The Perm was a large and comfortable vessel, replete with every modern appliance, even to a piano and electric bells, and I doubt whether one would have found a better cuisine on a Cunarder or White Star Liner. But, despite her gorgeous fittings, she was filthily dirty, and her cabins infested with vermin, so much so, that sleep at night was out of the question. This was probably due to the large number of deck passengers she carried, among them a large number of Kirghiz Tartars, fine, well-built fellows, and a striking contrast to their squat, stumpy brothers in Mongolia. Many wore the native dress: a kind of woollen night-cap, which can be pulled down over the ears and neck in cold weather, and loose baggy trousers, stuffed into short butcher-boots. A loose coat worn over the shirt, open at the neck and wide at the sleeves, with a belt round the waist, completed the costume. In winter a short pelisse of sheep’s wool (called Poloushouba), is also worn, the wool inwards. The Kirghiz Tartars are Mahometans, and their grave, reserved demeanour was a strange contrast to the buffoonery and skylarking proclivities of our merry little friends of the Gobi Desert.

The ordinary daily life of the Kirghiz, however, differs but little from that of the latter. The tents of the former are exactly the same shape, and of the same material, as those we saw in Mongolia. The Kirghiz, too, is quite as gluttonous and filthy in his habits as the Mongolian Tartar, and, unlike most Mahometans, is given to getting drunk on the sly. In one point only do they differ: the zealous and watchful eye that a Kirghiz keeps upon his womankind would be ridiculed by the happy-go-lucky, trusting Mongol, and yet I fancy, with all his care, that the wife, or wives, of the former are really not a whit more virtuous than the ladies of Mongolia, for all their yashmaks and assumed modesty.

We experienced cold and rainy weather all the way to Kazan, which was reached on the 3rd of October.

The scenery of the Kama and Volga rivers differs little from that of the Obi, and though the latter would be called a fine river in Europe, it appeared dwarfed, in our eyes, into insignificance after the huge lake-like Yenisei and Obi. The navigation of the Volga is in parts extremely dangerous, but the risk small, for dangerous channels are well marked with buoys, and after dark by barges, on board of which huge bonfires are kept blazing all night. On clear nights this had a pretty effect, and the avenues of fire reflected in the dark water, the green and red lights of passing steamers, towing huge, shadowy lighters up or down stream, the dark, starlit sky, and voices of distant boatmen, as they trolled out some river-song, was impressive and picturesque. But the nights were getting very cold, and we did not spend much of our time on deck, preferring even the stuffy saloon, with its smoky atmosphere and smell of stale food, to the cutting north-easter outside.

We stayed at Kazan six hours. This city, which may be called the true boundary between European and Asiatic Russia, is about seven versts from the landing-stage, with which there is communication by tramway. As a town, Kazan is unique. The ancient Tartar capital, it has outwardly kept up many of its oriental customs and all its Eastern appearance. The veiled faces of the women, the fierce, swarthy Tartars in wild, barbaric costume, bristling with daggers and cartridge-belts, the mosques, minarets, and oriental-looking houses, mingling in strange incongruity with the modern stone houses of the Russian population, À la mode de Paris, four stories high, with balconies, porte cochÈres, and carved faÇades, made one almost wonder whether the long journey from China had not turned one’s head and indelibly mixed Europe and Asia in our minds, even to the objects around us. But the streets of Kazan are, notwithstanding their varied architecture, regular, well-built, and gas-lit. There is not much trade, the exports being principally hides, tallow, and iron. Costly weapons are made by the Tartars, swords, pistols, and scimitars, with hilts and barrels inlaid with gold and silver.

The best society in Kazan is equal to that of Moscow or Petersburg, some Russian families having settled here since the days of the expulsion of the Tartar dynasty. A charming person, Madame ————, who was proceeding to Vienna on a visit to her sister, joined us here. She had been married four years, and had during that time only once left her husband’s chÂteau in the environs of Kazan.

Madame ———— was a native of Moscow, spoke French like a Parisian, and sang like an angel. From this point to Nijni Novgorod was pleasant enough, for we managed, by dint of bribery, to get the piano removed from the crowded saloon to a smaller cabin on the lower deck, and had a couple of pleasant musical soirÉes together, the quartette consisting of our three selves and the captain, who sang Volga boat-songs in a sweet tenor voice, and was, though Siberian, a charming and well-educated man. Madame ————, though she had been banished for so long from the civilized world, was a delightful companion. Her knowledge of England and English literature was, however, somewhat limited. I asked her, on one occasion, if she liked English authors as well as French. “No,” she replied, “I can’t say I do. There is such a sameness about English writing; though it is true, I have only read two English books.” On asking her which, she replied, “‘The London Journal’ and ‘Bow Bells’!” No wonder she had not the highest opinion of British authorship!

I was quite sorry, when we reached Nijni Novgorod, to bid the little lady adieu. One is not often blessed with such a pleasant travelling companion in civilized regions, much less in these unfrequented byways of Europe. Nor did she seem the least dismayed at the long journey before her alone and unprotected; but Russian women are the best travellers in the world.

We passed, just before reaching Nijni Novgorod, a large white paddle-steamer, built on the American principle, bound for Astrakhan, on the Caspian. She was going full seventeen knots an hour, and churning up the muddy water in a way that made the Perm roll uncomfortably till she was far astern of us. We also passed at least fifty barges between Kazan and Nijni, laden with petroleum, from the Baku oil-wells on the Caspian.

The Great Fair^[19] was just over at Nijni Novgorod, and we had no difficulty in getting rooms at the HÔtel de la Poste, an excellent inn, which but ten days before had been crammed from basement to attic with tourists from Moscow and Petersburg.

The city stands on a high hill, at the confluence of the Volga and Oka rivers, and in fair time presents a strange and unique spectacle. The fair is held on the left-hand bank of the Oka river, being connected with the town by a long floating bridge, but at this season the river itself is so covered with boats and barges, anchored for the sale of goods, as to look like dry land.

“The scene from the town heights opposite,” says an eye-witness, “is at the time of the fair indescribable.” There, embraced within the compass of a glance, is the great fair of Nijni Novgorod. A huge flat sandy plain, flanked by two great rivers, is covered over with houses of different colours, mostly red and yellow, made of brick, wood, and matting; millions of this world’s richest merchandise, stored or strewn in every direction; churches, mosques, and theatres, rising in their midst, three hundred thousand human beings more or less engaged in buying, selling, trafficking, pushing, jolting, hurrying in every direction; barges warped along the quays of two rivers, still busily engaged in unloading their exhaustless cargoes. The river at your base is the Oka, and running at right angles to it, at the point exactly opposite to where you are, the still mightier Volga mixes its waters with it. On reaching the quays below a low wooden bridge, very much like that which spans the Rhine at Mayence, crosses the Oka at a point about a verst distant from its embouchure. This is the only means of communication, except by water, between the town and the fair. Behold crowds on foot, in carriages, and on horseback; droves of bewildered cattle driven by bearded, wild-looking men in gaudy coloured barbaric dress, carts heavily laden with jars, casks, sacks, boxes, and unwieldy lengths of timber; grave-looking orientals with flowing robes and Astrakhan hats, alone imperturbable in the midst of the thronging crowd; the din, the trampling, the confusion, all vastly aggravated by the mounted Cossacks, who, placed at intervals along the line on their restive little horses to keep order, add greatly to the general confusion. Add to all this that after it has been raining all day——and it often does rain at Nijni Novgorod——the roads are not ankle deep nor knee deep, but hip and thigh deep in slush and mud, and a picture of this strange city during fair time is before you.

“I was struck,” says the same writer, “with the number of ‘Traktirs’ or eating-houses of the poorer sort. It is no light matter to supply the daily wants of two to three hundred thousand people. Formerly this was left to private enterprise, but whilst the caterers grew rich, the people suffered. Not a year passed without an epidemic of some sort breaking out among the throng which attended the fair. This was owing partly to the food, which was notoriously bad, and partly to the air, which in the absence of drainage or any sanitary arrangements was pestilential. The Russian Government grappled boldly with this double evil. To meet the danger of unwholesome food, they established in different parts of the fair cheap eating-houses, where for the sum of eight kopeks (about twopence three farthings) the poorer classes could obtain a substantial meal, consisting of ‘Shtchi’ or cabbage soup, black bread ad libitum, and a favourite porridge called ‘Kasche.’ They can also obtain for three kopeks (about a penny) enough tea to give them half a dozen cups of that national beverage and three pieces of sugar. Since these precautions have been taken, no serious epidemic has broken out at the Nijni ‘Yarmark.’

“Although one can scarcely mention an article great or small, European or Asiatic, that may not be purchased at Nijni Novgorod during the months of August and September, the staple commerce is in tea, sugar, iron, cotton, silk, and furs of all kinds. Most of the tea sold at Nijni is black tea, yellow and white teas are also sold, but in retail, and an enormous quantity of brick tea is also annually imported. This is called ‘Kirpitchni’ and is largely drunk by the Kalmuks and Kirghiz. The duty on Canton tea is heavier than that on Kiakhta or ‘overland’ tea by a considerable amount. Probably if it were not for the popular prejudice that sea-transported tea loses its flavour, the amount of overland tea would be considerably less than it is. With reference to this opinion the following is the current doctrine held by the most experienced Russian merchants on the subject. They hold not exactly that the sea voyage injures the tea, but that the preparation of the tea for the voyage, viz., the extra drying and exposure to the air which it has to undergo in order that it may not be deteriorated by the damp atmosphere, does undoubtedly affect its flavour, so that indirectly it comes to the same thing. “The tea depÔt,” says Mr. ————, “is certainly the most picturesque part of the fair; it would be still more so if the Chinaman with his pigtail could be seen. But there are no Chinamen at Nijni; the tea and the Chinamen part company at Maimachin, near Kiakhta, and from that point the trade is entirely in the hands of Russians.”

The fur quarter is perhaps the next most interesting part of the fair, long galleries of booths, where miles of bear skins, wolf skins, fox skins, beaver skins, and even sheep skins hang up on either side of your passage. The more valuable skins and furs are carefully packed away in drawers and not exposed to the vulgar gaze. Among these are the beautiful blue and silver fox and beaver. The silver fox so called because its coat is sprinkled with white silvery hairs, is, next the beaver and sable, the most costly fur that can be bought. A single perfect belly of the silver fox will fetch (at Nijni) as much as one hundred roubles. Among the skins sold for warmth and not show, that of the reindeer is perhaps the most popular. They are brought mostly from the northern districts of Vologda and Archangel, and are of three degrees of merit and value. The “Pijick,” or skin of the animal at one month old, is the best; that of the “Oleni,” above nine months old, is the least valuable.

Two other fairs are held at Nijni Novgorod, but they are small and uninteresting. The one held in the month of January, on the ice, at the mouth of the Oka river, is devoted to the selling and buying of wooden wares, such as toys and boxes. Great numbers come in on this occasion from the neighbouring villages, and it is looked upon by the peasants more as an occasion of feasting and merry-making, than one of business. In 1864 the ice on which the booths and “Traktirs” were constructed, gave way, and a number of men, women, and children, and horses were drowned. The other fair is held on the 6th of July, and is exclusively for the sale of horses.

In May, the Volga frequently overflows its banks to a depth of several feet, and covers the site of the fair, in anticipation of which the lower storeys of the warehouses and buildings are cleared, and to cleanse them before July is one of the first things to be done by the owners. This may account for a good deal of the sickness that exists in a very hot summer or early autumn. The fine for smoking in the streets, during fair time, is twenty-five roubles. This is rigidly enforced, and a second offence means imprisonment without the option. The arrangements for protection against fire are excellent. Not only on land, but on the river also, powerful fire-engines are stationed, and numerous little hand-engines are posted at the most inflammatory quarters. In case of fire, within three minutes of the alarm-bell, a dozen large engines could be on the spot at any part of the fair, and being surrounded by the Volga and Oka rivers, there is no lack of water.

The town of Nijni itself is well built, and its broad, steep streets paved with asphalte in many places. They are lit by gas, and some of the principal thoroughfares by electric light. Altogether, we were well pleased with the city, the first we had yet seen without a single wooden building to mar the beauty of stone buildings, that would not have disgraced London or Paris, and yet forty years ago there were scarcely a dozen stone houses in the place!

Leaving Nijni Novgorod on the evening of the 5th October, the following morning saw us in Moscow, and comfortably installed at that luxurious but expensive hotel, the “Slavenski Bazar,” an establishment almost equal in comfort to the HÔtel Bristol in Paris, but about twice as dear in its charges. The restaurant is, perhaps, one of the finest in the world. In the centre of the latter is a large round tank covered with white water-lilies, and fringed by reeds and riverside flowers, in which swim lazily to and fro huge sturgeon and sterlet, brought daily from the Volga, and which are chosen and picked out by divers with a small net a couple of hours before they are eaten, thus ensuring perfect freshness.

The plan or general panorama of Moscow is not unlike that of Paris, the city having its nucleus in the celebrated “Kremlin,” which I was somewhat disappointed in, perhaps because it had so often been thrust down one’s throat as a beautiful sight. The word “Kremlin” is derived from the Tartar language, in which it means “fortress,” every town of importance in Russia having its “Kremlin,” great or small. The walls of the Moscow Kremlin are about seven thousand three hundred feet in circumference, and enclose the Imperial palace, arsenal, and treasury, besides three cathedrals, a monastery, a convent, and the tower of Ivan the Great, which latter is about three hundred feet in height, and commands, on a clear day, one of the finest views in the world. At the foot of the tower stands the “Tsar Kolokol,” or “king of bells,” which weighs nearly two hundred tons, stands twenty-six feet high, and has a circumference of sixty-eight feet. This bell dates back as far as the year 1674, when it was suspended from a wooden beam at the foot of the tower, from which during a fire it fell in 1706. Its fragments lay on the ground until the reign of the Empress Anne, by whose orders it was again recast in 1733. By the falling of some heavy rafters during another fire, in 1737, or, according to some accounts, owing to an imperfection in the casting caused by jewels and other treasures having been thrown into the liquid metal by the ladies of Moscow, a piece in the side was knocked out; and the bell remained buried till the year 1836, when it was placed on its present pedestal by order of Nicholas I. Moscow is essentially a city of bells and churches. Among the former are some of the sweetest toned ones I have ever heard. This is due in a great measure to the large amount of gold and silver used in the alloy. Morning, noon, and night the bells of Moscow are never silent. Wake up at four in the morning, and you will hear at least a dozen churches (there are over four hundred) tolling for some religious service, or the repose of a soul.

There are three cathedrals within the Kremlin: the Annunciation, where the Czars are baptized and married; the Assumption, where they are crowned; and the Archangel Michael, where they are interred. The latter is, perhaps, though not the richest, the most curious, for it contains, ranged round the walls, the coffins of all the Czars reigning between 1333 and 1696. Entering suddenly from the sunshine, it was some time before we discovered that we were surrounded by some forty coffins, each covered with a dark crimson velvet pall, bearing a gold embroidered cross. Near the centre altar stood the bier of little Prince Dimitri, murdered by order of the Czar Boris. Part of the face, which looks of the consistency of dark leather, is exposed, and this is kissed daily by many thousands of the faithful. A service was going on, at one of the smaller chapels, the bright gleam of light around the Ikonostase and white and gold vestments throwing the rest of the building into deeper gloom, while the melancholy dirge which the priests were droning out for the repose of some dead monarch, heightened the effect of the gloomy scene.

The richest church in Moscow, if not the handsomest, is the Cathedral of the Assumption, which dates from A.D. 1479. This cathedral was pillaged by the French in 1812. It still contains, notwithstanding, treasure and relics of fabulous wealth. Some of the pictures are literally covered with diamonds and other precious stones; one, a picture of the Holy Virgin, having attached to it jewels worth thirty million roubles. Among the relics is one of the nails used at the crucifixion, and a portion of the garment worn by our Saviour.

The Kremlin may be described as a town within a city, and a very quiet dull town, for there is but little life or movement in its cobbled grass-grown streets. To a student of architecture, however, it must be interesting, for the Byzantine, Gothic, Arab, and even Chinese styles are there mixed in glorious confusion. The palace, though it contains magnificent reception-rooms, and millions of roubles have been spent on its restoration, is an ugly, commonplace building, and detracts a good deal from the picturesque appearance of the churches and buildings around it, while the arsenal and treasury are positively hideous. Ranged along the walls of the former are the cannon taken from the French. There are eight hundred and seventy-five pieces in all, each bearing a name upon their breech thus: “Le Valliant,” “La Ravissante,” “L’Eclair,” &c. It was then, apparently, customary to christen cannon like ships in the present day.

On leaving or entering the Kremlin by the Spasskoi Gate, every one must uncover. The Russians are tetchy on this point, and a stranger infringing the rule would have a bad time of it. The legend runs that Napoleon I. is the only man that ever dared ride through the gate with his hat on; but that, even in his case, a gust of wind sent it flying before he was well through, much to the rage and discomfiture of “Le Petit Caporal.”

The name of the latter is, strange to say, revered by all, and loved by some in the Holy City, and it is rare to hear a Russian display animosity towards France. There is rather a feeling of pity for the thousands of unhappy soldiers who perished, frozen to death, on the bleak plains around Moscow, during the retreat from that city, a disaster that gave rise to the Russian expression, “I feel as cold as a Frenchman!” The Muscovite excels even the Parisian in politeness. No one ever dreams of entering a shop or restaurant covered, and the very beggars in the streets salute each other with the air of nobles. On the whole I have seldom seen a city I liked more on a short acquaintance than Moscow, perhaps for the reason that it is utterly unlike any other I have ever beheld. It is fairly clean, for Russia, but although the two principal thoroughfares are asphalte-paved, the smaller streets would disgrace a third-rate country town in England, and are in summer ankle deep in dust, in winter a sea of mud and mire.

But although this city is, next to Constantinople, the earthly paradise of the sight-seer, I will not trouble the reader with our peregrinations round a city which has been so often and so graphically described. It may be heresy to say so, but I must confess that the sight which impressed me most was the poorly furnished room, with its camp-bedstead and two rough wooden chairs, in the hotel, where brave Skobeleff breathed his last, and under what deplorable circumstances!

We were not anxious to prolong our stay, for winter arrived with unpleasant suddenness, on the 10th of October. The barometer, which had at 2 p.m. been up to 70°, had sunk at 7 p.m. to only two degrees above zero, and by nine o’clock snow was falling in thin white flakes. The next morning it was nine or ten inches deep, and gangs of men were at work in the streets flattening it down for sledge traffic.

I look back on Warsaw as the one bright spot in our journey. It will be long ere I forget the bright sunny morning that we came upon its white palaces and gardens, its squares and boulevards, after a tedious railway journey from Moscow. Apart from the cheerful look of the town and population, one felt one had reached Europe at last. The first thing that strikes one on arriving at this so-called down-trodden city is the preponderance of the female element; the second, how unusually good-looking that element is. I think one sees more pretty women in five minutes in Warsaw than in half-an-hour in any other European capital, London thrown in. An ill-dressed Warsaw woman is an anomaly. Even the lower orders seemed to know how to put their clothes on, for the Polish woman has a cachet of her own; has the “chic” of a Parisienne, with the beauty of a Viennese, for nearly all are tall and well-made, with good figures and graceful carriage. It is apparently the fashion among the “smart” ladies of Warsaw to let small pieces of metal into the heels of their boots, which make a clear ringing sound as they walk, and the effect (on a pretty woman) is not unpleasing.

As Moscow follows Petersburg in fashions and customs, so does Warsaw Vienna. The Russian tongue in Warsaw is seldom heard. No longer is the sacred ikon seen in apartments and bedrooms. Tea is drunk in cups, not glasses; but coffee is the favourite beverage of all classes. We had evidently done with Russia for good, though the town swarmed with the Czar’s troops in their ugly pea-soup-coloured coats and white caps. Here, unlike most Russian and Siberian towns, the soldiers are encouraged to walk about and show themselves, but I do not think I saw a dozen uniforms the whole time I was in Moscow.

Reaching Vienna the 17th of October, ten days later sees us rattling along in the eleven o’clock train from Paris for London, vi Calais. A thick haze hangs over the Channel as we approach the coast. The sea is of a dirty grey, and presents a very different appearance to when we last saw it, blue and sparkling, in the Gulf of Pechili! It is with a queer but pleasant feeling of rest and relief that we leave land at last to step on to the broad white deck of the steamer Victoria, at Calais.

“Would you care to do it again?” says a casual acquaintance to whom we have narrated our adventures, if such they may be called.

“Not for ten thousand pounds,” says Lancaster, emphatically. And yet, as a ray of sun shines out of the mist, lighting up the white cliffs of England, bright augur of the comfort and civilization we are nearing, I cannot help thinking that to experience such a moment as this is well worth even the discomfort and privations that have attended our long, weary voyage from Pekin to Calais by land.