Michael Strogoff; Or the Courier of the Czar: A Literary Classic Page 8

  Although the town was at some distance 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 his colleague at Nijni-Novgorod. There might be seen Tartars dressed in short-sleeved cafetans, and wearing pointed caps of which the broad brims recalled those of the traditional Pierrot. Others, wrapped in long great-coats, their heads covered by little caps, looked like Polish Jews. Women, their bodices glittering with tinsel, and heads surmounted by a diadem in form of a crescent, conversed in various groups.

  Police officers, and a few Cossacks, lance in hand, 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 travellers. The one were the Asiatics who were being expelled; the other, a few families of mujiks who were stopping at Kasan.

  Michael Strogoff unconcernedly watched the bustle which invariably occurs at all quays on the arrival of a steam-vessel. The Caucasus would stay at Kasan for an hour, time enough 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 eastern frontier of Russia, that the insurrection and invasion had reached considerable proportions. Communication between Siberia and the empire was already extremely difficult All this Michael Strogoff heard, without leaving the deck of the Caucasus, 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 rumours, 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 who had played the spy on him. 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 suddenly 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, which so clearly referred to him, had proceeded from this tawny group, and had been exchanged between the old gipsy 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, not to return to it again.

  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 endeavouring 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, and carried herself to perfection.

  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 gipsy girls. One of them was humming a song of a strange rhythm; the first lines 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 no doubt continued her song, but Michael Strogoff ceased to listen to it.

  Indeed, it struck him just then that the Tsigane, Sangarre, was regarding him with a peculiar gaze, as if she wished 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 gipsy,” 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 gipsy 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 already beyond the Ural. I know that they may take the route from Kasan to Ishim, but that affords no resources to travellers, and besides a tarantass, drawn by good Siberian horses, will always go faster than a gipsy cart! Come, friend Korpanoff, make yourself easy.”

  By this time the old man and Sangarre had disappeared in the crowd.

  Kasan is justly called the “Gate of Asia,” and considered as the centre of Siberian and Bokharian commerce, for two roads begin here and lead across the Ural Mountains. But Michael Strogoff had very judiciously chosen the one by Perm, Ekaterenburg, and Tioumen. 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 détour by Perm, also connects Kasan with Ishim, passing by Telaburg, Menselinsk, Birsk, Glatsoust, then leaving Europe, Tcheliabinsk, Chadrinsk, Kurgan.

  It is perhaps shorter than the other, but this advantage is much diminished by the absence of post-houses, the bad roads, and the paucity of villages. Michael Strogoff was right in being satisfied with 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.

  Just then Michael noticed that of the two reporters Harry Blount alone had rejoined the steamer.

  Was Alcide Jolivet about to miss his passage?

  But just as the ropes were being cast off, Alcide Jolivet appeared, tearing along. The steamer was already sheering off, the gangway bridge had been drawn on to 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 into 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 expe
nse or by travelling 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 Kalyvan?”

  “That I don’t know, but I can assure you, for instance, that it is working from Kasan to Paris.”

  “You sent a despatch 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, with 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 learnt it from some inhabitant of Kasan, had already transmitted it to Paris. The English paper was distanced! Harry Blount, crossing his hands behind his back, walked off and seated himself in the stern of the steamboat 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 examining with some attention.

  The Caucasus had just then reached the confluence of the Volga and the Kama. There she would leave the former river, after having descended it for more than four hundred versts, to ascend the latter for four hundred and sixty versts.

  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 soon 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 Strogoff thought it best to content himself with the fare which satisfied his companion; and in less than twenty minutes Michael Strogoff and Nadia returned on deck. There they seated themselves in the stern, and without other preamble, Nadia, lowering her voice so as 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 order of the governor of Nijni-Novgorod 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,” replied the young girl. “It was only at Moscow that I learnt that news.”

  “And notwithstanding that, you continued your journey?”

  “It was my duty.”

  This word showed the character of the courageous 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, and 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.

  All this time the Caucasus went steaming up the river.

  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 muddy and dirty, and possessing no resources. This want of comfort is of no consequence to those going from Russia to Siberia, for they come from the more civilized districts, and are supplied with all necessaries; but to those arriving from the countries of Central Asia, after a long and fatiguing journey, it would no doubt be more satisfactory if the first European town of the empire, situated on the Asiatic frontier, were better supplied with stores.

  At Perm the travellers resell their vehicles, more or less damaged by the long journey across the plains of Siberia. There, too, those passing from Europe to Asia purchase carriages during the summer, and sleighs in the winter season, before starting for a several months’ journey through the steppes.

  Michael Strogoff had already sketched out his programme, so now he had nothing to do but execute it.

  A vehicle carrying the mail usually runs across the Ural Mountains, but at the present time this, of course, was discontinued. Even if it had not been so, Michael Strogoff would not have taken it, as he wished to travel as fast as possible, without depending on any one. He wisely preferred to buy a carriage, and journey by stages, stimulating the zeal of the postillions, or iemschiks, as they are called, by well-applied “na vodkou,” or tips.

  Unfortunately, in consequence of the measures taken against foreigners of Asiatic origin, a large number of travellers 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 without danger, and the postmasters would give him the preference. But, once out of European Russia, 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. Wheels, axles, pole-bolts, body, shafts, are all furnished by neighbouring trees, and the pieces of which the telga is composed are 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 “perckladnoi,” is made by means of 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 as 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 travellers 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 the town of Perm. Notwith-standing that, 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, and consequently to start 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 which a woman may be unable to endure.”

  “I shall endure them, whatever they may be,” replied the girl. “If you ever hear a complaint from my lips you may leave me in the road, and continue your journey alone.”