I set out from Irkutsk on the 20th of March, at one in the morning. Constantine came into the sledge, between Pablo and me, and kept me company as far as the opposite bank of the Angara. This short trip was a kind of résumé of the three months we had just passed together, and, when we warmly pressed our hands for the last time, we were equally deeply moved by the parting. He had before him the prospect of an indefinitely prolonged sojourn at Irkutsk; and I, a turning point in my adventures; for the phases of my journey, without him, were about to change completely.
When Constantine was gone, I was not much disposed to begin a conversation with Pablo. I could see no utility in this man, except the prospective one in a future still very uncertain, and, as I then knew Russian well enough to accomplish alone a journey in Siberia, his presence for the moment was anything but agreeable.
The country we were passing through was very picturesque. Mountain after mountain covered with pine trees, producing in the dark a singular and striking effect with their sable hue, seemed to become loftier and more imposing on either side, as we advanced. I was now all the better situated for a full view of nature, being no longer cooped up in the canopied sledge of Nijni-Novgorod. The one I had now was entirely open.
At daybreak we came in sight of the Baikal. As the constant and violent winds in these parts sweep the snow from the surface of the ice, the frozen surface assumes nearly everywhere a bluish tint resembling, in some degree, smooth water.
The scene was striking. Deep, deep below our feet, reposed a bay, in the hollow between two chains of mountains, and then, beyond, the lake suddenly expanded, and extended as far as the eye could reach, to the right and left and before us, its endless ice-clad bosom.
“There at last is Lake Baikal!” I exclaimed with enthusiasm at the startling spectacle. “Monsieur,” said Pablo, jumping up from his seat, “Has no one, indeed, then told you? You must call it the sea; otherwise it will be angry and cause some evil.”
This superstitious fear revealed, at once, the character of my new companion. Ignorant and of weak intellect, he had borrowed something his fear of the unknown had prompted him to accept as a revelation of truth regarding it from every people he had lived among, probably with other characteristics. He had thus, I think, acquired from the Germans and Poles, a little melancholy, from the Turks and Arabs, servility, and from the Russians and Siberians, superstition; for his honesty and simplicity, I think he was indebted to none; it was native.
We descended to the shore of the lake by the south side of the mountain. The snow, that had melted during the previous day, had frozen again during the night, and formed at every step a slippery surface.
The sledge shot first in one direction, then in another, in a way to inspire terror, for the route was constantly on the ridge of a precipice. We were, indeed, sometimes so near it, that the yemschik had his legs, now and then, dangling over the brink of a frightful abyss. A sharp clack of the whip, keenly felt, once gave a sudden diversion to the direction of the vehicle, and we were then miraculously saved from an appalling pitch. The yemschik, unfortunately, was over-confident, and, when we had escaped so far, was too ready to believe that all danger was over. He had neglected, just before our arrival at Baikal, to give a required sudden turn to the sledge by administering a sharp cut to the horses, consequently, one of the skates of the sledge passed over the edge of the road, and the entire vehicle and its contents instantly followed; we rolled out, Pablo and I, into a ditch five or six feet deep and almost perpendicular, with all our rugs and baggage huddled together; a pretty kettle of fish. Pablo was too terrified to speak, and probably thought it unnecessary to remind me of the anger of the sea, now only too evident.
A short time after this divertissement, we arrived at a stage. The posting master dissuaded me from continuing my journey by land. “The road is not only longer,” he said, “but, as you well know, dangerous also, whilst the ice over the Baikal is extremely thick and not likely to crack anywhere.” We followed his advice, and trotted away over the ice.