at stretensk i awakened to the fact that i was actually in siberia, nay, that i had travelled over about two thousand miles of siberia, that dark and gloomy land across which—i believed in my youth—tramped long lines of prisoners in chains, sometimes amidst the snow and ice of a bitter winter, sometimes with the fierce sun beating down upon them, but always hopeless, always hungry, weary, heartbroken, a sacrifice to the desire for political liberty that was implanted in the hearts of an enslaved people.

it is an extraordinary thing that, though for many years i had believed saghalien was a terrible island, a sort of inferno for political prisoners, something like van diemen's land used to be in the old convict days one hundred and ten years ago, only that in the asiatic island the conditions were still more cruel and it was hopeless to think of escaping, while i was actually in that beautiful island i was so taken up with its charm, it was so extremely unlike the place of which i had a picture in my mind's eye, that i hardly connected the two. all up the amur river was a new land, a land crying out for pioneers, pastoralists and farmers, so that the thought that was uppermost in my mind was of the contrast between it and the old land of china, where i had spent so long a time; but at stretensk i suddenly remembered this was siberia, the very heart of siberia, where men had suffered unutterable things, might still be so suffering for all i knew, and i stepped off the steamer and prepared to explore, with a feeling that at any moment i might come across the heavy logs that made up the walls of a prison, might see the armed sentries, clad to the eyes in furs, who tramped amidst the snow. but this was august and it was fiercely hot, so the snow and the sentries clad in furs were ruled out, and presently as buchanan and i walked about the town even the lonely prison built of logs had to go too. there may have been a prison, probably there was, but it did not dominate the picture. not here should i find the siberia i had been familiar with from my youth up.

stretensk is like all other siberian towns that i have seen. the houses are mostly of one storey and of wood, of logs; the streets are wide and straight, cutting each other at right angles, and the whole is flung out upon the plain; it is really, i think, rather high among the mountains, but you do not get the sensation of hills as you do from the steamer.

the rain had cleared away and it was very hot, though we had started out very early because i was determined to go west if possible that very afternoon; we went gingerly because the dangers of siberian towns for one who looked fairly prosperous had been impressed upon me at blagoveschensk, and i hesitated about going far from the steamer, where the mate could speak english. still we went. i was not going to miss the siberia of my dreams if i could help it.

i saw something more wonderful than the siberia of my dreams.

in consequence of the ceaseless rain the roads between the log-houses with their painted windows were knee-deep in mud, a quagmire that looked impassable. in the air was the sound of martial music, and up and down in what would have been reckless fashion but for the restraining glue-like mud galloped officers and their orderlies. it was the war, the first i had seen of it. the war was taking the place of the political exiles, and instead of seeing siberia as a background for the exiles as i had dreamed of it for so many years, i saw it busy with preparations for war. the roads were like sloughs out of which it would have been impossible to get had i ever ventured in. naturally i did not venture, but took all sorts of long rounds to get to the places i wanted to reach. it is not a bad way of seeing a town.

the heavily built houses, built to defy the siberian winter, might have come out of nikolayeusk or kharbarosvk, and though the sun poured down out of a cloudless sky, and i was gasping in a thin shantung silk, they were hermetically sealed, and the cotton wool between the double windows was decorated with the usual gay ribbons. i dare say they were cool enough inside, but they must have been intolerably stuffy. the sidewalks too had dried quickly in the fierce sunshine. they were the usual siberian sidewalks, with long lines of planks like flooring. had they ever been trodden, i wonder, by the forced emigrant looking with hopeless longing back to the west. finally we wandered into the gardens, where i doubt not, judging by the little tables and many seats, there was the usual gay throng at night, but now early in the morning everything looked dishevelled, and i could not find anyone to supply me with the cool drink of which i stood so badly in need, and at last we made our way back to the steamer, where the mate, having got over the struggle of arrival—for this was the farthest the steamer went—kindly found time enough to give himself to my affairs. i wanted a droshky to take me to the train, and as nowhere about had i seen any signs of a railway station i wanted to know where it was.

the mate laughed and pointed far away down the river on the other side. i really ought to have known my siberia better by now. railways are not constructed for the convenience of the townsfolk. there was nothing else for it. i had to get there somehow, and as the train left somewhere between five and six, about noon, with the mate's assistance, i engaged a droshky. the carriages that are doing a last stage in this country are not quite so elderly here as they are in saghalien, but that is not saying much for them. the one the mate engaged for me had a sturdy little ungroomed horse in the shafts and another running in a trace alongside. on the seat was packed all my baggage, two small suit-cases and a large canvas sack into which i dumped rugs, cushions and all odds and ends, including my precious kettles, and the rough little unkempt horses towed us down through the sea of mud to the ferry, and then i saw the scene had indeed shifted. it was not long lines of exiles bearing chains i met, that was all in the past, at least for an outsider like me, but here in the heart of asia russia in her might was collecting her forces for a spring. the great flat ferry was crossing and recrossing, and down the swamp that courtesy called a road came endless streams of square khaki-coloured carts, driven by men in flat caps and belted khaki blouses, big fair men, often giants with red, sun-tanned faces and lint-white hair, men who shouted and laughed and sang and threw up their caps, who were sober as judges and yet were wild with excitement; they were going to the war. i could not understand one word they said, but there is no mistaking gladness, and these men were delighted with their lot. i wondered was it a case of the prisoner freed or was it that life under the old regime in a russian village was dull to monotony and to these recruits was coming the chance of their lifetime.

some will never come east again, never whether in love or hate will they see the steppes and the flowers and the golden sunshine and the snow of siberia, they have left their bones on those battle-fields; but some, i hope, will live to see the regeneration of russia, when every man shall have a chance of freedom and happiness. i suppose this revolution was in the air as cart after cart drove on to the ferry and the men yelled and shouted in their excitement. a small company of men who were going east looked at them tolerantly—i'm sure it was tolerantly—and then they too caught the infection and yelled in chorus.

i watched it all with interest.

then half-an-hour passed and still they came; an hour, and i grew a little worried, for they were still pouring over. two hours—i comforted myself, the train did not start till late in the afternoon—three horns, and there was no cessation in the stream. and of course i could make no one understand. it looked as if i might wait here all night. at last a man who was manifestly an officer came galloping along and him i addressed in french.

“is it possible to cross on the ferry?”

he was very courteous.

“it is not possible to cross, madame. it is not possible. the soldiers come first.”

i took another look at the good-humoured, strapping, fair-haired soldiers in khaki, with their khaki-coloured carts. the ferry crossing was laden with them, hundreds of others were waiting, among them numbers of country people. they had bundles and laden baskets and looked people who had shopped and wanted to go home again. were these exiles? i did not know. they looked simple peasants. whoever they were, there did not seem much chance for them or me, and i said the one russian word i knew, “steamer,” and indicated that i wanted to go back there. much as i wanted to go home, tired as i was of travelling, i decided i would postpone my railway journey for a day and take advantage of that comfortable russian custom that allows you to live on a steamer for two days while she is in port. the ishvornik nodded, back we went helter-skelter to the wharf and—the steamer was gone!

i have had some bad moments in my life, but that one stands out still. why, i hardly know, for sitting here in my garden it does not seem a very terrible thing. i had plenty of money in my pocket and there were hotels in the town. but no! more than ever, safe here in kent, do i dread a siberian hotel! then i was distinctly afraid. i might so easily have disappeared and no one would have asked questions for months to come. i tried to tell the boy i wanted to go to one of those dreaded hotels—i felt i would have to risk it, for i certainly could not spend the night in a droshky—and i could not make him understand. perhaps, as in saghalien, there were no hotels to accommodate a woman of my class, or perhaps, as is most probable, they were all full of soldiers, anyhow he only looked at me blankly, and buchanan and i looked at each other. buchanan anyhow had no fears. he was quite sure i could take care of him. i looked at the boy again and then, as if he had suddenly had an inspiration, he drove me back to the place opposite the ferry whence we had come. the soldiers were there still, crowds and crowds of them, with their little carts and horses, and they were amusing themselves by stealing each other's fodder; the ferry had come back, but there were no soldiers on it, only the country people were crowding down. i had been forbidden to go upon it, and never should i have dreamt of disobeying orders, but my driver had different views. he waited till no officer was looking, seized my baggage and flung it down on the great ferry right in front of the military stores, beside the refreshment stall where they were selling sausages and bread in round rings such as peasants eat, and tea and lemonade. i had not expected to find so commonplace a thing on a river in siberia. now i had sat in that dilapidated carriage for over four hours and i was weary to death, also i could not afford to be parted from my luggage, so i put buchanan under my arm—it was too muddy for him to walk—and followed as fast as i could. my good angel prompted me to pay that driver well. i paid him twice what the mate had said it ought to cost me if i waited half-a-day, and never have i laid out money to better advantage. he turned to a big man who was standing by, a man in sea-boots, a red belted blouse and the tall black astrakhan cap that i have always associated in my own mind 'with circassians, and spoke to him, saying “anglisky.” evidently he said it might be worth his while to look after me. i don't know whether this gentleman was a caucasian, one of the “wolves of the amur,” but whoever he was, he was a very hefty and capable individual, with a very clear idea of what a foreign lady ought to do, and he promptly constituted himself my guardian.

after all, the world, take it on the whole, is a very kindly, honest place. so many times have i been stranded when i might quite easily have been stripped of everything, and always some good samaritan has come to my aid, and the reward, though i did my best, has never been commensurate with the services rendered.

the ferry across the shilka at stretensk is a great affair, like a young paddock afloat, and beside the horses and carts upon it were a number of country people with their bundles. i sat there a little uncomfortably because i did not know what would happen, only i was determined not to be parted from my baggage. presently the huge float drifted off, amidst wild shouts and yells. when i was there, a great deal in russia was done to the accompaniment of much shouting, and i rather fancy that this ferry was going off on an unauthorised jaunt of its own. the shilka is a broad river here, a fortnight's steamer journey from its mouth, but the ferry came to a full stop in the middle of the stream and a motor boat which did not look as if it could hold half the people came alongside.

“skurry! skurry!” was the cry, and the people began leaping overboard into the boat. the military were getting rid summarily of their civilian crowd. in a few seconds that boat was packed to the gunwales and i was looking over at it. i had buchanan under my arm; he was always a good little dog at critical moments, understanding it was his part to keep quiet and give as little trouble as possible. in my other hand i had my despatch-case, and, being anything but acrobatic by temperament, i felt it was hopeless to think of getting into it. if the penalty for not doing so had been death, i do not think i could have managed it. however, i didn't have a say in the matter. the big russian in the red blouse picked me up and dropped me, little dog, box and all, into the boat, right on top of the people already there. first i was on top, and then, still hanging on to my little dog, i slipped down a little, but my feet found no foothold; i was wedged between the screaming people. after me, with my luggage on his shoulder, came my guardian, and he somehow seemed to find a very precarious foothold on the gunwale, and he made me understand he wanted two roubles for our fares. if he had asked for ten he would have got it, but how i managed to get at my money to this day i do not know. the boat rocked and swayed in a most alarming manner, and i thought to myself, well, we are on top now, but presently the boat will upset and then we shall certainly be underneath. i gathered that the passengers were disputing with the boatman as to the price to be paid for the passage across, though this was unwise, for the ferry was threatening momentarily to crush us against the rocky bank. he was asking sixty kopecks—a little over a shilling—and with one voice they declared that forty was enough. considering the crowd, forty i should have thought would have paid him excellently. that i had given my guardian more did not trouble me, because any extra he earned was more than justified, for one thing was certain, i could never have tackled the job by myself.

just as i was growing desperate and buchanan began to mention that he was on the verge of suffocation the difficulty of the fares was settled and we made for the bank. but we did not go to the usual landing-stage; that, i presume, was forbidden as sacred to the soldiers, and we drew up against a steep, high bank faced with granite.

“skurry! skurry!” and more than ever was haste necessary, for it looked as if the great ferry would certainly crush us. the people began scrambling up. but i was helpless. whatever happened, i knew i could never climb that wall. i could only clutch my little dog and await events. my guardian was quite equal to the situation. the boat had cleared a little and there was room to move, and, dropping the baggage, he picked me up like a baby and tossed me, dog and all, up on to the bank above. whether that boat got clear away from the ferry i do not know. when i visited the place next morning there were no remains, so i presume she did, but at the time i was giving all my attention to catching a train.

my guardian engaged a boy to carry the lighter baggage, and shouldering the rest himself, he took me by the arm and fairly raeed me up the steep incline to the railway station that was a seething mass of khaki-clad men.

“billet! billet!” said he, raping the sweat from his streaming face and making a way for me among the thronging recruits. there was a train coming in and he evidently intended i should catch it.

such a crowd it was, and in the railway station confusion was worse confounded. it was packed with people—people of the poorer class—and with soldiers, and everyone was giving his opinion of things in general at the top of his voice. my stalwart guardian elbowed a way to the pigeon-hole, still crying, “billet! billet!” and i, seeing i wanted a ticket to petrograd, produced a hundred-rouble note. the man inside pushed it away with contumely and declined it in various unknown tongues. i offered it again, and again it was thrust rudely aside, my guardian becoming vehement in his protests, though what he said i have not the faintest idea. i offered it a third time, then a man standing beside me whisked it away and whisked me away too.

“madame, are you mad?” he asked, as mr barentzen had asked over a week before, but he spoke in french, very russian french. and then he proceeded to explain volubly that all around were thieves, robbers and assassins—oh! the land of suffering exiles—the mobilisation had called them up, and any one of them would cut my throat for a good deal less than a ten-pound note. and he promptly shoved the offending cash in his pocket. it was the most high-handed proceeding i have ever taken part in, and i looked at him in astonishment. he was a man in a green uniform, wearing a military cap with pipings of white and magenta, and the white and magenta were repeated on the coat and trousers. on the whole, the effect was reassuring. a gentleman so attired was really too conspicuous to be engaged in any very nefarious occupation.

he proceeded to explain that by that train i could not go.

it was reserved for the troops. they were turning out the people already in it. this in a measure explained the bedlam in the station. the people who did not want to be landed here and the people who wanted to get away were comparing notes, and there were so many of them they had to do it at the top of their voices.

“when does the next train go?” i asked.

my new friend looked dubious. “possibly to-morrow night,” said he. that was cheering.

“and where is there a hotel?”

he pointed across the river to stretensk.

“are there none this side?”

“no, madame, not one.”

i debated. cross that river again after all it had cost me to get here i could not.

“but where can i stay?”

he looked round as if he were offering palatial quarters.

“here, madame, here.”

in the railway station; there was nothing else for it; and in that railway station i waited till the train came in the following evening.

that little matter settled, i turned to reward my first friend for his efforts on my behalf, and i felt five roubles was little enough. my new friend was very scornful, a rouble was ample, he considered. he had my ten-pound note in his pocket, and i am afraid i was very conscious that he had not yet proved himself, whereas the other man had done me yeoman's service, and never have i parted with ten shillings with more satisfaction. they were certainly earned.

after, i set myself to make the best of the situation. the station was crowded with all sorts and conditions of people, and a forlorn crowd they looked, and curious was the flotsam and jetsam that were their belongings. of course there was the usual travellers' baggage, but there were other things too i did not expect to come across in a railway station in siberia. there was a sewing-machine; there was the trumpet part of a gramophone; there was the back of a piano with all the wires showing; there was a dressmaker's stand, the stuffed form of a woman, looking forlorn and out of place among the bundles of the soldiers.

but the people accepted it as all in the day's work, watched the soldiers getting into the carriages from which they were debarred, and waved their hands and cheered them, though the first train that started for anywhere did not leave till one-fifteen a.m. next morning. they were content that the soldiers should be served first. they settled themselves in little companies on the open platform, in the refreshment-room, in the waiting-rooms, fathers, mothers, children and dogs, and they solaced themselves with kettles of tea, black bread and sausages.

it was all so different from what i had expected, so very different, but the first effect was to bring home to me forcibly the fact that there was a great struggle going on in the west, and eastern siberia was being drawn into the whirlpool, sending her best, whether they were the exiles of my dreams or the thieves and robbers my newest friend had called them, to help in the struggle! to wait a night and day in a railway station was surely a little sacrifice to what some must make. how cheerfully and patiently that siberian crowd waited! there were no complaints, no moans, only here and there a woman buried her head in her shawl and wept for her nearest and dearest, gone to the war, gone out into the unknown, and she might never see him again, might never even know what became of him. truly “they also serve who only stand and wait.”

i went into the refreshment-room to get some food, and had soup with sour cream in it, and ate chicken and bread and butter and cucumber and drank kvass as a change from the eternal tea. i watched the people on the platform and as the shades of night fell began to wonder where i should sleep. i would have chosen the platform, but it looked as if it might rain, so i went into the ladies' waiting-room, dragged a seat across the open window, and spread out my rugs and cushions and established myself there. i wanted to have first right to that window, for the night up in the hills here was chilly and i felt sure somebody would come in and want to shut it. my intuitions were correct. buchanan and i kept that open window against a crowd. everybody who came in—and the room was soon packed—wanted to shut it. they stretched over me and i arose from my slumbers and protested. for, in addition to a crowd, the sanitary arrangements were abominable, and what the atmosphere would have been like with the window shut i tremble to think. i remembered the tales of the pestilential resthouses into which the travelling exiles had been thrust, and i was thankful for that window, thankful too that it was summer-time, for in winter i suppose we would have had to shut it. at last one woman pulled at my rugs and said—though i could not understand her language her meaning was plain enough—that it was all very well for me, i had plenty of rugs, it was they who had nothing. it was a fair complaint, so with many qualms i shared my rugs and the summer night slowly wore to morning.

and morning brought its own difficulties. russian washing arrangements to me are always difficult. i had met them first in kharbin in the house of mr poland. i wrestled with the same thing in the house of the chief of police in saghalien, and i met it in an aggravated form here in the railway station waiting-room. a russian basin has not a plug—it is supposed to be cleaner to wash in running water—and the tap is a twirly affair with two spouts, and on pressing a little lever water gushes out of both and, theoretically, you may direct it where you please. practically i found that while i was directing one stream of water down on to my hands, the other hit me in the eye or the ear, and when i got that right the first took advantage of inattention and deluged me round the waist. it may be my inexperience, but i do not like russian basins. it was running water with a vengeance, it all ran away.

however, i did the best i could, and after, as my face was a little rough and sore from the hot sun of the day before, i took out a jar of hazeline cream and began to rub it on my cheeks. this proceeding aroused intense interest in the women around. what they imagined the cream was for i don't know, but one and all they came and begged some, and as long as that pot held out every woman within range had hazeline cream daubed on her weather-beaten cheeks, and they omitted to rub it off, apparently considering it ornamental. however, hazeline cream is a pleasant preparation.

having dressed, buchanan and i had the long day before us, and i did not dare leave the railway station to explore because i was uneasy about my luggage. i had had it put in the corner of the refreshment-room and as far as i could see no one was responsible for it, and as people were coming and going the livelong day i felt bound to keep an eye upon it. i also awaited with a good deal of interest the gentleman with the variegated uniform and my ten-pound note. he came at last, and explained in french that he had got the change but he could not give it to me till the train came in because of the thieves and robbers, as if he would insist upon tearing the veil of romance i had mapped round siberia. and god forgive me that i doubted the honesty of a very kindly, courteous gentleman.

it was a long, long day because there was really nothing to do save to walk about for buchanan's benefit, and i diversified things by taking odd meals in the refreshment-room whenever i felt i really must do something. but i was very tired. i began to feel i had been travelling too long, and i really think if it had not been for buchanan's sympathy i should have wept. no one seemed at all certain when the next train west might be expected, opinions, judging by fingers pointing at the clock, varying between two o'clock in the afternoon and three o'clock next morning. however, as the evening shadows were beginning to fall a train did come in, and my friend in uniform, suddenly appearing, declared it was the western train. taking me by the hand, he led me into a carriage and, shutting the door and drawing down the blinds, placed in my hands change for my ten-pound note.

“guard your purse, madame,” said he, “guard your purse. there are thieves and robbers everywhere!”

so all the way across siberia had i been warned of the unsafe condition of the country. at kharbin, at nikolayeusk, at blagoveschensk men whose good faith i could not doubt assured me that a ten-pound note and helplessness was quite likely to spell a sudden and ignominious end to my career, and this was in the days when no one doubted the power of the tsar, a bitter commentary surely on an autocracy. what the condition of siberia must be now, with rival factions fighting up and down the land, and released german prisoners throwing the weight of their strength in with the bolshevists, i tremble to think.

when he made sure i had carefully hidden my money and thoroughly realised the gravity of the situation, my friend offered to get my ticket, a second-class ticket, he suggested. i demurred. i am not rich and am not above saving my pennies, but a first-class ticket was so cheap, and ensured so much more privacy, that a second-class was an economy i did not feel inclined to make. he pointed round the carriage in which we were seated. was this not good enough for anyone? it was. i had to admit it, and the argument was clinched by the fact that there was not a first-class carriage on the train. the ticket only cost about five pounds and another pound bought a ticket for buchanan. we got in—my friend in need got in with me, that misjudged friend; it seemed he was the stationmaster at a little place a little way down the line—and we were fairly off on our road to the west.