The gold miners—Their luxury; their wealth; their wives—A few words about the clergy, and the code of religion—The Polish exiles—Travelling maniacs—A dinner en famille.

I have spoken of the gold-seekers of Eastern Siberia, and given an instance of their prodigality in the wonderful cigar ash receptacle of M. Kousnietzof. The miners of Irkutsk are still more extravagant in their fancies, favoured by their greater wealth.

But it is not every gold-seeker that makes his fortune; many even ruin themselves when they have insufficient capital for the preliminary outlay and this is not rewarded with immediate success. It is rare in Siberia to search for gold in a comminuted and commingled state, and I doubt if the Siberians would trouble themselves about so hungry a pursuit, at least to their eyes, accustomed to see it in a less occult form, and their hands to test its weight more sensibly. What they here call a gold mine is a place where great glittering nuggets of pure gold are found here and there in the sand, and where they may be extracted without having recourse to expensive machinery and chemical manipulation. The greatest accumulations of ingots, though not at the surface, are generally at about two or three yards below, and where they may be won by open workings.

The machines, the most commonly used for separating the gold from the sand, consist of large inclined cylinders, into which the auriferous sand is thrown and there submitted to the action of a stream of water. The sand, comparatively light, is soon carried off by the force of the water, whilst the heavy gold falls to the bottom of the apparatus. The smaller particles of gold, too light to resist the force of the water, and that are consequently carried away with the sand, become the property of the labourers.

The most prolific mine in all Siberia yields annually one million two hundred thousand pounds sterling! It is the property of three proprietors only, MM. Bazanof, Nemptchinof, and Trapeznikof. The latter, who is a young man, displays beyond the others the extravagancies of a millionaire that would seem senselessly lavish in Europe, but which in this country of exaggerated profusion do not appear to exceed the bounds of reason. Finding, one day, the road too muddy for the wheels of his carriage, and being desirous of taking the air, he had carpets laid down the whole length of his drive. When he came back, he had the satisfaction of regarding his carriage and horses perfectly free from the serious disfigurement of a spot of mud!

This example of luxury unhappily is imitated in a feebler degree, though perhaps not with a feebler spirit, by the labourers, the effects of which are the more frequently felt when they come home in autumn to their wives, who have barely a crust left, and not a kopeck to receive from the pretty round sum earned by their devoted partners during their summer’s work at the mines. M. Silegnikof, the governor-general, has tried to remedy this evil. An official nominated by him makes it his duty to hold in deposit the sums gained by these workers in the mine, and to restore these savings to them on their arrival at the village. The first year this functionary received in deposit from the miners of a single commune fifteen thousand roubles. But since this organization had not been generally accepted by those for whose benefit it was designed, and had been resorted to, it was supposed, by a small number only, it may be calculated that the depositors had gained thirty-five or forty thousand roubles, from £3,500 to £4,000. If these thoughtless miners would amend and acquire habits of economy, they could easily become rich; but these poor deluded creatures imagine that the mines are inexhaustible, and it is by no means clear to the engineer that the Government is not equally credulous.

To show to what extent gold is squandered at Irkutsk, even among the humbler classes, I will give an instance. On arriving at this city, I found I could not open one of my trunks, in consequence of having lost the key during my journey, and sent for a locksmith, thinking I should have to pay about twenty-five or thirty kopecks, such as I should pay in Paris. This locksmith said to my messenger: “How much will your master give me for this job?” “Two or three roubles, I suppose.” “Then I am not going to bother myself for such a trifle.” I was therefore obliged to break open my trunk.

Perhaps it may be asked why these lucky mine proprietors do not go to St. Petersburg and Paris, to get something more tempting for the big nuggets they have found, and how they manage to gratify their exaggerated wants in the cheerless depths of Siberia. They prefer, no doubt, to be seen and known by every inhabitant of Irkutsk and Kiachta, than to pass unnoticed in the immense crowds on the banks of the Neva, in Hyde Park, or in the Bois de Boulogne. I have already given an idea of the cost of the merest trifle in this land of gold mines, void of all industry. In spite of the exorbitant price of everything, indeed, perhaps for that very reason, these nabobs indulge their fancies in building immense palaces in stone, and in filling their apartments and conservatories with orange trees, banana trees, and all kinds of tropical plants, which have been dragged half across the globe at an enormous cost to furnish insipid fruit or sickly flowers and some visible sign of wealth.

They must have grand pianos from Erard’s, or the best makers of St. Petersburg. They give magnificent dinners of a hundred couverts, where sterlets, brought alive from the Volga, are served in the most recherchÉ style beside the choicest wines France can produce. They mantle themselves in sable, beaver, and furs of blue fox, or even blue fox feet, a luxury that involves the purchase of four or five hundred of these animals; they shackle their fingers with heaps of rings. In short, their living, their clothing, their display in general, are in complete and constant opposition to this precept of Montesquieu, which they all certainly ignore: “En fait d’apparat, il faut toujours rester au-dessous de ce qu’on peut.” And then their wives, whose lot, doubtlessly, the reader will be curious to know. It is very simple, at least from the husbands’ point of view, for they are necessarily neglected. Being absorbed with this passion for aggrandizing their fortune, the pressing need of satisfying ridiculous vanities, of what importance is a wife beside a nugget? what are the soft whispers of love beside the delicious music of the gold in the cylinder? During the summer all the lords are at the mines, and their ladies are left to themselves at Irkutsk. During winter the former are still absorbed in their business, and when they are not these votaries to feverish pastimes are at the gaming table, watching the fall of the dice, and their wives are still forgotten at home. There is one thing very curious, and which in this instance, though subordinate to a dominant passion, proves, perhaps, the strong spirit of contradiction in woman. The ladies of Irkutsk manifest in no way a taste for the costly vanities of their husbands. They are ambitious of assimilating themselves to the ladies of St. Petersburg; they learn foreign languages, translate Jules Verne or Paul FÉval into Russian, and imagine themselves to be endowed with high mental qualities. But the instances are rare where these gifts and accomplishments exist in reality and not simply subjectively in the imagination. These need too active an alimentation to develop and fructify in so petty a colony as Irkutsk. Mischievous intrigues and cancans form the staple of all the gossiping that usurps the place of conversation. It would not be too severe to apply to the society of this city the judgment of Madame de Maintenon on the society of Versailles: “Nous menons ici une vie singuliÈre. Nous voudrions avoir de l’esprit, de la galanterie, de l’invention, et tout cela nous manque entiÈrement. On joue, on baÎlle, on ramasse quelques misÈres, les uns des autres, on se hait, on s’envie, on se caresse, on se dÉchire.”

The gold mine proprietors at Irkutsk and—to finish with these instances of the flaunting of stupendous riches—the tea merchants of Kiachta, gratify their passion for exciting envy and wonder, in a way by no means displeasing to themselves nor to the recipients of their roubles, by considerable donations to the churches.

At Irkutsk, the convent of St. Innocent is the principal object of their attention. It is quite haut ton among these millionaires never to set out on a journey before having made a gift to the monastery. Therefore, in a few years, a stupendous church rose over the tomb of the old Siberian metropolitan, where immense wealth is now heaped together. The rivalry between this convent of St. Innocent and the cathedral of the village of Kiachta is not at all inactive, and is certainly to the advantage of both.

At the time of my visit, the latter bore the palm. It is singular to find, in the midst of a group of houses which in France would be considered a mere hamlet, a church where the altar is of massive silver and gold, and where the iconostasis, hiding the sanctuary from the eyes of the congregation, is sustained by fourteen columns in rock crystal. These columns, each three feet high, are formed with three blocks of crystal a foot high and a foot in diameter, and are very remarkable.

I will not enter on the subject of the orthodox religion, inasmuch as it is not a question exclusively Siberian. Certain writers in France have given a deplorable aspect to the manners of the Russian clergy. I am far from assuming that the conduct of all the Greek popes is irreproachable, for I have myself seen several of them tippling and committing even greater faults, but it would be rash to deduce from so limited a number of isolated facts general conclusions. In what hierarchy shall we not find lamentable exceptions? The Russian clergy are distinctly divided into two classes: the secular priests, who may marry, but to whom are closed the high ecclesiastical honours; and the regular priests, who live at first in the convents, to rise afterwards to bishops, archimandrites, and metropolitans. The first live retired in their villages, bringing up their children in their homes in the fear of God and with a taste for the ministry. The second are restrained in their youth by a severe rule, and later by the respect for their high dignity.

The most striking feature at the first view of the orthodox religion is its organization as a political power. In this empire of supreme despotism, the Church stands out, imperium in imperio, an actual republic. This republic, it is true, is subject to the authority of the Emperor. It is his will and pleasure to ratify or not the decisions arrived at, but all the questions are nevertheless discussed by a synod, held at St. Petersburg, composed of all the metropolitans. What could be more ingenious than this system of complete dependence, enjoying the appearance of liberty? It would be interesting to conjecture what would have been the state of Europe if the Catholic Church had been thus subjected either to the emperors of Germany or to the kings of France. Frederick Barbarossa would probably have made himself master of the world; he would, in any case, have driven the infidels, not only out of Europe, but from Western Asia. It is also equally probable that, without the authority and wise foresight of the popes, the great revolution of the Crusades would never have occurred, and that Europe, then subject to civil authorities more bellicose than warlike, more chivalrous than politic, would have been swamped with the flood of Islamism, against which the popes alone were able to raise a barrier.

If the Russians, in adopting the religion of the Greek Church, had not inherited its inconsiderate hatred of the Roman, they would certainly recognise this great work of the popes. Unfortunately, human motives of action absolutely prevent every Russian from embracing the Catholic or any other religion. Intolerant laws punish with the severest penalties the converted, and especially those who attempt to convert others.12

The Czar, invested in the eyes of his people with an imposing sacred character, profits by the inviolability it confers to dominate over the revolution whilst accomplishing the reforms he deems efficient. Liberty of conscience is therefore a long way from the advent of its enjoyment in Russia. May the Emperor, in preserving the respect of the masses, suffer no derogation in the eyes of his enlightened subjects, who are already, as I have seen everywhere, breaking loose from all ties of religious faith, and who may well one day claim by force, and before all other rights, the liberty to embrace a new faith.

This religious intolerance is painful to all, and especially to the peoples recently subjected to the authority of the Czar, to the Polish exiles for example, who, although sincerely Catholic, are compelled to bring up their children in the orthodox faith. Alas! since the insurrection this grievance is only a part of the sufferings these poor wretches have had to endure. They have, at first, been led on foot, with their hands bound behind their backs, to the spot of exile that has been assigned to them in Eastern Siberia: some to Irkutsk, and these were the most favoured; others to Yakutsk, or the island of Tarakai, known to the Russians by the name of Saghalien, or to Kamtchatka. Many perished on the way, as may easily be supposed, and those who were strong enough to brave exhausting fatigues were, on their arrival, thrown into the gaol, to keep company with thieves and assassins.

It is singular to remark a circumstance that clearly shows the fetishism with which the Emperor’s person is surrounded; these assassins at the gaol look down on their comrades from Poland with the utmost disdain, and often refrain from speaking to them, under the pretext that the crime of the Poles was rebellion against the Czar. The Russian assassins have therefore, it seems, a kind of conscience when it involves a question of conspiracy.

The Polish exiles I saw here were submitted, for five years, to the same treatment as the other convicts. They were numbered in red on the back, and for a mere trifle were punished with the strait-jacket, or twenty strokes with the rod. During five years, they passed the winter in this prison I have mentioned, sixty or eighty thrown together into this horrible chamber without air and almost without light, and the summer in working at the mines with an hour’s rest during the day and a nourishment barely sufficient.

Their lot, happily, is now much better: except the liberty of going beyond the limits of a certain assigned district, they enjoy the same advantages as other Russian subjects. They constitute, besides, at Irkutsk, it must be admitted, the most intelligent part of the population; and receiving no assistance from the Government, they gain not only their living, but sometimes even a fortune. They are medical practitioners, professors, musicians, or theatrical performers. Some even, who in Poland formed a part of the aristocracy, have taken to opening shops, where they sell all kinds of objects from Moscow, St. Petersburg, or Warsaw, articles which, brought from such a distance, fetch a high price and reward their sellers with a considerable income. One among these enjoying the title of count, and for this reason unwilling to follow from the beginning the general example, was, at the time of my visit, reduced to the humble occupation of cabdriver.

Among the exiles I saw at Irkutsk, I will mention, in particular, M. Schlenker, because I met at his house certain persons already introduced to the reader. This gentleman was occupied during the day in selling linen, cloth, pÂtÉs de foies gras, wines, in short the usual wares of a bazaar, and in the evening, after the hours of business, forgot all his affairs to become in his salon a perfect man of the world, such as he had formerly been in Poland. He took in the Revue des Deux Mondes, many French and Russian periodicals, played the piano, and had ingratiated himself with the military governor, with whom he often went hunting; he was, in fact, a man very well informed, and, having seen and read a great deal, could speak in the most interesting manner on many subjects.

To remember the date of any occurrence, it was calculated from the year of his condemnation to hard labour. Nothing seemed so odd and sad at the same time as to hear this distinguished man say calmly: “I am sure that such a thing took place at such a time, because I know it was so many months after I was thrown into gaol.”

And yet, fully alive to all these severities, I must abstain from recriminating too readily: in the first place, because I learnt on my arrival in China that fresh liberties had been accorded to the Poles in Siberia; and next, because chastisements undoubtedly severe have probably preserved Russia from great evils and the necessity of making the punishment still heavier if a more lenient one had been found insufficient. We must not be blind to the fact that the Poles are not always patriots, and when they demand liberty, it is not always on the side of law and order. How many Poles were there not mixed up in our Commune of 1871, and how many other lawless adventurers shut themselves up in Carthagena with the last Spanish insurgents! Russia, that has these smouldering embers of insurrection on its hearth, has been more fortunate than France in preventing them from bursting into a consuming conflagration. But I cannot help pitying their sufferings, and especially the sufferings of those who, with all their faults, possessed in the highest degree the noblest of God’s gifts—an intelligent head obeying the dictates of a tender heart.

Having been invited to dine one day at M. Schlenker’s, I met there, to my great delight, the whole of the little caravan with whom I had made my entry into Siberia. Mrs. Grant, Miss Campbell, M. Pfaffius, Madame Nemptchinof and her son Ivan MichÄelovitch, had just arrived at Irkutsk, and were about to start again for Kiachta. Constantine was also among the guests, as well as a young Russian, M. Isembech, an intimate friend of M. Schlenker, who was a complete personification of those travellers in perpetual movement of whom I have spoken.

“You are going to Japan,” he remarked, “and I hope to have the pleasure of meeting you again there, for I am going there shortly.” “Come with me,” I said; “the pleasure of the trip will be doubled.” “That will be impossible: I must go to-morrow to the Amoor river, and shall not have returned before a fortnight.” “I intend to remain longer than that here, and shall have no trouble in waiting for you.” “But before going to Japan, I must go to St. Petersburg for a fortnight.” “Then we shall see each other no more.” “Why not?” “How long then do you take to go to St. Petersburg?” “Twenty-three days and twenty-three nights.” “And you do not stop on the way?” “Four hours at Omsk only, in order to transact some business with the governor-general. In two months to the day, I shall be here again; it will be the time of the breaking up of the Amoor, and then it will take hardly a month to get to Japan; I shall therefore want three months to accomplish the whole, and will meet you on the 25th of June at the HÔtel d’Orient in Yokohama.”

This hardy mercurial traveller had little else than his winged feet, for the whole of his luggage consisted of some linen and a black dress coat.

The black coat, in fact, is here, even in the morning, the costume de rigueur: from ten in the morning to noon, the residents pay and receive visits; at half-past two they dine, always in formal dress; in the evening, at the theatre and supper, the same coat, and one is obliged to retain the whole day this inconvenient garment.

Our party at M. Schlenker’s passed off most gaily. We recalled the incidents of our journey between Kamechlof and Tumen, the fear we indulged in on parting, the tender reminiscences that followed; and when dinner was over, our agreeable host sat down at the piano to accompany the sweet voice of Miss Campbell. Thus ended a delightful evening.

What delicious enjoyments are obtained through a few days passed thus, in the interval of a long arduous journey! One muses over the adventures of the road already passed, and speculates over those that may come; the novelty of the scene and situation, the society and topics of conversation, the fresh direction to one’s habitual current of thought, the total change, in short, of one’s surroundings, brings an exhilaration that nothing else can supply. Every incident during these days seemed to gleam serenely in a sunshine of poesy. And yet, when sensation becomes thus more keenly alive to the enjoyment of congenial society, we see in the persons around us but the brightest sides of their character, and the hour when the disillusion comes we have already parted each on our way. How many perfections of this kind have I not met with on my route which, unhappily, I have never had the chance to live with more than one short day!