Empires and Emperors of Russia, China, Korea, and Japan Part 4

Behind the green forest a dark blue wall seems to fence the plain in towards the south. This is the Altai range. Its length is six hundred verst, and its peaks seem to be crushed under the heavy clouds. On the other side is China. The Altai district has some of the most beautiful scenery of the whole globe. It is densely wooded, and dotted with lakes and watered by endless streams and rivers, for the largest streams of Asia flow from there to the Polar Sea. The mighty Yenisei, Lena, Obi, all have their sources among this wilderness. The Altai range was the cradle of the most ancient races, for the earliest inhabitants of the earth belonged to the same stock as the Finnish and Turanian, and prehistorical remains of them are to be found to this day. Even Herodotus mentions these early folk. Later on Mongolian hordes swept over the calm valleys, and the present populace show visible traces of the extraordinary mixture of the different races which arose in or overran this country. What great people some of them became! What extraordinary might some of them acquired! With what striking lines they have filled the pages of history! And as in those days long gone by, some of those tribes still preserve their independence and unlimited freedom. They have even kept the old name of the highest peak, and call it, as ever before, Chin-Chan, the golden mountain.

I was roused from my reflections by the clanging of the railway bell at the Irkutsk station. At last I had arrived at the largest town, what people here call the "Paris" of Siberia. Since yesterday morning I have been travelling in the territory of the government bearing the same name, of which it is the administrative centre. The district of Irkutsk is enormous, with its five divisions of Nijni-Oudinsk, Balagansk, Kirinsk, Irkutsk, and Erbolinsk, of which each is a territory in itself.

It extends south to China, and submerges north into the Arctic Ocean.

Its variety equals its size. Besides the flat pasture regions, it has mountains towering up to Alpine elevations. Moonkov-Sarde is 11,430 feet high. The fertility of the soil is equalled by the richness of the mines; but this vast area contains scarcely a million people. The northern part of it is entirely barren, and hardly explored at all. The present populace derive their origin from Mongolian lineage. The most numerous are the Buriats, Tungus, and Kalmuks, who lead nomadic lives, and for occupation rear their herds, hunt, and fish. They are not yet acquainted with agriculture, and when they settle by the sides of rivers and fertile districts they leave the land to be cultivated by the Slavs, and acquire their tools and requisites by the simple method of exchange.

Their religion is idolatry. In the south there are a great many Buddhists, and Mohammedanism appeals especially to the Tartars.

Of all the strange folk by whom Siberia is inhabited, general curiosity seems to be most interested in the convicts, of whom, during the last century alone, more than one hundred thousand were sent into exile. Only half of them ever returned to their homes again--many died; and only a small contingent settled down after the expiration of the punishment.

But all this has often been narrated and described by famous authors: sometimes in such vivid colours, depicted in all its gloom, lamented with sighs of agony, that on visiting some of the prisons and workhouses I am quite astonished to find them far above my expectations.

Considering the ordinary condition of a Russian criminal, the difference between home and prison is not harder than in any other country. If the officials and jailers are men with human sympathies, there is every opportunity of spending their time in a way which will lead to general improvement. Where the misery really comes in is with those who are of a higher culture and greater refinement, and who are, justly or unjustly, punished for some uproar, and who suffer merely for their convictions.

To give an adequate idea of the Irkutsk station on a foggy and rainy autumn night, at the hour when the express arrives, is simply beyond possibility. And to describe the way of getting from the station to the town is even more so. To begin with, the railway station does not look like a station in other parts of the world at all. Roads or streets cannot be seen, and a town, in our acceptation of the word, does not exist. The words seem to change and to lose their meanings there. If it had been light I should have tried to take some pictures of the desolation; but it is pitch dark, so I will confine myself for the moment to putting down a few notes--my first impressions.

The train stops with a sudden jerk. The door of my compartment is torn open with violence, some brigand-looking men jump in, and as suddenly as they came disappear again, but alas! with all my luggage. How long it took to gather and regain it altogether, I do not remember; and the extent of my walks from one end of the long platforms to the other I cannot calculate. On the chilly platform of Irkutsk station all ideas of time and s.p.a.ce vanish completely. I think I should be seeking to the present hour if a martial-looking officer had not come to my help. His height is imposing, his gestures commanding, and his voice resounding.

He uses all his enviable qualities at once, and all for the same purpose--to find my kit. He fights his way to achieve this by cutting through ground heavily barricaded by cases, sacks, travelling-bags, and furniture. He makes people stand up and clear out of his way, scolds and threatens all the porters and every mujik he comes across. And, strange as it seems to me, his efforts are crowned with success. He hands me over all my belongings! I thank him heartily for his kindness and express my sincere hope that, owing to his great strategical abilities, I may find him, if ever I return to Siberia, promoted to the rank of general. At the same time I cannot omit remarking that the general civility and kindness which were shown to me, by employes and pa.s.sengers alike, were most gratifying. Everybody seemed to wish to help, to give information, and offer whatever they possessed. Their manners, from the highest to the lowest, were irreproachable. I will go further, and say that on no railway have I ever met guards showing more attention and more good-nature. And much patience they require. The electric bells of the different compartments seemed to tinkle incessantly, as if the only occupation of some of the travellers was to ask what they already know, and to order what they do not require.

Whips crack, horses neigh, coachmen yell, travellers scream, porters quarrel. Such is the scene which awaits me in front of the station. I secure one of the many small droshkies, of which there are hundreds, and all shaky and open like the public vehicles of sunny Naples. The only difference is that instead of sunbeams there is sleet falling on us from above. My belongings are put on another droshky, skilfully fitted together like an elaborate mosaic. We start in a sea of mud--dark and liquid as a sauce--which covers everything like a s.h.i.+ny varnish. The depths beneath must be great, for sometimes my droshky is nearly submerged, and the lava-like stream floods our small vehicle. But it seems to be built for use on land or on water, for sometimes I have a sensation of floating in a canoe, rather than rolling along on wheels.

We reach terra firma in the shape of a bridge formed of logs, nailed and tied together. The bridge is long, but at last, on coming to the end of it, the driver announces with pride, "We are at Irkutsk." I cannot help asking, "Where?" for I do not see any buildings or any sign of a town.

It takes some time before I can distinguish in the depths of the night high palisades, looking very much like those surrounding soldiers'

encampments in the Middle Ages. Above the palisades a few roofs emerge, low and sloping, very much like a tent. But at a sharp turn a brilliant electric globe spreads its beams, like those of a lighthouse at sea, to lead the wanderer to a secure harbour. Following its course, we land at the doorway of the famous Hotel du Metropole.

For famous it is! I shall certainly not forget it, and hope never to see it again, for I think it contains all that Western bad taste and Eastern filth combined can produce. Along a pa.s.sage carpeted with red Brussels and mud a waiter, in evening dress, but apparently without linen, shows me to an apartment furnished with green plush, but devoid of bedding. I am told that travellers are expected to bring their own sheets and blankets. I have none, and after some rus.h.i.+ng about I am provided with sheets which I prefer not to use, and would rather content myself for my night's rest with an easy chair and some travelling-rugs. There is, moreover, no washstand, for the queer apparatus in the corner, bearing, apparently as an ornament, only one basin about the size of a finger-bowl, cannot be so described. No hot water! And if you call for any they bring a few drops in a cream-jug. Finally, there is no air either! The windows are nailed up all the year through. On trying to open one it nearly fell to pieces. So if people nowadays ask me what hotels in Siberian towns are like, I am bound to say you have plush and gold, but no fresh air and no hot water!

VI

THE SIBERIAN METROPOLIS

[Ill.u.s.tration: IRKUTSK "As I walk down to the Angara's banks I am short of adjectives" To face page 48]

How shall I record all the tumultuous impressions of the first twenty-four hours pa.s.sed in Irkutsk? After the gloom of the night a brilliant morning broke forth, brilliant as it is only seen on these high plateaux. As I took my first glance round, everything seemed to swim in a blaze of light. The small log houses seemed to have grown into palaces. The palisades presented colours of hundreds of different shades. Monuments and gilded domes seemed to have arisen out of the ground. All the gloomy picture of last night vanished altogether, dispersed by the light of the sun like the melting away of a nightmare.

What a magician this celestial body is! Painter, sculptor, and architect, he can construct and raise marvels out of nothing, and make us see and admire where all is only glamour.

As I walk down to the Angara's banks I am short of adjectives. Language fails to describe the pureness of the atmosphere, the variety of the tints of the distant mists, and the whole scenery of the plain with its vibrating mirages. I think it is at the early hours of the morn and at sunset that one can best realize the charm of this strange country, understand the dreamy legends which were born on the soil, realize the soul of its people, and penetrate into its wondrous atmosphere, full of enigmas and mysteries.

Irkutsk is a large and important centre, the seat of the military and civil governors, of the Catholic bishop, of the commander of the forces.

There are high schools, many public inst.i.tutions, and factories. Irkutsk is a famous commercial town, and is one of the most prominent markets for international trade. The high street is an endless row of shops, full of goods made in Germany, and some in America. I do not see much English merchandise; but, as I hear, English commercial interests are only represented in a few of the larger mines and building enterprises.

The Siberian national museum deserves special mention. It is a fine stone building, rich in all that relates to the origin, history, and folk-lore of Siberia. A few hours pa.s.sed in its halls give one a most extensive insight into the conditions of the different races and tribes which have peopled these regions for centuries.

Irkutsk from a social standpoint seems to offer some advantages too.

Government employes, officers, and others regard it as a special favour to get an appointment here. There is a great deal of entertainment, and in the centre of the town is a most pretentious building--the Imperial Opera House. Life is expensive, and the population shows a great tendency to luxury, and even more, what one might call waste. Money is spent easily and uselessly, as is generally the case in growing places and recent settlements. In this respect there is a slight resemblance between Irkutsk and a Western American ranch or an Australian mining town; and in the afternoon, when everybody promenades on the wooden pavements, which run like bridges across and along the muddy streets, the inhabitants show exactly the same variety of origin and of social condition as in those towns beyond the seas.

Besides Russian, I hear German spoken. Poles are numerous too, and all the different Baltic provinces have a fair number of representatives.

Nearly all the trade is in their hands. Russians are not commercial people as a rule. And there is a large Chinese colony, mostly occupied with the famous overland tea trade _via_ Kiahta. They walk for hours and hours up and down all these endless pathways, and a great many sit, covered with furs, in front of their house doors to see the show. About eight o'clock everything becomes quiet; streets are deserted, doors are closed, shutters fastened, lights extinguished; and there are only the watchmen sauntering slowly from corner to corner, monotonously tapping their wooden rattles to let householders know that they are awake, and to give the robber at the other side of the street time to escape.

It is worth while! I should, after all, recommend travellers to stop for a few days in some of the largest Siberian towns, in spite of the rough hotels and the primitive ways; it gives such a definite idea of their buildings, inhabitants, and mode of living, as could never be procured from books.

VII

TRANS-BAIKALIA

I have arrived at the climax of the journey. We are crossing Lake Baikal. It is the most celebrated pa.s.sage of the whole overland journey; the scenery is fine: an extensive sheet of water, brilliant like a mirror, surrounded by high mountains and majestic rocks; but I am inclined to repeat what I said before about hilly scenery: lake districts do not appeal to me. A sea in its greatness, and a marsh in its diverse variations of colour, are both perfect in their artistic values, only different in conception. The former imposing, like a picture of Meesdag; the latter, hazy like a Corot, each perfect in its style. But a lake, even the prettiest, does not rise above the effects of a chromo-lithograph. Lake Baikal, viewed from the north, loses its banks, and so has the advantage of appearing as an ocean.

[Ill.u.s.tration: LAKE BAIKAL "There are some enormous rocks as if thrown in by the hand of a t.i.tan" To face page 52]

The whole distance is flat, veiled in silver mists and pierced through here and there by the crystal peaks of the distant mountains. There are a few islands scattered about, some enormous rocks, as if thrown in by the hand of a t.i.tan. To each a legend is attached. Each has a different fairytale. All of them, I am told, were inhabited by dwarfs and fairies, possessed of marvellous gifts, and belonging to a wondrous past. At least the mythical minds of these archaic people endowed each striking spot with a different tale, and there are many such, especially on the south-eastern sh.o.r.e, which displays a great variety of scenery, and this proves to be a serious hindrance to the completion of the railway track.

The line around Lake Baikal is not completed yet, for there are several tunnels still to be bored and a great many rocks to be cut through; but it is, after all, the only portion of the track which offers any serious difficulty to the engineer. All the rest has been easy to accomplish, and, with the exception of building the great railway bridges, consisted mainly of simply laying the rails on level ground.

But although it was not difficult to construct, it might have been better done. The rails are altogether too light, and after a few years of traffic working it is already under constant repair, and will have to be altered altogether very soon, as it is so defectively ballasted.

At present the train is carried across the lake by a huge vessel built in Newcastle. In winter they sometimes use an ice-breaker, which apparently works very slowly, for generally the railway provides, for pa.s.sengers and goods, sledges on which to traverse the frozen waters.

Our boat is overcrowded. Pa.s.sengers of all nations and of all grades.

Besides Russian officials, there are foreign tradesmen, a few Germans, one American, and a Dane, a detachment of soldiers guarding convicts, and a few settlers. And so I have an opportunity of watching the four leading cla.s.ses of this new country. These are, indeed, the four different elements by which Siberia is becoming populated. I am rather impressed by the perfect cordiality with which they share the common fate in their new home. The soldiers are Cossacks, a kind of irregular troops, and enjoy perfect freedom. The Government gives them a certain territory, where they go in for agriculture and raise cattle and horses, and at the same time are liable for some military service. They are fine men, excellent soldiers, and deserve their long-established fame for courage. The settlers are all of a different race, coming mostly from central and southern Russia. They are indifferent-looking, miserably clad, poor folk, with sallow faces and sad eyes. Whole families--fathers and mothers, grandparents and grandchildren--have all gone together to the far-away promised land to live and to die.

The Russian Government is very anxious to settle agriculturists in these Eastern Siberian regions, for the land is as yet barely cultivated at all. Farmers are very scarce, and the famous mines are also short of labourers. It seems that possibilities here are even greater than in Western Siberia, the only drawback being the enormous distance. Yet the journey scarcely costs anything, as I mentioned before; the fare is merely a nominal sum. It is evident that Russian railways can afford to lose; their deficits last year amounted to the sum of fourteen million roubles. But the main object of these State railways is not to make money--anyhow, not at present. They are designed to colonize this newly-acquired country, and settle Slavs among the native Mongolian and Tartar tribes. And besides--and I think before and above all--there are the strategical interests to be considered. Undoubtedly the Siberian Railway is a military one, and with all its junctions and crossings seems to have been planned with the view to forwarding troops and ammunition speedily. And even the often-discussed puzzle--why does the Siberian Railway so very frequently avoid entering the most important towns.h.i.+ps?--might be partly explained from a military standpoint.

Opinions differ as to whether the railway in its present state can prove entirely satisfactory for the conveyance of large army corps. At the same time, we must not forget that it is partly under construction still, and its final completion seems to be far in the future.

The crossing of Lake Baikal takes between four and five hours. The pa.s.sage is extremely rough, and squalls burst forth very unexpectedly.

We arrived about sunset on the eastern sh.o.r.e, at a place called Myssowa, where there are a few log houses scattered about, and a rough railway station; but in the dining-room there is a table laid out in a lavish style, and, like the smallest of them on the line, it does not lack its pride--a gilt centre-piece and five-armed candelabra. We do not start again until midnight, so I have time to go for a walk, though soon return from it, for it is very dreary. There are but few buildings, and I am afraid every one is a public-house, for Myssowa, being the centre of a rich mining district, shows all the sad sides of the miners' life.

The money they earn during a hard day's work is thrown away in the hours of the night. In the front of the station are a few dozen of them standing about; dismal and stolid-looking creatures, emerged from the slums of Western towns and launched in Eastern Siberia. In these far-away regions, workmen are rather well paid, and that is the reason so many remain for some time in the course of their flight.

It is snowing hard. The feathery flakes fly and skim like so many white-winged b.u.t.terflies against the pale grey sky. It is bitterly cold, and the windows of my railway carriage are thickly frozen over, and when they clear there is not much to be seen. The high mountains have disappeared, and there is no majestic plain before us. The whole district is hilly, with here and there a river, and very scant vegetation. Villages seem to be unknown, and the first place of any importance we stop at is Petrovsk, a locality which owes its origin to its deep mines, enormous factories, and a large prison to furnish the workmen. What a gloomy site! Never have I seen factories and forges more desolate, and never has smoke appeared heavier and blacker to me than that which I see puffing from the numberless chimneys. It is an inferno, whose horrors only the genius of a Dante could describe. And if Petrovsk had a city gate, its sole inscription could be "Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch' entrate."

And how many have entered this ghastly place! How many of the Russian and Polish n.o.bles have been exiled here! Nariskins, Mouravievs, Anenkoffs, Volkonskys, Troubetzkois--we find descendants of all. How many historical families have had their political aspirations stranded here! The miseries of Omsk have been described by Dostoievsky, but those of Petrovsk will never be entirely known. Many of the exiles have been followed by their brave wives, ladies of marvellous courage, leaving palaces to follow their husbands and to suffer voluntary exile.

Through the frozen lands of Trans-Baikalia we continue our way. I am told the country is very rich. There are over thirty mines in work at present, and there might be a great many more. Where they have already started farming it has proved a great success, and some of the towns show signs of rising commercial activity; but I know not why this part of Siberia misses altogether the great charm, in admiration of which I was lost a few days ago. The high plateau of the Baskirs, the steppes of the Kirghiz, and the dense forests of the Kalmuks, all had a peculiar charm and atmosphere; but Trans-Baikalia, though undoubtedly possessing great economic possibilities, seems to have no beauty at all. The inhabitants are Buriats, and nomads, like the others, but lack their sympathetic features, and seem so strange--so entirely different. Their yellow, parchment-like skins and beady eyes lack all expression, or if they have any, it is so incomprehensible to us that we look at them as mere curiosities--as children belonging to another planet.

They live in tents or in huts covered with a kind of felt prepared from horsehair and furnished with skins; and breed horses, of which they possess large studs of their own. Men and women are famous riders, and live in saddles from the cradle to the grave. Men and women wear very much the same kind of garments, heavy boots and low felt hats, and leave their long hair hanging in greasy tresses. They resemble the Chinese very much, and even more so the Tibetans and Bhutanese, and profess the same religion too--for nearly all are Buddhists. Hundreds of Lamas swarm all over the country, and there are several monasteries belonging to them. The Government, which is generally hostile to any creed except the Greek Church, not only tolerates, but apparently supports their claims to a certain extent. Russia seems of late to be taking a great interest in its Buddhist subjects, of whom it possesses several hundred thousands. It even accords them every facility to make their great pilgrimages to the Lama of Lha.s.sa, in mysterious Tibet, and by this means gets into constant communication with the forbidden land.

The last day of our journey is pa.s.sed in the Amur region; that enormous district, which was granted to Russia without the drawing of a sword and without any cost, by a single stroke of the pen of Count Muraviev after the Treaty of Pekin in 1860. From Chitta the line turns to the south-east, and we are proceeding to the so-called Chinese frontier. At midnight we reach our destination, a settlement called Manchury, lost in a corner of the desert of Gobi. On the other side extends Manchuria, which I am emphatically a.s.sured belongs to the Yellow Empire. From here the railway runs under a different t.i.tle. Instead of being the "Russian State," it is called the "Eastern Chinese Railway Company." It has three main branches. One runs from Siberia to Harbin, the second from Harbin to Vladivostok, the third from Harbin to Port Arthur. They unite the Yellow with the Black Sea through Moscow, and the Pacific with the Baltic through St. Petersburg. What may have appeared to be a dream only a few years ago is a reality today.

A saloon car containing a bedroom, study with verandah, servant's quarters, and a kitchen, which the Company very kindly put at my disposal, and which is to serve as my home while getting as far as Niu-chw.a.n.g and Port Arthur, is now being attached to the new train, and while it is being got ready I have time to sum up recollections and arrange my papers.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE STATION OF MANCHURY "Lost in a corner of the desert of Gobi" To face page 60]

There is more to note than I expected, for I found interest in every direction and in every respect. Siberia is more than a country, it is a continent--I might even say a world of its own. It has its characteristics and special features; its own soil and its own folk; its own geography, ethnography, and climate. It is an unknown land altogether; new or old, as you like to call it. To understand it requires more instinct than erudition, more sympathy than a.n.a.lysis. The observer must have sentiment; and even so it may or may not appeal to him, and he may like it or not, yet he cannot fail to regard it as impressive and imposing. It is a land of nearly five million square miles, and it has eight organized provinces, of which each is larger than most of the Western kingdoms. It can be maintained and developed from its unlimited resources, and guarded by an army amounting, if required, to millions. It is grand in every respect. It is watered by the largest streams of Asia, and possesses the most extensive fresh-water lake of one hemisphere. It has a greater area of productive land than all Europe put together; its forests are hardly measurable; its mountains tower high to the sky; its reputed monotony should rather be called vastness, for variety it does not lack, only it occurs at enormous intervals.

The same distinctions prevail with regard to the inhabitants; they belong to various tribes and descend from different races. Some belong to the Tartar, some to the Mongolian, some to the Caucasian family. Some are yellow, and some are white. To-day the rulers are the latter, but it is the home of the former. Will the white remain the dominating race, or will it be overwhelmed by the yellow, or will it become amalgamated and swallowed up by the great majority? What an interesting problem, and how inexplicable! It is, indeed, hard to understand the nature of these people; to read their thoughts; to comprehend their lives; and to realize their ideals.

Once mighty, now in decay; leading a subordinate, unorganized existence, lacking energy, unfit for higher aspirations. And yet physically all these nomads are fine creatures, possessing all the power of their forefathers of the time of Genghis Khan. How long will it take them to awaken? How long will it require to realize and acquire all the advantages of Western civilization and the elevating power of Christianity?

These are questions which can only be answered by the history of the future. The best forecast, I am afraid, will fall short of what will prove to be the reality. I fear there may yet be many wars, and I hope peace too, and conferences and treaties; but racial struggles cannot be settled on battle-fields or in houses of parliament. The destiny of mankind has a higher tribunal.

Whatever may be the future of the Far East, the Siberian Railway will have undoubtedly a certain share, if not by altering, certainly by hastening its course.

It was a mighty step forward. The step of a Colossus!