M. Schévélof, the leader of the caravan, was about thirty-eight or forty. He was making the journey from Kiachta to Hankow for the seventh time. His complexion was quite yellow from fevers and liver disease contracted in South China. He spoke Chinese and Mongolian most fluently, and was at once our mentor and our interpreter; consequently, if we had lost him on the way, I do not know what would have become of us.
There was also M. Kousnietzof, a young man of twenty, a native of Verchni-Oudinsk, not related to the millionaire I have mentioned, but a young man of the same name leaving his native city for the first time. Like a true Siberian of pure race, he had thick blonde hair that hung down to the middle of his back, and not a filament of down on his chin. Being accustomed to the great boots and full blouse of the Russian national costume, he was not only uncomfortable in the trousers and short coat he had put on for the occasion of his journey into China, but he imagined he was dressed in a manner quite indecent: therefore, to avoid a blush on his cheek, on presenting himself in the drawing-room of the Consul’s wife, he had improvised for himself, as he thought in the most becoming manner, a kind of jupon with his new shirt, by employing that part the most scrupulously concealed, to cover the indelicate nakedness of a simple pair of trousers.
It would be difficult to find perhaps a more striking, and at the same time a more amusing illustration, of the predominance of conventionalism in the sentiment of modesty.
M. Marine came from Tobolsk, his native city. He was acquainted with Omsk, the Ural, and Catherineburg; he had been once even as far as Perm, and spoke enthusiastically of his distant travels and of what wonders he had formerly seen in the West. His incessant complaining, his slowness and heaviness of manner in body and mind, wearied us a great deal at first, but later we turned all these weaknesses to our amusement, at his expense, and thus this poor sufferer became, I am ashamed to say, the butt of the party.
It was on the 8th of April when I took leave of the Russian Consul at Urga, whose name, I regret, I have forgotten. As he was about to leave shortly for St. Petersburg with all his family, we could wish each other, mutually, bon voyage. He accompanied me as far as the gate of his grounds, and, after a cordial hand-shaking, I accomplished on foot the two first kilomètres of the five hundred leagues of desert I had to travel over.
On marching thus behind a conveyance, which was to be, for many days to come, my sole habitation, I imagined myself, for an instant, like the Chevalier des Grieux attached to a company of strolling players. No one, alas! in the caravan, could complete the illusion by presenting to my imagination, even in the remotest way, the pretty face of Manon Lescaut.
PRAYING MILL AT URGA. ([p. 322].)
M. Schévélof’s carriage led the way; it was surmounted with a Russian flag and a Mongolian prayer banner. Then followed M. Kousnietzof’s vehicle, and then fourteen camels, carrying the baggage, marching in a line one after the other. Among this baggage there were two tents; one for us, and the other for the Mongols, and besides a set of cooking utensils. And then the rear was brought up by Pablo’s carriage, M. Marine’s, and my own. We were accompanied by seven natives, who were under a chief on horseback, and these natives, mounted on camels, guarded, each from his elevated position, the portion of the caravan under his care.
We began by threading our way through a fine mountainous country, but scattered all over with huge stones, which, coming in contact with our wheels, gave us a most unpleasant shaking. Towards eleven at night, we halted, but pitched one tent only, intending not to remain long at this spot. This time, we had the luxury of fresh provisions, which we had brought with us from Urga, and, after we had dined, we went to see the Mongols at their repast.