← catalogue

Sketches of Central Asia (1868)

by Ármin Vámbéry · English · Gutenberg #43795 · 670,982 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Sketches of Central Asia (1868)
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Sketches of Central Asia (1868)

Author: Ármin Vámbéry


        
Release date: September 22, 2013 [eBook #43795]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/43795

Credits: Produced by Albert László and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
        produced from images generously made available by The
        Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SKETCHES OF CENTRAL ASIA (1868) ***

Transcriber's note:

Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).

Text enclosed by + symbols is transliterated Greek (+parasangês+).

Small capital text has been replaced with all capitals.


       *       *       *       *       *




SKETCHES OF CENTRAL ASIA.




  SKETCHES
  OF
  CENTRAL ASIA.

  ADDITIONAL CHAPTERS
  ON
  MY TRAVELS, ADVENTURES,
  AND ON THE
  ETHNOLOGY OF CENTRAL ASIA.

  BY
  ARMINIUS VÁMBÉRY,
  PROFESSOR OF ORIENTAL LANGUAGES IN THE
  UNIVERSITY OF PESTH

  PHILADELPHIA:
  J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.
  WM. H. ALLEN & CO., 13, WATERLOO PLACE,
  PALL MALL, LONDON.

  1868.

  [_All rights reserved._]




Lewis and Son, Printers, Swan Buildings, Moorgate Street.




PREFACE.


In the reviews of my "Travels in "Central Asia," which have
issued from the European and American press, I have generally
been reproached with scantiness of details and scrappiness of
treatment;--in a word, with having said much less than I could have
said about my journey from the Bosphorus to Samarkand,--so rich in
varied adventures and experiences.

Now, I will not deny that such a charge has not been quite unfairly
levelled against me.

While I was writing my memoirs, during the first three months of
my stay in London, after my year-long wanderings in Asia, I had
very great trouble in accustoming myself to the idea of being
firmly settled down. I always kept fancying myself bound on the
morrow to pack up and extend my travels with the caravan: hence my
irresolution and hasty procedure. Moreover, I was quite a stranger
in the domain of travelling, and deemed it my duty now to keep
something back for mere decency; anon to leave out something else,
as of inferior interest. Hence many an episode was left untouched,
many a picture remained but a feeble sketch.

To make up for this defect--if sparingness in words be really a
defect--I have written the following pages. They contain only
supplementary papers, partly about my own adventures, partly on the
manners and rare characteristics of the Central Asiatic peoples,
linked together in no particular connection. It would naturally have
been better to offer these pages in the place of the former volume;
and yet the slightest notice of a country so little known to us as
Turkestan, which political questions will soon bring into the front
of passing questions, will always have its uses; and "meglio tardi
che mai."

  A. V.

  PESTH,
  _2nd December, 1867_.




CONTENTS.


                                                             PAGE

  CHAPTER I.

  Dervishes and Hadjis                                          1


  CHAPTER II.

  Recollections of my Dervish Life                             22


  CHAPTER III.

  Amongst the Turkomans                                        44


  CHAPTER IV.

  The Caravan in the Desert                                    62


  CHAPTER V.

  The Tent and its Inhabitants                                 75


  CHAPTER VI.

  The Court of Khiva                                           87


  CHAPTER VII.

  Joy and Sorrow                                               98


  CHAPTER VIII.

  House, Food, and Dress                                      114


  CHAPTER IX.

  From Khiva to Kungrat and back                              127


  CHAPTER X.

  My Tartar                                                   150


  CHAPTER XI.

  The Round of Life in Bokhara                                166


  CHAPTER XII.

  Bokhara, the Head Quarters of Mohamedanism                  186


  CHAPTER XIII.

  The Slave Trade and Slave Life in Central Asia              205


  CHAPTER XIV.

  Productive Power of the Three Oasis-Countries of Turkestan  231


  CHAPTER XV.

  On the Ancient History of Bokhara                           257


  CHAPTER XVI.

  Ethnographical Sketch of the Turanian and Iranian Races
        of Central Asia                                       282


  CHAPTER XVII.

  Iranians                                                    313


  CHAPTER XVIII.

  Literature in Central Asia                                  339


  CHAPTER XIX.

  Rivalry between Russia and England in Central Asia          379




SKETCHES OF CENTRAL ASIA.




CHAPTER I.

DERVISHES AND HADJIS.


The dervish is the veritable personification of Eastern life.
Idleness, fanaticism, and slovenliness, are the features which in
him are regarded as virtues, and which everywhere are represented
by him as such. Idleness is excused by allusion to human impotence;
fanaticism explained as enthusiasm in religion; and slovenliness
justified by the uselessness of poor mortals in struggling against
fate. If the superiority of European civilization over that of the
East was not so clearly established, I should almost be tempted to
envy a dervish, who, clad in tatters and conversing in a corner
of some ruined building, shows, by the twinkling in his eye, the
happiness he enjoys. What a serenity is depicted in that face;
what a placidity in all his actions; what a complete contrast
there is between this picture and that presented by our European
civilization! In my disguise as a dervish it was chiefly this
unnatural composure which made me nervous, and in the imitation of
which I made, of course, the greatest mistakes. I shall never forget
one day at Herat, when, after reflecting on the happiness of the
early termination of the painful mask I had been wearing for so many
months, I suddenly jumped up from my seat, and in a somewhat excited
state began to pace up and down the old ruin which gave me shelter.
A few minutes afterwards I perceived that a crowd of passers by
had collected at the door, and that I was the object of general
astonishment. Seeing my mistake, I blushingly resumed my seat. Soon
afterwards several people came up to ask me what was the matter with
me, whether I was well, &c. The good people thought I was deranged;
for, to oriental notions, a man must be out of his senses if,
without necessity or a special object in view, he suddenly leaves
his seat to pace up and down a room.

As the dervish represents the general character, so he does the
different peoples of the East. It is true, Mahomedanism enforces
the dogma: "El Islam milleti wahidun"--all Islamites are _one_
nation; but the origin and home of the different sects are
easily recognised. Bektashi, Mewlewi, and Rufai, are principally
natives of Turkey; because Bektash, the enthusiastic founder of
the Janissaries, Moola Djelaleddin Rumi, the great poet of the
Mesnevi, lived, and are buried in Turkey; the Kadrie and Djelali
are most frequently met with in Arabia; the Oveisy, and Nurbakhshi
Nimetullah in Persia; the Khilali and Zahibi in India; and the
Nakishbendi and Sofi Islam in Central Asia.[1] The members of the
different fraternities are bound together by very close ties;
apprentices (Murid) and assistants (Khalfa) have to yield implicit
obedience to the chief (Pir), who has an unlimited power over
the life and property of his brethren. But these fraternities do
not in the least trouble themselves about secret political or
social objects, as is sometimes asserted in Europe by enthusiastic
travellers, who have even discovered Freemasons amongst the Bedouin
tribes of the Great Desert. The dervishes are the monks of Islamism;
and the spirit which created and sustains them is that of religious
fanaticism, and they differ from each other only by the manner in
which they demonstrate their enthusiasm. For instance; whilst one of
these religious orders commands constant pilgrimages to the tombs of
saints, the other lays down stringent rules for reflection on divine
infinity and the insignificance of our existence. A third compels
his votaries to occupy themselves day and night with repeating the
name of of God (Zikr) and hymns (Telkin); and it cannot surprise us
to learn that the greater number of a company which has continually
been calling out with all its might: "Ja hu! Ja hakk! La illahi
illa hu! are seized with _delirium tremens_. The orthodox call this
condition Medjzub; _i.e._, carried away by divine love, or to be
in ecstacy. A person to whom such a fortunate event happens, for
as such it is regarded, is envied by everybody; and as long as it
lasts, the sick and the maimed, and barren women, try to get in his
immediate presence, taking hold of his dress,--as touching it is
supposed to have healing powers.

  [1] Sofi Islam is a sect which originated about thirty years ago.
  Its founder, a Tadjik from Belkh, was desirous of opposing the
  ever-increasing influence of the Nakishbendi. In this fraternity
  prevails the principle of communism and blood relationship. The Sofi
  Islamites wear a cap trimmed with fur, and are most frequently met
  with this side of the Oxus, as far as Herat, and also amongst the
  Turkomans.

What the dervishes are able to do during the ecstacy caused by
_Zikr_, I had once an opportunity of witnessing in Samarkand. In
Dehbid, close to the tomb of the Makhdun Aazam, one of these howling
companies had grouped themselves around the Pir (chief) of that
district. At first they contented themselves with repeating the
formula in a natural tone of voice, and almost in measured time.
The chief was lost in the deepest thought; all eyes and ears were
fixed upon him; and every motion of his hand, and every breath he
drew, was audible, and encouraged his followers to utter wilder and
louder ejaculations. At last he seemed to awake from his sleep-like
reflections, and as soon as he raised his head all the dervishes
jumped up from their seats like possessed beings. The circle was
broken, and the different members began to dance in undulating
motions; but hardly did the chief stand upon his feet than the
enthusiastic dancers became so terribly excited that I, who had
to imitate all their wild antics, became almost frightened. They
were flying about, constantly dancing, right and left, hither and
thither, some leaving the soft meadow and getting upon the rough
stones, constantly dancing, till the blood began to run freely from
their feet. Still they kept on their mad excitement, till most of
them fell fainting to the ground.

In a country like the East, where such social relations exist, and
where we meet with such amusing extremes, the dervish or beggar,
though placed at the very bottom of the social scale, often enjoys
as much consideration as the prince who reigns over millions and
disposes of immense treasures. Man, an unresisting plaything in the
powerful hand of Fate, can, if Destiny wills it, be transported
from one extreme to the other, of which history furnishes us with
numerous instances; and as in fiction we see with pleasure the
two antipodes--the king, Shah-ü Keda, and the beggar, brought
into close propinquity--even so we often find a ragged and dirty
dervish, covered with vermin, sitting on the same carpet with a
magnificently-dressed prince, and engaged with him in familiar
conversation, nay, often drinking with him out of the same cup.
European travellers view such a _tête-à-tête_ with surprise, and
even sometimes with a feeling of amusement; but in the East it is
considered as quite natural. For, says the oriental moralist, the
king must see in the glaring contrast between him and his neighbour
the vanity of earthly splendour, and banish from his mind all
feeling of pride; while the dervish discovers beneath the pompous
dress of the prince a mere mortal man, and mindful of the vanity of
sublunary things, laughs at the farce of life.

Though perfectly conscious of their relative position, these two
extremes exhibit, when they meet, an admirable degree of toleration
and indulgence. The dervish, who, when received in private, behaves
with the freedom and unconstraint of an intimate friend, never
forgets on public occasions that he is the poorest of the poor. The
man of rank suffers from him what to any other person would appear
insupportable. At Kerki, the governor of the province had a dervish
in his palace, who, in conformity with a precept of his order, had
the agreeable office of crying aloud uninterruptedly, from sunset
till break of day: Ya hu! ya hakk! La illa hu![2] and that with the
voice of a Stentor. As soon as darkness prevailed, and the busy hum
of public life had become silent, the melancholy and monotonous
exclamations became more and more audible, not only in the palace
itself, but to a considerable extent around it. That his devotions
disturbed many in their sleep, may be easily imagined. Nevertheless,
the governor, notwithstanding the entreaties of his own family,
did not venture to make any objection to this proceeding, and the
dervish continued his vociferations every night as long as he
sojourned in Kerki. As I lodged in the vicinity of the palace, I
enjoyed my share of this nightly concert; and as the voice of the
enthusiastic bawler became towards the approach of dawn weaker and
weaker, I was enabled to calculate from it the distance of daybreak
without stepping out of the dark cell in which I lay.

  [2] Yes, it is he! it is the righteous one! there is no God but he;
  are the usual forms of prayer which occur in the Zikr.

We may say, however, that we nowadays very seldom meet with a
dervish in the strict sense of the word; that is, a man who,
renouncing from inward conviction earthly goods and worldly
comforts, is desirous only of obtaining experience of life and
devoting himself to the practice of religious duties: such a man,
in a word, as the poet Saadi is represented to have been. Those who
embrace this vocation are either unprincipled and lazy fellows,
or professed beggars, who, under the cloak of poverty, collect
treasures, and when they are sufficiently enriched often adopt some
lucrative trade. This is particularly the case in Persia. So long
as Fortune is favourable to them they lead a life of ostentatious
magnificence, and forget how transitory all is in this world. But
should he be overtaken by adversity, then he retires to some modest
corner, rails at the vain pursuits of men, and, inflated with pride,
cries out: Men dervish em; I am a dervish.

The dervishes of India, and particularly those of Cashmere, are
throughout the East pre-eminent among their Mahometan brethren for
cunning, secret arts, forms of exorcism, &c. These fellows impose
most impudently on the credulity of the people in Persia and Central
Asia, and even men of wit and understanding sometimes fall into
their snares; for, wherever such a Cashmere dervish appears, gifted
as he generally is with a noble figure, striking features, bright
eloquent eyes, and long dark flowing hair, he is sure of success.

The Mahometans of India and the adjoining eastern countries have
always been celebrated in the Islamite world for their supernatural
gifts. As soon as such a travelling saint arrives in a Mahometan
country, he is entreated to cure dangerous maladies, to exorcise
ghosts, or to point out where hidden treasures are buried; for,
although those arts are forbidden by the Koran, they appear
everywhere as the most zealous Mahometans. Count Gobineau, in his
work, "Trois Ans dans l'Asie," tells us of an excellent trick, which
an alchemist from Cashmere played a gold-seeking prince in Teheran.
A similar trick was played on the brother of the reigning Khan of
Khiva, who, wanting to have all his saddles and bridles converted
into gold, was cheated in a most ridiculous manner. But they are
sometimes so devoid of conscience as to rob the poorest man of his
last penny. In Teheran, a Hadji, lately arrived from Central Asia,
told me, with tears in his eyes, the following story. As, said he,
I had heard much in Meshed of the frequent robberies that occurred
on the road to Teheran, I and my companion were anxious to know
what would be the best way to conceal our little capital, which
was to defray our expenses to the holy grave of the Prophet. This
money was the savings of five hard years, and thou knowest how
difficult it is to travel without money in this land of heretics.
Next to us in the caravanserai at Meshed there lodged a pious Ishan
(sheikh) from Cashmere; to him we communicated our fears, and were
delighted when he offered, by means of a certain form of prayer,
to secure our money against all attacks of robbers. He invited us
to follow him to the mosque of Iman Riza: there he bade us perform
the usual ablutions. We then placed our money in his lap, and after
he had breathed on it several times he put it with his own hands
into our purses, wrapped them up in seven sheets of paper, and
then strictly enjoined us not to open them till, on our arrival at
Teheran, we had performed our devotions three times in the mosque.
It is now six weeks since we left Meshed; and imagine our fright,
when yesterday, after the third prayer, we opened our purses and
found in them, instead of our dear ducats, nothing but heavy reddish
sand. The poor fellows uttered bitter complaints and seemed almost
to have lost their wits. The cunning rogue from Cashmere had, while
pronouncing the blessing, changed the money without being perceived
by the simple Tartars, who continued their journey to Teheran in the
perfect persuasion of the efficacy of the ceremony,--a persuasion
which they now found had cost them dear.

It is the same with dervishism as with all the other oriental
institutions, customs and manners; the more we penetrate towards the
East, the greater is the purity with which they have been preserved.
In Persia the dervishes play a much more important part than in
Turkey; and in Central Asia, isolated as it has been from the rest
of the world for centuries, this fraternity is still in full vigour,
and exercises a great influence upon society. In my "Travels," I
have frequently alluded to the position occupied by the _Ishan_
or secular priests in Central Asia. Their influence may be called
a fortunate one, contrasted with the fearful tyranny existing in
those countries. This is the reason why every one occupies himself
with religion; every one tries to pass himself off as a worker of
miracles (Ehli Keramet); or, if he fails in that, he endeavours
to be recognised as a saint (veli ullah ....) Those who make the
interpretation of the sacred writings their business are great
rivals of the _Ishans_, who, by the mysticism by which they surround
themselves, enjoy a large share of popular esteem. The native of
Central Asia, like the wildest child of Arabia, is more easily
imposed upon by magic formulas and similar hocus-pocus than by
books. He may dispense with the services of a Mollah, but he cannot
do without a _Ishan_, whose blessing (_fatiha_) or breath (_nefes_)
is required when he sets out on one of his predatory expeditions,
and upon which he looks as a talismanic power, when moving about his
herds, his tent, or the wilds of the desert.

After the Ishans, the most interesting class are the mendicant
dervishes (_Kalenter_),[3] which the Kirguese and Turkomans call
Kuddush[4] or Divani (insane). In the whole of the great deserts
which stretch from the eastern boundaries of China to the Caspian
Sea, it is only these people, in their ragged dress, who are able
to move unmolested. They do not take any notice of the differences
of tribe or family, and the mighty words, _Yaghi_ or _Il_ (friend
or enemy) have to them no meaning. In travelling along they join
whomsoever they meet, be it a peaceful caravan or band of _robbers_.
The dervishes who travel through Kirguese or Turkoman steppes are
generally this class of people, who form a strong inclination to
do nothing, follow a trade which throughout the East is considered
respectable, viz., that of a mendicant. All they have to acquire
is a few prayers and a certain power of mimicry, with which the
chiromantic feats are performed; and I have never seen a nomad who
has not been moved when he found himself in the close presence of
one of those long-haired, bare-headed, and bare-footed dervishes,
who, with his fiery eyes, stared hard at the son of the desert, and
whilst shaking his Keshkul[5] howled a wild "_Ja hu!_"

  [3] Kalentor is a corruption of the old Persian Kelanter the
  greater. In eastern Persia the title is still given to the judges of
  villages.

  [4] Kuddus is derived from Kud, to become mad. Thus, the Arabs call
  the dervishes Medjnun, _i.e._, insane.

  [5] Keshkul is a vessel formed of half a cocoa nut,--the _vade
  mecum_ of the dervishes,--in which he plunges all the food he has
  collected by begging, whether dry or fluid, sweet or sour. Such a
  dish of _tutti frutti_ would but ill suit our gastronomers; and yet
  how delicious it tasted to me after a long day's march.

The arrival of one of these fakirs in a lonely group of tents
is regarded as a joyful event, or almost a festival; it is of
especial importance in the eyes of the women; and the time of his
arrival is differently interpreted. Early in the morning signifies
the happy birth of a camel or a horse; at noon a quarrel between
husband and wife; and in the evening a good prospect of marriage to
the marriageable daughters. The dervish is generally taken in hand
by the women, and is well supplied with the best things the tent
contains, in hopes that he may be tempted to produce from beneath
his battered dress some glass beads, or other talisman. Alms, which
amongst the nomads seldom consist of money, are rarely denied him;
and he often receives an old carpet, a few handfuls of camel hair or
wool, or an old garment. He may also stop with the family for days,
and move about with it without his presence becoming a burden. If
the dervish possesses musical talent, _i.e._, able to sing a few
songs and accompany himself on the two stringed instrument called
dutara, he is made much of, and has the greatest difficulty in
getting away from the hospitable host.

It is very seldom that dervishes are insulted or ill-treated;
this, however, is said to be the case amongst the Turkomans, whose
rapacity knows no bounds, and prompts them to commit incredible acts
of cruelty. A dervish from Bokhara, of robust figure and dark curly
hair, whom I met at Maymene, told me that a Tekke-Turkoman, prompted
by the thirty ducats which his athletic figure promised to fetch
in the slave market, made him a prisoner to sell him a few days
afterwards. "I pretended," my colleague continued, "to be quite
unconcerned, and repeated the _Zikr_ whilst shaking my iron chains.
The time was fast approaching when I was to be taken to the market,
when suddenly the wife of the robber of my liberty and person was
taken ill, and prevented him from starting. He seemed to see in
this the finger of God, and began to be pensive, when his favourite
horse, refusing to eat his food, showed signs of illness." This was
enough. The robber was so frightened that he removed the chains of
his prisoner, and returned to him the things he had robbed him of,
begging him to leave his tent as soon as possible. Whilst a Turkoman
impatiently awaited the departure of the ominous beggar, the latter
fumbled about his dress, and pretended that he had lost a comb which
his chief had given him as a talisman on the road, and without which
he could not go a single step. The nomad returned in great haste to
the place where the plunder had been kept, and as the comb did not
turn up he became still more frightened, and promised the dervish
the price of twenty combs if he would only take a single step beyond
the boundary of his tent. The cunning bush-rite saw he was master
of the situation; he pretended to be inconsolable about the lost
property, and declared that he now would have to remain for years in
the tent. Imagine the confusion of the deceived and superstitious
robber! Like a madman he ran about asking his neighbour for advice.
Formal negotiations were now commenced with the dervish, to whom,
finally, a horse, a dress, and ten ducats were presented, to make up
for the loss of the comb, and on condition that he should leave a
tent whose proprietor will probably think twice before he ventures
again upon molesting a travelling dervish.

Besides the dervishes who, as physicians, miracle-working saints,
or harmless vagabonds, are wandering about in Central Asia, there
is a class called "_Khanka neshin_," or convent dwellers, who
always wish to appear as the poorest, and are without doubt the
most contemptible fellows in the world. Generally speaking they are
opium eaters, who by their excessive filth, skeleton-like body, and
frightfully distorted features, present a most repulsive appearance.
The worst is that they do not confine themselves to practising this
fearful vice themselves, but with a singular persistency endeavour
to make converts amongst all classes; and, supported by the want of
spirituous drinks, they succeed but too frequently in their wicked
attempts. What surprised me most was that these wretched people were
regarded as eminently religious, of whom it was thought that from
their love to God and the Prophet they had become mad, and stupefied
themselves in order that in their excited state they might be nearer
the Beings whom they loved so well.

Speaking of dervishes we may mention a class of hypocrites who,
under the pretence of carrying out sacred vows, indulge in their
desire to travel, and after their return assume, under the title
of Hadji (Pilgrims) authority and a good social position. The Koran
says, "_Hidji ala beiti min isti Itaatun sebila_"--Wander to my
house (_Kaaba_) if circumstances permit. These "circumstances" are
reduced to the following seven conditions by the commentators. The
pilgrimage must be undertaken, 1st,--With sufficient money for
travelling expenses; 2nd,--In bodily health; 3rd,--In an unmarried
state; 4th,--Without leaving debts behind; 5th,--In times of peace;
6th,--Overland and without danger; and, 7th,--By persons who have
reached the age of puberty. That our good Tartars ill-observe these
conditions will be evident to all who have some idea about the
countries situated between Oxus and Yaxartes. In Persia people go to
Kerbela, Meshed or Mekka, only when sufficient funds enable them to
do it comfortably. In Central Asia, on the contrary, it is always
the poorest class who undertakes pilgrimages. A certain taste for
adventure, coupled with religious enthusiasm, are the two motives
which prompt the inhabitants of Central Asia to start from the
remote east for the tomb of their Prophet. True, they do not suffer
any material losses, for a beggar's bag is a money bag; but they
frequently lose what is most precious to them--their life; as every
year at least one-third of the pilgrims from Turkestan die from
exposure to the climate.

This sacred or profane desire to travel braves all danger; this
vague thought of tearing himself away from his family, and friends,
and countrymen, to see the wide world, surrounds the Hadji with a
certain poetry. I have lived weeks with my companions, and yet it
always interested me to behold them, palm staff in hand, as a sacred
memento of Arabia, vigorously making their way through the deep sand
or mud. They were returning happily to their homes; but how many
did I meet who only commenced their long and tedious journey? and
yet they were equally happy. On my road from Samarkand to Teheran
I had as a companion a native of Chinese Tartary, who, in total
ignorance of the route he had to take, asked me every evening, even
when we were yet at Meshed, whether we should see to-morrow, or at
the farthest after to-morrow, the minarets of Mekka. The poor fellow
had no idea how much he would have to endure before he reached
his destination. However, this should not surprise us when we
remember that during the time of the crusades so many honest Teutons
undertook a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, and after two or three
days' journey hoped to behold the walls of Jerusalem.[6]

  [6] See Noesselt's "Geschichte für Tochter schulen," who also states
  that many pilgrims, ignorant of the road, allowed themselves to be
  led by a frightened goose which ran before them.

The routes to Arabia adopted by the pious Tartars are the following,
viz.:--1. Yarkend, Kilian, Tibet, Kashmir.[7] 2. Through Southern
Siberia, Kazan and Constantinople. 3. Through Afghanistan and
India to Djedda. 4. Through Persia, Bagdad, and Damascus. None of
these routes is a comfortable one, and the amount of danger to be
incurred is very much dependent upon the season of the year and
the political state of the countries through which they pass. The
travellers form themselves in larger or smaller companies, and
elect a chief (_Tchaush_) from amongst themselves, who also fills
amongst them the office of _Imam_, (the person who first says the
prayers to be repeated by the rest,) and who enjoys a considerable
superiority over his companions. A visit to the Kaaba and the tomb
of the Prophet (which may be paid at any season) is not so much the
culminating point of the whole pilgrimage as the ascent of Mount
Arafat. This can be made only once a year, viz., on the Kurban
festival, (10th Zil Hidje,) which is nothing more or less than
the sacrifice of Abraham and Isaac dramatized. All those who have
taken part in this festival and have joined in the cry, "Lebeïk
Allah!"--Command, Oh God," (in allusion to Abraham's implicit
obedience,) are regarded as genuine Hadjis. This cry of "Lebeïk!
Lebeïk!" uttered at the most solemn moment of the whole pilgrimage,
seems also to have the deepest impression upon the pilgrim himself.
My travelling companions, whenever they became excited or were in
a happy mood of mind, always alluded to it; and the stillness of
the Tartar deserts was often broken by this _memento_ of the stony
districts of Arabia.

  [7] From Yarkend to Kilian on the boundary line are three days'
  journey, from there, by way of Tagarma and Kadun, to Tibet, twenty
  days, and thence to Kashmir fifteen days.

However painful and heartrending separation from home may be when
so long and dangerous a journey has to be undertaken, the joy which
the Hadjis experienced on their return fully counterbalances it.
Friends and relations, informed of his near arrival, go out to meet
them several days in advance. Hymns are sung, and tears of joy are
shed when the Hadji makes his entry into his native place. Every
one wants to embrace him, to touch him, for the atmosphere of holy
places still surrounds him, the dust of Mekka and Medina still
covers his garments. In Central Asia the Hadji is held in much
greater esteem than in any other Mohammedan country. It has cost
him much to obtain his dignity, but he is amply repaid. Respected
and supported by his fellow citizens he is better protected against
the tyranny of the Government than any other citizen. The title of
a "Hadji" is a patent of nobility, which, during his lifetime, he
parades on his seal, after death on his tombstone.

The Hadjis, of course such as are not mere beggars, often transact,
during their pious pilgrimage, a little commercial business. "_Hem
tidjared hem ziaret._"--"Commerce and pilgrimage together" are not
allowed by their religion; but nobody seems to suffer any pricks of
conscience in taking to his co-religionist in Arabia a few articles
from distant Turkomania. The products of Bokhara and other holy
places of Central Asia are in high esteem amongst the people of
Arabia; besides, every one wishes to show a Hadji some favour, and
is easily induced to pay double the value for any article offered.
This small trade is carried on between the easternmost point of
Islamitic Asia to the Galata bridge of Constantinople. Amongst the
crowd of that famous capital one often sees a Tartar, whose features
contrast as strangely with the rest of the population as the
colours of the thin silk kerchief differ from those of our European
manufacture. Fine ladies seldom become purchasers of such articles,
but old matrons are frequently seen, inspired by feelings of piety,
paying a good price for them, pressing them repeatedly to their
faces and forehead while repeating a loud "_Allahum u Sella_," and
continuing their walk.

That the successful sale of the exported articles leads to the
importation of similar merchandize needs no confirmation. No Hadji
leaves the holy places without making some purchases. At Mekka
he lays in a stock of scents, dates, rosaries and combs, but
especially water from the sacred well called Zemzem.[8] In Jamba
and Djedda are bought European goods; these go by the name of
Mali Istambul--"Stamboul Goods;" as the unbelieving Franks must
not obtain credit for anything, and they consist of penknives,
scissors, needles, thimbles, &c. Aleppo and Damascus enjoy the
reputation of supplying the best misvak, a fibrous root, used as
tooth brushes by all pious Moslems. In Bagdad are bought a hirka,
made of camel's hair, and of superior quality at this place, as it
is this kind of garment which the Prophet is said to have worn next
his skin. Finally, in Persia, ink, powder and pens made of canes are
purchased. In Central Asia all these articles are great curiosities,
and they are paid for handsomely, partly from necessity, partly from
religious motives.

  [8] Zemzem is the name of a famous well on the road, of miraculous
  power, the water of which is exported in small vessels to all
  Islamite countries, as a single drop of it taken just at the moment
  of death frees from 500 years of purgatory. The origin of the well
  is ascribed to Ismail, who, after being left behind by Hagar,
  stamped his little foot and made the well spring up.

Generally speaking a caravan of Hadjis, I mean one whose character
has been well inquired into, are the best travelling companions
one can have in Central Asia, or rather in the whole of the east,
provided one can manage to agree with them. With regard to the
travelling necessaries the Hadji is well supplied, and it was
always surprising to me to see how a man who had only one poor
donkey he could call his own, could make a display of a separate
tea-service[9] (à la Tartar,) Pilou-apparatus, and carpet when
arrived at the station at which we halted. Nobody is more clever
than a Hadji in negotiating, be the people he has to deal with
believers or unbelievers, nomads or agricultural tribes. A Hadji
may be converted into anything, he being thoroughly penetrated by
the principle "_Si fueris Romae_." Instead of being cast down and
gloomy, as his ragged exterior would lead us to suppose, he is of a
merry disposition, and during the long marches the greatest saint
and miracle-worker occasionally indulges in a profane joke. The
comicality of these generally serious faces has often made me forget
the privations which I was myself undergoing.

  [9] The tea service consists of a can-like vessel made of copper,
  and is, next to the Koran, the most indispensable _vade mecum_
  of every travelling Tartar. Even the poorest beggar carries it,
  suspended by the handle, about with him.




CHAPTER II.

RECOLLECTIONS OF MY DERVISH LIFE.


On the evening of the 27th of March, 1863, my excellent friend, the
Turkish ambassador in Teheran, gave me a farewell supper, at which
all declared--to inspire me, of course with fear, and divert me
from my adventurous undertaking,--that I was for the last time in
my life to enjoy European food in the European manner. The handsome
dining room at the residence of the ambassador was brilliantly
lighted, the choicest viands were served, and the choicest wines
handed round; for the intention was clear,--to give me a strong dose
of reminiscences of European comforts on the difficult expedition
before me. My friends were for ever scrutinizing my features, to
discover whether my outward appearance might not betray some trace
of inward excitement. But they were very much mistaken. I had
ensconced myself comfortably in the velvet arm chair, which had
been brought thither from the distant land of the Franks; the wine
had tinged my face with the same colour as the fez which covered
my head. A pious dervish and wine--what a frightful antithesis!
To-night, however, I must transgress, the penance will be a long
one, whether or no....

Twenty-four hours later, in the evening of the 28th of March, I
was in the midst of my company of beggars on the road to Lar, in a
half-dilapidated mud hut, called Dagaru. The rain was pouring in
torrents. We had been pretty well wetted through during our day's
march, so that all were anxious for shelter and a dry roof; and,
the space being narrow, fate brought me the very first evening into
the closest contact with my travelling companions. Their tattered
garments, never very sweet-scented, and now thoroughly soaked with
the rain, gave out the strangest evaporations; and no wonder if,
under such circumstances, I had no great desire to take my share out
of the large wooden bowl, from which the starved Hadjis, splashing
about with their fists, were eating their supper. Moreover, hunger
tormented me less than fatigue and my wet, ragged garments, to
which I was as yet unaccustomed. Rolled up like a ball, I tried to
get to sleep; but this also was impossible, packed together as we
were in such close quarters. Now I felt the hand, now the head of
one of my neighbours, falling upon me; then my opposite companion
stretched out his foot, to scratch me behind the ears. It required
the patience of Job to defend myself against these unpleasant
civilities; and yet I might have had some sleep, but for the loud
snoring of the Tartars, and above all the loud moaning of a Persian
muleteer, who was sadly troubled with the gout.

Finding that all endeavours to close my eyes remained unsuccessful,
I rose and sat upright in the midst of this mass of people, who were
lying about in the most utter confusion. The rain kept falling, and,
as I looked out into the dark and gloomy night, my thoughts returned
to the difference in my position only twenty-four hours before, and
the sumptuous farewell supper at the splendid Turkish embassy. The
whole scene appeared to me not unlike a dramatic representation
of "King and Beggar," in which I acted the chief part. The bitter
feeling of reality, however, made little impression. I myself was
the author of this sudden metamorphosis, and I had prepared my fate
for myself.

The hard task of self-control lasted but a few days. As far as all
outward peculiarities were concerned, I soon became familiar with
the habitual as well as physical attributes of dervishism, such as
dirt, &c. I gave my better garments, which I had brought with me
from Teheran, to a weak and sickly Hadji, an act of kindness which
gained all hearts. My new uniform consisted of a felt jacket, which
I wore next my skin without any shirt, and of a _djubbe_ (upper
garment),[10] composed of innumerable pieces of stuff, and fastened
with a cord round the loins. My feet were enveloped in rags, and
an immense turban covered my head, serving as a parasol by day and
pillow by night. I had also, in conformity with the rest of the
Hadjis, hung round me a voluminous Koran in a bag, which resembled a
cartridge pouch; and, viewing myself thus, "_en pleine parade_," I
had reason proudly to exclaim: "Yes, indeed, I am born a beggar!"

  [10] It is called _Hirkai dervishan_ (the dervish cloak), which
  even those dervishes that are most comfortably off are obliged
  to wear over their otherwise good garments. It is the symbol of
  poverty, and is often composed of countless small pieces of new
  patchwork, cut round the edge in points of unequal length; and,
  while it is sewn together on the outside with thick packing thread
  and large stitches, the lining often consists of silk or some other
  valuable material. It is the _ne plus ultra_ of hypocrisy; but long
  before the Romans the wise men of the East have said, _Mundus vult
  decipi--ergo decipiatur_.

The outer or material part of the _incognito_ was thus easily
assumed, but the moral part presented more serious difficulties
than I expected. Although I had had the opportunity, for some years
past, of studying the contrast between European and Asiatic modes
of life, and the critical position in which I found myself made it
incumbent upon me ever to be strictly on my guard, nevertheless, I
could not avoid committing many glaring mistakes. The difference
between Eastern and Western society does not consist merely in
language, physiognomy, and dress. We Europeans eat, drink, sleep,
sit, and stand, nay, I feel inclined to say, laugh, weep, sigh,
and gesticulate otherwise than Eastern people. These things are
visible trifles, but in reality difficult ones, and yet they are as
nothing when compared with the effort required to disguise one's
feelings. When travelling, people are naturally of a more eager
and excitable temperament than in everyday life, and therefore it
costs the European an unspeakable effort to conceal his curiosity,
admiration, or any kind of emotion, when brought into intercourse
with the indolent orientals, who are for ever indifferent to all
and everything around them. Besides, the object of my travelling
was merely to travel, whilst that of my friends was to reach their
distant homes. My individual person excited their interest only
during the first moments of our acquaintance, while to me they were
each a continual study; and it certainly can never have entered the
head of any one of them that, whenever we laughed and joked most
intimately together my mind would just then be doubly occupied.
No one but he who is practically acquainted with the East, can
have any idea of the difficulty of entering into all these marked
differences. I had been pretty well schooled by a four years'
residence at Constantinople; yet there I played merely the part of
an amateur, whilst here I dared not deviate even a hair's breadth
from reality. Nay, I will make no secret of the fact, that during
the first few days the struggle, though short, was severe, and that
repentance and remorse seized me at every fresh difficulty. However,
my mind, being stimulated by vanity, was in that state of excitement
when everything had to give way before the irresistible impulse of
its ardour; and, supported in its triumph by a sound constitution,
it was enabled to bear easily whatever might happen.

I shudder even now when I think back of the fatigue I underwent
during the first few days, and how much I suffered from the wet and
cold, the uncleanliness--which makes one's hair stand on end--and
the never-ending, harassing worry with the fanatic Shiites, during
our long and tedious day-marches in Mazendran, a part of the world
of historical reputation for its bad roads. Sometimes it rained
from early in the morning until late in the evening, and, whilst
not a thread of my tattered garments remained dry, I was moreover
obliged to wade for hours knee-deep in mud. The narrow mountain-path
has become hollow by the wear of centuries, and in many places
it resembles a muddy brook, winding along between huge fragments
of pointed rock that have fallen from the heights above. It is a
sheer impossibility to remain in the saddle; and, in order to avoid
danger, the best course is to tread slowly and cautiously, sounding
the hollows with one's foot. No one will doubt that, under such
circumstances, we arrived at the station at nightfall thoroughly
exhausted and fatigued. Fire and shelter are the chief objects of
desire, for which the eye looks longingly around. They both exist
in Mazendran; but we, the Sunnitic beggars, had preferred, for the
sake of quiet, to pass the night undisturbed and far from any human
dwelling. A fire was kindled, to dry ourselves and our clothes, when
the elder of our Tartar fellow-travellers observed, that such a
proceeding would be prejudicial to health; and, indeed, they always
preferred to dry themselves in another and more singular fashion.
It is well known that, throughout the East, horse dung is dried and
then ground into powder, to serve as stabling for the horses by
night. During the day it is exposed to the sun, either spread out or
made into conical-shaped heaps; and I was not a little astonished
to see how my companions, divesting themselves entirely of their
apparel, buried their soaked bodies up to the neck in such like
_poudre de santé_. I need not add, that contact with this _poudre_,
so well known as strong and stinging, cannot be very agreeable; but
its effects are only felt during the first quarter of an hour, and I
can assert, from my subsequent personal experience, that such a bed
induces a most sweet and refreshing sleep, however it may offend the
European eye and sense of refinement.

In spite of the drawbacks, I should have felt quite contented with
my lot had it not been that, besides these fatigues common to all,
an extra share was allotted to me, being a stranger in the company.
As such, it was my duty to affect the qualities of modesty and
devotion, to show myself not only friendly, but submissive, to all;
and to endeavour to conciliate the affection of old and young, by
professing an obliging disposition, and a readiness to perform any
kind of small service. At first these offers were declined by most
of them, since they did not wish to offend in me the character
of "efendi," having made my acquaintance as such. However, it
was my duty in no case to yield, but on the contrary, to strive
continually to make myself useful to one or the other. Besides the
minor services I performed on the march, I had to try to be helpful
to every one at the station, either by preparing tea and baking
bread, or by looking after the riding horses, or by packing and
unpacking. Some of my companions were obliging to me in return for
my attention, but others, who soon had forgotten my former position,
treated me like an old fellow-traveller. Services were demanded
and performed without the smallest ceremony; and I could not help
laughing heartily, when a Hadji from Khokand once coolly handed me
his shirt for me to free it from the many "uninvited guests," he
being fully occupied in like manner on another part of his costume.

It was to be foreseen that in this way an _entente cordiale_ would
speedily ripen between us. The more I accommodated myself to my
present position, forgetting the past, the quicker also disappeared
the barrier between me and the other Hadjis. The society of others
exercises a powerful influence upon us, uniting as it does the
most opposite elements; and after I had lived for a whole month as
dervish, all appeared to me not only natural and endurable, but the
charm of novelty in the life around me had actually effaced Teheran,
Stamboul, and Europe, from my memory; and the continual excitement
in which I lived had produced in me a state of mind which was
extraordinary, it is true, but never disagreeable.

One feeling alone disquieted me: this was the fear of discovery, or,
rather, of its consequences,--the terrible death of torture which
Tartar cruelty and offended Mahometan fanaticism would have invented
for my punishment. Already during the first days of my residence
with the Turkomans I became aware that, in assuming my incognito, I
was playing a dangerous game; and, but for the unlimited confidence
I placed in the fidelity of my companions, and my own preparations,
this spectre would have haunted me every moment of my existence.
During the greater part of the day, society, occupation, and events
of various interest prevented the intrusion of these suspicions; but
at night, when everything around was hushed in silence, and I sat
alone in a solitary corner of my tent, or in the waste and barren
desert, I became absorbed in thought. Fear appeared before me in its
blackest guise and most terrible aspect; nor would it leave me for a
long, long time, however much I attempted to dispel it by sophistry
or light-heartedness. Oh, this terrible Megæra! How she tormented
me, how she tortured me, at those very moments when, seeking repose,
I was about to lose myself in contemplation on the grandeur of
nature and the wonderful constitution of man. In the long struggle
between us, fear was finally subdued; but it is this very struggle,
which I now blush to remember; for it is marvellous what efforts are
required to grow familiar with the constant and visible prospect
of death, and how great the anxiety in seeing only a doubtful
foundation for the hope of one's further existence.

No one, I am sure, will blame me for acting with precaution, nay,
at first, with scrupulous precaution; but often it degenerated into
ridiculous extremes. I was, for instance, conscious of my habit
of gesticulating with the hands when speaking,--a habit peculiar
to many Europeans, but strictly forbidden in Central Asia;--and,
fearing lest I might commit this mistake, I adopted a coercive
remedy. I pretended to suffer from pains in the arms, and strapping
them down to the body, they soon lost the habit of involuntary
movement. In like manner I seldom ventured to make a hearty meal
late in the evening, for fear of being troubled with heavy dreams,
which might cause me to speak some foreign, European language. I
laugh now at my pusillanimity, for I might have remembered that
the Tartars, being unacquainted with European languages, would not
have noticed it; and yet I rather bore in mind the words of my
companions, who observed one morning with great _naïveté_, that my
snoring sounded differently from that of the Turkestanis, whereupon
another interrupted and informed him: "Yes; thus people snore in
Constantinople."

It may be objected, that as so many of my actions might cause remark
or offence when in company with others, I must at all events have
shaken off this restraint when alone. But alas! Even then I was the
slave of precaution; and is it not striking, or rather ridiculous,
that at night, when in the boundless desert and at a considerable
distance from the caravan, I did not venture to eat the unleavened
bread, mixed up with ashes and sand, or take a draught of stinking
water without accompanying it with the customary Mahometan formula
of blessing! I might have thought to myself, no one sees you,
all around are asleep; but no! the distant sand hills appeared
to me like so many spies, who were watching whether I was saying
the Bismillah, and whether I had broken the bread in the proper
ritualistic manner. Thus it happened when in Khiva, that, when
sleeping alone in a dark cell, bolted and barred, I started up from
my couch at the call to prayer, and began the troublesome labour of
the thirteen Rikaat. When at the sixth or eighth, I had a great mind
to leave off, thinking I was safely out of sight. But no! it struck
me, that perhaps the eyes of a spy might be watching me through the
crevice in the door, and conscientiously I performed my unpleasant
duty.

Only time, the universal panacæa, could remedy this evil. Although
my moral sufferings were considerably more painful than the physical
ones, time and habit came to my aid, and gained me here also the
victory, and after having lived happily through four months, my
mind had grown as hardened to any fear or terror as my body to dirt
and uncleanliness. The epoch of indifference succeeded, and with it
I began to feel the true charms of my adventure. I was attracted
above all by the unlimited freedom of our life as vagrants, the
total absence of trouble as to food and clothing, the gratuitous
manner in which the dervish had everything provided for him, and,
in addition, the mental superiority which he exercises over the
people at large. No wonder, then, that I lost no opportunity in
amply profiting by the advantages of my position. My companions
admitted that I possessed eminent talents for the life of a dervish,
and whenever the question rose how to get money from hard-hearted
villagers, or to beg and collect a larger store of victuals, I
was always entrusted with that part of the business. I one day
brilliantly justified the confidence thus placed in me, in an
encampment of Tchandor Turkomans. These, the wildest of all nomad
people, had the reputation of being exceedingly wicked, and Hadjis,
Tshans and Dervishes habitually avoided going near their tents.
Having been told of this I set out on my way, accompanied by three
companions who were known as famous singers, and taking with me a
goodly store of holy dust, Zemzem water, tooth-picks, combs and the
like gifts, presented by pilgrims. Some received me rather coldly,
but yet the son of the desert, however wild he may be, cannot resist
the words or the mimics of a dervish's strategy, and not only did
I receive ample presents in the shape of wheat, rice, cheese and
pieces of felt, but I succeeded in persuading one of the men to
load his own ass with this harvest, and take it to our astonished
caravan.

Success leads to boldness. No wonder, then, that after several
successful expeditions, I assumed a demeanour in which many will
trace a certain degree of impudence. And, indeed, I can hardly
refute this accusation entirely, but how was I to have done
otherwise? No European can realize to himself what it is to stand,
a disguised Frenghi, (this word of terror to orientals,) face to
face with such a tyrant as the Khan of Khiva, and to have to bestow
upon him the customary benediction. If this man were to discover the
dangerous trick, this man with the sallow face and sinister look,
as he sits there surrounded by his satellites--such an idea is only
endurable to a mind steeled to the highest pitch of resolution. At
my first audience I appeared really with a step so firm and gesture
so bold, as if my presence were to bestow felicity upon the Khan.
All looked at me with astonishment, for submissiveness is befitting
to the pious and saints. However, they thought such was the custom
in Turkey, and I heard no remark made about it.

Such bold measures, however, were seldom necessary, and, in its
ordinary routine, the life of a dervish has often given me moments
of the greatest happiness. Without feeling any inclination to
imitate the Russian Count D----, who, wearied of the artificial
life of Europeans, withdrew into one of the valleys of Kashmir,
turning beggar-dervish, I must confess that a peculiar feeling
of enjoyment came over me when, basking in the warm rays of the
autumnal sun, either in some ruin or other solitary spot, I could,
in true oriental manner, absorb myself in vacant reflection. It
is inexpressibly pleasurable to be rocked in the soft cradle of
oriental repose and indifference, when one is without money or
profession, free from care and excitement. To us Europeans such an
enjoyment of course can only be of very short duration, for if our
thoughts turn at such moments toward the distant, ever-active, and
stirring west, the great contrast between these two worlds must at
once strike the eye, and instinctively we feel attracted towards
the latter. European activity and Asiatic repose are the two great
subjects which occupy the mind, but we have only to cast our look
upon the ruins scattered around us to see which of the two follows
the right philosophy of life. Here everything is on the road to
ruin and servitude, there everything leads to prosperity and the
sovereignty of the world.

These varied scenes of life, in which I moved during my incognito,
were far from being devoid of attractions, as many a prejudiced
European might imagine, although they naturally could fascinate but
for a time. I was truly frightened one day, when the Khan of Khiva
proposed to me seriously to marry and settle in Khiva, since persons
of such extensive travelling as myself were far from disagreeable
to him. The idea of spending my whole life in Turkestan, with an
Œzbeg wife for my partner, was horrible, and I should certainly
have thrown up my plans if I had been obliged to accept the offer;
but, as it is, I shall certainly never repent having spent a few
months in an adventure which ended happily. I say never, for even
the remembrance of all I experienced is indescribably sweet, and
even now, when already more than three years have elapsed since my
return, I find every circumstance as fresh in my memory, the whole
scene as near and vivid, as if I had arrived with my caravan only
last night, and were obliged to start off again on the morrow,
and load my ass for the journey; as often as I think back on my
fellow-travellers, the most pleasant feelings are re-awakened in
remembrance of that intimate and hearty friendship which existed
between us. We chatted, laughed, and bantered with each other on
our long day's march, as if we could not wish for a more enjoyable
existence; it was above all my merry humour which greatly pleased
them, and my jokes and puns afforded to them an endless source of
amusement when we were alone, for in public we all of us wore the
long, stony faces suited to the gravity of our character as holy
men. What would they say if they could see me now in the midst
of so many unbelievers, and dressed in a garment so ridiculous
in their eyes, the forked garment, as they designate European
trousers?--_me_, in whom they and the rest of the world believed to
see a true specimen of a western Mahometan Mollah! I must confess
that although the pleasant episodes of my incognito are even now
frequently the cause of cheerful moments of recollection, the sad
hours of suffering and extremity of danger loom like black clouds on
the horizon of the present. Their gloomy shadows remind me vividly
of past terrors, and even now, whenever I start up in my sleep,
haunted by oppressive dreams, it was very often His Majesty, the
Khan of Bokhara, or the frightful tortures of thirst, or a fanatic
group of Mollahs, who, hastening hither from Central Asia on the
wings of Morpheus, honoured me with a visit. How happy do I feel on
awaking, to find myself in Europe, in my dear native country, in my
peaceful home!

I have often been in critical, nay, extremely critical situations,
but on the whole only a few episodes have left behind on me such
an impression as never will be effaced, and which, from being
associated with the most imminent danger to my life, will never be
forgotten by me as long as I live.


I.

The evening in the Khalata desert, when, after having endured for
two days the torments of thirst, I felt, with the last drop of
water, my vital energies gradually ebbing away. Around me were lying
many of my fellow-travellers, suffering, probably, as acutely as
myself, to judge from their wild, haggard looks, and rigid features.
Raising my heavy head with the greatest effort, I met the glance of
those near me. They all seemed to be looking at me with expressions
of bitter resentment, for during the afternoon I had heard the old
ascetic, Kari Messud, repeat several times, "We are, alas! the
propitiatory victims for some great evil-doer who is amongst us in
our caravan." Possibly not one of them referred to me, but I felt,
nevertheless, full of anxiety. Meanwhile the hour of evening prayer
was approaching. Only a few could join in it. The sun was fast
setting, and, as the last rays lit up the unhappy group of sufferers
in that vast desert, I could not help casting a look towards
the spot, where from the horizon he sent his last beams towards
me,--that spot, which we call the west, the beloved west, which I
had little hope to live to see the next morning again; and with
unspeakable sadness I clung to the word 'west;' my half-exhausted
senses revived anew, for with the word returned the thought of
Europe, of my beloved home, my early departure from this world, the
hard struggles of my past life, the wreck of all my aspirations, of
all my pleasant hopes. My heart nearly broke with the burden of this
great sorrow; I longed to weep, but could not. This moment is one of
imperishable memory; the terror of that scene has impressed itself
indelibly on my mind, and whenever my thoughts turn towards the
Khalata desert it will rise and haunt me like a phantom.


II.

The next occasion was during my audience with the emir of Bokhara,
in the palace of Samarkand. This prince, who had been represented
to me as a person of doubtful character, had been severely examining
my countenance as I sat by his side, in order to discover in me
a Frenghi in disguise. The readers of my travels are already
acquainted with a part of the conversation that took place between
us. I hoped to gain him over to our interests, but it cost me a
giant's effort not to betray by my countenance, and especially my
eyes, the excitement within me; and, although I shook and trembled
in every nerve, I was obliged to suppress even the slightest symptom
of fear. An old adept in the part I played, I effectually succeeded
in preventing a blush, or any change of colour, but I did not feel
confident about the result. Let the reader realise my position, when
the emir, after an audience of a quarter of an hour, called to him
one of his servants, cautiously whispered something in his ear, and,
motioning to me with a serious expression of countenance, ordered me
to follow his attendant.

I rose quickly from my seat. The servant led me through room after
room, and court after court, whilst the uncertainty of my fate
filled me with alarm; and, as oppression of heart breeds none other
but images of terror, I fancied that this ominous walk was leading
me to the torture-chamber, and to that dreadful death which so often
had presented itself to my imagination. After some time we came to
a dark room, where my guide ordered me to sit down and wait for his
return. I remained standing, but in what state of mind my readers
may readily imagine. Perhaps I should have felt less terror could I
only have known what my death was to be, but this uncertainty was
like the torture of hell, and I shall never forget it as long as I
live. With a feverish impatience I counted the minutes, until the
door should open again.... A few more seconds of torture and the
servant appeared. I fixed my eyes upon him, and perceived by the
light that entered through the doorway that he did not bring with
him the dreaded instruments of the executioner, but carried under
his arm, instead, a carefully folded-up bundle. This contained
a dress of honour, presented to me by the emir, as well as the
'viaticum' for my long pilgrim road.


III.

The third instance occurred to me when waiting for the arrival of
the Herat caravan on the banks of the Oxus, during the hot days
of August, in the company of the Lebab Turkomans. I dwelt in the
court of a deserted mosque, and in the evenings the Turkomans
usually brought with them one of their collections of songs or
ballads, from which I had to read to them aloud, and it gave me
especial pleasure to witness the undivided attention with which they
listened to the deeds of some popular hero, while the silence of
the night air around us was only broken by the hollow murmur of the
rolling waters of the Oxus. One evening our reading lasted till
near midnight. I felt rather tired, and, unmindful of the advice
I had often received, not to sleep in the immediate proximity of
ruined buildings, I stretched myself out beside a wall, and soon
fell sound asleep. After about an hour I was suddenly awakened
by an indescribably violent pain in my foot, and jumping up and
screaming aloud, I felt as if hundreds of poisoned needles were
shooting through my leg, and concentrating in one small point near
the big toe of my right foot. My screams awakened the eldest of
the Turkomans, who slept near me, and without questioning me, he
exclaimed, "Poor Hadji, a scorpion has bitten thee, and that during
the unlucky period of the Saratan (the dog days!) May God help
thee!" With these words he seized my foot, and bound it up round
the ancle with such violence as if he were going to cut it in two,
then searching in all haste with his lips for the wounded spot, he
sucked with such force that I felt it all through my body. Another
soon took his place, and two more bandages having been applied they
left me with these words of comfort, that, if it be the will of
Allah, between now and the hour of the next morning prayer, it would
be seen whether I should be released from pain, or freed from the
follies of this world of vanity.

Although I felt completely maddened by the itching, pricking and
burning, which kept increasing more and more in violence, yet I
remembered the legend of the scorpions of Belkh, well known for
their venomous nature even in ancient times. The reasonable
apprehension of death rendered the pain still more unbearable,
and that, after many hours of suffering, I really did surrender
all hopes of recovery, was shown by the fact that, forgetting my
incognito, I began to pour out my lament in expressions and sounds
which, as the Tartars afterwards told me, appeared to them extremely
droll, since they are in the habit of using them when shouting for
joy. It is remarkable that the pain spread in a few minutes from the
toe to the top of the head, but only on the right side, and kept
flowing up and down me like a stream of fire. No words can describe
the torment I had to undergo the hour after midnight. Loathing any
longer to live, I was about to dash my head to pieces by beating it
upon the ground, but my companions observed my intention and tied
me fast to a tree. Thus I lay for hours, half fainting, whilst the
cold sweat of death was running down me, and my eyes turned fixedly
towards the stars. The Pleiades were gradually sinking in the west,
and whilst awaiting in perfect consciousness the voice that calls to
prayer, or rather the break of morning, a gentle sleep fell upon me,
from which I was soon roused by the monotonous la illah il Allah.

No sooner was I fully awake when I was sensible of a faint
diminution of the pain. The pricking and burning disappeared more
and more, in the same way as it had come, and the sun had not yet
risen a lance's height over the horizon when I was able, though
weak and exhausted, to rise to my feet. My companions assured me
that the devil, having entered my body through the bite of the
scorpion, had been scared away by the morning prayer, a fact I dared
not of course discredit. But that terrible night will for ever
remain engraven on my memory.

It is these three events which were the critical moments in my
adventures in Central Asia. As to the rest, the many curious eyes
that scrutinised me, the various suspicions I laboured under, as
well as the unspeakable fatigues of travelling in the guise of a
beggar, all these privations and obstacles have left behind but
few sad remembrances. The fascinations in seeing those strange
countries, for which my eyes were longing from the earliest days
of my youth, possessed in itself a charm at once animating and
invigorating, for, except in the few cases just mentioned, I felt
always particularly cheerful and happy. This much is certain, that
I often miss, in my present civilised European life, the bodily and
mental activity of those days, and who knows but that I may, in
after years, wish that time to return, when, enveloped in tatters
and without shelter, but vigorous and high in spirits, I wandered
through the steppes of Central Asia.




CHAPTER III.

FROM MY JOURNAL.

AMONGST THE TURKOMANS.


  _13th April._

Struck with astonishment and surprise at the strange, social
relations, amongst which I was to-day living for the first time, I
was sitting in the early morning hours upon one and the same carpet
with Khandjan, my hospitable host, listening with eager attention
to his descriptions of Turkoman life and manners. He was one of the
most influential chiefs amongst the nomads, by nature an upright
man, and anxious to make me acquainted with the faults as well as
the merits of his countrymen; for being firmly convinced of my
Turkish and semi-official character, he hoped to gain, through my
position with the Sultan, on whom the whole Sunnitish world relies,
assistance against Russians and Persians. He spoke with zeal,
without betraying it outwardly; and after having given me his first
lesson he rose, to show me, as he said, his house and court-yard,
or in our phraseology, to make me acquainted with the ladies of the
family. This is a very especial mark of distinction among Asiatic
nations; however, a man supposed to be an agent of the Sultan, well
deserves such an attention; and accordingly I endeavoured, by my
attitude in sitting, my whole mien and carriage, to show myself
worthy of it.

After a few minutes I heard a strange clattering and clinking, the
curtain of the tent was raised, and there entered a whole crowd of
women, girls and children, who, headed by a corpulent and tolerably
old matron, walked towards the place where I was sitting. They
were evidently as much struck as myself by the scene; looking
timidly around, the young women cast down their eyes, whilst the
children clung with evident signs of fear to the clothes of their
parents. Khandjan introduced the matron to me as his mother. She
was about sixty years old, in the primitive costume of a long, red
silk garment, and wearing across her chest, to the right and left,
several large as well as small silver sheaths, in which as many
talismans of great virtue were preserved; some even were inlaid with
precious stones, as were also a considerable number of armlets,
necklaces and anklets,--the heirlooms of the family through several
generations, and, to judge from their appearance, bearing the traces
of high antiquity. The other women and children were likewise
arrayed in ornaments of a similar kind, varying, however, with the
wearer's rank and position in the favour of their lord and master.
The clothes themselves are often torn and dirty, and are looked upon
as quite a matter of secondary importance; but a Turkoman lady is
not fashionably dressed, unless she carries about her person one or
two pounds of silver in ornaments.

The old lady was the first to extend her wrinkled hands for the
customary greeting, the others followed, and, after the young
girls and children had embraced me,--for such is the rule of the
_bon ton_,--all squatted down around me in a semicircle and began
to question me about my health, welfare, and happy arrival. Each
one addressed me three or four times on the same subject. I had to
return just as many answers; and not in Europe alone does it happen
that a circle of ladies may perplex and embarrass an inexperienced
Solomon: even in the desert of Central Asia the like may occur.
Everywhere among the nomad people of the Mahomedan East the women
lose more and more their moral and physical attributes, the older
they grow. During my first interview I was obliged to reply to the
most delicate questions of the younger portion; whilst the elder
ones conversed on religion, politics, and the domestic relations of
the neighbouring tribes. I had to guard against exhibiting surprise
at the manner of either of them; the younger women I succeeded in
inspiring with awe for my strict virtue as a Mollah, and the elderly
ones received an ample share of blessings. Several men, neighbours
and relatives, arrived during this visit, but they caused no
disturbance or discomposure among the ladies, who enjoy, as I have
often had the opportunity of observing, a certain respect, although
they are exclusively the working class of the community. And indeed
the Turkoman women deserve such, for nowhere in the East have I met
with their equals in exemplary virtue, devotion to their families,
and indefatigable industry.

This visit lasted nearly an hour, and towards the end of it I had
to write several talismans, in return for which the women presented
me with sundry small gifts, their own handwork. The old lady came
several times afterwards to visit me; once I even accompanied her
to the tumulus which is raised over the remains of her husband, in
order to pray for the soul of the departed. The good understanding
between us two struck even the nomads: however, at present the
reason for it is sufficiently clear to me. In the first instance
a certain foreign look in my appearance, as well as the halo of
piety which surrounded me, had attracted her, at the same time
that I was ever ready to lend a patient ear to her conversations;
listening attentively to her discourses on the short-comings of the
Persian female slaves in her household, on the want of skill in the
women of the present day, in weaving carpets, preparing felt, &c.,
interspersing now and then an observation of my own, as if I had
been accustomed to these subjects from my youth and took an especial
interest in all the details of a nomad household.

And, after all, this is the philosophy of life that should guide
a traveller everywhere, if he wishes to learn anything. Here, for
instance, a pliant demeanour proved of considerable use, since
the affection of the old matron towards me contributed in a great
measure to render my residence amongst the Turkomans agreeable,--a
people, amongst whom not even an Asiatic stranger can move freely,
still less an European.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _16th April._

I entered the tent of Khandjan after the morning prayer and found
here a whole company, listening with the greatest attention to
the narrative of a young Turkoman, who was covered with dust and
dirt, and whose face bore evident traces of excitement and severe
hardships. He was describing in a low voice, but in lively colours,
a marauding excursion against the Persians of the evening before,
in which he had taken part. Whilst he was speaking, the women,
servants and slaves (what must have been the thoughts of these
latter), squatted down around the circle of listeners, and many a
curse was hurled at the slaves, the clanking of the chains on their
feet interrupting for a time the general quiet. It struck me as
remarkable, that, in proportion as the speaker warmed in describing
the obstinate resistance of the unfortunate people, who were fallen
on unawares, the indignation of the audience increased at the
audacity of the Persians, not to have at once quietly submitted to
being plundered.

No sooner was the narration of this great feat of arms at an end
when all rose to their feet to have a look at the spoils, the
sight of which excites in the Turkoman's breast a mixed feeling
of envy and pleasure. I followed them likewise, and a terrible
picture presented itself to my eyes. Lying down in the middle of
the tent were two Persians, looking deadly pale and covered with
clotted blood, dirt and dust. A man was busily engaged in putting
their broken limbs into fetters, when one of them gave a loud, wild
shriek, the rings of the chains being too small for him. The cruel
Turkoman was about to fasten them forcibly round his ancles. In a
corner sat two young children on the ground, pale and trembling,
and looking with sorrowful eyes towards the tortured Persian.
The unhappy man was their father; they longed to weep, but dared
not;--one look of the robber, at whom they stole a glance now and
then, with their teeth chattering, was sufficient to suppress their
tears. In another corner a girl, from fifteen to sixteen years old,
was crouching, her hair dishevelled and in confusion, her garments
torn and almost entirely covered with blood. She groaned and sobbed,
covering her face with her hands. Some Turkoman woman, moved either
by compassion or curiosity, asked her what ailed her, and where
she was wounded. "I am not wounded," she exclaimed, in a plaintive
voice, deeply touching. "This blood is the blood of my mother, my
only one, and the best and kindest of mothers. Oh! ana djan, ana
djan (dear mother)!" Thus she lamented, striking her head against
the trellised wood-work of the tent, so that it almost tumbled
down. They offered her a draught of water, and her tongue became
loosened, and she told them how she (of course a valuable prize) had
been lifted into the saddle beside the robber, but that her mother,
tied to the stirrups, had been obliged to run along on foot. After
an hour's running in this manner, she grew so tired that she sank
down exhausted every moment. The Turkoman tried to increase her
strength by lashing her with his whip, but this was of no avail;
and as he did not want to remain behind from his troop he grew in a
rage, drew his sword, and in a second struck off her head. The blood
spirting up, had covered the daughter, horseman and horse; and,
looking at the red spots upon her clothes, the poor girl wept loud
and bitterly.

Whilst this was going on in the interior of the tent, outside the
various members of the robbers' family were busy inspecting the
booty he had brought home. The elder women seized greedily upon one
or another utensil for domestic use, whilst the children, who were
jumping about merrily, were trying on the different garments,--now
one, now another, and producing shouts of laughter.

Here all was triumph and merriment; not far from it a picture of the
deepest grief and misery. And yet no one is struck by the contrast;
every one thinks it very natural that the Turkoman should enrich
himself with robbery and pillage.

And these terrible social relations exist within scarcely a
fortnight's distance from Europe, travelling by St. Petersburg,
Nishnei Novogorod, and Astrakhan!

       *       *       *       *       *

  _18th April._

Eliaskuli, who dwelt in the fourth tent from mine on the banks of
the Görgen, was a "retired" Turkoman, who, up to his thirtieth year,
had carried on the usual profession of kidnapping and pillaging, and
had now retired from business, in order, as he said, to spend the
rest of this futile, ridiculous life (fani dünya) here below in the
pious exercise of the law; as far as I know, however, it is because
several shot wounds of the "hellish" weapons at Ashurada prevented
him from carrying on any longer his infamous trade. He was in hopes
I might invoke upon his wicked head every blessing of heaven by my
prayers, and to this effect he narrated to me, with many details,
how the Russians, after having declared a religious war, had once
landed here, and attacked and set fire to all the tents that stood
on the banks of the Görgen. This religious war was in fact nothing
else than that the Russians wanted to release some countrymen of
theirs, whom these robbers had carried off prisoners, but the fight
lasted more than a whole day. He added, that although the Russians,
being too cowardly to come near, shot only from a distance, yet the
valiant Gazis (religious combatants) could not resist their devilish
arts, that he too received at that time some death wounds, and was
a whole day without giving a sign of life, until at last his Pir
(spiritual chief) called him back into existence.

This same Eliaskuli offered to accompany me to-day to the Ova of
the Ana Khan, who is the chief of the Yarali tribe, and dwells on
the upper Görgen, close to the Persian frontier. From curiosity,
perhaps, or some other motive, he wished to make my acquaintance.
Our road lay for some time along the left bank of the river, but
soon we were obliged to make a considerable circuit, in order to
avoid the large marshes and morasses. Unacquainted as the people
around me were with my motives for travelling, I laid myself open
to suspicion, no doubt; but the experience of a few days calmed my
fears for the security of my position, and indeed all misgivings
vanished, when I saw how the people, whenever we were passing some
tent on our route, came towards me with milk, cheese and other
presents, asking for my blessing. Thus I rode on in high spirits,
troubled at nothing but the heavy Turkoman felt cap, on the top
of which in addition several yards of linen were folded round in
the shape of a turban, and the heavy musket on my back, which for
propriety's sake I was obliged to carry, in spite of my character as
Mollah. Eliaskuli sometimes remained behind for full half an hour,
but I continued my way alone, meeting now and then a few marauding
stragglers, who, returning home empty from some unsuccessful foray,
measured me with sinister looks from head to foot. Some saluted me,
others only asked, "Whose guest art thou, Mollah?" in order to judge
from my personality whether it was feasible to plunder me or not;
but no sooner did I reply "Kelte Khandjan Bay," when they rode on in
evident displeasure, muttering in their beard an abrupt "Aman bol,"
(farewell.)

Towards evening we arrived at the tents, together with Khandjan,
who, having taken a different road, had joined us on the way. Ana
Khan, the patriarchal chief, a man about sixty years of age, was
seated on the green slope of a hill, surrounded by his grandchildren
and little children, (it is only in the east that one meets with
people, thus related to one another, of the same age,) watching
them with looks of pleasure, as also the flocks of sheep and herds
of camels who were returning home from their rich pasturage. Our
reception was short, but friendly. Walking before us, he conducted
us into the ready prepared tent, where I was appointed to the seat
of honour; the proper conversation, however, not beginning until the
very last remnants of the sheep, killed expressly for the occasion,
had disappeared from the table. Ana Khan spoke little, but he
listened attentively to my description of Turkish life and Russo
Turkish relations. The next morning, however, he grew rather more
talkative, and he began by treating us with the narrative of an act
of hospitality on his part towards an English iltshi (ambassador)
on his way to Khiva. I guessed at once that this must have been
the mission of Mr. William T. Thomson, who was sent thither by his
government to adjust the differences between Persia and the Khan of
Khiva. Ana Khan, in describing the arms, trinkets and person of the
Frenghi ambassador, laid such particular stress upon the resemblance
of his features to mine, that the cause of his curiosity was at once
evident, as well as his reason for wishing me to visit him. Looking
significantly and with glowing eyes at his countrymen, as if to
persuade them of the keenness of his perceptions, he came close up
to me, and gently tapping me on the shoulder, said, "Efendi! the
Tura (rule) of the Sultan of Rum is held in high honour amongst us;
first, he is the prince of all the Sunnites; secondly, Turkomans
and Osmanlis are blood-relations, and thou art our honoured guest,
although thou hast brought us no presents." In this remark I read
much, but inferred still more from it. My incognito, then, as
dervish, did not always meet with implicit belief. The majority,
however, especially the Mollahs, trusted in me, and single sceptics
did not by any means cause me disquiet.

I observed, moreover, that Khandjan did not share the views of Ana
Khan, the subject was never again broached, and I enjoyed the full
hospitality of the suspicious chieftain.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _20th April._

In distant Mergolan, in the Khanat of Khokand, religious zeal
recommends the frequent collection of money among the people, to
support the high schools at Medina, which town possesses a large
number of such institutions. Here, at the fountain-head of Islamism,
ardent students crowd together, eager interpreters of the Koran,
who, under the protecting Ægis of their pious occupation, are
supported in luxurious idleness by all the Mahometan countries
far and near. Stipends arrive here from distant Fez and Morocco;
the chiefs of the Algerine tribes send their annual gifts; Tunis,
Tripolis and Egypt as well as other smaller Mahommedan states,
send hither their tribute. Turkey vies with Persia in the support
of these pupils. The Tartar, living under Russian protection, the
native of India, subject to English dominion, all give freely to the
high schools of Medina. And yet all this is not deemed sufficient;
even the poor inhabitants of the oasis in Turkestan are asked to
contribute their mite.

It was at the time of my travels in Central Asia, that Khodja
Buzurk, the much-revered saint in those parts, had collected, no
doubt by dint of immense assiduity, 400 ducats for Medina. Mollah
Esad, the confidential friend of His Holiness, was commissioned
to take the sum to its destination. Although in Central Asia the
possession of money, the great source of danger for its possessor,
is always kept secret, yet the above-mentioned Mollah made no
mystery of the object of his journey, in the hope of enlarging his
fund. Bokhara, Khiva and other towns he visited had contributed to
increase it, and in the belief of meeting with equal success among
the Turkomans, he entered upon his journey through the desert,
relying upon his letters of recommendation to several of the nomad
learned men.

He reached Gömüshtepe without any mishap, but with the news of his
arrival there spread simultaneously that of the contents of his
travelling bag. The Turkomans were told at the same time that the
money was destined for a pious object, but this did not trouble
them. Each man endeavoured to catch him before he became the guest
of any one, for until a traveller enjoys the rights of hospitality
he is completely unprotected among the nomads; he may be plundered,
killed, sold into captivity,--there is no one to call the offender
to account. The host alone it is, whose vengeance is dreaded;
whosoever is taken under his protection is looked upon as a member
of his family, and is tolerably secure from attack.

With these facts our Khokand Mollah must have been acquainted, and
nevertheless he trusted to the mere lustre of his religious zeal.
One morning, having gone a short distance from the caravan, he was
fallen upon by two Turkoman men, and plundered of all his money. No
entreaties on his part, no appeal to the holiness of his mission,
no threats of terrible and condign punishment, nothing was of any
avail; they stripped him even of his clothes, and left him nothing
but his old books and papers. Thus he returned to the caravan,
stunned and half naked. This happened about a fortnight before
my arrival, during which time the delinquents were found out and
summoned before the religious tribunal. In my position, as Mollah
from Constantinople, I had the good luck to be honoured with a seat
in court, and the scene at which I was present, and in which I took
an active part, will long remain vivid in my recollection. We, that
is to say, the learned men, had assembled in a field, where we were
sitting in the open air, forming a semi-circle, and holding large
volumes in our hands, surrounded by a great crowd, who were eager
with curiosity. The robbers made their appearance accompanied by
their families and the chief of their tribe, without betraying the
least embarrassment, just as if they had come for the settlement of
some honest transaction. When questioned, who has taken the money?
the culprit answered in the haughtiest tone, "I have taken it." I
felt sure from the very beginning that a restitution of money would
never be made. Most of the council having exhausted their talents
of rhetoric by endless quotations from the Koran, it was my turn to
try and impress the hero, and I did so by pointing out to him the
wickedness of his deed. "What wickedness!" the Turkoman exclaimed,
"is robbery punished in thy country? This is strange indeed! I
should have thought that the Sultan, the Lord of the Universe, was a
man of more sense. If robbery is not permitted amongst you, how do
thy people live?"

Another Mollah threatened him with the Sheriat (religious precepts,)
and depicted in glowing colours the punishments of hell, which the
Turkoman had to expect in another world. "What Sheriat?" he replied,
"each man his own! Thou, Mollah, possessest laws and precepts in thy
tongue, which thou twistest as thou likest, I possess my Sheriat in
my good sword, which I brandish whenever my arm commands!" After
long and fruitless exhortations, and equally long consultations
amongst the grey-beards, our sitting was closed without any success
on our part. The Turkoman went away with his money, which he spent
in furnishing himself with new weapons, instead of its being sent
to Medina towards the support of her students. Mollah Esad returned
with a sad heart to Khokand, having learnt from bitter experience
that the Turkomans, although calling themselves orthodox, are the
blackest Kafirs on the face of the earth.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _6th May._

Oraz Djan, a young, daring and wild looking Turkoman, of about
eighteen years old, who had taken part in marauding excursions
ever since he was twelve, was a daily guest in our tent at Etrek,
in order to listen to the Pir (spiritual chief) of the kidnapping
robbers, in his discourses on religion and moral philosophy. It
happened one day, that Omer Akhond, a Mollah from the neighbourhood,
was present, a man celebrated for his great knowledge, and still
better known as the owner of a particularly excellent horse. The
animal was spoken of, and every one was loud in the praise of its
high qualities, when young Oraz, catching fire on hearing this,
called out half in earnest, half in joke, "Akhond, I will give thee
three asses and a Persian for thy horse. It is a pity that it should
rest in the stable, whilst the Persians so freely wander in their
fields. But, if thou dost not consent, then mark my words, in a
few days it will be stolen from thee!" The Mollah and Pir rebuked
him severely, but he laughed aloud wildly, and the conversation
continued as before.

Scarcely four days had passed when the Mollah entered our tent one
morning with tears in his eyes, and looking very sad. "My horse
has been stolen from me," he exclaimed with a sigh, "thou alone,
Kulkhan, canst restore it to me. Let me entreat thee, by the love of
the Tshiharyar (the four first chiefs,) do thy utmost!" "This is the
work of the Haramzade (Bastard) Oraz," muttered Kulkhan, "you will
see, I shall tear his black soul from out of his dirty body."

At the time of evening prayer our amiable Oraz was, as usual, among
the rest of our orthodox friends, who assembled on the terrace-like
height, where stands the mosque of the desert, and certainly no one
would have guessed, from his devotional expression at his prayers,
that this very day he had been robbing a father of the church. When
after the Namaz all formed the customary circle (Khalka,) Oraz
did not fail to come. Kulkhan at once addressed him with, "Young
fellow! The horse of the Mollah has been stolen, thou knowest
where it is; to-morrow morning he must be again in his stable, do
you hear me?" This address caused the young robber not the least
embarrassment. Playing with one hand in the sand, and with the
other pushing on one side his heavy fur hat, he replied, "I have
the horse, but I shall not return it; he who wants it must fetch
it." These words, I thought, would have roused the indignation of
every one present, but not a trace of it was seen in the features of
one of the company. Kulkhan went on speaking to him in his former
quiet tone of voice, but the robber insisted on refusing to restore
the horse, and when some of the grey-beards began to use threats,
he, too, caught fire, and having turned to his spiritual chief
with "Hast thou done better with the mare of the Hadji?" rose and
left the company; and for some time was heard singing aloud the
refrain of the poem Körogli, in the still evening air, thus proving
sufficiently his joy at the victory he had gained.

A considerable time was spent in consultation after he was gone. No
one ventured to attack him, since his tribe, according to custom,
would have taken him under their protection, in spite of his
abominable conduct, and they were too powerful to risk an attack.
Spiritual aid, therefore, had to be called in, and that it should
have taken immediate effect is not to be marvelled at.

According to the _Deb_ no greater punishment can befal a living
man, than to be accused before the shade of his departed father
or ancestor. This is done by planting a lance upon the top of the
grave, and fastening to it a couple of blood-stained rags, if murder
has been committed, and for any other crime a broken bow. Such an
appeal unites the Turkomans as one man against the offender and his
tribe, and how deep an effect it has on the mind of the culprit,
I saw on this occasion, for no sooner did Oraz perceive the lance
fixed upon the high Yoska of his grandfather, when in the silence of
the following night he led the horse back to the tent of the Mollah,
and tied it to its former place. This act of restitution, as he
himself told me, will pain him for a long time to come. But it is
better to lie in the black earth than to have disturbed the repose
of one's ancestors.




CHAPTER IV.

THE CARAVAN IN THE DESERT.


"The _Chil menzili Turkestan_, or the Forty Stations across the
desert of Turkestan," I often heard my friends say, "are far more
troublesome and much more difficult to get over than the _Chil
menzili Arabistan_, or the Forty Stations on the Pilgrims' route
from Damascus to Mecca. On this last one finds every day fresh
cisterns, which furnish drinkable water for thousands; the pilgrim
is sure to get fresh bread, a good dish of pilaw or meat, cool
shade, and all the comforts he longs for after the exhausting
day's march. But on the former route, man has done nothing for the
support of the poor traveller. He is in constant danger of dying
from thirst, of being murdered, of being sold as a slave, of being
robbed, or of being buried alive under the burning sand-storm.
Well-filled water-skins and flour sacks, the best horses and arms,
often become useless, and there is nothing left to one but to strive
to get forward as fast as possible, while invoking the name of
Allah."

The readers of my "Travels in Central Asia," may be supposed to
have some idea of the awfully imposing journey from Persia to
the oasis-lands of Turkestan. I may here furnish a few additional
particulars about the experience of our caravan. I have several
times been blamed for being too concise to be graphic, and this
charge, I confess, is not altogether undeserved. I propose here to
make up for my faults of omission.

During the first three days' march, the impressive, endless silence
of the desert--a silence as of the grave--cast a most powerful
spell over my soul. Often did I stare vacantly for hours, my eyes
fixed on the distance before me, and as my companions believed me
to be sunk in religious meditations, I was very seldom disturbed.
I only half observed how, during the march, certain members of
our caravan nodded in sleep on the backs of their camels, and by
their ludicrous movements and sudden starts afforded our company
exquisite amusement. Any one overcome with sleep would lay hold of
the high pummel of the saddle with both his hands, but this did not
prevent him from either, with a forward lurch, knocking his chin
with such force that all his teeth chattered, or, by a backward
one, threatening to fall with a summersault to the ground. Indeed
this last often happened, arousing the hearty laughter of the whole
party. The fallen became the hero of the day, and had to support the
most galling fire of jokes on his awkwardness.

The most inexhaustible fountain of cheerfulness was a young
Turkoman, named Niyazbirdi, who possessed no less liveliness of
spirits than agility of body, and by every word and movement
contrived to draw laughter from the most venerable of the Mollahs.
Although he was owner of several laden camels, he was, nevertheless,
for the most part, accustomed to go on foot; and running now right,
now left, he alarmed by cries or gestures any group of wild asses
that showed themselves along our route. Once, indeed, he succeeded
in getting hold of a young wild ass, which, through fatigue, had
loitered behind the rest. The young shy creature was led along by a
rope, and was the occasion of really droll scenes, when its lucky
captor gave a prize of three spoonfuls of sheeps-tail fat to any one
who dared to mount it. Three spoonfuls of mutton fat is a tempting
prize for Hadjis in the desert, so that many were seduced by the
prospect of gaining it. Nevertheless, they could make nothing of
this uncivilized brother of Balaam's charger, for the unfortunate
Hadjis had no sooner seated themselves on its back than they were
stretched sprawling in the sand.

Only after a march of several hours is general weariness to be
remarked. All eyes are then turned towards the _Kervan bashi_,
whose gaze at such a time wanders in every direction to spy out
a suitable halting place, that is to say, one which will afford
most plentiful fodder for the camels. No sooner has he found such,
than he himself hastens towards it, while the younger members of
the caravan disperse themselves to right and left to collect dried
roots, or scrub, or other fuel. Dismounting, unpacking, and settling
down, is the work of a few moments. The hope of much-desired rest
restores the exhausted strength. With speed the ropes are slackened,
with speed the heaviest bales of merchandize are piled up in little
heaps, in whose shade the wearied traveller is accustomed to stretch
himself. Scarcely have the hungry camels betaken themselves to
their pasture-ground when a solemn stillness fills the caravan.
This stillness is, I may say, a sort of intoxication, for every one
revels in the enjoyment of rest and refreshment.

The picture of a newly-encamped caravan in the summer months, and on
the steppes of Central Asia, is a truly interesting one. While the
camels, in the distance but still in sight, graze greedily, or crush
the juicy thistles, the travellers, even the poorest among them,
sit with their tea-cups in their hands and eagerly sip the costly
beverage. It is nothing more than a greenish warm water, innocent of
sugar, and often decidedly turbid; still human art has discovered no
food, has invented no nectar, which is so grateful, so refreshing
in the desert, as this unpretending drink. I have still a vivid
recollection of its wonder-working effects. As I sipped the first
drops a soft fire filled my veins, a fire which enlivened without
intoxicating. The later draughts affected both heart and head; the
eye became peculiarly bright and began to gleam. In such moments I
felt an indescribable rapture and sense of comfort. My companions
sank in sleep; I could keep myself awake and dream with open eyes.

After the tea has restored their strength the caravan becomes
gradually busier and noisier. They eat in groups or circles which
are here called _kosh_, which represent the several houses of the
wandering town. Everywhere there is something to be done, and
everywhere it is the younger men who are doing it, while their
elders are smoking. Here they are baking bread. A Hadji in rags is
actively kneading the black dough with dirty hands. He has been so
engaged for half an hour, and still his hands are not clean, for
_one_ mass of dough cannot absorb the accumulations of several days.
There they are cooking. In order to know what is being cooked, it is
not necessary to look round. The smell of mutton-fat, but especially
the aroma, somewhat too piquant, of camel or horse-cutlets, tells
its own tale. Nor have the dishes when cooked anything inviting to
the eye. But in the desert a man does not disturb himself about such
trifles. An enormous appetite covers a multitude of faults, and
hunger is notoriously the best of sauces.

Nor are amusements wanting in the caravan-camp when the halt is
somewhat prolonged. The most popular recreation is shooting at a
mark, in which the prize is always a certain quantity of powder
and shot. This sort of diversion was very seldom possible in our
caravan, as on account of our small numbers we were in continual
danger, and had therefore to make ourselves heard as little as
possible. My comrades were accustomed to pass their leisure time in
reading the Koran, in performance of other religious exercise, in
sleeping, or in attending to their toilet. I say "toilet," but it
is to be hoped that no one will here understand the word to imply a
boudoir, delicate perfumes, or artistical aids. The Turkomans are
accustomed to pluck out the hair of the beard with small pincers. As
to the toilet of the Hadjis, and, indeed, my own, it is so simple
and so prosaic as to be scarcely worth alluding to. The necessary
requisites were sand, fire, and ants. The manner of application I
leave as a riddle for the reader to solve.

Certainly, of all the nations of Asia, the Tartar seems to fit in
most appropriately with the bizarre picture of desert life. Full
of superstition, and a blind fatalist, he can easily support the
constant dread of danger. Dirt, poverty and privations, he is
accustomed to, even at home. No wonder, then, that he sits content
in clothes which have not been changed for months, and with a crust
of dirt on his face. This inner peace of mind could never become a
matter of indifference to me. At evening prayers, in which the whole
company took part, this peace of mind struck me most forcibly. They
thanked God for the benefits they enjoyed. On such occasions the
whole caravan formed itself into a single line, at whose head stood
an imâm, who turned towards the setting sun and led the prayers.
The solemnity of the moment was increased by the stillness which
prevailed far and wide; and if the rays of the sinking sun lit up
the faces of my companions, so wild yet withal so well satisfied,
they seemed to be in the possession of all earthly good, and had
nothing left them to wish. Often I could not help thinking what
would these people feel if they found themselves leaning against the
comfortable cushions of a first-class railway carriage, or amid the
luxuries of a well-appointed hotel. How distant, how far distant are
the blessings of civilization from these countries!

So much for the life of the caravan by day. By night the desert is
more romantic, but at the same time more dangerous. As the power
of sight is now limited, the circle of safety is contracted to
the most immediate neighbourhood; and both during the march and
in the encampment every one tries to keep as close as possible to
his fellows. By day the caravan consisted of but one long chain;
by night this is broken up into six or eight smaller ones, which,
marching close together, form a compact square, of which the outmost
lines are occupied by the stoutest and boldest. By moonlight the
shadow of the camels as they stalk along produces a curious and
impressive effect. During the dark starless night everything is full
of horror, and to go one step distant from the side of the caravan
is equivalent to leaving the home circle to plunge into a desolate
solitude. In the halt by day each one occupies whichever place may
please him best. At night, on the contrary, a compact camp is formed
under the direction of the _Kervan bashi_. The bales of goods are
heaped up in the middle; around them lie the men; while without, as
a wall of defence, the camels are laid, tightly packed together, in
a circle. I say laid, for these wonderful animals squat down at the
word of command, remain the whole night motionless in their place,
and, like children, do not get up the next morning until they are
told to do so. They are placed with their heads pointing outward
and their tails inward, for they perceive the presence of any enemy
from far, and give the alarm by a dull rattle in the throat, so that
even in their hours of repose they do duty as sentinels. Those who
sleep within the _rayon_ find themselves in immediate contact with
these beasts, and, as is well known, they have not the pleasantest
smell. It often happens that the saline fodder and water which these
animals feed upon produce palpable consequences for such as sleep
in their immediate neighbourhood. I myself often woke up with such
frescoes. But no one takes any notice of such things, for who could
be angry with these animals, who, although ugly in appearance, are
so patient, so temperate, so good-tempered, and so useful?

It is no wonder that the wanderers over the desert praise the camel
as surpassing all other beasts of the field, and even love it with
an almost adoring affection. Nourished on a few thorns and thistles,
which other quadrupeds reject, it traverses the wastes for weeks,
nay, often for months together. In these dreary, desolate regions,
the existence of man depends upon that of the camel. It is, besides,
so patient and so obedient that a child can with one "_tshukh_"
make a whole herd of these tall strong beasts kneel down, and with
a "_berrr_" get up again. How much could I not read in their large
dark blue eyes! When the march is too long or the sand too deep,
they are accustomed to express their discomfort and weariness.
This is especially when they are being laden, if too heavy bales
are piled upon their backs. Bending under the burden, they turn
their heads round towards their master; in their eyes gleam tears,
and their groans, so deep, so piteous, seem to say, "Man, have
compassion upon us!"

Except during a particular season of the year, when through the
operation of the laws of nature it is in a half-intoxicated,
half-stupefied condition, the camel has always a striking impression
of seriousness. It is impossible not to recognise in its features
the Chaldee-aramæan type, and in whatever portions of the earth he
may be found at the present day, his original home is unquestionably
Mesopotamia and the Arabian desert. The Turkomans disturb this
serious expression of countenance by the barbarous manner in which
they arrange the leading-rope through the bored nose. With the
string hanging down to the chest, the camel resembles an European
dandy armed with his lorgnon. Both of them hold their heads high in
the air, and both are alike led by the nose.

As the word of command to encamp is enlivening and acceptable, so
grievous, so disturbing, is the signal for getting ready to start.
The _Kervan bashi_ is the first to rouse himself. At his call
or sign all prepare for the journey. Even the poor camels in the
pastures understand it, and often hasten without being driven to
the caravan; nay, what is more extraordinary, they place themselves
close to the bales of merchandize with which they were before
laden, or the persons who were mounted on them. In a quarter of an
hour everybody has found his place in the line of march. At the
halting-place there remains nothing but a few bones, gnawed clean,
and the charred traces of the improvised hearths. These marks of
human life in the desert often disappear as quickly as they were
produced; sometimes, however, they are preserved through climatic
accidents for a long time; and succeeding travellers are cheered by
falling in with these abandoned fireplaces. The black charred spot
seems to their eyes like a splendid _caravanserai_, and the thought
that here human beings have been, that here life once was active,
makes even the vast solitude of the desert more like home.

Speaking of these spots where a fire has been kindled, I am reminded
of those vast burnt plains, often many days' march in extent, which
I met with in the desert between Persia and Khiva, and of which I
heard so many wonderful tales from the mouths of the nomads. During
the hot season of the year, when the scorching sun has dried shrubs
and grass till they have become like tinder, it often happens that
a spark, carelessly dropped, and fanned by the wind, will set the
steppe on fire. The flame, finding ever fresh fuel, spreads with
such fearful rapidity that a man on horseback can with difficulty
escape. It rolls over the scanty herbage like an overflowing stream,
and, when it meets with thicket and shrubs, it flares up with wild
wrath. Thus traversing large tracts of country in a short time, its
raging course can only be checked by a river or a lake. At night
such conflagrations must present a terrible appearance, when far and
wide the horizon is lit up with a sea of flame. Even the bravest
heart loses its courage at the appalling sight. The cowardly and
hesitating are soon destroyed, but one who has sufficient presence
of mind can save himself, if, while the flames are yet a great way
off, he kindle the grass in his neighbourhood. He thus lays waste a
space in which the approaching fire can find no sustenance, and in
this he himself takes refuge. Thus only with fire can man contend
against fire with success.

This weapon is often used by one tribe against another, and the
desolation thus caused is terrible. It is often used by a runaway
couple to secure themselves against pursuit. As long as no wind
blows they can easily fly before the slowly-advancing fire; but
it often happens that the flames are hurried forward by the least
breath of wind, and the fugitives find a united death in the very
means they had taken to secure their safety.

It is remarkable that the imposing aspects and most frequent natural
phenomena of the desert do not fail to impress even the nomads
who habitually witness them. As we were crossing the high plateau
of Kaflan Kir, which forms part of Ustyort, running towards the
north-east, the horizon was often adorned with the most beautiful
Fata Morgana. This phenomenon is undoubtedly to be seen in the
greatest perfection in the hot, but dry, atmosphere of the deserts
of Central Asia, and affords the most splendid optical illusions
which one can imagine. I was always enchanted with these pictures of
cities, towers, and castles dancing in the air, of vast caravans,
horsemen engaged in combat, and individual gigantic forms which
continually disappeared from one place to reappear in another. As
for my nomad companions, they regarded the neighbourhoods where
these phenomena are observed with no little awe. According to their
opinion these are ghosts of men and cities which formerly existed
there, and now at certain times roll about in the air. Nay, our
_Kervan bashi_ asserted that he also saw the same figures in the
same places, and that we ourselves, if we should be lost in the
desert, would after a term of years begin to hop about and dance in
the air over the spot where we had perished.

These legends, which are continually to be heard among the nomads,
and relate to a supposed lost civilization in the desert, are not
far removed from the new European theory, which maintains that such
tracts of country have sunk into their present desolation, not
so much through the operation of natural laws as through changes
in their social state. As examples are cited the great Sahara of
Africa and the desert of central Arabia, where cultivable land is
not so much wanting as industrious hands. As regards these last
countries, the assertion is probably not without some truth, but
it certainly cannot be extended to the deserts of Central Asia. On
certain spots, as Mero, Mangishlak, Ghergen, and Otrar, there was
in the last century more cultivation than at present; but, taken as
the whole, these Asiatic steppes were always, as far back as the
memory of man goes, howling wildernesses. The vast tracts which
stretch for many days' journeys without one drop of drinkable water,
the expanses--many hundred miles in extent--of deep loose sand, the
extreme violence of the climate, and such like obstacles, defy even
modern art and science to cope with them. "God," said a central
Asiatic to me, "created Turkestan and its inhabitants in his wrath;
for as long as the bitter, saline taste of their springs exist, so
long will the hearts of the Turkomans be full of anger and malice."




CHAPTER V.

THE TENT AND ITS INHABITANTS.


An able critic of my "Travels in Central Asia" wrote--"Mr. Vambéry
wandered because he has the wild spirit of dervishism strong within
him." On first reading this it struck me as a little too strong,
and I shall ever protest against such attribution of the title of
vagabond, however refined may be the terms in which it is couched.
Still I must candidly confess that the tent, the snail shell of
the nomad, if I may be allowed so to call it, has left on my
memory an ineffaceable impression. It certainly is a very curious
feeling which comes over one when he compares the light tent with
such seas of stone buildings as make up our European cities. The
vice of dervishism is, to be sure, contagious, but happily not for
everybody, so that there is no danger in accompanying me for a
little while to Central Asia, and glancing at the contrast there
presented to our fixed, stable mode of life.

It is almost noonday. A Kirghiz family, which has packed house and
household furniture on the backs of a few camels, moves slowly over
the desert towards a spot indicated to them by the raised lance of
a distant horseman. The caravan rests, according to nomad notions
of rest, while thus on the march, to become lively and busy when
they settle themselves down to repose according to our ideas.
Nevertheless, the elder women seated on the bunches of camels (for
the younger ones travel on foot), grudge themselves repose even
then, and occupy their time in spinning a sort of yarn for sacks out
of the coarser camels' hair. Only the marriageable daughter of the
family enjoys the privilege of being completely at leisure on her
shambling beast. She is polishing her necklace of coins, Russian,
Ancient Bactrian, Mongolian, or Chinese, which hangs down to her
waist. So engrossed is she in her employment, that an European
numismatist might take her for a fellow connoisseur; nevertheless
not a movement of the young Kirghizes, who seek to distinguish
themselves by all manner of equestrian gymnastics, as they caracole
around the caravan, escapes her notice.

At last the spot fixed on by the guide is reached. An inhabitant of
cities might imagine that now the greatest confusion would arise.
But no--everybody has his appointed office, everybody knows what he
has to do, everything has its fixed place. While the pater-familias
unsaddles his cooled horse and lets him loose on the pasture, the
younger lads collect, with frightful clamour, the sheep and the
camels, which are only too disposed to wander. They must stay to
be milked. Meanwhile the tent has been taken down. The old matron
seizes on the latticed framework and fixes it in its place,
spitting wildly right and left as she does so. Another makes fast
the bent rods which form the vaulting of the roof. A third sets on
the top of all a sort of round cover or lid, which serves the double
purpose of chimney and window. While they are covering the woodwork
with curtains of felt, the children inside have already hung up the
provision-sacks, and placed the enormous tripod on the crackling
fire. This is all done in a few moments. Magical is the erection,
and as magical is the disappearance of the nomad's habitation.
Still, however, the noise of the sheep and camels, of screaming
women and crying children, resounds about the tent. They form,
indeed, a strange chorus in the midst of the noonday silence of the
desert. Milking-time, the daily harvest of these pastoral tribes
is, however, the busiest time in the twenty-four hours. Especial
trouble is given by the greedy children, whose swollen bellies are
the result and evidence of an unlimited appetite for milk. The poor
women have much to suffer from the vicious or impatient disposition
of the beasts; but, although the men are standing by, the smallest
help is rigorously refused, as it would be held the greatest
disgrace for a man to take any part in work appointed to women.

Once, when I had, in Ettrek, obtained by begging a small sack of
wheat, and was about to grind it in a handmill, the Turkomans around
me burst out into shouts of laughter. Shocked and surprised, I
asked the reason of their scornful mirth, when one approached me
in a friendly manner and said: "It is a shame for you to take in
hand woman's work. But Mollahs and Hadjis are of course deficient
in secular _savoir faire_, and one pardons them a great many such
mistakes."

After the supply of milk has been collected, and all the bags of
skins (for vessels of wood or of earthenware are purely articles
of luxury) have been filled, the cattle, small and great, disperse
themselves over the wide plain. The noise gradually dies away.
The nomad retires into his tent, raises the lower end of the felt
curtain, and while the west wind, rustling through the fretted
wood-work, lulls him to sleep, the women outside set to work on a
half-finished piece of felt. It is certainly an interesting sight
to see how six, often more, of the daughters of the desert, in
rank and file, roll out under their firm footsteps the felt which
is wrapped up between two rush mats. An elderly lady leads this
industrial dance and gives the time. It is she who can always tell
in what place the stuff will be loose or uneven. The preparation of
the felt, without question the simplest fabric which the mind of
man has invented, is still in the same stage among these wandering
tribes as when first discovered. The most common colour is grey.
Particoloured felt is an article of luxury, and snowy white is only
used on the most solemn occasions. Carpets are only to be found
among the richer tribes, such as the Turkomans and the Œzbegs, as
they require more skill in their manufacture and a closer contact
with more advanced civilization. The inwoven patterns are for the
most part taken from European pocket-handkerchiefs and chintzes;
and I was always surprised at the skill with which the women copied
them, or, what is still more surprising, imitated them from memory
after having once seen them.

While the poor women are fatiguing themselves with their laborious
occupation, their lord and master is accustomed to snore through his
noonday siesta. Soon the cattle return from their pasture ground and
collect around the tent. Scarcely does the afternoon begin to grow
cooler, than the migrating house is in a trice broken up, everything
replaced on the backs of the camels, and the whole party in full
march. This is already the second day of their journey, and yet
all, men and beasts, are as lively as if they had dwelt for years
on the spot, and, at length released from the talons of ennui, were
delighted at the prospects of a change.

Long after sunset, while the endless waste of the desert is
gradually being over-canopied by the clear starry heaven, the
caravan still plods steadily, in order to rest during the colder
hours of the night under the shelter of their warm felts. Quickly
is their colossal _batterie de cuisine_ placed on the fire; still
more quickly is it emptied. No European can have any idea of the
voracious appetite of a nomad.

The caravan has been scarcely an hour encamped before everybody has
supped and retired to rest; the older members of the family within
the tent, the younger ones in the open air, their flocks around
them. Only where a marriageable maiden lives is there any movement
to be found. Among the nomad tribes of Central Asia, Islamism has
not succeeded in carrying into effect its rigorous restrictions on
the social intercourse of the sexes. The harem is here entirely
unknown. The young nomad always knows by what star to direct his
course in order to find the tent of his adored on the trackless
desert. His appearance is seldom unexpected. The nomad young lady
has already divined from what quarter the hoof-tramp will sound
through the nightly stillness, and has already taken up an advanced
post in that direction. It is scarcely necessary to observe that the
conversation of the two children of the desert, in this their tender
rendezvous, is not quite in unison with our ideas of æsthetical
propriety; but poetry is to be found everywhere, nay, I might say,
is more at home in the desert than in these western countries.
Sometimes a whole company of loving couples come together, and on
such occasions the dialogue, which must be in rhyme and adorned with
the richest flowers of Tartar metaphor, seems as if it would never
come to an end. I was at first enchanted with listening to such
conversation; but how irritated I was when I had to pass the night
in the same tent with such amorous society, and in spite of all the
fatigue of the day could not find quiet slumbers to refresh me!

The above is but a faint picture of the life of the nomads during
the more agreeable portion of the year. In winter, especially in the
more elevated regions, where severe cold prevails, this wandering
life loses everything which can give it the least tinge of poetry
in our eyes. Even the inhabitants of the cities of Central Asia
marvel that the nomads can support life in the bleak open country,
amid fearful storms and long weeks of snow. Indeed, with a cold of
30° Réaumur, it cannot be very pleasant to live in a tent; still
even this occasions no serious inconvenience to the hardy child of
Nature. Himself wrapped up in a double suit of clothes, he doubles
the felt hangings of his tent, which is pitched in a valley or some
other sheltered spot. Besides this the number of its inhabitants is
increased, and when the _saksaul_ (the root of a tree hard as stone
and covered with knobs) begins to give out its heat, which lasts for
hours, the want of a settled home is quite forgotten. The family
circle is drawn closer round the hearth. The daughter of the house
must continually hand round the skin of _kimis_. This favourite
beverage opens the heart and looses the tongue. When, furthermore,
a _bakhshi_ (troubadour) is present to enliven the winter evenings
with his lays, then even the howling of the tempest without serves
as music.

When no extraordinary natural accidents, such as sand-storms or
snow-storms, break in upon his regular course of life, the nomad is
happy; indeed, I may say, as happy as any civilization in the world
could make him. As the nations of Central Asia have but very few
wants, poverty is rare among them, and where it occurs, is by no
means so depressing as with us. The lives of the inhabitants of the
desert would glide peacefully away, were it not for the tendency to
indulge in feuds and forays--a leading feature in their character.
War, everywhere a curse, there draws after it the most terrible
consequences which can be conceived. Without the smallest pretext
for such violence, a tribe which feels itself stronger often falls
upon the weaker ones. All who are able to bear arms conquer or die;
the women, children, and herds of the fallen are divided as booty
among their conquerors. Often does it happen that a family, which
in the evening lay down to rest in all the blessedness of security,
find themselves in the morning despoiled of parents, of freedom, and
of property, and dragged into captivity far apart from one another!

Among the Turkomans near Khiva I saw many Kirghiz prisoners, who had
formerly belonged to well-to-do families. The unfortunate creatures,
who had been but a short time before rich and independent, and
cherished by parents, accommodated themselves to the change of their
fortunes as to some ordinary dispensation of nature. With what
honesty and diligence did they attach themselves to their masters'
interests! How they loved and caressed their masters' children! Yet
these same masters were they who had robbed them of their whole
property, murdered their father, and branded them for ever with the
opprobrious title of "Kul" (slave.)

Buddhism, Christianity, Mohammedanism, have one after the other
attempted to force their way into the steppes of upper Asia. The
first and the last have succeeded to some extent in making good
their footing, but the nomads have, nevertheless, remained the
same as they were at the time of the conquests of the Arabs, or
of the campaigns of Alexander--the same as they were described by
Herodotus. I shall never forget the conversations about the state
of the world which I had with elderly Turkomans and Kirghizes. It
is true that one can picture to oneself beforehand a specimen of
ancient simplicity, but that is still something quite different
from seeing before you one of these still standing columns of a
civilization several millenniums old.

The Central Asiatic still speaks of Rome (Rum, modern Turkey) as
he spoke in the days of the Cæsars; and when one listens to a
grey-beard as he depicts the might and the greatness of this land,
one might imagine that the invincible legions had only yesterday
combated the Parthians and that he was present as an auxiliary.
That his Rum (Turkey) is a state of but miserable proportions in
comparison with old Rome, is what he cannot believe. He has learned
to associate with that name glory and power. At the most, China may
be sometimes compared to Rome for might and resources; although the
legends that are told of this latter empire dwell rather on the
arts and the beauty than on the valour of the Chinese people. Russia
is regarded as the quintessence of all fraud and cunning, by which
means alone she has of late years contrived to effect her conquests.
As for England, it is well known that the late emir of Bokhara, on
the first occasion in which he came into contact with the British,
was quite indignant "that the Ingiliz, whose name had only risen to
notice within a few years, should dare to call themselves _Dowlet_
(government) when addressing him."

Extremely surprising to the stranger is the hospitality which is
to be found among the nomads of Central Asia. It is more abounding
than perhaps in any other portion of the east. Amongst the Turks,
Persians, and Arabs, there still linger faint memories of this
old duty, but our European tourists have had, I believe, ample
opportunity of satisfying themselves that all the washing of feet,
slaughter of sheep, and other good offices, are often only performed
in the hope of a rich _Bakhshish_, or _Pishkesh_, (as they say
in Persian.) It is true that the _Koran_ says, "Honour a guest,
even though he be an infidel;" but this doing honour is generally
the echo of orders issued from some consulate or embassy. Quite
otherwise in Central Asia. There hospitality is, I may say, almost
instinctive; for a nomad may be cruel, fierce, perfidious, but never
inhospitable.

One of my fellow-beggars went, during my sojourn among the
Turkomans, on a round of begging visits, having first dressed
himself in his worst suit of rags. Having wandered about the
whole day he came at evening to a lonely tent, for the purpose of
lodging there for the night. On entering he was saluted in the
customary friendly manner; nevertheless he soon observed that the
master of the poverty-stricken establishment seemed to be in great
embarrassment, and moved hither and thither as if looking for
something. The beggar began to feel very uncomfortable when at last
his host approached him, and, deeply blushing, begged him to lend
him a few _krans_, in order that he might be able to provide the
necessary supper, inasmuch as he himself had nothing but dried fish,
and he wished to set something better before his guest. Of course
it was impossible to refuse such a request. My comrade opened the
purse which he carried under his rags, and when he had given his
host five _krans_, everything seemed to be satisfactorily arranged.
The meal was eaten amidst the most friendly conversation, and when
it was ended, the softest felt carpet was assigned to the stranger
as his couch, and in the morning he was dismissed with the customary
honours.

"I was scarcely gone half an hour from the tent," so my friend
related his adventure subsequently to me, "when a Turkoman came
running towards me, and with violent threats demanded my purse. How
great was my astonishment when I recognised in the person of the
robber no other than my host of the previous night! I thought he
was joking, and began to address him in a friendly manner; but he
grew only more and more serious. So, in order to avoid unpleasant
consequences, there remained nothing for me but to hand over my
purse, a few leaves of tea, my comb, and my knife, in one word,
my whole property. Having so done, I was about to proceed on my
way, when he held me back, and opening my--that is to say now
his--purse, and taking out five _krans_, gave them to me with these
words:--'Take my debt of yesterday evening. We are now quits, and
you can go on your way.'"




CHAPTER VI.

THE COURT OF KHIVA.


The courts of oriental princes have been frequently and variously
described. Beginning with the shore of the Bosphorus, where Dolma
Bagtsche, Beshiktash and Serayburun furnish the first pictures in
the panorama, and ranging as far as the palaces of Pekin and Yedo,
we have read again and again of the love for ostentation and empty
splendour, the glitter of gold and diamonds of oriental life. But
to complete the series, a few sketches of life at the court of
Turkestan sovereigns are wanting, and the description of such may
not, therefore, be deemed superfluous.

My readers must not expect either to be dazzled, or to have their
amazement and admiration excited, and yet it will repay the trouble
to accompany me through the tortuous streets of Khiva and the bazaar
with its vaulted roof to the Ark (the Royal Castle.) Like all the
residences of sovereigns in Central Asia, this castle is strangely
fortified and surrounded by a double wall. Through a narrow gate
we enter into the first court, which is crowded with the royal
body-guard and other soldiers and servants. Near the entrance two
cannons are planted, brought thither by the mighty Nadir, and
left behind on his hasty retreat. They are decorated with pretty
symmetrical ornaments, and seem to have been made at Delhi. After
having passed the second gate, we enter a more spacious court, with
a mean looking building on one side, not unlike an open coach-house;
it is here that the high officials pass the hours of office, the
Mehter (Minister of the Interior) presiding. To the left of this
building is a kind of guard-house, in which divers servants,
policemen and executioners live during the day time, awaiting the
commands of their royal master. A small gate leads between these two
buildings, to the residence of His Majesty of Khiva. On the outside
it resembles a poor mud-hut, like all the other houses in the town,
and is of course without windows, nor is any particular luxury to
be met with inside, except several large and valuable carpets, a
few sofas and round cushions, together with a considerable number
of chests--the entire furniture of this place--which serve in
some degree to remind us of the princely rank of the master. The
number of apartments is very small, and as every where the case, is
divided into the Harem, (the rooms set apart for the women,) and the
Selamdjay, (the reception hall.)

Nowhere are any signs of splendour perceptible; the large train of
followers alone mark the distinction, the lacqueys are the sole
insignia of the ruler. Let us pass them in review before us. At the
head of the household is the Desturkhandji, (literally, the man who
spreads the table cloth,) whose peculiar office is to superintend
the royal table. He is present during dinner, clothed in full armour
and state dress, and on him devolves the inspection and control
of the entire number of servants. Next to him follows the Mehrem,
a kind of valet de chambre _in officio_, but in reality rather a
privy councillor, who shares in the business of the state besides
his immediate domestic affairs, and, conjointly with the former,
exercises the most powerful influence upon his royal master. Then
follows the rest of the servants, of whom each has his distinct
office. The Ashpez, or cook, prepares the food, whilst the Ashmehter
serves it. The Sherbetshi prepares tea, sherbet, and other drinks,
but he is expected to be skilled besides in the decoction of
wonder-working elixirs. The Payeke is entrusted with the tchilim
(pipe,) which at court is made of gold or silver, and must be
replenished with fresh water every time it is filled with tobacco.
This office does not exist in any other court in Central Asia,
tobacco being strictly forbidden by law. His Tartar Majesty has no
dressing room, it is true, but, nevertheless, several servants are
appointed to assist at the toilet. Whilst the Shilaptshi kneeling
holds the wash-hand basin, the Kumgandshi (the man who holds the
can or jug) pours the water from a silver or golden vessel, and
the Rumaldshi is ready, as soon as the two former have withdrawn,
to throw the towel to the prince, holding it with the tips of
his fingers. The Khan has an especial Sertarash (who shaves the
head,) who is expected to have nimble fingers and at the same time
a skilful hand for squeezing the skull, a favourite operation
throughout the east. Then the prince possesses a Ternaktshi, or nail
cutter, a Khadimdshi, whose duty it is to knead and pummel his back,
also to kneel upon him and make his limbs crack, whenever the Khan,
after long fatigue, wishes to refresh himself. Lastly, there is a
Töshektshi, or bed maker, whose office it is to spread out at night
the soft pieces of felt or the mattresses. The magnificent harness,
saddles and weapons are in charge of the Khaznadshi (treasurer,)
who, whenever the sovereign rides out in public, walks beside him.
The Djigadj, or keeper of the plumes, walks at the head of the train
of servants.

In dress and food, the prince's household is little distinguished
from that of rich merchants or officials of rank. The king wears
the same heavy cap of sheep-skin, the same clumsy boots, stuffed
out with several yards of linen rags, the same thickly-wadded coats
of print or silk as his subjects, and, like them, endures in this
Siberian costume, under the oppressive heat of July, a state of
fearful perspiration. On the whole, the position of the Prince of
Kharezm is one little to be envied, nay, I feel inclined to say,
it is far more wretched than that of other Eastern princes. In a
country, where pillage and murder, anarchy and lawlessness, are
the rule, and not the exception, a sovereign has to maintain his
authority by inspiring his subjects with the utmost dread and
almost superstitious terror for his person; never with affection.
Even those nearest to him fear him for his unlimited power; and wife
and children, as well as relations, not unfrequently attempt his
life. At the same time, the sovereign is expected to be the model
of Islamitic virtue and Œzbeg manners and customs; every most
trifling, insignificant error of his Majesty, becomes the talk of
the town; and although nobody would venture to blame him for very
considerable offences, yet in the former case it is the influential
Mollahs who would feel affronted,--a result entirely opposed to the
interests of the sovereign.

The Khan, like every orthodox Mussulman, is obliged to leave his
bed before sun-rise, and to be present at the morning prayer in
full assembly. It lasts rather more than half an hour, after which
he partakes of several dishes of tea, seasoned with fat and salt.
Not unfrequently some of the learned Mollahs are invited, in order
to enliven the breakfast, by explaining some sacred precept or
arguing upon some religious question, of which his highness rarely
of course understands anything. Profound discussions generally
invite sleep, and no sooner does his Majesty begin to snore aloud,
when the learned men take it as a signal to withdraw. This sleep
is called the morning doze, and lasts from two to three hours.
When it is over, the selam (reception) of the ministers and other
high dignitaries commences, and the Khan enters in full earnest
upon his duties as sovereign. Consultations are held as to the
maurauding expeditions to be undertaken, politics are discussed
in reference to the neighbouring state of Bokhara, the Yomut-
and Tchaudor-Turkomans, the Kasaks, and at present probably the
Russians, who are pushing their advances nearer and nearer;--or
the governors of the provinces and the tax-gatherers, who had been
sent out over the country, have to submit to the Khan and his
ministers their several accounts. Every farthing has to be paid over
with the most scrupulous accuracy, and woe to that man in whose
account the smallest error is detected; it may happen that he is
dismissed, leaving his head behind. And now, after having transacted
for several hours the ordinary business of the state, breakfast
is served, consisting for the greater part of rather light food,
that is to say, "light" for an Œzbeg digestion--the déjeuner à
la fourchette of his Majesty of Khiva sufficing in all probability
for several of our active working men at home. During this meal all
present have to stand round respectfully and look on, and after
having finished, he invites one or the other of his favourites
to sit down and play with him at chess,--an amusement which is
continued until the time for mid-day prayer. This lasts about an
hour. When it is over, his Majesty proceeds to the outer court, and
taking his seat on a kind of terrace, the arz (public audience)
takes place, to which every rank, every class is admitted,--men,
women, and children, either in the greatest négligé or even half
naked. All crowd round the entrance, where amidst noise and
shouting they wait for audience. Each in turn is admitted, but only
one person at a time, who is allowed to approach quite close to his
sovereign; to speak out freely and without reserve, to make entreaty
or complaint, nay, to engage even in the most violent altercation
with the Khan, the smallest sign from whom would suffice to deliver
his subject, without any reason whatever, into the hands of the
executioner. Thus the East is, and ever was from times immemorial,
the land of the most striking contradictions. The inexperienced may
interpret this as love of strict justice. I, however, see in it
nothing but a whimsical habit of demeanour, permitting one person
to defy the royal authority in the coarsest terms of speech, while
another forfeits his life for the smallest offence against the rules
of propriety.

At the arz not only all great and important lawsuits are settled,
and sentences of death pronounced and executed; but even trifling
differences are not unfrequently adjusted, as for instance, a
quarrel between a husband and wife, or between one man and his
neighbour on account of some few pence or the stealing of a hen. No
complainant whatever can be refused a hearing; and although the Khan
may send him to the Kadi, yet he must first listen to whatever he
has to say. The afternoon prayer alone puts an end to this wearisome
occupation. Later in the day the prince takes his customary ride on
horseback outside the town, and usually returns just before sunset.
Evening prayers again are said in full assembly, and these ended,
the prince retires to take his supper. The servants, and all those
who do not live in the palace, withdraw, and the king remains alone
with his confidants. Supper is a luxurious meal, and lasts longer
than any other. Spirituous drinks are seldom taken by the sovereigns
of Khiva and Bokhara, although the other members of the royal family
and the grandees frequently transgress on this point, and indulge
in the practice to excess. After the supper, singers and musicians
make their appearance, or jugglers, with their various performances.
Singing is very popular in Khiva, and the native singers of this
place are the most renowned in Turkestan, and indeed throughout the
whole Mahomedan East of Asia. The instrument upon which they excel
is called girdshek, and bears a general resemblance to our violin.
It has a longer neck and three strings, one of wire and two of silk;
the bow, too, is like our bow. Then there are the tambur and dutara,
on which instruments the Bakhshi plays the accompaniment to his
songs, improvised in praise of some popular hero of the day; whereas
at the royal court they select for the most part ghaseles from Nevai
and the Persian poets. The young princes are instructed in music,
and it often happens that the Khan invites them to perform either
alone or with the troubadours at court. Particular merriment and
good humour, such as presides at the drinking-bouts at Teheran, or
at the banquets in the palaces on the Bosphorus, is not to be met
with at the court of Œzbeg princes; it is unknown here, or at
least such is not the custom. The national character of the Tartar
is chiefly marked by seriousness and firmness; to dance, jump, or
show high spirits, is in his eyes only worthy of women or children.
I have never seen an Œzbeg person of good manners indulge in
immoderate laughter.

About two hours after sunset the Khan retires to the harem, or to
his sleeping apartment, and with it his daily labours as sovereign
are ended. The harem is here very different from those of the
Turkish or Persian court. The number of women is limited, the
fairy-like luxuriousness of life in a harem is entirely wanting,
strict chastity and modesty pervade it; and in this respect the
court of Khiva is eminently superior to all Eastern courts. The
present Khan has only two lawful wives, although the Koran allows
four. These are always chosen from among the royal family; and it
is an extremely rare thing for the daughter of a dignitary, who
does not belong to the family, to be raised to this rank. The Khan,
although possessing the same unlimited power over his wife as over
any of his subjects, treats her without severity, and on the whole
with tenderness, unless she be found guilty of any particular
offence. She possesses no titles or prerogatives whatever; her court
is distinguished in nothing from the other harems, but that she has
more female servants and slaves about her; the former consisting of
the wives or daughters of officials, the latter for the most part
of Persian and a few dark Arab women. The daughters of Iran are
far inferior to the Œzbeg women in personal beauty, and their
mistress has no cause to fear from either of them any rivalry. As
regards their intercourse with the outer world, the princesses
of Khiva are far more restricted than the wives of other Eastern
potentates. The rules of modesty require that they should pass the
greater part of the day in the harem, where comparatively little
time is lavished upon the embellishments of the toilet. And in fact,
the ladies of the harem have very little leisure for idleness, since
in accordance with the custom of the country it is desirable that
the greater part of the clothes, carpets, and other stuffs, for the
use of the prince, should be prepared by the hand of his wife. This
custom reminds one strongly of the patriarchal mode of life of which
Turkestan, in spite of its roughness, has preserved many remnants of
simple refinement.

The princess of Khiva is permitted occasionally to visit the
neighbouring royal summer palaces and chateaux, never on horseback,
as is the general custom in Persia, but in a large carriage, painted
with gaudy colours, and completely covered and shut in with red
carpets and shawls. Before and behind the vehicle trot a couple
of horsemen, furnished with white staves. On her progress all
rise respectfully from their seats and salute her with a profound
bow. Nobody thinks of daring to cast a look of curiosity into the
interior of the carriage; not only would this be useless, so closely
is it covered, but such temerity would have to be atoned for by
death, whether the object be the wife of the sovereign or any
subordinate official. Whenever the Queen of Persia takes a ride on
horseback, the numerous ferrash (servants) who head the cavalcade
cut right and left with their sabres at the crowd, who disperse in
terror and confusion, in spite of their eager curiosity. Such a
proceeding, however, is not necessary with the grave Œzbegs; for
here life in the harem is not regulated with the same severity, and
it is well known that the less strictly its laws are administered,
the less frequently they are transgressed.

During the summer the royal family inhabit the castles of Rafenek
and Tashhauz, near Khiva. Both were erected in the Persian style
by former princes, and are distinguished by possessing some
window-panes and small looking-glasses--the latter, especially,
being considered articles of great luxury in the eyes of the people
of Khiva. Tashhauz has not been built without taste. The chateau
stands in a large garden; it has several reservoirs, and resembles
the castle of Nigaristan, near the town gate, Shimran at Teheran.
The winter is spent in the town, but when here his Œzbeg highness
occupies a light tent which is pitched inside the walls; and
herein he shows no bad taste, for the round-shaped dwelling, made
of snow-white felt, with a cheerful fire burning brightly in the
middle, is not only quite as warm as any building of stone, but
there is something pleasant about it, and it makes a far less gloomy
impression than the windowless mud-huts of Turkestan.




CHAPTER VII

JOY AND SORROW.


Joy and sorrow are undoubtedly the mirror, in which not only is
the character of a people clearly reflected, but which likewise
offers the most faithful image of their manners and customs. In joy
and sorrow every sign of dissimulation vanishes, man shows himself
in his true colours, and the lights and shades of his temperament
become at once apparent; for, in any matter of real feeling, it is
vain to try to speak and act differently to the dictates of this
potent voice within us. And nowhere is a better opportunity offered
for studying the various features of joy and sorrow, than at a
birth, marriage, and death,--those three stages in the great family
of mankind. The main outlines are no doubt everywhere the same, but
in the colouring and composition a variety is produced, not found
even among civilized nations. Ethnography has frequently thrown
light on this subject in different parts of the world; but we must
confess that Central Asia in this respect is wrapt in considerable
obscurity. To attempt to dispel this darkness may therefore not be
deemed superfluous; and, the savage Polynesian and Central African
having resisted vainly the spirit of inquiry, we will in like manner
raise the veil from the rude and suspicious Œzbeg. It is a first
attempt, and consequently a feeble one.


1. BIRTH.

As soon as a woman in Central Asia (I refer to a settled family),
about to become a mother, feels the first pangs of childbirth, she
sends for her neighbour, her nearest relations, a midwife, and a
nurse for the child. A new felt or carpet is spread out in the tent
or room, and upon this the woman is placed, with her legs doubled
under her. As the pains increase, her nearest relations squat round
her; and she, flinging both her arms round the neck of two of her
most intimate friends, the midwife seizes her by the thighs, and
moves her about, until she has been delivered of the child. She is
now placed upon a bed, the relations taking the mother under their
care, and the midwife having charge of the child. The former is
restored to strength by friction on the temples and pulse, whilst
the midwife sets about cutting out swaddling-clothes from a new
piece of linen, in which she wraps the infant, strictly observing
the various superstitious customs. Then taking the remainder of
the linen to the mother, she informs her of the sex and appearance
of her child; she also is the bearer of the happy tidings to the
father, from whom she receives a present on this occasion. In
fact, the kindik kesen (swaddling-clothes maker) plays a very
important part in the whole affair. For three days the child is
invisible to every one, during which time it is frequently smeared
over with butter, and, to prevent any redness in them, which is
considered extremely objectionable, the eyes are washed with salt
water. It is then clothed in a little shirt, and finally it is
laid upon a pillow of camel's hair, and exhibited. Now all the
friends and acquaintances pay their visits, and the husband offers
a present to his wife, who is anxious to hear from her guests their
prognostications as to the future of her child, which experienced
matrons draw from the limbs and movements of its little body. Thus
for instance, it is a bad sign, if it has entered the world with
the left foot or hand first; a small apple of the eye augurs that
her offspring will be a thief; a broad forehead denotes valour; a
restless kicking of the feet future wealth, and so forth. Every
one scrutinizes the infant with insignificant gestures; and well
might the fear of the evil eye make the mother uneasy, but that she
herself has tied the white magic-stone on the left arm of her child.

After the chille (forty days) have elapsed, festivities begin.
In the case of a girl, not much is done; but if the child be a
boy, even the poorest make every effort to gather round them a
considerable number of guests, and to feast them as sumptuously as
possible. Grand banquets, horse-racing, wrestling and music, are the
order of the day; and finally, a special celebration in honour of
the birth, the so-called Altin Kabak, takes place, which consists
in hanging up a golden or silver ball on the top of a high tree,
and whosoever brings it down at the first shot, with either ball or
arrow, gains this prize, together with a certain number of sheep,
and often even camels and horses.

During the first year the greatest care is taken to guard the
child against cats, evil spirits, and other dangerous influences,
after which time the above-mentioned white stone is replaced by a
round-shaped bone, and on his little cap are hung the argushtek (a
piece of wood, carved and dyed mysteriously), a nusha (amulet),
which must be written by the hand of some learned man, several
corals, the tooth of an hyæna, and, if circumstances permit, a small
bag with holy earth from the grave of Mohamed. All these things,
together, often make up a considerable weight, which presses very
heavily on the head of the poor little creature; but this is not
taken into consideration. On the contrary; the mother examines with
jealous care to see that not a single thing be found wanting, each
being looked upon as a certain means of protection against so many
dangers.

In Central Asia, as throughout the whole East, children are allowed
but a very few years to devote merely to play. Girls are early
taught to spin, weave, sew, to make cheese, &c.; and boys are put on
horseback, and learn to ride as early as their fifth year, and are
employed as horsemen in sham fights, and as jockeys in horse races
in, and even before, their tenth year. It is only the more wealthy
parents who give their children in charge of a Mollah. When they
have learned to read, the Korantoy, or the festival of the Koran,
is celebrated, which is of the same nature as the Chatemdüyünü of
the Osmanlis, with this difference: that the latter takes place when
the lad has, for the first time, read through the sacred book of
Mohamed, and here, when he begins reading.


2. MARRIAGE.

Although childhood is of short duration among the Œzbegs, yet a
youth does not receive the name of yighid (a mature youth) until
his eighteenth year, nor the girl that of kïz (virgin) before she
is sixteen years old. In the country the intercourse between the
two sexes is not in the least degree influenced by the Koran. Here,
as in Western countries, we see the "rosy play of love" represented
with all its joys and sorrows, all its fascination and enthusiasm.
At first I felt amazed that the tenderest of feelings should find
room in the heart of a man in Central Asia, accustomed as he is
from his earliest youth to robbery and murder, and hardened to the
tears of widows, orphans and slaves. But I had the opportunity of
convincing myself, that love is here more frequently the cause of
the most extraordinary adventures than in other Mahomedan countries.
The Œzbeg is passionately devoted to music and poetry, and hence
it is but natural that his heart should be susceptible to the
emotions of love.

When two young people have formed a mutual attachment the secret
is entrusted to their parents, and if these make no objections,
the young man opens the transaction by despatching two female
ambassadors, Soutchi Khatin, to ask them formally for the hand of
their daughter. The parents, for the most part, have been previously
informed of the demand, and receiving the embassy with honour and
distinction, they express their satisfaction at the offer, but
refrain from giving any decisive answer. To pronounce a regular
straightforward "yes," is contrary to the rules of propriety, and
the young man has to interpret, from trivial allusions, whether his
suit will be granted or not. The next thing is to talk over the
kalim (marriage portion) which the man is ready or able to give
for his future wife. The question is always, how many times nine,
i.e., how many times nine sheep, cows, camels or horses, or how
many times nine ducats, as is the custom in a town, the father is
to receive for giving up his daughter. The less wealthy give twice
nine, the wealthier six times nine, and the Khan alone has to pay
nine times nine, for the purchase of his bride. The kalim having
been settled, the next question to be considered is one of great
importance, the eginbash (present in ornaments) to be presented by
the future husband. It consists of eight rings, yüzük, a semi-tiara
(sheghendjin), a tiara (shekergül), a bracelet (bilezik), ear-rings
(isirga), nose-rings (arabek), and ornaments for the neck (öngülük).
This whole set of ornaments must be presented complete, and not a
single article wanting; it is also previously settled, whether it is
to consist of gold or silver. No doubt a man in Central Asia has to
pay dearly for his wife. The negotiations are generally a protracted
business; and finally, when every thing is definitely settled,
neighbours and relations are invited to the fatiha toy (feast of
promise), which is celebrated for two days in the home of the future
bride, and two more in that of the future husband. The Mollah, or
some grey-beard, announces the new arrangement to the guests. He
tells them the exact purchase-price for the girl, and when the
wedding is to take place, and concludes his short address with a
fatiha, after which the festivities begin and are continued for four
days. In entertainments of this kind, called toy, all the guests are
assembled in one and the same apartment, but form different groups.
The upper part of the room is occupied by the elderly people; the
women range themselves along the right side of the wall and the
girls and lads sit down in some corner, generally near the musicians
and singers. The toy consists not merely in eating and drinking,
but there is also music and singing, and above all, horse-racing,
which latter forms the chief part of all festivities in Central
Asia. Prizes of considerable value are given, and young and old take
the most lively interest in the sport. The race-course varies from
one to three fersakh in length; on the former only two year olds
are admitted, on the latter full-grown strong horses. Two villages
are chosen, lying at this distance apart, and whilst the crowd are
assembling in one of them, a toy emini, steward, is appointed in
the other. It is his duty to see that a fair start is effected,
and that horse is proclaimed the winner, who first passes the goal
which is fixed at the entrance of the opposite village. The horses
are trained for several weeks for the race, and are ridden by young
boys, who wear on this occasion short and tight-fitting clothes,
very similar to those worn by jockeys in England.

The interval between the fatiha toy and the marriage is fixed
according to the age of the "promessa." A week before the wedding,
the toyluk (food for the wedding) is sent by the man to the house
of his future wife; and consists of meat, flour, rice, fat, sugar
and fruit. Soon after, his mother and nearest female relations
arrive, who have been invited as guests for several weeks. Two days
before the beginning of the festival the future husband mounts his
horse, and, surrounded by his friends, all of whom, as well as their
horses, are decked out in the gayest colours, goes also to the home
of her parents, his father alone remaining behind, not for the sake
of taking care of the house, but in order to make all necessary
preparations for the due reception of the newly-married couple on
their return.

Meanwhile, in the house of the future wife, where the first days
of the marriage-feast are celebrated, the greatest bustle and
activity prevails. The young girls have to do the cooking, and are
fully employed with their gigantic cauldrons. The quantity of food
brought together for an Œzbeg wedding is as enormous as the
appetite of the numerous guests. Whilst the young girls are busy at
cooking and baking, the young swains carry on a lively flirtation
with them. The galant homme, who is lucky enough to obtain from his
beloved a bone or some tit-bit out of the cauldron, regards the gift
as a signal sign of favour, but still more lucky is he who gets a
few sharp raps with the cooking ladle, the highest of all favours,
and appreciated far above the daintiest morsels. Men and women
gather round the fire-place in groups, laughing, talking, joking and
shrieking, whilst musicians play and sing, and children shout and
yell. These noises are mingled with the bleating of sheep, barking
of dogs, neighing of horses and braying of donkeys, while loud above
the general hubbub is heard the clown's stentorian voice in coarse
sallies of Œzbeg wit and humour. He is the very life of the whole
party. His gesticulations, the grimaces with which he accompanies
his jests, give rise to continual bursts of laughter. Now he mimics
this person or that, now he tells of some droll prank or merry
adventure, or whistles like a bird and mews like a cat, and thus he
has to continue without interruption, although from sheer exertion
the perspiration runs down his face in streams.

It is a strange custom that, for the last few days before his
wedding, the young man is not allowed to leave his tent, the young
girl and her companions watching it, meanwhile, with looks of the
utmost curiosity. It is said that friends and relations sometimes
assist in bringing about a secret _tête-à-tête_, but not until after
the marriage ceremony is he permitted to mix with the company.
This ceremony takes place at the end of the second day, in the
presence of the whole assembly. Each party is represented by two
witnesses, to whom the Mollah puts the question, whether the two
young people mutually agree as to the marriage. He then proceeds at
once to perform the ceremony, when the witnesses of the young girl
put in their veto. They declare (with a feigned reluctance) their
unwillingness to give up the treasure entrusted to them, unless
the young man should present them with a certain sum of money, or
some other present. He finds the demand exorbitant, and now begins
a bargaining and haggling, which continues until both parties are
satisfied, when the solemn ceremony is at last performed. The
Mollah reads aloud the permission of the reis (religious chief,)
the witnesses attest on oath, and with significant gestures, the
marriage compact, a short prayer is read, and the ceremony is over.

The bride now hands round fruit and a rich cake, and distributes
white kerchiefs, garments, or other presents among the Mollahs,
grey-beards, and above all, the young men who have acted as
witnesses.

The bridegroom now makes his appearance, but is not permitted to
approach the company nearer than a few steps from the door! and
all having partaken of an enormous repast, the festivities in the
bride's home terminate.

The elderly, as well as the married folk, now take their departure,
but the young people remain, and pack the bride and her marriage
portion on a sort of carriage, and thus accompanied by her female
companions and friends, she sets out for the home of her husband.
The journey, called bolush, is protracted as much as possible, and
often when the distance is short, one or two long circuits are
made, in order to have the opportunity of continuing the amusements
on the road. The bride sits in the first carriage with her future
sister-in-law, the young men accompany the procession on horseback,
and he who can manage to force his way first to the front, riding
full gallop, receives from her a handkerchief as the prize. The
others try to snatch it from him, he flies and is pursued, and
the chase does not cease till he has reached the carriage again.
The handkerchiefs thus gained are tied to the horse's head, and
preserved a long time as valuable trophies.[11] Whenever the
procession passes a village on the route, they are generally
stopped, and a toll is demanded. The sister-in-law sitting next
the bride distributes cake, and the passage is again free. Amidst
continued sport and chaff the bride arrives at the home of her
husband, and no sooner does she draw near it, than she wraps her
veil around her, changing her merry expression of face to one of
the utmost gravity. Her father-in-law lifts her from the carriage,
conducts her into the room, and leads her to a tent improvised with
curtains and carpets in a corner of the apartment. The husband
soon follows her, and for the second time raises her veil in the
presence of his father, who compliments his daughter-in-law on her
charming appearance, the first sight of which he has to requite with
presents. The young couple are left alone, but have to endure for
some time the jokes of the noisy crowd assembled outside the tent,
who are eager to exhibit on these occasions their slender store of
wit and humour. They disperse late at night, and at last all is
quiet.

  [11] In Hungary we find the same practice prevailing at the present
  day, for the custom of tying coloured handkerchiefs to the heads of
  the horses at marriage feasts most probably has its origin in this
  ancient usage.

Among the Turkomans and Kirghis it is customary for newly-married
people to be separated for a whole year, after they have lived
together for a few days, and although the husband is allowed to make
his appearance in the house of his wife, it must be only at night
and in the most clandestine manner. In the opinion of the nomads,
married life, in its beginning, is made all the more pleasant by
acting up to the proverb, "stolen kisses taste the sweetest," and
hence also the belief, that the first born child must always be
handsome and vigorous.

The great national festival, called noruz (new year), of the
Œzbegs, has been transmitted to them by the Persians, and is
celebrated in Central Asia with the same pomp which distinguishes
it in Persia, with this only difference, that the Œzbegs have
an old and a new noruz. The latter, however, is of no especial
importance. There is no lack of amusing games, but it is very
remarkable that some have degenerated into the most pernicious
gambling. Playing cards (sokti) are introduced from Russia (without
the court cards), but have not yet come into general use. The
favourite game is the Ashik-game (Ashik--the anklebones of sheep),
which is played in the manner of European dice with the four
anklebones of a sheep, and with a degree of passionate excitement
of which one can form no idea. The upper part of the bone is called
tava, the lower altchi, and the two sides yantarap. The player
takes these four little bones into the palm of his hand, throws
them up and receives half of the stake, if two tava or two altchi,
and the whole of the stake, if all four tava or altchi turn up. The
advantage to be gained arises entirely from dexterity in throwing;
trickery is impossible, since the bones are frequently changed.
This game is equally popular with the dweller in settlements as
with the nomad; and although apparently a trivial amusement, it
not unfrequently happens that the Ashik player, in the heat of his
passion, stakes the whole of his possessions, nay, even his wife.
Mankind, in fact, are everywhere the same. The refined European
makes his offerings at rouge et noir upon the green table; the
Œzbeg on the sandy ground with four anklebones.


3. DEATH.

Whenever a member of a family is on the point of death, his nearest
relations usually leave the house or tent. The Mollah, or the
elderly among the neighbours, surround the dying man, watching for
the last breath and repeating the customary prayers, while outside
the air is filled with wailing and lamentations. If he should have
been lying speechless for some time, some wool is moistened by his
friends, and water dropped into his mouth, for fear lest, deprived
of his speech, he might die of thirst. The rolling of the eyes and
the contraction of the nose are regarded as symptoms of death; and
no sooner has the dying man drawn his last breath than his jaws are
tied up, and the body is stripped and then covered over. The clothes
are destroyed, for even the poorest Œzbeg could not be persuaded
to put on anything worn by a dying man.

The corpse is not allowed to be kept longer than twelve or fifteen
hours, in accordance with the custom among all Mahomedan nations.
It is not washed upon a board, but on a mat (buria), which is
immediately after burnt; and the relations and neighbours, nay,
often the whole population of the place, having wept and wailed
their fill, the body is taken to be buried. The settled inhabitants
of Central Asia possess cemeteries for their dead, but among the
nomads each dead body is buried singly in the desert; and if he has
been a man of influence and consideration, a large mound (tumulus)
is generally raised over his grave, in the construction of which all
the male members of the tribe are expected to take part. The more
honoured the person, the higher and larger the mound (yoska). The
surviving relations look upon it with pride; on certain festivals,
and on the anniversary of the death, food or other presents are
placed upon it for the benefit of the poor; and no sooner does the
nomad come in sight of it, however great the distance may be, than
he mutters a short prayer for the repose of the dead.

Men that fall in battle are neither undressed nor washed. The blood
of a brave soldier being regarded as his greatest adornment, is
consequently not removed.

The funeral feast begins immediately after the burial with a simple
repast, at which the iyis (bread baked in fat) is distributed among
rich and poor, and must be eaten by everybody. The feast is repeated
on the third, seventh, and fortieth day after the death took place,
besides which the anniversary is celebrated in like manner,--a duty
which even the poorest would not omit to perform, for fear lest,
by neglecting it, the departed might appear to them at night, and,
exhorting the survivors, complain that they had forgotten to invite
those of this world who are to pray for the welfare of his soul.

Among the nomads, the funeral feast occupies a more important
part. Once every week, throughout the first year, a repast is
prepared on the day of the death, and daily, as mentioned already
in our "Travels among the Turkomans," the women sing the song of
lamentation at the hour in which the member of the family breathed
his last. With the latter, moreover, the memory of a dead person
is held in the highest regard, and peculiar respect is paid to his
grave for a long time after, if he has fallen in battle, or on some
marauding expedition. The shaft of his lance is planted upon it,
and decked with various-coloured pieces of stuff, ram's horns, a
horse's tail, or like mementos,--friends and members of the same
tribe contributing, as a matter of course, every time they pass it.
The "yoskas" are called by the name of those that repose beneath;
children play around, but, however playfully inclined, are careful
not to climb upon them. It is even said, that horses go to visit
the yoskas of their former masters, and are seen standing before
them, with heads bent downward in mourning; and young warriors
habitually look with veneration on these mounds, and draw from them
the inspiration to their greatest deeds of valour.

Whenever we happened to meet one of these graves in our travels in
the steppes of Central Asia, each member of our caravan was obliged
to tear off a little piece of his clothes and fasten it to the
shaft, or to a bench, or all joined in a hymn sung in his praise,
Karavan bashi saying every time: "He who does not honour the dead
will never receive honour from the living."




CHAPTER VIII.

HOUSE, FOOD, AND DRESS.


The house, or fixed dwelling, has never, up to the present day,
gained a firm footing among the nations in Central Asia, not even
in those parts where regular settlements have existed for several
hundred years. Part of the population build houses for themselves,
but they are generally looked upon as gloomy places, producing
feelings of melancholy, and the light, airy tent is in all cases
preferred. It is principally the Œzbeg people who build houses,
an art they have learnt from the original Persian settlers, and,
as they resemble in many points the inhabitants of Iran, the
architecture in Central Asia is in the early Iranic style, and at
the same time very similar to the new Persian.

The first thing before building a _house_, is to level and prepare
the ground by stamping it down with a heavy pounder. Foundations
are only made to large buildings. The common-sized houses are made
with a mud flooring, two feet high, and upon this, after it has
dried hard, the walls are raised with a layer of rushes or wood
underneath, in order to keep them from the damp rising from the
ground. The walls are either "tam," _i.e._, of clay or stone,
or "akchub," _i.e._, of wooden laths, laid crossways, and the
interstices filled up with clay and unbaked tiles. The ceiling
consists of planks, closely fitting together; in the houses of the
poor these are left bare, and in those of the rich they have a
coating of plaster and lime. Small holes serve as windows; they are
open in summer, and in winter are pasted over with oiled paper. The
roof, similar to those in Persia, is like a terrace, and serves as
a sleeping place during the heat of the summer. Regular bricklayers
are seldom met with. Every man is his own architect, convinced
of possessing sufficient knowledge to build for himself a house
suitable to his wants; and the plumb-line being still unknown, it is
not to be wondered at that the walls are crooked and uneven, bulging
either in or out, and soon become dilapidated.

The interior arrangement of a house is as follows: you enter by a
wide gate, which forms the chief entrance, into a covered passage,
called dalar. To the right of the gate are one or two rather large
apartments (mihmankhane), which serve as reception-rooms for guests,
and contain weapons as well as useful domestic utensils. Next to
these are two small rooms, used as store-rooms. To the left are
the stable and the shed for the carts and trucks, whilst a small
door at the back of the dalar, opposite the entrance, leads to the
inner apartments or harem. These are for the most part ayvans, that
is, rooms which are open on one or two sides, and generally look
out upon a garden. In towns they are used as favourite summer
apartments, and it is really pleasant to live in them, especially
during the night, with a peshekhane, a square tent made of gauze,
like mosquito-nets, over one's bed, as a protection against catching
cold, which is as dangerous in Central Asia as it is in Persia. In
the country the dwellings are scattered. The farmstead (havli),
which consists of several different parts, is always surrounded with
a high wall for protection, and looks like a small fortress. The
interior is very roomy; on one side are the buildings, always lower
than the wall, on the other the tents, the fixed dwellings being set
apart here also exclusively for animals and store-rooms. Sometimes
the inner space is so large that a small kitchen-garden has found
room within it. Outside, but near the walls, is a large reservoir,
the edges of which are bordered with plantains, and afford a most
agreeable resting-place. These trees flourish admirably in this part
of Asia, where they are found of an astonishing height and breadth,
and reach the great age of from 300 to 400 years. On hot summer days
they afford the most refreshing shade, and for hours the Œzbeg
is seen sleeping beneath the spreading branches. Not only does the
thick foliage protect him from the burning rays, but the breeze,
which always blows under the plantains, drives away tormenting
insects.

The furnitures of a house are the same as in Persia, and consist of
carpets, coverlets of felt, large chests, painted red, for keeping
clothes, some cauldrons and other vessels for cooking, and holding
water. Splendour or luxury are entirely wanting, and even the modern
improvements in windows and doors, met with sometimes, come from
Persia, from whence some clever and expert slave has introduced
them into Central Asia. Nothing can find its way here from Europe,
it has always to pass through the channel of Turkish and Persian
civilization, And everything travels its customary snail's pace; the
Persian imitates European institutions second hand from the Turks,
and the nations in Central Asia adopt nothing but what reaches them
through the medium of Persia.

The _food_ of the Tartars consists principally of meat. Bread, in
many parts of the country, although not unknown, is yet a rare
luxury. Mutton is the favourite meat; next to this goat's flesh,
beef, and horse flesh; camel's flesh is least valued. Occasionally,
the horse is declared to be "mekruh" by the religious, and is not
eaten, but in the country little notice is taken of it; and the
_Torama_, horse flesh boiled soft and mixed up with onions, carrots
and dumplings, is a very popular dish. It is worthy of remark, that
the water first used in boiling the horse flesh is poured away,
as far too strong and heavy for even Tartar digestion, and that
only the second infusion can be eaten as broth. In some parts of
Central Asia sausages are made of the entrails, and considered a
dainty dish; but I have nowhere found, that the delicate parts of
this animal are held in such high favour among the Œzbegs as is
asserted throughout Persia. Camel's flesh is hard and tough; it is
cut in small pieces, covered with paste, boiled, and then fried in
lard. This dish, called _Somsa_, is not quite tasteless, but to our
digestions like a weight of lead.

The favourite national dish is the _Palau_, also called ash, which,
though related to the pilau of the Persians and the pilaf of the
Turks, by far surpasses both these in savour. I have lived on it for
a long time, and willingly impart to Europeans my knowledge of how
it is prepared. A few spoonfuls of fat are melted (in Central Asia
the fat of the tail is usually taken) in a vessel, and as soon as
it is quite hot, the meat, cut up into small pieces, is thrown in.
When these are in part fried, water is poured upon it to the depth
of about three fingers, and it is left slowly boiling until the meat
is soft; pepper and thinly-sliced carrots are then added, and on the
top of these ingredients is put a layer of rice, after it has been
freed from its mucilaginous parts. Some more water is added, and
as soon as it has been absorbed by the rice the fire is lessened,
and the pot, well-closed, is left over the red-hot coals, until the
rice, meat and carrots, are thoroughly cooked in the steam.

After half an hour the lid is opened, and the food served in
such a way that the different layers lie separately in the dish,
first the rice, floating in fat, then the carrots and the meat at
the top, with which the meal is begun. This dish is excellent,
and indispensable alike on the royal table and in the hut of the
poorest. From here it was introduced among the Afghans; by them to
the Persians, who call it kabuli (kabul). The pilau, if I am not
mistaken, has its origin in Central Asia, and spread from thence far
and wide over Western Asia.

Another national dish of the Tartars is _Tchörek_, a soup with small
dumplings in it, which are filled with spice and minced meat. I say
"a soup," and yet this dish alone suffices for a whole dinner, since
it is partaken of in such quantities that any other dish can be
easily dispensed with. It is known among the Osmanlis, by the name
of tatar börek. Thirdly, _Sheöle_, a porridge of rice mixed up with
meat and dried meat. Fourthly, bulamuk, a dish consisting simply of
flour, water and fat. Fifthly, _Mestava_, rice boiled in sour milk,
a dish exclusively for the summer, as the former is for the winter.
Besides these dishes there are the _Yarma_, corn bruised and boiled
in milk; _Godje_, a kind of porridge, made of the molcussorghum;
and _Mashava_, likewise a porridge of grits, eaten with fat, and
sometimes with oil. Heavy, strong and piquant dishes are generally
preferred, few sweets are eaten, sugar and honey being unknown,
and the many syrups (shires) prepared of grapes, melons, and other
fruits, are rarely used in cooking. Of bread only enough for the
day's consumption is baked, as is the custom everywhere in Asia. The
dough is not made into thin cakes, as in Persia, but into round
thick loaves, such as are used in the neighbourhood of Erzerum, and
are called lavash. There is also a sort of biscuit baked in fat,
eaten when travelling.

Among the settled nations of Central Asia, tea is the favourite
drink, and among the nomads, especially the Kirghis tribe, it is
the _Kümis_. In summer they drink green tea, which thins the blood
and promotes digestion; but in winter a black tea (brick tea) of a
very harsh taste and an extraordinary stimulant; its effects are
for a long time unbearable, and must be very dangerous. Cooling
drinks are the _Airan_, sour milk mixed with water, and various
decoctions made of dried fruit. Coffee is entirely unknown; even in
Persia it is only met with in the southern province of Fars, and in
Irak among the higher classes. Wine and brandy are sometimes sold
secretly in the capitals, by Jews who manufacture both, but the
number of consumers is very small. The Islamitic laws are severe on
this point, and forbid, under pain of death, the use of spirituous
liquors, but they do not prevent the vice of intoxication. Those who
wish for stimulants use opium, teriak, or other narcotic poisons,
and thus, in order to obviate a small evil, the door is opened to a
much larger one, the gratification of which costs health and life.

The wretched poverty among the inhabitants of Central Asia is shown
in nothing more strongly than in their _dress_, and the eye is with
difficulty accustomed to the simple cotton stuff, or silks of
glaring colours, in which every one is clothed, man and woman, young
and old. Cloth or other European manufactures are only exhibited on
extraordinary festive occasions, and are worn by wealthy or great
dignitaries, as a _ne plus ultra_ of luxury. At any other time,
whether winter or summer, a garment, the so-called _Aladja_, is
worn, and the only difference made in the various seasons is, that
they put in a thicker lining, of either linen, wool, or fur. The
cut of it is, perhaps, the most primitive among all the settled
nations of Asia. No one has any idea of dressing tastefully and
yet conveniently, or of setting off their figure to advantage, the
only object is to cover or rather envelope it, and the Persian is
perfectly right when he satirically says of his rude neighbours,
that the whole nation moves about wrapt up in bed clothes. The
_Tchapan_ (upper coat) is the chief article of a man's wardrobe; it
is not unlike our European dressing gowns, and cut out in Khiva so
as to fit the body pretty well; in Bokhara it is already so large
that two people can envelop themselves in it, and in Khokand it is
widest of all. It is a highly ludicrous sight to see a man trot
along in this smock-frock-like garment, full of folds, and puffing
out at every part, and though I can well understand the many folds
round the chest, forming as they do a receptacle for a whole set of
cooking utensils, and all the necessaries for travelling, and food
to last at least for two days, yet it will always be a mystery to
me why the sleeves are twice as long as the arms, and what is the
advantage of tucking them up and making an enormous roll or puff on
the top of the arm. Under the tchapan is worn in summer a _Yektey_
(a thin under dress), and under this the shirt, which reaches down
to the ankles, and is distinguished from other shirts, worn in Asia,
by being open on the left shoulder instead of in front, very much
like a sack. At night the Turkestans have the strange habit, before
going to sleep, of drawing their arms out of their shirt sleeves,
and doubling themselves up. In winter an extra garment, _Tchekmen_,
of ample dimensions and made of coarse stuff, is added to this
costume. In some parts of the country, especially in Khiva, where
the cold is greater, thickly-wadded, clumsy trousers are worn. As
a covering for the head they wear in Khiva the telpek, a broad,
conical-shaped hat of fur, which is very heavy; throughout Bokhara
the turban is worn. It has a very picturesque appearance, with its
long loops hanging down on the left side, and the trim natty way in
which it is put on. In Khokand a small light cap used to be worn
until twenty years ago, not unlike our clergyman's scapula (skull
cap,) but since then it has yielded to Bokhariot civilisation,
and has been supplanted by the turban. As to boots, those made in
Bokhara and Khokand are the best. The leather is good, the shape
rather handsome, but for the ludicrously long and thin heel, the end
of which is scarcely broader than a nail's head. People of rank wear
a kind of stocking made of morocco leather (mest), and over these,
shoes, of which the best are made in Samarkand.

With respect to the dress of the women, it seems as if they
were still more desirous than the men to avoid any approach to
ostentation, luxury or smartness. When in undress, the women wear
in summer a long shirt, reaching down to the ankles, the hind part
of which is made of coarse linen, and the front mostly of a light
coloured strong Russian print. The trousers are in like manner made
of linen down to the knee, and the lower part, which fits close to
the ankle, is made of print, or any other coloured stuff. The women
wear in winter, over the shirt, one or two thickly-wadded jackets,
fastened round the loins with a shawl. When abroad they put over
all this a long garment, not unlike a man's coat, in which the
woman muffles herself, holding it tightly together with both hands
across her chest. The feet are covered with clumsy boots. It is a
sorry sight to see a town woman of Central Asia walk about in this
wretched costume, with her whole attention engrossed by the effort
not to let the over-coat escape from her hands, since she would
be regarded as an impudent woman indeed, if she allowed her under
garments to be seen, and although the boldest stare cannot penetrate
the coarse veil of horse-hair, yet she has to be for ever on the
watch not to attract the looks of the passers by.

In the country, women are allowed to move with less restraint.
Married women are seldom veiled, young girls never. The overcoat
is shorter, and is merely thrown across the shoulder, and the
broad shawl girded round the waist, with long ends fluttering to
the breeze, gives a certain picturesqueness to their appearance.
This indulgence, however, is only enjoyed in Khiva and Khokand;
in Bokhara, even in the country, the tyrannical laws of Islamitic
civilisation are executed with great severity, and it is rare to
meet with an exception.

Among the men, various objects of ornament are seen, those which
hang from the _Koshbag_, such as good knives with silver or other
ornamented handles, gold-embroidered bags for tea, pepper and salt;
further, rings for the fingers, tesbih (rosaries,) seals sometimes,
but rarely, bracelets, gold and silver sheaths for amulets and
watches, which latter are especial articles of luxury, and only to
be found among the great. The objects of ornament among women I
have already mentioned when speaking of the customs at weddings. It
is useless to look for comfort or luxury either in the dwellings,
food, or clothing of the natives of Central Asia, every thing here
bears the impress of very ancient manners and customs, and every one
conforms to them willingly, not wishing for anything better. The
government, supported by the Mollahs, labours to keep up this status
quo of things, by declaring all foreign productions contraband,
and endeavouring to supplant them in the market, for fear the
inhabitants of Turkestan might become aware of their poverty, and
attribute it, not to the natural, but to the social circumstances
of their country. And yet such an endeavour is fruitless, railroads
and steam vessels bring their powerful veto, even in these rude
countries, to bear upon a whole nation's backwardness. The ships
which plough the Indian Ocean, the Black Sea, the Caspian Sea, the
Lake of Aral, the Volga, and, at the present time, the Yaxartes
likewise, have considerably lessened the distance between Central
Asia and the west of Europe. The locomotives, which on the south run
as far as Lahore, on the north to Nishnei-Novgorod, and astonish
and perplex the eastern nations, are still, it is true, far from
the inland waters of the Oxus and Yaxartes; yet, nevertheless, they
exercise a considerable influence upon the communication of these
countries. The Œzbeg trader need only go as far as Orenburg on
the one, and Peshawur on the other side, and he has St. Petersburg,
Bombay, and the whole of Europe before him. Inaccessible as Central
Asia still is to all scientific, as well as commercial travellers,
yet within the last twenty-five years an essential material
advancement is apparent. We need only look over the custom-house
list of the English and Russian frontier towns, and we should be
surprised at the enormous increase of articles imported from Europe.
From 1840 to 1850 goods were transported across the Russian frontier
of nearly a million pounds sterling in value, and in the year 1860
they amounted already to the value of two millions. Cotton and silk
stuffs have been more largely imported than any other goods, and
in spite of the detestation and horror felt towards the producer,
the productions of the west grow more and more in request, and are
well paid for. Cottons, handkerchiefs and cambrics, as is well
known, are the great forerunners of civilisation, the mute apostles
of western culture, who spread blessings in their path, even though
European arms and military tactics occasionally accompany their
footsteps. And, however much the condition of half savage nations
may be extolled for its happiness by foolish and weak-brained
enthusiasts, yet a practical observer must feel convinced that our
civilisation is preferable, and that it is a sacred duty on our part
to transplant it to every clime and country.




CHAPTER IX.

FROM KHIVA To KUNGRAT AND BACK.


The young Mollah from Kungrat, who had joined our caravan in order
to reach Samarkand, was planning to go and take leave of his native
town and kindred whilst we were staying at Khiva; and great was his
joy when he learned that I was desirous of accompanying him thither,
partly from a wish to make a begging tour and collect all I could,
and partly for the sake of escaping the uncomfortable crowding in
hot, sultry Khiva. In his delight he promised me mountains of gold,
describing everything in the most glowing colours, to sustain me in
my resolve. I needed, however, no urging, too glad to meet with such
an opportunity; and two days after I was actually on my way to Yengi
Urgendj, from whence I hoped to reach the Oxus, where a half-laden
vessel was ready to take us on board for a moderate fare.

The journey from Khiva to Kungrat is chiefly made by water in the
summer, and down the river at high water it never lasts longer than
five days; that is, during the very heat of summer, when the river
has reached its greatest height, owing to the melting of the snow
on the Hindukush and the tops of the Bedakhshan mountains. In the
autumn and spring, at low water, the voyage lasts longer, and in
winter it is entirely interrupted, the Oxus being in many parts,
although not wholly, covered with ice.

The traveller can take ship, if so inclined, from the very walls
of Khiva, that is, on the canal Hazreti Pehlivan, but not without
making a great _détour_, since its mouth is to the south, near
Hezaresp, instead of being to the north. The same objection applies
to the second canal, Gazavat, which is at a considerable distance
from the town, and flows rather eastward than northward. For this
reason the traveller prefers to go to Yengi Urgendj, the first
manufacturing and commercial city in the Khanat, and then on to
Akhun Baba, the tomb of a saint, with a few scattered havlis
(farmsteads) near it, which is situated on the banks of the Oxus,
and is the first stage on the road. The distance is about eighteen
English miles, in a well cultivated and tolerably populous district,
the road leading through fields, gardens and meadows. Here are
found the finest mulberry trees in the greatest abundance, and
consequently the cultivation of silk is extremely flourishing; in
fact, this part of the country justly deserves to be called one of
the most beautiful in the whole Khanat.

The heat was so fierce and intolerable on the banks of the Oxus,
that I could not help expressing some uneasiness to the boatmen, but
they comforted me by saying, that down stream this evil would be
remedied, by putting up a _Peshekhane_ (mosquito net), which would
not be in their way, the boat being steered only at either end.
The mosquito net was at once put up; it had the shape of a canopy,
and was to protect us in the day time from the sun, at night from
the dangerous mosquitoes; and the necessary fatiha (blessings) on
starting having been pronounced, we pushed off in company of four
boatmen and two other passengers.

The voyage was at first very monotonous. The two men, one at the
upper end and one at the lower end of the boat, kept steering it to
those parts of the river where the water was yellowish and turbid,
the current being here the strongest, as they explained to us. The
rudders consisted of long poles, flattened at the end, and the two
steersmen generally remained seated down at their work, unless
special care and attention were required. They were relieved about
every two hours, when, less fatigued by their labour than scorched
by the sun, they would join us in our sheltered retreat, stretch
themselves out at full length, to our great annoyance, and soon be
heard snoring in chorus, until they had to return to their task. Of
our two fellow-travellers, happily only one was very loquacious;
and whenever my Tartar friend explained to me this or that point of
interest, he would interrupt him with his copious emendations, and
thus satisfy my curiosity by a full and detailed commentary.

The banks of the Oxus present few features especially worthy of
interest, although far more than Boutenieff notices in his travels,
who, in his mission in 1858, took the same route from Kungrat to
Yengi Urgendj, up stream. On the right bank, opposite the place
where we embarked, is seen the great ruin, Shahbaz Veli (the sacred
hero), which is said to have been a strong fortress in ancient
times, and which was destroyed by the Kalmucks. In the history of
Khiva these people are regarded as the great destroyers of the
Khanat; and although it is true that at the time of their invasion
under Djengiz, the then flourishing Kharezm suffered terribly at
their hands, yet it is an exaggeration to assert, as tradition
does, that all the ruins are the sole work of their lust for
devastation. Farther on I met with another extensive ruin with the
remains of stone buildings, called Gaur Kaleszi (the fortress of
the Gaurs). Under the term "Gaur," I first understood the Gebers or
fire-worshippers, but soon I learned to my great astonishment, that
by this name are designated, throughout Central Asia, the Armenians
or rather the Nestorians, who possessed here large colonies,
extending from the Sea of Aral far into China, in pre-Islamitic
times down to the decline of the Mongol dominion.

On the right bank extends for more than three leagues, from the
above-mentioned ruins down to the water's edge, a somewhat dense
forest (togay), called Khitabegi. The trees are not particularly
high, but the sun is nevertheless unable to penetrate and dry up
the marshes fed by the Oxus. Only in very few places is the forest
inhabited, and that by the Karakalpak tribe, who rear cattle. The
left bank is the really inhabited part; here the chain of Havlis
is scarcely interrupted, and here and there villages of some size
are seen lying close to the water, such as the Œzbeg village
Tashkale, which is situated on a high bank, and the smaller village
of Vezir, near which the canal Kilidjbay discharges, or rather forms
a basin, previous to losing itself beyond Yilali in the sand.

To make tea, prepare palau, and either listen to or tell sacred
legends, was the alternate occupation of the day. Sometimes it
happened that all my companions, the steersmen alone excepted, fell
fast asleep, producing a pause, which was to me a most pleasant
change; and as I fixed my eyes upon the yellow, turbid waters of the
ancient Oxus, my imagination loved to revert to the clear mirror
of many a European river, whose waters are ploughed by hundreds
of ships, and whose verdant, smiling banks, are full of life and
activity. What a gigantic contrast!

The Oxus is the typical representative of the country it
traverses,--wild and unruly in its course, like the temperament of
the Central Asiatics. Its shallows are as little marked as the good
and bad qualities in the Turkoman; daily it makes for itself new
channels similar to the nomad, whose restless spirit, wearied of
staying long in one spot, is ever craving for novelty and change.

Early the second day we passed the town of Görlen at a short
distance from the shore. The proper landing place is a village near,
called Ishimdji, and opposite to it on the right bank is situated
the fort Rehimberdi Beg, which I mention merely because here begins
the mountain chain of Oveis Karayne, extending from south-east to
north.[12] At first sight it bears much resemblance, as well in
height as in its formation, to the Great Balkan in the desert,
between Khiva and Astrabad; but on a nearer approach its larger
circumference soon becomes apparent, and the luxuriant vegetation
and the woods with which several of its heights are clothed, present
a scene of agreeable surprise. On one of them is said to be the tomb
of Oveis Karayne, a celebrated place of pilgrimage in Khiva, and
in the distance we discovered several buildings, which Rehimberdi
Beg had erected for the convenience of the devotees. Further on is
the Munadjat daghi (mount of devotion), which is pointed out as
the resting place of a holy lady, called Amberene (Mother Ambra).
Holy women are not often met with in Sunnitic Islamism; there are,
however, a few of them in Central Asia, which may be taken as a
fresh proof that Islamism does not treat the fair sex with such
unnatural harshness as people in Europe are apt to imagine. As to
my lady Amberene, tradition tells us that, a Zuleikha in beauty,
a Fatima in virtue, she was hated and afterwards expelled by her
husband, solely because she professed the Mohammedan religion,
of which he was an arch-enemy. Driven from her princely abode in
Urgendj, she was obliged to take refuge in this wild spot, and
would have died of starvation but for a hind which appeared daily
at the entrance of her cave, waiting to be milked, and then again
disappeared. Who, in hearing this tale, is not reminded of the story
of Genoveva? The Parisians in those days were not better than the
Œzbegs of to-day; nor can we fail to be struck with the identity
that exists in fables of social and religious life, among nations
living widely separated from each other.

  [12] Oveis Karayne is the name of a faithful follower of Mohammed,
  who out of love to the Prophet had all his teeth knocked out, the
  latter having lost two of his front teeth in the battle at Ohud,
  through a blow from the enemy's weapon. After Mohammed's death he
  even intended to found an Order, with this self-mutilation as a
  condition of membership; but his efforts proved unsuccessful. The
  assertion, that he came to Khiva and died there, belongs rather to
  the region of fiction.

After leaving Görlen we went on for about four hours down stream,
and came to Yengï yap, an insignificant hamlet, surrounded by earth
walls, and about one hour and a half distant from the river. Two
hours later we reached the district of Khitayi, which begins where
the Yumalak, a conical hill, rises close to the left bank. On the
right the Oveis mountains approach nearer and nearer to the Oxus,
and soon we passed the prominent peak Yampuk, crowned with the ruins
of an old castle. Opposite Yumalak the mountain chain, Sheik Djeli,
which runs from east to west, forms a very narrow channel (here
called kisnak), much narrower than the Iron Gates on the Danube,
and often dangerous to navigation from the force and rapidity of
the current. The waters here roar, as if the Oxus, that unruly son
of the desert, were angry at being so imprisoned between the rocks.
The narrowest part is, however, very short; on the left bank the
mountains terminate abruptly, while on the right bank the high lands
gradually slope, and after having passed Tama, which lies on the
left, the country is everywhere flat. With the mountains disappeared
every romantic feature along the banks of the Oxus. After a voyage
of two days our eyes and imagination were fully satisfied, and
although the morning and evening hours had their charms, yet the
heat became intolerable in the day-time, and the mosquitoes and
flies at night--insects, in comparison with which the Golumbacz on
the Lower Danube are harmless and insignificant as butterflies. As
soon as the sun began to set, every one crept carefully under the
mosquito-net, made, of course, of linen, the air under which had
become so thoroughly poisoned by my fellow-travellers, that I felt
keenly not to be able to exchange it for the purer air outside.
Towards evening we reached the district of Mangit, which has a town
of the same name, about two hours' distance from the river, but not
visible from the boat on account of a small wood which intervenes.
Here we remained for some time moored along the bank, and having
comfortably cooked our dinner in the open air, instead of on the
narrow hearth in the boat, we continued our voyage. We reached
Basuyap, after another hour's journey, at night, much to the regret
of my friend, who had been anxious to pay a visit with me

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/43795