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THE distance between Moscow and Irkutsk, about to be traversed by
Michael Strogoff, was three thousand four hundred miles. Before the telegraph
wire extended from the Ural Mountains to the eastern frontier of Siberia, the
dispatch service was performed by couriers, those who traveled the most rapidly
taking eighteen days to get from Moscow to Irkutsk. But this was the exception,
and the journey through Asiatic Russia usually occupied from four to five
weeks, even though every available means of transport was placed at the
disposal of the Czar’s messengers.
Michael Strogoff was a man who feared neither frost nor snow. He would
have preferred traveling during the severe winter season, in order that he
might perform the whole distance by sleighs. At that period of the year the
difficulties which all other means of locomotion present are greatly
diminished, the wide steppes being leveled by snow, while there are no rivers
to cross, but simply sheets of glass, over which the sleigh glides rapidly and
easily.
Perhaps certain natural phenomena are most to be feared at that time,
such as long-continuing and dense fogs, excessive cold, fearfully heavy
snow-storms, which sometimes envelop whole caravans and cause their
destruction. Hungry wolves also roam over the plain in thousands. But it would
have been better for Michael Strogoff to face these risks; for during the
winter the Tartar invaders would have been stationed in the towns, any movement
of their troops would have been impracticable, and he could consequently have
more easily performed his journey. But it was not in his power to choose either
weather or time. Whatever the circumstances, he must accept them and set out.
Such were the difficulties which Michael Strogoff boldly confronted and
prepared to encounter.
In the first place, he must not travel as a courier of the Czar usually
would. No one must even suspect what he really was. Spies swarm in a rebellious
country; let him be recognized, and his mission would be in danger. Also, while
supplying him with a large sum of money, which was sufficient for his journey,
and would facilitate it in some measure, General Kissoff had not given him any
document notifying that he was on the Emperor’s service, which is the
Sesame par excellence. He contented himself with furnishing him with a
“podorojna.”
This podorojna was made out in the name of Nicholas Korpanoff, merchant,
living at Irkutsk. It authorized Nicholas Korpanoff to be accompanied by one or
more persons, and, moreover, it was, by special notification, made available in
the event of the Muscovite government forbidding natives of any other countries
to leave Russia.
The podorojna is simply a permission to take post-horses; but Michael
Strogoff was not to use it unless he was sure that by so doing he would not
excite suspicion as to his mission, that is to say, whilst he was on European
territory. The consequence was that in Siberia, whilst traversing the insurgent
provinces, he would have no power over the relays, either in the choice of
horses in preference to others, or in demanding conveyances for his personal
use; neither was Michael Strogoff to forget that he was no longer a courier,
but a plain merchant, Nicholas Korpanoff, traveling from Moscow to Irkutsk,
and, as such exposed to all the impediments of an ordinary journey.
To pass unknown, more or less rapidly, but to pass somehow, such were
the directions he had received.
Thirty years previously, the escort of a traveler of rank consisted of not
less than two hundred mounted Cossacks, two hundred foot-soldiers, twenty-five
Baskir horsemen, three hundred camels, four hundred horses, twenty-five wagons,
two portable boats, and two pieces of cannon. All this was requisite for a
journey in Siberia.
Michael Strogoff, however, had neither cannon, nor horsemen, nor
foot-soldiers, nor beasts of burden. He would travel in a carriage or on
horseback, when he could; on foot, when he could not.
There would be no difficulty in getting over the first thousand miles,
the distance between Moscow and the Russian frontier. Railroads,
post-carriages, steamboats, relays of horses, were at everyone’s
disposal, and consequently at the disposal of the courier of the Czar.
Accordingly, on the morning of the 16th of July, having doffed his
uniform, with a knapsack on his back, dressed in the simple Russian
costume—tightly-fitting tunic, the traditional belt of the Moujik, wide
trousers, gartered at the knees, and high boots— Michael Strogoff arrived
at the station in time for the first train. He carried no arms, openly at
least, but under his belt was hidden a revolver and in his pocket, one of those
large knives, resembling both a cutlass and a yataghan, with which a Siberian
hunter can so neatly disembowel a bear, without injuring its precious fur.
A crowd of travelers had collected at the Moscow station. The stations
on the Russian railroads are much used as places for meeting, not only by those
who are about to proceed by the train, but by friends who come to see them off.
The station resembles, from the variety of characters assembled, a small news
exchange.
The train in which Michael took his place was to set him down at
Nijni-Novgorod. There terminated at that time, the iron road which, uniting
Moscow and St. Petersburg, has since been continued to the Russian frontier. It
was a journey of under three hundred miles, and the train would accomplish it
in ten hours. Once arrived at Nijni-Novgorod, Strogoff would either take the
land route or the steamer on the Volga, so as to reach the Ural Mountains as
soon as possible.
Michael Strogoff ensconced himself in his corner, like a worthy citizen
whose affairs go well with him, and who endeavors to kill time by sleep. Nevertheless,
as he was not alone in his compartment, he slept with one eye open, and
listened with both his ears.
In fact, rumor of the rising of the Kirghiz hordes, and of the Tartar
invasion had transpired in some degree. The occupants of the carriage, whom
chance had made his traveling companions, discussed the subject, though with
that caution which has become habitual among Russians, who know that spies are
ever on the watch for any treasonable expressions which may be uttered.
These travelers, as well as the large number of persons in the train,
were merchants on their way to the celebrated fair of Nijni-Novgorod;—a
very mixed assembly, composed of Jews, Turks, Cossacks, Russians, Georgians,
Kalmucks, and others, but nearly all speaking the national tongue.
They discussed the pros and cons of the serious events which were taking
place beyond the Ural, and those merchants seemed to fear lest the government
should be led to take certain restrictive measures, especially in the provinces
bordering on the frontier—measures from which trade would certainly suffer.
They apparently thought only of the struggle from the single point of view of
their threatened interests. The presence of a private soldier, clad in his
uniform—and the importance of a uniform in Russia is great—would
have certainly been enough to restrain the merchants’ tongues. But in the
compartment occupied by Michael Strogoff, there was no one who seemed a
military man, and the Czar’s courier was not the person to betray
himself. He listened, then.
“They say that caravan teas are up,” remarked a Persian,
known by his cap of Astrakhan fur, and his ample brown robe, worn threadbare by
use.
“Oh, there’s no fear of teas falling,” answered an old
Jew of sullen aspect. “Those in the market at Nijni-Novgorod will be
easily cleared off by the West; but, unfortunately, it won’t be the same
with Bokhara carpets.”
“What! are you expecting goods from Bokhara?” asked the
Persian.
“No, but from Samarcand, and that is even more exposed. The idea
of reckoning on the exports of a country in which the khans are in a state of
revolt from Khiva to the Chinese frontier!”
“Well,” replied the Persian, “if the carpets do not
arrive, the drafts will not arrive either, I suppose.”
“And the profits, Father Abraham!” exclaimed the little Jew,
“do you reckon them as nothing?”
“You are right,” said another; “goods from Central
Asia run a great risk in the market, and it will be the same with the tallow
and shawls from the East.”
“Why, look out, little father,” said a Russian traveler, in
a bantering tone; “you’ll grease your shawls terribly if you mix
them up with your tallow.”
“That amuses you,” sharply answered the merchant, who had
little relish for that sort of joke.
“Well, if you tear your hair, or if you throw ashes on your
head,” replied the traveler, “will that change the course of
events? No; no more than the course of the Exchange.”
“One can easily see that you are not a merchant,” observed
the little Jew.
“Faith, no, worthy son of Abraham! I sell neither hops, nor
eider-down, nor honey, nor wax, nor hemp-seed, nor salt meat, nor caviare, nor
wood, nor wool, nor ribbons, nor, hemp, nor flax, nor morocco, nor furs.”
“But do you buy them?” asked the Persian, interrupting the
traveler’s list.
“As little as I can, and only for my own private use,”
answered the other, with a wink.
“He’s a wag,” said the Jew to the Persian.
“Or a spy,” replied the other, lowering his voice. “We
had better take care, and not speak more than necessary. The police are not
over-particular in these times, and you never can know with whom you are
traveling.”
In another corner of the compartment they were speaking less of
mercantile affairs, and more of the Tartar invasion and its annoying
consequences.
“All the horses in Siberia will be requisitioned,” said a
traveler, “and communication between the different provinces of Central
Asia will become very difficult.”
“Is it true,” asked his neighbor, “that the Kirghiz of
the middle horde have joined the Tartars?”
“So it is said,” answered the traveler, lowering his voice;
“but who can flatter themselves that they know anything really of what is
going on in this country?”
“I have heard speak of a concentration of troops on the frontier. The
Don Cossacks have already gathered along the course of the Volga, and they are
to be opposed to the rebel Kirghiz.”
“If the Kirghiz descend the Irtish, the route to Irkutsk will not
be safe,” observed his neighbor. “Besides, yesterday I wanted to
send a telegram to Krasnoiarsk, and it could not be forwarded. It’s to be
feared that before long the Tartar columns will have isolated Eastern
Siberia.”
“In short, little father,” continued the first speaker,
“these merchants have good reason for being uneasy about their trade and
transactions. After requisitioning the horses, they will take the boats,
carriages, every means of transport, until presently no one will be allowed to
take even one step in all the empire.”
“I’m much afraid that the Nijni-Novgorod fair won’t
end as brilliantly as it has begun,” responded the other, shaking his
head. “But the safety and integrity of the Russian territory before
everything. Business is business.”
If in this compartment the subject of conversation varied but
little— nor did it, indeed, in the other carriages of the train—in
all it might have been observed that the talkers used much circumspection. When
they did happen to venture out of the region of facts, they never went so far
as to attempt to divine the intentions of the Muscovite government, or even to
criticize them.
This was especially remarked by a traveler in a carriage at the front
part of the train. This person—evidently a stranger— made good use
of his eyes, and asked numberless questions, to which he received only evasive
answers. Every minute leaning out of the window, which he would keep down, to
the great disgust of his fellow-travelers, he lost nothing of the views to the
right. He inquired the names of the most insignificant places, their position,
what were their commerce, their manufactures, the number of their inhabitants,
the average mortality, etc., and all this he wrote down in a note-book, already
full.
This was the correspondent Alcide Jolivet, and the reason of his putting
so many insignificant questions was, that amongst the many answers he received,
he hoped to find some interesting fact “for his cousin.” But,
naturally enough, he was taken for a spy, and not a word treating of the events
of the day was uttered in his hearing.
Finding, therefore, that he could learn nothing of the Tartar invasion,
he wrote in his book, “Travelers of great discretion. Very close as to
political matters.”
Whilst Alcide Jolivet noted down his impressions thus minutely, his
confrere, in the same train, traveling for the same object, was devoting
himself to the same work of observation in another compartment. Neither of them
had seen each other that day at the Moscow station, and they were each ignorant
that the other had set out to visit the scene of the war. Harry Blount,
speaking little, but listening much, had not inspired his companions with the
suspicions which Alcide Jolivet had aroused. He was not taken for a spy, and
therefore his neighbors, without constraint, gossiped in his presence, allowing
themselves even to go farther than their natural caution would in most cases
have allowed them. The correspondent of the Daily Telegraph had thus an opportunity
of observing how much recent events preoccupied the merchants of
Nijni-Novgorod, and to what a degree the commerce with Central Asia was
threatened in its transit.
He therefore noted in his book this perfectly correct observation,
“My fellow-travelers extremely anxious. Nothing is talked of but war, and
they speak of it, with a freedom which is astonishing, as having broken out
between the Volga and the Vistula.”
The readers of the Daily Telegraph would not fail to be as well informed
as Alcide Jolivet’s “cousin.” But as Harry Blount, seated at
the left of the train, only saw one part of the country, which was hilly,
without giving himself the trouble of looking at the right side, which was
composed of wide plains, he added, with British assurance, “Country
mountainous between Moscow and Wladimir.”
It was evident that the Russian government purposed taking severe
measures to guard against any serious eventualities even in the interior of the
empire. The rebel lion had not crossed the Siberian frontier, but evil
influences might be feared in the Volga provinces, so near to the country of
the Kirghiz.
The police had as yet found no traces of Ivan Ogareff. It was not known
whether the traitor, calling in the foreigner to avenge his personal rancor,
had rejoined Feofar-Khan, or whether he was endeavoring to foment a revolt in
the government of Nijni-Novgorod, which at this time of year contained a
population of such diverse elements. Perhaps among the Persians, Armenians, or
Kalmucks, who flocked to the great market, he had agents, instructed to provoke
a rising in the interior. All this was possible, especially in such a country
as Russia. In fact, this vast empire, 4,000,000 square miles in extent, does
not possess the homogeneousness of the states of Western Europe. The Russian
territory in Europe and Asia contains more than seventy millions of
inhabitants. In it thirty different languages are spoken. The Sclavonian race
predominates, no doubt, but there are besides Russians, Poles, Lithuanians,
Courlanders. Add to these, Finns, Laplanders, Esthonians, several other
northern tribes with unpronounceable names, the Permiaks, the Germans, the
Greeks, the Tartars, the Caucasian tribes, the Mongol, Kalmuck, Samoid,
Kamtschatkan, and Aleutian hordes, and one may understand that the unity of so
vast a state must be difficult to maintain, and that it could only be the work
of time, aided by the wisdom of many successive rulers.
Be that as it may, Ivan Ogareff had hitherto managed to escape all
search, and very probably he might have rejoined the Tartar army. But at every
station where the train stopped, inspectors came forward who scrutinized the
travelers and subjected them all to a minute examination, as by order of the
superintendent of police, these officials were seeking Ivan Ogareff. The
government, in fact, believed it to be certain that the traitor had not yet
been able to quit European Russia. If there appeared cause to suspect any
traveler, he was carried off to explain himself at the police station, and in
the meantime the train went on its way, no person troubling himself about the
unfortunate one left behind.
With the Russian police, which is very arbitrary, it is absolutely
useless to argue. Military rank is conferred on its employees, and they act in military
fashion. How can anyone, moreover, help obeying, unhesitatingly, orders which
emanate from a monarch who has the right to employ this formula at the head of
his ukase: “We, by the grace of God, Emperor and Autocrat of all the
Russias of Moscow, Kiev, Wladimir, and Novgorod, Czar of Kasan and Astrakhan,
Czar of Poland, Czar of Siberia, Czar of the Tauric Chersonese, Seignior of
Pskov, Prince of Smolensk, Lithuania, Volkynia, Podolia, and Finland, Prince of
Esthonia, Livonia, Courland, and of Semigallia, of Bialystok, Karelia, Sougria,
Perm, Viatka, Bulgaria, and many other countries; Lord and Sovereign Prince of
the territory of Nijni-Novgorod, Tchemigoff, Riazan, Polotsk, Rostov,
Jaroslavl, Bielozersk, Oudoria, Obdoria, Kondinia, Vitepsk, and of Mstislaf,
Governor of the Hyperborean Regions, Lord of the countries of Iveria,
Kartalinia, Grou-zinia, Kabardinia, and Armenia, Hereditary Lord and Suzerain
of the Scherkess princes, of those of the mountains, and of others; heir of
Norway, Duke of Schleswig-Holstein, Stormarn, Dittmarsen, and Oldenburg.”
A powerful lord, in truth, is he whose arms are an eagle with two heads,
holding a scepter and a globe, surrounded by the escutcheons of Novgorod,
Wladimir, Kiev, Kasan, Astrakhan, and of Siberia, and environed by the collar
of the order of St. Andrew, surmounted by a royal crown!
As to Michael Strogoff, his papers were in order, and he was,
consequently, free from all police supervision.
At the station of Wladimir the train stopped for several minutes, which
appeared sufficient to enable the correspondent of the Daily Telegraph to take
a twofold view, physical and moral, and to form a complete estimate of this
ancient capital of Russia.
At the Wladimir station fresh travelers joined the train. Among others,
a young girl entered the compartment occupied by Michael Strogoff. A vacant
place was found opposite the courier. The young girl took it, after placing by
her side a modest traveling-bag of red leather, which seemed to constitute all
her luggage. Then seating herself with downcast eyes, not even glancing at the
fellow-travelers whom chance had given her, she prepared for a journey which
was still to last several hours.
Michael Strogoff could not help looking attentively at his newly-arrived
fellow-traveler. As she was so placed as to travel with her back to the engine,
he even offered her his seat, which he might prefer to her own, but she thanked
him with a slight bend of her graceful neck.
The young girl appeared to be about sixteen or seventeen years of age. Her
head, truly charming, was of the purest Sclavonic type— slightly severe,
and likely in a few summers to unfold into beauty rather than mere prettiness. From
beneath a sort of kerchief which she wore on her head escaped in profusion
light golden hair. Her eyes were brown, soft, and expressive of much sweetness
of temper. The nose was straight, and attached to her pale and somewhat thin
cheeks by delicately mobile nostrils. The lips were finely cut, but it seemed
as if they had long since forgotten how to smile.
The young traveler was tall and upright, as far as could be judged of
her figure from the very simple and ample pelisse that covered her. Although
she was still a very young girl in the literal sense of the term, the
development of her high forehead and clearly-cut features gave the idea that
she was the possessor of great moral energy— a point which did not escape
Michael Strogoff. Evidently this young girl had already suffered in the past,
and the future doubtless did not present itself to her in glowing colors; but
she had surely known how to struggle still with the trials of life. Her energy
was evidently both prompt and persistent, and her calmness unalterable, even
under circumstances in which a man would be likely to give way or lose his self-command.
Such was the impression which she produced at first sight. Michael
Strogoff, being himself of an energetic temperament, was naturally struck by
the character of her physiognomy, and, while taking care not to cause her
annoyance by a too persistent gaze, he observed his neighbor with no small
interest. The costume of the young traveler was both extremely simple and
appropriate. She was not rich—that could be easily seen; but not the
slightest mark of negligence was to be discerned in her dress. All her luggage
was contained in the leather bag which, for want of room, she held on her lap.
She wore a long, dark pelisse, gracefully adjusted at the neck by a blue
tie. Under this pelisse, a short skirt, also dark, fell over a robe which
reached the ankles. Half-boots of leather, thickly soled, as if chosen in
anticipation of a long journey, covered her small feet.
Michael Strogoff fancied that he recognized, by certain details, the
fashion of the costume of Livonia, and thought his neighbor a native of the
Baltic provinces.
But whither was this young girl going, alone, at an age when the
fostering care of a father, or the protection of a brother, is considered a
matter of necessity? Had she now come, after an already long journey, from the
provinces of Western Russia? Was she merely going to Nijni-Novgorod, or was the
end of her travels beyond the eastern frontiers of the empire? Would some
relation, some friend, await her arrival by the train? Or was it not more
probable, on the contrary, that she would find herself as much isolated in the
town as she was in this compartment? It was probable.
In fact, the effect of habits contracted in solitude was clearly
manifested in the bearing of the young girl. The manner in which she entered
the carriage and prepared herself for the journey, the slight disturbance she
caused among those around her, the care she took not to incommode or give
trouble to anyone, all showed that she was accustomed to be alone, and to
depend on herself only.
Michael Strogoff observed her with interest, but, himself reserved, he
sought no opportunity of accosting her. Once only, when her neighbor— the
merchant who had jumbled together so imprudently in his remarks tallow and
shawls—being asleep, and threatening her with his great head, which was
swaying from one shoulder to the other, Michael Strogoff awoke him somewhat
roughly, and made him understand that he must hold himself upright.
The merchant, rude enough by nature, grumbled some words against
“people who interfere with what does not concern them,” but Michael
Strogoff cast on him a glance so stern that the sleeper leant on the opposite
side, and relieved the young traveler from his unpleasant vicinity.
The latter looked at the young man for an instant, and mute and modest
thanks were in that look.
But a circumstance occurred which gave Strogoff a just idea of the
character of the maiden. Twelve versts before arriving at Nijni-Novgorod, at a
sharp curve of the iron way, the train experienced a very violent shock. Then,
for a minute, it ran onto the slope of an embankment.
Travelers more or less shaken about, cries, confusion, general disorder
in the carriages—such was the effect at first produced. It was to be
feared that some serious accident had happened. Consequently, even before the
train had stopped, the doors were opened, and the panic-stricken passengers
thought only of getting out of the carriages.
Michael Strogoff thought instantly of the young girl; but, while the
passengers in her compartment were precipitating themselves outside, screaming
and struggling, she had remained quietly in her place, her face scarcely
changed by a slight pallor.
She waited—Michael Strogoff waited also.
Both remained quiet.
“A determined nature!” thought Michael Strogoff.
However, all danger had quickly disappeared. A breakage of the coupling
of the luggage-van had first caused the shock to, and then the stoppage of, the
train, which in another instant would have been thrown from the top of the
embankment into a bog. There was an hour’s delay. At last, the road being
cleared, the train proceeded, and at half-past eight in the evening arrived at
the station of Nijni-Novgorod.
Before anyone could get out of the carriages, the inspectors of police
presented themselves at the doors and examined the passengers.
Michael Strogoff showed his podorojna, made out in the name of Nicholas
Korpanoff. He had consequently no difficulty. As to the other travelers in the
compartment, all bound for Nijni-Novgorod, their appearance, happily for them,
was in nowise suspicious.
The young girl in her turn, exhibited, not a passport, since passports
are no longer required in Russia, but a permit indorsed with a private seal,
and which seemed to be of a special character. The inspector read the permit
with attention. Then, having attentively examined the person whose description
it contained:
“You are from Riga?” he said.
“Yes,” replied the young girl.
“You are going to Irkutsk?”
“Yes.”
“By what route?”
“By Perm.”
“Good!” replied the inspector. “Take care to have your
permit vised, at the police station of Nijni-Novgorod.”
The young girl bent her head in token of assent.
Hearing these questions and replies, Michael Strogoff experienced a
mingled sentiment both of surprise and pity. What! this young girl, alone,
journeying to that far-off Siberia, and at a time when, to its ordinary
dangers, were added all the perils of an invaded country and one in a state of
insurrection! How would she reach it? What would become of her?
The inspection ended, the doors of the carriages were then opened, but,
before Michael Strogoff could move towards her, the young Livonian, who had
been the first to descend, had disappeared in the crowd which thronged the
platforms of the railway station.
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