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

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Title: Empires and Emperors of Russia, China, Korea, and Japan

Author: Péter Vay

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Language: English

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EMPIRES AND EMPERORS
OF RUSSIA, CHINA,
KOREA, AND JAPAN

NOTES AND RECOLLECTIONS
BY MONSIGNOR
COUNT VAY DE VAYA AND LUSKOD

_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS_

NEW YORK
E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY
1906

[Illustration: _Monsignor The Count Vay de Vaya and Luskod._]

PREFACE

As the name of the author of this book may not be so well known to some
English readers as it is on the Continent, I have, at his request,
undertaken to write a few lines of introduction and preface.

Count Vay de Vaya and Luskod is a member of one of the oldest and most
distinguished families of Hungary. Ever since his ancestor took part
with King Stephen in the foundation of the Hungarian Kingdom, nine
hundred years ago, the members of his family, in succeeding generations,
have been eminent in the service of that state.

The Count studied at various European universities, and was destined for
the diplomatic service, but early in life he decided to take Holy Orders
and devote himself to the work of the Church.

In this capacity he attended the Diamond Jubilee of Queen Victoria in
1897 as one of the envoys of Pope Leo XIII.

The chief enterprise of his life, however, has been to study the work of
the Roman Catholic Church in all parts of the world--her missions,
charitable institutions, schools, and organizations of all kinds.

Few men have travelled so far and into such remote quarters as the Count
Vay de Vaya has, with this object. His position has secured for him
access to the leading and most accomplished circles wherever he has
been, and his linguistic attainments, as well as his wide personal
experience of men and affairs in every quarter of the globe, give him an
almost unique opportunity of describing and commenting on the countries
which he has visited--their people, rulers, and institutions.

Seldom has any region been subjected to such complete and revolutionary
changes as have the countries which he describes in the following pages.

Russia has been compelled to relax that grip on the Far East which
seemed to be permanently tightening and closing: at home she has been
subjected to a social upheaval which at one time threatened the existing
form of government and the throne itself. And for the first time we have
witnessed the triumph of an Asiatic race over one of the leading Powers
of Europe.

The substance of this volume was written in 1902 and the following year,
before any of these events had occurred, or were dreamed of, and this
may cause some of the details of the record to be a little out of date
historically; but the change, far from diminishing, has, on the whole,
probably increased its value to all thoughtful readers.

A few passages of comment and forecast have been added since the
occurrence of the war, but in the main the narrative remains as it was
originally written.

Japan, Korea, Manchuria, and the Siberian Railway have been described
over and over again, both during and since the war, but descriptions of
them on the eve of the outbreak may come with some freshness and enable
readers to compare what was yesterday with what is today.

And what has been changed in the "Unchanging East" bears but a very
small proportion to what remains the same in spite of wars and
revolutions.

I hope, therefore, that these first impressions of countries which, in
name at any rate, are far more familiar to the British public than they
were four or five years ago, may prove of great interest to many readers
in England and America.

The chapters on _The Tsar of all the Russias_, _The Reception at the
Summer Palace_, _The Audience of the Emperor of Korea_, and _The Mikado
and the Empress_, appeared in "Pearson's Magazine," and thanks are due
to the Editor for kind permission to reprint them. The chapters on
_Manchuria under Russian Rule_ first appeared in the "Revue des deux
Mondes," and those on _Japan and China in the Twentieth Century_ in the
"Deutsche Rundschau," but none of these have been translated into
English before. The whole has been carefully revised, and considerable
additions have been made.

JOHN MURRAY.

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

General situation--Eve of the war--Political outlook
in Russia--Characteristics of the two capitals--Siberia
and Siberians--Conquest of Manchuria--Position of China
and the Powers--Korea's difficulties--Racial tendencies _Page_ xvii

THE TSAR AND TSARINA AT THEIR HOME OF PETERHOF

The Baltic station of St. Petersburg--The Imperial "Special"
--Through the suburbs of the capital--Peterhof--Sentries
and passwords--The Imperial Family's favourite home--
Alexandrovsky--A homely interior--The Empress and her tastes
--Mother and wife--H.M. Nicholas II--A conversation on
different topics 1

TO THE FAR EAST BY THE TRANS-SIBERIAN RAILWAY

Main characteristics--The Emperor's kind hospitality--Prince
Chilkoff, Minister of Communications--Last days at
St. Petersburg--The metropolis of incoherence--Typical
Russian departure--On the way to Moscow--The agricultural
districts--A short visit to Pienza--Conversations on board
the Trans-Siberian express--Political and economical
appreciations--Crossing the Volga--In the land of the Baskirs
--The Ural range--Western Siberia--The colonization of the
uninhabited regions--Growing townships--Central Siberia--
Unlimited pastures and endless forests--The Altai range--
Irkutsk--The Siberian Paris--Arrival--Luggage difficulties
--Civility and kindness--The luxuries of the Hotel du
Metropole--Plush and gold, but no air and no water--A gloomy
evening and a bright morning--The life and the lights of
the city--Lake Baikal--The islands of dwarfs and fairies--
The large fairy coat--Myssowa a new mining centre--Petrovsk,
the town of inferno--Trans-Baikalia--Buriats and their
pilgrimages to Tibet--The Amur region--On the frontier of
Manchuria 16

III

MANCHURIA UNDER RUSSIAN RULE

The Manchurian frontier--Russian soldiers and officials--
Public safety--Trains provided with military escort--The
Eastern Chinese Railway Company--The system of construction
--On the borders of the desert of Gobi--The travel by goods
trains--My special car my home--The railway stations: what
they looked like--Geographical beauty and ethnological features
--Tsi-tsi-kar, the capital of Northern Manchuria--Customs and
habits--Primitive modes of living--Kharbin (Harbin), the
junction of the eastern Asiatic railway lines--The news of
the bridge by Liaoyang carried away by floods--The centre of
mobilization--Harbin's part in case of war--Pleasant surprises
--At last a new start--Central Manchuria--The mineral wealth
of this region--Kirin, a picturesque city--Fine scenery--
A dull dawn--Station and station-master--The hunt for a
vehicle--A typical Chinese cart--The horrors of a night's
journey--Manchurian highroads--Exchanging the cart with a
mule--A beautiful bridge--_How-di_ and _Poo-how_--The
fantastic aspect of the scenery--The comforts of little Li-Hu
--In a marauders' inn--Lugubrious den and its keepers--In
midst of Chunchuses--The bargain with Li-Hu for his charge--
Chinese diplomacy and Western art save my purse--Farewell
from my companions--A fine daybreak, and the sun throws a
veil of obligation over the misery of the night 63

THE CAPITAL OF MANCHURIA

First view of Mukden--The streets, shops, and inhabitants--
Public buildings--The Palace--The Russian occupation--
Friendliness of Russians and Manchus--Administrative
divisions of Manchuria--Official reception by the Governor--
A luncheon party--Manchus and Hungarians--Visit to the
Imperial Tombs--A magnificent arch--The Great Ancestor--
Outbreak of cholera--Dinner with the Russian Resident--
Russian hospitality--Return journey to the station--
An adventurous drive--Across country--Chunchuses--Safe
arrival at the station 88

PORT ARTHUR, DALNY, NIU-CHWANG, TIEN-TSIN

Chinese agriculture--Friendliness between Russians and
Chinese--Rebuilding a bridge at Liaoyang--Difficulties of
crossing--Arrival at Port Arthur--The staff at Port Arthur--
Essentially a military port--Dalny--Niu-chwang--Official
journal description--Trade--Niu-chwang a real Chinese town--
Description--Future of Niu-chwang--The Catholic Mission--
Official transfer of the railway to the Chinese
Governor-General of Manchuria--The famous Chinese wall--
Hankan-chang--Dinner with the English Commander--
Li Hung-Chang--His weakness for speculation--Taku--
Tien-tsin--The home of the Progressive Party--The Boxer
rising, 1900--Drawing near Pekin--Wonderful sunset--First
Impressions 119

PEKIN

I: Gloomy arrival--The first disappointment--Incoherent
impressions of the following day--Yamen of the Legation
--How the city appeared on my round of exploration.

II: Appreciations after the first month's stay--
Contradictions of the Yellow metropolis--Plan and outline
--Light and shadow.

III: Sights of Pekin--Chinese, Tartar, Imperial, Purple,
Inner, and Sacred cities--Winter and Summer Palaces--
Neighbourhood and western hills--Pagodas--Temples--
Shrines--Bell and Drum Towers--Chinese city--Commercial
life and shops--Pei-tang--International quarter of
Legations 141

VII

THE DOWAGER EMPRESS AND THE EMPEROR OF CHINA AT THE SUMMER PALACE

Pekin in the early morning--En route to the Summer Palace
--Varied modes of locomotion--On the highway--Prince Ching,
Minister of Foreign Affairs--The pageant of the Dragon--The
Imperial residence--Princes and mandarins--The splendour of
the Court--Picturesque uniforms and artistic decorations--Her
Majesty the Empress Regent--A striking personality--The
Manchu fashions--Reception of the diplomatic body--The doyen's
complimentary speech, and the Regent's sarcastic answer--The
Emperor--The wonderland of the state banquet of hundred
dainties--Supper at the Pei-tang Orphanage 175

VIII

KOREA OF BYGONE DAYS AND ON THE EVE OF THE WAR

Glimpses of the past and present--Geographical features--
Topography--Soil--Mineral Wealth--Mountains and valleys--
Rivers and bays--Climate and natural advantages--The flora
and fauna--Minerals--Ethnological--The Korean race: Its
origin--Physical and moral characteristics--The ancient
Korea--Early myth of the land--First history--Foundation
of the present dynasty--Chinese policy--Internal troubles--
Home and foreign affairs--The administration of the country
--The defence--Justice--Torture--The criminal court--Public
education--Examination system--Language--The present dynasty
--The Emperor--Tai-Wen-Kun--The Royal Prince--Social and
public existence--Daily life--The role of men and women--
Korean children--Marriage--General occupations--Agriculture
--Trades--Domestic routine--Spinning--Weaving--Sewing--
Ironing--Cooking--Recreations--Music--Theatricals--Singing
--National dances--Old customs--Dwellings--Food--Dress--
Games--Sports--The awakening of Korea--International
treaties--Commerce and shipping--Mining concessions--
Means of locomotion--Pedlars' Guild--Railways--Electric
tramways--Changes in the last quarter of a century--Korea's
open ports--Foreign influences--Antagonistic movements--
Apathy and fermentation--Puzzles and problems of the
present--Korea's future 189

SEOUL, THE CAPITAL OF KOREA

Late arrival--Moonlight impressions--General effects--
A fairy city--The dawn--Military display--The Korean sons
of Mars--My first walk through the town--Street life--Shops
and booths--A battle-royal--The Emperor's commemoration
hall--The old palace yard--Korean vehicles--Servants and
liveries--A noble wedding--Quaint customs--The dowry--
Korean T. Atkins--Native school--Master and pupils--
The R.C. Mission--The new cathedral--Sunset--Barracks--
Toy hussars--Canine street police--Faithful guardians--
Glorious evening--Princely funeral--The catafalques and
cortege--_Danse macabre_--Some reflections 240

THE EMPEROR OF KOREA AT THE NEW PALACE

The capital in a state of revolution--Imperial invitation
--My sedan-chairs--The little suite of _Kisos_ and _Mapus_
--The New Palace--An incoherent _tout ensemble_--Court
dignitaries--Elaborate uniforms--The Imperial apartments--
Court etiquette--The Emperor--A thousand questions--
The Crown Prince--State robes--The chief eunuch--Farewell--
Y.-Yung-Yk the favourite 263

TOKIO

First surprises--The Japanese capital on a dreary winter
morning--General aspect of the city--Artistic disappointments
--Sights of Yeddo--The famous Shogun graves--"Tories" and
pagodas--Natural beauties of the capital--Artistic qualities
--The Katsura-no-Rikyu Palace--The school of the aesthetics
--The world seen from the Tsuki-mi-dai--Actual characteristics
--Numbers and activity--Railways--Shipping--Electric
companies--Telegraphs and telephones--Modern institutions--
Schools--University--Public library--Printing offices--
Students and their work--Brain power and technical skill--
Commercial museum--The capital at work 275

XII

THE EMPEROR AND EMPRESS OF JAPAN AT THE YEDDO PALACE

Tokio buried in snow--Black and white effects--The Imperial
grounds--Avenues of cryptomerea--The Yeddo Palace--The home
of the Mikado--Disappointments--Modern transformations--
Western comfort and Japanese art--Private apartments--
The Mikado--His Majesty's appearance--A long conversation--
The Empress--A sincere interest in European topics--
Education and charitable work--The Japanese woman--Her sense
of duty--The virtue of self-abnegation--The great halls--
A Lilliputian garden--National taste and aesthetics 300

XIII

JAPAN AND CHINA ON THE THRESHOLD OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY

I: JAPAN. The Yellow Peril--Power of assimilation
in discipline--Bushido--Dr. Nitobe's description of its
origin: its great principles, justice, courage and honour--
Hara-kiri--Kataki-ushi--The conventional smile--Sanctity of
the Mikado--Reverence for the sword--National influence of
Bushido--The Soul of the Nation--Christianity and Shintoism
--Western veneer.

II: CHINA. Contrast to Japan--The Chinese Coolie--
Resourcefulness--Feeling against Chinese labour--Trustworthy
traders--Guilds and clubs--Music--Culture--Art--
Chan-chi-tung--His work and writings--Chinese views of
Western ideas--Government and public opinion--China and
European politics--Dissimilarity of Chinese and Japanese--
Europe and the yellow races--Transformation in Japan--
Chinese national inclinations--The progressive party--
Yuan-chi-kai--Fashions and home-life--Chinese Christians--
Education--The Chinaman's ideal--Ignorance and prejudice 313

XIV

CONCLUSION

After the war--Peace negotiations of Portsmouth--
M. de Witte and Komura--National feelings--Japanese
diplomatic triumph 381

INDEX 391

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

MONSIGNOR THE COUNT VAY DE VAYA AND LUSKOD _Frontispiece_

TO FACE PAGE

LE PALAIS ANGLAIS 4

H.I.M. THE EMPRESS OF RUSSIA 6

H.I.M. NICHOLAS II, EMPEROR OF RUSSIA 12

MARSANKA 28

SAMARA 30

ON THE VOLGA 32

SIBERIAN HOME 34

A SIBERIAN TOWN 36

RAILWAY CHURCH SERVICE 38

M. DE PLEHVE 40

IRKUTSK 48

LAKE BAIKAL 52

THE STATION OF MANCHURY 60

TSI-TSI-KAR 68

KHARBIN 70

A STREET IN KHARBIN 76

FROM MUKDEN FLATS ON TO THE TOWN 80

THE ENTRANCE TO THE IMPERIAL TOMBS 104

GENERAL KUROPATKIN 124

THE LEGATION QUARTER 152

ENTRANCE TO THE FORBIDDEN CITY 158

TRIUMPHAL ARCH 162

THE TEMPLE OF HEAVEN 172

THE EMPRESS DOWAGER OF CHINA 184

THE SUMMER PALACE 188

SEOUL 240

THE EMPEROR'S THRONE IN THE OLD PALACE 248

THE IMPERIAL LIBRARY IN SEOUL 252

THE THRONE ROOM 268

THE EMPEROR OF KOREA 270

THE STATE EXAMINATION HALL AT PEKIN 292

SHRINES AT NIKKO 296

DELIGHTFUL SCENERY 298

STREET IN JAPAN 300

THE TOKAIDO 304

A TYPICAL NIPPON BUILDING 312

MARSHAL OYAMA 322

ON THE YANG-TZE-KIANG 340

IN THE FLOWERY LAND 344

COUNT WITTE 384

INTRODUCTION

During my prolonged stay in the Far East, I promised to send home notes
whenever I came across anything interesting, or whenever I had time to
do so. This is how it happened that the story of my visits to the
different cities of interest, of receptions graciously granted by the
various Emperors of Eastern Asia, and the chief impressions received
when crossing their empires, came to be jotted down.

Naturally in these pages, written often under considerable pressure and
in spare moments, I was at the mercy of circumstances, and could not
dwell on all the points at such length as I should have liked to do. In
short, in these narratives, destined to be confided to couriers and post
offices, I was compelled to leave out much that might have been more
sensational.

Some of the papers have already appeared in periodicals, and the
appreciation that has kindly been shown to them, and the favourable
criticism they have received, have been due to the sincerity and the
absolute lack of pretension with which I have tried to treat the
different subjects.

My intention was simply to note what was striking at the moment and what
impressed me most vividly. I have tried to be as objective as possible,
and to deal with things as they are, not as I could have wished to find
them. Even in the most attractive books that have dealt with these
far-off countries, there has sometimes been a tendency to adopt the tone
of a mentor and to judge everything from a superior standpoint, as if
the complete difference between those remote lands and peoples and our
own had been forgotten, and as if the Westerner wished to ignore a
civilization which, though different from, is not less serious than his
own; in short, as though this mysterious Far East, with its almost
incomprehensible masses, did not possess anything at all of a higher
nature and lacked a mind altogether.

Certainly it is difficult, almost impossible, for an alien to perceive
their inner qualities and mental powers; at the same time we shall have
opportunities in our everyday lives of noting explanatory
manifestations. It is from living in the same atmosphere and from
continual intercourse with all classes, high and low, that it will be
given us to understand a little of what is called the soul of a land and
its inhabitants.

Thus, while describing events in their simplicity, we may succeed in
giving something of the local atmosphere too. This is the reason why we
always read with pleasure memoirs of past generations or correspondences
from far-away countries or of days gone by; and why all the best
descriptions in books dealing with the Far East are those unassuming and
faded letters from merchants or missionaries; and why the narrative of
Marco Polo, with all its _naivete_, will remain for all ages a standard
work.

Strange adventures, depicted in brilliant hues and by an exaggerated
imagination, seldom help our general knowledge. Instead of adding to
what we see and encumbering real facts with more or less imaginary
occurrences, it is more useful to omit unnecessary details, just as the
important thing in painting a landscape is to know what to leave out, so
as to make the general character of the scenery clearer. This it is that
constitutes the difference between the very best photograph or
chromo-lithograph and a rough artistic study or water-colour sketch. In
short, one ought to strive to treat this land as its painters do their
sketches, always bearing in mind their design of giving in a masterly
manner general impressions more than worthless details, so as to get
hold of something more than can be seen--something of abstract value in
the life they are endeavouring to render.

It was life with its everyday occupations that brought me into contact
with all social phases, and rendered my journey and stay of interest,
and made it possible for me to see the country and people in a stronger
light than if I had been an ordinary traveller. I was investigating the
civilizing, charitable, and spiritual work carried on by the Catholic
Church under different conditions, amongst various races. These matters
I have dealt with in another volume; but even the subjects that I
treated of in those unassuming pages may have acquired a certain local
colour, as having been seen by one who had interests and ties with the
places he wrote from, and the people he lived amongst.

During the year I passed in the countries bordering on the Yellow Sea, I
had an opportunity of making the acquaintance of the greater number of
those eminent persons whose names have lately been so often in the
mouths of all the world. It was most interesting to listen to them and
to hear their views. Though there may have been great diversity in their
opinions, they were none the less instructive for that.

My departure from St. Petersburg presented the first glimpse into
Orientalism. The splendour of the Imperial City, and the patriarchal
condition of the lower classes, gave it a different character from the
usual European capitals, and the network of interests in the metropolis
differs even more. I had to stay rather longer than I had expected, and
this prolongation gave me the best chance of making the amplest
preparations, and acquiring the necessary preliminary knowledge for my
journey across the empire.

Moreover, since as an ecclesiastic I had to obtain special permission
even to get to Russia, it was therefore natural that I should have
expected to find the greatest difficulties and complications thrown in
the way of the accomplishment of my future journey.

Thanks to the kindness of the Tsar himself, however, all possible
obstacles were smoothed over. He was personally acquainted with the
journey that awaited me, but with this difference, that he made it
before the railway was completed, and travelled by post. It was
interesting to listen to the narrative of the sovereign, giving his
impressions of the remotest portions of his empire, where he could not
but come into contact with all classes of his subjects, and where he was
obliged to share the vicissitudes of "inflexible circumstance," as we so
often read in official _ukases_.

His Majesty evidently took the liveliest interest in everything he saw,
and gave charming accounts of his personal experiences. As in all royal
tours, everything was naturally shown to him in as favourable a light as
possible, and yet, apparently, the shadows had not altogether escaped
his observation. Being heir to all this enormous territory, he probably
traversed it full of hope of being able one day to ameliorate the
general condition of his country, and to prove a true and loving "Little
Father" to his folk. It is indeed a melancholy reflection that those who
are generally supposed to be blindly obeyed, to have all their wishes
accomplished, and whose will is imagined to be absolutely autocratic,
are those who are most tied by the _force majeur_.

The little hermitage of Alexandrovsky, nestling in pine woods, with its
home-like character, stands, like an oasis, in the midst of Peterhof,
that town of palaces and splendour. The simplicity of the Imperial
family is in striking contrast with the luxury of the so-called Court
circle. All that one hears of the ostentation and extravagance of
Russian Court life entirely disappears when one comes to know the home
of the Tsar and Tsaritsa.

Elsewhere there is undoubtedly much pomp and glitter, for the luxury and
lavishness of Russian officialism is too well known to need mention
here. Indeed, there is hardly a country where things are done more
elaborately, and the Exchequer seems to be inexhaustible. If the
administration leaves much to be desired and cannot be criticized too
severely, we must allow that the officials themselves are the most
accomplished men we could wish to know. Whether an official be a
minister of State, with all the polish of the old regime of the
eighteenth century, or a simple _tchinovnik_, a tram conductor or a
railway guard, it is equally pleasant to have dealings with him.

A stay of a few weeks in St. Petersburg, filled with receptions at the
residences of the various members of the Imperial family, calls at the
Embassies, official visits, sight-seeing, and business of all sorts,
certainly gives one ample opportunity to gain a better insight into
local matters than the study of whole volumes.

It was on the eve of the war that I was there. The atmosphere was full
of gunpowder, and yet nobody seemed to believe that such a thing could
happen; or, even if it really came to pass, that it could have greater
consequences than the annihilation of that far-away island folk, of whom
the Russian world seemed to know very little. For just as they are so
well informed and interested in Western affairs, that one might fancy
oneself in a suburb of Paris, so they are supremely indifferent to, and
have very hazy ideas of what they call the "Barbarous East."

Such was public opinion and such the tone adopted by the newspapers. M.
de Witte was the only man who seemed to be of another conviction. He was
just then on his way back from Port Arthur and Dalny. He had been on
the spot and realized the situation. He had planned and built Dalny with
a view to having a great commercial stronghold to command the Far East,
in opposition to his neighbour, Kuropatkin, who commanded the
fortifications of Port Arthur. He believed that the best foundation for
Russia's supremacy lay in industrial development; Kuropatkin trusted in
the sword. Witte was dismissed--the rest we know.

Moscow, my next stoppage, revealed another side of the empire. The holy
Moscow, the Mother of Cities, exhibited other features of interest
illustrative of the mystical Slavonic soul. The Kremlin, with its gilt
cupolas, is not only a monument unique of its kind, but also the
expression of a nation's sentiment.

The history of the past, the aspirations of the future, are equally
manifested. The glory of arms, of arts, of thought, is expressed in this
Valhalla. It is the embodiment of the word "Muscovite," which means all
that is characteristic of Russia. Light and shadow, brightness and
gloom, virtues and vices, are equally perceptible in this marvellous
city, and what is not visible is even more impressive.

All the transcendental tendencies, the shadowy mysticism, peculiar to
this strange population, all that is abstract, finds new and unexpected
expression within these venerable walls. Patriotism and anarchy, faith
and superstition, walk side by side. Churches, shrines, and ikons are
met at every corner, and before them all, large groups are on their
knees, prostrated in devotion. In this same city the most terrible
crimes are committed, and the same populace that seemed so repentant and
contrite, perpetrates the most cruel and bloody outrages.

In fact, Moscow is an inexhaustible field of study, and not only for
historical research, but also for a more certain knowledge of this
paradoxical race, full as it is of inexplicable contrasts and incessant
surprises.

Siberia was another mine of contrasts and surprises, and the longer I
was there the more I began to comprehend the vast possibilities of this
formidable stretch of country. It is a continent in itself, with all the
natural advantages to enable it to become rich and prosperous. Her
future development has the same chance as that of Canada, and her wealth
is even larger. To say nothing of Siberia's inexhaustible mines, the
land is better watered, and the timber-forests even more extensive.

The population is still slumbering in its cradle. The life they lead is
archaic in the extreme. They dwell mostly in tents, lead a nomadic life,
and provide their own clothing and food themselves.

They are uneducated, but not unintelligent. In fact, after having
visited different camps, I was most struck with their open expression
and self-reliance. But it must not be forgotten that, in
contradistinction to the Slavs of Russia proper, the various tribes of
the Ural-Altai race have never been serfs. They have always led a
wandering, independent existence under their Hetmans.

The Baskirs and the Kirghiz are the most interesting, and are the finest
specimens of Mid-Asiatic types. The Kalmuks and Ostiaks represent a more
Mongolian stock. The farther we go to the East the more they resemble
the Yellow race, and the Buriats and Tunguses of Trans-Baikalia are
hardly to be distinguished from the Chinese.

What tremendous force is dormant in this world of Tartars! and what a
shock their awakening will cause one day!

Towns like Tomsk, Omsk, Tobolsk, and particularly Irkutsk, show us the
country from another side. Commercial enterprises, trade, and general
progress, have taken root. They are so-called centres of civilization,
but I fear that they might more fitly be called places of exploitation.

Certainly these growing towns are not wanting in praiseworthy attempts
at culture, and I was especially struck by the philanthropic and
charitable institutions. Unfortunately, the moral tone of this
agglomerate population is deplorable, and money is spent in a reckless
way.

Men, banished from their homes to such distant regions, allow themselves
to be dragged down and brought to contempt, instead of trying to
dominate the mass by superior character.

Manchuria was entirely under Russian rule in those days. The famous
railway was in the hands of the Cossacks, although it ostensibly bore
the name of the "Eastern Chinese Line," and barracks for Muscovite
soldiers were dotted all over the country. The larger towns had
quartered on them Russian officials under various designations, such as
consuls, railway directors, bank managers, and so forth. Their influence
and domination were uncontested, although apparently they were on the
best of terms with the local officials. The Russo-Chinese Bank had
branches everywhere, and evidently the least services rendered them were
amply recompensed. This Asiatic method of colonization was not wanting
in interest to the observer. Its demoralizing effect was very sad, and
could not fail to bring retribution later on. For after all, political
life, like that of individuals, has a moral code, by which any criminal
actions are bound to find their punishment.

After crossing the Great Wall and staying in China proper, I still found
the preponderating Muscovite influence. This was especially the case in
Pekin, where the success of M. Lessar, Resident Minister, and M.
Pocadiloff, Manager of the Russian Bank, was at its zenith. The
influence of St. Petersburg, which had succeeded in gaining over Li
Hung-Chang, was still in full swing, and Yung Lu was a not less useful
partisan. He was the man of the moment, and knew how to secure, even to
a greater extent than his predecessor, the sympathy and favour of the
Empress Dowager.

The Court had only just returned from their flight. They had scarcely
settled down again in that marvellous Palace which they had expected
never to revisit. In fact, who could ever have imagined, after all the
outrages against Christian Powers, that those Powers themselves should
have brought back again the very people against whom they had fought
only a few months before?

The diplomatic talent of the Dowager Empress must incontestably be of a
high order. She was herself a foreigner--a simple Manchu girl. No less
remarkable than her achievement in raising herself step by step to the
highest pinnacle of power is the manner in which she maintains her
position. The way in which she deals with her own provinces, and plays
them off one against the other, is most skilful. It will therefore not
be astonishing if she sometimes uses the same methods in foreign
difficulties.

The victory of the Western Powers was complete, and yet, with the
exception of Russia, they did not reap any apparent advantage from it.
They could come to no agreement among themselves as to the partition of
the spoil, and the disappointment of Japan at seeing the territory she
had formerly conquered pass into the hands of her rivals, was only too
justly founded.

The situation was most interesting, the general tension being extreme.
At the same time it was just this atmosphere of excitement which
rendered my stay so instructive and intercourse with leading men of such
great interest. Every one gained in importance at this critical moment.

Men like Prince Ching, the Foreign Minister of China and a near relative
of the Emperor; his interpreter, Mr. Lee, who has such thorough
knowledge of European countries; Yan-Tsi-Kai, who represents the Chinese
military spirit and believes in introducing Western methods; and
Chang-Tsi-Tung, the great sage and strict disciple of Confucius--are
fine specimens of the children of this vast and unknown empire.

After all, among so many interesting points in the Far East, the most
interesting is man. Situations may change, war and peace, power and
decadence, follow each other at intervals, but the essential
characteristics of this population will remain in their main tendencies
more or less the same as long as the race endures. The expressions of
national sentiment that surround us, great and small, whether
apparently superficial or really striking, are human documents which
must be considered with earnestness and attention, for after all it is
they, more than political treatises, diplomatic achievements, or
victories of armies, which will direct the natural tendencies and the
relentless march of progress in and development of nations in the
future. It is when observing, in all its phases, the life that surrounds
us, that we can gain an approximate idea of the possibilities of the Far
East.

I arrived in the Land of the Morning Calm, which might more suitably be
called the Land of Continual Upheaval, when a revolution was in
progress. Y-yung-Ik, Minister of Finance, was being attacked by those
who sympathized with Japan. The capital was divided into two camps.
Skirmishes took place in the open street. Everybody was excited, and
anarchy reigned supreme.

Y-yung-Ik, whose views were favoured at the Palace, and who, on the
occasion of the last riots, had saved the Emperor's life, carrying him
on his back to the Russian Legation, where he remained for over a year,
was in concealment in the Palace, and the mob was raging vociferously
before the Imperial abode. It was a typical situation, throwing a strong
light on the condition of the country.

The nation was divided into two factions. There were pro-Russians and
pro-Japanese, but no pro-Koreans. This fine country, instead of
constituting a guarantee of the peace of the Far East, was a prey to
rivalry. Once suzerain of China, then under Japanese influence, during
my stay she seemed to be at the mercy of the Slav.

It seemed to be the last flicker of the candle of Russian preponderance
in the Far East. Their hegemony was not only apparent at Court and in
the Ministries, but even began to be established all over the country.
As in Manchuria, so in Korea, Russian soldiers and sailors, who were
billeted on the country for various reasons, made themselves quite at
home.

Between the Russians and Koreans there did not appear to be the same
difference which separates Europeans from Orientals. The uncultured
children of the Steppes amalgamated naturally with the native
population. It was striking, particularly in Manchuria, to notice how
the so-called conquerors began to be conquered in their turn by the land
they occupied, which, indeed, in the long run, has always absorbed those
who dreamed of dominating her, whether Mongol, Tartar, or Manchu.
Probably what happened to the descendants of the famous Genghis Khan
would have happened to the victorious Muscovite.

Arms cannot solve problems of a higher order. In spite of their
superiority of military equipment, the new invaders of the Eastern
Asiatic continent, the new masters of Manchuria, did not seem to be
conscious of their moral duty towards their lately acquired subjects.

Instead of attempting to raise the population among whom they had
settled, to a higher degree of civilization, and to inculcate nobler
ideals, they were on the point of slipping down to the level of the
so-called conquered barbarians.

The life and the mode of thought of the camps were low, and the moral
dangers of every kind that surrounded the soldiers and officials were
too great for people who, in many cases, had only a veneer of culture
themselves and very little practical experience of civilizing and
ennobling work, to struggle against.

After all, a state has only the right to conquer when, instead of
oppressing, they strengthen and educate those weaker and more primitive
than themselves. Conquest can only bear ripe fruit when it is for the
general welfare.

Nations, like individuals, have their moral codes, and vocations.
Nemesis must always overtake evil of every kind, and to the virtuous
alone is granted the palm of final victory.

EMPIRES AND EMPERORS

THE TSAR AND TSARINA AT THEIR HOME OF PETERHOF

It is half-past nine in the morning, as I start on my journey to
Peterhof, having been honoured by the Tsar with an invitation thither.
It is yet cold and chilly. The great metropolis is covered with a veil
of fog. One would imagine that winter had already begun, and it is
difficult to realize that according to the calendar it is the month of
August. The street leading to the Baltic station, St. Petersburg, is
still half deserted.

There Switzers begin to sweep the doorways, and detachments of soldiers
hurry to take up their different posts. There are a few milk-carts that
rattle to and fro, and one or two private vehicles occupied by people in
full dress and uniforms covered with decorations, throwing into sharp
contrast the dreary surroundings of the humble suburb. In fact,
contrasts are the most striking feature of the capital of the vast
Russian Empire--contrasts in light and shadow, splendour and humility,
and I dare say contrasts in everything that is characteristic of the
West and the East.

The railway station, where I arrive at last, is certainly one of the
most interesting illustrations of what I have just pointed out--the very
link and meeting-place of the West with the East. It is crowded with
people: their countenances are so different, their dress so picturesque,
their behaviour so unconventional, yet so characteristic, that I forget
that I am on a railway platform, and imagine myself amidst the
picturesqueness of a great caravanserai.

Perfect order is kept. The train is already at the platform, ready to
start, and I am shown without delay into my compartment. There are a
great many officials, all of them in striking uniforms. In fact, there
are nearly as many railway employes as travellers, and together they
form incoherent groups of Oriental brightness.

The train winds through colourless and uninteresting suburbs for some
time. Here and there we have a glimpse of the white Neva, arched by
beautiful bridges and skirted with magnificent palaces. We pass near
many small villages full of summer-houses, all built of wood. Each house
is painted in different colours, and has its own pretty garden. There
are some red, some green, and some blue, making a polychromatic mosaic
on the green fields. They are all summer residences of the official or
semi-official world, who are obliged to pass the summer near town.
Indeed, the great charm of St. Petersburg consists in its neighbourhood.
These attractive retreats, or, as they are called, _Datshas_, are on the
riverside or on the seashore, or hidden in a quiet neighbourhood like
the magnificent Imperial residences, Tsarskoe Selo, Pavlovsk, and
Gatschina.

But among them all, Peterhof is the most famous--the Versailles of the
North. I think Peterhof undoubtedly deserves the first place. There is
not only splendour, but there is real beauty too. Art and nature
contribute to make it one of the loveliest spots on earth. There is, in
fact, only one royal residence, I think, that can compare with it, and
that is the castle of Pena on the high peaks overlooking the ocean near
Lisbon.

To get an idea of Peterhof we must imagine a luxuriant forest
overshadowing the blue waters of the Baltic. Buried in the woods are
summer-houses, gardens, fountains, Greek temples, and triumphal arches.
The palace itself stands on a hill that has been cut into
terraces--terraces that are surrounded by balustrades and ornamented by
statues and flower-vases. Then as a centre there is a magnificent
cascade looking like a crystal staircase leading up to a golden palace;
it spreads out its waters into a silver carpet covering the pathway and
flowing in a broad canal to the sea, bordered by an avenue of rippling
fountains.

And when we get tired of the golden palace, of its silver carpet and its
dazzling brightness, we return to some of the smaller residences, of
which there are many scattered about in the grounds. Some are little
French chateaux, some others imitate Dutch farms or Roman villas. They
are all different in style and taste, but they are all charming, and
contain priceless collections of art. Each has interesting annals; each
has some historical connexion and a past of romantic or tragic memory.
Wars have been declared, treaties ratified, peace re-established in its
lofty halls and gilded salons, every one the scene of important events.
Peter the Great's many schemes were born within these walls; and from
these groves Catharine II ruled with her iron sceptre.

[Illustration: LE PALAIS ANGLAIS "The great charm of Petersburg is its
neighbourhood" To face page 4]

The present Tsar selected for his home one of the smaller chateaux,
called Alexandrovsky.

Alexandrovsky is indeed a modest house. It has no lofty cupolas, no
magnificent gates, no stately _cour d'honneur_. It is a simple villa
such as is seen in the neighbourhood of well-to-do commercial towns. It
might be somewhere near Birmingham or Queenstown. It is built of bright
red bricks, has some friendly bow windows, and is ornamented by some
little turrets.

Its charm consists in its homeliness. Its beauty is its situation.

It stands in the centre of a green lawn on the border of the sea. It is
surrounded by a little flower-garden, where, instead of magnificent
fountains and marble statues, there are masses of bloom full of colour
and scent; borders of lilies, hollyhocks, poppies, and sweet peas form a
natural fence of many hues against the sombre background of the wood. It
is a garden which you can realize is tended with affection.

The Empress herself takes an interest in it, and, surrounded by her
daughters, passes in this charming retreat many quiet hours of the long
summer afternoons. Undoubtedly, this must remind her of lovely
Wolfsgarten, hidden in the Hessian forests, where she passed the merry
days of her childhood, where she returns so faithfully nearly every
year, and where she is so beloved by all the villagers.

Her Majesty is tall, has a fine presence, and is extremely graceful in
all her movements. She is refined in the highest degree and very
artistic in her disposition. Her leisure hours are mainly occupied in
drawing, painting, and music. She is an ardent supporter of all the
artistic societies in the capital, and gives a great impetus to literary
training in all the different schools which are under her patronage.
There are a large number of these schools in St. Petersburg, and she
pays personal visits to them frequently.

Her greatest interest, however, is concentrated in her children, and she
finds her chief happiness in her own home. Her domestic virtues are
those which make her respected by the whole nation. Coming as she did
from a far-away country, and being a foreigner, it must have been no
easy matter to be at once understood. For refined and retiring natures
it is specially difficult to become at once popular. It is only in time,
and by having opportunities to show deeper qualities, that sympathy can
be awakened. By kind actions, by benevolence towards those she came in
contact with, and by unbounded charity, the love of the nation was
secured. But how she won the hearts of all was by being an ideal mother.

[Illustration: _Copyright, Nops Ltd._ H.I.M. THE EMPRESS OF RUSSIA To
face page 6]

The Empress is a devoted mother. She attends to her children, as much as
possible, personally, and with the greatest care supervises the
education of her four little daughters.

The nurseries are established entirely on the English system. There is
great simplicity in the furniture, but plenty of fresh air and a good
water supply.

The nursery governess is an English lady, and the rules of this little
world are strictly observed and precisely carried out, Her Majesty
herself having been brought up, as a grandchild of Queen Victoria, on
the same principles. Method and punctuality are strictly observed, and
the little Princesses must attend to their duties most scrupulously;
lessons, recreation, exercises --everything is timed and planned in
advance. There is a great deal to be done in the twenty-four hours,
lessons and all sorts of small duties of many kinds.

The simplicity of everything might serve as a model to many households.

The food they partake of is of the plainest kind, healthy, but nothing
elaborate, consisting mainly of porridge, bread and butter, milk and
vegetables, and a little meat or fish. So it is with their attire;
generally they are dressed in scrupulously neat white cotton, but it is
devoid of all ornament. They pass many hours of the day on the seashore,
and as they are running about, laughing, building castles in the sand,
or clasping their beloved mother round the neck, they make a perfect
picture of happiness.

I reach Peterhof at half-past ten by the special train which daily
conveys the Tsar's guests and visitors. Officials, Court dignitaries,
aides-de-camp, and others of those who are on duty, have hurried to the
large platform, which, covered with red carpet, presents the appearance
of a reception-hall. There is great animation at the Peterhof station
all the time the Court is there, as the greater part of the suite live
in town.

Before the station is a long row of carriages belonging to the Imperial
household; peculiar-shaped victorias are there, horsed by enormous black
Orloff stallions with great arching necks and flowing manes and tails,
looking very much as if they had stepped from one of the pictures of
Wouvermans or Velasquez. Lackeys, with three-cornered hats, gaiters, and
heavy scarlet coats covered with gold lace, usher each guest to his
vehicle, and each starts in a different direction to the many palaces
and offices. Rattling over gravelled roadways, I first fully realize
that in a few moments I shall be in the presence of the mighty Tsar of
all the Russias, the ruler over the greater part of the enormous Asiatic
continent, the autocratic head of millions of human beings.

My request is a very modest one--simply permission to get to my
destination in the Far East through Siberia. There was some difficulty
at the Russian frontier about my further journey, and I was advised to
get the obstacles removed by His Majesty himself. He very likely knew
that I am only interested in the spiritual and philanthropic
institutions established in the Far East, my desire being to get through
to my objective as soon as possible.

We drive for quite a quarter of an hour through woods, and here and
there as we pass by different residences meet sentries marching up and
down. We pass through several gates, all of them made of plain wooden
bars--they might almost be in Leicestershire--each opened and closed by
a Cossack. As we get nearer there are more sentries, and several times
the password is given by the groom.

Alexandrovsky stands isolated in a quiet corner of the vast domain. Its
home grounds are surrounded by walls and a kind of palisade. At last,
having passed the last sentry and the last gate, the carriage stops at
the private garden entrance.

I am received by an officer who shows me immediately into the palace--I
ought to say villa. Villa indeed it is in every respect, and the
entrance-hall is so small that it scarcely holds the few servants who
are in attendance. The staircase is very narrow, too, and winds in
exactly the same way as in small old-fashioned English houses.

The drawing-room gives the same impression of comfort and
cheerfulness--the privileges of English homes. It is small, and with a
rather low ceiling. The furniture is extremely plain. The few sofas and
armchairs are covered with bright material, and the woodwork is
lacquered white. The walls are covered with watercolours, sketches, and
photographs. In one corner there stands a piano with music, and in the
window a desk, apparently both much in use. The main feature of this
room is the quantity of flowers. Tables, brackets, and furniture, are
laden with jars, vases, and bowls filled with fresh-cut, sweet-smelling
flowers.

But I have no time for further observations or to analyze more minutely
this bright, homely abode in all its detail, giving as it does such a
good insight into the private life of its owners. Simple, bright,
unassuming, it is a sincere illustration of domestic happiness; and with
its writing-desk littered with papers, its piano covered with music, and
tiny jars and vases full of sweet-smelling blossoms, it is a human
document in itself.

The door opens and an imposing A.D.C. enters and announces that His
Majesty is ready to receive me. He is one of the Grand Dukes on duty at
the palace for the day. He is a first cousin of the Emperor, an officer
in the Russian army, and a most accomplished linguist. He narrated to me
many interesting details of his yachting tour in far-distant seas. He
had just returned from India, and seemed much impressed by the beauties
of that wonderful land.

A bell begins to ring, a signal that the Emperor is ready to receive me.
I am shown into the next room, which is even smaller and simpler than
the one which I have just left. In its extreme modesty the furniture
seems to be reduced to a few chairs, a lounge, and a large writing-table
which occupies the greater part of the room.

This is His Majesty's study.

But if the interior is so very unassuming, the view out of the windows
is simply magnificent; it looks straight on to the sea--a grey and
shining mirror, crowned by the dark battlements of majestic Kronstadt.
The famous citadel floats like a mirage in the blue haze of the
distance, looking even finer than usual as I see it from one of the
Tsar's windows.

The room is so small that there is no space to make the obligatory three
bows. I have scarcely stepped into the room when His Majesty gets up and
meets me himself with his well-known affability. Nicholas II wears the
undress uniform of a Russian general--dark blue and green, with a very
little gold lace, and a single medal on his breast--a modest garment,
subdued in colouring, suited very well in every respect to its owner.

The portraits of the Emperor are well enough known to make it
unnecessary for me to go into minute details. He is not tall, and of
rather delicate frame, but healthy, and with a good complexion. What
strikes one at the first moment is his open and kind-hearted expression.
The two main features that impressed me at the first glance are the
turquoise-blue colour of his eyes and their open gaze. Those eyes, which
are the chief feature of his countenance, and seem to be a family
inheritance, can hardly fail to arouse deep sympathy in the beholder. A
very great likeness exists in this respect to the heir to the English
throne.

[Illustration: _Photo, Levitsky_ _Copyright, Nops Ltd._ H.I.M. NICHOLAS
II, EMPEROR OF RUSSIA To face page 12]

His Majesty seemed to be much interested in my proposed journey across
Siberia, and wanted to know how long I intended to stay in those
regions. He spoke in an interesting way about his own experiences; he
knows the whole length of the country in fact, as Tsarevitch he turned
the first sod for the railway about twelve years ago in Vladivostok, and
now the line runs from one end to the other, linking two continents. But
he himself has travelled over the greater part of the route in the
simple Russian _tarantas_.

He gave me with great vivacity many of his innumerable reminiscences and
impressions. He was interested in every question, and tried to see
everything as much as possible for himself. He stopped at each place of
any importance and investigated the situation in detail. Besides his
official engagements, he was keenly interested in the purely historical
and scientific sides of these unknown regions. The knowledge he gathered
during his journey is unique in value, and of the greatest importance to
students of the Asiatic races, their origin, life, and future
development. Undoubtedly there has been no other ruler of this
enormous empire who ever before ventured to enter these remote
districts.

He told me what never-failing interest it was to him to come across the
different races in his Asiatic dominions, and to see the nomadic tribes
there leading their own primitive life. It was a pleasure to listen, not
only to his world-wide experiences, but to all his different
impressions, gathered with the fresh conception of a young man, and to
realize the keen interest which every sentence so eloquently expressed.

He spoke with such benevolence about his subjects, with such love about
all those with whom he came in contact throughout his endless
wanderings, that there should be no doubt that the Tsar of all the
Russias really loves his subjects tenderly, and that their welfare is
the highest aim of his life.

And he spoke further of his hopes of improving their condition, of
witnessing their advancement, and of his earnest wish to have peace
during his reign all over his territory. When he spoke about the great
blessing of universal peace his voice vibrated with an emotion that
carried the conviction, that so long as the fate of his vast empire
depended entirely on his personal desire, there would be no cruel wars,
but calm peace and prosperity over all his possessions. In replying I
ventured to remark, "What could prevent the mighty Tsar of all the
Russias carrying out his wishes?" He only answered, with a
never-to-be-forgotten expression, "I see you are yet a new-comer in this
country."

His Majesty showed the greatest care in making my journey through his
vast empire, across Siberia, not only possible, but also in insuring
that I should see as much as possible--that I should be able to observe
and learn as much as would be useful to my endeavour.

His Majesty's permission was extended to embrace such hospitality as I
would not have sought. I took the liberty of saying I would prefer to
proceed as a humble missionary to my destination.

His Majesty kindly insisted:

"If you will not accept it for yourself, accept it for the satisfaction
of your mother. She must be very anxious. I know from my own travels how
hard it is for parents to be separated from their children by thousands
of miles. I sent a telegram every day, but, even then, I knew what their
sufferings were. It will give your mother some relief to know that while
you are in this empire you are under my protection...."

* * * * *

Time seems to have flown. On my way back I write with difficulty in my
solitary compartment, by the rays of a single light. My day at Peterhof
has seemed to vanish as a moment, but it has been so full of interesting
incidents that to look back upon it is as if a month had been crowded
into a day. I have no time to go into details in my diary, so to be
correct I limit myself to generalities, and if I cannot put down _in
extenso_ all that was of interest--I might say of importance--I want to
fix the main outlines of the picture.

TO THE FAR EAST BY THE TRANS-SIBERIAN RAILWAY

FROM PETERSBURG TO MANCHURIA

Is it really possible to get to the Far East by land? Is the Siberian
Railway open to the public? Is it comfortable? Those were the universal
questions that everybody without exception addressed to me on my
arrival. As for the first: yes, it is possible. With reference to the
second, we must make distinctions. It is well known that to get through
Russia everybody must be provided with a passport signed by the local
Russian consul. It is different for priests and other church dignitaries
who do not belong to the Greek denomination; these require a special
permission granted by the Tsar himself. About comfort! The express
trains are not only comfortable, but luxurious. In my many travels I do
not remember having seen anything better fitted up, or affording to the
traveller greater facilities for forgetting the long strain of the
journey. The Trans-Siberian Railway is undoubtedly a marvellous piece
of engineering. It may have defects, and it may need several
alterations, but as a whole it deserves full admiration. Besides its
commercial and strategical importance, as a mere civilizing influence it
might become incalculable.

Another question which is constantly addressed to me is: Is not the
journey very monotonous? Is it not a most uninteresting and flat
country? Are not the natives of a very low type? The answer to these
questions depends entirely on what the wanderer is interested in. If he
looks for variety and excitement, the journey may be to a certain extent
uneventful. For those who are in search of Swiss scenery and Alpine
grandeur, it may seem flat and colourless. As for social intercourse and
pleasure, naturally, these cannot be expected. But to anybody who is
interested in land and folk--I mean those whose emotions are awakened by
the deeper characteristics of the different countries and their
inhabitants--the journey across the Asiatic continent cannot fail to
offer a series of continuous revelations. From a geographical point of
view, I admit it is in part very flat, and sometimes for days the train
pursues its way in an unbroken line through green pastures or the
denseness of virgin forests. The people one meets at different hamlets
are certainly rough-looking, children of the Steppes; but it is exactly
the untouched state of those regions, and the originality of their
inhabitants, that render it all of the greatest value to the student of
history and folk-lore. The land may be hilly or flat; its greatest
interests are not dependent upon its mere external features, and the
attractive points of a race do not consist purely in the state of its
advancement. They may still be very primitive, living in tents, wearing
skins, leading nomadic lives, unaffected, and yet give us an insight
into their characteristics and capabilities. When untouched and
unaffected by outside influences, they afford even better material for
psychological observation, and present us human documents of exceptional
interest in regard to the possibilities of their future.

But what compensates largely for the lack of panoramic effects is the
vastness of the scenery. Grand it is in every respect. Undulating
steppes like the wave-beaten ocean; never-ending, densely wooded regions
which seem to extend without limit. Its chief beauty--if beauty it may
be called--is the sentiment. The charm of these northern regions of Asia
vibrates in their atmosphere. Sentiment and atmosphere! These are the
two features of that strange land which impressed me most during the
endless hours I looked from the balcony of my railway car, or when I
stopped at one or other of the various townships; or, again, when I was
visiting some of the native encampments. Among all I noticed that was
new and striking, the most surprising thing was undoubtedly the
"unseen"--what one might call the moral or metaphysical sides; the
impression of unseen strength, exuberant vitality, primeval power, which
forces itself on the traveller indirectly again and again in endless
forms and aspects. We see it in the soil and in the people. It is
equally expressed in the inanimate and animate nature. We perceive it in
the yet unploughed fields, and we feel it among the unawakened humanity.
It is more an instinctive sensation than the absolute reality which
gives us revelations as to the future of this part of the globe.

I proceeded slowly, stopping at every place of interest, and made a
short halt wherever there was anything that appealed to me. And when my
journey was ended, I regretted it had been so short, and I was sorry the
time was too limited to permit me to penetrate deeper into the matter.
But I did not fail to put down my impressions from day to day. I made a
short note of everything that was interesting, new, or striking, just as
it presented itself to me--just as I saw it at the moment.

At present, when the general interest towards the Far East is widening,
and people seem to wish to know a little more about Asiatic nations and
their different races, and when every year will see more travellers and
students trying to make the link between West and East stronger, I hope
a few extracts from my diary may strengthen their wish, and help them to
realize and put their intentions into execution. There are great
openings for activity, and scope for intelligence; and there is a great
deal to be done from commercial, scientific, and humanitarian points of
view, for the benefit of the whole civilized world and the greater glory
of the Almighty.

FROM PETERSBURG TO MOSCOW

The Tsar very kindly consented to all the concessions necessary to
traverse his extensive empire, and, after my leave-taking, an official
brought me all the requisite papers, which had been signed by the
Minister of Railways. What an interesting man Prince Chilkoff is! and
such an enthusiast too! He lives literally in the midst of his
locomotives, rails, and sleepers. I think his favourite abode is the
extensive railway workshops of the metropolis. Looking at him, you would
think he was born in Chicago; he speaks perfect English, but with a
slight American intonation. He is American moreover in his keen sense of
business and boundless energy. To hear him talk about the land, new
tracks, almost impracticable tunnels, and steel bridges crossing the
large rivers, is like a most descriptive geographical lecture; and when
he starts on his favourite theories on locomotives, boilers, and pumps,
one regrets not knowing more about the mysteries and fascinations of
mechanics.

Prince Chilkoff[A] went through a very thorough mechanical training, and
has been studying the matter in the United States for many years. He
worked there himself, and got initiated into all the secrets of railway
communication. He returned finally to his own country, where he hoped to
devote his knowledge and qualifications to the benefit of his
countrymen. But every post of any importance seemed to be occupied. I
hear he was told there was only a subordinate vacancy in the mechanical
department. "Give it to me," was his answer, and he is today Minister of
all the Russian State Railways, and controller of nearly 25,000 miles of
railway and other means of communication.

[A] It is needless to add that since this was written Prince Chilkoff
has earned a world-wide reputation by his management of the railway
transport during the Russo-Japanese war.

His study is a large room in the Ministry of Railways, which is a
country-like residence, standing in extensive grounds. In the centre of
his famous office are two large tables, covered, as are also the walls,
with books, plans, and railway charts; and as he kindly explains the
route I shall take, he gets up and points it out on a geographical map
opposite his writing-table. What an enormous territory this Asiatic
continent is! I look at it with a kind of amazement and a sort of fear.
Shall I really get across it in a comfortable railway carriage, as you
would go on a trip into the country? My host seems to divine my
thoughts, and with a smile assures me that from one end to another the
line is entirely under the same central management, and a telegraph
apparatus from the head office brings him unbroken news throughout the
entire length. "I quite understand it might seem strange and unusual to
other countries, but you must not forget our tendencies and our force
consist in centralization." He has made the Siberian journey again and
again, and gives me most valuable information respecting what to see,
and where to stop, and what is really of interest. It is a grand work,
and, considering the space of time in which it was achieved, and its
extent, it seems nearly incredible. Including the branch lines, the
Siberian Railway is over ten thousand kilometres long, and its
construction was begun only twelve years ago. Prince Chilkoff has,
moreover, under his management, 10,400 post offices, and over 100,000
miles of telegraph line.

I leave his house charged with valuable hints and a packet of letters
and recommendations; and Prince Chilkoff, with a cordial hand-shake,
repeats, "Good luck! and don't forget to let me know if anything should
prove unsatisfactory."

My last day at St. Petersburg is even more crowded than the rest of the
week has been. Calls of farewell, final preparations, leaving cards and
inscribing my name in visiting-books, occupy the greater part of it. But
this going to and fro gives me opportunity of seeing it again from end
to end in all its immensity before I leave. What an extraordinary idea
to build a town in the midst of a marsh! to dig canals where one cannot
build roads, and to be surrounded with a plain as flat as a table. Peter
the Great must have been very much impressed by Amsterdam! There are
corners in St. Petersburg drenched and misty as on the borders of the
Zuyder Zee. But if it has reminiscences of quiet, home-like Holland,
again there are brilliant thoroughfares like a Parisian boulevard. The
Nevsky Prospect, in its bustle and traffic, full of colour and of life,
is unique. Nevsky is the main artery of the capital--palaces belonging
to the Imperial family and the grandees, public buildings, bazaars,
workshops, and every edifice you can think of. And each is of different
style, each of different height, and each is painted in a different hue
of the rainbow. Its main feature--I dare say attraction--is its
incoherence.

During this last week the Russian metropolis presented itself to me from
a thousand different sides, and in how many different lights too! Trying
to remember them all before I depart for good, I do so with preference
for what was pleasant, instructive, and good. Besides, I do not come to
criticize, I merely come to pass through, and so I prefer to put down in
my diary what might prove instructive. I fully understand the great
attraction which St. Petersburg always has for foreigners. I admit it
also, though I should not choose it for my residence or for my sphere of
labour. The polish is perfect, and of course, if one does not belong to
a country, as a passing visitor one scarcely requires more. The
conditions of life--at least, for the well-to-do--are most agreeable;
manners all that can be desired; refinement exquisite. I do not think
you can come in contact anywhere with better informed and more richly
equipped people than here. Some of the scientific institutions, like the
Naval Academy and the Public Library, are quite remarkable; and the new
Polytechnic School--a regular town in itself, with its five faculties
and its laboratories--stands alone. Then the museums and galleries
contain the most celebrated art treasures. The famous Hermitage, large
as it is, can scarcely hold them all. Antiques, gems, jewels, weapons,
vases, engravings, and pictures, all of the first order; and I must say
they appreciate what they do possess, and the arrangements of the
museums are excellent. Unquestionably there is a highly intellectual
current, or, if you would prefer to call it so, undercurrent, which
comes to brilliant manifestations here and there; sometimes most
unexpectedly, amid squalor and debris.

The huge electric globes cast a cold and glaring light over the gloomy
square in front of the Moscow station. A dense crowd invades passages,
halls, and waiting-rooms, and, like the swelling tide, groans, surges,
and finally overflows the platforms. Travelling in Russia has a
different meaning altogether from that which it possesses elsewhere--it
really means a removal: a regular deplacement. Then, people seem to
leave for ever: all their belongings appear to follow them, so enormous
and so diverse is their kit. From simple boxes and knapsacks to kitchen
utensils and even furniture, it embraces everything one could desire in
one's own abode. And afterwards, when they take leave, their shaking of
hands, embracing, and tears, give the impression that they never are to
meet again. And this is only the local train, taking me as far as
Moscow. What will it be there, at the Siberian terminus?

The journey lasts only one night, across the famous wheat-growing
plains, and to-morrow, in the early hours of the morn, I hope to reach
the ancient capital of the Tsars. I want to break my journey to see the
ancient metropolis of the mighty rulers, to revisit all the famous
scenes where so many important chapters of eastern history were once
displayed to view. I want to see again the towering Kremlin, with its
mosaic basilicas and treasure-houses, slumbering at present in quiet
dreams of the past under their golden domes. And I want to get prepared
and acclimatized to a certain extent for Siberia; for Moscow belongs
altogether to the other continent; it is really the capital of Asia.

III

THROUGH EUROPEAN RUSSIA

The fading disc of the sinking sun disappears slowly beneath the horizon
of the waving corn-fields. The first day of the journey is over. It was
uneventful, calm, but it has not lacked interest. We have ploughed
through endless fields of rich land, with a peaceful agricultural
aspect. Here and there a few scattered villages of dark mud huts, and
large white churches. Sometimes there is a country seat of some landed
gentleman, buildings which remind me very much of an Indian bungalow.
They are very long and of only one storey high, half hidden by ancient
trees. On the high roads peasants are just returning in endless streams,
with carts and kettles, from their daily work. However far off they may
have been working, they always return home for the night, for Russian
peasants seldom live on their farms. The whole picture speaks of such
perfect peace: the slowly moving and singing workmen, and the little
villages bathed in the afterglow, express such simple happiness, that I
can scarcely realize that some of those very districts have been the
scene of violence and cruel outrages. It is indeed difficult to believe
the reports of the latest troubles and dissatisfaction which have burst
forth in the midst of the quietest of mujiks. How difficult it is to
understand the inner feelings of these quaint folk! Sleepy as they may
look, uncultured, and a couple of centuries behind the rest of the
world, they can yet occasionally awaken; and when they awake, their
passions burst out like as a stream of lava without restraint.

During the day we stop at many smaller and larger places, nearly all
insignificant, and generally very far from the station--sometimes so far
that I can scarcely understand the reason of our stopping. For miles and
miles around there is no human habitation, and we wonder by whose hands
all those fields are worked. The most important township seemed to be
Marsanka. It is a typical Russian country town, with its wooden houses,
each surrounded by a flower-garden, and each garden fenced by
lattice-work. The houses and gates are all painted in bright colours. A
river encloses the entire place like a loop, and beyond the river are
low-lying hills. The main feature of the place is given by innumerable
windmills, of all sizes and of every imaginable construction--all
equally conspicuous, equally high, and equally equipped with gigantic
sails. They all whirl--they all work as if they would never stop. I do
not think I ever saw so many windmills within view at one time; I
counted more than a hundred. What a fertile country it must be, to keep
so many busy!

[Illustration: MARSANKA AFTER A WATER COLOUR DRAWING BY THE AUTHOR "The
main feature of the place is given by innumerable windmills" To face
page 28]

It is night as we arrive at Pienza, and we can see nothing except the
railway station; but, as I hear, this is the main sight of the place. A
fine building, though constructed of wood. I must also add that the
stations all along the line are fine and convenient. They are well kept,
a great many have restaurants, abundantly stocked, with richly laid out
tables, and fair attendance. Prices are high, but this is to be
expected, considering the distance from which they sometimes procure
their provisions. Here at Pienza I find even luxury. Grapes and
peaches from the Crimea, wine from Germany and France, and all kinds of
American and English conserves; and, as ornamentation, fine old French
candelabra, derived probably from some ruined noble's residence.

The station is animated. A great many officers and a great many
officials, all dressed in uniform. Some are travellers, some have just
come from the town for mere amusement. The great express has not yet
lost its novelty, and twice a week is the object of universal
admiration. Our train consists of two first-class and three second-class
carriages, a dining-car, luggage-van, tender, and engine. A long
corridor leads from one end to the other, and affords a convenient walk
for daily exercise. The compartments are nicely fitted up; the one I
occupy, a so-called saloon, affords me a comfortable home during the
journey. The dining-car is fitted up in American style; and, as I see,
all the seats are taken from morning till night. To my fellow-passengers
their meals seem to be their only occupation, for if the train stops,
and there is a restaurant, they alight and commence each time a fresh
meal. Indeed, my fellow-passengers are great eaters and great talkers;
they seem to speak about everything with the same ease and unreserve.
Especially when they start on their own countrymen and government,
there is no end to their sarcasm and witty remarks. To any one liking to
hear about the local conditions, the Siberian journey gives an
exceptional opportunity. People soon become acquainted, and if so they
are delighted to find somebody to whom to grumble. Before twenty-four
hours had passed I learnt more about the corn-fields and little villages
we skirted; about Russian agricultural and industrial aspirations; about
agrarian Plehve and M. de Witte's commercial enterprises than I ever
should have expected.

[Illustration: SAMARA "I shall make a short stay at Samara" To face page
30]

It seems that Russia is at present passing through a serious crisis
which affects everybody, rich and poor--especially the latter. The
conditions of the peasantry are often very hard, though the reports we
read are generally exaggerated. Education and moral training might do a
great deal to lift them out of their stagnant state, to inspire
self-reliance, and awaken sound ambitions; but this is exactly what
appears to be lacking, and where so much good could be done. And the
people deserve education, for these Russian peasants, as a whole, are a
fine stock--strong and healthy, easy to lead, and not difficult to
improve. Even more, they have generally an unspoilt heart, and are
capable of gratitude. What I hear unanimously abused is the local
administration. If I were to believe half what I heard about the
unworthiness of the official employes, their untruthfulness and
bribery, it would be bad enough, and would easily explain the reason of
the continuous outbreaks. The antagonism between the so-called
Progressives and Conservatives is becoming more intolerant, and
strivings for reform on a smaller or larger scale seem to be universal.
Some are hopeful, some pessimistic; some see Russia's future secured on
the same old patriarchal and primitive foundations, others believe in
commercial prosperity, trade, and advance. It is a great problem, and it
is equally interesting to listen to the advocate of one or other theory.
Yet I am afraid that in their sanguine anticipations they are equally
far from what will prove to be the reality.

All the talk I listen to serves as a description of, or comment on, the
uninterrupted panorama which unfolds itself without ceasing before us as
we glide swiftly along. It is a kind of prologue to the epic of this
land which we shall soon leave altogether.

To-morrow we shall cross the Volga by the famous steel bridge of nearly
a mile. I shall make a short stay at Samara, and shall visit its
well-known orphanages, asylums, and other charitable establishments
which the town is so proud of; and, somewhat farther towards the east,
the train will wind along the Ural Mountains to Siberia.

WESTERN SIBERIA

At half-past nine in the morning we cross the boundary of the two
continents. We are in Asia. A kind of mysterious feeling impresses
itself on my mind. New sensations infuse themselves into me. Encouraging
hopes awaken, which I trust will give me endurance to carry out my work
and aims.

Asia! What a field for exploration! What an unlimited area for higher
aspirations! Modest as our endeavours may be, the result may prove
incalculable in the future. From a commercial, civilizing, or spiritual
point of view, there is an equally vast field for action.

[Illustration: ON THE VOLGA "The famous steel bridge of nearly a mile"
To face page 32]

Our last day in Europe passed on the Baskir land--a high plateau, a
severe and cold region, covered with rich pasture and inhabited by a
semi-nomadic race of the same name. Fine people they are, of heavy
countenance and magnificent frame; very conservative in their habits,
very clannish in their intimacies, and even today living from preference
in tents. They wear sheepskins; cover their heads, like Eskimos, with
furs; and, instead of boots, roll round their feet and legs skins
fastened like a classic sandal with endless straps of leather. They look
uncouth, but picturesque. Their movements are unquestionably plastic.
This race is one of the finest of the Tartar stock, and I am sorry to
learn that they are slowly dying out.

We stop at different places, and on each platform there are many
Baskirs, men and women all looking very much alike. They are bringing
from their encampments milk, eggs, and poultry, to sell. I ask several
of them the prices of their goods, and I am astonished at the cheapness
of the market. The price of meat per pound amounts to the trifle of five
kopecks; while for twenty roubles one may buy a horse, and a good one
too. The soil is rich, its fertility is exceptional, and it possesses
every quality for agricultural purposes. The future of the district is
bound to be prosperous, and, what is more, the climate is most
invigorating--raw and windy, but withal reminding me very much of the
northern Scottish moors. Even the scenery, when it becomes a little more
hilly, has a certain likeness to Scotland, and the same charm of
solitude and melancholy. All this district impressed me very much, both
from a geographical and an ethnological point of view, and by its
magnitude it cannot fail to appeal to our minds.

The famous Ural range, I must simply confess, did not come up to my
expectations. I understand the beauty of glaciers and snow-clad peaks,
barren as they may be, and I fully appreciate all the beauty of a vast
plain, or the charm of a sand-covered desert; but the medium--what is
neither one nor the other, neither handsome nor grand, but what so many
admire and call "pretty scenery"--never appeals to me. What interested
me more was the economic possibility of this long stretch of slopes. The
extent of the treasures of this range is yet unknown, though there are
mines which were flourishing in the eighteenth century. Suleta's shafts
were sunk in 1757, and are still under the workman's tools. The mines
belong largely to the Crown; they are partly worked by societies, and
some are private property. The Strogonoffs and Beloselskys have all made
their great wealth in these mines. Some of them seem to be
inexhaustible. What is more, besides gold, silver, lead, iron, almost
every mineral seems to be contained in their depths. We met a great many
workmen as we stopped, apparently without any reason, on our way,
winding up endless zigzags to the top of the mountain. I am rather
astonished that they do not in the least look like miners. They are
neither blackened by coal-dust or smoke, nor have they the gloomy
expression and sad countenance of those people who are bound to work and
live underground, deprived of the rays of the sun for the greater part
of their lives. They look much more like farmers--people of bright
disposition. I hear the wages are low; but their needs are small, so
that they can easily procure all that seems necessary to their
happiness. On the top of the mountain there stands a lofty granite
obelisk, with a short but significant inscription. There are only two
words: on one side "Europe," on the other "Asia."

[Illustration: SIBERIAN HOME "Very conservative in their habits" To face
page 34]

We are in Western Siberia, in the midst of an expanse of steppe. It
seems to be boundless, and it has nothing to mark its space. It is like
a sea, with all the suggestiveness of the ocean. Our train crawls like a
black reptile, like a monster of a fairy tale, breathing its steam and
black smoke against the cloudless sky. What a sky it is! Pale blue, cold
and without a single cloud. I am afraid I must again contradict the
general opinion of travellers about this corner of the earth. I have
repeatedly heard travellers tell of the gloom and tediousness of the
journey across it. I cannot agree with either remark. Instead of gloom,
I rather think repose would be a more appropriate expression to describe
its true character; and tediousness is really a question of personal
disposition.

I again break my journey at several places, and always find more of
interest and more new material for study than I should have dared to
anticipate. Western Siberia is a marvellous territory, and it possesses
all that is required to make a country flourishing. I quite understand
the great interest which it arouses, and it is natural that the country
should invest money lavishly for the furtherance of its progress. They
have built up in a comparatively short time some important townships.
Petropaulovsk, and especially Omsk, Tobolsk, and Tomsk, are already
well-known centres, provided with richly endowed public institutions.
The Government maintains some large schools and colleges, and does
everything in its power to attract new settlers to the uninhabited
regions.

[Illustration: A SIBERIAN TOWN "They have built up in a comparatively
short time some important townships" To face page 36]

The colonization of Siberia is one of the most important national
questions--to people thousands and thousands of square miles; to exploit
all its resources; to make a country where there is now only surface and
space. And the Government knows how to offer attractions. Land is
granted under the most favourable conditions; there is no taxation for
the first three years, seed is provided on easy terms, and, if required,
agricultural implements and machinery are sold on the instalment system.
The journey is nearly free, the fare being reduced to a few kopecks per
hundreds of miles. Petropaulovsk is bound to become one day the junction
of Central Asia, when railway lines will run to the north along the Obi
valley and south _via_ Atmolinsk, to Tashkend and Bokhara. All this is
well thought out, and already carefully planned. Its accomplishment
seems to be a mere question of time, and, as indeed is well known as an
historical fact, time has never seemed to be an obstacle to the
achievement of any aspiration conceived by Russia.

The long line across the vast desert area is marked at intervals by
smaller or larger railway stations. For whom, and what for? one might
ask, as there is nothing in sight. No town, no village, not even one
human habitation. But, we are told, Government will soon build a
township. It already has a name, and some of those imaginary cities even
have a small Greek basilica, surmounted with glaring green cupolas.
Again, some are partly finished, and their wide streets are bordered by
a few wooden buildings. At the corners there are commodious shops; on
the open square very likely a school; near it store-houses for wheat and
temporary lodgings for settlers. It all looks so attractive from the
railway station that I wonder if they do it on purpose to make it
tempting.

Some of these new places do not entirely lack artistic beauty, and
certainly they all have the same characteristic of appearing very
national, holding firmly to the native taste and following the Muscovite
style of architecture. Everything, it must be confessed, is in keeping
with the surroundings, and at the same time practical and adequate to
the locality. The new settler builds a small house of wood, and at the
same time tries to make it look neat by carving it elaborately if he
can, and never fails to paint the wood in all kinds of bright colours.

CENTRAL SIBERIA

From unlimited pastures we pass to endless forests. For days we are
surrounded by magnificent vegetation, including beautiful trees of
varied hues. There are dark oaks and pale elms, copper beeches and
silver birches, the colour of which is just turning. The foliage is
fading, and as one pierces through their depths the leaves shake and
rustle and pour down in golden showers. Beautiful this Siberian woodland
is! Unknown, unpenetrated, striking in its virgin prime.

[Illustration: RAILWAY CHURCH SERVICE "A rolling Greek basilica" To face
page 38]

The railway cuts through in a straight line for hundreds of miles, and
there is nothing to be seen on either side but centenarian trees and
feathery ferns. What a field of exploration for a botanist! What a
collection of beautiful herbs and mosses! What exquisite wild flowers!
The colour of them is so deep and glorious, and the green of the grass
is of the richest shade. Many of the species are scarcely known yet,
and it is quite astonishing to find, in these far-away regions, plants
belonging to families of quite different latitudes. If the flora is so
surprising, the fauna is even more so: animals of every size and of
every description, from large bears to tiny squirrels. There are many
kinds of quadrupeds: wolves, foxes, snow-leopards, wild goats, martens,
sables, ermines, and all the innumerable members of the feline race. But
what are even more interesting than the animal nature are the fossils
found along the banks of the rivers and deep in the gloom of the earth.
Some magnificent specimens of antediluvian skeletons have been
excavated, and these are zealously kept in the museums of St.
Petersburg, Moscow, and Irkutsk. And for the ornithologist it is a
perfect land for research. The birds and their lives seem to have in
Siberia a most interesting past, and the laws of migration offer a
special field of observation. Some come from as far as Australia, while
others choose for their winter home New Zealand. The theories explaining
this mystery of nature are rather conflicting, and scientists have
devised various explanations of these far-distant wanderings. The
butterflies and beetles are unique also; in fact, it is a world in
itself lost in far-away Siberia.

The long track between Tomsk and Irkutsk has the reputation of being
the dreariest and the most desolate part of the journey. I did not
expect to find much, which may very likely be the reason that I was so
surprised to come across towns like Krasnoyark, Kanks, and Udinsk. The
first, especially, is an important centre for trade and business.
Besides wheat and other cereals, it is the great depot for the
increasing exportation of skins, furs, tallow, grease, and lately
butter. The export of butter is becoming of the greatest importance in
Siberia. Farming is increasing from day to day, and the Danes accomplish
a great deal in this respect. The yearly export to Europe, especially to
the English market, is quite astonishing, even more so when we take into
consideration that there are no winter pastures, and that all the cattle
must be kept on stable food. It is easy to understand the amount of
labour and care it requires, and yet it must pay, considering the number
of Danish families which come yearly to settle down in Siberia. For some
time Krasnoyark has been the terminus of the Western Siberian line, and
it derives its present importance partly from this fact. Udinsk is
growing rapidly too, and is the centre of a vast area. Around its
station I saw an enormous encampment of small Russian tarantas, or cars,
heavily laden with piles of sacks. Barns near the line were packed with
wheat and corn; and yet these stores do not seem to remain there
long, for all through the journey we constantly passed trains loaded
with cereals. What will it be when all of this enormous land, the whole
of Siberia, is under cultivation!

[Illustration: _Photo, Levitsky_ _Copyright, Nops Ltd._ M. DE PLEHVE To
face page 40]

It was most interesting to watch all these and many other features; to
realize all that has been done already since the railway was
constructed, and to conjecture the country in its full development; for
nature seems to have provided it with everything. I am more and more
astonished to find "dreadful Siberia" in reality as rich as, or even
richer than its neighbour across the sea--the beautiful Canada.

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 space 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 passengers
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 shiny 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 passage 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 rushing 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!

THE SIBERIAN METROPOLIS

[Illustration: 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 passed 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 institutions, 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 passed 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 passage 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.

[Illustration: LAKE BAIKAL "There are some enormous rocks as if thrown
in by the hand of a Titan" 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 Titan. 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 shore, 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
passengers and goods, sledges on which to traverse the frozen waters.

Our boat is overcrowded. Passengers 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 classes 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
townships?--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
passage is extremely rough, and squalls burst forth very unexpectedly.
We arrived about sunset on the eastern shore, 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 butterflies 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 nobles 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 Lhassa, in mysterious Tibet, and by this
means gets into constant communication with the forbidden land.

The last day of our journey is passed 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 assured belongs to the Yellow Empire. From here
the railway runs under a different title. 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-chwang 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.

[Illustration: 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 analysis. 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!

III

MANCHURIA UNDER RUSSIAN RULE

Am I on Chinese territory? Does Manchuria really belong to the Yellow
Empire? Since I crossed the Russian frontier several days ago there has
not been the slightest change that I could see. Everything has remained
Russian.

Our train was in charge of Muscovite soldiers, the railway officials at
the stopping places were Russian officers, the barracks around were
inhabited by Cossacks. The line was guarded by Russian troops, and if
the latest reports could be trusted, public safety seemed far from
secured. Hardly a day passed without atrocities of some kind being
reported, and skirmishes between Manchu marauders and Russian scouts
were of frequent occurrence. The railway itself was constantly
threatened, the banks destroyed, and the rails torn up; so even our
train was provided with a military escort to defend it in case of
necessity.

The "Eastern Chinese Railway Company," so called in order that there
might be something Chinese at all events about the name, is an
exclusively Russian enterprise, and no one disputes its entirely
strategic object, which is to connect Vladivostok and Port Arthur with
Moscow and St. Petersburg. This became very evident to me during my
journey. The line is constructed by Russian troops and military
engineers under the direction of officers. It is still far from
complete, and I was therefore the better able to watch the progress of
this interesting undertaking. The work is carried on at great
speed--thousands of coolies are employed upon it under the supervision
of Cossacks. The sand is moved in wheelbarrows, sleepers are laid and
rails fixed, all at one and the same time, by different gangs of
workmen. The system of construction is the same as that so successfully
adopted by General Annenkoff for the Trans-Caspian Railway.

I had plenty of time to give my full attention to it, for there was
nothing else to see. We were crossing the north-eastern border of the
Gobi desert, and if ever desert was rightly so named, it is this one.
The Sahara has at least the charm of the tropics, the Arabian desert has
the beauty of a cloudless sky, the desert of Bikanir possesses the
golden hues of the Indian sun; but the Gobi desert has nothing to
commend it; it is absolutely desolate. There is neither colour nor
charm, but a leaden sky hangs over an endless expanse of grey dust--or
rather, ashes--which, when whirled about in the wind, obscures heaven
and earth and covers everything as with a shroud. Not a village was in
sight, not even a solitary dwelling. The only living creatures in this
desolate region seemed to be the Russian troops and the legions of
coolies working under their orders.

Before going any further I must explain that I was travelling by goods
train. The line, as already said, was not finished, the rails hardly
laid, and there were no proper stations; guards and officials being
accommodated in temporary huts and encampments. There was no regular
tariff and no tickets were issued. Trains of trucks with materials for
construction plied between the main junctions, and these same trains
also conveyed the workmen and the persons connected with the
undertaking, to their various destinations.

It was necessary to get a special permission from the authorities to
travel by this route. Of course I was prepared to rough it, and the
directors had not disguised from me the fact that as yet no arrangements
had been made for the convenience of passengers. They could not even
promise that I should reach Port Arthur without delay, for some of the
temporary bridges had been destroyed by the autumn rains, and the
railway banks in various parts were washed away by the floods. But a
special car was placed at my disposal for the whole journey across
Manchuria, and this semi-saloon car became my domicile for several
weeks.

To give some idea of my movable house, I may say that although the
exterior was extremely simple, the interior was comfortable enough. It
consisted of a bedroom, a study, a passage, a lavatory, and a small
balcony; besides these, there were a kitchen and sleeping accommodation
for my servant. The balcony was my favourite resort: many a peaceful
hour have I spent there in reading or writing, and looking out upon that
dismal landscape unfolding itself in its monstrous immensity.

Sometimes my home was shunted and I was left for days to amuse myself in
the vicinity of some place of interest. Then it would be hooked on again
behind trucks carrying bricks, iron, and all kinds of machinery. My
carriage was my home, my stronghold. And indeed it was not unlike a
fortified castle when it stood motionless near one of the stations, with
sentries and watches patrolling round or halting in the neighbouring
encampment. I was never quite sure whether they regarded me as a convict
or whether they kept a kindly watch over me.

Along the route various stations were in process of building, some
already roofed. Unpretentious structures they were, never more than one
storey high, and roofed with black tiles. Outwardly they resemble the
Chinese houses, and the beams are curved in the "Ting" style. Although
unfinished, they impress one as if encumbered with a weary past, rather
than as having a bright future in store.

Everything, in fact, has a doleful aspect here. There are no gardens and
no cultivation of any kind worth mentioning. The station yards are
swamps, or pools of mud. Here and there an attempt has been made to
improve matters, and stones or planks are laid down at intervals to
assist the traveller in crossing.

Refreshment rooms are liberally provided on the Trans-Siberian line, and
occasionally they even have some pretence to luxury; but in Manchuria
they are of the most primitive description, scarcely provided with the
barest necessities. A wooden table and a rough bench are the usual
accommodation, and the cabbage soup or the national _kasha_ made of
buck-wheat is served by an amateur cook with all the air of a novice in
the profession. At the junctions, where trade is somewhat brisker, one
is able to get _piroshki_, which means, as it is, one of the favourite
Russian dishes.

Primitive as the refreshment places are--a bare tent sometimes serving
the double purpose of kitchen and dining-room, with an old kerosene-oil
case for table and dresser--they are always much frequented. On the same
principle as that adopted for the construction of the railway, the
Russian "chefs" make the Chinese coolies do all the work.

Travelling through Manchuria in this leisurely manner, I had plenty of
time to obtain a thorough acquaintance with its different regions. From
a geographical point of view the northern portion consists of a barren
tableland; towards the south it becomes wooded, and in the vicinity of
the towns the ground is fairly well cultivated.

[Illustration: TSI-TSI-KAR "The capital of Northern Manchuria is
Tsi-tsi-kar"

To face page 68]

The capital of Northern Manchuria is Tsi-tsi-kar. The Governor of the
province resides there, and it is the centre of that part of the
country. But the town itself is very primitive, and far behind the other
two chief towns, Kirin and Mukden. The population is a mixture of
Manchus, Chinese, and Buriats, who do a small trade in raw materials,
more especially in skins of all sorts.

From a very early date caravans have made this place one of their
stopping stations on their way from the southern provinces to the
districts north of the Amur. The people still use the same primitive
carts as in those remote times, sometimes drawn by Mongolian ponies--I
have seen as many as sixteen or eighteen to one cart--more often by
oxen.

The peculiar way in which the harness was fixed always amused me: it
seemed an inextricable confusion of straps and cords. How do they
manage it? It is a problem which only Chinese patience can solve.

I had equally good opportunities of studying the local dress and the
customs of the natives. In this vast, barren region, where no European
had ever penetrated before the construction of the railway, everything
is still in its primitive state. The people live partly by agriculture,
such as it is, and partly by fishing. The houses are extremely poor; we
should call them hovels, built of bricks or dried mud. There they live,
together with their cattle and other domestic animals. Like all
Asiatics, they are devoted to horse-breeding, and I visited several
large _haras_.

Flocks and herds abound, but the animal one meets with most frequently
is the pig; but the pigs of this region are very different from ours.
They are usually black, with long, thin tails, looking rather like
boars. Numbers of them are to be seen in every yard, rooting up the
ground and giving the Manchu homestead about as untidy and dirty an
appearance as is possible to conceive.

Of poultry there is no lack either. Geese, ducks, and fowls share the
family abode. The entrance to every house is guarded by half-savage
dogs, like so many wolves, and certainly not less ferocious. More than
once I was nearly devoured by them, and as it is not advisable to fight
them I always took care to have my pockets full of biscuits.

A Manchu home, in short, has the appearance of a cattle show, or a
Noah's ark, and the life lived is unquestionably antediluvian.

Speaking generally, the cultural standard of the Manchus is much below
the average Chinese level. The people look more barbarous to begin with,
their occupations are all of a rough nature, and the old Confucian
doctrines have never penetrated to them. They have always led a merely
animal rather than an intellectual life, an existence of strife rather
than of thought, and to this day the Imperial army consists almost
exclusively of Manchu soldiers.

Our progress was very slow. For many days we travelled on leisurely,
with occasional stoppages long enough to enable me to make excursions
into the interior. I tried every means of conveyance--bullock-carts,
Mongol ponies, Cossack horses. It was tiring work, but gave me
extraordinary opportunities of making myself familiar with the country
and its inhabitants. At last I reached Kharbin, a famous town, being the
junction where the three railways of Manchuria meet, viz. the
Vladivostok, the Port Arthur, and the Siberian lines.

[Illustration: KHARBIN "Of all the places I have visited during this
long journey, Kharbin seems to me the dreariest" To face page 70]

Of all the places I have visited during this long journey, Kharbin seems
to me the dreariest, the most desolate. A dull, cold autumn afternoon
greeted me on my arrival. The rain fell in torrents; not only did the
water pour down from the skies, but it oozed up from the ground as well.
The river had overflowed, and all the land was inundated. Half the place
stood under water. The railway station looked like a little island in
the midst of a marsh. Together with the few passengers for Vladivostok I
was carried on men's shoulders into the waiting-room, a mere barn, where
we found a mixed crowd of mujiks and Cossacks with their luggage, which
consisted of bedding, cooking utensils, packages and bundles of all
sorts and sizes, tied together, piled around them.

The same place also served as refreshment room, and at one end of it
about a dozen officers were dining at a big table. A pretentious gilded
chandelier--ironically reminding one of Western luxury--formed the
centre-piece. But I had no time to admire its beauty or even to sit down
to my meal, although I was nearly famished. The station-master came
bustling up to me with a very disconsolate countenance and informed me
that he had received a telegram intimating that a bridge near Liaoyang
had been carried away by the floods, and that in consequence of the
defective state of the roads it was impossible to say when the next
train would start.

It would be difficult to describe my consternation on hearing this
depressing announcement, for I fully realized the awfulness of my
position should I be compelled to make a prolonged stay in this place.
The roads were so bad that excursions would be out of the question, and
I should have to remain a prisoner in my carriage until the road was
open again.

Meanwhile, I gladly accepted the offer of a seat in a _tarantass_ to
drive round the town. Kharbin is of interest from a modern point of view
because it is one of the headquarters of the Russians in Manchuria.

The town has sprung up within recent years, about the time of the
Chino-Japanese war. It consists of barracks and military quarters,
ammunition stores, railroad factories, and a few private houses for the
families of officers, railway officials, and employes. It has no
pretence to beauty, and in the flooded condition in which I saw it, its
gloomy buildings, streaming with rain, looked deplorable. We came past
some shops where tinned meats, vegetables, and other provisions are
sold. There is also a hotel, which I prefer not to describe. I was told
that the place even boasts a cafe and music-hall, the only place of poor
amusement for the officers and their wives in garrison there. Kharbin is
supposed to have about fifteen thousand inhabitants, but where were
they? Were they dead, asleep, or hiding? I could not see a single living
being. Could this be altogether accounted for by the weather, even
allowing that the water in the streets rose to the knees of the horses,
and that the wheels of our vehicle were submerged to the axle?

As we drove along my amiable guide explained to me that Kharbin is a
military place, destined to see much active service in the event of a
war, because, being situated on the junction of three great railway
lines, it would be the centre for the mobilization and concentration of
the troops. It would probably become the headquarters of the intendant
and of the ammunition service. Hospitals, too, would be erected and the
Red Cross would have a large staff there. I listened with interest to
all these conjectures and plans for the future.

It was night when we returned to the station, where an agreeable
surprise awaited me. I was told that a goods train with a convoy of
coolies and troops to repair the line which had been destroyed, would be
ready to start a little after midnight. Could my carriage be attached to
it? I inquired. At first it seemed doubtful. No one appeared to know how
far we could get, and there was even some question as to whether the
road would bear the weight of the train. However, anything, no matter
what, would be better than Kharbin, I thought; even the uncertainty of
the future was preferable to the certainty of the present.

About three o'clock in the morning, after an interminable night of
bustling, coming and going of troops, rushing about of coolies, shunting
and whistling of engines, we at last began to move. The train presented
a curious appearance. It consisted chiefly of open trucks and a few
wagons in which the soldiers lay huddled together, with their winter
coats tucked under their heads for pillows, while hundreds of coolies
were packed like cattle in the open carriages.

At first we passed slowly through a vast, partially submerged plain.
Often the road was entirely under water, and in various places so badly
damaged that we had to proceed with the greatest possible caution. More
than once the coolies had to turn out with pickaxe, shovel, and building
material to repair the line, under the strict supervision of the
officers of the railway service. I availed myself of the frequent
stoppages and our altogether casual progress to study the country.

When at last we reached the large province of Central Manchuria there
was a notable change in the geographical aspect. The ground became hilly
and wooded. We followed several winding valleys, irrigated by tortuous
watercourses, and surrounded by mountain ridges. In some parts it was
decidedly pretty. The soil is fertile, and nature has endowed it with
many precious gifts. The mountain slopes are rich in minerals and the
woods abound with game. The mineral wealth of Manchuria is as yet
unexplored, and there are comparatively few gold, silver, and copper
mines in process of exploitation. Some foreign syndicates have been
formed, more especially in the south, and these have proved successful,
but since the Russian occupation of the railway district they have been
hampered by all sorts of difficulties, and except in the free port of
Niu-chwang, the introduction of foreign capital has been stopped.

In actual size Central Manchuria is considerably smaller than the
northern district of Tsi-tsi-kar--also known as Halung-kiang--but the
population of the north is only about one million, while Central
Manchuria contains twice as many inhabitants. The seat of government for
this latter district is at Kirin, a very ancient town with quaint houses
built in the old Chinese style, yamens with shining roofs, temples and
pagodas, all very picturesque.

Kirin itself is famous for the battlemented wall which, with its heavy
ramparts and pagoda-like towers, is very imposing. But the chief
attraction of this provincial capital is the surrounding scenery.
Valleys and mountains, dark forests and distant blue mountain peaks,
form a most charming picture. It is indeed a glorious region, and a joy
both to the sportsman and to the artist. The fishing in the mountain
streams is excellent, and there are still numbers of leopards, bears,
wolves, a certain kind of deer, foxes, and hares in the forests. For the
artist the opportunities here are not less ample; pretty woodland
scenery, attractive bits of street corners, and town scenery, and above
all the historical monuments, the celebrated royal tombs, and the
commemorative tablets on the river banks, or hidden in the sacred
groves; all these are excellent subjects for sketches.

The great difficulty at the present moment is how to reach these
beautiful regions. There are, so far, only a very few stations in
process of building on this route, and it must be remembered that even
these, though called by the names of the various places, are often
twenty or thirty miles distant from the towns they represent, and that
there are scarcely any means of conveyance, and that in many cases there
is not even a road!

It would seem as if the Eastern Chinese Railway scrupulously avoided all
inhabited regions, and certainly in its present condition, and as long
as there are no branch lines, it is useless for all purposes of ordinary
traffic or commercial enterprise. The Russian officers who have
projected it appear to have had only one object in view, to connect in
the most direct manner Vladivostok and Port Arthur with the Siberian
line, for the sole purpose of transporting troops in case of need
with the least possible delay.

[Illustration: A STREET IN KHARBIN "The water in the streets rose to the
knees of the horses" To face page 76]

All this great work has been done quietly, unostentatiously, and without
arousing any ill-feeling among the natives. At the present moment one
may travel for a whole day without catching sight of anything more
conspicuous than railway buildings, barracks, and encampments with
Russian soldiers lining the entire length of the route.

After several days' travelling we emerged into cultivated plains, rich
pasture land intersected by patches of Indian corn, beans, etc. Crops of
all kinds presented themselves before our eyes. The country no longer
showed the barren desolation of the Gobi desert, nor the romantic
wildness of Central Manchuria. It was peopled! There were men working in
the fields, and I could see houses and little farms, poor and miserable
enough it is true, but at least indicative of human life.

FROM MUKDEN STATION TO MUKDEN TOWN

It was dawn when I looked out of my carriage window--a dull grey dawn.
The sky was covered with leaden clouds and the rain came down in
torrents. The river banks were entirely submerged, and the train stood
still in a sea of mud. The scene of general deluge vividly recalled my
ideas of the Flood, and it was like stepping out of the ark when I
alighted from my carriage. Close by I saw a modest structure, one storey
high, more like a peasant's hut than anything else, and I could scarcely
believe that this was the station intended for Mukden, the capital of
Manchuria. To my consternation I learnt that the train would go no
farther that day. It might go on to-morrow or perhaps in a week's time.

There was plenty of time therefore to explore Mukden, although the town
was over twenty miles away. But how was I to get there? There was no
road to be seen and no vehicle anywhere about. I made inquiries from the
station-master, a Russian officer, with a long beard and resplendent
with gold lace. He advised me to send my interpreter to one of the
neighbouring farms, where I might possibly obtain a Chinese cart, a
driver, and a couple of mules, to convey me to Mukden in as short a time
as the state of the roads would permit. I followed this advice. The
courier wasted the greater part of the day in arguing with the farmers,
while I was left in my carriage at the mercy of the hurricane, and
occupied the time in writing down my unpleasant impressions, wind and
rain supplying the accompaniment of music.

Towards the close of the afternoon my faithful Sancho returned, and
pointed to a kind of cabriolet on two wheels with three mules harnessed
in tandem fashion, and driven by a crooked little Chinaman. I cannot
deny that the effect was extremely picturesque. The car was lacquered
yellow, the hood covered with blue; the mules were grey, and the little
driver was sheltered by a huge umbrella of gold-coloured oil-cloth. But
although picturesque, it was far from comfortable. The vehicle had no
springs and no seat; in fact, it consisted simply of a wooden board
about two and a half feet square, on which one had to sit cross-legged
like a Turk or a tailor. If the occupant happens to be neither the one
nor the other, he suffers agonies before five minutes have passed. The
only attempt at comfort was a small calico rug at the bottom of the
cart, but this was a poor protection against the extremely hard wood of
Manchuria.

I hesitated a moment before venturing to enter this uncomfortable
conveyance, and pictured vividly to myself the horrors of a night's
journey in it. But I had promised to visit, if possible, the site of our
Mission station, which had been pillaged and burned in the last Boxer
insurrection, and which had been the scene of so much noble martyrdom.
So after all I made up my mind to go.

Little Li-Hu cracked his long whip, which, by the by, looked more like a
fishing rod than a whip. And indeed, I might have amused myself with
some angling on the way, for the mules were up to their fetlocks in
chocolate-coloured liquid mud.

The first sight which attracted my attention on the road was a
one-storeyed building, used as barracks and occupied by Cossacks. I
learnt that it served as an encampment for the protection of the railway
station.

Then followed a long stretch of road without anything remarkable to be
seen.

[Illustration: FROM MUKDEN FLATS ON TO THE TOWN AFTER A WATER-COLOUR
DRAWING BY THE AUTHOR "Then followed a long stretch of road without
anything remarkable to be seen" To face page 80]

There were fields on both sides of the way, but they could not be seen
because all the land was entirely submerged as in Egypt at the rising of
the Nile. I presumed that we were on a road, for we advanced between two
rows of irregularly planted trees; I also concluded that at one time
this road had been paved, perhaps centuries ago, but it was decidedly
bumpy now.

These speculations were presently confirmed when we arrived at a bridge
delicately arching a creek. It was a very fine structure, carved in
Chinese fashion, and of great architectural beauty. I left my carriage
to examine it more closely, and when I had scraped off some of the mud
with which it was encrusted, I found that it was entirely built of white
marble.

After crossing the river the road became still worse. I was jolted up
and down, thrown from side to side, my head was knocked against the
wooden frame of the hood, and after a mile or so of this torture I could
bear it no longer and decided to try the back of one of the mules.

Riding without a saddle on the back of a thin Manchu mule cannot be said
to be a comfortable mode of travelling, and my agonies are better
imagined than described.

Here was I, in an unknown country, surrounded by a desert which seemed
more desolate than ever in its flooded condition, the rain coming down
as if all the sluices of heaven had been opened, while the tiny driver
at whose mercy I was, might, for all I knew, be a cut-throat.

My vocabulary was as yet limited to two words, _how-di_ and _poo-how_.
Perhaps they are written quite differently, but this is how they sound.
The former stands for everything that is good, pretty, pleasant (I have
never had occasion to use it); the other expresses the reverse, and I
was quite tired of saying it, because it never proved to be of the
slightest effect.

We encountered no one on the road, but passed one little vehicle like
mine, in which I counted at least ten visible occupants. Four were
seated on the shafts, some on the mules, and the others outside on the
hood. I could not see how many there were inside. All the outside
passengers had large umbrellas of oil-cloth, the same as my driver, and
they looked like big sunflowers. It was quite cheering to see those
people so perfectly happy, laughing and joking under such wretched
conditions.

Their stoicism gave me relief, and I shook the water from my dripping
clothes and felt a little better too. But as night approached and the
desolation became more oppressive, my self-confidence fell from hour to
hour. Darkness magnified all the surroundings, and gave them a fantastic
aspect. The lights in the distant farm-houses looked like
will-o'-the-wisps; the trees became phantoms, and the barking of the
dogs sounded like the roar of the dragons, which, as every one knows,
are natives of the Yellow Empire. All the fairy stories of my childhood
came back to my memory, and assumed a shape in the reality of my
surroundings.

I must add, too, that what I had read lately about Manchuria was not
encouraging. The country, I knew, was still in a state of agitation and
suppressed revolt. Gangs of bandits traversed the country in all
directions, burning farmsteads, pillaging villages, murdering
travellers. Skirmishes often took place between them and the Cossacks,
and more than once during my journey I heard the firing of shots. The
most dreaded of all these ruffians are the Chunchuses; they are formed
into more or less organized bodies, like the bandits of ancient Italy,
and they possess as much influence as the Mafia of Sicily.

It was getting late and we had travelled for many hours without seeing
any trace of houses. I could ask no questions, because I could only say
those two words, _poo-how_ and _how-di_. Even if Li-Hu had been of a
communicative turn of mind I should not have understood his
explanations, so we continued our lugubrious ride in perfect silence, I
perched on the back of a mule, with the shafts of the cart for stirrups,
while Li-Hu had the carriage all to himself. He wriggled about like a
serpent and finally sought consolation for the bitter reality of the
present in the happy dreams of the past.

At last the will-o'-the-wisps drew nearer, the phantoms took the form of
ordinary trees, and the roars of the dragons resolved themselves into
the barking of dogs.

I scarcely dared to believe that I had reached my destination, lest I
should be disappointed. Li-Hu was sound asleep, but the mules made
straight for a dismal-looking building, and stopped as by instinct in
front of a conspicuous signboard. By the same instinct, I suppose, Li-Hu
awoke and I asked eagerly, "Mukden? Mukden?" But evidently I was wrong,
for he emphatically shook his head.

After a while the innkeeper appeared on the threshold and looked even
more forbidding than the house itself, through the open doors of which
escaped thick clouds of opium-smoke. I should have preferred to remain
on the back of my mule, as there was no possibility of stretching my
legs because of the mud, but they were already unharnessing my beast, so
I had no choice, and was obliged to enter the house.

The place was lugubrious in the extreme. It looked like a witch's cave,
and all things combined to complete this impression. There was the
cauldron hanging on a chain over the fire, while enormous logs of wood
diffused a sulphurous flame in the light of which the inmates of the
place looked truly terrible. At least a dozen men were crouching on the
floor, and several others lay asleep on the kang or heated earthen bench
which ran all along the dwelling. They were smoking opium in small
bronze pipes.

At my entrance most of them roused themselves from their stupor, and
their small eyes expressed astonishment, united with curiosity,
mistrust, and hatred. I could detect all the hostility of the East
against the West in that look. The ill-will of the yellow race towards
"the white devils" manifested itself in all its bitterness and force. I
must confess that I did not feel quite at my ease in this uncanny
company, and it was only the deep interest which I felt in these people,
in the den and its surroundings, the novelty of the situation and my
passionate interest in human nature, which helped me through the ordeal.

What was going to happen? Would they remain passive, or were they going
to attack me? They were interrogating Li-Hu. It was like a play to watch
the proceedings. Without understanding the language, it was easy enough
to follow the drift of the argument. "Who is it? Where is he going? What
has he got?"

From the expression of Li-Hu's face and his hesitation in answering, I
gathered that the information he had to give concerning his charge was
not satisfactory, but I also noted with interest how cleverly he
concocted a story to his own advantage. Evidently the shrewd Chinaman
had in his mind two strong points in my favour. In the first place I had
not yet paid him, and in the second place I had been entrusted to his
care by the station-master, by whom he was known. I also detected that
he did not want to rouse the animosity of the other men, consequently he
never mentioned my private car, probably also by the advice of the
station-master, and from the expression of his face and the manner in
which he turned out his pockets, he was clearly representing me as a
poor missionary who was going to Mukden to fetch his pay at the bank,
and whom it would not be worth while to kidnap on his way there.

The minutes dragged on like so many hours; the night seemed endless.
Finally, to pass the time, I began to draw with some coloured chalks.
Would that interest them? I wondered. I could not be sure at first, but
the ruffians slowly gathered round me and I never had more complacent
spectators. Those men who, a few minutes ago, would have taken my life,
or at least my purse, suddenly became quite friendly. Like the lyre of
Orpheus, my pictures did wonders, soothing the savage instincts and
softening the passions of these brigands. It was the greatest triumph my
modest crayons ever won for me.

At last there was a general stir. Li-Hu prepared his cart, and we
started once more. It was still dark, but the rain had ceased and the
cold rays of the moon from time to time broke through the parting
clouds. By means of these occasional flashes of light I discerned in the
distance, silhouetted against the horizon, the dark outlines of a
pagoda. Surely that was the point we were making for. We had long since
left the so-called main road, and were jolting and jerking along by
fields of turnips and Indian corn. The shocks were perhaps not quite so
rough as before, on the half-paved highroad, but their violence was yet
amazing.

It was daybreak when we arrived before the principal gate of Mukden, and
after the night of darkness and peril the glories of the city seemed
enhanced. The sky was cloudless and intensely blue, as if enamelled in
cobalt on a golden ground. The richly sculptured fronts of the houses
shone with truly Oriental splendour. It was the early hour of the morn.
People poured out of the city gates to start their daily tasks in the
fields and farms. Every one wore bright-coloured garments, and looked
happy and cheerful. Everything breathed contentment: the effect was
charming. It was the victory of light over darkness.

The sun, like a great magician, had waved his wand, touched and
dispersed clouds and gloom, and thrown, so it would seem, a veil of
oblivion over the sadness and misery of the past night, to give courage
and hope to begin another day.

THE CAPITAL OF MANCHURIA

My surprise on first beholding the famous city of Mukden was as complete
as it was agreeable. The scene before me was simply delightful. At first
I could not distinguish anything clearly, neither lines nor forms. I was
dazzled by the intensity of colour and light.

The facade of every house was ornamented with strange carvings and
mouldings; never before had I seen such fantastic prodigality of human
imagination. All the lines curve upward, and every house resembles a
pagoda on a small scale. So many motives, so many different colours;
red, yellow, green, blue, in endless profusion, the effect being
increased by rich gilding.

In front of the houses are shops or booths, where are exposed--generally
in the open--goods and merchandise of all kinds, arranged in fanciful
pyramids in accordance with Oriental caprice. Embroideries, rich silks,
artificial flowers, fans, and umbrellas, anything, in fact, to tempt the
local taste or satisfy the daily demands. The displays of porcelain are
particularly attractive, also the shows of silver and brass ware. Most
fascinating are the stalls of the bric-a-brac dealers with their fine
lacquer-work, fluted vases of priceless value, old porcelains, cloisonne
boxes, and artistically designed snuff-bottles.[B]

[B] The Chinese do not use boxes, but snuff-bottles of great value.

Before every booth a tall mast or pole is dressed, from which floats a
flag as signboard, and both are elaborately inscribed with
advertisements of wares sold inside the shop. The bootmakers' insignia
are particularly artistic and only surpassed in splendour by the rich
festoons of gold which mark the pawnbrokers' shops. The main
thoroughfare, with its endless variety of cabalistic design and rich
colouring, is like an Oriental bazaar or the gorgeous scenery of a
theatre. But what struck me most was the enormous vitality and activity
of this marvellous city.

It was like watching an ants' nest to see this surging tide of human
beings incessantly flooding the squares and streets. Men and women,
young and old, of all ranks and all nationalities, push and press past
one another. Some are carried in beautiful chairs, others content
themselves with a modest kind of wheelbarrow, in which six or seven
persons can be accommodated on a narrow board, and which is pushed along
by a famished-looking coolie. These wheelbarrows answer the purpose of
omnibuses in the Manchu capital, and they take a person from one end of
the city to the other for about a quarter of a halfpenny. "Rickshaws"
have recently come into fashion; they are a great improvement on the old
means of conveyance, for instead of being pushed they are pulled along.
All true Manchus, however, prefer riding on horseback to any other mode
of locomotion.

Whatever room is left in the street is taken up by pedestrians,
labourers carrying enormous loads, and coolies going about their daily
business. It is an impressive sight, and once more I came to the
conclusion that the intrinsic character of a place is not expressed in
the arrangement of its streets, or in the height and style of its
buildings, but in the general manifestation of its activity.

While the eye takes in all these various details, the ear need not be
idle. The air is full of sound. Strains of music proceeding from the
tea-houses, costermongers' cries, shrieks of quarrelsome children, and
high-pitched voices in admonition; shouting and noise of all sorts and
in endless variety are heard.

At every step there is a fresh surprise. Fortunately, so far, no
guide-books have been written to describe the attractions of the Manchu
capital, and no cumbersome descriptions spoil the effect of its genuine
charms.

To form an idea of the plan of the city, imagine an oblong chess-board.
Like all Chinese towns, it is regular in the principal lines. There are
two main streets in the form of a cross, intersected by innumerable
narrow lanes, and in the middle of the town, where the two chief
thoroughfares cross, stands a high tower from the top of which a drum
and a gong announce the beginning and the close of the day. Also from
this high vantage ground the alarm is given in case of danger, and a
detachment of soldiers, stationed in a sort of pigeon-holes, spend the
hours of their watch in peaceful slumber.

It would be difficult to enumerate all the places of interest which
Mukden contains, for everything is interesting to the Western mind, even
to the smallest cottage with its curiously shaped roof and quaint style.
And the interest lies not only in their material conception or in their
exterior, but also in their inner qualities, and especially in the fact
that they give expression to the mental and artistic ideas of the
nation. As has already been said, it is at first the general effect, the
picturesqueness, and the novelty, which strike one as so charming. Some
of the houses are very dilapidated, the walls lean over, and the roofs
are covered with a tangled growth of moss and grass. But all this makes
them the more attractive from an artistic point of view.

Among the most interesting public edifices are the yamens belonging to
the Government, and occupied by the Governor and some others of the
mandarins of high degree; one or two Lama monasteries; the large
buildings where the Russian Consul and the Commander-in-Chief reside;
and last, but not least, the building occupied by the famous
Russo-Chinese Bank and its agents.

Naturally the Imperial Palace is a place of great interest. With its
enclosure of walls it forms a city within the city. It is divided into
various courts, and consists of a great many separate structures,
detached houses, halls, and pavilions. Taken separately these are not of
great importance, but the whole effect is very striking. The colonnades,
beams, and brackets are of carved wood, richly painted and gilded. All
the woodwork is painted dark purple, and the roofs, like those of all
edifices connected with the Imperial Family, or dedicated to Confucius,
are covered with yellow tiles. The greater part of the palace is now
occupied by Russian troops.

Near the palace gate is a low building in which a whole detachment of
soldiers is quartered, and the open court is lined with cannon. It was
only on my showing them a special permission from the commander that the
sentries allowed me to pass.

The interior of the palace is in a sad state of ruin. Since the Imperial
Family departed for Pekin, it has never been inhabited, and the few art
treasures still remaining are carelessly scattered about the place.
There are some valuable panels, some precious jades, and exquisite
porcelains, but the greater portion of them disappeared after the last
war. Some say that these treasures have been stolen by the Boxers, but
according to another version the thieves must be looked for elsewhere. I
was told that the very rare collection of old manuscripts and official
documents is now quietly reposing among the archives at St. Petersburg
to be protected from destruction.

My eyes wandered from the reception-halls to the vestibules, from the
terraces to the gardens. It was all so original, so quaint. But the
thing which specially strikes the visitor is the incongruity of
transforming this sacred cradle of the master minds of the Celestial
Empire into a Cossack encampment. As I passed out through the principal
entrance, a Muscovite warrior stood on guard by the Dragon's door, and
his white blouse contrasted strangely with the heavy bulk of the palace.

As the day advanced, the crowds in the city increased. Russian soldiers
paraded the streets and patrolled the ramparts in small detachments. I
saw officers on frisky ponies and ladies with their families going
about in the national _troikas_.

It is especially noteworthy that these Russian people not only feel
perfectly at home among the Manchus, but that the conquered people
associate on the most friendly terms with their conquerors in the
taverns and inns. They sit amicably side by side and appear to be the
best of friends. It is true that many of the enemies were born on the
same soil; they are practically semi-Asiatics themselves; often have a
common origin, and belong to the same race; above all, live the same
primitive and uncultivated life.

The great difference which separates the European, whether of the
Anglo-Saxon or the Latin race, from the Mongol and the Tartar, does not
exist here. As soon as a fight is concluded, they settle down to their
ordinary life; the greatest cruelties committed on either side are soon
forgotten. Hatred may lurk in their innermost minds, but outwardly they
live in peace together.

They have the same tastes, the same amusements, and agree particularly
on the question of frugality. Contempt of comfort, indifference to
refinement, and a very rudimentary degree of culture, are common to both
of them. One thing which even more prevents any feeling of coldness
arising between them is that, far from trying to transform and educate
the conquered nation, the conquerors often stoop to the low level of the
subjugated people.

With the exception of the railway I am not aware that any attempts have
been made to civilize the Manchus. Commerce is not encouraged and
international traffic does not exist, because all the towns have thus
far been closed to foreigners. The Russian Government is even taking
steps to get into its own hands the English and American mining
operations which are being financed by some new loans. In spiritual
matters the same restrictions prevail, and the difficulties which are
put in the way of the missionary work increase from day to day.

In local government a semblance of the old forms is preserved. Manchuria
is divided into three administrations, Tsi-tsi-kar, Kirin, and Mukden.
Each province has a governor, and all three are under the authority of a
viceroy or mandarin of the highest rank, who resides at Mukden.

The official yamen, and the staff of dignitaries of various degrees, are
here exactly what they are everywhere else. They all appear extremely
busy, writing extraordinary cabalistic signs on sheets of rice-paper.
The small details of local affairs keep them occupied all day; probably
they know nothing of matters of serious importance, but they seem
admirably suited to fill a post which involves a minimum of
responsibility and brings with it a good substantial salary. There
appears to be a perfect _entente cordiale_ between the Manchu mandarins
and the Russian generals, and if perchance a difference of opinion
should occur, the difficulty is generally smoothed over by the
irresistible influence and the mysterious power of the Russo-Chinese
Bank.

The important event of my first day was the official reception given by
the Governor. I was carried to the palace in a chair, followed by an
interpreter and my little major-domo. The canopy of the chair was
covered with green silk, and four stalwart fellows carried me through
the narrow, tortuous streets. The shaking was terrible, for where the
pavement should have been there were big holes filled with liquid mud. I
could forgive my bearers for their rough handling of my chair, but it
was difficult not to resent being bumped on to the ground every time
they changed shoulders, which they did without slackening their pace. It
was not a great height to fall from, but the sensation was decidedly
unpleasant. It was like a nightmare; the time occupied by the fall
seemed interminable, and on reaching the ground I felt like being hurled
to the bottom of a precipice.

At last we came to the principal entrance of the palace, at least what
I supposed to be the principal entrance, judging from a group of queerly
attired creatures, who presented arms--and such arms! It was an
extraordinary collection, reminding me of the get-up of some old Chinese
play. They were fierce-looking warriors, carrying halberds, javelins,
and sickles on long poles, glittering and sparkling in the midday sun.

As seen from the outside, the palace is a poor structure. The massive
wall which flanks the front gate is decorated with pictures of dragons
to scare away, as I was told, evil spirits and "the white devils." The
first court I came to was not much more attractive. It seemed, in fact,
no better than a stable yard. There were a few horses tied to their
stalls and some shelters for the soldiers and servants. I had to cross
several courts before I arrived at the court of honour, which was square
like the others, and had halls on each side. It was beautifully
decorated with flowers and shrubs. There were chrysanthemums, and dwarf
orange, peach, and pear trees, especially cultivated for the purpose of
ornamentation. The effect produced was exquisite, and though the
surroundings are all more or less in a state of decadence, that inner
court is a picturesque specimen of Chinese domestic architecture.

But I had no time to study it in detail, for the Mandarin stood there
in the centre, surrounded by his court. He was in a robe of dark blue
silk, magnificently embroidered, and his suite was no less gorgeously
attired. When I appeared upon the threshold of the vestibule we
exchanged profound bows, and repeated this salutation until we met half
way. Then we shook hands in Western fashion, no easy task, considering
that my host's finger-nails were at least two inches long. The customary
introductions over, he led the way to his private apartments.

The first room was entirely Chinese, and contained some exquisitely
carved armchairs. The effect of the second room was spoiled by two easy
chairs of Vienna manufacture, a hideous French clock, and a tablecloth,
probably of Manchester make.

The preliminary compliments once exchanged--a formidable business
here--His Excellency asked me some dozen questions which in the West
would be considered most indiscreet, but are obligatory in the East.
Then he conducted me to the dining-hall, where luncheon was set on a
round table profusely decorated with flowers and sweetmeats.

Innumerable little dishes were scattered over the silk tablecloth, and
saucers filled with raisins, grapes, almonds, olives, and a variety of
dainties. Etiquette prescribes that the guest shall be placed on the
left of his host, and that the first mouthful of food shall be put on to
his plate by the host himself. After that the servants bring in dishes
containing the most delicate productions of the Chinese culinary art.
Fish soup and snail soup, sharks' fins in unpalatable jellies, all kinds
of minces and hashes, and patties with sauces most unpleasant to Western
taste, composed the menu.

Custom, which regulates all public and social functions in this country,
demands that no less than fifty different dishes be presented to a guest
of distinction. All these concoctions are handed round on large trays,
in series of eight at a time. They look different, but all taste alike,
at least so it seemed to me. They are both sweet and sour, and whether
they go by the name of minced birds'-nests, or croquettes of dog-flesh,
I could detect no difference in taste. The other guests, however, fully
made up for my want of appreciation.

As the meal proceeded, the conversation became more animated. When the
subjects dictated by ceremony had been disposed of, the company
expressed much interest in my researches and studies. My host questioned
me on many points. He was decidedly clever, and although one was apt to
forget the solemnity of the occasion on looking at his somewhat
ridiculous costume and hat, formed in the shape of a pagoda surmounted
by a precious stone the size of a potato, and adorned with waving
peacock's feathers--in which attire even the wisest man would look a
fool--I could not help being impressed by his sagacity.

He was somewhat reserved, but seemed pleased to talk about his country,
and gave me some valuable information when he saw how much interested I
was in the ancient history of the land, and the origin of its
inhabitants. For they, thousands of years ago, had proceeded from the
same stock as the people of my own race, who had founded the kingdom in
Pannonia. The foundation of the Manchu empire is connected even more
closely than I thought with the migration of the Huns. It would, indeed,
open a vast field of study for the historian to seek the connecting link
and the affinity existing between the first Magyars and Manchus.

The repast over, the Governor proposed a visit to the imperial tombs,
the chief sight of the country. Indeed, there is nothing the people
venerate more deeply than those monuments of the defunct members of
their dynasty; they are the pride of the nation.

We started without much delay. It was a glorious afternoon, and in the
brightness of the autumn sun the country looked its best. Our cavalcade
galloped across pasture land, where horses and cattle peaceably grazed
together. Here and there a shepherd sought diversion in the consoling
melody of some old song, like all human beings whose lives are spent in
solitude, and in the contemplation of the immensity of nature. The music
was simple and the instrument simpler still, an archaic flute cut out of
a reed.

Skirting the far end of the pasture was a dark brushwood; my companions
told me that this was the sacred grove containing the imperial tombs.
The distance to the town might be about six or seven miles, but our
little horses carried us quickly over the ground. The Manchu
dignitaries, in their flowing silken robes, their pagoda-like hats,
their embroideries and long pigtails, looked unquestionably most
picturesque. My mount and my saddle were similar to theirs, pretty, but
at the same time I must say that I never rode on anything more
uncomfortable than a Chinese saddle of embossed wood, with stirrups in
the shape of slippers, and fixed so high that knees and chin nearly
meet.

Two large stone monuments flank the path which leads to the sacred
grove. Forbidding-looking dragons guard the entrance. A deep cutting
gives access to the place of interment, and this long alley is guarded
on both sides by monsters of various descriptions. Elephants, camels,
gigantic human figures, are placed at intervals facing each other, all
cut in stone, and intended to ward off the evil spirits.

The beauty of the place is indescribable. The darkness of the foliage,
the white stone statues, and the paved pathway winding through the
woods, all help to give it the character of an enchanted forest, where
solitude reigns, and the air is full of poetry.

Later we crossed some marble bridges of exquisite workmanship, their
curiously sculptured balustrades softly reflecting themselves in the
blue waters of the little streams flowing lazily between the flowering
banks. I was told that the statues, the streams, and the bridges, have
all of them some allegorical meaning in connexion with the spirits of
the departed.

At length, passing through a porch, we stood face to face with an arch
of such surpassing beauty, that for a moment I was dazed and lost in
speechless admiration. Surely this must be one of the greatest, one of
the most wonderful architectural creations of the Yellow Empire.
Material, design, proportions, all the details, are so supremely
beautiful. It is of marble, the arch resting on two huge blocks with
cross-bars and buttresses supported by imperial dragons. The decorations
are exquisite, and the carving of the friezes unique of its kind. Not
even among all the marvellous monuments of Pekin, Nankin, or Hankow, did
I find anything to rival it. The beauty of the conception, as well as
the finished workmanship, impress one most forcibly, because of its
being so perfectly in keeping with the signification of the whole
triumphal arch, which symbolizes the passage of the spirit, after a life
of strife and victory, to the abodes of their ancestors and everlasting
peace. In this respect I know of nothing to compare with it, unless it
be that pearl of Asiatic architecture, the Taj Mahal.

The tomb itself is enclosed by courts, halls, sacrificial temples,
guard-houses, and sentry-sheds. We left our horses at the inner
entrance, and the massive doors of red lacquer-work groaned on their
hinges as they were slowly pushed open by half a dozen soldiers. We
found ourselves in a square yard, a kind of court of honour, with
avenues of trees many centuries old, giants and monsters in stone, and
canals fenced in with marble balustrades and arched by bridges. These
courts are divided by open galleries which lead to the central pagoda.
This square building contains the commemorative tablet, a monument cut
out of a single stone of about thirty feet high. The whole stands on a
colossal tortoise, larger than two elephants.

Immense cauldrons, big enough to cook a whole ox at a time, for
sacrificial purposes, are placed at short distances. Once a year a
great ceremony is held in honour of the Great Ancestor. On this
occasion the Emperor should be present in person, but for many years the
imperial court has been represented by ambassadors; and considering what
a journey from Pekin to Mukden involves, it is not surprising that the
sovereign is content to be present by proxy. I was told that the
mandarins selected to undertake this onerous pilgrimage are often
persons whose presence is not desired at Pekin. Their adventurous
journey often occupies many months, and often there have been cases in
which the envoys never returned at all.

The Great Ancestor was one of the founders of the Manchu dynasty in
China, and his real tomb is cut out in the heart of the mountain, but
the exact spot is unknown. We spent the greater part of the afternoon
among the tombs, and I made the best use I could of the permission to
sketch and to take photographs. But the most perfect apparatus, and the
pen of the most accomplished narrator, are bound to fail to do justice
to the reality. Art and nature are blended so exquisitely here that it
is impossible to give an adequate idea of the place. However beautiful
the individual monuments may be--and they are very beautiful--the real
charm of the ideal site lies in the perfect harmony of solitude and
peace.

[Illustration: THE ENTRANCE TO THE IMPERIAL TOMBS "The massive doors of
red lacquer-work groaned on their hinges" To face page 104]

On the return journey we again passed through the muddy, dreary
suburbs. Most of the houses along the dull, deserted roads, are built of
clay and covered with straw. Rough planks close the entrance, and from
the windows the rice-paper hangs down in tatters. We met several funeral
processions, the huge black coffins being carried in front.

I have forgotten to mention that cholera was raging in the town;
hundreds of people died daily, and the sanitary conditions of the place
were so wretched that nothing could be done to stop it. Considering the
manner in which the coolies live, it is only surprising that they do not
all succumb. On this account the authorities at first had been averse to
the idea of my visit to Mukden, but as there was smallpox in China and
typhoid fever in Korea, there did not seem much to choose between the
two; and, besides, I was firmly convinced that Providence would let me
finish the work I had undertaken to do.

The epidemic broke out three months ago, and had claimed many victims
among the Russian troops. The morale of the men was at a very low ebb in
consequence. Upon the coolies and the Manchus the effect was different.
Their innate fatalism teaches them to look upon death as a benevolent
friend, and as they bear away the coffins with the remains of their
loved ones, they look as unconcerned as if they were taking them to a
place of joy. All the small objects cherished by the dead are placed
upon the coffin to be burned at the grave-side, and when the smoke rises
up to heaven, popular superstition has it that all these objects assume
shape again in a higher sphere, for the gratification of their former
owners. It is only right, however, to add, that as the heirs are
solicitous to save anything that may be of value, counterfeits of the
real things, in paper or cardboard, are often substituted, and so the
_auto-da-fe_ takes place only in effigy.

Having been entertained at luncheon by the Chinese Governor, to make the
day complete I was the guest of the Russian Resident at dinner. We may
criticize the Muscovite system of government, we may censure the ways
and means employed by the Russian administration, but there is only one
opinion as regards Russian hospitality. No matter what quarter of the
globe one comes from, whether one be a political ally or a traditional
foe, a Russian never fails in the duties of hospitality. As long as the
guest is under his roof he is looked upon as a member of the family.
Host and hostess, in fact all the household, go out of their way to show
kindness to him. And it is all done on such a lavish scale! His room is
overheated, rugs and furs are wrapped round him whether he desires them
or not, and above all a special point is made of loading him with food
and drink at all hours of the day and of the night.

The Russian Residence, or Consulate, as it is still sometimes called
before the world, is a yamen like all other public buildings in China,
only perhaps a little more ruinous than those I saw in the morning. The
interior is greatly lacking in comfort and luxury. It gives rather the
impression of a camp than of a home; there is no furniture beyond what
is strictly necessary, and nothing has been done to make it pretty or
attractive. The only redeeming feature is the table, which appears to be
permanently set for meals. It is covered with quite as many little
dishes as the table of the Mandarin, but instead of fruit and
sweetmeats, they contain hors-d'oeuvres, such as caviare, herrings,
smoked salmon, cucumber, and all the innumerable varieties which compose
the famous national _Zakouska_. There was a perfect array of bottles on
the table; I do not remember ever seeing so many crowded on to one
table. There were wines from the Crimea, various liqueurs, and vodka.
During dinner the guests smoked perfumed cigarettes, and talked of their
family affairs and distant homes. It was difficult to realize that the
boundless plains of Siberia separated us from the banks of the Neva, for
the picture before me was so typically Russian, in all its variety of
shades and colours. I almost felt as if I were "in company with the
gentlemen" of Tourguenieff.

My visit to Mukden had certainly been full of interest. Not only the
town itself, its famous monuments, and its strangely superannuated
people, but the whole situation as it is at present, offers endless
scope for speculation. Chinese mandarins and Russian generals, Cossacks
and coolies, how oddly they are amalgamated in incoherent groups! What
developments may not the future have in store? Truly this is a
fascinating problem. Will Manchuria be more prosperous under the new
regime? Will the people be able to rise to a higher level? As I took
leave of the spot, now so desolate, where the mission settlement once
stood, I asked myself whether it would ever be rebuilt and whether men
would come forward to take the place of those martyrs who had sacrificed
their life in the cause of the orphans and forsaken children of China.
Casting one last lingering look upon the place, which I should probably
never see again, the dismal outline of the ruined bell-tower seemed to
rise up in pathetic protest against human intolerance and blind
persecution.

THE RETURN JOURNEY

The city of Mukden contained so much that was of interest to me, that my
stay there was prolonged beyond my original intentions. The Governor,
to whom I had related all the difficulties and discomforts of my
journey, very kindly placed a carriage at my disposal and gave me an
escort to see me safely back to the station. But perilous as the outward
journey had been, the return was no less full of various emotions.

It was a beautiful autumn day when I left the town. Nature seemed to be
making one last effort to assert the power of her charms before falling
into her winter sleep. As we passed through the precincts of the city,
the gardens literally glittered with colour. All imaginable shades, from
copper-tinted saffron to bronzed purple, were there displayed. These
gardens are certainly most beautifully cultivated. Presently we emerged
into the open plain, and now I had the opportunity, which I had missed
before, of forming some idea of the fertility of this privileged land.
Manchuria is undoubtedly one of the richest countries in the world. The
soil is excellent, the hills are thickly wooded, the mountains abound in
minerals. Along the route we passed farms where maize and beans seemed
to be chiefly cultivated, and all the people, men, women, and children,
were at work in the field.

The landscape is rather monotonous. We traversed a wide plain enclosed
by mountains which touch the horizon; but although the scenery cannot
be called picturesque, it is not devoid of a certain grandeur. It has a
charm peculiar to itself, an atmosphere of vague melancholy. All vast
plains, those of Egypt for instance, or of Rajputana, have this same
undefinable, intangible characteristic, of which one is faintly
conscious without being able to describe it. The people who live in such
a free atmosphere are naturally affected by it, and the Manchus possess
all the characteristics of a race inhabiting an exposed country.

The Manchu is attached to his native land; he loves to live in the open,
and is never so happy as when galloping across the endless plain or
hunting in the virgin forests. As we laboriously proceeded on the uneven
road, my fancy had full play, and I received new ideas and impressions
from these novel surroundings. Since I had explored the interior of the
country more carefully, my ideas about Manchuria had certainly undergone
a great change. Every now and then, however, my cogitations were rudely
interrupted as we jumped over ditches, crawled up or ran down the
inclines, and it was a wonder that my poor _tarantass_ was not smashed
in the attempt. It may be as well, perhaps, to give some idea of what a
_tarantass_ is like. Four small wheels, very far apart, and joined by
wooden axles, were fixed in the centre to a long pole, on which the
basket, in shape something between a boat and a bath, was fastened. The
vibration of this pole takes the place of springs, although it would be
incorrect to say that it performed the office of such civilized
improvements. But the pole kept the wheels and the basket together, and
this, after all, is an accomplishment to be proud of on the highroads of
Asia. My carriage was not drawn by mules this time, but I had three
horses harnessed abreast, in the Muscovite style. They were small
Cossack horses, with long manes and tails, slightly larger than Shetland
ponies, strong and lively. The middle one was somewhat bigger than the
two others; it could trot, while the ponies to the right and left of it
had to gallop all the time, their heads gracefully arched and held a
little to one side. The harness was most eccentric, and consisted of
straps without number, the use of which it was difficult to see, but the
silver-nailed mountings, studded in Eastern fashion, looked decidedly
picturesque.

My coachman was a Cossack, and evidently very much impressed with the
importance of his mission. About fifteen men formed the escort, their
white blouses and flat white caps forming a striking feature in the
landscape. They are good-natured, simple-minded folk, these mujiks, with
bright blue eyes, clear complexion, and a childlike expression. They are
evidently quite at home in this far-away country, for the ways of life
in their native land are primitive and patriarchal, and differ but
little from those in this foreign land. It is difficult to believe that
these men can ever be cruel, and in time of war commit the greatest
atrocities in cold blood and almost unconsciously. When the war is over
they at once make friends with the conquered people, and freely mix with
the yellow tribes. A little two-wheeled cart, containing provisions, and
with a young Cossack as driver, completed my escort.

If I were asked what were the most striking objects I passed on the
road, I should mention two pagodas, one of which is particularly
beautiful, seven storeys high, and richly carved. Monsters of Chinese
mythology and all the embellishments which the sickly imagination of
that ancient race could devise, have been lavishly represented upon it.
We also passed some remarkable commemorative stones--massive blocks,
resting on enormous tortoises--on which are inscribed the exploits of
the defunct heroes of the country. The many farms on our route testified
to the agricultural resources of the land, and the villages are not
without interest from a sociological point of view. The houses are very
shabby and dilapidated, but what amused me was the number of children
there were playing about. There did not seem to be room enough to
contain them all, and there were hardly any doors to be seen; the
population appears to jump out of the ground like mushrooms. We met
carts of various descriptions, pedestrians, strange equipages, and
stranger horsemen, and to finish up with, a mandarin travelling in
state. This personage was carried in a litter covered with embroidered
silk, and the luggage packed, in cases of wonderful lacquer-work, was
carried by his men on their backs. Suite and servants followed him in
single file, and all the emblems of his dignity, flags, Chinese
lanterns, umbrellas, and banners, with various inscriptions, were
carried before him. His Excellency was guarded by a detachment of native
soldiers, in crimson mantles with lozenge-shaped pieces of velvet let in
at the front and back, and elaborately embroidered with Chinese
characters. Of course, many of the details of this show were very
shabby. The canopy of the litter was torn and faded, the velvet of the
uniforms was caked with mud, the banners were in rags, and yet as a
whole it was one of the most artistic displays I have ever seen.
Asiatics certainly have the knack of making their pageants effective. A
mandarin of secondary order, visiting a functionary about equal in rank
to a tax-collector, has an escort of followers and soldiers amounting
to several dozen men, while the highest Western officials are content
with two footmen behind their carriage on grand occasions.

I have already said that the journey back to Mukden station was no
improvement on the journey thence, and yet, as I write these lines,
seated in my comfortable railway carriage, my adventure, now that it is
a thing of the past, seems like a dream to me. To make the story more
interesting I must begin at the end, namely, with the dramatic incident
of the journey, and tell how we only just escaped being kidnapped or
possibly killed by a band of brigands. Thanks to Providence, however, no
more serious harm was done to us than the fall of the _tarantass_ into
the swollen river, a compulsory bath in full uniform for some of the
Cossacks, various bruises and scratches, and a broken litter. The
intended attack was changed into flight, and the tragedy turned into a
comedy, to the satisfaction of all. I will briefly relate the facts.

When we arrived at the first village, the Cossacks declared that the
horses were thirsty, and that a halt was therefore necessary. They all
dismounted and hurried into the wayside inn, leaving me alone with the
horses. But as I could see neither well nor bucket, I could do nothing
for the poor beasts. After a while the men returned, and there was no
mistaking the state of affairs. If the horses had had no water, the men
had found plenty to drink. Presently we came to another village, and the
same thing occurred there, only this time they did not trouble to invent
any excuse, and never mentioned the thirsty horses. I need hardly say
that after each halt the conversation waxed more animated, and the
horses were pushed on more furiously. After the third stoppage the
situation became alarming. They no longer talked, but all shouted at
once, the clatter of their voices being intermixed with snatches of
popular songs, while the trot of the horses changed to a gallop.

I felt desperate, for I knew that I was quite powerless against the
inveterate national custom of these children of nature. They continued,
however, to behave well towards me, and treated me with the greatest
respect. They were only very hilarious, that was all. They shouted and
sang and waved their red kerchiefs as we sped along.

The last hamlet passed, and there being no further chance of obtaining
refreshment until Mukden station was reached, a steeplechase was
proposed across country, to the station. I cannot tell what distance we
thus covered, for the speed at which we went exceeded all my previous
experiences. The race over the uneven ground caused me many different
sensations. Across the plain it was rapid and exciting, and I fully
participated in the exhilaration of these wild children. Across the
cultivated ground it was pleasant enough for those on horseback, but to
me, in my _tarantass_, it was like being on the rack. But it was in
crossing the maize-fields that I suffered most.

The race increased in speed. Horses and men completely lost their heads,
and it was no longer a question of restraining them. The horses took the
bits between their teeth and simply went like the wind. We seemed to fly
over the ditches and tore through the reed hedges. Some of the animals
slipped and the men fell head over heels in the mud, while guns and
swords described glittering circles in the air. Finally, in trying to
clear a deep creek, one of the wheels of the provision-cart came off,
and all the contents were scattered. Then, to my joy, I saw looming in
the distance, like a haven of refuge, the miserable shed which is called
Mukden station.

I lay down at the bottom of the _tarantass_, with a feeling of
deliverance near at hand. I must explain that my straw seat had fallen
to pieces at an early stage of our mad race, so that the only way to
remain in the _tarantass_ was by lying down at the bottom and holding on
to the sides. But even this comparative degree of comfort was extended
to me for only a short time, for suddenly I received a terrible shock;
there was a grinding noise produced by the carriage, followed by an
exclamation from the driver, unintelligible to me; the sound of horses
struggling in the water; and finally I felt an icy wave dashing over me.
I thought I was drowning, and instinctively raised myself in my basket.
We were in the middle of a river which had overflowed its banks! My
little horses were half submerged. Some of the Cossacks were still in
the saddle; others were wading through the muddy stream up to their
waists in water. They were all in a state of great excitement, talking
and shouting, but all quite cheerful. Some were washing their scratches,
others struggling desperately to rescue their belongings, which were
floating away on the stream, and the horses, at last, with supreme
contentment, were able to drink their fill of the water so long withheld
and so fully deserved.

The steeplechase under ordinary conditions may be a noble sport and may
have its charm and many dangers, but it cannot be compared with such a
cross-country race in a _tarantass_, escorted by a detachment of
Cossacks. And yet, in spite of all, I am indebted to these hardy
companions, for their mad escapade and their wild merriment saved our
lives. Whilst in full career, with horses neighing, Cossacks shouting,
and swords flashing, we became aware of a body of men, who had
presumably been hiding in the bushes, escaping towards the distant
woods. Evidently they thought we were pursuing them, and they fled in
disorder. I learnt afterwards that it was a band of those Chunchuses who
have been the terror of the district for many years, and very likely the
same I met on my previous journey. Not long ago they kidnapped Mr.
Wetzel, the director of the East China Railway, whose adventures have
been described at length in the newspapers. He was carried into the
interior, underwent the most terrible tortures, and was on the verge of
losing his mind when his ransom arrived.

If my Cossacks had not indulged in that steeplechase my journey might
have had a tragic ending. Thanks to our furious riding, we startled the
band lying in wait for a prey; but if they had seen us quietly
proceeding like ordinary travellers along the highroad, they would
undoubtedly have attacked us; and I will therefore conclude with the
well-known proverb: "All's well that ends well."

PORT ARTHUR, DALNY, NIU-CHWANG, TIEN-TSIN

The country between Mukden and Port Arthur is the granary of Manchuria.
Rice, corn, and maize grow in great profusion, and there are from
thirty-five to forty different kinds of peas and beans. Chinese
agriculture is based on excellent principles. The system of irrigation
and the methods of working fully deserve our attention; but the
plentiful harvests are chiefly due to the remarkable mode of manuring.
The same piece of ground can yield several crops in rotation in one
year. It would seem that the land never requires to lie fallow.

As I watched the Chinese farmers and labourers, I was vividly struck by
the contrast between this peace-loving, agricultural population, and the
armed Cossacks who lined the route. The nearer we came to the coast the
more numerous they seemed to become, and there were more and larger
barracks also. Yet the Russian military and the Chinese farmers appear
to live on friendly terms with one another. I frequently saw Russian
soldiers and Chinamen sitting at the same table, merrily talking
together, and I even noticed signs of Russification among the natives,
for many pigtails were twisted up and hidden under a Russian _schapka_.
They eat the same food with an equally good appetite, and appear to have
many tastes in common. If, during the Boxer agitation, the Russian
troops behaved with exceptional cruelty towards the natives, it is
certain that at present there is a perfect understanding between them.
And after all they belong more or less to the same stock; their historic
past is very similar, and they both live the same primitive life.

* * * * *

I was now nearing the end of my journey, and although the progress had
been slow it had been full of incidents. The last obstacle on the route
we encountered at Liaoyang, where a bridge had been swept away. I was
prepared for this delay, for some weeks before, the station-master at
Harbin had given me a thrilling account of the accident. I remember
wondering at the time whether he was exaggerating and trying to dissuade
me from penetrating further into the interior of Manchuria; but when I
saw the state of affairs at Liaoyang I realized that his story had been
perfectly true. The scene before me was one of general confusion.
Thousands of Russian soldiers and Chinese coolies were engaged in
carting sand, cutting poles, and fixing rails; all talking and shouting
at once in different tongues and dialects.

It was a veritable babel. About a thousand men were occupied in
constructing a bridge of stone and iron. A few thousand others were
throwing up sandbanks to check the water, while another gang of workmen
was making a pontoon. We stopped several hours and no one seemed to know
how or when we should get across. But the scene was so exciting, and
gave me such an excellent opportunity of watching the Chinese at work,
that I did not grudge the delay. At last some engineering officers
suggested dividing the train and trying to take it across by the pontoon
in portions.

How it was exactly managed I am unable to describe, for what with the
jerking and bumping of my carriage, and the whistling, creaking, and
groaning of the engine over the swaying pontoon, I had no chance of
making observations. And when the temporary rails over the pontoon
became submerged and the waves dashed up to my carriage door, I followed
the example of the stoker and the guard and stood on the step,
barefooted, ready to jump and attempt to swim to land if the whole
tottering structure should collapse and disappear under the waves.

Thus ended my journey across Manchuria. Many delays and excursions into
the interior had retarded my progress, but at last I arrived safe and
sound at Port Arthur, where I remained two days, including a visit to
Dalny. Port Arthur, as I saw it, was merely a military station on the
extremity of the peninsula of Liaotung. At one time it was the chief
naval arsenal of China, but after the war with Japan its defences and
military works were destroyed. When, in 1898, the Russians leased the
two places, Port Arthur and Dalny, they made the former into a great
military and naval fortress. It was placed under the control of an
admiral who had chief command over the troops and the maritime forces.
He had under him a double staff of naval and military officers,
comprising the commander of the port, the chiefs of the naval staff, the
riflemen, the artillery, the engineering service, and the intelligence
department, the harbour master, the chief of the torpedo divisio

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