Whips crack, horses neigh, coachmen yell, travellers scream, porters quarrel. Such is the scene which awaits me in front of the station. I secure one of the many small droshkies, of which there are hundreds, and all shaky and open like the public vehicles of sunny Naples. The only difference is that instead of sunbeams there is sleet falling on us from above. My belongings are put on another droshky, skilfully fitted together like an elaborate mosaic. We start in a sea of mud--dark and liquid as a sauce--which covers everything like a shiny varnish. The depths beneath must be great, for sometimes my droshky is nearly submerged, and the lava-like stream floods our small vehicle. But it seems to be built for use on land or on water, for sometimes I have a sensation of floating in a canoe, rather than rolling along on wheels. We reach terra firma in the shape of a bridge formed of logs, nailed and tied together. The bridge is long, but at last, on coming to the end of it, the driver announces with pride, "We are at Irkutsk." I cannot help asking, "Where?" for I do not see any buildings or any sign of a town. It takes some time before I can distinguish in the depths of the night high palisades, looking very much like those surrounding soldiers' encampments in the Middle Ages. Above the palisades a few roofs emerge, low and sloping, very much like a tent. But at a sharp turn a brilliant electric globe spreads its beams, like those of a lighthouse at sea, to lead the wanderer to a secure harbour. Following its course, we land at the doorway of the famous Hotel du Metropole. For famous it is! I shall certainly not forget it, and hope never to see it again, for I think it contains all that Western bad taste and Eastern filth combined can produce. Along a passage carpeted with red Brussels and mud a waiter, in evening dress, but apparently without linen, shows me to an apartment furnished with green plush, but devoid of bedding. I am told that travellers are expected to bring their own sheets and blankets. I have none, and after some rushing about I am provided with sheets which I prefer not to use, and would rather content myself for my night's rest with an easy chair and some travelling-rugs. There is, moreover, no washstand, for the queer apparatus in the corner, bearing, apparently as an ornament, only one basin about the size of a finger-bowl, cannot be so described. No hot water! And if you call for any they bring a few drops in a cream-jug. Finally, there is no air either! The windows are nailed up all the year through. On trying to open one it nearly fell to pieces. So if people nowadays ask me what hotels in Siberian towns are like, I am bound to say you have plush and gold, but no fresh air and no hot water! VI THE SIBERIAN METROPOLIS [Illustration: IRKUTSK "As I walk down to the Angara's banks I am short of adjectives" To face page 48]