Works of A.P. Chekhov, Vol. 10: Sakhalin Island

In the Amur region and the Primorsky Territory, the intelligentsia—despite the small overall population—constitutes a significant percentage; relatively speaking, there are more of them here than in any typical Russian province. On the Amur, there is a city where one counts 16 generals alone, both military and civil. By now, there may be even more.

The day was quiet and clear. It was hot on deck and stuffy in the cabins; the water temperature was +18°C. This weather would befit even the Black Sea. On the right bank, a forest was burning; the solid green mass cast off crimson flames, and clouds of smoke merged into a long, black, motionless strip hanging over the forest. The fire was enormous, yet everything around was quiet and calm; no one cared that the forests were perishing. Clearly, this green wealth belongs to God alone.

After dinner, at about six o'clock, we were already at Cape Pronge. Here, Asia ends, and one might say that at this spot the Amur flows into the Great Ocean, were it not for the island of Sakhalin standing in the way. Before my eyes, the Liman estuary spreads out broadly; ahead, a foggy strip is barely visible—that is the penal island. To the left, losing itself in its own curves, the shore disappears into the haze, heading toward the unknown north. It seems as though this is the end of the world and there is nowhere left to sail. The soul is gripped by a feeling such as Odysseus likely experienced while sailing an unknown sea, dimly anticipating encounters with extraordinary beings. And indeed, to the right, at the very turn into the Liman where a Gilyak an older term for the Nivkh people village has nestled on the shallows, some strange creatures are rushing toward us in two boats, shouting in an incomprehensible language and waving something. It is hard to tell what they have in their hands, but as they draw closer, I distinguish grey birds.

"They want to sell us dead geese," someone explains.