From Pekin to Calais by Land

by Harry De Windt

It was getting dusk when we landed, and, hiring droshkis, we set out with the Sourikoffs for a drive through the town. The Tobolsk droshki is a terrible vehicle, a miniature jaunting car built to hold two, and drawn by a horse three or four times too large for it. There is nothing to hold on by, not even a guard-rail, and as the streets of Tobolsk are anything but smooth, and our yemstchik drove at full gallop, it became a matter of considerable difficulty to stick to the ship, especially as my companion was a somewhat stout man, and took up more than two-thirds of the seat. I was not sorry when, the drive over, we arrived at the summit of the hill whereon stands the governor’s and archbishop’s palaces, and cathedral, the latter a fine building in the Byzantine style.

The city of Tobolsk has a population of about 30,000,[^[18]] and covers an area four versts long by about three broad. Although many stone buildings are springing up in various parts of the city, most of those in the lower town or mercantile parts are of wood. Many of the streets, though narrow and irregular, are paved completely with wooden planks laid crosswise, so that the town presents a tidier and less unfinished appearance than either Tomsk or Irkoutsk. I narrowly escaped being roughly handled when walking in the streets of the lower town, when, all unconsciously, I threw away the lighted end of a cigarette, a proceeding which instantly surrounded me with half a dozen infuriated inhabitants. It took Sourikoff all his time to appease them, and assure them that I was ignorant of the ways of the place, and a stranger to Siberian customs and manners, though, as I assured him, I had frequently done the same thing in other towns, and no notice had been taken. As, however, Tobolsk has been totally destroyed by fire no less than thirteen times, one can scarcely wonder at the anxiety shown by the inhabitants.

The shops were good. Though it was past nine o’clock when we returned to the lower town from visiting the public gardens and Yermak’s monument, most of them were open, and the streets well lit and crowded with people. Perhaps one of the most curious sights in Tobolsk is the “Kamaoulie Koloko,” or, translated literally, “Bell with the ear torn off.” Though so late, we managed to get a sight of this, which is kept in a kind of shed close to the archbishop’s palace, and of which a brief account may not be without interest to the reader.

Russia, during part of the fourteenth century, was governed by the Czar Boris Godorinoff, who by the way had no right whatsoever to the crown. The line which had then reigned for nearly one hundred and fifty years, a long time in those days, was represented by one Prince Dimitri, a boy of twelve years old, but on the death of Dimitri’s father in 1593, Boris raised a revolt, with the result that he was proclaimed Czar, and the boy Dimitri deposed from his rightful position. The seat of government was then at Boglitch, near the site whereon now stands the city of Nijni Novgorod, and to this place Dimitri was sent, so as to be under the immediate supervision of the peasant king. The latter, seeing an evident movement in favour of Dimitri, feared that if allowed to live, the youthful pretender might one day prove troublesome, and determined to have him assassinated. While crossing the market-place, therefore, the boy was seized by some soldiers and stabbed in broad daylight, while the Czar contemplated the scene from the windows of the palace, to see the effect it might have on the population, who, however, evinced not the slightest disposition to protect the young prince or avenge his murder. Only one dissentient tongue was heard, and that an iron one. A priest happening to see the crime from the cathedral belfry, and being a partisan of the Dimitri line, commenced to toll the great bell for the repose of the young prince’s soul, a bell which had always been regarded as sacred, and was only rung on the occasion of the assembling of the council or the coronation or death of a Czar. Infuriated at the priest’s interference, Boris gave orders that he should at once be tortured and executed. Nor was this enough. The bell itself should suffer, and as soon as the ringer had expiated his offence, and lay a mangled corpse on the open market-place, the bell was unhung, carried down from the belfry, and placed beside the body of its ringer. It was then beaten with clubs and sticks by the entire populace, Boris at their head!

But the quaintest part of the story is to come. Siberian exiles in those days were as a rule tortured before setting out for their place of imprisonment. The punishments inflicted were more or less severe, according to the nature of their crime, but all, without distinction, had their nostrils torn off with red hot pincers. This was the distinguishing mark of the exile. The public flogging over, Boris decided that the offending bell should be placed on a cart and exiled to Tobolsk, where it has remained ever since. There was one difficulty, though, the bell had no nostrils. But the czar was a man of infinite resource, and, not without a certain grim humour, so had one of the hangers removed instead! The “Kamaoulie Koloko” is nearly all of silver, and has a deep, beautiful tone. The Tobolskians are exceedingly proud of their trophy. One sees bells everywhere; as signs over the inn doors, as toys, work-boxes, handles of walking-sticks, cigarette-cases, even sleeve-links are made in imitation of the famous “iron exile of Boglitch.” It is as celebrated in its way as the Tun of Heidelberg or Lion of Lucerne.

Though a rising place as far as art and commerce is concerned, Tobolsk is very unhealthy, and is surrounded with vast stagnant marshes, fruitful sources of malaria and fever. There is no spring, and the summer is hot, dull, and rainy, the sun at this season of the year being seldom seen for more than two days together. Scarlet fever and diphtheria are seldom absent, and in the prison, which is built to accommodate three thousand, but is often half as full again, there are occasionally severe epidemics of small-pox and typhus. Cholera is, however, unknown. The winter is perhaps the healthiest season, but even then, when in most parts of Siberia the sun is shining in a cloudless sky, Tobolsk is wreathed in damp mists from the fever swamps surrounding it. It is hard to imagine a more melancholy and depressing place than it must be in the summer months, and prisoners say they would rather be sent to Nertchinsk for ten years, than have to spend two at Tobolsk, although it is so much nearer home and European Russia. A curious discovery was made here in 1862 by the superintendent of police. Some excavations were being made by some workmen in the lower town, when they came upon a number of large subterranean passages running in all directions and obstructed every fifty yards or so by massive iron gates. News of this was at once telegraphed to Petersburg, when, to the surprise of the inhabitants, a message came back, ordering that the places excavated should be closed up at once. As the order came direct from the czar, there was nothing to be said, and the existence of the tunnels, or how they ever came there, remains a mystery to the present day. The passages are said to exist only in the lower town. There are none under the hills where the government buildings are situated, which inclines some to the belief that they were built by some former czar, to be used in case of a revolt. Still it must be rather unpleasant for the good people of Tobolsk to live over a possible dynamite mine!

The voyage from Tobolsk to Tiumen was pleasant enough. Narrowed to a width of scarcely two hundred yards, the blue river meanders lazily through green fields, past pretty villages, neatly built and prosperous-looking, while the ruddy, happy-looking peasantry at work in the riverside meadows were a contrast to the dirty, sullen-looking population further east. A few hours before reaching Tiumen, however, all vegetation disappeared as if by magic, and we entered a sterile, sandy desert. “What a paradise for sportsmen!” said Sourikoff as we watched, from the deck of the steamer, the flocks of geese and ducks, and other wild fowl, wheeling backwards and forwards over the arid plain. The sky was black with them.

About midday on the 28th of September, a glittering speck appeared on the horizon, which presently developed into a confused mass of stone and wooden buildings, spires and golden domes. Two hours later we had moored alongside the busy quay and crowded wharves of Tiumen, realizing to the full that our journey was now practically over, for there within one hundred yards of us was the railway-station and just beyond it the luxurious-looking Pullman car, which was to bear us to Ekaterinburg and thence over the Oural Mountains to Perm. The whistling and puffing of the locomotive made one feel almost at home again. We forgot, in the excitement of the moment, that we were still in Asia, and many a weary mile from Old England!

The line from Tiumen to Ekaterinburg has only been built two years, and belongs to a private company. The cars are all open to each other, on the American principle, the second class being every bit as good as the first class on the Midland or Great Northern Railway in England, and the fares absurdly low. That from Tiumen to Perm, a distance of nearly five hundred miles, is only twenty-eight roubles, first-class (under 3l. sterling), and I can safely say that I have never in any country travelled so luxuriously. The stations are of stone, that at Tiumen being built in the centre of a large and beautifully kept garden. It reminded one of a railway-station in a German Spa, so neat and beautifully kept were the gravel-paths and flower-beds, the fountains and iron seats under the lime-trees. As for the refreshment-room, it was equal to any in France, and far better than any I have ever seen in England. Marble floors, tables spread with snowy cloths and glittering with plate and china, neat, white-aproned waiters, and a pretty barmaid presiding over the huge sideboard, with its tempting array of caviare, pickled salmon, pâtés de foie gras, and forests of champagne and liqueur bottles, was a strange scene for Asia. It was certainly one of the most agreeable disappointments of our voyage, and after a capital dinner à la carte, washed down by an excellent bottle of Medoc, coffee, and kümmel, we came to the conclusion that, however behindhand they may be in other matters, the Russians certainly do understand the art of railway travelling. The train was not leaving till 9 p.m., which gave us time for a stroll round the town. Cab fares in these parts are not ruinous. The distance from the railway-station to the town (about three miles) costing us under one shilling English money.

Tiumen is a bare, unfinished-looking place, with a population of thirty thousand, and is situated on the banks of the river Toura, a smaller branch of the Irtish. In the centre of the town is a plain, a dusty waste in summer and muddy swamp in winter, about three miles square. This is surrounded on three sides by wooden and brick buildings. In the centre is a cluster of rough wooden sheds and canvas booths, which is dignified by the name of “Bazaar,” where vodka, provisions of all sorts, clothes, and agricultural implements are sold. Hard by, a circular building, built of rough planks, and covered with gaudy posters representing impossible men performing still more impossible feats, was pointed out to us with evident pride by an inhabitant, as the circus. “There would be a performance that night,” said our new acquaintance, who spoke a few words of French. “Why did we not stay for it and go on the next day? and he would show us round Tiumen after dark.” But we declined the offer with thanks. He was a dirty, rough-looking fellow in Moujik kaftan and high boots, and did not inspire confidence. “Then perhaps your excellencies would like to visit a prison barge. One arrived this morning, and is empty,” was the next suggestion.