We were detained some time at the ferry over the River Uda, on which river the town of Nijni Udinsk is situated, for a caravan of over 200 carts was being taken across, and it was quite an hour before we managed to persuade the ferryman to take us on board. In the meantime we amused ourselves watching the busy scene and the frantic efforts made by men and horses to drag the heavy tea-carts up the steep river-bank. Not a hundred yards off, a young and pretty woman was bathing in the stream, stark naked, a proceeding which seemed to amuse not a little the ragged, wild-looking fellows in charge of the caravan. Some, bolder than the rest, ventured to embark in an interchange of chaff with the fair bather, who, far from being dismayed, only laughed and showed her white teeth derisively, giving her assailants back as good as they gave. Siberian women are certainly not troubled with shyness.
It was dusk when we reached the post-house, a large brick building, with a good garden and shady courtyard. The waiting-room was taken possession of by five Japanese youths, who, after a course of study at St. Petersburg, were returning to Japan viâ Wladivostok and the Amour. But the innkeeper’s wife (a pretty flaxen-haired Swede), would not hear of our sharing the big room with the Japs, but laid us a table in her own private sitting-room, where, at the open window, looking on to the garden, redolent of sweetbriar and honeysuckle, we enjoyed the first comfortable meal we had made for nearly a fortnight. Our little hostess prepared it with her own hands, and took quite a motherly interest in us, a kindness we could not but repay by visiting and admiring her firstborn (a little chubby-cheeked girl of a few weeks old), the miniature of her mother, that lay asleep in a swinging cradle suspended from the ceiling of her neat, chintz-curtained bedroom. That all post-houses were like this, I thought, as I turned in on a comfortable (and stuffed) sofa. A slight touch of frost in the air made a couple of blankets, that our little friend insisted on giving us, very acceptable, and a last look at the night having shown us a bright moon and cloudless sky, we slept soundly without any fear of rain on the morrow.
Had we consulted our own wishes, we should have stayed at least a couple of days at this friendly oasis, but time would not allow us more than a few hours’ rest, and bidding farewell to our kind little hostess, we had left Nijni Udinsk far behind us ere the sun had fairly risen. The town, is neatly and regularly built, and contains about four thousand inhabitants. Though the pavements are of wood, many of the houses are of whitewashed brick, which, with their bright green roofs and shutters, somewhat relieve the melancholy effect which in every Siberian town is produced by the sombre colour of the roads, and unpainted wooden houses. There were but one or two shops, however, for the sale of stores of all kinds; and the streets, though broad and regular, were unlighted.
All went “merry as a marriage bell” for two days after leaving Nijni Udinsk, the weather, though cold and frosty at nights, remaining bright and fine. The aspect of the country, too, was more picturesque and cheerful than any we had passed through since leaving the Trans-Baikal. The roads were smoother and wider. By the side, wild roses, convolvuli, bluebells, and wild hyacinth grew luxuriantly——while a kind of high, red-leafed fern, common in this district, gave a pleasant and bright relieving spot of colour to the dull, monotonous pine and larch.
As a set-off to these advantages, however, we suffered terribly from mosquitoes, which swarmed by day, but which, as soon as the sun had set, were driven in by the cold. So bad were they, that the peasants we passed on the road or in the cornfields wore black gauze veils, fastened like a mask over their faces, and we had cause to regret not having provided ourselves with these safeguards, for, for the few days they lasted, these plagues gave one no rest for an instant, and one’s blood was in a constant state of fever, from the irritation set up by the poisonous bites. Fortunately they did not trouble us long, and once past Atchinsk disappeared altogether.
Scarcely a day now passed that we did not meet prisoners, in gangs of two to three hundred each, on their way to Irkoutsk, Chita, and other parts of Eastern Siberia. The appearance of our tarantass was invariably the signal for stragglers to fall in, and as we passed through the crowd, the poor wretches pressed in eagerly on either side and begged for kopeks, cigarettes, and food, though, as regarded the latter necessary, we were usually as badly off as they themselves. We noticed that the further west we got, many more of the men wore chains, probably on account of the facilities for escape being easier. Also that, while the ostrogs east of Tomsk are insecure, dilapidated buildings, those to the west are nearly all new and substantial-looking, surrounded by a double guard of Cossacks, and protected in many cases by a brick wall surmounted with high chevaux de frise.
I remember meeting a gang, two days after leaving Nijni Udinsk. It was a wild, desolate bit of road, and though a bright, sunny day, in semi-darkness, for the forest trees, through which we were passing, almost met over our heads. Suddenly, a turn of the road brought us full in view of one of the dismal grey processions with which we had now grown familiar, and as it was a large gang, we ordered the yemstchik to draw up for a few moments while they filed by. Poor wretches! There was but little talking or laughing that day. The heat and thirst had taken all desire for conversation out of them, for it had been a long stage, of nearly thirty versts, from the last ostrog, and they had still seven more to do before resting for the night. Mosquitoes fairly swarmed in this defile, and the Cossacks on guard wore black gauze masks. I noticed, with satisfaction, that one of the brave fellows had taken off his to give to one of the women, who was struggling along with difficulty, two children clinging to her skirts. Seeing we had pulled up, they halted, as if by common consent, as they passed us, and led by one of the men, with a sweet tenor voice, struck up the sad, pathetic air, “Kouda Doroga Sibiri,” we had heard on Lake Baikal. It was an impressive scene, the guard carelessly resting on their rifles, the men with their sunburnt, weary faces, the women in long robes of white, their children clinging to them, and joining with tiny treble in the tune they knew so well. All sang in parts, and correctly, and with over two hundred voices, joining in the sweet melancholy air, the effect may be imagined.
About a mile further on we passed four télégas, containing political prisoners. On either side of each cart marched a Cossack with fixed bayonet and loaded rifle. The men, three in number, were in ordinary walking dress, which showed plainly the order to which they had belonged in happier days. It was easy to distinguish the homme du peuple in shabby, greasy garments taken from the scum of Petersburg or Odessa, from the slight, well-built man in the next téléga, in neat tweed suit, holding a cigarette in his small white hand, evidently a gentleman, who perhaps, but a few short months before had been surrounded with every comfort and luxury. The woman in the last téléga was neatly clad in a black silk gown, beginning to show slight symptoms of wear, and a red worsted “Tam O’Shanter” hat, a head-dress very popular among lady political exiles in Siberia. Though not pretty, she had a bright, clever face, and returned our bow with a pleasant smile and nod. We afterwards heard that this was Madame B————, who, for an alleged conspiracy against the Government at Odessa, was on her way to the mines of Kara, in the Trans-Baikal provinces, for life.
A large and luxurious tarantass brought up the rear of this weird procession. In the vehicle were a Cossack officer, and, seated by his side, a remarkably pretty and well-dressed woman. We had a good look at her, our yemstchiks stopping by mutual consent to have a chat and give the horses breathing-time. She did not look particularly enamoured of her companion, a coarse, red-faced man with bristly grey moustache, bloodshot eyes, and spectacles. Hers was a true Russian face——small regular features, deep blue (almost violet) eyes, and that sweet sad expression rarely seen out of the Czar’s dominions. In reply to my question, as soon as we had resumed our journey, if he knew who the lovely vision was, our yemstchik replied with a wink: “A prisoner’s wife.” The wink spoke volumes, and fully explained the poor woman’s aversion to her travelling companion.
She was, we afterwards heard, the wife of Count L., the young and good-looking prisoner we had met in the téléga. It must have been somewhat tantalizing to travel on day after day, week after week, within sight of his wife, and yet not be allowed to open his lips; more maddening still to see the advances made by the untutored boor who a very short time before would have deemed it an honour to be allowed even to address her. This is perhaps one of the hardest evils that political exiles have to endure. The wife of a prisoner may by Russian law accompany her husband to his destination at the expense of the Government, on condition that she travels with the prisoners, lives on prison food, sleeps in the ostrogs, and submits to prison discipline. There is but one distinction made between the wife of the political prisoner and the criminal convict, this being that the former is not compelled to walk, but may, if she prefers, travel in a “téléga,” a vehicle so rough and uncomfortable that walking is infinitely preferable. But should a married woman be young and pretty, heaven help her, especially if, as is frequently the case, the Cossack lieutenant in charge of the party is susceptible to the charms of female beauty. No sooner has the barge arrived at Tomsk than her persecutions commence, nor do they end, as a rule, until the unhappy woman has ceased to resist the advances of her brutal admirer. The commander of a prison-gang is as great a despot in his way as the Czar of all the Russias, for there is no one to check or gainsay him, the whole way from Tomsk to the shores of Okhotsk, and who would take the word of a convict (and especially a political one) against that of an officer of the Czar? In most cases the unfortunate husband is the unconscious means by which the wife is brought to her ruin. Threats of punishment, deprivation of food, and even flogging are made by the human devil in charge, till at length, worn out with repeated insults and ill-treatment, the poor wife too often yields, and is promoted to a place in his tarantass, whence she is forced to submit daily to the silent reproaches of the husband for whose good, in nine cases out of ten, she has fallen.