A SIBERIAN CAPITAL

Blagavestchensk, a mouthful of a name for any one but a Russian, is a surprising city to be found in the heart of the wild woods of eastern Siberia.

Almost immediately after our departure it was besieged by the Chinese and became well known the world around as one of the storm-centres of the Yellow Tempest. But I must confess that my knowledge of geography was so defective that I had scarcely heard the name of this city three weeks before I saw it.

Had I been particularly conceited on this point, my geographical pride would have received a severe blow, for here is the natural metropolis of a vast section, as large as all New England, with New York, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey thrown in. Here is a city of nearly 40,000 inhabitants, with wide streets, as fine blocks for its leading banks and stores as Portland, Maine, or Portland, Oregon, could show, or any of the smaller cities of the Union; very comfortable hotels, and at least five really fine churches.

The glories of Blagavestchensk, moreover, are not in the past by any means, but largely in the future, as is evidenced by the amount of new building going on. Piles of brick, masons and hod-carriers, and carpenters and stone-cutters, are seen everywhere, busy at their trades, and it is evident that Blagavestchensk is preparing for the time when the Siberian Railway will be completed from Stretinsk to Khabaroffsk, and still further add to her importance as the chief city on the Amour--indeed, the chief city between Lake Baikal and the Pacific.

We did not have time, however, to make these observations on the evening of our arrival, for before the _Baron Korff_ was made fast it was half-past nine o’clock, and nearly dark. Having heard of the Central Hotel, and knowing not whether it was good, bad, or indifferent, we directed the drosky man to drive thither, which he did, and soon set us down in front of a large brick building of imposing dimensions. But here our troubles began. No office could be discovered. No one seemed to be in charge. The register which hung in the front hall--a large blackboard with the numbers of the rooms written in chalk--indicated that every room, with one exception, was full. At last a peasant, in Russian blouse and top-boots, appeared who seemed to belong to the establishment; but, alas! he spoke a word of naught but Russian. To polyglot inquiries: “Do you speak English?” “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” “Parlez-vous français?” he responded with a “nyet,” and a helpless shake of the head. At length his instinct, or our bad Russian, enabled him to understand that we wished lodgings for the night, and he showed us to a large room with a single narrow bed, a sofa, and some chairs.

But there were four in this particular party that sought the shelter of the Central Hotel--two ladies, a small boy, and a man. It was evident that all could not be accommodated in these limited quarters. What could be done about it? All the other hotels were crowded. It was ten o’clock at night, and we were on the sidewalk outside of this thoroughly Russian hotel, with our baggage unloaded from the tarantass. At this opportune moment our good genius came to our rescue in the shape of a young Russian lieutenant who spoke French, and who insisted on my sharing his room with him, so that the ladies and the small boy might have the only vacant room. Moreover, he acted as translator, asked for another bed, arranged prices, and in every possible way became our guide, interpreter, and friend. I shared his room for two days, and when I tried to pay for my part of it he absolutely refused, saying, with the utmost delicacy, but with firm insistence: “I could not think of it. You are my guest.”

Would such graceful and delicate hospitality be found in New York, or Chicago, or London? I very much doubt it, or whether the average American, or even the exceptional American, would have taken a foreigner into his room, and, for a couple of days, concerned himself for the welfare of a party of absolute strangers.

Our good angel in military clothes had recently graduated at the Russian West Point, and had been stationed at Nikolskoie, on the Siberian frontier. He was on his way to visit his mother at St. Petersburg, and thence to the Paris Exposition. As I expected to travel farther with him, I neglected to learn his name. But he was detained at the last moment, and I shall not be able to send him my acknowledgment of his kindness by post, and I can scarcely hope that he will read them in this account of our travels. What I think will please him most, however, could he but see it in print, I will record here, that such kindness and delicate consideration I believe to be characteristic of the great people of whom he is such a worthy representative.

While we are still at the hotel, it may give some idea of Siberian hostelries of the better class if I say that the rooms at the Central were large and comfortably furnished, but there were some peculiarities which strike a traveller as odd. A bed with a mattress upon it is provided, but no blankets, sheets, or pillows. A common wash-room, not over tidy, served all the guests, and such a thing as a bath-tub or a bath-room seemed unknown. Every guest is expected to bring his own bedding, towels, and soap. Not knowing this, we naturally asked for sheets and blankets and pillows and towels, which, after some delay, were brought, though only one sheet, blanket, and pillow apparently could be raised.

What was my surprise to have a lengthy bill brought when I came to leave, for I was conscious of having had but few “extras.” When I inquired for a translation of the items, the waiter pointed to the different articles ordered the night before, and then to the cabalistic words upon the bill, and I learned that the charge was: Blanket, 25 kopeks; sheet, 20 kopeks; pillow, 30 kopeks; towel, 15 kopeks. No wonder the bill was a long, if not a large, one. The room itself was only two roubles and a half, or one dollar and a quarter, for a large double room, and the _table d’hôte_ meals, which consisted of soup, meat, dessert, and tea, cost 80 kopeks (40 cents). Breakfast was served in our rooms, and normally consisted of tea made on the spot in a porcelain teapot, with water boiling hot from the samovar, very nice and refreshing, with lemon as a substitute for milk, and bread-and-butter. We did not attempt the coffee, which is not the national drink, and does not compare with the tea. On tea and bread-and-butter the Russian would be sure to break his fast, though eggs might be had by the Outlander, if he should insist upon it.

It so happened that the day after our arrival at Blagavestchensk was the emperor’s birthday, and all the city was in holiday mood. But it seemed to take its pleasure seriously, if not sadly, as the English are said to do. A few flags were flying, the churches were open, and the stores were closed, and a general air of solemnity pervaded the town. The great German store of Kunst & Albers was religiously closed in front and the curtains drawn, but I was told that it had a back door, like the saloons in Maine. As my conscience did not compel me to observe the emperor’s birthday sacredly, I sought the side entrance, where I made some necessary purchases.

I may mention for the benefit of future travellers that many of the necessaries of life cost about the same in eastern Siberia as in New York--linen collars two dollars a dozen, cuffs twice that sum, shirts, underclothing, and other dry goods in like proportion. Two of the stores in Blagavestchensk, Kunst & Albers and a Russian store nearly opposite, are really palatial in proportions and equipment. The department store has blossomed out in full proportions in Siberia, and it is far more surprising to find such a store as I have mentioned in Blagavestchensk than to find Wanamaker’s, in Philadelphia, or Jordan & Marsh, in Boston.

Here you find books and bric-à-brac, pipes and pickles, flowers and flat-irons, oil and oysters, waistcoats and watches, indigo and icons. Here were attentive clerks and cash-boys (Chinese cash-boys, by-the-way), cashier girls in their little elevated desks, receiving the money, and all the conveniences and appliances of the great modern establishments.

But the chief interest in Blagavestchensk centred in the churches on the day of our visit, especially in the blue and green military church. Here a high mass was held in honor of the emperor. The church was crowded with soldiers and peasants, and all were most devout and earnest. Old peasants would come in, and, though there was scarcely standing room, would spread down their bandannas, and, kneeling on them, would touch their grizzled forelocks to the floor, and then rise and join heartily in the service. This was conducted chiefly by a priest in beautiful robes of cloth of gold, whose magnificent bass voice chanted the service as I never heard it rendered before. A sweet-voiced choir of boys answered the priest, and the whole congregation joined reverentially, but in stentorian tones, in part of the service. Behind the altar and facing the officiating priest, whose back was to the audience, stood a figure clad, apparently, in pure gold, and with a golden mitre upon its head. Whether man or image I could not at first make out. But it stood so immovable, and was apparently so solidly built of gold, that I concluded it was an image, a huge icon, which did duty in the soldiers’ church. I thought that I detected the image solemnly winking, but the moment after I concluded that I was the victim of an optical illusion. Nothing so stately, solemn, and immovable could wink. It was almost sacrilegious to think of such a thing. But when I had fully made up my mind to the icon theory, the golden image stepped from behind the altar, and, coming to the front, an attendant took off his heavy mitre, and in a deep, rich voice, he intoned the part of the service that fell to his share.

Bowing to the cross, his golden garments wrinkled and bent like the scales of a fish, or like the chain-armor of an ancient knight whose corselet was of pure gold. Never have I seen in any church or temple, in Christendom or pagandom, such gorgeous vestments or a more stately service. I only hope that it was as intelligently devout as it was gorgeous and impressive.

MARKET-PLACE IN FRONT]

Some of the Greek priests, whose writings I have read, like Father John, of Kronstadt, are as deeply imbued with the Spirit of God as Thomas à Kempis or John Tauler of old, or as Andrew Murray and F. B. Meyer of the present day. A fine, sweet, mystical vein runs through their writings, which shows that they have seen the Invisible and heard the Inaudible, and their writings are as refreshing as a draught of clear spring water in this thirsty commercial age.

So may it have been with the holy fathers of Blagavestchensk! I could not judge, for all their service was to me in an unknown tongue. I will give them the full benefit of the doubt.

The streets of Blagavestchensk on this holiday were full of soldiers, who marched in orderly file from their barracks to the church and back again. They were fine, stalwart, manly fellows, marching in perfect alignment, and with an easy swing which did one’s eyes good to see, after beholding for a few weeks the slouchy straggle of Chinese soldiers. They were an orderly, well-behaved lot, too, and I saw no rioting or drunkenness. The log-cabin which served as a soldiers’ guard-house seemed to have few occupants. The soldiers did not know how soon their holiday manners would be changed into grim and deadly warfare with the yellow men on the opposite bank of the Amour.

Blagavestchensk, though it has a few large and imposing buildings, is largely a log-built city. Nine-tenths of the houses are of hewn logs, but most of them are prettily painted and are not without appropriate ornamentation. I never had believed that a log-house city could be so picturesque and substantial in appearance.

Upon the churches the people have lavished their chief wealth. At least three of them are costly and beautiful buildings that would do honor to any European capital, and a fourth that is building will, when completed, surpass them all. It is really a building of remarkable stateliness and beauty.

Buriats’ hut in foreground]

In the cathedral I saw for the first time the Black Christ and the Black Virgin, which are often seen in Greek churches. The pictures in all the churches impressed me as a much higher grade of art than one sees in the ordinary church on the continent of Europe.

When we were in Blagavestchensk we had little thought that this obscure capital was so soon to figure in the world’s telegrams, or that it could be besieged and bombarded by the Chinese. But history in the far East was making itself rapidly about that time, and we had scarcely left Blagavestchensk a week behind, when the apparently peaceful Celestials, inspired from Peking, attacked and for a long time bombarded this inoffensive city.

As I write, the outcome of the immediate conflict is still in the balance, but it can scarcely be doubted that in the long run the Giant of the North will win his way through Siberia and Manchuria into the heart of China, and that the siege of Blagavestchensk will really hasten the awakening of China from her sleep of the ages.

On the evening of the second day, we were glad to take passage once more for the upper reaches of the Amour, the most difficult, uncertain, and tedious part of our journey.

“_If you have tears, prepare to shed them now_” might have been our motto as we went aboard the crowded little steamer and realized that Stretinsk, the terminus of our river journey, was 11971⁄4 versts away, and that, much of the way, less than four feet of water separated our keel from the sandy bottom of the Amour. But how we scraped over the sand-banks from Blagavestchensk to Stretinsk must be reserved for “another story.”