Russia | Page 9

great fair, and then get on board one of the Volga
steamers. For those who have mastered the important fact that Russia is
not a country of fine scenery, the voyage down the river is pleasant
enough. The left bank is as flat as the banks of the Rhine below
Cologne, but the right bank is high, occasionally well wooded, and not
devoid of a certain tame picturesqueness. Early on the second day the
steamer reaches Kazan, once the capital of an independent Tartar
khanate, and still containing a considerable Tartar population. Several
metchets (as the Mahometan houses of prayer are here termed), with
their diminutive minarets in the lower part of the town, show that
Islamism still survives, though the khanate was annexed to Muscovy
more than three centuries ago; but the town, as a whole, has a European

rather than an Asiatic character. If any one visits it in the hope of
getting "a glimpse of the East," he will be grievously disappointed,
unless, indeed, he happens to be one of those imaginative tourists who
always discover what they wish to see. And yet it must be admitted that,
of all the towns on the route, Kazan is the most interesting. Though not
Oriental, it has a peculiar character of its own, whilst all the
others--Simbirsk, Samara, Saratof--are as uninteresting as Russian
provincial towns commonly are. The full force and solemnity of that
expression will be explained in the sequel.
Probably about sunrise on the third day something like a range of
mountains will appear on the horizon. It may be well to say at once, to
prevent disappointment, that in reality nothing worthy of the name of
mountain is to be found in that part of the country. The nearest
mountain-range in that direction is the Caucasus, which is hundreds of
miles distant, and consequently cannot by any possibility be seen from
the deck of a steamer. The elevations in question are simply a low
range of hills, called the Zhigulinskiya Gori. In Western Europe they
would not attract much attention, but "in the kingdom of the blind," as
the French proverb has it, "the one-eyed man is king"; and in a flat
region like Eastern Russia these hills form a prominent feature. Though
they have nothing of Alpine grandeur, yet their well-wooded slopes,
coming down to the water's edge--especially when covered with the
delicate tints of early spring, or the rich yellow and red of autumnal
foliage--leave an impression on the memory not easily effaced.
On the whole--with all due deference to the opinions of my patriotic
Russian friends--I must say that Volga scenery hardly repays the time,
trouble and expense which a voyage from Nizhni to Tsaritsin demands.
There are some pretty bits here and there, but they are "few and far
between." A glass of the most exquisite wine diluted with a gallon of
water makes a very insipid beverage. The deck of the steamer is
generally much more interesting than the banks of the river. There one
meets with curious travelling companions. The majority of the
passengers are probably Russian peasants, who are always ready to chat
freely without demanding a formal introduction, and to relate--with
certain restrictions--to a new acquaintance the simple story of their

lives. Often I have thus whiled away the weary hours both pleasantly
and profitably, and have always been impressed with the peasant's
homely common sense, good-natured kindliness, half-fatalistic
resignation, and strong desire to learn something about foreign
countries. This last peculiarity makes him question as well as
communicate, and his questions, though sometimes apparently childish,
are generally to the point.
Among the passengers are probably also some representatives of the
various Finnish tribes inhabiting this part of the country; they may be
interesting to the ethnologist who loves to study physiognomy, but they
are far less sociable than the Russians. Nature seems to have made
them silent and morose, whilst their conditions of life have made them
shy and distrustful. The Tartar, on the other hand, is almost sure to be a
lively and amusing companion. Most probably he is a peddler or small
trader of some kind. The bundle on which he reclines contains his
stock-in-trade, composed, perhaps, of cotton printed goods and
especially bright- coloured cotton handkerchiefs. He himself is
enveloped in a capacious greasy khalat, or dressing-gown, and wears a
fur cap, though the thermometer may be at 90 degrees in the shade. The
roguish twinkle in his small piercing eyes contrasts strongly with the
sombre, stolid expression of the Finnish peasants sitting near him. He
has much to relate about St. Petersburg, Moscow, and perhaps
Astrakhan; but, like a genuine trader, he is very reticent regarding the
mysteries of his own craft. Towards sunset he retires with his
companions to some quiet spot on the