CHAPTER VIII.

A PERILOUS NIGHT ADVENTURE ON THE STEPPE OF OMSK.

An ostentatious Siberian custom--The steppe--The cemeteries --Omsk--Its situation--Its society--The emancipation of the serfs related by a citizen--M. Kroupinikof--Visit to an encampment of Kirghiz--Masquerade at Omsk.

We left Tumen about eight o’clock in the morning. Constantine, thoroughly familiar with Siberian customs, had put into the sledge several bottles of champagne, to provide for what was about to take place. The precaution was good, but the supply, alas! insufficient.

To open a bottle of champagne is in Siberia the greatest luxury that can be paraded before admiring eyes. This is the consequence of its high price and the caprice of fashion. In America, it is said that “the keeping of the proprieties is as indispensable as clean linen”[7]; here, perhaps, if doing _the right thing to do_ be considered as one of them, the clean linen would have to give way to the proprieties. A dinner, a fête, an anniversary, or any like ceremony in Siberia without champagne, would be marked as being wanting in its most necessary element; and it is certainly not here that common-sense is so robust as to disregard the whimsical consensus of opinion that holds the civilized world in subjection _à la mode_, from Indus to the Pole.

[7] Emerson.

About six hours after we had left Tumen, we arrived at a place where we had to take different roads. M. Pfaffius, Mrs. Grant, and Madame Nemptchinof, were going to take the road to Tomsk, whilst I had to turn a little more to the south. In order to defeat this project, Mrs. Grant had recourse to a little manœuvre, which very nearly turned Constantine’s head. With a view to dissuading the latter from yielding to my plan, Mrs. Grant had taken her place in the closed sledge of Madame Nemptchinof; then she had arranged to bring Ivan and her young companion together, by making them mount side by side. Constantine, who was apparently smitten with the charms of the young English lady, seeing her _en tête-à-tête_ with Ivan, seized a bottle of champagne, and cutting the wire, directed the cork at his rival’s head, which Miss Campbell carefully shielded with her great fur glove; then the fire commenced on all sides, whilst I wondered what unseasonable and scandalous bacchanals were about to be inaugurated with so much uncorked wine. Happily, however, we tasted but a very moderate quantity. Then all my companions, in conformity with an ostentatious custom in Siberia, dismounted from their vehicles, each of them holding two bottles, and, advancing before my horses a few paces, poured the precious beverage on the snowy ground, just at the spot the skates of my sledge were destined to pass over. I scrupulously performed the same ceremony, a ceremony too solemn to be profaned with a laugh, which I could hardly repress, and then I took leave of this very agreeable caravan, but not without the prospect of meeting again, either at Tomsk, Irkutsk, or Kiachta.

As we resumed our way, but now in different directions, I heard a few more detonations of corks; and when the sound of the bells had died away and all had vanished from sight, Constantine looked at me most piteously. The _tête-à-tête_ had evidently left some rankling effect in his breast that would have resisted any attempt at consolation had I ventured on so delicate a task; for, as far as I could see, he had received no encouragement whatever from Miss Campbell, and as, in this instance, the wounds of self-esteem and slighted love could not be salved with this same remedy, having no other to offer, I left the malady to cure itself.

What struck me all at once on this route was its absolute solitude. The carrying sledges bringing tea and other merchandise from China and the products of the Trans-Baikal to Nijni-Novgorod avoid passing by Omsk; it would be going out of the way to no purpose. It is therefore a rare occurrence to fall in with a sledge in this district. The snow, besides, is scarcely sufficiently beaten down to admit of an easy march. Here, in the absence of such movement, one is oppressed with an impression of wild waste, cheerless immensity, mournful silence. Gradually, vegetation diminishes, becomes more scattered and stinted, then disappears altogether, and the traveller enters at last on the great steppes.

But how changed during summer! Then the steppe is an immense prairie, whose rich, curly grass soothes the eye with its refreshing tint, and protects the body from jolting with its luxuriant bed.

And in winter, it is a vast plain rendered level and white by the snow with which it is covered. The French language, unfortunately, is here again insufficient to explain in a word the character of its outline. We call La Beauce a flat country; now the steppe in its snowy dress is not like La Beauce; neither is it level like the Mediterranean in calm weather, nor like the bed of a river. The surface of the steppe is strictly horizontal throughout. But Providence--as if to compensate in some measure to the eye of the artist for the absence of interesting scenery--has diffused, it is true, over this bare country, some of the finest effects of light with which any land is beautified and resplendent. And yet, in spite of this attraction, however varying and diversified, its joyless aspect preys on the mind of the traveller who enters on such a desert.

We had passed Ischim at nine in the morning; about five in the evening, we had again changed horses, when it was quite dark, and wearied with fatigue, I had fallen asleep. Suddenly I was awoke with a start by a fearful shock that had as suddenly roused Constantine. Our yemschik had gone astray in this frightful wilderness. The absence of the moon and the veiling of the stars with heavy snow clouds were together the cause of this misadventure. His fear of being underrated, and perhaps of animadversion, had hindered him from avowing immediately his awkwardness and blundering, and for three hours at least, he had been wandering about, where chance led him, with the hope of finding his way again--a hope poor indeed when he had lost all idea of direction and every vestige of landmark. The fall into a pit, concealed by the snow, which we had just experienced, obliged him now to avow his blunder.

Constantine and I unrolled ourselves from our blankets, got down, and set to work, with lantern in hand, to find the road. On looking round, we contemplated the spectacle of our sledge and horses almost buried in the snow, and it was one of dire significance. Of the sledge the only part visible was the hood, and of the horses little more than their shoulders and heads.

Sinking ourselves up to the waist, and consequently unable to move one foot before the other without great effort, having to battle besides against the violent cutting wind loaded with the snow it had swept up in its passage and hurled in our faces, we struggled thus desperately to see a few paces, as much as we could hope to see before us, but to no purpose, and were forced to return to our sledge in despair, to breathe again and recover a little more strength.

After an hour of this painful work, we were no more enlightened as to the way we should take than at first, and, moreover, we were exhausted. Over the land there was not a vestige of anything but the snow to be seen; for at a short distance all around there was nothing but darkness, impenetrable; not a star in the sky was visible, not a sound in the air audible, to induce us to risk the chance of attempting one direction in preference to another. The situation was portentously critical, and, unless we would resign ourselves then to our fate, it was necessary to make a supreme effort. In this dilemma we consulted together as to what expedient we should next try. This decided on, the yemschik unharnessed one of the horses with the object of riding as quickly as possible in search of some village, and began, with a lantern in one hand, leading the horse with the other, to discover afoot some trace of the way from which he had strayed.

We watched him struggling with the elements till the last beam of light died away; then Constantine and I, thrown back on ourselves in the darkness--a night with no day near at hand, and a solitude without refuge or clear prospect of retreat--had little to contemplate but our dismay. We thought of our poor horses exposed without movement, of our inability to relieve them from the cold, and, seeing how utterly helpless we were, we wrapped ourselves in our furs and blankets and re-entered our shelter. There we made some effort to cheer each other. We saw passing, in imagination, caravans of Kirghiz, from whom we were, in reality, not distant, and we fancied ourselves led prisoners into the heart of Tartary, in some wild lawless territory not yet brought under subjection. We saw also--but this time it was not a vision--five or six packs of wolves prowling around our poor beasts, watching for a meal if they should be dying or dead, but, happily, these prowlers scampered away at the sound of my revolver. The first shot was not without a moment of terror, for I was not at all assured that the result would not be disastrous. Having my rifle packed up in my trunk through not having foreseen what was likely to come to pass, I found myself absolutely defenceless, in case they should be emboldened, in the lonely position we were, to join in a united attack. Retreat we had none, except behind the canvas; we might close in front; but how long would this resist their assault, met with the shot of a single revolver? Their disappearance therefore was hailed with joy.

Many tedious hours thus passed away, and, since our thoughts were occupied in waiting for the return of our man, who might bring us the relief we had not yet despaired of, every hour passed seemed in the aggregate as many nights in succession. He had long been absent, when I began to be tormented with a suspicion of his fidelity. If we ever stirred from the spot and should be fortunate enough to reach the first village, might he not there expect a severe chastisement for the serious consequences of his culpable neglect, involving perhaps the loss of the horses, from which he might think to escape with impunity by leaving us to our fate? Then we thought of the small store of provisions we had brought with us; and, determined not to surrender ourselves yet to our prospective fate of desertion and protracted hunger and cold, I proposed to Constantine to descend and follow on foot the footsteps of the yemschik, with the hope of extricating ourselves from our perilous position.

We had got out, and were on the point of putting our project into execution, when we perceived, to our horror, that no track could be found. The blast had been strong enough to sweep the snow across the path he had taken; no depression, however slight, was visible; every vestige of a footprint had been effaced. To wander from where we were, we should be speedily lost; to remain on the spot, our fate seemed not less inevitable, but as we had some provisions and shelter, it would be prolonged, and the return of day might bring us rescue. “Let us wait daybreak,” said Constantine; “then perhaps we may catch a glimpse of our man in the distance, if he is still alive; for at this moment, if he has not succeeded, he must have given up further searching.”

We had been an hour, I thought, so well as I could conjecture time, sitting side by side in the vehicle, when I fancied my ears caught the sound of cries in the distance. But it was so feeble, that I trembled lest my excited imagination should have deceived me. I replied, however, though my voice was too weak, and Constantine refused to join his to mine. I thought he had resigned himself to his fate; but it was fear, overpowering fear that closed his throat. He yielded at last to my entreaties, and then voices in response, the last glimmer of hope, seemed really approaching.

After a little while, we attempted to shout more intelligibly a few words, and then came replies. At last, to our infinite joy, we saw our liberators. They were coming in great number and with many horses, to rescue us from our impending fate.

No mariner lingering on a wreck and watching for rescue, in any sign of movement on a lonely shore, could have hailed deliverers with more exultation. Our spirits mounted now in proportion to their recent depression. We joked pretty freely on the stupidity of our yemschik, whom his comrades now turned into ridicule. The two poor beasts, that remained harnessed to the sledge, paid dearly for this adventure. When they attempted to drag them out of the hollow, they were rigid and benumbed with the cold; they could not follow us a single pace, and Constantine understood at once that these men had decided on putting an end to their suffering.

Daylight had just appeared, when we made our entry into the village. All the inhabitants having heard of the great peril we had encountered, ran out to see us pass, and bowed and made the sign of the cross to the great St. Sergius and the Virgin of Kazan in expression of their gratitude for our deliverance.

Our journey continued this day without any particular incident; the reflection on that of the preceding night, and the congratulation on our narrow escape from such peril, were sufficient to engross our thoughts. The aspect of this great desert, covering the vestiges of many an untold catastrophe with its snowy shroud, made me tremble at the remembrance of it; and I have often thought since that if our yemschik had not come to our succour in time, the only abode he would have had to conduct us to would have been a cemetery. In the steppe, the resting places of the dead are the only spots planted with trees, and, on that account, are seen at a great distance. They bring to these melancholy spots birch trees from Krasnoiarsk, at a great expense, and these little groups of white trunks, glittering in the sunbeams, become so many landmarks for the lonely wanderer. They give also to this desolate spot, from one point of view, notwithstanding the mournful association from another, an aspect of calm joyfulness, when the solemnity of the scene draws the thoughts nearer to hope and resurrection, rather than to despair and definitive annihilation. When the sky is clear and the cold intense, these cemeteries on the steppes are radiant with reflected beams, even where everything is luminous in the immensity around.

The following morning when I awoke at daybreak, I found we were stopping on the way. I opened the canvas curtain that closed in the front of the sledge, to ascertain if we were still on the road, and finding that we were, I could not help laughing at the situation we were in. The scenery had not changed; it was still the steppe, and nothing but the steppe around in view; but our driver was in a profound slumber, with his head resting on our provisions; the horses also, feeling themselves allowed to have their own way, were standing stock-still, and probably were slumbering also; but as to Constantine there was no doubt, for his snoring, loud enough “to frighten the wolves,” proclaimed his happy condition, and considering the exhausting effect of the emotions he must have experienced, I was at first loth to rouse him. Still this indulgence could not go on very long with the prospect of a journey of eighteen hundred leagues before us, and having contemplated a few moments the drollery of this quiescent attitude--a drollery all the more irresistible from contrast with the seriousness of the situation--I resolved to wake him and accordingly did so as gently as possible. Now fully roused from his drowsiness, he regarded the driver a moment with irritation, and then, instead of employing the bland proceeding I had adopted towards him, commenced pommelling the yemschik’s head with his fist, the only efficacious method, he suggested, for a skull so thick. The horses now, in their turn, were quickly set going with means still more energetic and as we whisked briskly along in the fresh morning air, I admired with rapture those sublime changes of light that invariably accompany the rising of the sun in a cloudless sky in these latitudes, and their reflection in paler tints successively passing over the surface of the snow.

At last, after this eventful course, we arrived at Omsk, in a cutting atmosphere of forty-five degrees,[8] an intensity of cold that scarcely diminished during the remainder of my sojourn in Siberia.

[8] Nearly 50° of Fahrenheit’s scale below the lowest temperature indicated thereon, = 82° below freezing point.

Many geographers erroneously represent Tobolsk to be the capital of Siberia, but the honour belongs to Irkutsk. Tobolsk is not even the seat of a Government, for Omsk is the capital of Western Siberia.

I needed but a very short stay at Omsk to congratulate myself on having chosen my route by this city. This fortified place, for such it is, is situated on the top of a little hill, on the borders of the Irtish. The view, therefore, is commanding over this river; then beyond, over its opposite bank, which is marked by a mound, the steppe stretches away in front and on the right and left till lost to sight in the horizon. The steppe, viewed from this point, has not the same uniformity to the eye which I before mentioned. The snow takes here and there tints so distinct and dissimilar, and these are ever varying with such inimitable beauty and artistic combination, that the steppe seen from Omsk is lovelier, more diversified, and more imposing even than the sea. A Frenchman, whom I have already mentioned, and in whose company I have spent hours in contemplating this magnificent spectacle without ever tiring of it, told me that, during summer, the steppe was still more interesting. The grass, he said, takes changing hues so deep as to be almost black; then it seems that instead of a boundless green sward, there is a vast gulf of immeasurable depth yawning before the spectator; and then, perhaps, an hour afterwards, according to the position of the sun and the state of the firmament, an illimitable field of brilliant verdure rises under the eye, and replaces, as if by enchantment, the mysterious gloom of the bottomless abyss by the inspiring gaiety of a vernal landscape.

The steppe, to the inhabitants of Omsk, is as the desert to the wandering Bedouin, the sea to the navigator, the Alps to the Swiss. They search in its changing aspects for prognostics of the weather, and these determine their daily movements. At Omsk, the people have a strong attachment to the steppe; it furnishes abundant pasture to the flocks and herds, and an exciting hunting ground to these ardent lovers of the chase, who find here no lack of wild animals. The public fêtes take place here, and the promenade is in view of the steppe. To go on the steppe, or merely to see it, constitutes, in fact, the chief occupation of life for the inhabitants of Omsk, and, indeed, when one has once seen the steppe, it is not difficult to conceive this passionate attachment; as for myself, who had very narrowly escaped leaving my bones to bleach there on its snowy bed, and on that account, perhaps, should have been repelled from it rather than attracted to it, I was probably more enthusiastic over its charms than anybody, and it was with regret and tender melancholy that I was obliged to withdraw from the contemplation of a spectacle so truly magnificent and sublime.

Society in Siberian cities is composed of functionaries, who are deemed the aristocracy, and traders and miners. At Omsk only is there found a third element, a real middle class of retired citizens, that is to say, men who, having made their fortunes, devote their time to study or amusement.

The first of these citizens to whom I was introduced having spoken very favourably of the decree of the emancipation of the serfs, I mentioned to him the conversation I had with the old aristocrat of Kazan. “This gentleman has not told you,” he said, “all the vexatious proceedings that the serfs were constantly obliged to submit to by their lords, and the extortions of which they were the victims. He has not told you that the serfs never had the right to quit the land of their lord, how many cudgellings they may have been made to undergo, and how often the lords gambled away between one another, on the throw of a die, a property consisting of five or six families. He has not said a word about the manœuvre of the lords, who, being obliged every year to abandon to the service of the Emperor a certain number of their vassals, choose, as might be expected, the least vigorous, who, notwithstanding the feeble state of their health, become soldiers for life. Certainly,” he continued, “we do not yet enjoy complete liberty; we cannot quit Russian territory before having complied with the requirements of the military law; we can change neither religion nor country; but after all, every one is treated alike, and the sovereignty of the Emperor is not to be compared with the vexatious seigniory of the lords.”

It will require, certainly, great address for the Czar to introduce, without violent transition or revolution, the necessary liberal reforms. It is to be hoped he may succeed, thanks to the fetishism that surrounds his person. He puts, perhaps, a little too much confidence in the ever-increasing power of the trading class, the possessors of the great wealth of the country, who are still devoted to the Emperor, on account of their hatred to the aristocracy, but who might well turn against their benefactor so soon as they found themselves in a position sufficiently strong.

Another citizen of Omsk entertained me with his views on another subject, not less interesting. It was M. Kroupinikoff, who had been fifteen years among the Kirghiz, as Government official, charged with a difficult duty.

The Kirghiz, whose territory is subjected to the Czar, have, nevertheless, remained in their wild state, and with a longing to recover sooner or later their lost national independence. In order to prevent them from uniting anywhere in great masses, the Government has assigned to each tribe a zone, and they are interdicted from going beyond this limit under penalty of death.

It was M. Kroupinikoff’s duty to take care that every Kirghiz kept within the bounds of his respective territory.

To accomplish this difficult and dangerous task, he had but an insufficient escort. “To give you an instance,” he said, “I was attacked and made a prisoner by these wild people, and I don’t know what would have happened if I had not fortunately made my escape, and, indeed, without horse and almost without anything to eat. This enterprise, probably, is much more hazardous for me than another to sojourn among the Kirghiz, whose character on the whole is not ferocious. What they detested in me was the functionary, and not the man.

“For a period of fourteen days and fourteen nights, I was exposed to the rigorous cold on the steppe, wandering on foot, amid deep snow. I was suffering from hunger, and yet hardly dared to touch a morsel of the food I had succeeded in bringing with me, for fear the last crumb should disappear long before I should be able to drag myself as far as Omsk. But I arrived in a state painful even to remember; for it was in this adventure that I was seized with the malady with which, you see, I am now tormented, without a hope of ever being cured.” This poor man, indeed, had a nervous trembling from head to foot, that did not allow him a moment’s repose, the bare contemplation of which was sufficient at the first glance to make one shudder.

“If you like, monsieur,” he politely offered, “I will take you to see a Kirghiz encampment I know, not very far from here; I shall be most happy to have a little excursion in your company; that will recall my old occupations.” I accepted his proposal gladly, and early the following morning we left in a sledge, and took our way towards the south.

The Kirghiz anciently formed a part of the great Mohammedan family, and roved along the flowery banks of the Tigris and the Euphrates. It is not exactly known at what epoch, and in what disaster, they were defeated by the Turks, and subsequently driven from their old haunts into the great Tartar steppe. They tried many times to reconquer their ancient land, but only in vain. One expedition of the Kirghiz is mentioned, that penetrated, in 1738, as far as Tashkend.

Müller gives us an account of some of the institutions of these people during the period preceding their final submission to the Russians. When war was declared, the chief named those who were to enlist, and assigned them the quota of arms and horses they were to furnish to the army.

In administering justice, judgments were given by an assembly of elders. He who was found guilty of murder first suffered the penalties pronounced by the tribunal, and was then delivered over to the relatives of his victim, who were at liberty either to kill him, or to keep him as a slave. In the latter event, the assassin had to furnish to his masters one hundred horses and two camels, with liberty to substitute five sheep for every horse.

If the victim of an assassination were a woman or child, the relatives of these had no right to demand the life of the murderer, and the fine was reduced to one half. The crime of rape was punished in the same manner as the murder of women or children.

The Kirghiz still have among them a great number of diviners,[9] in whose revelations they have more or less faith according to the method these magicians employ in predicting.

[9] _Pallas._

Some divine with books without having recourse to the stars. Others employ the shoulder blade of a sheep. It is absolutely necessary that this bone be denuded of flesh with a knife, and that human teeth have not gnawed it, otherwise it would have no virtue. When one of these magicians is consulted, he puts the shoulder blade on the fire, and makes his predictions according to the fissures produced by the heat. These diviners pretend with their science to determine how far distant an absent person may be.

The Kirghiz call the third class of magicians _bukscha_. To obtain a prediction from them, they exact a horse, a sheep, or a goat. The magician begins the ceremony by chanting and beating on a drum furnished with rings; and whilst thus occupied, he goes through a succession of leaps and contortions of the body for half an hour. When this part of the ceremony has ended, he has a sheep brought to him, and killing it, receives the blood in a vessel, expressly made for this purpose; he then keeps the skin for himself, and distributes the flesh among the spectators, who eat it. He afterwards takes the bones, and, dyeing them red or blue, throws them towards the west. Then he scatters the blood in the same direction, begins again his contortions, and, after an interval, gives his response to the question proposed to him. A fourth class of diviners are called _kamtscha_. They augur from the colour of the flame that rises from butter or fat thrown into the fire. The latter class of diviners is not much esteemed.

I had been about two hours on our excursion in conversation with M. Kroupinikoff, when I perceived three tents made of pointed stakes, pitched side by side, and covered with felt. As we had been some time announced, the head of the family received us before his encampment. This man was tall, and of a haughty look, and his dress, composed mostly of trophies of the chase, was really very picturesque. His head was covered with a hood of red wool, surmounted with a wolf’s head stuffed, the ears of which, being turned forwards, seemed as if they were his own. His shoulders were covered with a red shirt and a wolf’s skin. From his waist hung a pouch, similar to a Highlander’s, but made of the skin of the white deer of the desert. His legs were swathed in skins of different colours; his sandals were of plaited straw, his feet disappearing under leather gaiters, that expanded below like Mexican trousers. In imitation of the ancient savages, this man bore at the same time his weapon of war and of the chase. He had a bow over his shoulder, arrows suspended from a shoulder belt, an enormous club hanging from his waist, and a falcon perched on his hand. This club served him to strike down the wolves as soon as he ran them down with his fleet courser. Near him stood a hare-hound of a breed, it appears, found only among these people. They are hairless all over the body, excepting on the ears, where the hair is of unusual length. On seeing this one, I fancied it had been shaved by the Kirghiz, who are very much attached to these dogs, but M. Kroupinikoff assured me that this was their natural state. These animals, they say, are swifter and more intelligent than Scotch or Syrian hounds. Excepting the peculiarity of the long hair on the ears, which detracts from their beauty, they are extremely graceful animals.

The Kirghiz being Mohammedans, the women of this tribe hid themselves from our eyes in their tents. M. Kroupinikoff being unwilling to displease the chief by asking to be admitted into the tent, preferred asking him to show me how he hunted the wolf with the club.

He was in his saddle in an instant, and executed before us a manœuvre with a dexterity that would have been envied by Arabs if they could have seen him. Off he went, cutting through the air like a dart, hiding himself from view by leaning down close beside the shoulder of his courser, and low enough to strike the snow with his tomahawk. And the next moment, hanging on by some part of the harness, he appeared completely close under his steed.

This wild, wolf-eared figure, arrayed in red; this sinewy, sinuous hunter of the desert, guiding his courser, like the bound of a tiger on some imaginary prey, was altogether a striking spectacle, and one quite as interesting as it was startling and fantastic. We bid adieu to this son of Genghis Khan, and returned to Omsk, with this vision ever present to my imagination, like a vivid dream.

I was amused with a diversion quite peculiar to this city, that takes place during the three first days of the year. It consists in going to pay a visit to one’s friends disguised in costume and masked, in a way so effectually, that it is impossible to be recognized. To give more animation occasionally to the amusement, families mutually exchange houses, disguising themselves also, and then the visitors and the visited find themselves equally mystified. These merry _réunions_ are generally accompanied with dancing and refreshments. The society of Omsk is too limited to afford facilities for any intrigue, and too strict even that such, if any, should be attended with any serious consequence; but for all that, there are few cities in the world, perhaps, where during these three days so much boisterous mirth may be heard as in this privileged spot on the Tartar steppe.