So this was the frontier city of Kiakhta, the delightful place where, as I had read, it never snows, and where, pinning my faith on this outrageous statement, I had been fondly imagining I should find a genial temperature; but the Siberian winter evidently holds good to its reputation to the furthermost confines of the vast country. However, it was no time for this fanciful musing, for we were in the middle of the night, and the road also, and I knew not where to turn for a lodging. The only hotel of Kiakhta was not strongly recommended (which means a great deal in Siberia), so I had made up my mind to seek accommodation elsewhere; but the whole town was asleep. The yemschik then said he knew of some people who had a room to let, if we could manage to wake them up. So we went to the house, and, happily, were successful. The room, on inspection, proved not only comfortable and clean, but wonderfully cheap in the bargain. So I decided to remain there during my stay in the town. And how thankful I was when I at length “turned in” for a good night’s rest after my somewhat eventful and fatiguing journey!
THE HIGH STREET, TROITZKOSAVSK.
[To face [p. 245].
My lodgings were in the High Street of Troitzkosavsk, the business suburb of Kiakhta, for in the frontier city itself there are not above fifty houses, nearly all of which belong to the great merchants. The frontier commissioner also lives there. I suppose it was the recollection of all the gaieties at Irkutsk, for I found Kiakhta and Troitzkosavsk terribly dull after the capital—so much so, in fact, that had I not made up my mind to complete my work I should have pushed on towards Ourga without delay, more especially as the weather continued bitterly cold and it snowed almost every day. There was only one redeeming feature in this dead-alive little frontier city, and that was the novel sights one occasionally sees in the streets. After the unvaried monotony of costume in other Siberian towns, it was refreshing here to see wild-looking Mongolians dashing up the quiet street on their wiry little ponies; or an occasional camel-caravan, with tea, arriving from the desert. It was a sign that a warmer and more picturesque country was close at hand, and made me long the more to get out of cold Siberia. But the novel and interesting sights at Kiakhta were but poor specimens of what I hoped to see further on; so I decided not to begin sketching them till I saw the genuine article in Mongolia itself.
MY FIRST GLIMPSE OF MONGOLIA.
[To face [p. 246].
By the way, a somewhat interesting incident occurred whilst I was here. I had made friends with a local photographer, a man of some considerable talent, and would frequently while away an hour in his company. One day that I was visiting his studio for the first time, I was much struck with a “background” painted on a large canvas lying against the wall. It was so exceptionally good that I could not refrain from making a remark upon it, when I was informed, to my astonishment, that it was the work of his assistant, who was standing by. One does not expect to meet artists of talent in local photographers’ employ in these far-away places, and I could not help saying so. I was still further impressed when the young fellow, in reply to my question as to whether he had any other work to show, produced a portfolio of sketches which indicated a talent rarely met with. Becoming enthusiastic, I told him he must be mad to be wasting his time at photography in this out-of-the-way town when St. Petersburg would be acclaiming him as a born artist. After a deal of beating about the bush, and evident reluctance on his part, I learnt the true facts of the case, that he and his employer (both eminent artists, as I was afterwards informed), were political exiles, suffering a long term of banishment. Many of the sketches shown to me (one of which I give in facsimile) related to prisoners’ life, and were evidently done during the long march across Siberia. I could not help being strongly impressed with the idea that a system which would allow a prisoner to beguile the tedium of the march by following his artistic proclivities cannot, however faulty its theory may be, in practice be so cruelly disciplinaire as many would have us believe.
