Approaching Moscow, the train stops at Tula which, Murray tells us, is ‘famed for its manufacture of fire-arms and generally for its hardware’. The gun factory, Baedeker says, was established in 1632 by a Dutchman, and is now ‘under the superintendence of an Englishman named Trewheller’. Steveni, who also has something to say about this place, finds that: ‘The Russian workman is generally very intelligent and works cheaply, but he is so extremely careless that he has to be carefully watched at his work.’
Tula is frequently called the ‘Birmingham of Russia’, Steveni says, but has ‘no very high opinion of the quality of its small-arms, judging from the wretched specimen of a revolver I purchased when last passing through. It was cheaply and carelessly made, and did not possess that finish one finds in English and American weapons. If the Russian mechanic cannot make a first-class revolver, he is quite a genius as regards the manufacture of samovars.’
Steveni agrees with other writers that card-playing is a very important pastime in Russia. ‘In a country where the pursuit of politics is not altogether advisable, many people who would otherwise dabble in public affairs throw all their attention into cards and gambling.’
It is not only the aristocracy who are dissolute, because peasants who become rich merchants gladly join in the high-life as welclass="underline" ‘One merchant used to come to the gardens with a pocket-book full of £10 bank-notes, and throw them broadcast among the singers and dancers. Sometimes the performances conclude with a drunken orgie, during which the merchants, in order to show their generosity and absolute contempt for money, finish off by smashing all the mirrors and wine-glasses, and then coolly calling for the bill! It must be remembered that the majority of the merchants spring from the peasant class, and have neither the birth, breeding, or social status of the merchants in England.’
Should the merchant go on holiday to the Baltic beach resort of Dubbeln he might need to exercise more restraint over his boisterousness, for Murray tells us that: ‘The hours of bathing for ladies and gentlemen, respectively, are regulated by the ringing of a bell, and any infringement by the one sex on the hours allotted to the other is visited with a severe fine when detected’, which penalty, however, the merchant may not have been averse to paying.
Travelling within Russian towns had its difficulties: ‘The driver of the carriage often does not know how to read; he does not always know his way about, and sometimes raises difficulties about giving change’, Baedeker informs us. ‘The little one-horse Sleighs are wider and more comfortable than the cabs. When they are going fast, passengers must be on their guard against being thrown out.’
We are told that hotels in provincial towns, ‘especially the older ones, satisfy as a rule only the most moderate demands, and they often leave much to be desired in point of cleanliness. In spite of these failings they frequently have high-sounding names, such as Grand Hotel, etc. The washing arrangements are generally unsatisfactory, usually consisting of a tiny wash-basin communicating with a small tank, from which the water trickles in a feeble stream.’
Murray comments in his earlier guide: ‘Without wishing to detract from the merits of the best hotels mentioned in the Handbook, it is right to advise the traveller to be provided, when travelling in Russia, with remedies against insects of a vexatory disposition.’
The further one went from the main cities the worse was the accommodation, especially for those using Siberia as a route to Japan, or wanting to see something of Central Asia. On the Caucasian Black Sea coast, at Poti, there were many hotels but, says Murray of 1888: ‘The climate is disagreeable, and fever prevails during the summer months. The marshy forests throw out most dangerous fogs which produce ague. The houses are infested by noxious vermin.’
On the Siberian route at Tiumen the hotels are said to be poor: ‘It is well to come provided with sheets, towels, soap, and insect powder.’ At Bokhara in Central Asia: ‘Travellers are cautioned not to drink water that has not been boiled, and to be on their guard against boils, ulcers and contagious diseases.’
‘In summer,’ Baedeker writes, ‘the heat is almost unbearable, while the dust irritates the respiratory organs in a highly unpleasant manner.’ In the matter of social intercourse one is told: ‘Immediately on arrival at Ashkhabad, Bokhara, or Tashkent, the traveller should call upon the Russian diplomatic officials (dress clothes de rigeur).’
Caution against drinking water is again heavily italicized. ‘For washing, the traveller should be provided with an indiarubber bath or basin, and he should disinfect the water with lysoform. The so-called Sartian sickness or pendinka (identical with Aleppo or Baghdad boil) especially prevalent in Aug. and Sept., and the rishta (thread-worm) which burrows under the skin, seem both to be propagated by the water.’
Towards the end of the nineteenth century the overland journey to Peking via Siberia was attracting more and more travellers, including ladies, Murray says, and although the railway ended just beyond the Ural Mountains, ‘with the assistance of the Russian Commissioner at the Chinese frontier, the journey has been performed in nine weeks from St. Petersburg’. After 1903, when the Trans-Siberian Railway was complete, the twice-weekly express took nine days to go from St Petersburg to Vladivostok on the Pacific, passengers being cared for by the International Sleeping Car Company.
On the way to Irkutsk the literary traveller might call at Omsk where, Baedeker reminds us: ‘The building in which the author F. M. Dostoevski (d. 1881) was imprisoned from 1849 to 1853, and in which he wrote his “Recollections of a Dead House” stood in the N.E. corner of the fortress, but has been removed.’
Having reached Irkutsk, where carriages were changed, Murray says that the chief hotel is excellent, though the others are ‘almost invariably dear and indifferent’. Baedeker informs us that one disadvantage is ‘the inevitable concert or “sing-song” in the dining room, which usually last far into the night’.
If the traveller stays a while, and happens to have Bradshaw’s World Guide, 1903 for his companion, he may be alarmed by the following: ‘… the sidewalks are merely boards on cross-pieces over the open sewers. In summer it is almost impassable owing to the mud, or unbearable owing to dust. The police are few, escaped convicts and ticket-of-leave criminals many … In Irkutsk, and all towns east of it, the stranger should not walk after dark; if a carriage cannot be got, as is often the case, the only way is to tramp noisily along the planked walk; be careful in making crossings, and do not stop, or the immense mongrel mastiffs turned loose into the streets as guards will attack. To walk in the middle of the road is to court attack from the garrotters, with which Siberian towns abound.’
In 1901 Harry de Windt set out from Paris to northwestern Siberia, and reached Alaska by crossing the Bering Strait, his epic journey narrated in From Paris to New York by Land. At Irkutsk his party put up at the Hotel Metropole (mentioned in Baedeker, though not in Bradshaw, nor in the Guide to the Great Siberian Railways, 1901) which he found something of a shock to enter, ‘such a noisesome den, suggestive of a Whitechapel slum, although its prices equalled those of the Carlton in Pall Mall. The house was new but jerry-built, reeks of drains, and swarmed with vermin. Having kept us shivering for half an hour in the cold, a sleepy, shock-headed lad with guttering candle appeared and led the way to a dark and ill-smelling sleeping-apartment. The latter contained an iron bedstead (an unknown luxury here a decade ago), but relays of guests had evidently used the crumpled sheets and grimy pillows.’