I put up at the Hôtel de la Poste. The reader would smile, no doubt, if he could only see the building to which I give the name of hôtel. And yet the poverty of our language obliges me to use this term: I could not give the name of auberge or gargote to the most important resting place the traveller could find in a city—a city which is the capital of a province as large as France.
In the way of familiar terms, the Russian language has a richness almost disheartening to those who have had the courage to commence its study. Constantine would frequently attempt to gratify his curiosity by putting questions to me like these: “What do you call in French, monsieur, a field of corn whose ears are just beginning to show?” “What do you call in your language a book that has its leaves cut by the reader as he proceeds with the reading?” Sometimes I replied: “We have no special term corresponding to the meaning of this periphrasis”; but more frequently I said I didn’t know; preferring that he should have a less favourable opinion of my knowledge than of the comprehensiveness of our language.
The walls of my room, like all those in Siberia, were whitewashed. The furniture consisted of a few chairs and a sofa; but no toilet table nor washstand, nor even a bed. This, in Siberia, is the traveller’s room, and indeed, one of the most luxurious; for the sofa, here quite an objet de luxe, is often wanting. Nobody, moreover, in this land of primitive manners, knows the refreshing comfort of reposing on a bed. At Kiachta, where I accepted the hospitality of a rich merchant, he found it quite sufficient for his night’s slumber to roll himself up in a blanket, and thus stretch himself on two chairs standing front to front.
The substitute for a washstand and its accessories is, to the stranger, even less satisfactory than the makeshift for a bed. In every hotel, this consists of a little reservoir of water, furnished at the bottom with a minute copper tube, and fixed against the wall in the passage. The traveller, desirous of performing his usual ablutions, lifts this tube, and a tiny jet of water spurts forth and trickles over his hands, which he endeavours to appropriate and utilize as well as he can, though he allows it to “slip through his fingers.” This cleansing operation, however, is apparently deemed by every Siberian of either sex, if not as effective, certainly quite as serviceable, as the more elaborate process of a Turkish bath.
I rarely experienced in the whole course of my travels so much disappointment as at Perm, where, after a long and fatiguing sledge journey, I had looked forward to the refreshing comfort of a thorough ablution, and found nothing more than this trickling stream to stand under. Knowing well it was perfectly useless to go elsewhere in search of any superior accommodation, I determined to enter my pro test against it at once, and went out to buy a big copper basin, which I procured, had brought into my room, and insisted on having filled with water. My ablutions then became, more than once, the subject of very lively altercations between the proprietors of the hotel and Constantine. The latter, fortunately, fully understanding the importance I attached to them, took upon him my defence so warmly, that he invariably came off victorious, but not without strenuous efforts, and not without much reproach for my want of cleanliness, as manifested by the splashing all around.
There is also another very great inconvenience for the traveller, and that is, there are no means of ventilating the chamber: he is shut in there with every chink closely puttied, and the temperature raised to twenty-eight, thirty, and even thirty-five degrees centigrade of heat,—that is to say, the summer temperature of Bombay. And since the winter cold of Central Siberia is seldom less than thirty degrees centigrade, one has to submit, on going out of doors, to a difference of sixty or seventy degrees.
When they had brought everything out of my sledge into my room,—for when these objects, however diverse they may be, are no longer in movement they should always be before the traveller’s eyes,—and I had almost retired for the night, Constantine led into my room a gentleman who was introduced to me as a member of the general council of Perm.
A councillor, whatever may be his origin, his rights, or his functions, seems to be a sign of liberal institutions. This dignitary, with his ideas savouring a little of decentralisation, and an ambition to augment his prerogatives, is not generally met with, except in democratic lands. Therefore, I must admit, I was not a little surprised to find, breathing in Russian atmosphere, a man marked with the title of ‘councillor.’ I found him very communicative and courteous, knowing thoroughly our history and our institutions, and expressing himself easily in French. He held besides the office of engineer of mines. I therefore felt I could enter into many subjects with him, and I received some encouragement to do so from the courtesy of his manners and his desire to be communicative. Perhaps, under the colour of holding similar views, he might have allied himself with the old noble I met at Kazan against the Emperor, reserving the disguised power to get rid of the aristocracy when they had fully served his purpose.
When I complimented him on the dignity of his office, the exercise of which then drew him to Perm—“I can do very well without this honour,” he replied, “for our provincial assemblies are far from enjoying the prerogatives of yours. The Emperor, in creating them, would fain make believe in his liberalism, but in reality, he has given them but illusory rights. In the first place, the members of the council are nominated by important proprietors in the province of Perm, who have received from the Czar the faculty to send to the sessions one or several representatives. The president of the council is nominated by the Government. It is in no case whatever permitted to discuss politics. The Governor-General of Perm may, if so disposed, disregard entirely the wishes or votes of the council. The council may, it is true, appeal to the Senate of St. Petersburg, but the response is invariable: it emanates directly from the cabinet of the Emperor, and pronounces the dissolution of the council. Our votes, therefore, are very far from having the force of law. Three times have we demanded some repair of the road from Perm to Catherineburg: you will soon see in what state it still is for your journey.”
Among the interesting opinions with which this agreeable and well-informed man entertained me, I will mention one regarding the finances of the empire. I expressed my astonishment at not seeing in Russia, a country supposed to be rich, more coin in circulation. “The Government,” he said, “is wrong in not seeking its principal revenue in agriculture, and in the metallic resources in which the country abounds. It has been dazzled by the auriferous riches of the Trans-Baikal district, and hopes with these to maintain its financial position. A decree punishes, with the severest penalties, proprietors of gold mines who neglect to send to St. Petersburg all the precious metal they extract from the earth. The Emperor thus monopolizes, at its source, all the Russian gold, and then reimburses his subjects with bank-notes only. This state of things can only get worse, unless immediate and important reform be duly made in the administration and in the distribution of the tax. The budget, in fact, amounts to four or five hundred millions of roubles, whilst the State draws from the mines no more than seventy-five to eighty millions of roubles. To what rate of depreciation will not Russian paper fall, if they continue issuing such a quantity?”