From Paris to Pekin over Siberian Snows. Victor Meignan

aux mouches and other insect killers, thought of the chasses one is occasionally, though not so often now, obliged to devote himself to in foreign inns; probably they were not lovers of the chase, at least of such small game; but when one has once been bien mangé, the piqures leave their marks on the memory when they have been long effaced elsewhere, and not knowing what sport I might fall in with, I took care to secure the completeness of my gréement de chasse, and having at last made all my arrangements, I was ready to start.

      Accordingly on the 25th of October, 1873, at eight in the morning, I left the Gare du Nord, and no sooner had I taken my seat than inquiries recommenced in another form by a talkative traveller. This traveller was a Belgian, and Belgians are generally loquacious and free in making acquaintances. “Where are you going, monsieur?” said he. “As for me, I am going as far as Cologne; it is a very long journey, you know, and I like to have some one to talk to, to pass away these twelve long hours in a carriage.” “And so am I going to Cologne,” I replied. “Oh! you are going to Cologne, are you? Is it to buy horses? That is what I am going there for,” he explained. “I am accustomed to buy my horses in Prussia.” “No,” I said, “I am not going to Cologne for that.” “What for, then?” “Well, it is to start again from there, for I go to Berlin.” “Oh! you are going to Berlin? Why then are you going to Berlin? Nobody goes there, neither tourists nor men of business.” “I go there to start again, for I go from there to St. Petersburg.” These questions succeeded one another in this way from stage to stage, till the moment we had finished the tour of the world. His simple Flemish countenance then took a curious expression of droll astonishment. He could say no more till after the lapse of some moments, and then it was to exclaim, opening his large mouth as wide as possible and vigorously thumping the cushion with his heavy fist, “Oh! Ah! Then you are really going round the world. Dear me! round the world!” “Yes, almost,” I replied, smiling, “and therefore when I want horses I must buy them elsewhere than in Cologne.”

      As soon as Cologne and the Rhine are passed, a little favoured spot of this dull country—at least, as it appears to the traveller en route—you traverse an endless plain, neither picturesque nor interesting. Berlin redeems with no artistic beauty its sterile situation. But a Parisian could not be expected to find much attraction in Berlin, and accordingly I found it very dull. Its streets are badly paved; enormous gutters, separating the roadway from the pavement, expose carriages to danger and exhale noxious odours, filled as they are with filthy water and refuse of every kind.

      What strikes one in this city is a general aspect of gloominess. They have tried in all the public buildings to imitate the Grecian Doric, and have only too well succeeded in it. I do not understand at all why the Prussians have adopted this cold style, more sepulchral even than the Egyptian, under a sky so dull, and almost as foggy as that of Old England. In the places of amusement, in the interior of the Opera for instance, they have replaced the Doric style with the Corinthian, that is to say, mourning with half-mourning. The national colours, white and black, profusely distributed everywhere, complete its funereal character.

      The finest avenue, Unter den Linden, leads from the Museum to the exterior promenades, but the colour of the houses bordering this boulevard spoils the effect; it suggested a mixture of iron and saffron or something like the sickly hue of jaundice. The general impression is anything but cheerful. One is almost disposed to say to every one he meets: “Frère, il faut mourir!” but I said to myself, “Il faut partir,” and, after a short halt, I accordingly took my departure.

      The following day the express train, without any incident worthy of note, took me to the Russian frontier.

      Though there are custom houses at the frontiers of every civilized state, their character and methods of proceeding have not, in spite of the levelling tendencies of railways, yet arrived at much approach to uniformity; and since these characteristics differ widely from China to Peru, they frequently give some sign of the political and social status of the people into whose country one enters.

      At the custom house of this colossal empire of Russia, with a national budget so overcharged, the treasury is especially solicitous of filling the imperial coffers. Money is sorely needed.

      The stranger there must first prove his identity by producing his passport duly visé at the consulates of all the places he has passed. The passport is returned to him, bearing a word written on the back. This word leaves every uninitiated traveller in complete ignorance of its meaning or object; it is written in Russian characters, and, moreover, badly written in a language which, in conformity with good taste, one is expected not to know.

      When I received my passport marked with the mystic word, my embarrassment was painful. I walked up and down the waiting room, showing the word to every one I met. They all looked at me with astonishment, and kept clear of me without offering any explanation. I, at last, heard some one speaking French near me; it was a gentleman whose moustaches of immoderate length and dark whiskers white at the tips, something like the fur of the blue fox, indicated him to be of Northern nationality. I hastened to be enlightened, and at once learnt that this important word was the name of the officer appointed to examine my baggage. After some difficulty, I found the functionary, who, fortunately, spoke French. “Monsieur,” he said, “qu’avez-vous à déclarer?” “Rien,” I promptly replied, with all the freedom of innocence; “what I bring with me is for my personal use, and if some of the packages appear to you very bulky, it is because I am on a very long, a very distant journey.” “Be good enough to open them.” I accordingly began, feeling assured that everything would go on well and soon end. “It is my personal clothing,” I explained; “there is nothing but clothes in this trunk. Here is a pair of trousers that seems new; I have had it these three years. It looks, however, new; that is to my credit; you see, I do not wear out my clothes much,” I remarked merrily. “But,” he rejoined, “it seems too new; we will weigh it; this will be paid for.” My mortification was about to begin. He commenced putting into the scales all the clothing which he considered had not been worn. “What are these?” “They are memorandum books.” “Is there anything written in them?” “Nothing yet,” and then they also go into the scales. But he was not disposed to end there; far from it; I was obliged to open the chest I had got packed in Paris with the greatest care, containing my sporting equipment and many things for use only in Siberia. Perceiving that he was inexorable in his determination to turn out everything, I entreated him to put the case, just as it was, into the scales, preferring to pay more to having the contents turned upside down in the greatest disorder after they had been so artistically arranged. But I was much deceived, for this gentleman was too much of a Cossack to forego the pleasure of examining Parisian objects. Everything was turned out, and, if possible, inside out, and put into the scales. I was enraged.

      In the midst of this intolerable annoyance, there was for me a gleam of malicious satisfaction. I had brought with me an enormous box of vermin-killer in powder, which was considered to be invaluable for my long journey through Asia. The box could not easily be opened; far from it. The officer tried in vain for some time, but at last, the cover yielding suddenly to his efforts, the powder was violently flung into his face, penetrating into his eyes, his nostrils, and mouth, and completely covering his coat. “What is this?” he demanded. “A very violent poison,” I replied, with an affectation of terror, to add to his discomfiture, which had due effect. He turned pale, and, at once, fixed the duty on my effects at the highest possible rate. But I had some unexpected sport with large game, and, my revenge having afforded me full satisfaction, I drew from my pocket my louis d’or.

      But, alas! Russia, the country that produces at present so much gold, is the one where it has the least currency. I was obliged to go and change my twenty-franc pieces for paper roubles; and thus I paid at this custom house more than a hundred francs, merely to pass my old clothes—this sum being as much as they were worth—and my memorandum books, which I could not make up my mind to abandon, because they were my only companions to be entrusted with my impressions de voyage.

      Before getting into the train, I observed a newsvendor on the platform. “Have you the Figaro?” I asked. “Yes, sir.” “How much?” “Thirty kopecks” (one shilling). “Then give me a newspaper of your own country printed in French.” “Here is