Siberia To-Day

by Frederick Ferdinand Moore

One evening I got word that the Ataman would see me. I set out for his residence with a Russian civilian agent, who had come from Manila with the expedition. His name was Nicholas Romanoff, a name which amused many of the Cossack officers.

But Mr. Romanoff knew the Ataman intimately, and Mr. Romanoff kindly suggested to me the things I should say to the Ataman, just as no doubt he suggested to the Ataman what the Ataman should say to me. This state of affairs indicates to some extent the ease and ability of American officers getting an absolute American viewpoint on Russian affairs, and the Russian and Cossack officers being able to understand fully the American attitude.

I considered it about as satisfactory a proceeding, for Russian and American interests, as getting a kiss through a plate-glass window. I imagine that the interpreters got satisfaction, for they were automatically turned into diplomats, and controlled both sides. And the power granted them, made it possible for them to reflect the point of view from which they might acquire for themselves the most prestige. But in the case of Mr. Romanoff, there was every evidence that he displayed discretion and tact. He was the personal interpreter of the Chief of Intelligence, who had brought him to Siberia from Manila. And Mr. Romanoff had known Siberia well before he had changed it as a place of residence, for the Philippines.

At that season of the year we lost the sun about four thirty in the afternoon, and it was getting quite dark as we approached the Ataman’s residence. We were halted by the sentry, and on explaining our mission, were admitted to the hall. Here we were met by officers of the Ataman’s personal staff, and after the usual bowing, and heel-clicking, left our furs, and were ushered into a large drawing-room. The room was richly and tastefully furnished. The high-posted walls were hung with splendid tapestries, and the floor beautifully carpeted.

There were a few pieces of black furniture, which appeared to be of the ornately-carven Chinese variety. The whole effect was more oriental than Cossack, though of course the real Cossack is probably more oriental than anything else. And, in fact, I had heard that Semenoff was more of a Mongolian than a Cossack, being according to report, a Prince of Van. The only place of which I know named Van is in European Turkey, though there may be a Van in Mongolia.

The Ataman entered, on crutches. I saw a stockily-built man, of medium height, wearing Prussian blue trousers rather small at the bottoms of the legs, suggestive of being habitually worn with boots. He had on slippers. His face was heavily-jowled, very dark, his chin chubbily-protuberant in the Rubens style. He wore heavy drooping black mustaches, his black eyes keen and somewhat suspicious, his hair suggestive of scantness on top, and a Napoleonic lock down over his low, broad forehead.

His photographs were always made so as to bring out his Napoleonic points, which I had heard he prided himself upon. He was credited with carrying a book in his pocket which told how Napoleon acted in every situation which required a decision, and that when he had to decide anything, he first consulted the book. Evidently my visit brought up no point which required a Napoleonic decision—at least, I did not see him consult the book while I was there.

I was bowed to a chair, and the Ataman let himself down gently on a couch. He seemed a trifle worried, but he may have been oppressed by pain. He had only recently induced the banks of Chita to loan him several million rubles to pay off his army—and a local banker had called on me that day. After we had talked a little, and I had told the Ataman that I had heard of his ability as an organizer and leader of armies, and of his prowess in battle, he appeared relieved, and pulled the lock on his forehead down a bit more.

The lady who presided over his Chita household came in. The slight view I took of her as I rose and bowed, leaves me no recollections. Even had I desired to be courteous to a woman in her position, discretion counselled as little notice as possible.

I had heard that more than one Russian officer with an admiring eye for “wives” of other officers, had been picked up dead in the streets. A sharp look from the Ataman, and the hostess did not linger. I remember that she did not have on the pearl necklace for which the Ataman was said to have paid several hundred thousand rubles in Harbin, at a time when he was short of money for his troops. His domestic régime was reputed to cost him as much for upkeep as his army. Perhaps, after all, I was not introduced to the lady who got the pearls.