A JOURNEY IN SIBERIA.
We had left the populous streets of St. Petersburg and the gilded domes of Moscow far behind us; and before us rose the towers of Nijni-Novgorod on the further bank of the Oka. We had reason to be grateful for the manner of our reception in the two capitals of the Russian Empire. We had respectfully taken leave of his Majesty our own noble Emperor in Berlin, had received cordial recommendations from the German Foreign Office, and had met with a friendly welcome from the German Embassy in St. Petersburg, so we had hoped for a favourable reception in Russia, but the hospitality accorded us far exceeded our boldest expectations. His Majesty the Czar was pleased to give us an audience; princes and princesses of the imperial house deigned to receive us; the chancellor, the ministers, and high officers of state, had all met us with that thoughtful courtesy and obliging complaisance for which educated Russians are noted; and we were furnished with the introductions whose importance we afterwards realized.
As far as Nijni-Novgorod we had enjoyed the modern conveniences of travel; thenceforward we were to learn how Russians traverse distances of thousands of kilometres or versts, how they travel in summer and in winter, by day and by night, in furious storm and in smiling sunshine, in splashing rain, icy snow, and dusty drought, in sledges and in wagons. Before us stood a huge and massive travelling sledge, clamped at all its joints, with broadly projecting stays to guard against overturning, with a hood to shelter the travellers from rain and snow, and drawn by three horses on whose yoke a little bell tinkled.
On the 19th of March we began a rapid journey over the frozen surface of the Volga, but it was not without its hindrances. For a thaw had accompanied us from Germany to Russia, and had warned us to hasten from St. Petersburg and Moscow, and a thaw remained our constant companion, as if we were heralds of the spring. Holes in the ice filled with water, warning us of the yawning depth beneath, drenched the horses, the sledge, and ourselves, or forced us to make tiresome circuits; the cracking and groaning of the ice made the danger seem worse than it really was, and both drivers and postmasters became so anxious, that after a short journey we were forced to exchange the smooth surface of ice for the as yet unbeaten summer highway. But this highway, traversed by thousands and thousands of freight wagons and by an equal number of exiles to dread Siberia, soon became to us, as to the prisoners, a way of sighs. Loose or slushy snow about three feet deep, covered the road; to right and left rushed little streams, wherever, in fact, they could find a course; the horses, now yoked in a line, one behind the other, strove, in a pitiable way, to keep their footing; with leaps and bounds they would try to keep the tracks of those who had gone in front, and at every false step they would sink up to the breast in the snow or in the icy water. Behind them floundered the sledge, creaking in every joint, as it plunged with a jerk from height to hollow; for hours sometimes it remained stuck in a hole, baffling the most strenuous exertions of the horses. On such occasions the wolf-scaring bell, the gift of the mysterious Faldine, seemed to sound most eerily. In vain the driver threatened, entreated, swore, groaned, yelled, cried, roared, cursed, and whipped; in most cases we did not get under weigh again until other travellers came to our assistance.
Painfully the journey lengthened to four and five times the proper time for the distance. To look out of the sledge to right or left was scarce worth the trouble, for the flat country was dreary and featureless; only in the villages was there anything visible and interesting, and that only to those who knew how to look. For the winter still kept the people in their small, neatly built, but often sadly dilapidated log-huts; only fur-clad boys ran barefoot through the slushy snow and filthy mud which older boys and girls sought to avoid by help of stilts; only some old, white-bearded beggars loafed round the post-houses and taverns, beggars, however, whom every artist must have found as charming as I did. When they asked for alms, and stood in the majesty of old age, with uncovered bald heads and flowing hoary beards, disclosing the filthiness of their body and the raggedness of their clothes, they seemed to me such marvellous pictures and types of world-renouncing saints, that I could not keep myself from giving to them again and again, if only to get in thanks the sign of the cross, repeated from three to nine times in a manner so expressive and devout that only a real saint could equal it.
In the villages we also saw more of the animal life than we did in the fields or even in the forests which we traversed. For in the open country winter still kept its fetters on life and all was quiet and death-like; we saw hardly any birds except the hooded crow and the yellow bunting; and the snow showed scarce any tracks of mammals. In the villages, however, we were welcomed at least by the delightful jackdaws, which adorned the roofs of the log-houses, by the ravens, which with us at home are the shy frequenters of mountain and forest, but are here the most confident companions of the villagers, by magpies and other birds, not to speak of domestic animals, among which the numerous pigs were especially obtrusive.
After an uninterrupted journey of four days, without refreshing sleep, without any real rest, without sufficient food, we felt as if we had been beaten in every limb, and were, indeed, glad to reach Kazan—the old capital of the Tartars. We crossed the Volga on foot, picking our steps over the much-broken ice, and drew near to the city of sixty towers, which we had seen the day before shining in the distance. I fancied myself once more in the East. From the minarets and the spire-like wooden towers I heard again the notes which call every faithful follower of Islam to prayer; dark-eyed women bustled about among the turbaned men, veiling themselves anxiously from their country folk, but unveiling inquisitively before us, and picking their steps, on account of their dainty but not waterproof saffron shoes, along the steps of the houses protected by the overhanging eaves. In the uproar of the bazaar young and old thronged and bustled without restraint. Everything was just as it is in the East. Only the numerous stately churches—among which we saw the convent of “the black Madonna of Kasan not made by human hands”, conspicuous both in site and architecture—were out of keeping with the Eastern picture, though they showed plainly enough that Christians and Mohammedans were here living in mutual tolerance.
On lighter sledges, but over even more unsubstantial highways, we journeyed onwards towards Perm and the Ural. The road led through Tartar and Russian villages and the fields around them, and again through extensive forests. The Tartar villages usually compared favourably with those of the Russians, not only in the absence of swine, which the Tartars hold unclean, but even more in the always well-cared-for cemeteries, usually surrounded by lofty trees. For the Tartar respects the resting-place of his dead, the Russian at most those of his saints. The woodlands, though divided up, are really primeval forests, which rise and flourish, grow old and disappear, without human interference, for they are too far from navigable rivers to be as yet of much commercial value.
Two large rivers, however, the Viatka and the Kama, cross our route. The winter holds them bound, though the approach of spring is beginning to loosen their fetters. The banks are flooded, and the horses of the carriers, who scorn the temporary bridges, are now and then forced to swim and to drag the sledge like a boat behind them.
Before we reached Perm we had to exchange the sledge for the wagon, and in this we trundled along towards the Ural, which separates Europe from Asia. The highway leads over long ranges of hills, with easy slopes, but gradually ascending. The landscape changes; the mountain scenery presents many pictures, which are beautiful if they are not grand. Small woods, with fields and meadows between, remind us of the spurs of the Styrian Alps. Most of the woods are thin and scraggy, like those of Brandenburg, others are more luxuriant and varied, and cover wide areas without interruption. Here they consist of low pines and birches, and there of the same trees mingled with limes, aspens, black and silver poplars, above whose rounded crowns the cypress-like tops of the beautiful pichta or Siberian silver-fir tapers upwards. On an average the villages are larger and the houses more spacious than in the districts previously traversed, but the roads are bad beyond all description. Thousands of freight wagons creep wearily along, or rather in, the deep miry ruts: slowly and painfully we also jog along until, after three days’ journeying, we reach the watershed between the two great basins of the Volga and the Ob, and learn from the milestone, which bears “Europe” on the west side and “Asia” on the east, that we have reached the boundary. Amid the clinking of glasses we think of our loved ones at home.
The pleasant town of Yekaterinburg, with its gold-smelting and gem-cutting industries, could not long detain us in spite of the hospitality of its inhabitants. For the spring was gaining strength, and the bridges of ice on the rivers and streams, which we had to cross on our way to distant Omsk, were melting and crumbling. So we pushed hastily onwards through the Asiatic region of the Perm government till we reached its boundary and entered Western Siberia.
Fig. 58.—A Post Station in Siberia.
Here, at the first post-house, we were met by the district officer of Tiumen, who greeted us in the name of the governor, and offered us escort through his district. In the chief town of the district we found the house of one of the rich inhabitants prepared for our reception. Thenceforth we were to learn what Russian hospitality meant. Hitherto, indeed, we had been everywhere received and treated most hospitably, but now the chief officials of the district or province exerted themselves unsparingly on our behalf, and the best houses were thrown open to us. In fact, we were treated like princes, simply on account of our scientific mission. Words fail me to express our gratitude with adequate warmth. Beyond Tiumen, in which we stayed three days, inspecting the prisons of the exiles, the tanneries, and other sights of this first Siberian town, the peasants showed us their mastery even of the rivers. For the approaching spring had melted the ice on the Pyshma and the blocks had begun to move; we, however, had to get across before this happened. At the village of Romanoffskoye the inhabitants with bared heads stood waiting for us on the bank of the Pyshma, and even the river had to wait before it was permitted to shake off its icy bonds. Boldly and cleverly the peasants had thrown a makeshift bridge across the half-melted stream, using a large boat as a centre pier, above and around which they had fettered the treacherous ice with strong hawsers and ropes. Willing hands unyoked the team of five required for our day’s journey, seized spokes and axles, and bore one wagon after another across the yielding bridge, which groaned and creaked under its burden. The task was safely accomplished, and on we went merrily through water and snow, mud and mire, over log-roads and ice.
The Tobol, which we wished to cross on Good Friday, the 14th April, the first day of true spring, was less accommodating. Here also all requisite arrangements had been made to secure our passage: one of the wagons was unyoked and rolled on to the ice, but this suddenly cracked and split, and forced a hasty retreat. The bells on the cross-trees had tinkled merrily when we left Yalutoroffsk; they sounded sadly as we drove back again, and it was not till Easter-day that we were able to cross the great river with the help of a ferry-boat.
So we continued on our way. Before and behind us the rivers threw off the yoke of winter; only the dreaded Irtish lay still hard-bound and secure under our feet, and thus, after more than a month’s journey without further adventure, we reached Omsk, the capital of Western Siberia.
After we had seen what was to be seen in Omsk,—the streets and the houses, the military academy, the museum, the hospital, the military prison, and so on, we continued our journey toward Semipalatinsk, along the highway which runs along the right bank of the Irtish, connecting the villages of the so-called Cossack line. Already, in passing from Yalutoroffsk to Omsk, we had journeyed through a steppe—that of Ishim; now the steppe surrounded us on all sides, and almost every night the heavens were red with the flames of last year’s grass and herbage, which was now being burnt. Troops of migrating birds followed the river directly behind the ice as it drifted northwards; crowds of aquatic birds peopled all the steppe streams and lakes; various species of lark flew hither and thither in flocks; the dainty falcons of the steppe had already betaken themselves to their summer quarters; the spring had indeed come.
In Semipalatinsk we had the good fortune to find in the governor, General von Poltoratski, a warm friend, ready to aid us in all our endeavours, and in his lady the most amiable of hostesses. Not content with having secured our hospitable reception, the general most kindly proposed to make us acquainted with the Kirghiz, who form a great part of the population of his district, and to this end organized a great hunting expedition after archars, the wild sheep of Siberia, which are almost twice the size of our domestic animals.[80]
On the 3rd of May we started on the chase, crossing the Irtish and following the post-road to Taschkent, in the Kirghiz steppe. After a journey of sixteen hours we reached the region of the chase—a rocky part of the steppe, and soon we were standing before the aul or yurt-camp which had been prepared for us. There we were welcomed by the general’s wife, who had gone on ahead of us the day before, and cordially also by about a score of Kirghiz sultans and district governors, and their numerous followers.
During the next three days there was great sport on the Arkat mountains. It was holiday with the Kirghiz, who are always eager for fun, and it was not less so for us. Hill and valley resounded with the hoofs of fourscore or more horsemen, who took part in the two-days’ hunt; the sun, when he was pleased to show himself, shone down on strange, gay garments which had been hitherto hidden under furs; there was a merry bustle over hill and dale. The Kirghiz, once so much dreaded, whose very name means robber, are now the most faithful and contented Russian subjects, and there they were with their best horses—their most precious pacers, their tamed golden-eagles, greyhounds, and camels, their zither-musicians and impromptu poets, their wrestlers and other gymnasts—a merry crew. They sat together in groups and companies; they darted hither and thither, singly or in troops, wheeling their horses in sheer high spirits; with the keenest interest they watched the wrestling bouts or the boys racing on horseback; they led the chase with astuteness and good judgment, and listened with delight to the words of the extempore singer who celebrated its fortunes. One of the Kirghiz had already killed an archar before our arrival; good luck brought a second victim to my rifle. It was this good fortune which inspired the poet. His verses were not particularly full of ideas, but they were none the less so characteristic that I recorded them as a first sample of Kirghiz poetry. While the poet sang, an interpreter translated his words into Russian, and the General rendered them in German, while I took them down in shorthand:—
“Speak, red tongue, speak while thou hast life, for after death thou shalt be dumb.
Speak, red tongue, which God hath given me, for after death thou shalt be silent.
Words such as thou now utterest will no longer flow from thee after death.
I see before me people rising like the mountains, to them I will declare the truth.
I seem to see the rocks and mountains, to the reindeer I would liken them.
Greater are they than boats, like a steamship on the waves of Irtish.
But I see in thee, oh Ruler, after the majesty of the Emperor, the highest, to be compared to a mountain, precious as an ambling reindeer.
It was my mother who bore me, but my tongue hath God given.
If I should not now speak before thee, to whom should I ever speak?
Full freedom have I to speak, let me speak as if to my own folk.
Prosperity to thee, sir, all hail and blessing to thy guests, among them noble men, though they have thus unbent among us.
Each guest of the General is also ours, and assured of our friendship.
God alone gave me my tongue, let me speak further.
On the mountains we saw huntsmen, marksmen, and drivers, but with one only was there good fortune.
As the top of the highest mountain towers above all others, so did he excel all, for he sent two well-aimed balls into the body of the archar and brought it to the yurt.
Every huntsman wished to bring in booty, but only one had his wish fulfilled: to us was joy, and to thee, noble lady, whom I now address.
All the people are delighted, not the men only, to see thee, to greet thee; all of us wish thee joy, and a thousand years of life and health.
And of thy good pleasure receive our homage. Thou mayest well have seen a better people, but no truer has ever offered greeting and welcome.
May God bless thee, thee and thy house and thy children. I cannot find words enough to praise thee, but God has given me my tongue, and it has spoken, the red tongue, what sprang from the heart.”
We left the Arkat mountains, and soon thereafter the district governed by our kind host, whom we left at the hunting-ground; and very shortly afterwards we were welcomed in Sergiopol, the first town in Turkestan, by Colonel Friedrichs, who greeted us in the name of the governor of this great province, and gave us escort on our way. Kirghiz chiefs became our guard of honour, and supplied us with draught-horses which could never before have done duty as such, so madly did they at first try to run off with the heavy wagon. Kirghiz sultans showed us hospitality, looked after our food and shelter, and erected yurts at every place where we wished to rest, or were expected to do so. Kirghiz also caught snakes and other creeping things for our collections, threw their nets on our behalf into the steppe-lakes, and followed us like faithful dogs on our hunting expeditions. Thus we journeyed through the steppe-land, now gorgeous in the full beauty of spring, delaying for a time to hunt and collect at Alakul (“the shining lake”), crossing valleys full of blossom and smiling hills, to Lepsa, the Cossack settlement on the Alatau, one of the grandest of the steppe mountains. We traversed the settled region, a little paradise, flowing with milk and honey; ascended the high mountains, rejoicing in the rushing torrents, the green Alpine lakes, and the lovely vistas, and finally directed our course to the north-east towards the Chinese frontier, for the shortest and most convenient route to the Altai led us through a portion of the Celestial Empire.
In Bakti, the last Russian outpost, news was brought to us that His Ineffability the Jandsun Dyun, the Governor of the province Tarabagatai, sent to greet us in the name of China, and invited us to a banquet. To meet the hospitable wishes of the noble mandarin, we rode on the 21st May to Tchukutchak or Tchautchak, the capital of the said province.
The company which rode through the summer glory of the steppe was larger and more splendid than ever. Partly in order to have a quite necessary security in a country disquieted by insurrection, partly in order to appear with dignity, not to say with pomp, before his Highness, we had added to our ranks. For, besides the thirty Cossacks from Sachan, under the leadership of our new escort, Major Tichanoff, and besides our old Kirghiz friends, we had with us a half sotnia of Cossacks from Bakti. The beating hoofs of our small army sounded strangely in the otherwise desolate steppe. All our Kirghiz were arrayed in holiday dress, and their black, blue, yellow, and red kaftans, covered with gold and silver braid, vied in sheen and splendour with the uniforms of the Russian officers. At the boundary, which had recently been agreed upon, a Chinese warrior of high rank waited to greet us. Thereupon he wheeled round and galloped off as fast as his horse would bear him to inform his commander of our approach. Stumbling over rubbish heaps, between half-ruined and half-built houses, but also between blossoming gardens, our horses bore us towards the town. There apish Mongolian faces grinned at us, and appallingly ugly women outraged my sense of beauty. Our cavalcade drew up in front of the Governor’s house, and we craved admission at the broad portal. Opposite it rose a wall of beautiful workmanship, with some strange animal figure in the centre; while to right and left on the ground lay some Chinese instruments of torture. An official of the house bade us enter, but indicated at the same time that the Cossacks and Kirghiz were to remain outside. The governor received us with the greatest solemnity in what seemed at once his sitting-room, office, and court of justice. Preserving all the dignity of a high mandarin, sparse of speech, in fact, uttering but a few disjointed words, always accompanied, however, with a cheerful, grinning smile, he gave us his hand, and bade us sit down at the breakfast-table. This gave promise of tea, and bore innumerable small dishes with strange delicacies, and “we raised our hands to the daintily prepared meal”. The food consisted of rice, various fruits dried and preserved in oil, slices of ham as thin as parchment, dried shrimp-tails, and a multitude of unknown, or, at any rate, unrecognizable tit-bits and sweets; the drinks consisted of excellent tea and sickeningly sweet rice-brandy of the strength of spirits of wine. After the meal, which I, at least, managed to get through with impunity, having fortified myself beforehand with a substantial snack of a less doubtful kind, the hookahs were produced, and we were shown various intelligible and unintelligible objects of interest in that room and the one adjoining. Among these were landscapes and pictures of animals, commendatory letters from the government, the great seal of state wrapped up with comical carefulness in brightly coloured silk, extraordinary arrows of an import which only a Chinese mind can fathom, samples of European industry, and so forth. The conversation was extremely limited, and unspeakably dignified. Our addresses had to be translated from French to Russian, from Russian to Kirghiz, and from Kirghiz into Chinese; and the answers had to pass through the reverse process. Little wonder, then, that the speeches acquired a tone of great solemnity! After breakfast some Chinese archers came in to display their warlike valour and skill; thereafter the Jandsun himself in all his glory led us to his kitchen-garden to let us taste its produce. At length he bade us farewell, and we rode again through the streets and markets of the town, and found hospitality in the house of a Tartar, where we enjoyed an excellent meal, especially graced by the presence of a young wife, as pretty as a picture, who was summoned to the men’s apartments to do us honour. It was towards sunset that we left the town, which is not without historic interest.
Tchukutchak is that town which in 1867, after a prolonged siege, fell into the hands of the Dungani, a Mongolian tribe, of Mohammedan faith, who had been for long in persistent insurrection against the Chinese rule. It was razed to the ground and no living creature spared. Of the thirty thousand souls who are said to have inhabited the town, over a third had found refuge in flight; the rest, confident in the success with which repeated assaults had been repulsed, remained to their destruction. When the Dungani succeeded in storming the town, they showed the same inhuman cruelty which the Chinese had shown to them. What the sword did not claim was destroyed by fire. When our escort, Captain Friedrichs, visited the place some fourteen days after the town had been stormed, the clouds of smoke had cleared from the charred ruins. Wolves and dogs, with bellies swollen from eating human flesh, slunk away sated, or refused to be disturbed in their horrible festival, and continued to gnaw at the bones of their old foes or masters. Eagles, kites, ravens, and crows shared the spoil. In places where the insurgents had made space for themselves, the corpses were thrown together in heaps, dozens and hundreds together; in other parts of the town, in the streets, courts, and houses, corpses lay singly, in couples, in tens,—husband and wife, great-grandparents, grandmothers, mothers, and children, whole families and neighbours who had sought refuge with them. Their foreheads were gashed with sword-cuts, their features decayed and burned, their limbs gnawed and torn by the teeth of dogs and wolves, their bodies headless and handless. Whatever horror the maddest imagination ever pictured was here realized.
At the present day there are at most a thousand inhabitants in Tchukutchak, and the newly-erected battlemented fort is actually under the protection of the small Russian picket of Bakti. That the Dungani have not yet laid down their arms nor been subdued, was sufficiently proved by the recent march of a Chinese army into the valley of the Emil, where insurrection is again threatened.
Under the escort of Major Tichanoff and his thirty Cossacks we traversed this valley without seeing a single Dungani, indeed without meeting a human being for days. The Emil, arising from the Zaur, flows between the Tarabagatai and Semistan—two mountain ranges which meet at an acute angle—and receives numberless small tributaries on either side. The genius which the Chinese have for irrigation had utilized all the streams, and made a fruitful garden of the whole valley till the Dungani broke into and devastated the fertile land, and surrendered it once more to the steppe-land from which it had been won. In the neighbourhood of the town we passed through several small villages, and we came across a Kalmuck aul, but apart from these we saw only the ruin of former possession, comfort, and industry. Over the fields Nature herself had drawn a veil with gentle hand, but the ruined villages, not yet destroyed by storm and tempest, cried aloud to heaven. When we visited these villages, the tragedy of bygone days was appallingly clear. Between the crumbling walls, whose roofs had been burnt and whose gables had wholly or partially fallen in, on the mouldering rubbish over which poisonous fungi ran riot, amid remnants of Chinese porcelain, and half-charred and thus preserved plenishings, we came everywhere on human remains, crumbling skulls, bones broken by the teeth of carnivores, and certain parts of the skeletons of domesticated animals, especially of the dog. The skulls still bore traces of the heavy blows which shattered them. The inhabitants had fallen before the rage of their murderous foes, and the dogs had shared the fate of their masters whom they may have been trying to protect; the other domestic animals had been driven away, plundered like the rest of the useful property, and the apparently useless residue had been broken up and burnt. Only two semi-domesticated animals remain, the swallow and the sparrow; the rest are replaced by ruin-loving birds.
We passed cheerlessly through the desolate valley. Not one of the Dungani was to be seen, for behind our thirty Cossacks was the great power of Russia. The first human beings we came across were Russian Kirghiz, who, though in Chinese territory, were pasturing their flocks and tilling their fields as usual, and had even erected a monument to one of their dead.
From the valley of the Emil we crossed the Tarabagatai by one of the lowest passes of the range, and thence descended to the almost flat plateau of Tchilikti, which lies over five thousand feet above the sea, surrounded by the Tarabagatai, Zaur, Manrak, Terserik, Mustau, and Urkashar. Crossing the plateau, passing some enormously large Kurgans or sepulchral mounds of the natives, we followed the serpentine valleys of the infinitely irregular Manrak mountains in order to reach the plain of Zaizan and the delightful town of the same name which had been erected as an outpost some four years previously. Here, close to the Chinese-Russian boundary, we found European comfort and civilization for the first time since leaving Lepsa. In the society which we enjoyed we seemed to be back again in St. Petersburg or Berlin. There was talking, playing, singing, and dancing both within the family circle and in the public gardens. The melody of nightingales accompanied the dance and song; one forgot where one was.
I used the time of our sojourn here to hunt “ullars”, mountain-fowl resembling partridges, but as large as black-cock, and in so doing not only became acquainted with the wild grandeur of the Manrak mountains, but saw the life of the poorer Kirghiz herdsmen in a light new to me, and returned much satisfied with my excursion.
On the afternoon of the 31st May we again set off in our wagon, making for the Black Irtish in order to meet General Poltoratski at an appointed rendezvous in the Altai mountains. We drove rapidly through the rich steppe-land, over coal-black soil, and afterwards over the drier high-steppes till we came to the river, whose rolling waves bore us next day to the lake of Zaizan. Hitherto all the Siberian rivers and streams had seemed rather tedious; but on the Black Irtish it was far otherwise. We got lovely views of the two great mountains—Zaur and Altai—and the adjacent ranges, while the fresh green banks, cheerful with singing birds, gladdened our eyes and ears. A rapid cast of the net brought us an abundant catch of delicious fishes, and proved that the river was as rich as it was beautiful. On the 2nd June we crossed the shallow and muddy lake, exceedingly rich in fishes, but attractive only in the peeps of distant scenery which were to be got from its surface, and on the next day we traversed the dreariest part of the steppe which we had yet seen. Here, however, we made the acquaintance of three most noteworthy steppe animals—the wild horse or kulan, the saiga antelope, and Pallas’ sand-grouse. Our Kirghiz secured a kulan foal and shot one of the birds. In the evening we rested among the spurs of Altai, and next day we met our former hosts at the appointed place, and continued our journey under their guidance.
It was a delightful journey, though wind, snow, and rain were all too frequent, and robbed the pleasant yurt (which we carried with us) of much of its comfort, though torrents barred our path, and though we had to find our way along precipitous slopes such as at home a chamois-hunter, but certainly no horseman would attempt. A Russian Governor does not travel like an ordinary mortal, least of all when he journeys through uninhabited territory. He is accompanied by the district-officers and their subordinates, by the elders and clerks of the community, by the elite of the district which he visits, by a troop of Cossacks and their officers including the captain, by his own servants and those of his escort, &c. And when, as in this case, the expedition is to a comparatively unknown country, when it is necessary to consult with Kirghiz communities, the cavalcade is enormously increased. For not only have yurts and tents to be carried, as is usual on steppe journeys, but flocks of sheep have to go on in front of the little army to feed the hundreds on their way through the barren wilderness. Since leaving the Zaizan lake we had been once more in China, and a journey of several days had to be faced before we could hope to come across human settlements, which are confined to the deeper valleys among the mountains.
At first we were accompanied by more than two hundred men, mostly Kirghiz, who had been summoned to receive an imperial order relating to the suspension of their pasture-rights in the crown-lands of the Altai, and to come to an agreement as to consequent changes in their wanderings. But even after the deliberations were ended, our retinue still numbered over a hundred horses and sixty men. In the early morning the yurts were raised from over our heads and sent on in front with the baggage; then we followed in companies, riding slowly until the ladies, the General’s amiable wife and daughter, overtook us. We breakfasted at some suitable spot, waited till the last of the pack-horses had gone ahead, and then went on, usually reaching our halting-place along with the daily dwindling flock of sheep which always started first. Thus, every evening, we had an opportunity of watching the pleasant picture of camp-life take form before us. Lovely verdant valleys full of spring’s fragrance invited us; from the lofty precipitous mountains, still snow-capped, we got glimpses of the distant highlands and of the steppe-land, which we had traversed, stretching to the Zaur and the Tarabagatai; and at last we caught sight of Markakul—the pearl among the mountain lakes of the Altai—and entered the highlands proper. For three long days we journeyed along the lake, hindered by bad roads and bad weather, and delayed by a Chinese embassy sent to the Governor; then we rode through dense forests and over scarce surmountable passes, and down by breakneck paths towards the Russian frontier, and into the fertile valley of the Buchtarma. There in the newly-established Cossack settlement the Altaiskaya-Stanitza, we were again able to enjoy Russian hospitality and to rest in comfort.
The officers of the Stanitza were kind enough to present us with samples of the produce of the district, and we continued our journey on the 12th of June. The sun shone cheerfully down from a cloudless sky on the splendid landscape, now for the first time unveiled. Immense park-like valleys, surrounded by steeply towering, snow-capped mountains, suffused with bewitching colours, beautiful trees on the meadows, blossoming bushes on the slopes, and an infinite wealth of flowers, beautiful beyond description, and as it were exultant in the sunlight long denied to them, newly unfolded wild roses, the call of the cuckoo and songs from a hundred throats, the auls of the Kirghiz in the broader valleys, and the Russian villages surrounded by green shrubs, grazing herds, fruitful fields, rushing brooks, and jagged rocks, mild air and the balmy fragrance breathing of spring—such were some of the elements which intoxicated the senses and made our journey a continual delight. Soon we crossed the boundaries of the crown-lands of the Altai, a property not much smaller than France! At the end of a day’s journey we reached the little town of Serianoffsk with its silver mines. After we had been hospitably entertained and had inspected all the works, we turned again to the Irtish, and were borne by the rapid stream through deep and picturesque gorges past Buchtarminsk to Ustkamenogorsk, whence we journeyed in wagons once more through these crown-lands which give promise of a rich future. Steppe-like plains adjoin the pleasant tracts which lie along the spurs of the mountains; extensive forests alternate with cultivated land. Large prosperous villages; valuable, fertile fields of coal-black soil; well-built men with a look of conscious prosperity, beautiful women in picturesque costume, both child-like in their inquisitiveness and in their good-nature; excellent, serviceable, untiring horses, and powerful, shapely oxen lying at ease in large herds; an endless succession of caravans bearing ore and coal along well-made roads, marmots on the slopes of the mountains, souslik on the plains, imperial eagles on the guide-posts by the highway, charming little gulls on the water-basins and about the townships—such cheerful pictures enlivened our route. We hastened through the country as if in flight, paying a passing visit to the mining town appropriately called Schlangenberg (Snake-town), and allowing ourselves but a short rest in the country-town of Barnaul. Thence we journeyed to the little hill-town of Zalair, and thence to the great government-town of Tomsk.
Fig. 59.—Imperial Eagle, Marmot, and Souslik.
Before we came to Barnaul we had reached the Obi; at Barnaul we crossed it, and at Tomsk we embarked on board a boat. Through its tributary the Tom we entered this giant river, whose basin is larger than that of all the west European rivers taken together, and sailed for about 1700 miles, towards the north. For four days and nights the river—flooded to its highest water-mark—bore us at a rate almost twice as quick as a steamboat hastening up-stream; we required eleven full days and nights to cover the distance between the mouth of the Irtish and that of the Shtchutshya, although we only rested a few hours in Samarowo and Bereosoff, and did not include in our reckoning the two days which we spent in Obdorsk, the last Russian village on the river. The river is gigantic and most impressive, dreary and monotonous though it be called. In one valley, whose breadth varied from six to sixteen miles, it split up into numerous branches surrounding countless islands, and often broadening out into extensive lake-like shallows; near its mouth the depth of water in the main stream—miles in breadth—was on an average about 90 feet. Primeval forests, hardly broken by clearings, into whose heart not even the natives have penetrated, clothed the true banks of the river; willow-woods in all stages of growth covered the islands, which are continually carved at by the floods, eaten away, and built up afresh. The further down we went the poorer became the land, the thinner and more scanty the woods, the more miserable the villages, though as the river nears its mouth the water liberally supplies the food which the land itself denies. Not far below Tomsk, beyond Tobolsk, the soil ceases to reward cultivation, further down the grazing of cattle gradually ceases; but the river teems with shoals of valuable fishes, and the primeval forests along its shores yield rich spoil to the huntsman. Fisher-folk and huntsmen replace the peasants, and the reindeer herdsmen the cattle tenders. Russian settlements become more and more rare, the homes of the Ostiaks become more frequent, until at length the only visible signs of man’s presence are the movable, conical, birch-bark huts or “tshums” of the Ostiaks, and occasional exceedingly miserable log-huts, the temporary shelters of Russian fishermen.
Fig. 60.—An Ostiak Settlement on the Banks of the Obi.
We had determined to explore a tundra or moss-steppe, and had therefore fixed upon the Samoyede peninsula between the Ob and the Kara Sea, all the more because a solution of certain important commercial problems was to be looked for in this portion of the broad treeless zone which encircles the pole—a region, moreover, on which Europeans had scarcely as yet set foot. In Obdorsk and further down-stream we hired for this journey several Russians, Syryanians, Ostiaks, and Samoyedes, and set out on the 15th of July.
From the northern heights of the Ural range, which is here represented by lofty mountains, three rivers arise near one another, the Ussa, a tributary of the Petchora, the Bodarata, which enters the Kara Sea, and the Shtchutshya, which flows into the Obi. It was the basin of the last, Shtchutshya, which we determined to visit. But no one could tell us what the country was like, how we should fare, whether we might hope to find reindeer or be forced to go afoot.
To the mouth of the Shtchutshya river we journeyed in the usual fashion, paying off our oarsmen at each Ostiak settlement and hiring others; when we reached the river our own followers began their work. For eight days we worked slowly up the stream, following its countless serpentine windings further into the monotonous, indeed dismally tedious tundra, now approaching the Ural range, and again diverging from it. For eight long days we saw no human beings, but only traces of their presence,—their necessary property packed on sledges for the winter, and their burial-places. Treacherous swamps on both sides of the river prevented us from making inland excursions, and millions of bloodthirsty mosquitoes tormented us without ceasing. On the seventh day we saw a dog—quite an event for us and our crew; on the eighth day we came upon an inhabited tshum, and in it the only man who could tell us about the country before us. We took him with us as a guide, and with him, three days later, we set out on an expedition which proved as dangerous as it was fatiguing.
We were told that reindeer were to be found nine full days’ journey from us, on the pasturage of Saddabei in the Ural range; at this season there was not one to be got near the Shtchutshya. There was nothing for it but to set off on foot, and to face, as best we might, the difficulties and hardships of a journey through a pathless, barren, mosquito-plagued district, altogether hostile to man, and worst of all—unknown!
After careful and prolonged consultation with the natives our preparations were made, the burdens which each one was to bear were carefully weighed, for the spectre of starvation loomed before us. Full well we knew that only the nomad herdsman—but no huntsman—was able to keep body and soul together on the tundra; well we knew by previous experience all the trials of the pathless way, all the torments which the army of mosquitoes promised, the inconstancy of the weather, and the general inhospitability of the tundra, and we made our preparations with due consideration of all these. But we could not prepare for what we did not know and could not foretell, and for what, in fact, eventually befell us. Not that we wished to turn back, though, had we foreseen what was to happen, we might well have done so.
Dressed in short fur, heavily laden with knapsack, weapons, and ammunition, we set off on the 29th of July, leaving our boat in the charge of two of our company. Painfully we tramped, gasping under our burdens, stopping every hour and half hour, and at length every thousand paces, but finding no rest on account of the mosquitoes, which tortured us day and night without ceasing. We ascended countless hills, and traversed as many valleys, we waded through as many marshes and morasses; we passed by hundreds of nameless lakes, and crossed a multitude of swamps and streams.
As it happened, the tundra could not well have been more inhospitable. The wind beat the drizzling rain into our faces; drenched to the skin we lay down on the soaking soil, without roof to cover us, or fire to warm us, and unceasingly tormented by mosquitoes. But the sun dried us again, gave us new courage and strength, and on we went. A piece of good news did us more good than sun or sleep. Our followers discovered two tshums, and with our field-glasses we distinctly saw the reindeer around them. Heartily delighted, we already pictured ourselves stretched comfortably in the sledge, the only possible vehicle in such a district, and we seemed to see the quickly-stepping antlered team. We reached the tshum and the reindeer; a dismal sight met our eyes. For among the herds splenic fever was raging—the most dreadful, and for man also the most dangerous of plagues, the most inexorable messenger of death, unsparing and merciless. Against its ruin-bringing attacks man is powerless; it reduces peoples to poverty, and claims its victims as surely from among men as among beasts.[81]
I counted seventy-six dead reindeer in the immediate neighbourhood of the tshum. Wherever the eye turned it lighted on carcasses or on beasts, both young and old, lying at their last gasp. Others came, with death at their heart, to the sledges already loaded for departure, as if they hoped to find help and safety in the neighbourhood of man. They would not be driven away, but remained stock-still for a couple of minutes with staring eyes and crossed fore-legs, then swayed from side to side, groaned and fell; a white foam issued from mouth and nose, a few convulsions, and another was dead. Milk-giving mothers and their calves separated themselves from the herd; the mothers succumbed with similar symptoms; the calves looked on curiously, as if amazed at their mother’s strange behaviour, or grazed unconcernedly beside the death-bed. When they came near, and found instead of their devoted mother a corpse, they snuffed at this, recoiled in terror, and hastened away, straying hither and thither and crying. They sought to approach one or other of the adults, but were repulsed by all, and continued lowing and searching until they found what they did not seek—death, from an arrow sped by the hand of their owner, who sought to save at least their skin. Death was equally unsparing of old and young; before the destroying angel the strongest and stateliest stags fell as surely as the yearlings of both sexes.
Schungei, the owner of the herd, his relatives and servants, hurried to and fro among the dead and dying beasts, seeking with mad eagerness to save whatever was possible. Although not unaware of the dreadful danger to which they exposed themselves if the minutest drop of blood or a particle of the infected foam should enter their system, knowing well that hundreds of their race had died in agony from the incurable plague, they worked with all their strength skinning the poisoned corpses. A blow from a hatchet ended the sufferings of the dying deer, an arrow killed the calves, and in a few minutes the skin—which for weeks is quite capable of spreading the infection—was off and lying beside the others. With blood-stained hands the men dipped morsels cut from the bodies of the calves into the blood collected in the chest-cavity, and swallowed them raw. The men seemed like executioners, the women like horrible harpies, and both like blood-smeared hyænas wallowing in carrion. Careless of the sword of death which hung over their heads, rather by a gossamer thread than by a hair, they grubbed and wallowed, helped even by their children, from half-grown boys down to a little girl hardly more than a suckling.
The tshums were shifted to an adjacent hill. The unfortunate herd, which had started from the Ural two thousand strong, and had now dwindled to a couple of hundred, whose path was marked by a line of carcasses, was collected afresh around the tshum; but next morning there were again forty corpses around the resting-place.
We knew the danger of infection from animals with splenic fever or anthrax, but we had not adequately appreciated its extent. Thus we bought some fresh, apparently quite healthy reindeer, harnessed them to three sledges, loaded these with our baggage, and striding beside them went on our way lightened. The plague forbade us from getting reindeer flesh to eat, as we had hoped, and we began to look around more carefully and anxiously for some small game, a willow grouse, a great snipe, a golden plover, or a duck. Sparing our slender supplies to the utmost, we crouched around the miserable fire, whenever the least of Diana’s nymphs had been propitious, and collectively roasted our paltry spoil as best we might. Of satisfying our hunger there was no longer any possibility.
After we had crossed the way of death which Schungei had followed, we reached the first goal, the Bodarata. There we had the inestimable good fortune to find more tshums and reindeer. Thus aided we made for the sea, but we were forced to turn without setting foot on the shore. For before us lay not only a pathless morass, but again a countless heap of reindeer carcasses; we were once more on the path by which Schungei had fled homewards, and our new acquaintance, the herdsman Zanda, would not dare to cross it.
For in his herd also death had been busy with his scythe; the destroyer had visited his house, and yet more disastrously those of his neighbours. The man who had been his companion on his wanderings had eaten of an infected fat reindeer which he had hastily killed, and he had paid for his rashness with his own life and that of his family. Thrice had the herd Zanda shifted his tshum, and thrice he had dug a grave among the corpses of the reindeer. First, two children fell victims to the dread disease, then the thoughtless man’s servant, on the third day the man himself. Another child was still ill, groaning in its agony, when we set out on our journey to the sea; its cries were silenced when we returned to the tshum, for the grave had received a fifth victim. And this was not to be the last.
One of our men, the Ostiak Hadt, a willing, cheerful fellow, who had endeared himself to us, had been complaining since the day before of torturing pains which became ever more severe. He complained especially of an increasing sensation of cold. We had placed him on one of the sledges when we reached the herdsman’s tshum, and thus we bore him when the tshum was shifted for the fifth time. He lay at the fire moaning and whining in our midst. From time to time he raised himself and bared his body to the warmth of the fire. Similarly he pushed his numb feet against the flames, and seemed to care not that they singed. At length we fell asleep, perhaps he did also, but when we awoke next morning his bed was empty. Outside, in front of the tshum, he sat quietly leaning on a sledge, with his face to the sun, whose warmth he sought. Hadt was dead.
Some hours later we buried him according to the customs of his people. He was a true “heathen”, and in heathenish fashion he should be buried. Our “orthodox” companions hesitated to do this; our “heathen” followers helped us in the ceremony, which, though not Christian, was at any rate dignified and human. The grave received its sixth victim.
Should this be the last? Involuntarily this question arose; it was gruesome for us all to have death as a travelling companion. Fortunately for us, Hadt’s grave was the last on this journey.
Seriously, very seriously, still oppressed by increasing dearth of provisions, we turned again towards the Shtchutshya. Zanda provided a scant diet for our followers, while we relied on what we could shoot, and were pinched enough. But one forenoon we captured a family of geese, and shot several willow grouse, snipe, and plovers, and celebrated a feast, for it was pleasant to be able to eat without counting the mouthfuls. But without the help of our host it would hardly have been possible for us to have survived.
We reached the river, and, almost at the end of our stores, we regained our boat. Here we feasted on fare which was poor enough, though, after a fortnight’s privation, it seemed most sumptuous. We said farewell for ever to the tundra.
A Shaman, whom we had found busy fishing further up the Obi, and had asked to give us a sample of his art and wisdom, had duly beaten his dull-sounding drum to summon Yamaul, the messenger of the gods, who befriended him, and had told us that we should next year revisit the inhospitable country which we had just left, but that we should then go to the region where the Shtchutshya, Bodarata, and Ussa have their source. For two emperors would reward us, and the elders of our people would be satisfied with our report, and send us forth again. Moreover, on our journey no further misfortune would befall us. So the messenger of the gods, perceived by him alone, had said.
The last part of his prophecy was true enough. Slowly but without mishap or accident we journeyed for twenty-three days up the Obi, and after long delay we fortunately reached a steamboat, on which we ascended the Irtish for three days. Without misfortune, though not without hindrance, we crossed the Ural, in a comfortable steamer we glided swiftly down the Kama, more slowly we ascended the Volga. In Nijni-Novgorod, in Moscow, in St. Petersburg, we were hospitably received, as before, and were joyously welcomed at home. Our “elders” seem to have been well pleased with our report, but to the tundra I at least shall never return.