III

MANCHURIA UNDER RUSSIAN RULE

Am I on Chinese territory? Does Manchuria really belong to the Yellow Empire? Since I crossed the Russian frontier several days ago there has not been the slightest change that I could see. Everything has remained Russian.

Our train was in charge of Muscovite soldiers, the railway officials at the stopping places were Russian officers, the barracks around were inhabited by Cossacks. The line was guarded by Russian troops, and if the latest reports could be trusted, public safety seemed far from secured. Hardly a day pa.s.sed without atrocities of some kind being reported, and skirmishes between Manchu marauders and Russian scouts were of frequent occurrence. The railway itself was constantly threatened, the banks destroyed, and the rails torn up; so even our train was provided with a military escort to defend it in case of necessity.

The "Eastern Chinese Railway Company," so called in order that there might be something Chinese at all events about the name, is an exclusively Russian enterprise, and no one disputes its entirely strategic object, which is to connect Vladivostok and Port Arthur with Moscow and St. Petersburg. This became very evident to me during my journey. The line is constructed by Russian troops and military engineers under the direction of officers. It is still far from complete, and I was therefore the better able to watch the progress of this interesting undertaking. The work is carried on at great speed--thousands of coolies are employed upon it under the supervision of Cossacks. The sand is moved in wheelbarrows, sleepers are laid and rails fixed, all at one and the same time, by different gangs of workmen. The system of construction is the same as that so successfully adopted by General Annenkoff for the Trans-Caspian Railway.

I had plenty of time to give my full attention to it, for there was nothing else to see. We were crossing the north-eastern border of the Gobi desert, and if ever desert was rightly so named, it is this one.

The Sahara has at least the charm of the tropics, the Arabian desert has the beauty of a cloudless sky, the desert of Bikanir possesses the golden hues of the Indian sun; but the Gobi desert has nothing to commend it; it is absolutely desolate. There is neither colour nor charm, but a leaden sky hangs over an endless expanse of grey dust--or rather, ashes--which, when whirled about in the wind, obscures heaven and earth and covers everything as with a shroud. Not a village was in sight, not even a solitary dwelling. The only living creatures in this desolate region seemed to be the Russian troops and the legions of coolies working under their orders.

Before going any further I must explain that I was travelling by goods train. The line, as already said, was not finished, the rails hardly laid, and there were no proper stations; guards and officials being accommodated in temporary huts and encampments. There was no regular tariff and no tickets were issued. Trains of trucks with materials for construction plied between the main junctions, and these same trains also conveyed the workmen and the persons connected with the undertaking, to their various destinations.

It was necessary to get a special permission from the authorities to travel by this route. Of course I was prepared to rough it, and the directors had not disguised from me the fact that as yet no arrangements had been made for the convenience of pa.s.sengers. They could not even promise that I should reach Port Arthur without delay, for some of the temporary bridges had been destroyed by the autumn rains, and the railway banks in various parts were washed away by the floods. But a special car was placed at my disposal for the whole journey across Manchuria, and this semi-saloon car became my domicile for several weeks.

To give some idea of my movable house, I may say that although the exterior was extremely simple, the interior was comfortable enough. It consisted of a bedroom, a study, a pa.s.sage, a lavatory, and a small balcony; besides these, there were a kitchen and sleeping accommodation for my servant. The balcony was my favourite resort: many a peaceful hour have I spent there in reading or writing, and looking out upon that dismal landscape unfolding itself in its monstrous immensity.

Sometimes my home was shunted and I was left for days to amuse myself in the vicinity of some place of interest. Then it would be hooked on again behind trucks carrying bricks, iron, and all kinds of machinery. My carriage was my home, my stronghold. And indeed it was not unlike a fortified castle when it stood motionless near one of the stations, with sentries and watches patrolling round or halting in the neighbouring encampment. I was never quite sure whether they regarded me as a convict or whether they kept a kindly watch over me.

Along the route various stations were in process of building, some already roofed. Unpretentious structures they were, never more than one storey high, and roofed with black tiles. Outwardly they resemble the Chinese houses, and the beams are curved in the "Ting" style. Although unfinished, they impress one as if enc.u.mbered with a weary past, rather than as having a bright future in store.

Everything, in fact, has a doleful aspect here. There are no gardens and no cultivation of any kind worth mentioning. The station yards are swamps, or pools of mud. Here and there an attempt has been made to improve matters, and stones or planks are laid down at intervals to a.s.sist the traveller in crossing.

Refreshment rooms are liberally provided on the Trans-Siberian line, and occasionally they even have some pretence to luxury; but in Manchuria they are of the most primitive description, scarcely provided with the barest necessities. A wooden table and a rough bench are the usual accommodation, and the cabbage soup or the national _kasha_ made of buck-wheat is served by an amateur cook with all the air of a novice in the profession. At the junctions, where trade is somewhat brisker, one is able to get _piroshki_, which means, as it is, one of the favourite Russian dishes.

Primitive as the refreshment places are--a bare tent sometimes serving the double purpose of kitchen and dining-room, with an old kerosene-oil case for table and dresser--they are always much frequented. On the same principle as that adopted for the construction of the railway, the Russian "chefs" make the Chinese coolies do all the work.

Travelling through Manchuria in this leisurely manner, I had plenty of time to obtain a thorough acquaintance with its different regions. From a geographical point of view the northern portion consists of a barren tableland; towards the south it becomes wooded, and in the vicinity of the towns the ground is fairly well cultivated.

[Ill.u.s.tration: TSI-TSI-KAR "The capital of Northern Manchuria is Tsi-tsi-kar"

To face page 68]

The capital of Northern Manchuria is Tsi-tsi-kar. The Governor of the province resides there, and it is the centre of that part of the country. But the town itself is very primitive, and far behind the other two chief towns, Kirin and Mukden. The population is a mixture of Manchus, Chinese, and Buriats, who do a small trade in raw materials, more especially in skins of all sorts.

From a very early date caravans have made this place one of their stopping stations on their way from the southern provinces to the districts north of the Amur. The people still use the same primitive carts as in those remote times, sometimes drawn by Mongolian ponies--I have seen as many as sixteen or eighteen to one cart--more often by oxen.

The peculiar way in which the harness was fixed always amused me: it seemed an inextricable confusion of straps and cords. How do they manage it? It is a problem which only Chinese patience can solve.

I had equally good opportunities of studying the local dress and the customs of the natives. In this vast, barren region, where no European had ever penetrated before the construction of the railway, everything is still in its primitive state. The people live partly by agriculture, such as it is, and partly by fishing. The houses are extremely poor; we should call them hovels, built of bricks or dried mud. There they live, together with their cattle and other domestic animals. Like all Asiatics, they are devoted to horse-breeding, and I visited several large _haras_.

Flocks and herds abound, but the animal one meets with most frequently is the pig; but the pigs of this region are very different from ours.

They are usually black, with long, thin tails, looking rather like boars. Numbers of them are to be seen in every yard, rooting up the ground and giving the Manchu homestead about as untidy and dirty an appearance as is possible to conceive.

Of poultry there is no lack either. Geese, ducks, and fowls share the family abode. The entrance to every house is guarded by half-savage dogs, like so many wolves, and certainly not less ferocious. More than once I was nearly devoured by them, and as it is not advisable to fight them I always took care to have my pockets full of biscuits.

A Manchu home, in short, has the appearance of a cattle show, or a Noah's ark, and the life lived is unquestionably antediluvian.

Speaking generally, the cultural standard of the Manchus is much below the average Chinese level. The people look more barbarous to begin with, their occupations are all of a rough nature, and the old Confucian doctrines have never penetrated to them. They have always led a merely animal rather than an intellectual life, an existence of strife rather than of thought, and to this day the Imperial army consists almost exclusively of Manchu soldiers.

Our progress was very slow. For many days we travelled on leisurely, with occasional stoppages long enough to enable me to make excursions into the interior. I tried every means of conveyance--bullock-carts, Mongol ponies, Cossack horses. It was tiring work, but gave me extraordinary opportunities of making myself familiar with the country and its inhabitants. At last I reached Kharbin, a famous town, being the junction where the three railways of Manchuria meet, viz. the Vladivostok, the Port Arthur, and the Siberian lines.

[Ill.u.s.tration: KHARBIN "Of all the places I have visited during this long journey, Kharbin seems to me the dreariest" To face page 70]

Of all the places I have visited during this long journey, Kharbin seems to me the dreariest, the most desolate. A dull, cold autumn afternoon greeted me on my arrival. The rain fell in torrents; not only did the water pour down from the skies, but it oozed up from the ground as well.

The river had overflowed, and all the land was inundated. Half the place stood under water. The railway station looked like a little island in the midst of a marsh. Together with the few pa.s.sengers for Vladivostok I was carried on men's shoulders into the waiting-room, a mere barn, where we found a mixed crowd of mujiks and Cossacks with their luggage, which consisted of bedding, cooking utensils, packages and bundles of all sorts and sizes, tied together, piled around them.

The same place also served as refreshment room, and at one end of it about a dozen officers were dining at a big table. A pretentious gilded chandelier--ironically reminding one of Western luxury--formed the centre-piece. But I had no time to admire its beauty or even to sit down to my meal, although I was nearly famished. The station-master came bustling up to me with a very disconsolate countenance and informed me that he had received a telegram intimating that a bridge near Liaoyang had been carried away by the floods, and that in consequence of the defective state of the roads it was impossible to say when the next train would start.

It would be difficult to describe my consternation on hearing this depressing announcement, for I fully realized the awfulness of my position should I be compelled to make a prolonged stay in this place.

The roads were so bad that excursions would be out of the question, and I should have to remain a prisoner in my carriage until the road was open again.

Meanwhile, I gladly accepted the offer of a seat in a _taranta.s.s_ to drive round the town. Kharbin is of interest from a modern point of view because it is one of the headquarters of the Russians in Manchuria.

The town has sprung up within recent years, about the time of the Chino-j.a.panese war. It consists of barracks and military quarters, ammunition stores, railroad factories, and a few private houses for the families of officers, railway officials, and employes. It has no pretence to beauty, and in the flooded condition in which I saw it, its gloomy buildings, streaming with rain, looked deplorable. We came past some shops where tinned meats, vegetables, and other provisions are sold. There is also a hotel, which I prefer not to describe. I was told that the place even boasts a cafe and music-hall, the only place of poor amus.e.m.e.nt for the officers and their wives in garrison there. Kharbin is supposed to have about fifteen thousand inhabitants, but where were they? Were they dead, asleep, or hiding? I could not see a single living being. Could this be altogether accounted for by the weather, even allowing that the water in the streets rose to the knees of the horses, and that the wheels of our vehicle were submerged to the axle?

As we drove along my amiable guide explained to me that Kharbin is a military place, destined to see much active service in the event of a war, because, being situated on the junction of three great railway lines, it would be the centre for the mobilization and concentration of the troops. It would probably become the headquarters of the intendant and of the ammunition service. Hospitals, too, would be erected and the Red Cross would have a large staff there. I listened with interest to all these conjectures and plans for the future.

It was night when we returned to the station, where an agreeable surprise awaited me. I was told that a goods train with a convoy of coolies and troops to repair the line which had been destroyed, would be ready to start a little after midnight. Could my carriage be attached to it? I inquired. At first it seemed doubtful. No one appeared to know how far we could get, and there was even some question as to whether the road would bear the weight of the train. However, anything, no matter what, would be better than Kharbin, I thought; even the uncertainty of the future was preferable to the certainty of the present.

About three o'clock in the morning, after an interminable night of bustling, coming and going of troops, rushing about of coolies, shunting and whistling of engines, we at last began to move. The train presented a curious appearance. It consisted chiefly of open trucks and a few wagons in which the soldiers lay huddled together, with their winter coats tucked under their heads for pillows, while hundreds of coolies were packed like cattle in the open carriages.

At first we pa.s.sed slowly through a vast, partially submerged plain.

Often the road was entirely under water, and in various places so badly damaged that we had to proceed with the greatest possible caution. More than once the coolies had to turn out with pickaxe, shovel, and building material to repair the line, under the strict supervision of the officers of the railway service. I availed myself of the frequent stoppages and our altogether casual progress to study the country.

When at last we reached the large province of Central Manchuria there was a notable change in the geographical aspect. The ground became hilly and wooded. We followed several winding valleys, irrigated by tortuous watercourses, and surrounded by mountain ridges. In some parts it was decidedly pretty. The soil is fertile, and nature has endowed it with many precious gifts. The mountain slopes are rich in minerals and the woods abound with game. The mineral wealth of Manchuria is as yet unexplored, and there are comparatively few gold, silver, and copper mines in process of exploitation. Some foreign syndicates have been formed, more especially in the south, and these have proved successful, but since the Russian occupation of the railway district they have been hampered by all sorts of difficulties, and except in the free port of Niu-chw.a.n.g, the introduction of foreign capital has been stopped.

In actual size Central Manchuria is considerably smaller than the northern district of Tsi-tsi-kar--also known as Halung-kiang--but the population of the north is only about one million, while Central Manchuria contains twice as many inhabitants. The seat of government for this latter district is at Kirin, a very ancient town with quaint houses built in the old Chinese style, yamens with shining roofs, temples and paG.o.das, all very picturesque.

Kirin itself is famous for the battlemented wall which, with its heavy ramparts and paG.o.da-like towers, is very imposing. But the chief attraction of this provincial capital is the surrounding scenery.

Valleys and mountains, dark forests and distant blue mountain peaks, form a most charming picture. It is indeed a glorious region, and a joy both to the sportsman and to the artist. The fishing in the mountain streams is excellent, and there are still numbers of leopards, bears, wolves, a certain kind of deer, foxes, and hares in the forests. For the artist the opportunities here are not less ample; pretty woodland scenery, attractive bits of street corners, and town scenery, and above all the historical monuments, the celebrated royal tombs, and the commemorative tablets on the river banks, or hidden in the sacred groves; all these are excellent subjects for sketches.

The great difficulty at the present moment is how to reach these beautiful regions. There are, so far, only a very few stations in process of building on this route, and it must be remembered that even these, though called by the names of the various places, are often twenty or thirty miles distant from the towns they represent, and that there are scarcely any means of conveyance, and that in many cases there is not even a road!

It would seem as if the Eastern Chinese Railway scrupulously avoided all inhabited regions, and certainly in its present condition, and as long as there are no branch lines, it is useless for all purposes of ordinary traffic or commercial enterprise. The Russian officers who have projected it appear to have had only one object in view, to connect in the most direct manner Vladivostok and Port Arthur with the Siberian line, for the sole purpose of transporting troops in case of need with the least possible delay.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A STREET IN KHARBIN "The water in the streets rose to the knees of the horses" To face page 76]

All this great work has been done quietly, unostentatiously, and without arousing any ill-feeling among the natives. At the present moment one may travel for a whole day without catching sight of anything more conspicuous than railway buildings, barracks, and encampments with Russian soldiers lining the entire length of the route.

After several days' travelling we emerged into cultivated plains, rich pasture land intersected by patches of Indian corn, beans, etc. Crops of all kinds presented themselves before our eyes. The country no longer showed the barren desolation of the Gobi desert, nor the romantic wildness of Central Manchuria. It was peopled! There were men working in the fields, and I could see houses and little farms, poor and miserable enough it is true, but at least indicative of human life.

FROM MUKDEN STATION TO MUKDEN TOWN