping together” with the criminals is as absurd as it is incorrect. Political prisoners are allowed in Siberia to “mix up” with no one, but sent alone in charge of two gendarmes to whatever town or village they are destined. Not only are they kept apart in the prisons, where separate cells are provided for them, but also on the road. Nor are they sent with gangs of criminals, or in the prison barges, but taken by passenger-steamer to Tomsk, and thence in a four-wheeled cart or tÉlÉga, to their destination. Should it be indispensable to send them with a gang, they travel in carts at an interval of one or two miles from the main body. The gendarmes never let them out of sight, and allow them to speak to no one, though they may retain and wear their own clothes till they arrive at the mines, if condemned there. Many are simply sent to reside at some town or village till their term of punishment is over.

Convicts were formerly sent to Saghalien by road, vi Irkoutsk and the Amur, but are now transported direct from Odessa. I was told at Moscow, that a few years hence all criminals and political offenders will be sent to Saghalien by sea direct, and banishment to Siberia become a thing of the past. For the truth of this assertion, however, I cannot vouch.

The usual marching is two days’ work to one day’s rest, travelling, on an average, about eighteen to twenty miles a day. There are about four hundred prisons in all in Siberia, in fact every village we passed on the road from Irkoutsk to Tomsk had its “ostrog.” All, from the shores of the sea of Okhotzk to the Oural mountains, are built exactly alike of wood painted a light yellow, the roof being of a dull brick-red colour. In each prison are four or more cells for the politicals. The criminals, men and women, are herded together in one large room, round the sides of which are inclined wooden planks to sleep or lounge upon. The town prisons are built of stone, and are, of course, very much larger. The Alexandreffski prison, for instance, about thirty miles from Irkoutsk, contains over twelve hundred convicts.

The number of exiles sent to Siberia during the past few years has been on an average 15,000 to 18,000 per annum, including women and children. As a rule, the lesser criminals are sent to settlements in Western Siberia, nihilists and murderers to Kara and Saghalien, some of the former even as far as Yakoutsk, which is said to be the hottest place in summer, and coldest in winter, in the world. From Kara there is no escape. Few ever try to get away, for the uninhabited regions on the north, and desert of Gobi on the south, effectually cut off all chances of escape, while east and west a prisoner stands the chance of being shot down by the Bouriattes and other wandering tribes, a reward of three roubles a head, living or dead, being offered by Government for runaways. On the whole, there is no doubt that the Russian Government treats its prisoners far better than we in England are inclined to give it credit for. Even nihilists are fairly well treated, though, of course, the majority of them are educated men, and feel their degradation far more keenly than the hardened, low-born criminals.

As for the latter, they have no complaint whatever to make as to food and clothing; each man has two pounds of black bread, three-quarters of a pound of meat, and a small allowance of quass daily. This, it must be remembered, is what Government actually allows him. He may make what he can on the road in addition to this, by soliciting alms from travellers and caravans. The prison-gates present a curious sight of an evening, half an hour before the arrival of a convoy. It is a miniature market, where huge baskets of berries, jam, kalachi or rolls, quass, new milk, are spread out in tempting array on snow-white tablecloths, for the benefit of the fortunate ones who have succeeded in obtaining a few kopeks from compassionate travellers.

Imagine a convict travelling from Portland to Dartmoor being allowed to beg at the railway stations! Every village prison, too, has its recreation-ground, where there are trapezes, parallel bars, and other gymnastic appliances, for the amusement of prisoners during the long winter months.

On arrival at the mines, a prisoner’s food is increased to four pounds of black bread, one pound of meat, a quarter of a pound of buckwheat, and tea instead of quass. Convicts at the mines do not as a rule complain of overwork, but of not having enough to do!

The summer costume is a linen shirt, pair of trousers, coat of coarse grey camel’s-hair, and flat peakless cap. Yellow cloth diamonds on the back of the coat indicate, by their number, the length of the wearer’s sentence. On his release from the mines, a plot of land and a house is given to every convict of good character. Many thus live with their wives and families, in as great a state of freedom as any ordinary English labourer, excepting that they are bound to do a certain amount of work per day (for which they are paid), and to be indoors by a certain hour at night.

The punishments inflicted are far less severe than they used to be. The “knout” has been abolished for some years, and also in a great measure has flogging, which is still practised occasionally, but with rods. It is only at Kara and Sakhalien that the “plÈte,” an instrument nearly as severe as the knout, is ever used. The former——a lash of twisted hide about two feet long, terminating in thin lashes a foot long with small leaden balls at the end——is a terrible instrument, and one which, if severely wielded, often results in the death of a prisoner. From twenty-five to fifty strokes are usually given, but if the prisoner have friends, they usually bribe the executioner to make the first blow a severe one. A skilful flogger, and one who wishes to make the convict suffer, draws no blood, for this has the effect of relieving pain. Commencing very gently, he gradually increases the force of the blows till the whole of the back is covered with long swollen weals. In this case mortification often sets in, and the victim dies. The plÈte is only used at Kara, Nicolaiefsk, and Sakhalien, and then only very rarely, and on the most desperate criminals.

We found living in Irkoutsk fairly cheap, with the exception of wine and beer. Light claret (called Lafitte) is sold at nine roubles a bottle, while English beer was still dearer. Champagne is drunk in enormous quantities by Siberians, but it is sweet, mawkish stuff. It was half as cheap again as the claret, and bore the most extraordinary brand I have ever seen——the English and American flags crossed over a horse and jockey! However, it suited the consumers, who, like Russians, dislike dry champagne. Poultry, fish, and eggs are absurdly cheap. Two hundred of the latter can be bought for one rouble. The Siberian has tastes somewhat akin to the Chinese in the matter of eggs. I was frequently asked at post-houses whether I would like mine old, straw flavoured, or fresh!

There was no lack of amusement in the evening. Two theatres (French and Russian), a circus, and several open-air concerts were always open to us. I witnessed one evening a performance of the “Cloches de Corneville,” most creditable both as regards artistes and orchestra. Opera bouffe at Irkoutsk! Had I been told a year before that it existed there, I should have set down my informant as a lunatic. The streets were far from safe at night, and two men were stabbed during the short time we were there. Being unlit, they present great facilities for the exercise of their profession to the gentlemen who take up their residence in the lower quarters of the town after a sojourn at Kara or Nertchinsk. No one in Irkoutsk ever walks abroad after dark unarmed.

There was little to do in the daytime but flatten one’s nose against the hotel windows and look out on to the dreary market-place opposite, watching the busy crowds of buyers and sellers. It was the only market-place in Siberia where I ever saw flowers exposed for sale, but they were faded, scentless things. It always struck me as curious that, although wild flowers are so plentiful in Siberia, it is hopeless to try and grow roses or garden flowers. The market was the only place in Irkoutsk which showed any signs of life or animation. Even at mid-day the place looked as if everybody was either dead or asleep. The only signs of life visible were when a squad of soldiers, returning from drill, marched past with a cracked trumpet at their head, or a tea-caravan rattled and jingled across the square. Our sole amusement consisted in watching the cab-stand opposite the hotel, and speculating as to whether the dozen drivers asleep on their boxes would ever get a fare. We were there a week, and indoors the greater part of the day,——and when indoors looking out of window, for we had no books to read,——but never saw one hired.

The “droshki” or cab of Irkoutsk cannot be called a comfortable vehicle. It is springless, and only built to hold one person besides the driver. In shape it is not unlike a bath-chair without the hood. There is no guard-rail to hold on by, or anything to prevent one being hurled out as it bumps and bounds along the rough, uneven streets. As the drivers always went at full gallop, it was sometimes no easy matter to keep one’s seat.

On a fine day one saw many smart turn-outs at Irkoutsk, though the carriages with springs, were, I was told, in a constant state of repair. The chief object of the drivers seemed to be to tear along the streets as fast as they could without breaking down. Many of the horses had the near forelegs fastened to the hind for this purpose, a method peculiar, I imagine, to Siberia.

There was but one pleasant walk in Irkoutsk, a kind of boulevard situated on the banks of the Angara. It was a relief to find one’s way down here on a sunny afternoon. The sight of a bit of green foliage was refreshing, though the trees were withered, scrubby-looking things at best. There was, at any rate, a certain amount of life and animation in the broad and rapid river, alive with merchandise craft plying to and from Lake Baikal, and ferry-boats carrying passengers to public tea-gardens on the opposite bank. On fine afternoons the boulevard was the favourite haunt of nurses and children, and as a natural consequence soldiers, and reminded one (with a stretch of the imagination) of bits of the Champs ElysÉes or Tuileries Gardens in far-away Paris, an illusion very soon dispelled on looking back at the black roads and dismal-looking unfinished city. From here we walked homewards, as a rule, past the Porte de Moscou, a whitewashed brick buildings on the banks of the Angara, containing two small rooms with barred windows on either side. This arch was built in 1817, and was destined by the Russians to become the permanent prison of Napoleon I. when they should take him prisoner! Although he was in those days such an enemy of their country, Russians, and especially Siberians, now have the greatest respect for the memory of “Le Petit Caporal.” It may indeed be called adoration, for there is a sect at present existing in Siberia, which actually worships the spirit of the Great Emperor. They are called “Napoleonists,” and look upon the Czar and Greek Church with contempt, worshipping only the bust of their divinity, which is done with closed doors, and in strict secrecy. The supporters of this strange doctrine maintain that the Emperor still lives, that he escaped from St. Helena after his death, and crossed the seas in spirit to the shores of Lake Baikal, where he resumed his mortality, and now lives in the flesh. In time Napoleon will again raise a huge army, put the Czar and his Government to flight, and himself reign over Russia, after which the world is to be subjected to the Muscovite yoke!

The “Skopti,” or “White Doves,” is the secret sect said to be the most powerful in Irkoutsk. These look upon Peter III., of Russia, as their divinity, and believe him to be still living, touch no meat, wine, or spirits, but subsist entirely on milk and bread. All are eunuchs, and though they possess no temples or churches, are easily known by their pale faces and effeminate ways. Their object is to lead a life of absolute purity, and they worship a living virgin and Christ appointed by the elders.

The “Skopti” is perhaps the richest sect that exists in Russia, and many of the wealthiest men in Siberia belong to it. The creed is that as soon as 400,000 converts shall have been gathered into His fold, God will come to reign over them alone. All other religions and faiths shall be destroyed.

There exist also in Siberia the “Flagellants,” and “Molokani,” or milk-drinkers, but both are inferior in number to the “Skopti.” The Molokani came originally from the south of Russia. They believe in Christ, but do not acknowledge His divinity. The Emperor Nicholas so persecuted this sect, that he drove 20,000 of them out of Russia and into the Caucasus. From here many crossed the Black Sea into Turkey, where the Sultan gave them a village, and where they flourish up to the present day undisturbed by Turkish rule.

The “Klysti” or Flagellants date from the 13th century. These originally sprang from one Philipitch, a peasant who, deserting from the Russian army, declared himself to be the Supreme Being, and travelled over the country far and wide, preaching and making converts. Philipitch’s creed was simple enough, certainly, and suited to the understanding of the meanest capacity. It had but three commandments: (1) Drink no wine; (2) Remain where you are and what you are; (3) Never marry. During the performance of their rites the Klysti beat and flog each other unmercifully; but I do not fancy that many Flagellants now exist either in Russia or Siberia. It is certainly not a romantic or fascinating faith.

The time at Irkoutsk hung so heavily on our hands after the first three days, that we resolved to cut down the fortnight’s rest we had originally intended taking to one of a week. There was literally nothing of interest to see or do after the first twenty-four hours, and we had no incentive to prolong our stay. One fine morning, however, an apparition made its appearance on the balcony, where we were wont to smoke our morning cigar, that of a young and extremely pretty woman, distinctly not an Irkoutskian, but who looked, with her neat figure and tailor-made gown, as if she had just walked out of Bond Street. The meeting with a countrywoman, as we imagined her to be, lightened considerably the prospect of the four long weary days that must elapse before we pushed on to Tomsk. Madame R., however, was not an Englishwoman, as we had surmised, but a Dane, who had pluckily braved the danger and discomfort of the roads to accompany her husband (a telegraphic engineer) to Eastern Siberia. Our introduction to the lady was followed by one to Mr. R., and the cheery dÉjeÛner À quatre that followed it, soon made us forget Irkoutsk and its depressing monotony; indeed to Mr. and Madame R. are due all the pleasing recollections I have retained of that gloomy city.