There was little to do in the daytime but flatten one’s nose against the hotel windows and look out on to the dreary market-place opposite, watching the busy crowds of buyers and sellers. It was the only market-place in Siberia where I ever saw flowers exposed for sale, but they were faded, scentless things. It always struck me as curious that, although wild flowers are so plentiful in Siberia, it is hopeless to try and grow roses or garden flowers. The market was the only place in Irkoutsk which showed any signs of life or animation. Even at mid-day the place looked as if everybody was either dead or asleep. The only signs of life visible were when a squad of soldiers, returning from drill, marched past with a cracked trumpet at their head, or a tea-caravan rattled and jingled across the square. Our sole amusement consisted in watching the cab-stand opposite the hotel, and speculating as to whether the dozen drivers asleep on their boxes would ever get a fare. We were there a week, and indoors the greater part of the day,——and when indoors looking out of window, for we had no books to read,——but never saw one hired.
The “droshki” or cab of Irkoutsk cannot be called a comfortable vehicle. It is springless, and only built to hold one person besides the driver. In shape it is not unlike a bath-chair without the hood. There is no guard-rail to hold on by, or anything to prevent one being hurled out as it bumps and bounds along the rough, uneven streets. As the drivers always went at full gallop, it was sometimes no easy matter to keep one’s seat.
On a fine day one saw many smart turn-outs at Irkoutsk, though the carriages with springs, were, I was told, in a constant state of repair. The chief object of the drivers seemed to be to tear along the streets as fast as they could without breaking down. Many of the horses had the near forelegs fastened to the hind for this purpose, a method peculiar, I imagine, to Siberia.
There was but one pleasant walk in Irkoutsk, a kind of boulevard situated on the banks of the Angara. It was a relief to find one’s way down here on a sunny afternoon. The sight of a bit of green foliage was refreshing, though the trees were withered, scrubby-looking things at best. There was, at any rate, a certain amount of life and animation in the broad and rapid river, alive with merchandise craft plying to and from Lake Baikal, and ferry-boats carrying passengers to public tea-gardens on the opposite bank. On fine afternoons the boulevard was the favourite haunt of nurses and children, and as a natural consequence soldiers, and reminded one (with a stretch of the imagination) of bits of the Champs Elysées or Tuileries Gardens in far-away Paris, an illusion very soon dispelled on looking back at the black roads and dismal-looking unfinished city. From here we walked homewards, as a rule, past the Porte de Moscou, a whitewashed brick buildings on the banks of the Angara, containing two small rooms with barred windows on either side. This arch was built in 1817, and was destined by the Russians to become the permanent prison of Napoleon I. when they should take him prisoner! Although he was in those days such an enemy of their country, Russians, and especially Siberians, now have the greatest respect for the memory of “Le Petit Caporal.” It may indeed be called adoration, for there is a sect at present existing in Siberia, which actually worships the spirit of the Great Emperor. They are called “Napoleonists,” and look upon the Czar and Greek Church with contempt, worshipping only the bust of their divinity, which is done with closed doors, and in strict secrecy. The supporters of this strange doctrine maintain that the Emperor still lives, that he escaped from St. Helena after his death, and crossed the seas in spirit to the shores of Lake Baikal, where he resumed his mortality, and now lives in the flesh. In time Napoleon will again raise a huge army, put the Czar and his Government to flight, and himself reign over Russia, after which the world is to be subjected to the Muscovite yoke!
The “Skopti,” or “White Doves,” is the secret sect said to be the most powerful in Irkoutsk. These look upon Peter III., of Russia, as their divinity, and believe him to be still living, touch no meat, wine, or spirits, but subsist entirely on milk and bread. All are eunuchs, and though they possess no temples or churches, are easily known by their pale faces and effeminate ways. Their object is to lead a life of absolute purity, and they worship a living virgin and Christ appointed by the elders.
The “Skopti” is perhaps the richest sect that exists in Russia, and many of the wealthiest men in Siberia belong to it. The creed is that as soon as 400,000 converts shall have been gathered into His fold, God will come to reign over them alone. All other religions and faiths shall be destroyed.
There exist also in Siberia the “Flagellants,” and “Molokani,” or milk-drinkers, but both are inferior in number to the “Skopti.” The Molokani came originally from the south of Russia. They believe in Christ, but do not acknowledge His divinity. The Emperor Nicholas so persecuted this sect, that he drove 20,000 of them out of Russia and into the Caucasus. From here many crossed the Black Sea into Turkey, where the Sultan gave them a village, and where they flourish up to the present day undisturbed by Turkish rule.
The “Klysti” or Flagellants date from the 13th century. These originally sprang from one Philipitch, a peasant who, deserting from the Russian army, declared himself to be the Supreme Being, and travelled over the country far and wide, preaching and making converts. Philipitch’s creed was simple enough, certainly, and suited to the understanding of the meanest capacity. It had but three commandments: (1) Drink no wine; (2) Remain where you are and what you are; (3) Never marry. During the performance of their rites the Klysti beat and flog each other unmercifully; but I do not fancy that many Flagellants now exist either in Russia or Siberia. It is certainly not a romantic or fascinating faith.
The time at Irkoutsk hung so heavily on our hands after the first three days, that we resolved to cut down the fortnight’s rest we had originally intended taking to one of a week. There was literally nothing of interest to see or do after the first twenty-four hours, and we had no incentive to prolong our stay. One fine morning, however, an apparition made its appearance on the balcony, where we were wont to smoke our morning cigar, that of a young and extremely pretty woman, distinctly not an Irkoutskian, but who looked, with her neat figure and tailor-made gown, as if she had just walked out of Bond Street. The meeting with a countrywoman, as we imagined her to be, lightened considerably the prospect of the four long weary days that must elapse before we pushed on to Tomsk. Madame R., however, was not an Englishwoman, as we had surmised, but a Dane, who had pluckily braved the danger and discomfort of the roads to accompany her husband (a telegraphic engineer) to Eastern Siberia. Our introduction to the lady was followed by one to Mr. R., and the cheery déjeûner à quatre that followed it, soon made us forget Irkoutsk and its depressing monotony; indeed to Mr. and Madame R. are due all the pleasing recollections I have retained of that gloomy city.