Our mule-drivers suggested an immediate adjournment to the inn, for the Russians, they said, lived outside the gates of Kalgan, at Yambooshan. The gate was shut at seven, after which hour, no one, European or otherwise, was permitted to enter or leave the city; but we stuck to our determination of seeing M. Batouyeff before nightfall. Riding out of the southern gate, we emerged on to a dry river-bed, on either banks of which stood several substantial and well-built houses of Chinese architecture. At the head of the valley stood apart from the others a single dwelling à l’Européenne——a pretty two-storied house with verandah and gaily coloured Venetians, standing in a spacious garden, down the centre path of which, as soon as we came in sight, two white-clad Europeans hurried to meet us.
One of these proved to be M. Ivanoff——partner of M. Batouyeff, who was, he explained, at that time away at Chefoo for a couple of months, enjoying the sea breezes after a residence of five years here without a break. Luckily for us M. Ivanoff spoke English fluently, having spent several years at Tientsin. He laughed outright when we asked him to direct us to the inn. “Ah, gentlemen, I hope you have not such a poor opinion of Russian hospitality as that,” said our friend, as he led the way up the neat gravel walk, lined with rose and geranium beds, to the house——where we found two large airy bedrooms, a sitting-room, and, best of all, a large bath-room placed at our disposal. “I do not live here myself, but my clerk will do anything for you. You have but to call ‘Michailof.’ He lives next door. Dinner will be served at eight o’clock. Gentlemen, I wish you good evening, and will do myself the pleasure of calling upon you again to-morrow.”
Here was luxury indeed. The sight of the bed was almost too much for me. I felt inclined to forego dinner altogether, jump in, and revel in its clean, soft sheets and white dainty curtains! A delicious warm bath, a change of clothes, and we found ourselves seated at an open window, looking down upon the moon-bathed valley of Yambooshan, enjoying an excellent dinner à la russe, washed down by a still more excellent bottle of Chateau Lafitte. “Here’s to the Russians,” said Lancaster, as we tossed off for the first time a glass of that insidious though delicious liqueur “Vodka.” “How the English do misunderstand them,” I echoed: a sentiment I had occasion to repeat more than once during our weary pilgrimage through the Asiatic realms of the White Czar.
[3]. Mongol for black.
CHAPTER IV.
KALGAN, OR CHANG-CHIA-KOW.
We had intended making a stay of four or five days, at the most, at Kalgan. This, we thought, would give us ample time to get carts, camels, and men for the crossing of the Great Gobi Desert; for, we had been led to believe, when at Tientsin, that there would not be the slightest necessity for remaining more than a day or so at the frontier city, unless we particularly wished to do so. But, alas! as at Pekin, fresh difficulties cropped up hourly; and when we broached to M. Ivanoff our intention of leaving for Ourga in three or four days’ time, he simply laughed in our faces.
“You must recollect you are not in Europe,” said the hospitable Russian, “and also that Mongols are worse even than Chinamen in the matter of delay. Moreover, I shall have to get your carts built, a question of ten days at the very least. The camels, too, are all out on the plains. No, gentlemen; I fear you must make up your minds to at least a fortnight’s imprisonment in Kalgan!”
There was nothing for it under the circumstances but to smile and look pleasant, thanking Providence, meanwhile, for giving us such comfortable quarters, and not cooping us up in a Chinese inn. Considering everything, we had by no means a bad time of it with the Russian tea-merchants at Kalgan.