Siberia To-Day

by Frederick Ferdinand Moore

But for all the deserted-village aspect, the place must have been well inhabited. Under the ornately carved eaves of the buildings (which indicate long and boresome evenings spent in whittling) there were hanging long and deep fringes of brown salmon, which had been split and hung up to dry. These drying fish fill the village landscapes of Siberia in the Fall months.

The human being who craves beauty in his surroundings, even in the midst of desolation, is to be commended. Yet when the barbarian carves the house where he keeps his idol, or draws intricate designs on his canoe, or tattoos his body, we say that by these things he betrays his barbarism.

The Siberian can build a squat log house, and with strips of wood cut into the most delicate filigree work, make the ungainly structure dazzle your eyes in a manner only to be rivalled by a silicate Christmas card.

At home we still have houses which appear to be the products of the jig-saw, and look more like wedding cakes than places of residence. And all the time in Siberian villages I was being reminded of Yonkers and other suburban cities.

So I refrain from saying that the ornate eaves and window-trimming of Siberian homes prove the Siberians to be barbarians. It might be better to say that they outdo some of our own inhabitants when it comes to being decoratively-minded.

Barbarism? We are all barbaric still, but we use different methods of revealing it, and such things as are familiar to us, we assert go to prove our civilization. It is always the other fellow who is barbaric when the psychologist goes hunting for stigmata. If, for instance, I had found no decorations on Siberian homes, I might have berated Siberians for neglecting to beautify their surroundings. Those fretted eaves are symbolical of the fact that the Siberian peasant will aspire against all odds to better things, though he may be crushed to earth generation after generation.

Yet if the time and energy represented by these exterior decorations could have been expended on their brains, the Siberians might have saved themselves from many of their past, present and future woes. Or if instead of satisfying the visual yearning for beauty, the people protected their other senses from the terrible and menacing smells which go with their lack of sanitation, they might well do without filigree work on their buildings. For if cleanliness be next to godliness, the Siberian has a long and hard road to travel before he approaches the divinity.

Late in the afternoon we heard a train puffing laboriously up the line, and hastened back to the station. There was no reply to my telegram to Major Miller. One of two things must be done—go on, or give up. The telegraph operator informed me that there was no answer from Ushumun. The Japanese captain in charge of the station came to tell me that if I were seeking Major Miller, that officer was still at Ushumun, as his Japanese operators had so informed him not an hour before.

The train arrived, and unloaded another throng of unkempt natives. Those in the station clambered aboard, fighting for places in the fourth-class cars, already over-crowded in spite of the human freight which had disembarked.

The usual scramble for hot water for tea-kettles took place; men bought double handfuls of red salmon-eggs, big as peas, and giving off an odour similar to a glue factory. Caviare? No, they have never heard of caviare. Eekrah, they call this vile mess.