Part 28

At the same time, no one can call the Nubian weak-willed, fickle, servile, untrustworthy, treacherous, or, in short, bad. In lower Nubia, where he constantly meets with hundreds of travellers, rich in his eyes, and free-handed, he of course frequently becomes a shameless, indeed an unendurable beggar; and the strangers whom he importunes, because his poor land will not support him, do not tend to ennoble him. On the whole, however, he may fairly be called an honest fellow. One misses, it is true, the strength of will characteristic of his fathers, but spirit and courage are by no means lacking. He is gentler and more good-natured than the Egyptian, and not less trustworthy and enduring when he has to face difficult or dangerous tasks. In his poor, unproductive country his whole being is rooted. Of it he thinks with pathetic constancy when in a strange land; he labours, pinches, and saves with the one desire to pass his manhood and old age at home; and this desire, which compels him to a ceaseless struggle for existence, gives strength to both body and soul. The raging stream, with which he contends not less persistently than with the rocky land, arouses and preserves his courage and self-reliance, just as it develops his calm confidence in face of danger. Thanks to the qualities thus acquired, the Nubian is a trusty servant, a reliable companion, a restless djellabi or merchant, and, above all, an adventurous, fearless boatman.

It almost seems as if the parents disciplined their sons from their earliest years in all the services which they may have to discharge when grown up. As in Egypt, so in Nubia the children of the poor are hardly educated at all; they are at most urged to work, or rather are utilized according to the measure of their strength. However small the boy, he must do his work and fulfil his allotted task; however tender the girl, she must help her mother in the many duties which are laid upon the women of the land. But whereas in Egypt they scarcely allow the children any recreation, in Nubia merry games are as far as possible encouraged. In Egypt the boy becomes a thrall and the girl his slave, without ever knowing the joys of childhood; in Nubia even those who are more than half grown-up are often still children alike in their disposition and in their ways. Thus the Egyptian youths seem to us as unnaturally serious as their fathers, while the Nubians are as joyous as their mothers.

Every traveller becomes familiar with a favourite game, which he cannot watch without delight, for it displays agility and grace of movement in combination with endurance and the spirit of adventure. It is the universal game of “Hare and Hounds” or “Follow my leader”. After their work is done the boys and girls unite in play. The boys leave the water-wheel around which they have driven the oxen from early morning till dusk, or the field in which they have worked with their father, or the young camel which they have been teaching to trot. The girls leave the younger brothers and sisters whom they have dragged rather than carried about all day, or the dough whose leavening they had to superintend, or the grinding-mill over which they have exerted their young strength. All hasten to the bank of the river. The boys are naked; the girls wear only their tasselled aprons. Laughing and chattering they go; like black ants they swarm on the golden yellow sand, running over and between the dark rocks. Those who are to chase stand picturesquely grouped, until the fugitive gets the requisite start. He gives the sign for the chase to begin, and they are all at his heels. Like a gazelle he speeds over the sandy plain to the nearest rocks, and like hounds in full cry his comrades give chase; like a chamois he climbs aloft upon the rocks, and not less nimbly do his pursuers follow; like a startled beaver he plunges into the stream to hide himself by diving, to escape by swimming, but there too they follow excitedly, both boys and girls, kicking like swimming dogs, halloing and screaming, chattering, laughing, chuckling, like a flock of gabbling ducks. For long the result remains undecided, and it not unfrequently happens that the bold fugitive swims right across the broad river before he falls into the hands of his pursuers. The parents of the merry company look on from the banks, and rejoice in the agility, courage, and endurance which their children display, and even the European is compelled to admit that he never saw creatures more joyous or more vigorous than those slim, dusky, sleek-skinned Nubian children.

From boys who play thus boldly come the men who dare to ply the boatman’s craft among the rapids, to steer their boat down the river hurrying through the valley, with rushing, swirling, boiling, raging waves, and even to sail upwards against these. On many of their journeyings they do not even use a boat, but trust to frail floats of dhurra-stems, or swim with the help of inflated, air-tight skin-bags. These Nubian boatmen and swimmers have looked danger in the face so firmly, and so often, that the waves have never whispered either myth or saga in their ears. They know of no nixies or water-sprites, of no genii, good or bad, and the protecting powers whose help they ask before or during dangerous journeys have but the solemn might of fate, none of the spite of fickle spirits. Thus the saga is dumb in the rapids, in “the Belly of the Rocks”, in the plunging, whirling “Mother of Stones”, in the “Shatterer”, the “Camel’s Neck”, the “Coral”, or whatever the rapid may be called; the saga is dumb, though the whole region seems the fittest home of legends, and the boatman has too often reason to be tempted to believe in spirits who wish ill to human kind.

The rapids are navigated down-stream at high and middle water, up-stream at middle and low water. When the Nile is lowest any boat going down-stream would be shattered; when the flood comes not even the largest sail would impel a vessel of considerable size against the current. At low water hundreds of men are requisitioned to haul one of the all-powerful government’s medium-sized barks up-stream; at the time of flood, they would scarcely be able to find footing on the few unflooded rock-islands on either side of the navigable channel. Full flood is the best time for going down-stream, and middle-water is best for going up, since at this time the regular north winds have set in and render practicable the use of sails.

All the craft specially intended for the rapids are distinguished from other Nile boats by their small size and by peculiarities of build and of rigging. The hull has but few timbers, and the boards are held together by nails driven in obliquely. The sail is not triangular, but four-sided, and fastened to two yards in such a way that from the lower more or less canvas can be unfurled, or spread to the wind. The build and rigging are thoroughly adapted to the conditions. The smallness, especially the shortness of the boat, is adapted to the necessity for sharp turnings; the manner in which the boards are joined gives the hull an elastic flexibility and pliancy which are valuable when the vessel runs aground; the adaptability of the canvas to the strength of the wind and of the current makes it possible to maintain a fairly successful contest against a most variable resistance. Nevertheless no one would willingly go up or down stream alone; the boatmen wisely prefer to go in companies, so that they may aid one another whenever occasion demands.

A fleet of boats plying up-stream presents a beautiful, inspiring picture as it sails away from a landing-place, or from some quiet creek, in which it has rested by night. All the navigable portions of the river show white sails, of which one can see twenty or more gliding among the dark rocks; at first all the craft are about the same distance apart, but soon the variable currents and breezes break their order. One and then another lags farther and farther behind, one and then another shoots ahead of the main body of the fleet, and in the course of an hour there is a wide interval between the first boat and the last. Yet, even with a strong and constant wind, the progress of the voyage is much less than it seems. The waves, indeed, break impetuously on the bow, but the boat has to contend with so strong an opposing current that its forward movement is really slow. It is an art to steer under such conditions, so that the boat may sail as straight as possible, consistent with avoiding the rocks hidden beneath the surface. For every tack means a change in the position of the unwieldy sail, and every time the boat touches a rock a leak is caused. Captain and crew have thus constant employment. Yet their work only begins in earnest when they near one of the countless rapids which have to be overcome. The sail, hitherto but partially unfurled, is now given fully to the wind; the bark pushes its way like a strong steamship through the chaos of rocks and reaches the whirlpool which is found beneath almost all rapids. All the men stand with oars outstretched and ropes in readiness, awaiting the inevitable moment when the boat will be gripped by the whirlpool and drawn into its vortex. At the skipper’s bidding the oars on one side dip into the water, on the other side long poles are thrust out to keep the boat off the rocks, while the sail, skilfully handled by the most experienced sailors, is taken in or let out, turned and twisted, as the circumstances demand. Once, twice, six times, ten times, they try in vain to cut through the whirlpool; at last they succeed and the boat reaches the lower end of the water-rush. But here it stops as if spell-bound; the pressure of the current equals that on the sails. The wind rises, and the vessel moves on a few yards; the pressure on the sail slackens again, and the waves drive it back to its former place. The contest with the whirling waves recommences, and again the boat is worsted. At last it reaches the desired goal, and must hold to it. One of the crew grips a rope in his teeth, plunges into the midst of the wild surge, and dragging the heavy rope behind him seeks to gain a rock which rises above the raging waves some little distance ahead. The waves hurl him back, cover and overwhelm him, but he continues his efforts, until it becomes plain that he must yield to the superior force of the stream. He gives up the struggle and is pulled by the rope back to the boat. Again the whirling waves, so strong to destroy, play with the frail structure which ventures to oppose them; and at last the wind gives the victory to the boat. But suddenly a portentous crash is heard; the steersman loses his footing and is projected into the stream; the boat has struck on one of the hidden rocks. With the utmost speed one of the crew gets hold of the rudder, a second throws a rope and a bladder to the struggling steersman, and without a moment’s delay the rest jump into the hold, and with hammer, chisel, and tow seek to repair the leak which they are sure to find. The man at the rudder endeavours to save the vessel from further mischance; the drenched steersman clambers up with an “El hamdi lillahi!” or “Thank God!” more grumbling than grateful; the rest hammer and plug the gaping leak, one even surrendering his shirt to eke out the scanty tow. Once more the boat sails through whirl and wave, rocking, creaking, groaning like a storm-tossed ship; once more it reaches the rapids; once more it is arrested between wind and current. Two sailors spring overboard at once, and, fighting against the stream with all their strength, at last succeed in gaining the rock. They surround it with one end of the rope and signal to the others to pull the boat up. This done, the vessel is moored to the rock, and there it hangs in the midst of the wild rush of waters, rocking so violently and continuously that it causes nausea. A second boat draws near and asks for assistance. A rope is floated down on a bladder, and thus time and trouble are saved. Soon the second also reaches the rock, a third follows, and a fourth, and all dance up and down together in the tumult. And now the united strength of the crews is sufficient to effect a successful passage. One of the boats is manned with double the normal crew; the other boatmen swim, and wade, and climb, dragging the rope to another rock further ahead, and, with all the help that the sail can give, one boat after another is pulled through the rushing waters of the rapid. Now and then at certain places the sail alone is sufficient to carry the boat up, but in such cases a lull of the wind not unfrequently endangers both craft and crew. Often, too, boats are forced to linger in the midst of the tumult for hours or even days, waiting for a favourable wind. Then one may see a tiny bark hanging behind every jagged rock, all alike unable to help their neighbours.

Several times I have been forced to make my bed on one of the black rocks amid-stream, for the violent rocking of the boat in the rapids made sleep an impossibility. A stranger sleeping-place can scarcely be imagined. The ground on which one lies seems to tremble before the assaults of the flood; the roaring and bellowing, hissing and splashing, rumbling and thundering of the waves drowns every other sound; one sits or lies on a rug with his comrades without uttering a word. Every blast of wind drives the spray like a fleeting mist across the rock island. The glowing camp-fire throws a weird light on the rock, and on the dark water foaming around its ragged edges; the falls and whirlpools in the shade seem even more gruesome than they are. At times one cannot help fancying that they open a hundred jaws to engulf the poor child of man. But his confidence is firm as the rock on which he rests. The mighty stream may thunder as it will, the seething waves may rage and foam, he is safe on a rock which has defied the flood for ages. But what if the rope break, and the boat be hurled and shattered on the nearest rocks? Then another will come to take the shipwrecked crew ashore! In spite of these and similar thoughts, and in spite of the ceaseless roar, the traveller can sleep, and sleep tranquilly too. For danger lends courage, and courage brings confidence, and the thunder of the waves becomes at length a lullaby to the wearied ear. And on the ensuing morning what an awakening! In the east the sky is suffused with red, the ancient giant-rocks wear a purple cloak on their shoulders, and shine in gleaming light, as if they were clad in burnished steel. Sunshine and shadow flit over the dark reefs and through the gullies filled with golden-yellow sand, and over all is thrown the marvellous, indescribably beautiful, colour-garment of the desert. Thousands and thousands of water-pearls shine and sparkle, and the mighty river rolls out its mighty melody, which is ever the same and yet eternally new. Such a glory, such a harmony, fills the heart with contentment and rapture. The morning is spent in devotional contemplation of this glorious spectacle, for it is not till forenoon that the wind begins to blow from the north and fill the sails. Work and danger, toil and struggle, hazard and anxiety, begin anew; and thus one day follows another, and rapid after rapid is at length overcome.

The voyage up-stream is dangerous and tedious; the voyage down-stream has no parallel in perilousness, such a mad rush is it through flood and rapid, whirlpool and eddy, cataract and gorge,--an exciting game in which life is the stake.

Voyages down-stream through the region of the rapids are only undertaken by the special boats which are made for the purpose in the Soudan. About ten per cent are smashed on the voyage, and that the percentage of deaths is not equally high is simply due to the matchless swimming powers of the Nubian boatmen. Even when they are dashed by the waves against a rock they do not always drown; usually they are like ducks in the water, and reach the shore in safety.

Let me try to give a faithful picture of one of these down-stream voyages.

Six new boats, built of the much-prized heavy mimosa-wood which sinks in water, are moored to the shore at the southern limit of the third group of rapids. The men who compose their crews are lying on sandy places between the black rocks, where they have spent the night. It is still early morning and the camp is quiet; only the river roars and murmurs in the solitude. As day dawns the sleepers awake; one after another descends to the stream, and performs the ablutions ordained to accompany morning prayer. After the prescribed prayer has been uttered from “preface” to “conclusion”, they refresh themselves with a frugal breakfast. Then old and young betake themselves to the tomb of a sheikh or saint, whose white dome gleams among the light-green mimosas, there to offer a special petition for a fortunate voyage. In this they are led by the eldest Reis, or steersman, who represents the Imam. Returning to the river, they observe an ancient heathen custom of throwing some dates, as an offering, into the waves.

At length each skipper orders his men to their posts. “Let go the sail! Row, men, row--row in the name of God, the All-Merciful,” he shouts. Thereupon he strikes up a song, with an ever-recurring refrain; one of the rowers takes it up and sings verse after verse; and all the rest accompany him with the rhythmically repeated words: “Help us, help us, O Mohammed, help us, God’s messenger and prophet!”

Slowly the bark gains the middle of the stream; quicker and ever quicker it glides onwards; in a few minutes it is rushing, more swiftly than ever, among the rocky islands above the rapid. “O Said, give us good cheer,” says the Reis, while the sailors go on singing as before. More and more quickly the oars dip into the turbid flood; the men, who were freshly anointed yesterday, are naked to the loins, and the sweat pours down their bodies as they strain every muscle. Praise and blame, flattery and reproaches, promises and threats, blessings and curses, fall from the skipper’s mouth according as the boat fulfils or disappoints his wishes. The strokes of the oars, pulled at full strength, follow each other more quickly still, though their purpose is solely to direct the otherwise exceedingly rapid course of the boat, and, as they often increase the danger they seek to avoid, the Reis may be excused if he exhausts all the hortatory vocabulary at his command in his desire to stimulate his crew. “Bend to your oars; work, work, my sons: show your strength, ye children and grandchildren of heroes; display your prowess, ye brave; exert your strength, ye giants; do honour to the prophet, all ye faithful! Oh, for the merieza! Oh, for the scented damsels of Dongola! Oh, for the delights of Cairo; all shall be yours. Larboard, I say, ye dogs, ye children of dogs, ye grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, and litter of dogs, ye Christians, ye heathen, ye Jews, ye Kaffres, ye fire-worshippers. Ah! ye rascals, ye swindlers, ye thieves, ye villains, ye vagabonds, do you call this rowing? First oar, starboard! are there women hanging about you? Third oar, larboard! throw overboard the weaklings who are misleading you. That’s right, well done; bravo, ye strong, supple, clever youths; God bless you, brave fellows, and give your fathers joy and your children His blessing. Better, better, better yet, ye cowards, ye strengthless, ye sapless, ye miserable, ye pitiable--Allah damn you all in His righteous wrath, ye--ye--Help us, help us, O Mohammed.” Such is the torrent which rushes uninterruptedly from the skipper’s lips, and all his commands and cries, entreaties and execrations, are uttered with the utmost seriousness, and enforced with appropriate gestures of hand, and foot, and head.

The boat sweeps into the first part of the rapid. The rocks on both sides seem to whirl round; the surge floods the deck, and its thunder drowns every order. Unresisting the frail craft is borne towards a neck of rock--fear, anxiety, dismay may be read on every face, but there--the dreaded spot is already behind the stern, the foaming backwash has saved the imperilled boat, only a couple of oars have been shivered like thin glass. Their loss hinders the right management of the bark, and it sweeps on without answering to the rudder, on to a formidable waterfall. A general cry, expressing horror and despair; a sign from the Reis standing in the bow with trembling knees, and all throw themselves flat on the deck, and hold on like grim death; a deafening crash and an overwhelming rush of hissing, gurgling waves; for the space of a moment nothing but water, and then the boat gives a leap upward; they have passed the cataract and escaped the jaws of death. “El hamdi lillahi!” (God be thanked) rings out from every breast; some hurry to the hold to find the leak and plug it, others lay out new oars, and on they go.

Behind the first boat comes a second, hurrying through the dangerous rapid. The oarsmen are labouring with extraordinary, ever-accelerating velocity; then, suddenly, all are thrown prostrate, all but one, who describes a high curve through the air into the river. He seems lost, buried in the raging depth; but no, while his comrades wring their hands in dismay, the matchless swimmer appears on the surface in the middle of the foaming whirlpool beneath the rapid. As a third boat shoots past the second, which has stuck on a rock, and reaches the whirlpool, the swimmer catches one of the oars, swings himself cleverly on board, and is saved. A fourth boat also hurries past; the beseeching gestures from the crew of the second boat implore for help; but a hand raised to heaven is the only answer. In truth, no human help could be given, for no craft is here under man’s control; the stream itself must help, if it will not destroy,--and it does help. The boat oscillates violently on the rock; its prow and stern dip deep in the water; but suddenly there is a whirl, and once more it is borne on through the surging current. Some of the crew row, others bale out the water, as do two women journeying with them, others hammer, and plug, and caulk in the attempt to repair the damage done. Half-full of water, scarce keeping afloat at all, the boat reaches the shore and is emptied of her cargo. But half of this, consisting of gum-arabic, is spoilt, and the owner, a poor merchant, tears his beard, moaning, lamenting, weeping, and cursing the two women passengers. The two women are to blame for all. How could they, who brought ruin to the first man in paradise, bring any blessing to faithful Mussulmans? Woe, woe upon the women and all their kind!

Next day the bark is repaired, new caulked, and reloaded; it speeds on with the rest to the next rapids, passes through these without further mischance, and reaches the fertile valley of middle Nubia, which is free from rocks and gives a hospitable welcome to every voyager. The cares, lately so grievous, are as soon forgotten; like children, the brown men laugh and joke, and drink with content great draughts of palm wine and merieza. Much too quickly for their taste does the stream bear the boat through this happy land.

Again the desert spreads its golden-yellow sand over the rocky banks; again rocky islands narrow, divide, and impede the river; the barks are entering the second group of rapids. One after another the dangerous currents, the dreaded whirlpools, the perilous straits and corners, are safely passed and left behind; only the last and wildest of the rapids lie between the boats and the palmy Wady Halfa. And below that village all is smooth sailing except at one place below Philæ, where the river is once more broken up by rocks. Above these last rapids--Gaskol, Moedyana, Abu-sir, and Hambol--which are truly dreadful, the boats seek for a quiet bay; and here all encamp to gain strength for the work and warfare, cares and trials of the coming day. The northerners also enjoy the prospect of a quiet night’s rest.

Night draws its veil over the desert land. The rushing waves thunder in the rocky valley; the stars are reflected in the peaceful creek; the blossoming mimosas make the shore fragrant. An old gray-haired Reis, born and bred among the rapids, approaches the strangers from the north. A snow-white beard ennobles his impressive features; his flowing cloak suggests a priest’s robe. “Sons of strangers,” he says, “men from the land of the Franks, difficult things have ye overcome along with us, but there is harder still before you. I am a child of this land, seventy years has the sun shone upon me, and at last he has whitened my hair: I am an old man, and ye might be my children. Therefore take ye heed to my warning, and draw back from what ye propose--to accompany us on the morrow. Witless ye go to the danger, but I know it. Had ye seen, as I have seen, those rocks which bar the way of the waves; did ye know, as I know, how these waves storm and rage for entrance and passage, how they overwhelm the rocks, and hurl themselves roaring into the depths below, ye would see that only the grace of God, whom we praise and glorify, can guide our poor boat aright, ye would yield to me. Would not the heart of your mother break should the All-merciful refuse us His compassion? Ye will not stay? Then may the grace of the Father of mercies be with us all.”

Before sunrise the shore becomes a scene of activity. Devoutly as before the boatmen offer the prayer of the dawn. Serious, experienced steersmen, who know the river well, and young, strong-limbed, adventurous oarsmen, offer their services to the ancient. Carefully he chooses the most skilful steersmen and the strongest oarsmen; he sets three men to the rudder; and then he gives orders to start. “Men and sons of the land, children of the river, pray the Fatiha,” he orders. And all repeat the words of the first Sura of the Koran. “Praise and honour to the Lord of the world, the All-merciful, He who ruleth at the day of judgment. Thee would we serve, to Thee would we pray, that Thou wouldest guide us in the way that is right, in the way of those who enjoy Thy favour, and not in the way of those with whom Thou art displeased.” “Amen, my children, in the name of the All-merciful! Let go the sail, and bend to the oars.” With rhythmic stroke these dip into the water.

Slowly the pent-up stream bears the boat towards the first rapid. Again, as it nears the rocks, the boat refuses to obey either rudder or oars, but creaking and groaning in every joint, it rushes through the overwhelming waves and boiling foam, through eddy and whirlpool, through narrow channels and abruptly-winding courses, drenched and flooded with water, shaving rocky corners by an arm’s-length, almost touching the teeth of hidden reefs. On it rushes to the second rapid.

From the height of the cataract the eye looks down with dismay at the dreadful violence of the torrent, and one sees at the lower end of the rapid a round block of rock surrounded by foaming waves as if it were the head of a white-haired giant rising above the surface. Like an arrow to its mark our fragile ungovernable boat rushes towards this giant’s head. “In the name of the All-merciful, row, row, ye men, ye strong, brave, noble men, ye children of the stream!” cries the steersman. “Larboard, larboard the rudder with all your strength!” But the boat answers neither to oars nor to rudder. It is not indeed the giant block which endangers the craft, but a narrow channel to the starboard into which we are swept and in which we are hurried on towards a labyrinth of rocks through which no possible pathway can be seen. The men already leave their oars, and throw off any clothes they have on, so that they may be unhampered in swimming. A fearful crash turns all eyes backward: the giant’s head has caught the next boat, which was longer and less pliant, and holds it oscillating over the seething flood. This increases the dismay. All our men regard the crew of the second boat as doomed, and as for themselves they prepare to plunge into the torrent. Then the voice of the ancient pilot rings out sharp and clear: “Are ye mad, are ye God-forsaken, ye children of heathen? Work, work, ye boys, ye men, ye heroes, ye giants, ye faithful! In the hand of the Almighty rests all power and strength; give Him the glory, and bend to your oars, ye sons of heroes!” And he himself takes the rudder, and in a few minutes directs the misguided boat from the “way of sinners” into the “right way”. One boat after another appears in the open water: but not all. The giant’s head still bears his victim, and will most likely bear it until next year’s flood. The ill-fated boat with the women on board was shivered to pieces at the uppermost of this group of rapids. With the crews, happily saved, the skipper prays, as he did before departure, “Glory and honour to the Lord of the World.”

Before the village of Wady Halfa, overshadowed with palms, the boats are moored; the men have gone ashore, and lie in picturesque groups around the camp-fire. Big-bellied flagons, filled with merieza, invite the thirsty; in other vessels the flesh of new-killed sheep is boiling under the care of women and girls who have quickly gathered round. Reeking of castor-oil, they are by no means welcome visitors to Europeans. The notes of the zither and the beating of the drum announce the beginning of the “fantasia”, the feast and the revel. Unutterable comfort takes possession of the boatman’s heart, joyous contentment is expressed in every look and gesture. At length, however, the inevitable fatigue after the heavy anxious work of the day asserts itself. The tarabuka sinks from the wearied arm, the tambura falls from sleepy fingers, and all the voices, which but a few moments ago were so loud, become silent.

Then the voices of the night are heard. The thunder of the rapids resounds down the valley, there is whispering among the crowns of the palm-trees with which the night-wind plays, and on the flat shore the waves splash in rhythmic cadence. The thundering waves and the rippling water, the rushing wind and the whispering palms unite their music in an exquisite lullaby, which leads all the sleepers to the happy land of golden dreams.

A JOURNEY IN SIBERIA.

We had left the populous streets of St. Petersburg and the gilded domes of Moscow far behind us; and before us rose the towers of Nijni-Novgorod on the further bank of the Oka. We had reason to be grateful for the manner of our reception in the two capitals of the Russian Empire. We had respectfully taken leave of his Majesty our own noble Emperor in Berlin, had received cordial recommendations from the German Foreign Office, and had met with a friendly welcome from the German Embassy in St. Petersburg, so we had hoped for a favourable reception in Russia, but the hospitality accorded us far exceeded our boldest expectations. His Majesty the Czar was pleased to give us an audience; princes and princesses of the imperial house deigned to receive us; the chancellor, the ministers, and high officers of state, had all met us with that thoughtful courtesy and obliging complaisance for which educated Russians are noted; and we were furnished with the introductions whose importance we afterwards realized.

As far as Nijni-Novgorod we had enjoyed the modern conveniences of travel; thenceforward we were to learn how Russians traverse distances of thousands of kilometres or versts, how they travel in summer and in winter, by day and by night, in furious storm and in smiling sunshine, in splashing rain, icy snow, and dusty drought, in sledges and in wagons. Before us stood a huge and massive travelling sledge, clamped at all its joints, with broadly projecting stays to guard against overturning, with a hood to shelter the travellers from rain and snow, and drawn by three horses on whose yoke a little bell tinkled.

On the 19th of March we began a rapid journey over the frozen surface of the Volga, but it was not without its hindrances. For a thaw had accompanied us from Germany to Russia, and had warned us to hasten from St. Petersburg and Moscow, and a thaw remained our constant companion, as if we were heralds of the spring. Holes in the ice filled with water, warning us of the yawning depth beneath, drenched the horses, the sledge, and ourselves, or forced us to make tiresome circuits; the cracking and groaning of the ice made the danger seem worse than it really was, and both drivers and postmasters became so anxious, that after a short journey we were forced to exchange the smooth surface of ice for the as yet unbeaten summer highway. But this highway, traversed by thousands and thousands of freight wagons and by an equal number of exiles to dread Siberia, soon became to us, as to the prisoners, a way of sighs. Loose or slushy snow about three feet deep, covered the road; to right and left rushed little streams, wherever, in fact, they could find a course; the horses, now yoked in a line, one behind the other, strove, in a pitiable way, to keep their footing; with leaps and bounds they would try to keep the tracks of those who had gone in front, and at every false step they would sink up to the breast in the snow or in the icy water. Behind them floundered the sledge, creaking in every joint, as it plunged with a jerk from height to hollow; for hours sometimes it remained stuck in a hole, baffling the most strenuous exertions of the horses. On such occasions the wolf-scaring bell, the gift of the mysterious Faldine, seemed to sound most eerily. In vain the driver threatened, entreated, swore, groaned, yelled, cried, roared, cursed, and whipped; in most cases we did not get under weigh again until other travellers came to our assistance.