In youth, under the influence of Gustave Aimard and Mayne Reid, my inflamed fancy often wended through the virgin forests of America. Alarming adventures, courageous fights with savage beasts, the manly repulse of cunning robbers, magnanimity toward prisoners, noble and honorable behavior, the keeping of one's word— all represented a tempting picture and made quite attractive the Redskins of the Far West.

“Here it is, real life!” I thought to myself when I was fourteen. “All the civilized world's false conventionality is unncessary in the plains or woods. Seeing this reflection of the simple truth, you’re infected by it, and you can't lie or be greedy. Here's why savage peoples are really more civilized than Europeans. No, I have to leave here…”

Such were my thoughts during my first journey at sea and traveling to America. But when I later happened to be speeding with furious haste in a luxurious Pullman car through the Rocky Mountains, and my eyes grew familiar with the last Mohicans’ pitiful lives, bitter disappointment set in. Here were not those brave Commanches or Coras of Aimard, noble and silent. Most of the Indians I encountered were wretched paupers with emaciated faces, stunted and poorly clothed. Even those living in the lightly populated areas had also lost their independent, warlike character and were passively occupied with hunting and fishing.

Also making a sad impression were the aboriginals of central Sakhalin—the Giliaks. When I first saw a group of Giliaks walking one after another, with hair black as pitch, rifles on their shoulders, and sticks in their hands for fending off Russian dogs, I immediately recalled the residual woodland residents of modern America's northwest, who also silently walked single-file, with the same hatless black hair.

I very much wanted to know the Giliaks better, and this proved not so difficult. One merely had to offer an invitation, host them properly with cordials and hot tea and bread, show them fondness and a little attention, and they were ready to sit with you the entire day.

“Well,” I told myself, “your youthful wishes have come true. Now, you’re not dreaming, but are actually living amid the very savage conditions that would honor your favorite Aimard novel.