At Stretensk I awakened to the fact that I was actually in Siberia, nay, that I had travelled over about two thousand miles of Siberia, that dark and gloomy land across which—I believed in my youth—tramped long lines of prisoners in chains, sometimes amidst the snow and ice of a bitter winter, sometimes with the fierce sun beating down upon them, but always hopeless, always hungry, weary, heartbroken, a sacrifice to the desire for political liberty that was implanted in the hearts of an enslaved people.
It is an extraordinary thing that, though for many years I had believed Saghalien was a terrible island, a sort of inferno for political prisoners, something like Van Diemen\'s Land used to be in the old convict days one hundred and ten years ago, only that in the Asiatic island the conditions were still more cruel and it was hopeless to think of escaping, while I was actually in that beautiful island I was so taken up with its charm, it was so extremely unlike the place of which I had a picture in my mind\'s eye, that I hardly connected the two. All up the Amur river was a new land, a land crying out for pioneers, pastoralists and farmers, so that the thought that was uppermost in my mind was of the contrast between it and the old land of China, where I had spent so long a time; but at Stretensk I suddenly remembered this was Siberia, the very heart of Siberia, where men had suffered unutterable things, might still be so suffering for all I knew, and I stepped off the steamer and prepared to explore, with a feeling that at any moment I might come across the heavy logs that made up the walls of a prison, might see the armed sentries, clad to the eyes in furs, who tramped amidst the snow. But this was August and it was fiercely hot, so the snow and the sentries clad in furs were ruled out, and presently as Buchanan and I walked about the town even the lonely prison built of logs had to go too. There may have been a prison, probably there was, but it did not dominate the picture. Not here should I find the Siberia I had been familiar with from my youth up.
Stretensk is like all other Siberian towns that I have seen. The houses are mostly of one storey and of wood, of logs; the streets are wide and straight, cutting each other at right angles, and the whole is flung out upon the plain; it is really, I think, rather high among the mountains, but you do not get the sensation of hills as you do from the steamer.
The rain had cleared away and it was very hot, though we had started out very early because I was determined to go west if possible that very afternoon; We went gingerly because the dangers of Siberian towns for one who looked fairly prosperous had been impressed upon me at Blagoveschensk, and I hesitated about going far from the steamer, where the mate could speak English. Still we went. I was not going to miss the Siberia of my dreams if I could help it.
I saw something more wonderful than the Siberia of my dreams.
In consequence of the ceaseless rain the roads between the log-houses with their painted windows were knee-deep in mud, a quagmire that looked impassable. In the air was the sound of martial music, and up and down in what would have been reckless fashion but for the restraining glue-like mud galloped officers and their orderlies. It was the war, the first I had seen of it. The war was taking the place of the political exiles, and instead of seeing Siberia as a background for the exiles as I had dreamed of it for so many years, I saw it busy with preparations for war. The roads were like sloughs out of which it would have been impossible to get had I ever ventured in. Naturally I did not venture, but took all sorts of long rounds to get to the places I wanted to reach. It is not a bad way of seeing a town.
The heavily built houses, built to defy the Siberian winter, might have come out of Nikolayeusk or Kharbarosvk, and though the sun poured down out of a cloudless sky, and I was gasping in a thin Shantung silk, they were hermetically sealed, and the cotton wool between the double windows was decorated with the usual gay ribbons. I dare say they were cool enough inside, but they must have been intolerably stuffy. The sidewalks too had dried quickly in the fierce sunshine. They were the usual Siberian sidewalks, with long lines of planks like flooring. Had they ever been trodden, I wonder, by the forced emigrant looking with hopeless longing back to the West. Finally we wandered into the gardens, where I doubt not, judging by the little tables and many seats, there was the usual gay throng at night, but now early in the morning everything looked dishevelled, and I could not find anyone to supply me with the cool drink of which I stood so badly in need, and at last we made our way back to the steamer, where the mate, having got over the struggle of arrival—for this was the farthest the steamer went—kindly found time enough to give himself to my affairs. I wanted a droshky to take me to the train, and as nowhere about had I seen any signs of a railway station I wanted to know where it was.
The mate laughed and pointed far away down the river on the other side. I really ought to have known my Siberia better by now. Railways are not constructed for the convenience of the townsfolk. There was nothing else for it. I had to get there somehow, and as the train left somewhere between five and six, about noon, with the mate\'s assistance, I engaged a droshky. The carriages that are doing a last stage in this country are not quite so elderly here as they are in Saghalien, but that is not saying much for them. The one the mate engaged for me had a sturdy little ungroomed horse in the shafts and another running in a trace alongside. On the seat was packed all my baggage, two small suit-cases and a large canvas sack into which I dumped rugs, cushions and all odds and ends, including my precious kettles, and the rough little unkempt horses towed us down through the sea of mud to the ferry, and then I saw the scene had indeed shifted. It was not long lines of exiles bearing chains I met, that was all in the past, at least for an outsider like me, but here in the heart of Asia Russia in her might was collecting her forces for a spring. The great flat ferry was crossing and recrossing, and down the swamp that courtesy called a road came endless streams of square khaki-coloured carts, driven by men in flat caps and belted khaki blouses, big fair men, often giants with red, sun-tanned faces and lint-white hair, men who shouted and laughed and sang and threw up their caps, who were sober as judges and yet were wild with excitement; they were going to the war. I could not understand one word they said, but there is no mistaking gladness, and these men were delighted with their lot. I wondered was it a case of the prisoner freed or was it that life under the old regime in a Russian village was dull to monotony and to these recruits was coming the chance of their lifetime.
Some will never come east again, never whether in love or hate will they see the steppes and the flowers and the golden sunshine and the snow of Siberia, they have left their bones on those battle-fields; but some, I hope, will live to see the regeneration of Russia, when every man shall have a chance of freedom and happiness. I suppose this revolution was in the air as cart after cart drove on to the ferry and the men yelled and shouted in their excitement. A small company of men who were going east looked at them tolerantly—I\'m sure it was tolerantly—and then they too caught the infection and yelled in chorus.
I watched it all with interest.
Then half-an-hour passed and still they came; an hour, and I grew a little worried, for they were still pouring over. Two hours—I comforted myself, the train did not start till late in the afternoon—three horns, and there was no cessation in the stream. And of course I could make no one understand. It looked as if I might wait here all night. At last a man who was manifestly an officer came galloping along and him I addressed in French.
“Is it possible to cross on the ferry?”
He was very courteous.
“It is not possible to cross, Madame. It is not possible. The soldiers come first.”
I took another look at the good-humoured, strapping, fair-haired soldiers in khaki, with their khaki-coloured carts. The ferry crossing was laden with them, hundreds of others were waiting, among them numbers of country people. They had bundles and laden baskets and looked people who had shopped and wanted to go home again. Were these exiles? I did not know. They looked simple peasants. Whoever they were, there did not seem much chance for them or me, and I said the one Russian word I knew, “steamer,” and indicated that I wanted to go back there. Much as I wanted to go home, tired as I was of travelling, I decided I would postpone my railway journey for a day and take advantage of that comfortable Russian custom that allows you to live on a steamer for two days while she is in port. The ishvornik nodded, back we went helter-skelter to the wharf and—the steamer was gone!
I have had some bad moments in my life, but that one stands out still. Why, I hardly know, for sitting here in my garden it does not seem a very terrible thing. I had plenty of money in my pocket and there were hotels in the town. But no! more than ever, safe here in Kent, do I dread a Siberian hotel! Then I was distinctly afraid. I might so easily have disappeared and no one would have asked questions for months to come. I tried to tell the boy I wanted to go to one of those dreaded hotels—I felt I would have to risk it, for I certainly could not spend the night in a droshky—and I could not make him understand. Perhaps, as in Saghalien, there were no hotels to accommodate a woman of my class, or perhaps, as is most probable, they were all full of soldiers, anyhow he only looked at me blankly, and Buchanan and I looked at each other. Buchanan anyhow had no fears. He was quite sure I could take care of him. I looked at the boy again and then, as if he had suddenly had an inspiration, he drove me back to the place opposite the ferry whence we had come. The soldiers were there still, crowds and crowds of them, with their little carts and horses, and they were amusing themselves by stealing each other\'s fodder; the ferry had come back, but there were no soldiers on it, only the country people were crowding down. I had been forbidden to go upon it, and never should I have dreamt of disobeying orders, but my driver had different views. He waited till no officer was looking, seized my baggage and flung it down on the great ferry right in front of the military stores, beside the refreshment stall where they were selling sausages and bread in round rings such as peasants eat, and tea and lemonade. I had not expected to find so commonplace a thing on a river in Siberia. Now I had sat in that dilapidated carriage for over four hours and I was weary to death, also I could not afford to be parted from my luggage, so I put Buchanan under my arm—it was too muddy for him to walk—and followed as fast as I could. My good angel prompted me to pay that driver well. I paid him twice what the mate had said it ought to cost me if I waited half-a-day, and never have I laid out money to better advantage. He turned to a big man who was standing by, a man in sea-boots, a red belted blouse and the tall black Astrakhan cap that I have always associated in my own mind \'with Circassians, and spoke to him, saying “Anglisky.” Evidently he said it might be worth his while to look after me. I don\'t know whether this gentleman was a Caucasian, one of the “wolves of the Amur,” but whoever he was, he was a very hefty and capable individual, with a very clear idea of what a foreign lady ought to do, and he promptly constituted himself my guardian.
After all, the world, take it on the whole, is a very kindly, honest place. So many times have I been stranded when I might quite easily have been stripped of everything, and always some good Samaritan has come to my aid, and the reward, though I did my best, has never been commensurate with the services rendered.
The ferry across the Shilka at Stretensk is a great affair, like a young paddock afloat, and beside the horses and carts upon it were a number of country people with their bundles. I sat there a little uncomfortably because I did not know what would happen, only I was determined not to be parted from my baggage. Presently the huge float drifted off, amidst wild shouts and yells. When I was there, a great deal in Russia was done to the accompaniment of much shouting, and I rather fancy that this ferry was going off on an unauthorised jaunt of its own. The Shilka is a broad river here, a fortnight\'s steamer journey from its mouth, but the ferry came to a full stop in the middle of the stream and a motor boat which did not look as if it could hold half the people came alongside.
“Skurry! Skurry!” was the cry, and the people began leaping overboard into the boat. The military were getting rid summarily of their civilian crowd. In a few seconds that boat was packed to the gunwales and I was looking over at it. I had Buchanan under my arm; he was always a good little dog at critical moments, understanding it was his part to keep quiet and give as little trouble as possible. In my other hand I had my despatch-case, and, being anything but acrobatic by temperament, I felt it was hopeless to think of getting into it. If the penalty for not doing so had been death, I do not think I could have managed it. However, I didn\'t have a say in the matter. The big Russian in the red blouse picked me up and dropped me, little dog, box and all, into the boat, right on top of the people already there. First I was on top, and then, still hanging on to my little dog, I slipped down a little, but my feet found no foothold; I was wedged between the screaming people. After me, with my luggage on his shoulder, came my guardian, and he somehow seemed to find a very precarious fo............