produced by the carrying out of the prescribed measures had now reached
its height. Recriminations from the banished strangers, shouts from the
agents and Cossacks who were using them so brutally, together made an
indescribable uproar. The girl for whom he searched could not be there.
It was now nine o’clock in the morning. The steamboat did not start till
twelve. Michael Strogoff had therefore nearly two hours to employ in
searching for her whom he wished to make his traveling companion.
He crossed the Volga again and hunted through the quarters on the
other side, where the crowd was much less considerable. He entered
the churches, the natural refuge for all who weep, for all who suffer.
Nowhere did he meet with the young Livonian.
“And yet,” he repeated, “she could not have left Nijni-Novgorod yet.
We’ll have another look.” He wandered about thus for two hours. He went
on without stopping, feeling no fatigue, obeying a potent instinct which
allowed no room for thought. All was in vain.
It then occurred to him that perhaps the girl had not heard of the
order--though this was improbable enough, for such a thunder-clap could
not have burst without being heard by all. Evidently interested in
knowing the smallest news from Siberia, how could she be ignorant of
the measures taken by the governor, measures which concerned her so
directly?
But, if she was ignorant of it, she would come in an hour to the quay,
and there some merciless agent would refuse her a passage! At any cost,
he must see her beforehand, and enable her to avoid such a repulse.
But all his endeavors were in vain, and he at length almost despaired
of finding her again. It was eleven o’clock, and Michael thought of
presenting his podorojna at the office of the head of police. The
proclamation evidently did not concern him, since the emergency had been
foreseen for him, but he wished to make sure that nothing would hinder
his departure from the town.
Michael then returned to the other side of the Volga, to the quarter
in which was the office of the head of police. An immense crowd was
collected there; for though all foreigners were ordered to quit the
province, they had notwithstanding to go through certain forms before
they could depart.
Without this precaution, some Russian more or less implicated in
the Tartar movement would have been able, in a disguise, to pass
the frontier--just those whom the order wished to prevent going. The
strangers were sent away, but still had to gain permission to go.
Mountebanks, gypsies, Tsiganes, Zingaris, mingled with merchants from
Persia, Turkey, India, Turkestan, China, filled the court and offices of
the police station.
Everyone was in a hurry, for the means of transport would be much sought
after among this crowd of banished people, and those who did not set
about it soon ran a great risk of not being able to leave the town in
the prescribed time, which would expose them to some brutal treatment
from the governor’s agents.
Owing to the strength of his elbows Michael was able to cross the court.
But to get into the office and up to the clerk’s little window was a
much more difficult business. However, a word into an inspector’s ear
and a few judiciously given roubles were powerful enough to gain him a
passage. The man, after taking him into the waiting-room, went to call
an upper clerk. Michael Strogoff would not be long in making everything
right with the police and being free in his movements.
Whilst waiting, he looked about him, and what did he see? There, fallen,
rather than seated, on a bench, was a girl, prey to a silent despair,
although her face could scarcely be seen, the profile alone being
visible against the wall. Michael Strogoff could not be mistaken. He
instantly recognized the young Livonian.
Not knowing the governor’s orders, she had come to the police office
to get her pass signed. They had refused to sign it. No doubt she was
authorized to go to Irkutsk, but the order was peremptory--it annulled
all previous au-thorizations, and the routes to Siberia were closed to
her. Michael, delighted at having found her again, approached the girl.
She looked up for a moment and her face brightened on recognizing her
traveling companion. She instinctively rose and, like a drowning man who
clutches at a spar, she was about to ask his help.
At that moment the agent touched Michael on the shoulder, “The head of
police will see you,” he said.
“Good,” returned Michael. And without saying a word to her for whom he
had been searching all day, without reassuring her by even a gesture,
which might compromise either her or himself, he followed the man.
The young Livonian, seeing the only being to whom she could look for
help disappear, fell back again on her bench.
Three minutes had not passed before Michael Strogoff reappeared,
accompanied by the agent. In his hand he held his podorojna, which
threw open the roads to Siberia for him. He again approached the young
Livonian, and holding out his hand: “Sister,” said he.
She understood. She rose as if some sudden inspiration prevented her
from hesitating a moment.
“Sister,” repeated Michael Strogoff, “we are authorized to continue our
journey to Irkutsk. Will you come with me?”
“I will follow you, brother,” replied the girl, putting her hand into
that of Michael Strogoff. And together they left the police station.
CHAPTER VII GOING DOWN THE VOLGA
A LITTLE before midday, the steamboat’s bell drew to the wharf on the
Volga an unusually large concourse of people, for not only were those
about to embark who had intended to go, but the many who were compelled
to go contrary to their wishes. The boilers of the Caucasus were under
full pressure; a slight smoke issued from its funnel, whilst the end
of the escape-pipe and the lids of the valves were crowned with white
vapor. It is needless to say that the police kept a close watch over
the departure of the Caucasus, and showed themselves pitiless to those
travelers who did not satisfactorily answer their questions.
Numerous Cossacks came and went on the quay, ready to assist the agents,
but they had not to interfere, as no one ventured to offer the slightest
resistance to their orders. Exactly at the hour the last clang of the
bell sounded, the powerful wheels of the steamboat began to beat the
water, and the Caucasus passed rapidly between the two towns of which
Nijni-Novgorod is composed.
Michael Strogoff and the young Livonian had taken a passage on board
the Caucasus. Their embarkation was made without any difficulty. As
is known, the podorojna, drawn up in the name of Nicholas Korpanoff,
authorized this merchant to be accompanied on his journey to Siberia.
They appeared, therefore, to be a brother and sister traveling under the
protection of the imperial police. Both, seated together at the stern,
gazed at the receding town, so disturbed by the governor’s order.
Michael had as yet said nothing to the girl, he had not even questioned
her. He waited until she should speak to him, when that was necessary.
She had been anxious to leave that town, in which, but for the
providential intervention of this unexpected protector, she would have
remained imprisoned. She said nothing, but her looks spoke her thanks.
The Volga, the Rha of the ancients, the largest river in all Europe, is
almost three thousand miles in length. Its waters, rather unwholesome
in its upper part, are improved at Nijni-Novgorod by those of the Oka, a
rapid affluent, issuing from the central provinces of Russia. The system
of Russian canals and rivers has been justly compared to a gigantic tree
whose branches spread over every part of the empire. The Volga forms the
trunk of this tree, and it has for roots seventy mouths opening into the
Caspian Sea. It is navigable as far as Rjef, a town in the government of
Tver, that is, along the greater part of its course.
The steamboats plying between Perm and Nijni-Novgorod rapidly perform
the two hundred and fifty miles which separate this town from the town
of Kasan. It is true that these boats have only to descend the Volga,
which adds nearly two miles of current per hour to their own speed; but
on arriving at the confluence of the Kama, a little below Kasan, they
are obliged to quit the Volga for the smaller river, up which they
ascend to Perm. Powerful as were her machines, the Caucasus could not
thus, after entering the Kama, make against the current more than ten
miles an hour. Including an hour’s stoppage at Kasan, the voyage from
Nijni-Novgorod to Perm would take from between sixty to sixty-two hours.
The steamer was very well arranged, and the passengers, according to
their condition or resources, occupied three distinct classes on board.
Michael Strogoff had taken care to engage two first-class cabins, so
that his young companion might retire into hers whenever she liked.
The Caucasus was loaded with passengers of every description. A
number of Asiatic traders had thought it best to leave Nijni-Novgorod
immediately. In that part of the steamer reserved for the first-class
might be seen Armenians in long robes and a sort of miter on their
heads; Jews, known by their conical caps; rich Chinese in their
traditional costume, a very wide blue, violet, or black robe; Turks,
wearing the national turban; Hindoos, with square caps, and a simple
string for a girdle, some of whom, hold in their hands all the traffic
of Central Asia; and, lastly, Tartars, wearing boots, ornamented with
many-colored braid, and the breast a mass of embroidery. All these
merchants had been obliged to pile up their numerous bales and chests in
the hold and on the deck; and the transport of their baggage would cost
them dear, for, according to the regulations, each person had only a
right to twenty pounds’ weight.
In the bows of the Caucasus were more numerous groups of passengers, not
only foreigners, but also Russians, who were not forbidden by the order
to go back to their towns in the province. There were mujiks with caps
on their heads, and wearing checked shirts under their wide pelisses;
peasants of the Volga, with blue trousers stuffed into their boots,
rose-colored cotton shirts, drawn in by a cord, felt caps; a few women,
habited in flowery-patterned cotton dresses, gay-colored aprons, and
bright handkerchiefs on their heads. These were principally third-class
passengers, who were, happily, not troubled by the prospect of a long
return voyage. The Caucasus passed numerous boats being towed up the
stream, carrying all sorts of merchandise to Nijni-Novgorod. Then passed
rafts of wood interminably long, and barges loaded to the gunwale, and
nearly sinking under water. A bootless voyage they were making, since
the fair had been abruptly broken up at its outset.
The waves caused by the steamer splashed on the banks, covered with
flocks of wild duck, who flew away uttering deafening cries. A little
farther, on the dry fields, bordered with willows, and aspens, were
scattered a few cows, sheep, and herds of pigs. Fields, sown with thin
buckwheat and rye, stretched away to a background of half-cultivated
hills, offering no remarkable prospect. The pencil of an artist in
quest of the picturesque would have found nothing to reproduce in this
monotonous landscape.
The Caucasus had been steaming on for almost two hours, when the
young Livonian, addressing herself to Michael, said, “Are you going to
Irkutsk, brother?”
“Yes, sister,” answered the young man. “We are going the same way.
Consequently, where I go, you shall go.”
“To-morrow, brother, you shall know why I left the shores of the Baltic
to go beyond the Ural Mountains.”
“I ask you nothing, sister.”
“You shall know all,” replied the girl, with a faint smile. “A sister
should hide nothing from her brother. But I cannot to-day. Fatigue and
sorrow have broken me.”
“Will you go and rest in your cabin?” asked Michael Strogoff.
“Yes--yes; and to-morrow--”
“Come then--”
He hesitated to finish his sentence, as if he had wished to end it by
the name of his companion, of which he was still ignorant.
“Nadia,” said she, holding out her hand.
“Come, Nadia,” answered Michael, “and make what use you like of your
brother Nicholas Korpanoff.” And he led the girl to the cabin engaged
for her off the saloon.
Michael Strogoff returned on deck, and eager for any news which might
bear on his journey, he mingled in the groups of passengers, though
without taking any part in the conversation. Should he by any chance
be questioned, and obliged to reply, he would announce himself as the
merchant Nicholas Korpanoff, going back to the frontier, for he did
not wish it to be suspected that a special permission authorized him to
travel to Siberia.
The foreigners in the steamer could evidently speak of nothing but the
occurrences of the day, of the order and its consequences. These poor
people, scarcely recovered from the fatigue of a journey across Central
Asia, found themselves obliged to return, and if they did not give loud
vent to their anger and despair, it was because they dared not. Fear,
mingled with respect, restrained them. It was possible that inspectors
of police, charged with watching the passengers, had secretly embarked
on board the Caucasus, and it was just as well to keep silence;
expulsion, after all, was a good deal preferable to imprisonment in a
fortress. Therefore the men were either silent, or spoke with so much
caution that it was scarcely possible to get any useful information.
Michael Strogoff thus could learn nothing here; but if mouths were often
shut at his approach--for they did not know him--his ears were soon
struck by the sound of one voice, which cared little whether it was
heard or not.
The man with the hearty voice spoke Russian, but with a French accent;
and another speaker answered him more reservedly. “What,” said the
first, “are you on board this boat, too, my dear fellow; you whom I
met at the imperial fete in Moscow, and just caught a glimpse of at
Nijni-Novgorod?”
“Yes, it’s I,” answered the second drily.
“Really, I didn’t expect to be so closely followed.”
“I am not following you sir; I am preceding you.”
“Precede! precede! Let us march abreast, keeping step, like two soldiers
on parade, and for the time, at least, let us agree, if you will, that
one shall not pass the other.”
“On the contrary, I shall pass you.”
“We shall see that, when we are at the seat of war; but till then,
why, let us be traveling companions. Later, we shall have both time and
occasion to be rivals.”
“Enemies.”
“Enemies, if you like. There is a precision in your words, my dear
fellow, particularly agreeable to me. One may always know what one has
to look for, with you.”
“What is the harm?”
“No harm at all. So, in my turn, I will ask your permission to state our
respective situations.”
“State away.”
“You are going to Perm--like me?”
“Like you.”
“And probably you will go from Perm to Ekaterenburg, since that is the
best and safest route by which to cross the Ural Mountains?”
“Probably.”
“Once past the frontier, we shall be in Siberia, that is to say in the
midst of the invasion.”
“We shall be there.”
“Well! then, and only then, will be the time to say, Each for himself,
and God for--”
“For me.”
“For you, all by yourself! Very well! But since we have a week of
neutral days before us, and since it is very certain that news will not
shower down upon us on the way, let us be friends until we become rivals
again.”
“Enemies.”
“Yes; that’s right, enemies. But till then, let us act together, and not
try and ruin each other. All the same, I promise you to keep to myself
all that I can see--”
“And I, all that I can hear.”
“Is that agreed?”
“It is agreed.”
“Your hand?”
“Here it is.” And the hand of the first speaker, that is to say, five
wide-open fingers, vigorously shook the two fingers coolly extended by
the other.
“By the bye,” said the first, “I was able this morning to telegraph the
very words of the order to my cousin at seventeen minutes past ten.”
“And I sent it to the Daily Telegraph at thirteen minutes past ten.”
“Bravo, Mr. Blount!”
“Very good, M. Jolivet.”
“I will try and match that!”
“It will be difficult.”
“I can try, however.”
So saying, the French correspondent familiarly saluted the Englishman,
who bowed stiffly. The governor’s proclamation did not concern these two
news-hunters, as they were neither Russians nor foreigners of Asiatic
origin. However, being urged by the same instinct, they had left
Nijni-Novgorod together. It was natural that they should take the same
means of transport, and that they should follow the same route to the
Siberian steppes. Traveling companions, whether enemies or friends, they
had a week to pass together before “the hunt would be open.” And then
success to the most expert! Alcide Jolivet had made the first advances,
and Harry Blount had accepted them though he had done so coldly.
That very day at dinner the Frenchman open as ever and even too
loquacious, the Englishman still silent and grave, were seen hobnobbing
at the same table, drinking genuine Cliquot, at six roubles the bottle,
made from the fresh sap of the birch-trees of the country. On hearing
them chatting away together, Michael Strogoff said to himself: “Those
are inquisitive and indiscreet fellows whom I shall probably meet again
on the way. It will be prudent for me to keep them at a distance.”
The young Livonian did not come to dinner. She was asleep in her cabin,
and Michael did not like to awaken her. It was evening before she
reappeared on the deck of the Caucasus. The long twilight imparted a
coolness to the atmosphere eagerly enjoyed by the passengers after the
stifling heat of the day. As the evening advanced, the greater number
never even thought of going into the saloon. Stretched on the benches,
they inhaled with delight the slight breeze caused by the speed of the
steamer. At this time of year, and under this latitude, the sky scarcely
darkened between sunset and dawn, and left the steersman light enough to
guide his steamer among the numerous vessels going up or down the Volga.
Between eleven and two, however, the moon being new, it was almost dark.
Nearly all the passengers were then asleep on the deck, and the silence
was disturbed only by the noise of the paddles striking the water at
regular intervals. Anxiety kept Michael Strogoff awake. He walked up and
down, but always in the stern of the steamer. Once, however, he happened
to pass the engine-room. He then found himself in the part reserved for
second and third-class passengers.
There, everyone was lying asleep, not only on the benches, but also on
the bales, packages, and even the deck itself. Some care was necessary
not to tread on the sleepers, who were lying about everywhere. They were
chiefly mujiks, accustomed to hard couches, and quite satisfied with the
planks of the deck. But no doubt they would, all the same, have soundly
abused the clumsy fellow who roused them with an accidental kick.
Michael Strogoff took care, therefore, not to disturb anyone. By going
thus to the end of the boat, he had no other idea but that of striving
against sleep by a rather longer walk. He reached the forward deck,
and was already climbing the forecastle ladder, when he heard someone
speaking near him. He stopped. The voices appeared to come from a
group of passengers enveloped in cloaks and wraps. It was impossible to
recognize them in the dark, though it sometimes happened that, when the
steamer’s chimney sent forth a plume of ruddy flames, the sparks seemed
to fall amongst the group as though thousands of spangles had been
suddenly illuminated.
Michael was about to step up the ladder, when a few words reached his
ear, uttered in that strange tongue which he had heard during the night
at the fair. Instinctively he stopped to listen. Protected by the shadow
of the forecastle, he could not be perceived himself. As to seeing
the passengers who were talking, that was impossible. He must confine
himself to listening.
The first words exchanged were of no importance--to him at least--but
they allowed him to recognize the voices of the man and woman whom he
had heard at Nijni-Novgorod. This, of course, made him redouble his
attention. It was, indeed, not at all impossible that these same
Tsiganes, now banished, should be on board the Caucasus.
And it was well for him that he listened, for he distinctly heard this
question and answer made in the Tartar idiom: “It is said that a courier
has set out from Moscow for Irkutsk.”
“It is so said, Sangarre; but either this courier will arrive too late,
or he will not arrive at all.”
Michael Strogoff started involuntarily at this reply, which concerned
him so directly. He tried to see if the man and woman who had just
spoken were really those whom he suspected, but he could not succeed.
In a few moments Michael Strogoff had regained the stern of the vessel
without having been perceived, and, taking a seat by himself, he buried
his face in his hands. It might have been supposed that he was asleep.
He was not asleep, however, and did not even think of sleeping. He was
reflecting, not without a lively apprehension: “Who is it knows of my
departure, and who can have any interest in knowing it?”
CHAPTER VIII GOING UP THE KAMA
THE next day, the 18th of July, at twenty minutes to seven in the
morning, the Caucasus reached the Kasan quay, seven versts from the
town.
Kasan is situated at the confluence of the Volga and Kasanka. It is an
important chief town of the government, and a Greek archbishopric, as
well as the seat of a university. The varied population preserves an
Asiatic character. Although the town was so far from the landing-place,
a large crowd was collected on the quay. They had come for news. The
governor of the province had published an order identical with that of
Nijni-Novgorod. Police officers and a few Cossacks kept order among the
crowd, and cleared the way both for the passengers who were disembarking
and also for those who were embarking on board the Caucasus, minutely
examining both classes of travelers. The one were the Asiatics who were
being expelled; the other, mujiks stopping at Kasan.
Michael Strogoff unconcernedly watched the bustle which occurs at all
quays on the arrival of a steam vessel. The Caucasus would stay for an
hour to renew her fuel. Michael did not even think of landing. He was
unwilling to leave the young Livonian girl alone on board, as she had
not yet reappeared on deck.
The two journalists had risen at dawn, as all good huntsmen should do.
They went on shore and mingled with the crowd, each keeping to his own
peculiar mode of proceeding; Harry Blount, sketching different types, or
noting some observation; Alcide Jolivet contenting himself with asking
questions, confiding in his memory, which never failed him.
There was a report along all the frontier that the insurrection and
invasion had reached considerable proportions. Communication between
Siberia and the empire was already extremely difficult. All this Michael
Strogoff heard from the new arrivals. This information could not but
cause him great uneasiness, and increase his wish of being beyond the
Ural Mountains, so as to judge for himself of the truth of these
rumors, and enable him to guard against any possible contingency. He was
thinking of seeking more direct intelligence from some native of Kasan,
when his attention was suddenly diverted.
Among the passengers who were leaving the Caucasus, Michael recognized
the troop of Tsiganes who, the day before, had appeared in the
Nijni-Novgorod fair. There, on the deck of the steamboat were the old
Bohemian and the woman. With them, and no doubt under their direction,
landed about twenty dancers and singers, from fifteen to twenty years of
age, wrapped in old cloaks, which covered their spangled dresses. These
dresses, just then glancing in the first rays of the sun, reminded
Michael of the curious appearance which he had observed during the
night. It must have been the glitter of those spangles in the bright
flames issuing from the steamboat’s funnel which had attracted his
attention.
“Evidently,” said Michael to himself, “this troop of Tsiganes, after
remaining below all day, crouched under the forecastle during the night.
Were these gipsies trying to show themselves as little as possible? Such
is not according to the usual custom of their race.”
Michael Strogoff no longer doubted that the expressions he had heard,
had proceeded from this tawny group, and had been exchanged between the
old gypsy and the woman to whom he gave the Mongolian name of Sangarre.
Michael involuntarily moved towards the gangway, as the Bohemian troop
was leaving the steamboat.
The old Bohemian was there, in a humble attitude, little conformable
with the effrontery natural to his race. One would have said that he was
endeavoring rather to avoid attention than to attract it. His battered
hat, browned by the suns of every clime, was pulled forward over his
wrinkled face. His arched back was bent under an old cloak, wrapped
closely round him, notwithstanding the heat. It would have been
difficult, in this miserable dress, to judge of either his size or face.
Near him was the Tsigane, Sangarre, a woman about thirty years old. She
was tall and well made, with olive complexion, magnificent eyes, and
golden hair.
Many of the young dancers were remarkably pretty, all possessing the
clear-cut features of their race. These Tsiganes are generally very
attractive, and more than one of the great Russian nobles, who try to
vie with the English in eccentricity, has not hesitated to choose his
wife from among these gypsy girls. One of them was humming a song of
strange rhythm, which might be thus rendered:
“Glitters brightly the gold
In my raven locks streaming
Rich coral around
My graceful neck gleaming;
Like a bird of the air,
Through the wide world I roam.”
The laughing girl continued her song, but Michael Strogoff ceased
to listen. It struck him just then that the Tsigane, Sangarre, was
regarding him with a peculiar gaze, as if to fix his features indelibly
in her memory.
It was but for a few moments, when Sangarre herself followed the old man
and his troop, who had already left the vessel. “That’s a bold gypsy,”
said Michael to himself. “Could she have recognized me as the man whom
she saw at Nijni-Novgorod? These confounded Tsiganes have the eyes of a
cat! They can see in the dark; and that woman there might well know--”
Michael Strogoff was on the point of following Sangarre and the gypsy
band, but he stopped. “No,” thought he, “no unguarded proceedings. If
I were to stop that old fortune teller and his companions my incognito
would run a risk of being discovered. Besides, now they have landed,
before they can pass the frontier I shall be far beyond it. They may
take the route from Kasan to Ishim, but that affords no resources to
travelers. Besides a tarantass, drawn by good Siberian horses, will
always go faster than a gypsy cart! Come, friend Korpanoff, be easy.”
By this time the man and Sangarre had disappeared.
Kasan is justly called the “Gate of Asia” and considered as the center
of Siberian and Bokharian commerce; for two roads begin here and lead
across the Ural Mountains. Michael Strogoff had very judiciously chosen
the one by Perm and Ekaterenburg. It is the great stage road, well
supplied with relays kept at the expense of the government, and is
prolonged from Ishim to Irkutsk.
It is true that a second route--the one of which Michael had just
spoken--avoiding the slight detour by Perm, also connects Kasan with
Ishim. It is perhaps shorter than the other, but this advantage is much
diminished by the absence of post-houses, the bad roads, and lack of
villages. Michael Strogoff was right in the choice he had made, and if,
as appeared probable, the gipsies should follow the second route from
Kasan to Ishim, he had every chance of arriving before them.
An hour afterwards the bell rang on board the Caucasus, calling the new
passengers, and recalling the former ones. It was now seven o’clock in
the morning. The requisite fuel had been received on board. The whole
vessel began to vibrate from the effects of the steam. She was ready to
start. Passengers going from Kasan to Perm were crowding on the deck.
Michael noticed that of the two reporters Blount alone had rejoined the
steamer. Was Alcide Jolivet about to miss his passage?
But just as the ropes were being cast off, Jolivet appeared, tearing
along. The steamer was already sheering off, the gangway had been drawn
onto the quay, but Alcide Jolivet would not stick at such a little thing
as that, so, with a bound like a harlequin, he alighted on the deck of
the Caucasus almost in his rival’s arms.
“I thought the Caucasus was going without you,” said the latter.
“Bah!” answered Jolivet, “I should soon have caught you up again, by
chartering a boat at my cousin’s expense, or by traveling post at twenty
copecks a verst, and on horseback. What could I do? It was so long a way
from the quay to the telegraph office.”
“Have you been to the telegraph office?” asked Harry Blount, biting his
lips.
“That’s exactly where I have been!” answered Jolivet, with his most
amiable smile.
“And is it still working to Kolyvan?”
“That I don’t know, but I can assure you, for instance, that it is
working from Kasan to Paris.”
“You sent a dispatch to your cousin?”
“With enthusiasm.”
“You had learnt then--?”
“Look here, little father, as the Russians say,” replied Alcide Jolivet,
“I’m a good fellow, and I don’t wish to keep anything from you. The
Tartars, and Feofar-Khan at their head, have passed Semipolatinsk, and
are descending the Irtish. Do what you like with that!”
What! such important news, and Harry Blount had not known it; and his
rival, who had probably learned it from some inhabitant of Kasan, had
already transmitted it to Paris. The English paper was distanced! Harry
Blount, crossing his hands behind him, walked off and seated himself in
the stern without uttering a word.
About ten o’clock in the morning, the young Livonian, leaving her cabin,
appeared on deck. Michael Strogoff went forward and took her hand.
“Look, sister!” said he, leading her to the bows of the Caucasus.
The view was indeed well worth seeing. The Caucasus had reached the
confluence of the Volga and the Kama. There she would leave the former
river, after having descended it for nearly three hundred miles, to
ascend the latter for a full three hundred.
The Kama was here very wide, and its wooded banks lovely. A few white
sails enlivened the sparkling water. The horizon was closed by a line of
hills covered with aspens, alders, and sometimes large oaks.
But these beauties of nature could not distract the thoughts of the
young Livonian even for an instant. She had left her hand in that of her
companion, and turning to him, “At what distance are we from Moscow?”
she asked.
“Nine hundred versts,” answered Michael.
“Nine hundred, out of seven thousand!” murmured the girl.
The bell now announced the breakfast hour. Nadia followed Michael
Strogoff to the restaurant. She ate little, and as a poor girl whose
means are small would do. Michael thought it best to content himself
with the fare which satisfied his companion; and in less than twenty
minutes he and Nadia returned on deck. There they seated themselves in
the stern, and without preamble, Nadia, lowering her voice to be heard
by him alone, began:
“Brother, I am the daughter of an exile. My name is Nadia Fedor. My
mother died at Riga scarcely a month ago, and I am going to Irkutsk to
rejoin my father and share his exile.”
“I, too, am going to Irkutsk,” answered Michael, “and I shall thank
Heaven if it enables me to give Nadia Fedor safe and sound into her
father’s hands.”
“Thank you, brother,” replied Nadia.
Michael Strogoff then added that he had obtained a special podorojna
for Siberia, and that the Russian authorities could in no way hinder his
progress.
Nadia asked nothing more. She saw in this fortunate meeting with Michael
a means only of accelerating her journey to her father.
“I had,” said she, “a permit which authorized me to go to Irkutsk, but
the new order annulled that; and but for you, brother, I should have
been unable to leave the town, in which, without doubt, I should have
perished.”
“And dared you, alone, Nadia,” said Michael, “attempt to cross the
steppes of Siberia?”
“The Tartar invasion was not known when I left Riga. It was only at
Moscow that I learnt the news.”
“And despite it, you continued your journey?”
“It was my duty.”
The words showed the character of the brave girl.
She then spoke of her father, Wassili Fedor. He was a much-esteemed
physician at Riga. But his connection with some secret society having
been asserted, he received orders to start for Irkutsk. The police who
brought the order conducted him without delay beyond the frontier.
Wassili Fedor had but time to embrace his sick wife and his daughter, so
soon to be left alone, when, shedding bitter tears, he was led away. A
year and a half after her husband’s departure, Madame Fedor died in
the arms of her daughter, who was thus left alone and almost penniless.
Nadia Fedor then asked, and easily obtained from the Russian government,
an authorization to join her father at Irkutsk. She wrote and told him
she was starting. She had barely enough money for this long journey, and
yet she did not hesitate to undertake it. She would do what she could.
God would do the rest.
CHAPTER IX DAY AND NIGHT IN A TARANTASS
THE next day, the 19th of July, the Caucasus reached Perm, the last
place at which she touched on the Kama.
The government of which Perm is the capital is one of the largest in the
Russian Empire, and, extending over the Ural Mountains, encroaches on
Siberian territory. Marble quarries, mines of salt, platina, gold, and
coal are worked here on a large scale. Although Perm, by its situation,
has become an important town, it is by no means attractive, being
extremely dirty, and without resources. This want of comfort is of
no consequence to those going to Siberia, for they come from the more
civilized districts, and are supplied with all necessaries.
At Perm travelers from Siberia resell their vehicles, more or less
damaged by the long journey across the plains. There, too, those passing
from Europe to Asia purchase carriages, or sleighs in the winter season.
Michael Strogoff had already sketched out his programme. A vehicle
carrying the mail usually runs across the Ural Mountains, but this, of
course, was discontinued. Even if it had not been so, he would not have
taken it, as he wished to travel as fast as possible, without depending
on anyone. He wisely preferred to buy a carriage, and journey by stages,
stimulating the zeal of the postillions by well-applied “na vodkou,” or
tips.
Unfortunately, in consequence of the measures taken against foreigners
of Asiatic origin, a large number of travelers had already left Perm,
and therefore conveyances were extremely rare. Michael was obliged to
content himself with what had been rejected by others. As to horses,
as long as the Czar’s courier was not in Siberia, he could exhibit his
podorojna, and the postmasters would give him the preference. But, once
out of Europe, he had to depend alone on the power of his roubles.
But to what sort of a vehicle should he harness his horses? To a telga
or to a tarantass? The telga is nothing but an open four-wheeled cart,
made entirely of wood, the pieces fastened together by means of
strong rope. Nothing could be more primitive, nothing could be less
comfortable; but, on the other hand, should any accident happen on the
way, nothing could be more easily repaired. There is no want of firs on
the Russian frontier, and axle-trees grow naturally in forests. The post
extraordinary, known by the name of “perck-ladnoi,” is carried by the
telga, as any road is good enough for it. It must be confessed that
sometimes the ropes which fasten the concern together break, and whilst
the hinder part remains stuck in some bog, the fore-part arrives at
the post-house on two wheels; but this result is considered quite
satisfactory.
Michael Strogoff would have been obliged to employ a telga, if he had
not been lucky enough to discover a tarantass. It is to be hoped that
the invention of Russian coach-builders will devise some improvement
in this last-named vehicle. Springs are wanting in it as well as in the
telga; in the absence of iron, wood is not spared; but its four wheels,
with eight or nine feet between them, assure a certain equilibrium over
the jolting rough roads. A splash-board protects the travelers from
the mud, and a strong leathern hood, which may be pulled quite over the
occupiers, shelters them from the great heat and violent storms of the
summer. The tarantass is as solid and as easy to repair as the telga,
and is, moreover, less addicted to leaving its hinder part in the middle
of the road.
It was not without careful search that Michael managed to discover this
tarantass, and there was probably not a second to be found in all Perm.
He haggled long about the price, for form’s sake, to act up to his part
as Nicholas Korpanoff, a plain merchant of Irkutsk.
Nadia had followed her companion in his search after a suitable vehicle.
Although the object of each was different, both were equally anxious to
arrive at their goal. One would have said the same will animated them
both.
“Sister,” said Michael, “I wish I could have found a more comfortable
conveyance for you.”
“Do you say that to me, brother, when I would have gone on foot, if need
were, to rejoin my father?”
“I do not doubt your courage, Nadia, but there are physical fatigues a
woman may be unable to endure.”
“I shall endure them, whatever they be,” replied the girl. “If you ever
hear a complaint from me you may leave me in the road, and continue your
journey alone.”
Half an hour later, the podorojna being presented by Michael, three
post-horses were harnessed to the tarantass. These animals, covered
with long hair, were very like long-legged bears. They were small
but spirited, being of Siberian breed. The way in which the iemschik
harnessed them was thus: one, the largest, was secured between two long
shafts, on whose farther end was a hoop carrying tassels and bells; the
two others were simply fastened by ropes to the steps of the tarantass.
This was the complete harness, with mere strings for reins.
Neither Michael Strogoff nor the young Livonian girl had any baggage.
The rapidity with which one wished to make the journey, and the more
than modest resources of the other, prevented them from embarrassing
themselves with packages. It was a fortunate thing, under the
circumstances, for the tarantass could not have carried both baggage
and travelers. It was only made for two persons, without counting the
iemschik, who kept his equilibrium on his narrow seat in a marvelous
manner.
The iemschik is changed at every relay. The man who drove the tarantass
during the first stage was, like his horses, a Siberian, and no less
shaggy than they; long hair, cut square on the forehead, hat with a
turned-up brim, red belt, coat with crossed facings and buttons stamped
with the imperial cipher. The iemschik, on coming up with his team,
threw an inquisitive glance at the passengers of the tarantass. No
luggage!--and had there been, where in the world could he have stowed
it? Rather shabby in appearance too. He looked contemptuous.
“Crows,” said he, without caring whether he was overheard or not;
“crows, at six copecks a verst!”
“No, eagles!” said Michael, who understood the iemschik’s slang
perfectly; “eagles, do you hear, at nine copecks a verst, and a tip
besides.”
He was answered by a merry crack of the whip.
In the language of the Russian postillions the “crow” is the stingy or
poor traveler, who at the post-houses only pays two or three copecks
a verst for the horses. The “eagle” is the traveler who does not mind
expense, to say nothing of liberal tips. Therefore the crow could not
claim to fly as rapidly as the imperial bird.
Nadia and Michael immediately took their places in the tarantass. A
small store of provisions was put in the box, in case at any time they
were delayed in reaching the post-houses, which are very comfortably
provided under direction of the State. The hood was pulled up, as it was
insupport-ably hot, and at twelve o’clock the tarantass left Perm in a
cloud of dust.
The way in which the iemschik kept up the pace of his team would
have certainly astonished travelers who, being neither Russians nor
Siberians, were not accustomed to this sort of thing. The leader, rather
larger than the others, kept to a steady long trot, perfectly regular,
whether up or down hill. The two other horses seemed to know no other
pace than the gallop, though they performed many an eccentric curvette
as they went along. The iemschik, however, never touched them, only
urging them on by startling cracks of his whip. But what epithets he
lavished on them, including the names of all the saints in the calendar,
when they behaved like docile and conscientious animals! The string
which served as reins would have had no influence on the spirited
beasts, but the words “na pravo,” to the right, “na levo,” to the left,
pronounced in a guttural tone, were more effectual than either bridle or
snaffle.
And what amiable expressions! “Go on, my doves!” the iemschik would say.
“Go on, pretty swallows! Fly, my little pigeons! Hold up, my cousin on
the left! Gee up, my little father on the right!”
But when the pace slackened, what insulting expressions, instantly
understood by the sensitive animals! “Go on, you wretched snail!
Confound you, you slug! I’ll roast you alive, you tortoise, you!”
Whether or not it was from this way of driving, which requires the
iemschiks to possess strong throats more than muscular arms, the
tarantass flew along at a rate of from twelve to fourteen miles an hour.
Michael Strogoff was accustomed both to the sort of vehicle and the mode
of traveling. Neither jerks nor jolts incommoded him. He knew that a
Russian driver never even tries to avoid either stones, ruts, bogs,
fallen trees, or trenches, which may happen to be in the road. He was
used to all that. His companion ran a risk of being hurt by the violent
jolts of the tarantass, but she would not complain.
For a little while Nadia did not speak. Then possessed with the one
thought, that of reaching her journey’s end, “I have calculated that
there are three hundred versts between Perm and Ekaterenburg, brother,”
said she. “Am I right?”
“You are quite right, Nadia,” answered Michael; “and when we have
reached Ekaterenburg, we shall be at the foot of the Ural Mountains on
the opposite side.”
“How long will it take to get across the mountains?”
“Forty-eight hours, for we shall travel day and night. I say day and
night, Nadia,” added he, “for I cannot stop even for a moment; I go on
without rest to Irkutsk.”
“I shall not delay you, brother; no, not even for an hour, and we will
travel day and night.”
“Well then, Nadia, if the Tartar invasion has only left the road open,
we shall arrive in twenty days.”
“You have made this journey before?” asked Nadia.
“Many times.”
“During winter we should have gone more rapidly and surely, should we
not?”
“Yes, especially with more rapidity, but you would have suffered much
from the frost and snow.”
“What matter! Winter is the friend of Russia.”
“Yes, Nadia, but what a constitution anyone must have to endure such
friendship! I have often seen the temperature in the Siberian steppes
fall to more than forty degrees below freezing point! I have felt,
notwithstanding my reindeer coat, my heart growing chill, my limbs
stiffening, my feet freezing in triple woolen socks; I have seen my
sleigh horses covered with a coating of ice, their breath congealed
at their nostrils. I have seen the brandy in my flask change into hard
stone, on which not even my knife could make an impression. But my
sleigh flew like the wind. Not an obstacle on the plain, white and
level farther than the eye could reach! No rivers to stop one! Hard
ice everywhere, the route open, the road sure! But at the price of what
suffering, Nadia, those alone could say, who have never returned, but
whose bodies have been covered up by the snow storm.”
“However, you have returned, brother,” said Nadia.
“Yes, but I am a Siberian, and, when quite a child, I used to follow my
father to the chase, and so became inured to these hardships. But when
you said to me, Nadia, that winter would not have stopped you, that you
would have gone alone, ready to struggle against the frightful Siberian
climate, I seemed to see you lost in the snow and falling, never to rise
again.”
“How many times have you crossed the steppe in winter?” asked the young
Livonian.
“Three times, Nadia, when I was going to Omsk.”
“And what were you going to do at Omsk?”
“See my mother, who was expecting me.”
“And I am going to Irkutsk, where my father expects me. I am taking him
my mother’s last words. That is as much as to tell you, brother, that
nothing would have prevented me from setting out.”
“You are a brave girl, Nadia,” replied Michael. “God Himself would have
led you.”
All day the tarantass was driven rapidly by the iemschiks, who succeeded
each other at every stage. The eagles of the mountain would not have
found their name dishonored by these “eagles” of the highway. The high
price paid for each horse, and the tips dealt out so freely, recommended
the travelers in a special way. Perhaps the postmasters thought it
singular that, after the publication of the order, a young man and his
sister, evidently both Russians, could travel freely across Siberia,
which was closed to everyone else, but their papers were all en regle
and they had the right to pass.
However, Michael Strogoff and Nadia were not the only travelers on their
way from Perm to Ekaterenburg. At the first stages, the courier of the
Czar had learnt that a carriage preceded them, but, as there was no want
of horses, he did not trouble himself about that.
During the day, halts were made for food alone. At the post-houses could
be found lodging and provision. Besides, if there was not an inn, the
house of the Russian peasant would have been no less hospitable. In
the villages, which are almost all alike, with their white-walled,
green-roofed chapels, the traveler might knock at any door, and it would
be opened to him. The moujik would come out, smiling and extending
his hand to his guest. He would offer him bread and salt, the burning
charcoal would be put into the “samovar,” and he would be made quite at
home. The family would turn out themselves rather than that he should
not have room. The stranger is the relation of all. He is “one sent by
God.”
On arriving that evening Michael instinctively asked the postmaster how
many hours ago the carriage which preceded them had passed that stage.
“Two hours ago, little father,” replied the postmaster.
“Is it a berlin?”
“No, a telga.”
“How many travelers?”
“Two.”
“And they are going fast?”
“Eagles!”
“Let them put the horses to as soon as possible.”
Michael and Nadia, resolved not to stop even for an hour, traveled all
night. The weather continued fine, though the atmosphere was heavy and
becoming charged with electricity. It was to be hoped that a storm would
not burst whilst they were among the mountains, for there it would be
terrible. Being accustomed to read atmospheric signs, Michael Strogoff
knew that a struggle of the elements was approaching.
The night passed without incident. Notwithstanding the jolting of the
tarantass, Nadia was able to sleep for some hours. The hood was
partly raised so as to give as much air as there was in the stifling
atmosphere.
Michael kept awake all night, mistrusting the iemschiks, who are apt to
sleep at their posts. Not an hour was lost at the relays, not an hour on
the road.
The next day, the 20th of July, at about eight o’clock in the morning,
they caught the first glimpse of the Ural Mountains in the east. This
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