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Title: Through deserts and oases of central Asia
Author: Sykes, Ella Constance, Sykes, Percy, Sir
Language: English
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THROUGH DESERTS AND OASES
OF CENTRAL ASIA
Strike me dead, the track has vanished.
Well, what now? We’ve lost the way,
Demons have bewitched our horses,
Led us in the wilds astray.
PUSHKIN.
[Illustration: A _YA-YIEH_ OR YAMEN RUNNER. _Frontispiece._]
THROUGH DESERTS AND
OASES OF CENTRAL ASIA
BY
MISS ELLA SYKES
F.R.G.S.
AUTHOR OF
“THROUGH PERSIA ON A SIDE-SADDLE” AND “A HOME HELP IN CANADA”
AND
BRIGADIER-GENERAL SIR PERCY SYKES
K.C.I.E., C.B., C.M.G.
GOLD MEDALLIST OF THE ROYAL GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY
AUTHOR OF
“A HISTORY OF PERSIA” AND “THE GLORY OF THE SHIA WORLD”
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
ST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON
1920
[Illustration]
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA · MADRAS
MELBOURNE
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO
DALLAS · SAN FRANCISCO
THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.
TORONTO
COPYRIGHT
PREFACE
Few works dealing with Chinese Turkestan and the Pamirs have been
published of late years, although the Heart of Asia, where the empires
of Great Britain, Russia and China meet, can never fail to excite our
interest. Furthermore, the great trade route which ran from China to
the Roman Empire lay across Chinese Turkestan, from which remote land
silk was introduced into Europe.
The present book has been written in two parts. The chapters composing
Part I., which describe the nine months’ journey in deserts and oases,
in mountains and plains, have been written by my sister, while I am
responsible for those dealing with the geography, history, customs and
other subjects.
We are indebted to Mr. Bohlin of the Swedish Mission in Chinese
Turkestan, and to _Khan Sahib_, Iftikhar Ahmad of the British
Consulate-General, Kashgar, for much assistance; and also to Dr. F. W.
Thomas, of the India Office, who has read through the historical sketch.
A good deal of new material will be found in the various chapters, and
as far as possible the subjects so ably and exhaustively dealt with by
Sir Aurel Stein have been avoided.
To my sister belongs the honour of being the first Englishwoman to
cross the dangerous passes leading to and from the Pamirs and, with the
exception of Mrs. Littledale, to visit Khotan.
We greatly enjoyed the nine months we spent in Chinese Turkestan and
on the “Roof of the World,” and if we succeed in arousing the interest
of our readers in this old-world backwater of Asia, and at the same
time convey something of its distinctive charm, our ambitions will be
fulfilled.
P. M. SYKES.
CONTENTS
PART I
CHAPTER I
PAGE
ACROSS THE RUSSIAN EMPIRE IN WAR TIME 3
CHAPTER II
BEYOND THE TIAN SHAN TO KASHGAR 18
CHAPTER III
LIFE AT KASHGAR 39
CHAPTER IV
ROUND ABOUT KASHGAR 66
CHAPTER V
OLLA PODRIDA 86
CHAPTER VI
ON THE WAY TO THE RUSSIAN PAMIRS 103
CHAPTER VII
THE ROOF OF THE WORLD 129
CHAPTER VIII
THE ARYANS OF SARIKOL 148
CHAPTER IX
THE ANCIENT CITY OF YARKAND 175
CHAPTER X
THROUGH THE DESERT TO KHOTAN 191
CHAPTER XI
KHOTAN THE KINGDOM OF JADE 209
PART II
CHAPTER XII
THE GEOGRAPHY, GOVERNMENT AND COMMERCE OF CHINESE
TURKESTAN 235
CHAPTER XIII
AN HISTORICAL SKETCH OF CHINESE TURKESTAN: THE EARLY
PERIOD 248
CHAPTER XIV
AN HISTORICAL SKETCH OF CHINESE TURKESTAN: THE
MEDIAEVAL AND LATER PERIODS 263
CHAPTER XV
AN HISTORICAL SKETCH OF CHINESE TURKESTAN: THE
MODERN PERIOD 275
CHAPTER XVI
A KASHGAR FARMER 300
CHAPTER XVII
MANNERS AND CUSTOMS IN CHINESE TURKESTAN 308
CHAPTER XVIII
STALKING THE GREAT SHEEP OF MARCO POLO 324
INDEX 333
ILLUSTRATIONS
_Note._--The illustrations, with one exception, are from reproductions
of photographs taken by the authors.
FACE PAGE
A _Ya-Yieh_ or Yamen Runner _Frontispiece_
Cart used in the Osh District 26
Daoud and Sattur 41
Watering Horses in the Tuman Su 56
Kashgar Women and Children 58
Water-Carriers at Kashgar 60
Shoeing in the Kashgar Bazar 62
A Kashgar Grandmother 64
Priest at the Temple of Pan Chao 67
Kashgar City (showing the city wall and Tuman Su) 68
Women at the Shrine of Hazrat Apak 69
Chinese Soldiers at the Kashgar Yamen 74
Jafar Bai displaying the Visiting Card 77
Study of Kashgar Women 82
Ruins of the Buddhist _Tim_, Kashgar 85
The Shrine of Bibi Anna 93
Fording the Gez River 109
Kirghiz Women in Gala Dress 118
Loading up the Yaks 124
Bringing in an _Ovis Poli_ (Nadir with rifle) 146
(_a_) The Game of _Baigu_--the Mêlée 150
(_b_) The Game of _Baigu_--the Pick-up 150
(_c_) The Game of _Baigu_--the Victor 150
Nasir Ali Khan, a _Muki_ of Sarikol 156
Sarikoli Dancers 158
Muztagh Ata--The Snout of a Glacier 162
A Kirghiz and his Daughter 164
Kashgar Musicians 170
Our _Arabas_ on the Yarkand Road 176
A Hunting Eagle 182
Ferry on the Yarkand River 192
The Pigeon Shrine 206
Beggars at the Gate 212
A Dulani _Shaykh_ 222
Dulani Musicians 224
A Dulani Woman and her Son 226
The Tian Shan or Celestial Mountains 236
The Tungani Commander of the Troops at Khotan 242
Tamerlane 268
A Load of Clover from Isa _Haji’s_ Farm 302
The Sons of Isa _Haji_ ploughing 304
A Magician and his Disciple 314
A Kashgar School 316
A Woman throwing Mud to effect a Cure 320
_Ovis Poli_--the 51-inch head 328
Hunting-Dogs with Kirghiz owner 330
MAPS
Supplementary Sketch Map showing Country to the East of
Route Map 275
Map to illustrate Authors’ Routes (_In pocket at end of volume_)
ERRATUM
Page 134, line 22, _for_ “there was no sign of a division” _read_ “it
was broken up into islands.”
PART I
CHAPTER I
ACROSS THE RUSSIAN EMPIRE IN WAR TIME
The cities are called _Taskent_[1] and _Caskayre_,[1] and the people
that warre against _Taskent_ are called _Cassaks_[1] of the law of
_Mahomet_, and they which warre with the said countrey of _Caskayre_
are called Kirghiz, Gentiles and idolaters.--ANTHONY JENKINSON.
On March 5, 1915, my brother and I started off on our long journey to
Kashgar, the capital of Chinese Turkestan, where he was to act for Sir
George Macartney, the well-known Consul-General, who was taking leave.
Owing to the War, we were obliged, as the first stage of our journey,
to travel to Petrograd by the circuitous route through Norway, Sweden
and Finland. The small Norwegian steamer, the _Iris_, in which we
embarked at Newcastle, made its way up the coast of Scotland to a point
opposite Peterhead in order to avoid mines and submarines, after which
it crossed to Bergen. We passed two choppy nights in stuffy cabins
with the portholes tightly screwed up, and I was too prostrate with
sea-sickness to care when the engines of our steamer stopped dead
during the first afternoon. My brother rushed up on deck to see if we
were held up by a German submarine, which might mean the unpleasant
experience of internment for him, but after a couple of hours we went
on again, and no explanation of the delay was given us.
Some three months later this same vessel was attacked in reality, two
torpedoes being fired at her, and only the zigzag course skilfully
pursued by the captain saved her from destruction. Amundsen, the
discoverer of the South Pole, was on board, and wrote to the papers
describing the incident, and strongly reprobated Germany’s policy
towards neutral shipping, which, he declared, had converted him to the
side of the Allies.
To return to our journey, we finally steamed in safety up a long
fiord, and Bergen stood up picturesquely against its background of
snow-covered hills. We thought that the pleasant-mannered Norwegians
were decidedly Scotch in appearance, and a sturdy youth, quite of the
type of a Highland gillie, soon guided us to the Hospidset Hotel, which
had originally belonged to the Hanseatic League in Bergen. In old days
the apprentices lived in this house, being locked up safely at night,
and though the building has undergone considerable restoration, it is
still a characteristic piece of architecture.
Next morning we tramped round Bergen in our snow-boots, finding the
steep roads very slippery with frozen snow, even the inhabitants
falling headlong now and again. Here and there children were merrily
tobogganing, dashing recklessly across the main street through which
the trams were running, and hurling themselves down steep inclines on
the other side in a way that made me shudder. They were all sensibly
clad in woollen garments, their rosy faces peering out from fur caps
or fur-trimmed hoods, and it did one good to see them. A graver note
was struck as a funeral passed by, with all the mourners on foot; and
the pastor, in a stiff ruff with muslin frills at his wrists, seemed
to have returned from the sixteenth century, and might have posed for
a portrait of Calvin. Sleighs were everywhere, drawn by sturdy little
ponies that raced along at a great pace with jingling bells and kept
their feet wonderfully.
We left by the night train for the twenty-seven hours’ run to
Stockholm, changing at Christiania, and next day were speeding through
a land of snow and pine inhabited by a hardy-looking, fur-clad race.
Fish seemed a staple article of food, and we were offered salted
prawns, herring-salad, raw sardines and anchovies; veal, ham and
tongue, with pickles or cold fried bacon, forming the meat course.
There were no sweets or fruit, but for compensation we had delicious
coffee and cream. In the restaurant car the bread and rolls were
fastened up in grease-proof paper, sugar in tiny packets, and biscuits
in sealed bags, in order to prevent unnecessary handling.
It was night when we steamed into the “Venice of the North,” a city
which must be lovely in the summer, as it rises from its waters; but
at the time of our visit the river was covered with floating blocks of
grey ice, and all the world was skating or ski-ing.
The people were not unfriendly to us, but from more than one source we
learnt that, owing to their hereditary fear of Russia, the Swedes were
generally partisans of Germany, in contradistinction to the Norwegians,
who, as a nation, were warmly in favour of the Allies.
We had a five o’clock dinner (three to five o’clock being the usual
time, reminding one of early Victorian customs), and then settled
ourselves into the comfortable sleeping coupés which we were to
inhabit for two nights as far as Karungi, the direct route across the
Gulf of Bothnia being inadvisable for obvious reasons. There were four
racks for light luggage in each compartment, a convenient washing
apparatus and a table, and we could open our windows, whereas in Russia
we found the windows screwed up until the spring.
But there was one thing in which the Russian trains, with their
three bells rung for departure, compared favourably with those of
Scandinavia, and that was that the latter gave no real warning
when they were about to start. The engine whistled and moved off
immediately, with the result that I was always nervous about walking up
and down the platform, for the iron steps leading up to the carriages
were so slippery with frozen ice that I feared to risk a fall if I
scaled them in a hurry.
A Russian girl travelling in the carriage next to ours had given her
ticket to the care of a French lady, a complete stranger to her, and,
strolling along the platform with a fur collar round her neck but no
fur coat, was unluckily left behind. The railway officials sent her
ticket back to her and took care of her belongings, and I trust that
some good Samaritan aided her, but she must have had a most unpleasant
experience. I asked a Swede who talked to me why the trains gave
practically no signal when they started, and he said that there was
some reason which he had forgotten.
The country lay deeper in snow the farther north we advanced, and on
either side, as far as eye could reach, the undulating ground was
covered with vast forests of fir and pine. At intervals we passed
little towns and villages, the small wooden houses, painted in many
colours, giving the impression of toy-dwellings. The brightly clad
fur-capped little girls with long fair plaits of hair seemed as if they
had come to life from the fairy books of my childhood, and one could
almost credit the existence of gnomes and trolls in those limitless
uninhabited tracts of pine. Soldiers in blue-grey or navy-blue
uniforms, with white sheepskin caps or picturesque three-cornered cloth
hats, stood about on the platforms up and down which we tramped in our
snow-boots whenever the train halted. As there was no restaurant car we
obtained our meals at the station buffets, halts of about half an hour
being made at 10 A.M., 3 P.M. and 10 P.M. In the absence of waiters the
hungry crowd of passengers helped themselves, selecting from a tray
laid out with different kinds of fish, cheese, pickles, etc., or piling
their plates with hot pork or veal. I made invariably for the big
cauldron of excellent soup with vegetables, and there was always coffee
and milk, bread and cakes in abundance, and no pushing or hustling on
the part of those travelling.
At last we reached Karungi, the frontier between Sweden and Russia,
and scores of sleighs were in waiting at the station to convey the
passengers the short distance to the Russian Karungi. The fine-looking
Russian Consul, clad in a splendid fur coat and cap to match, was
most obliging, and cheered us greatly with the news--alas, quite
inaccurate, as we found out later--that the Allied fleets had silenced
all the forts in the Dardanelles! My brother went off to pass our
heavy luggage through the Swedish Customs, and I had some difficulty
in collecting our small possessions on to one sleigh, because half a
dozen men and boys, clad in nondescript garments of fur and leather,
hurled themselves upon hold-alls and dressing-cases and bore them
off in all directions, utterly regardless of my remonstrances. The
only thing I could do was to follow the most responsible-looking of
my self-constituted porters, and when he deposited his burden on a
sleigh I induced him to accompany me in a hunt among the lines of
shaggy little ponies, finding the tea-basket in one place, a hat-box
or a bundle of sticks and umbrellas mixed up with another passenger’s
luggage, and so on. The Consul told me to come and drink coffee in the
buffet, exclaiming reassuringly, “You can leave everything safely, for
in this part of the world the people do not know how to steal.”
At last we drove off in the keen air across a level waste of snow,
traversing a frozen river which forms the actual boundary, and in half
an hour, with many a bump and jolt, we reached a gate through which,
after we had shown our passports, we were admitted into Finland.
We had now a wait of some six hours, which we spent in walking on the
crisp snow or sitting in the little station buffet, where I observed
that coffee had given way to tea, the Russian national beverage, drunk
in glasses with a slice of lemon and much sugar. From now onwards the
_pièce de résistance_ of our chief meals was sturgeon. I liked it
fairly well when stewed or fried, but it was usually tough when served
cold. Some of these enormous fish are said to weigh two or three tons.
When the train made a tardy appearance it could not accommodate all
the passengers, and many were perforce left behind to follow the next
day. The first halt was at Tornea, to which point travellers used to
drive until the extension of the line to Karungi after the outbreak
of the War, and, though we were in the Arctic Circle and it was early
in March, the air seemed quite mild as we rushed across Finland, our
wood-fed engine belching forth immense whorls of smoke. At Vyborg we
entered Russia, and at midnight of the second day reached Petrograd.
In the Astoria Hotel it was remarkable to see every one drinking
_kvass_, a somewhat mawkish beverage made from bread or from
cranberries, in lieu of wine or spirits. In Finland alcoholic
refreshments were obtainable in the restaurant car, but now we found
ourselves in a country which the will of an autocrat had made so
strictly teetotal that we were unable even to purchase methylated
spirit for our tea-basket!
Some of our Russian acquaintances spoke with enthusiasm of the
beneficial effect of the Tsar’s edict, one competent observer pointing
out that the Russian women were just beginning to take to drink, which
would have meant the ruin of many thousands of homes. On the other
side, there were murmurs among the well-to-do, who were deprived
of their favourite beverages unless they could obtain a doctor’s
certificate of ill-health, which did not, however, seem difficult to
arrange. I was asked more than once whether King George was about to
follow the lead given by the Tsar, Russians not being very clear as to
the limitations of a constitutional monarchy.
Soldiers were to be seen everywhere, sometimes drilling near the great
red Winter Palace, sometimes as reservists, with numbers chalked
upon their backs, or again as small parties of wounded in charge of
kind-faced hospital nurses. I heard pathetic accounts of the extreme
poverty of the men who were being nursed back to health in the English
Hospital directed by Lady Georgina Buchanan, who had had the kindly
thought of fitting them out when they were dismissed to their peasant
homes; the totally disabled being trained in basket-making. Both at
Petrograd and at Moscow, our next halting-place, those actively engaged
in nursing spoke highly of the courage and gratitude of their patients.
In the latter city an English girl of only nineteen and a Russian lady
of the same age, neither of whom had had any training in nursing, were
in charge of a hospital containing forty-five wounded soldiers. They
did all the bandaging themselves, assisted at every operation, and
supervised the peasant women who performed the more menial share of the
work. My devoted compatriot told me that the men called her “Little
Sister,” and were marvellously brave when operated upon, saying that
her presence gave them courage. Owing to the absence of the great
majority of the trained nurses at the front, these capable amateurs
were of the utmost service. We heard that the Russian medical faculty
disapproved of inoculation for typhoid, giving the somewhat inadequate
reason that “there were so many worse diseases,” and consequently the
soldiers suffered terribly from this scourge.
My brother and I did the sights of Petrograd, with its many
gold-covered domes, cupolas and spires, but I will refrain from
describing the gorgeous interior of St. Isaak, the pictures of the
Hermitage, or even the deeply interesting house in which Peter the
Great lived while building his “window opening to the West.”
Moscow, with its hundreds of gilt-domed or purple or blue or green
cupolas, that bizarre orgy of colour and fantastic design called the
Church of Ivan the Terrible, and the ancient Kremlin built to resist
Tartar inroads, gave me, as indeed it does to most travellers, the
impression of a semi-Oriental city.
We were in the very heart of Russia, and no one could fail to be struck
by the intense devotion--I refrain from calling it superstition--of
the people. In the dim magnificence of the small but lofty Coronation
Chapel, which has its walls literally encrusted with jewelled icons,
crowds were kissing the hands and feet of the sacred pictures all day
long, in defiance of every hygienic principle. Long-haired priests in
embroidered copes were chanting services, and as the body of a saint,
dead centuries ago, had just been exhumed, it was confidently expected
that many miracles of healing would be wrought by the remains. Gilded
and jewelled banners to be carried in procession stood in the ornate
chapels, which had gorgeous doors through which no woman might pass. On
the great day of his coronation the Tsar passed through these portals,
anointed and crowned himself, then issued forth, the Father of his
people, to perform the same ceremony on the Tsaritsa.
The monarch, in common with the humblest of his subjects, uncovers
himself as he passes under one of the entrances to the Kremlin,
above which stands a particularly holy icon. Indeed in every room of
every Russian house, even in the hotels, hangs some pictured saint
with a little lamp in front of him, while the railway stations and
waiting-rooms are all provided with sacred guardians.
To these people the War was then a holy one. The chambermaid of
our hotel, who spoke German--a language it is forbidden to use in
public--told me with tears that her only son had been killed at the
front, that his father had died of grief when the news reached them,
and that her daughter, working at a hospital, had had no news of her
soldier-husband for three months and naturally feared the worst. “But
we must not grumble,” she ended bravely; “it is terrible for all of us,
but with God’s help our Tsar will conquer his enemies and we shall have
peace once more.”
Russians struck us as being somewhat silent in the streets, and we
never heard any one whistle. It was explained that they have the same
superstition about whistling as have the Persians, and look upon it as
“devilish speech.” In connection with this we were told that on one
occasion an American bishop and his chaplain were visiting a monastery
in Moscow, and to the horror of the monks the chaplain kept on bursting
into snatches of whistling. But one of the holy men was equal to the
occasion and, walking close behind the unconscious offender, made the
sign of the cross repeatedly in order to avert any evil consequences!
The lack of efficiency in Russia was very noticeable. For example, to
cash our letters of credit in a bank was a tedious business, the money
being slowly counted with the aid of an abacus. The shopkeepers also
depend greatly on these aids to arithmetic. It was moreover a land of
tips. In every private house the servant who helped you on and off with
your fur coat and galoshes expected a _pourboire_, and on leaving a
hotel we were surrounded by a throng of waiters, porters of different
grades, and a bevy of small boys, all intent on fees.
During the next section of our journey to Tashkent the trains were
by no means as comfortable as before. Our only light was a guttering
candle in a lantern placed high above the carriage door, and, what was
worse, the double windows were screwed up for the winter, all the air
we breathed passing through most inadequate ventilators in the roof.
After some thirty hours of semi-suffocation it was a relief when the
train stopped at Samara, and its great bridge over the Volga. Before
we crossed, soldiers with fixed bayonets filed into the corridors and
lined the train, and henceforward sentries stood with fixed bayonets
on all the platforms. Instead of going through to Tashkent, our train
stopped for eighteen hours, so we drove perforce to the best hotel in
the place. There I was ushered into a bedroom which had only a mattress
on the bedstead; but a cheery maid soon produced sheets, pillows and
towels, these articles from now onward being charged separately in the
bill: she also filled up the water-tank which discharged itself into
the basin by a kind of squirt, liable to drench the unwary. A hot bath
is an expensive luxury in Russia, costing from three to five shillings;
but I never appreciated it at its proper value. The bath, filled with
water too hot for me to plunge my hand into, was invariably taken in a
tiny room without ventilation in which a stove was fiercely burning,
and the attendant, armed with a thermometer, was always greatly
astonished when I demanded a copious admixture of cold water. Half
the room would be occupied by a divan covered with a sheet on which
to repose after the bath, and once or twice I had some difficulty in
getting rid of the maid, so anxious was she to wrap me in a second
sheet, with which Russians drape themselves before they step into the
water.
Samara is an important provincial town, but the whole place looked poor
and shabby, partly because the coloured plaster coating of the houses
was dropping off in unsightly patches. The wide streets radiated from
a small public garden in which stood a statue of Alexander II., the
Liberator, and, as it was Sunday, all the world was promenading in its
best clothes along the slush-covered pavements, the thaw having set in.
The peasants looked picturesque in short sheepskin coats, worn with the
wool inside, fur caps with lappets to protect the ears, long leather
riding-boots, putties tied up with string and thick leather gloves.
The shaggy hats of black or white sheepskin made their wearers look
like brigands in opera, and beside them the women, in long black coats
much kilted at the waist, with their heads tied up in woollen shawls,
appeared decidedly tame.
We made our way down to the Volga and walked on the frozen river, which
was a mile wide, watching the drinking-water of the town being drawn
from various holes in the ice.
At the railway station that evening we found a large crowd on the
platform assembled to give a hearty send-off to a trainload of soldiers
evidently hailing from the neighbourhood. The men were travelling to
the front in horse-boxes, and leant over the wooden barriers wildly
cheering and waving their caps, full of health and spirits, and one
could hardly bear to think that many would never return, or, sadder
still, would come home incapacitated for the rest of their days.
Owing to the War there were no restaurant-cars attached to the trains,
and as the time-tables were unaltered we had halts of only ten or
twelve minutes three or four times a day, when the passengers made a
frenzied rush to get what they could at the inferior station buffets.
We usually bought something in the way of meat, cheese and bread, and
carried it back with us to our carriage, after we had gulped down
plates of the excellent cabbage soups called _stchee_ or _borsch_.
The only long halt we made--one of forty minutes--was at a station
with no buffet whatever. The farther east we went the less food could
we procure: sometimes packets of inferior Russian biscuits were the
only stock-in-trade of the buffet, and if it had not been for our
soup-packets we should have been half-starved. As it was, we were often
unpleasantly hungry, hot water being the only thing that we could be
sure of obtaining.
In spite of this the journey was full of interest. We were travelling
across limitless steppes, and the melting of the snow in patches showed
that spring was at hand, when the sun would break forth from the grey,
lowering skies. Near Orenburg we noticed many tons of hay ready to be
despatched to the front, and as we halted at Alexis I suddenly saw the
ungainly forms of camels. Nearer and nearer they came, padding across
the snow, drawing sleighs laden with hay, and with a leap of the heart
I realized that we were once again in the East, that Europe was left
behind, and that we had entered that vast mysterious continent of Asia,
cradle of the human race and birthplace of its great religions.
The following day we passed the Sea of Aral, with masted ships riding
at anchor in its port; and by now all traces of snow had gone, and
the sandy steppe was scantily dotted with coarse grasses. Sometimes
we traversed stretches of salt-encrusted ground, and in places the
rolling sand-dunes were planted and bound together with rushes in order
to prevent them from encroaching upon the railway, or long lines of
fencing answered the same purpose for the snowdrifts.
We saw few signs of life, and the loneliness of the steppe made me
realize something of those vast empty spaces of Asia which from lack
of water will for ever be dreary wastes forsaken by mankind. Yet a
picturesque crowd was usually assembled at the stations. Hairless-faced
men with high cheek-bones were clad in long padded coats reaching
to their heels, or wore sheepskins, their rope or straw-soled shoes
being tied with leather thongs criss-cross from knee to ankle over
thick woollen stockings. Among a variety of headgear the quaintest
resembled early Victorian coal-scuttle bonnets tied under the chin.
They were made of brightly coloured velvet, with broad fur-lined
brims, a fur-lined flap behind and lappets over the ears, and looked
most comical when worn by brawny Kirghiz, who strode up and down the
platforms trailing long whips in their hands.
The warm weather was now beginning, and the Russian women who sold
tea and hot water from big brass samovars had discarded their winter
clothes and appeared in flowered cotton dresses with gaily coloured
handkerchiefs over their heads. Their children were running about
barefoot, and I was amused at watching an encounter between a lightly
clad urchin and a smart little boy who was travelling in our overheated
train. This latter, who had a long fur-lined coat, a fur cap and
galoshes over his boots, held up his foot for the admiration of the
platform youngster, who laughed good-humouredly, and stretched out his
dusty toes in response.
In spite of the warm sunshine, ours were the only windows open in the
whole train, and when, after leaving Samara, my brother had obtained
fresh air by freely tipping a most reluctant conductor, an official
higher in rank came to enquire whether it was not a mistake and whether
after all we did not wish to be screwed up again! I could not imagine
why our fellow-passengers did not follow our example, because, before
we reached Tashkent, the sun flamed down from a cloudless blue sky;
the hoopoe, harbinger of spring, chased its mate; the crested larks
sang, and the children offered big bunches of the little mauve iris.
Ploughing was visible in places, and a faint green flush was spreading
over the vast plain, which near Tashkent gave way to grassy downs on
which cattle grazed.
At the imposing-looking station of Turkestan we made enquiries
respecting the flags that we noticed hanging out on all the platforms,
and to our joy were told that they were in honour of the taking of
Przemyzl. An officer of military police with whom my brother talked,
said that this victory had come at an opportune moment, as there was
considerable unrest among the native population.
We were sorry not to see the tomb erected by Tamerlane in the old city
of Turkestan to the memory of a Kirghiz saint, for M. Romanoff, an
authority on Mohamedan art, who has visited a large proportion of the
mosques and shrines of Central Asia, considers this splendid building
to be a masterpiece.
CHAPTER II
BEYOND THE TIAN SHAN TO KASHGAR
Farghana is a country of small extent, but abounding in grain and
fruits; and it is surrounded with hills on all sides except on the
west.... Andijan is the capital. The district abounds in birds and
beasts of game. Its pheasants are so fat that the report goes that
four persons may dine on the broth of one of them and not be able to
finish it.--_Memoirs of Baber._
After three days and nights in the train it was pleasant to make a halt
at Tashkent, the capital of Russian Turkestan, though the sudden change
of climate was somewhat exhausting. It was towards the end of March,
and the whole town, famous for its fruit trees, was embowered in pink
and white blossom, and the avenues of magnificent poplars, willows and
beautiful Turkestan elms were shaking out their fresh green leaves.
The Russians, under General Kaufmann, took Tashkent about fifty years
ago, and have laid out the new town with broad roads planted with
fine trees that are watered by irrigation. There are churches, public
parks, tram-lines and imposing-looking shops, the considerable Russian
population appearing to mix freely with the Sarts, as the inhabitants
are termed by the dominant race. In India a white woman of whatever
class has a position with the natives, but here the ordinary Russian
woman is seemingly on an equality with them, and not infrequently
marries them. In the best confectioner’s shop, served by Russian
girls, natives came in and bought and ate cakes and sweets on the
premises, side by side with smart officers or elegant ladies evidently
belonging to the upper circles of Tashkent society.
Even in this remote part of the Russian Empire the War was brought
home to the inhabitants by the presence of fifteen thousand prisoners,
Germans and Austrians. The latter, who were mostly Slavs, had the
privilege of shopping in the town, and we heard that they were on
excellent terms with their captors, whereas the Germans were permitted
no such relaxation of their captivity.
A long narrow street led from the Russian city straight into the native
town with its mud-built houses, its little stalls of food and clothing,
its mosques and shrines, and above all its gaily clad populace. But for
the people I could have imagined myself to be in a Persian city; but
here, instead of men in dingily coloured frock-coats and tall astrakhan
hats, and women shrouded in black from head to foot, the inhabitants
of both sexes revelled in colour. All wore smart velvet or embroidered
caps, round which the greybeards swathed snowy turbans. The men had
striped coats of many colours, the brighter the better, the little
girls rivalling them with bold contrasts, such as a short, gold-laced
magenta velvet jacket worn above a flowered, scarlet cotton skirt, or
a coat of emerald green with a vivid blue under-garment. For the most
part they were pretty, rosy-cheeked, velvet-eyed maidens, with their
hair hanging down their backs in a dozen plaits, and I felt sorry to
think that all their charm would shortly have to disappear behind
the long cloak, beautifully embroidered though it might be, and the
hideous black horsehair veil affected by their mothers.
One fascinating little figure adorned with big earrings and bracelets
came dancing down an alley into the street, holding out the ends of a
scarlet veil which she had thrown over her head, her cotton dress and
trousers being in two shades of rose. She pirouetted up to a tall man
in a rainbow-coloured silk coat who was carrying a tin can, and had
paused at the steps of the mosque to let the children gather round
him. To my surprise he began to dole out ice-cream in little glasses,
and boys and girls had delicious “licks” in exchange for small coins.
I remembered how envious I had felt in early youth when I saw English
street urchins partaking of what seemed to me to be food fit for the
gods, although my nurse allowed me no chance of sampling it, and in a
moment the East and the West seemed to come very near, the ice-cream
man acting as the bridge across the gulf.
After leaving Tashkent we travelled through a rich alluvial country
watered by the Sir Daria, the classical Jaxartes, and halted on our
way to Andijan at the ancient city of Khokand. As at Tashkent, the
Russian and native towns are separate, and we hired a moon-faced,
beardless Sart, attired in a long red and blue striped coat and with an
embroidered skull-cap perched on his shaven head, to drive us round.
He raced his wiry little ponies at a great pace along a wide
tree-planted avenue ending in a church of preternatural ugliness set
in a public garden. Near by were Russian houses and shops, while small
victorias containing grey-uniformed officers or turbaned Sarts dashed
past, and native carts laden with bales of cotton creaked slowly by.
Many of these carts had big tilts, the wooden framework inside being
gaudily painted, and the horses themselves were decked with handsome
brass trappings.
The old town, with its high mud walls, flat-roofed squalid dwellings,
a bazar closely resembling those to be found in any Asiatic city,
and comparatively modern mosques, had little of interest, though a
well-known traveller speaks of its thirty-five theological colleges:
its roads, as usual, were bad and narrow, and must be rivers of mud in
wet weather.
Many women were unveiled, others wore the ghoul-like horsehair face
coverings, and some of their embroidered coats were so charming in
design and colouring that I longed to do a “deal” with the wearers.
Many of the people were squatting, eating melons which they store
during the winter, or drinking tea, a Russian woman being evidently
a member of one family group. We had one or two narrow shaves of
colliding with other carriages, as our coachman threaded his way far
too fast for safety and exchanged abusive epithets with his brother
Jehus, among whom were Russians in black, sleeveless, cassock-like
garments worn over scarlet cotton blouses. The harness of the little
horses was adorned with many tufts of coloured wools, giving a pretty
effect as these tassels nearly swept the ground or waved in the air.
The life on the roads, the spring sunshine, the fresh green leaves, the
white and pink of the blossom, and the orgy of colour furnished by the
inhabitants, made the drive an unforgettable experience.
A few hours later we reached Andijan, where the railway ended, and
here we had our last clean resting-place until we arrived at Kashgar.
I noticed that the native women wore long grey burnouses with black
borders ending in two tails that were always trailing in the dust, and
all hid their faces in the mask-like horsehair veils. It was the day
before Palm Sunday, and as we strolled in the evening up the cobbled
street of the town a large congregation was issuing from the church,
every one carrying a small branch and a little candle, which each
had lit in the sanctuary. In the darkness the scores of tiny lights
looked like fire-flies, and I observed how carefully the sacred flame
was sheltered from any draught, as it is considered most important to
convey it home unextinguished. Our hotel was fairly good, but I was
not pleased on retiring to find that my door did not lock, and that my
window, opening on to a public balcony, had no fastening. To supplement
these casual arrangements I made various “booby-traps” by which I
should be awakened if any robber entered my room, but luckily slept
undisturbed.
It may give some idea of the vast extent of the plains of Russia which
we had crossed by train, when I mention that there was not a single
tunnel on the hundreds of miles of rail between Petrograd and Andijan.
It was the end of March when we set out to drive the thirty miles
from Andijan to Osh. We packed ourselves, our suit-cases and the
lunch-basket into a little victoria, while Achmet, the Russian Tartar
cook we had engaged at Tashkent, accompanied our heavy baggage in the
diligence. The sky was overcast with heavy clouds, so there was no
glare from the sun, and the rain of the previous night had laid the
dust on the broad road full of ruts and holes. Ploughing was in full
swing, barley some inches high in the fields, fruit blossom everywhere,
and the poplars and willows planted along the countless irrigation
channels made a delicate veil of pale green. Beyond the cultivation lay
bare rolling hills, behind which rose the lofty mountain ranges which
we must cross before we could reach our destination.
The whole country seemed thickly populated, and we passed through
village after village teeming with life, the source of which is the
river, which ran at this time of year in a surprisingly narrow stream
in its broad pebbled bed, and was so shallow that men on foot or on
donkey-back were perpetually crossing it. Tortoises were emerging from
their winter seclusion, the croak of the frog filled the land, hoopoes
and the pretty doves which are semi-sacred and never molested flew
about, and the ringing cry of quail and partridge sounded from cages in
which the birds were kept as pets.
The men, if not busied with agriculture, were usually fast asleep or
drinking tea on the mud platforms in front of their dwellings, and
the gaily clad women slipped furtively from house to house, or, if
riding, sat on a pillion behind the men. In fine contrast to her veiled
sisters was a handsome Kirghiz lady following her husband on horseback
through the Osh bazar, and making a striking figure in a long green
coat, her head and chin wrapped in folds of white that left her massive
earrings exposed to view. She rode astride every whit as well as the
man did, exchanged remarks freely with him, and was moreover holding
her child before her on the saddle. Other women were carrying cradles
which must have made riding difficult, and often a child stood behind,
clinging to its mother’s shoulders. On entering the native town of Osh,
mentioned in Baber’s Memoirs as being unsurpassed for healthiness and
beauty of situation, we passed a mosque with such a badly constructed
mud dome that it looked like a turnip, and made our way along a
broad tree-planted Russian road to the _nomera_. This was a house
with “furnished apartments to let,” and the small rooms, by no means
overclean, were supplied with beds, tables and chairs. We set to work
to unpack our camp things, and sent Achmet out to buy bread, butter,
meat, eggs, etc., for our two hundred and sixty mile ride to Kashgar.
Our host made no pretensions to supply food, but exactly opposite our
lodgings was the officers’ mess; with true Russian hospitality its
members invited us to take our meals there, and next day at lunch we
met a dozen officers, with their jovial, long-haired chaplain in black
cassock with a broad silver chain and crucifix round his neck. Luckily
for me there were a couple of officers who spoke German, though the
others threatened them with heavy fines for daring to converse in the
language of the Huns. In spite of the Tsar’s edict, vodka and wine
flowed freely (the doctor had evidently given medical certificates
liberally to the mess) and numerous toasts were drunk, every one
clinking his glass with my brother’s and mine as the health of King
George, the Tsar, our journey, and so on were given. All were most
kind, though I could have wished Russian entertainments were not so
long--that luncheon lasted over three hours--and we left in a chorus of
good wishes for our ride to Kashgar.
We were roused early next morning by the arrival of our caravan of
small ponies, and with much quarrelling on the part of their drivers
the loads were at last adjusted. We had our saddles put on a couple of
ill-fed animals and started off beside the rushing river on our first
stage of twenty miles. The ponies were very inferior to the fine mules
with which we had travelled in Persia, and our particular steeds would
certainly have broken down long before we reached Kashgar if we had
not dismounted and walked at frequent intervals throughout the whole
journey.
At first the road was excellent as we left pretty little Osh nestling
under Baber’s “mountain of a beautiful figure,” and made our way up
a highly cultivated valley towards the distant snowy peaks. We were
escorted by a fine-looking _Ming Bashi_ or “Commander of a Thousand,”
who had a broad velvet belt set with bosses and clasps of handsome
Bokhara silver-work. He wore the characteristic Kirghiz headgear, a
conical white felt with a turned-up black brim, and four black stripes,
from the back to the front and from side to side of the brim, meeting
at the top and finishing off with a black tassel. We were to see
this headgear constantly during the next eight months, as it is worn
throughout Chinese Turkestan and the Pamirs. Owing to the presence of
these _Ming Bashis_ we met with extreme consideration, village _Begs_
and their servants escorting us at every stage and securing the right
of way for us with caravans. This was a privilege that for my part I
keenly appreciated, as the track, when it skirted the flanks of the
mountains, was hardly ever wide enough for one animal to pass another,
and I had no wish to be pushed out of my saddle over the precipice by
the great bales of cotton that formed the load of most of the ponies we
met. These officials usually secured some garden or field, a place of
trees and running water, where we could lunch and rest at mid-day, and
often they brought a silken cushion which they offered to my brother.
They were surprised when he handed it on to me, for in Mohamedan
countries the woman is considered last--if at all.
In the Osh district horses, camels, donkeys, cows, goats and sheep
were in abundance, the sheep having the _dumba_ or big bunch of fat as
a tail, which nourishes the animal when grass runs short during the
winter months. They had long hair like goats and rabbit-like ears,
were coloured black, white, brown, grey or buff, and looked far larger
in proportion than the undersized cattle and ponies. On the road we
saw many of the characteristic carts that had immensely high wheels
with prominent hubs. The driver sat on a saddle on the horse’s back,
supporting his feet on the shafts, thereby depriving the animal of half
its strength for pulling the load and proving that this nation of born
riders has not grasped the elementary principles of driving. These
carts had no sides, but carried their loads in a curious receptacle of
trellis-work, as shown in the illustration.
[Illustration: CART USED IN THE OSH DISTRICT. _Page 26._]
We reached our first night’s lodging about four o’clock, and I was
glad to dismount, as riding at a foot pace on an animal that is a slow
walker is a tedious business. All these halting-places in Russian
territory were much alike--a couple of small plastered rooms, often
with bedsteads, table and stools, sometimes looking into a courtyard
where the ponies were tied for the night, but often with no shelter
for the animals and their drivers. Jafar Bai, the _chuprassi_ from the
Kashgar Consulate sent to escort us, was of the utmost service to us on
the road. I noticed that many of the men we passed saluted him by
throwing their whips from right to left across their chests, and their
deference made me realize the high esteem in which he was held. He put
up our camp beds, tables and chairs, and found water for our folding
baths. It was usually cold at night, and besides warm underclothing I
had a sleeping sack, rugs and my fur-lined coat. We always got up at
5.30 A.M., and I did a hasty toilette in the dark with the aid of my
torchlight, Achmet producing coffee, eggs, bread, butter and jam for
our early breakfast, while Jafar Bai packed our bedding.
Once or twice we were accommodated in the house of a village _Beg_, and
found the floors covered with felts and carpets, and a table spread
with bread, sweets, raisins, almonds and pistachios. One of our hosts
kept his treasures in a wonderful gilt, red and black chest, from
which he produced a handsome watch given him by the Russians. This
chest emitted a loud musical note when opened or shut, in order, I
presume, to warn the owner if thieves attempted to rifle it. At night
his servants removed his bedding of Bokhara silken quilts, but with
touching confidence left the box in our charge!
Our second day’s march found us approaching the mountains, and we
rode to the top of a low pass where hills slashed with scarlet,
crimson and yellow rose one behind another, to be dominated by the
glorious snow-covered Tian Shan peaks clear cut against a superb blue
sky. Walking down the passes was certainly preferable to sitting
on a stumbling pony, but I found it rather hard work, as the track
was usually very steep and littered with loose stones, on which one
could easily twist an ankle or tumble headlong. Every now and again
it looked as if we had reached the bottom, when lo, after turning a
corner, the track zigzagged down beneath our feet seemingly longer and
steeper than ever.
During this march we passed a party of Chinese bound for Kashgar,
consisting of an official and a rich merchant with their retinues. The
ladies of the party travelled in four mat-covered palanquins, each
drawn by two ponies, one leading and one behind, and I pitied them
having to descend these steep places in such swaying conveyances.
They were attended by a crowd of servants in short black coats, tight
trousers and black caps with hanging lappets lined with fur, the
leaders being old men clad in brocades and wearing velvet shoes and
quaint straw hats. As seems usual with upper-class Chinese, they were
very indifferent horsemen, and sat on bundles of silk quilts, not
attempting to guide their ponies in any way, but letting the burly
Kirghiz lead them by the halters. In striking contrast to them was a
fine-looking man in a long green and purple striped coat, from the
handsome girdle of which hung a silver-sheathed knife. His boldly
cut aquiline features were surmounted by a black fur cap, and as he
rode down the pass on a beautiful Badakshani horse the pair made a
delightful picture.
Caravans laden with bales of cotton toiled uphill towards us, and
sometimes we met a string of camels; but ponies did most of the work
here, their small heads peering out from between their bulky loads.
They had bells hung round their necks, enabling the approach of a
pack-train to be heard at a considerable distance, and specially
favoured animals wore collars of blue beads to avert the evil eye.
Besides caravans we met gangs of Kashgaris going to work at Osh or
Andijan during the summer, in order to earn the money on which they
live throughout the winter. They were sturdy men, their white teeth
flashing in faces tanned almost black by the sun, and they wore long
padded cotton coats of all colours, the most usual being scarlet, faded
to delicious tints. As these coats were turned back to enable them to
walk more freely, we had the contrast of a bright turquoise blue, or an
emerald green or a purple lining. Some walked barefoot, others in long
leather riding-boots or felt leggings, and all had leather caps edged
with fur. Each man carried a bundle of his belongings, out of which
cooking-pots often peeped, and some one in the gang was certain to have
a _tar_, a kind of mandoline, with which to amuse the party, or perhaps
a bagpipe or a small native drum; it was pleasant to come across a
group of these wayfarers beguiling their long march by listening to the
music that has so strong a fascination for Orientals.
The farther we left Osh behind us the more barren became the country,
until we marvelled how the flocks and herds could support life on the
scanty vegetation. At one point the hills were a bright scarlet and it
was strange to see a red mud-built village with sheep grazing in this
brilliantly coloured setting. We crossed rivers and streams many times,
but they were not deep, for the mountain snow had not yet melted, and
we found the bridges formed of rough poplar stems, with big holes
into which boulders were stuck, far more dangerous than the water. It
was during this march that my pony nearly ended our joint careers by
backing with me to the edge of a precipice. We were passing a donkey
laden with brushwood, an ordinary sight, of which my brother’s horse
on ahead had not taken the smallest notice, when my animal made a big
shy, and if Jafar Bai had not seized the rein I held out to him and
hauled at it manfully while I urged my mount with whip and voice, we
should both have fallen into the river rushing far below.
The crux of our journey was the crossing of the Terek Dawan or Pass,
12,000 feet high, and the night before we lodged in _akhois_, at its
foot, in place of the usual rest-house.
It was my first experience of the bee-hive like homes of the
Kirghiz--“a dome of laths and o’er it felts were spread”--and, as we
had ridden through heavy rain and hail the last part of the way, I was
extremely thankful to pass behind a felt curtain and find myself in a
snug circular room lined with felts and embroideries. A fire was lit
on the ground in the centre, the smoke escaping from a large hole in
the roof, and by squatting on the floor we could more or less avoid the
acrid smoke that made our eyes water.
In the morning we started at seven o’clock, anxious to reach the top
of the pass before the sun, now hot during the day, could melt the
snow. To our intense relief it was a superb day, a few fleecy clouds
sailing across a deep turquoise sky. I was clad in a mixture of arctic
and tropical attire, wearing a leather coat under my thick tweed
habit, woollen putties and fur-lined gloves, along with a pith hat,
blue glasses and gauze veil. We soon came to the snow and zigzagged
upwards on a narrow track moving in single file, any animal trying to
pass another being liable to fall headlong in the soft deep snow on
either side, a fate that befell two of our party early in the day.
After a while, as we advanced, the great peaks towered on all sides,
sharply silhouetted against their blue background--nothing but white as
far as eye could reach; and here and there skeletons sticking out of
the snow bore eloquent witness to the terrible annual toll paid by the
hundreds of horses and donkeys that have to cross this cruel pass. I
could hardly believe that it was possible to ride over these mountains,
so steeply did they rise above us; and at the worst part of the ascent
some sturdy Kashgaris coming down towards us had much ado to keep their
feet, even though they carried long staves, one man falling headlong
and rolling a considerable distance. The last pull to the crest is
almost perpendicular, and is noted for accidents--here my brother’s
pony nearly went over--but finally, caravan and all, we reached the
summit of the pass in safety, and dismounted to enjoy the fine view.
Before us lay the great Alai Range, peak towering above peak of boldly
serrated mountains. Over us hovered a huge vulture, and as I looked
down the track in front where the snow was partly melted, hideous heaps
of bones were revealed, and I felt that the ill-omened bird knew that
it would never lack food so long as Russia did nothing to improve this
execrable road.
In books of travel the writer frequently “swings down” such places,
but my experience was very different, as we crept down the worst parts
on foot. The snow on the farther side was rotten, and our feet broke
through it to water running underneath and big boulders. It was the
kind of path on which one could easily break a leg, and for a loaded
pony was a cruel ordeal, if not almost impossible. Even where the snow
had entirely melted near the foot of the pass the way lay through a
mass of boulders and slippery mud most trying to any baggage animal.
For ourselves we had nothing to complain of, and a march of seven
hours found us at the little rest-house enjoying some lunch; but our
caravan fared very differently. The distance was only twelve miles,
but so bad was the going that the ponies, though lightly laden, were
about thirteen hours on the road, and four poor animals stayed out all
night. We had no evening meal till nine o’clock, and our hold-alls when
they arrived were encrusted with ice that had made its way inside and
soaked our bedding. We had no means of drying it in the serai, and so
were obliged to sleep in our clothes. We were too thankful to be safely
over the pass to heed such minor discomforts, and were indeed most
fortunate; for the road was closed for some days after our journey in
order that a fresh track might be trampled down by driving unloaded
animals across it.
On the morrow our caravan had a much-needed rest till mid-day, while
we unpacked our boxes and dried our wet belongings in the sun. I was
concerned about my face, as in spite of all my precautions I found that
my cheeks, nose and lips were terribly swollen, and besides being burnt
a bright scarlet, all my skin was coming off in patches, making me most
unsightly in appearance. On my mentioning this experience not long ago
to an eminent geographer and traveller, he assured me that, if I had
thickly powdered my unlucky visage before encountering sun and snow, it
would have got off scot-free, and I insert the hint for the benefit of
future travellers.
Our next stage was Irkeshtam, situated at the junction of the
Osh-Kashgar and Alai routes. In the time of Ptolemy it was an important
centre on the great trade route which ran from Rome across Asia to
China, the “Stone Tower” mentioned by the Greek geographer being either
here or in the vicinity. To-day it consists of a small fort garrisoned
by Cossacks, with customs and telegraph offices all set down in
hopelessly barren surroundings.
We were hospitably welcomed by the customs official’s wife and sister,
but were sorry to find that our host was ill. After the nine o’clock
supper we retired, my brother sleeping in some outhouse, and I in a
little room which my hostess’s sister had kindly vacated for me, where
I had a queer experience. As the window was hermetically sealed up
for the winter, and the stove was lit, I had perforce to leave the
door open in order to escape partial suffocation. A large carpet was
suspended from the ceiling above the bedstead, across which it was
carried, and hung down to the floor, and upon the bed were a sheet, a
velvet bedspread and a couple of lace-covered pillows. Slipping into
my rugs I put out the lamp, and as I was composing myself for slumber
I became aware of a stirring under the bed, and a breathing. Thinking
it must proceed from the dog or cat, with both of which I had made
friends, I tapped the carpet and said “Ssh!” reflecting that if I
troubled to drive the animal out it would be sure to return again by
the open door, and as all was quiet I thought no more about the matter
and went to sleep.
Some time in the middle of the night I was suddenly roused by feeling
the bed violently jolted and to my horror heard loud and unmistakably
human snores proceeding from under it. Considerably startled, I sat up
in the pitch darkness and listened to heavy breathing while I summed
up the situation. The intruder could not be a burglar, as there was
nothing to steal, and of course I was in no danger, as I could rouse
the house in a moment, my door being open. I felt it would be wrong
to make a disturbance as our host was so ill; I could not communicate
with my brother, for I had no idea where he was, and it would have
been impossible to leave the house and search for him in the wind and
darkness, with savage dogs roaming about. Another alternative would
have been to light the lamp and turn out the intruder myself; but I
feared that my lack of Russian and Turki would make this difficult,
and it would certainly rouse the establishment. All things considered,
I decided to lie and watch for daylight, my matches being to my hand.
After the unknown had turned over again I heard the regular breathing
of deep slumber, and soon, contrary to my intention, I dropped off to
sleep myself.
When I woke about seven o’clock it was quite light. Examining my bed
with some trepidation, I found a space between it and the wall at each
end. Behind my pillows was a heavy red felt, and pulling this up I
came upon a makeshift bed with pillow and bedding underneath mine. The
occupant had gone, and I discovered the place at the end of the bed
where “it” must have crept out noiselessly through the open door!
I said nothing to our hostesses, who came straight from their beds to
give us bread and coffee before we started. They rode with us for a
couple of miles to speed us on our way, and I was somewhat surprised
to see that they merely pulled long coats over their night attire and
muffled their heads in shawls before they mounted their horses. It
was not until we had bade them farewell that I was able to relate my
adventure to my brother and discuss this curious example of primitive
Russian customs.
We parted from the ladies at the Kizil Su, the river that waters
Kashgar, which we found very difficult to cross owing to the floes of
half-melted ice in the middle of the stream and the broad ice shelves
that protruded from either bank. We were now in Chinese Turkestan, and
our halting-places changed considerably for the worse; indeed, the
animals were relatively better housed than the human beings. Usually
we rode into a small yard, two sides of which were given up to the
ponies, while only dark rooms lit by a hole in the roof were reserved
for travellers. The ceilings were unplastered, the interstices of the
poplar beams being stuffed with hay, which as the weather grew warmer
would be a haunt of scorpions and tarantulas. There was no furniture of
any kind in these “hotels” with their crumbling mud walls and uneven
floors, and I was always thankful when I slept in them that the “insect
season” had not begun. It was not easy for me to sleep in these places,
for the servants seemed to talk all night long; moreover, as my room
was merely wattle-and-daub I could hear every movement of the animals
on the other side of the thin walls, as they munched their fodder,
fidgeted, and now and again screamed and tried to kick one another.
I was also often roused from my slumbers by some cat that would leap
down through the hole in the roof and would prowl about until my angry
“Ssh!” frightened it into departing, though it would probably return
later and disturb me again.
At the first of these unprepossessing stages we were greeted by a
_ya-yieh_ or “yamen runner,” who had been deputed by the Chinese
authorities to escort us for the remainder of the journey. He was
a striking figure, with a scarlet and yellow plastron on his chest
denoting his official position.
Our onward route lay across many low passes, one I remember being
crowned by a deserted fort, a memento of Yakub Beg, and clustered round
this stronghold were many shrines--piles of stones adorned with wild
sheeps’ horns and with poles on which fluttered countless rags, the
idea being to remind the buried saint to intercede for the giver of the
scrap of cloth or cotton. After this we traversed a district strewn
with conglomerate rocks which assumed the most fantastic and weird
shapes, and we wound through a long defile where the loess hills were
crimped and frilled, looking much like rows of ballet skirts flung one
upon another.
The ranges decreased in height as we proceeded, the sandy detritus
moving down on barren valleys in which we saw very little sign of
life. There were the pretty snow pigeons, the ubiquitous crows, and
occasionally magpies standing on the backs of a few goats, pecking the
ticks from their hair as the animals fed on almost invisible herbage
or gnawed the bark from branches of willows that were cut down for the
purpose.
Ever since we had crossed the Terek Dawan the weather had been cold and
windy, with frequent dust-storms, the sand driving in great red clouds
across the treeless wastes, and enveloping us and our caravan in grit
that made the eyes smart.
Farther and farther the hills receded until we emerged on to the great
Kashgar plain, where at Miniol, our last halting-place, the irrigated
fields were green with crops, the trees in leaf, clumps of irises about
to burst into flower, lizards darting among the stones, and frogs
chanting loudly from the watercourses. To give some idea of the size
of the Tian Shan Range it may be mentioned that nine out of the twelve
stages of our journey lay through mountains.
On April 10, the thirty-sixth day after leaving England, we rode across
the stony plain towards a long green line on the horizon that indicated
the goal of our journey, passing on our way an old watch-tower erected
in bygone days on the edge of the Oasis to give due warning of Kirghiz
raiders. Some miles out of the city a fine saddle-horse and a rickety
hooded victoria met us. My brother mounted the one and I got into the
other, to be jolted over stones and in clouds of dust towards Kashgar.
As we entered the Oasis with its avenues of willow, poplar and mulberry
that surrounded the town for miles, Sir George Macartney and his
children appeared to welcome us, and we also had a greeting from the
Indians, when we entered a garden and sat down at a table on which a
lavish meal had been spread. We halted farther on to exchange greetings
with the Swedish missionaries, then drove in the red dust to where the
Russian Consul-General and his staff hospitably entertained us, and
afterwards to the Chinese reception, where more tea had to be sipped.
This was the last stopping-place, and it was with joy that I heard the
children who shared my carriage say, as we skirted the castellated city
wall, that we were at last nearing the British Consulate.
We drove into a large garden planted with trees, where Lady Macartney
came down the steps of a big, pleasing house and, giving us the kindest
of greetings, led us into the dining-room. Here it was so delightful
to be once more in an English atmosphere and to talk to a countrywoman
that I could not resist partaking of afternoon tea, though it was for
the fourth time since we had entered the Kashgar Oasis.
CHAPTER III
LIFE AT KASHGAR
For stalking about the streets (of Leh) or seated in silent rows
along the bazaar, were men of a different type from those around.
Their large white turbans, their beards, their long and ample outer
robes, reaching nearly to the ground and open in front showing a
shorter undercoat girt at the waist, their heavy riding-boots of
black leather, all gave them an imposing air; while their dignified
manners so respectful to others, yet so free from Indian cringing or
Tibetan buffoonery, made them seem like men among monkeys compared
with the people around them.--_Visits to High Tartary, Yarkand and
Kashgar_--ROBERT SHAW.
On the second day after our arrival the Macartneys and their children
left for England, but, busy though my hostess was, she found time to
show me everything in the house and offices, giving me all sorts of
hints that proved invaluable later on.
I was delighted with _Chini Bagh_ (Chinese Garden), as the Consulate
was called, the well-planned, airy house being set on low cliffs above
the river. The large garden was full of fruit trees in blossom, its
most charming feature being a terrace shaded by lofty poplars, from
which we had a fine view of the river winding away to our right and
could look down upon fields green with spring crops and watch the gaily
clad people moving along the network of roads and paths. In fact we
were so far above the world that I was sometimes reminded of the “Lady
of Shallot” and her magic mirror, the busy life passing below seeming
almost like a vision when viewed from this post of vantage, where we
ourselves were quite unobserved.
Another point that pleased me greatly about our new home was the fact
that we could walk on the flat roof of the house, and every now and
again, when the air was free of the all-pervading dust, we could enjoy
a wonderful mountain panorama. The snow-clad monarchs rose up, peak
behind peak, in indescribable grandeur, Kungur, as the natives called
it, dominating the whole, and I little thought that a few months later
I should be privileged to stand at the foot of these superb mountains
and have an unforgettable glimpse of the “vision splendid.” The
Russians always insisted that the great dome of Muztagh Ata (Father of
the Snows) could be seen from Kashgar, but Captain Deasy definitely
settled by his survey work that this mighty giant was hidden by Kungur.
[Illustration: DAOUD AND SATTUR. _Page 41._]
However, there was far more prose than poetry in my life at Kashgar,
particularly at first, when I was occupied in coping with the details
of housekeeping. I laboured under the disadvantage of being unable
to speak Russian to the cook, or Turki to the other servants, but
fortunately old Jafar Bai, who was entrusted with the purchases
of supplies in the bazar, spoke Persian, and as I have a working
acquaintance with that language he could act as my interpreter. To
counterbalance my lack of tongues I had a fair knowledge of cooking and
a good deal of energy, a quality useful in dealing with the slackness
of the Oriental, particularly in Mohamedan countries, where a woman is
obliged to hold her own, as her sex is of so little account. I speedily
discovered that Achmet, a Russian engaged at Tashkent for the high
sum of five pounds a month, was hardly a cook at all and could only
make two or three soups and prepare the same number of meat dishes; his
bread, moreover, was uneatable, and not a single pudding or cake found
a place in his repertory! This was bad enough; but his unwillingness to
learn, his lack of respect and his ceaseless wrangling with Jafar Bai,
whose office he wished to usurp, made housekeeping a tiresome business.
Before long it dawned upon me that to pay the wages of a _chef_ and to
be forced to do most of the work myself was not good policy, and when I
discovered that Achmet had a weakness for alcohol I made up my mind to
dispense with his services.
The kitchen-boy left by Lady Macartney had all the qualities that my
late cook lacked, and I now entered upon a peaceful existence as far
as the kitchen was concerned. Daoud _Akhun_ (David, the Reader of the
Koran, as his name implied) was a burly intelligent youth, and speedily
grasped my Persian interlarded with Turki words. But he had no claim
to his title of _Akhun_, as he could neither read nor write, and
consequently I had to prepare every dish two or three times before he
could remember the right quantities and be trusted to make it alone.
My little Colonial cookery-book gave all the recipes in cupfuls or
spoonfuls, a method that might with advantage be followed in England,
as it is a great saving of time and trouble.
Sattur, the butler of the establishment, was a gnome-like little man,
perfectly honest, but with the mind of a boy of twelve. The others
called him _Mulla_ Sattur, his title, like that of my cook, being due
to the fact that his father had been a _mulla_ or priest, though he
himself was entirely devoid of education.
He and his underling kept the house fairly well when looked after, but
Orientals are incurably slack according to Western ideas, and it was a
constant struggle to maintain a very moderate standard of cleanliness
and order. At first I tried to teach him to sweep the painted floors by
means of a damp cloth tied over a broom, instead of whisking the dust
from one place to another; but he nearly wept, saying at intervals,
“Not good, not good,” so averse was he to innovations. As a waiter he
had a tiresome habit of stretching his arm across us when serving food
or drink, and he had a constitutional inability to put on the lid of a
biscuit-tin or close a door. It was a proud moment when, after many a
reprimand, he knocked at my bedroom door instead of bursting in without
notice! Apart from these small failings he was very likeable, most
conscientious, and somewhat resembling a dog in his desire for praise
if he did anything well.
With all his virtues, he, on one occasion, nearly caused a disaster,
as the following anecdote will show. Some years before our arrival, a
British officer was in temporary charge of the Consulate, and as he
was a bachelor the servants soon took advantage of the fact that there
was no mistress. One day he found them going off to their respective
homes laden with provisions from his store-room, and in righteous
wrath he dismissed every one save Sattur, who had not joined in the
depredations. The little fellow then united in his person the offices
of cook, butler and housemaid, and apparently did so well that his
master was emboldened to give a tea-party. The guests arrived, but
the _pièce de résistance_ in the shape of rock-cakes was so long in
appearing that the amateur cook was summoned. Sattur then explained
with some perturbation that he was sure something was wrong with the
baking-powder, because, although he had mixed in a double quantity with
the flour, the buns utterly refused to rise. The captain demanded to
see this curious baking-powder, and he and his guests had a shock when
he discovered that it was the arsenic which he kept to cure the skins
of the animals and birds that he shot!
One of the great drawbacks of the Turki is that they never wash. There
are no public baths, as in Persia, nor does the rule of a weekly bath
on Friday before going to the mosque hold good here. The only thing I
could do was to insist firmly on clean garments and well washed hands
and faces. All the servants wore very long sleeves in which they hid
their hands to show respect to superiors. They were in the habit of
using these sleeves as dusters, but had to roll them up when they did
any work.
Jafar Bai, the head _chuprassi_, willing and trustworthy, was my
marketer, but variety in diet was difficult to obtain when we had only
the toughest of mutton and the stringiest of fowls on which to depend.
We were warned that the beef was usually diseased, and as many cases
of illness had occurred from eating the fish caught in the river--some
being diseased and others apparently having a poison-gland--we never
ventured upon that form of food, and no game was to be had until the
autumn.
Fortunately eggs were abundant, and we obtained some butter and milk
from our two cows, attended by their calves, which took about half
what their mothers yielded. As the small quantity of butter produced
was barely sufficient for the table, I tried to supplement it by
procuring cream from the bazar, but unluckily the Kashgaris do not
practise cleanliness in any form. The cream was always distressingly
dirty and had to be passed through muslin and then brought to
boiling-point before it could be made into butter, and even then had
an unpleasant smell and a dingy appearance. After various trials I
resorted to suet for my cooking, and bought _dumba_, the big bunch of
fat that forms the tail of the Central Asian sheep. On our arrival
we found that owing to the War no white flour could be purchased in
Kashgar, and we were obliged to have recourse to the native article,
with its large admixture of grit and dust, before we could procure
Russian flour from Osh.
The Swedes told me that when their mission was started in Kashgar
some twenty years ago the prices of food were very low, there being
practically no money in the country. In those days trading was done “in
kind,” but prices had trebled or even quadrupled in the last few years.
Even so, I did not consider them exorbitant when I could purchase a
small leg of mutton for 1s. 10d., soup-meat at 2½d. a lb., a fair-sized
fowl for 8d., and eggs at about four a penny. Sugar, Russian bacon,
cheese and suchlike imported things were naturally expensive owing to
the difficulties of transport. The weights were a _jing_ (1⅓ lbs.), 16
_jings_ making a _charak_ (21 lbs.), while the Russian _poud_ was 36
lbs.
The prices were usually computed in _tangas_, a coin worth about 2d.,
which, to my great surprise, did not exist. This mythical _tanga_
equalled 25 _darchin_, while 16 _tanga_ and 10 _darchin_ made a
_seer_--a coin worth about 2s. 8d. This sounds easy enough, but was
complicated with the Chinese _tael_, the Indian _rupee_ and the Russian
_rouble_, all these coins being current in Kashgar.
The important question of the laundry was settled satisfactorily by
a woman who arrived on Mondays and installed herself under a shelter
in the yard where were basins and a fireplace. On Tuesdays the ironer
made her appearance, the same woman being unable to see the clothes
through both processes; and she was accommodated in a room with a long
table, shelves on which to deposit the garments, and a supply of irons.
Lady Macartney had warned me that this woman had a fondness for doing
her work on a dirty cloth, and I soon found that she lived up to her
reputation and would lay aside the clean sheet that I provided unless I
looked in upon her at frequent intervals. Though she was a fair ironer
she had no knowledge of starching, but we discovered a male artist who
undertook to get up my brother’s shirt fronts and collars, though he
utterly declined to wash them. I paid both women some _tangas_ extra
on condition that they washed and ironed all the servants’ cloths
and dusters, my rule being to give out clean ones every Monday and
Wednesday in exchange for their dirty ones; a plan that ensured as much
cleanliness as I could reasonably expect.
Shortly before we left Kashgar for England our lady ironer departed
without warning to another town, but the male artist kindly came to the
rescue and took over her job. He used to make the most extraordinary
noises, but I thought nothing of them until I came into the
ironing-room one day, carrying a dress that was creased. He laid it out
on the ironing-board and to my horror began to eject a fine spray of
water from his mouth upon it, making at the same time the noise that
had puzzled me!
There was not much social dissipation at Kashgar, though there was a
colony of fifty Russians, together with a body of sixty-five Cossacks
and their officer. Out of these only a dozen made up “Society,” and
we met twice a week at the “Club,” providing tea and cakes in turn.
Here four of the men and my brother played tennis on a mud court, an
adjoining court being laid out for croquet, where the rest of us played
a game with wide hoops, a “cage” in the centre and small-headed mallets
that took me back to the days of my early youth. Every one “spooned”
and pushed the balls into position in a way contrary to every rule
of up-to-date croquet and got quite excited over the games. It was
curious to see the thoroughly inefficient way in which the servants
swept these courts. Their method was to kneel down and brush up the
sand with little twig brooms that they held in one hand, while with the
other they collected the dust into heaps before piling it on one of the
skirts of their long coats and so carrying it off.
Prince Mestchersky, the Consul-General, and his wife and staff were
most friendly, and we were invited to a round of dinners and lunches,
Achmet’s incompetence giving me many an anxious moment when we returned
the hospitalities lavished upon us. Unluckily for me, only four or five
of the Russians could speak French or German, and as I have no gift of
tongues my attempts to learn Russian were far from successful.
This was rather trying, as the Russian entertainments ran to length.
I always remember the first lunch party to which we were invited. It
was given in a garden at some distance from the Consulate, and I drove
there well swathed in cloak and veils, to avoid arriving with the
complexion of a mulatto from the clouds of suffocating dust that rose
up from the road. Driving was also a penance, owing to the rough roads
along which one was bumped and jolted until one ached all over. Our
goal was an enclosure full of fruit trees in blossom and planted with
flowers, in which two long tables, placed on mud platforms covered with
carpets, were spread with different kinds of wine, fruit, sweetmeats
and so on. The Russian colony, including the three ladies in their
smartest dresses, was assembled on a third platform hung round with
Chinese embroideries. Scarlet awnings were stretched above the tables
to keep off the sun, and when all the guests had arrived we sat at the
first table for an hour and a half, while many _zakouskas_ and course
after course of meat were handed round and interminable toasts were
drunk.
I am a water-drinker, but soon found that I should give offence if I
refused to return the toasts in wine; so I did at Rome as Rome does,
held my glass up, clinked it with other glasses, and sipped as occasion
required. The Tsar’s Prohibition Act had not found its way into Chinese
Turkestan, and never have I seen such a bewildering array of bottles.
The first toasts led off in vodka, after which different wines and
liqueurs were served in unending succession. Among the guests was a
savant who had spent some years in the Gobi Desert copying ancient
inscriptions, and had halted at Kashgar on his return to civilization.
His exploits with the bottle were so remarkable that my table-companion
said he must be slaking his two years’ thirst at one go!
When we had sat till three o’clock at one table we were requested to
adjourn to the second, where ices, sweetmeats, champagne and coffee,
and of course cigarettes, were served. After an hour of this our host
proposed that we should take a little _promenade de digestion_; so
off we all went along dusty paths bounded by high mud walls and round
freshly irrigated fields. To compass these latter we had to walk
carefully on the top of the irrigation banks, the ladies finding this
somewhat difficult owing to their heels of abnormal height. At one
place we came to a ditch where the gentlemen insisted on helping us
across, though it was a very small jump, but my companions had such
extremely narrow skirts that they could not have done it unaided. On
our return to the garden the Princess wished to wash her hands; so
soap and towels were provided and in turn we held out our hands for a
servant to pour water over them, our gallant host waving a bottle of
eau-de-Cologne, with which he besprinkled the ladies.
My heart failed me when I saw tea in readiness, with cakes, biscuits
and sweets galore, and I had to wrestle for some time longer with
linguistic difficulties, thankful that three of those assembled could
talk French fluently. When a surreptitious peep at my watch told me
that it was half-past six, we took our leave amid many exclamations as
to the extreme earliness of our departure from the lunch party!
Nice and friendly as the Russians all were, my brother and I led lives
of such a different kind that we could not well coalesce. If we dined
with them we could never leave before midnight, and they themselves
said that they liked to stay on till five o’clock in the morning, the
domestics serving up a supper, or rather an early breakfast, from the
remnants of the dinner, and possibly they would stroll out to see the
sun rise before they repaired to their homes. Owing to their love of
late hours they did not rise till mid-day, and as they could not enjoy
the cool of the mornings as we did, they used to “take the air” by
moonlight.
They did not play bridge, and we could not learn their difficult
card-game, nor was it possible to play a kind of loto with them, owing
to ignorance of the language.
Those forming “society” lived apparently in one another’s houses all
day long, never liking to be alone, and the little colony reminded us
of the Florentines rendered immortal by Boccaccio, who, when the plague
was raging, left their city and went to a lovely garden outside its
walls, caring nothing for the misery and death they had so skilfully
avoided. In this case it was not a plague, but the World War, that our
neighbours appeared to ignore, except now and again when the Germans
approached some place where they had relatives or friends.
I cannot refrain from giving the menu of one of the dinners we gave
the Russians, in order to show what Daoud and I could accomplish when
working together:
MENU.
_Hors-d’œuvres._
Caviare on toast. Salmon mayonnaise. Fried sausages.
_Tomato Soup._
_Meat Courses._
Chicken aspic. Steaks à la tournados. Indian curry. Vegetables.
_Sweets._
Trifle. Jam tarts. Ices.
_Savoury_--Cheese straws.
_Dessert._
A dinner such as this required my presence in the kitchen the greater
part of two mornings, and the food had to be arranged with an eye to
Daoud’s capacities; for I fought stoutly against the Oriental habit of
long waits between the courses. On these occasions I hired an assistant
who did all that my cook would permit, and Sattur was supported by
Jafar Bai and another _chuprassi_ resplendent in scarlet and gold
uniforms and snowy turbans. The clerk of the office, who spoke English
and Turki, always read over the menu more than once to Daoud, and I
insisted that the latter should repeat it in his turn, in order to
be sure that he had memorized it correctly. When we were seated at
table my anxieties were by no means over; for, in spite of my coaching
beforehand, the waiters were fond of getting into one another’s way,
and occasionally there were unseemly wrangles between Sattur, who
considered that he was the head, and masterful Jafar Bai, who would
sometimes wrench the bottles of wine from him as he was endeavouring
to fill up the glasses of our guests. But on the whole our dinners were
not inferior to those given by the Russians with their larger and more
experienced staffs, and our guests enjoyed coming to us, as some of our
dishes, such as curry, were more or less a novelty to them.
I have always liked entertaining, but in this case the language
difficulty used to leave me quite exhausted at the close of the
evening, and with the depressed feeling that I could not make things
go briskly. Both my brother and I took lessons from a young girl,
the companion of the Princess, but as she was uneducated and knew no
language save her own, I confess I did not get much benefit from her
instruction, although I tried to make her teach me by the Berlitz
method. She was, however, a help to my brother, who had studied the
language at Meshed, where he had had a good deal of social intercourse
with the Russian Consulate, and who only needed practice to talk easily.
The other Europeans consisted of a small body of Swedish missionaries,
men and women, headed by Dr. Raquette, who, besides his medical work,
has published a Turki grammar and dictionary. All the Swedes talked
English and gave us much information about Kashgar and its inhabitants,
in particular Mr. Bohlin, who accompanied us on many of our rides. They
had a hospital and dispensary, doing most useful medical work, and had
the only printing-press in Chinese Turkestan, from which they issued
books printed in Turki for use in their schools throughout the province.
A medical missionary in the East may be of incalculable benefit to
thousands, and Dr. Raquette’s successful operations for cataract, in
particular, brought him patients from far Khotan. Unfortunately the
Kashgaris were much under the influence of their _mullas_ and of the
native doctors, who, not unnaturally, objected to foreign methods, the
result being that they often came to the Swedes only when they were at
the point of death. Moreover, though they looked robust they seemed to
have little strength to resist the inroads of disease, and any serious
illness carried them off very speedily.
The mission was started a quarter of a century ago, Dr. and Mrs.
Höegberg, whom we met later at Yarkand, being its oldest members. At
first it met with persecution, the Chinese stirring up the Kashgaris
to besiege the little community in their house, but fortunately Mr.
Macartney, as he then was, rode to the rescue with his _chuprassis_,
and some Russian Cossacks aided him in the work of driving off the mob.
The Kashgari roughs then wreaked their vengeance on the new hospital
that was being built on the site which it now occupies, and every kind
of threat was used to induce the missionaries to leave Kashgar; but
they stood firm, and finally the Chinese official who was their enemy
was recalled, and forced to rebuild the hospital at his own cost. His
successor announced the change of policy by inviting the members of the
mission to a great banquet, at which the much-esteemed swallows’-nest
soup was served, and so the hatchet was buried for good.
I always thought that the apple-pie order of the mission buildings and
the excellent fruit and vegetables grown in the garden were a good
object-lesson to the Kashgaris, and indeed they were not insensible of
this, as the following anecdote shows. When one of the missionaries had
engaged a servant he heard an old retainer remark to the new recruit:
“You must be sure not to be dirty, because these people are so clean
that if they are forced to say an unclean word they go immediately and
wash out their mouths!” My informant also told me that a servant of one
of the lady missionaries, being short of cash, took all her plates to
the bazar and sold them. When she turned upon him in righteous wrath,
he remarked: “Oh, mistress, you are not blaming me properly,” and he
actually poured out a string of most abusive epithets, inviting, nay
imploring her to use them upon him!
Our days soon fell into a routine broken by the English post with
its month-old newspapers, which we devoured eagerly. The Reuter sent
across the passes from Gilgit gave us somewhat later information
about the War, and the Russians received occasional telegrams; but
their knowledge of geography was so limited that my brother had much
difficulty in eliciting any clear statement as to what was going on.
Riding was our chief amusement, and we purchased two fine Badakshani
horses of the breed described by Marco Polo, and were usually in the
saddle by half-past seven. The morning air was delightfully cool, and
the rides were wonderfully varied, a fresh one for each day of the
month we used to say. There was also the sound of running water in the
numberless irrigation channels as we rode under the trees along sandy
tracks free from stones and ideal for cantering. An added charm was the
fact that the walls enclosing gardens and fields were quite low, and
as a rule the crops were not fenced in at all, save by low banks of
earth.
At first we used to be accompanied on our walks and rides by Bielka
and Brownie, the dogs that the Macartneys had left in our care. Bielka
was a powerful white animal rather like a wolf, and unluckily had
such an unconquerable dislike to Europeans that he had to be chained
up whenever visitors came to the house. On our arrival Lady Macartney
“introduced” us to him by providing us with bits of meat to give him as
a peace-offering, and we became excellent friends.
It was amusing on our walks to watch him and Brownie, the fat,
easygoing spaniel; for the latter, an arrant coward, would pick
quarrels with the pariah dogs and then call his comrade to his aid,
the enemy fleeing in confusion as soon as Bielka appeared. But when we
found that, if a Cossack rode past, the great dog would rush at him
like a fury and try to tear him from his horse, and when on the same
walk we had to race to the rescue of a young Russian couple, the edict
went forth that our would-be guardian must be left at home. It went
to my heart to refuse him when he implored me to let him escort us;
for he was most charming to his friends and kept the Consulate free of
thieves, as he roamed about the place all night.
Though the Consulate was close to the city wall, we could turn almost
at once into shady lanes, bordered with irrigation channels, along
which willows, poplars and mulberries grew luxuriantly; while on either
side stretched fields green with lucerne and springing wheat, barley
and maize. But all the growth and prosperity of the Oasis was entirely
dependent upon the water, and should this source of life fail great
would be the devastation. One day we came upon a district where a big
network of irrigation channels had run dry owing to the bursting of a
dam, and hundreds of men were labouring against time to repair it and
thereby save the trees and crops. The _corvée_ system is in force in
Chinese Turkestan, and although tyrannical according to Western ideas,
it is certainly for the public benefit in such a case as this. The
villagers are forced to repair all roads and water channels in their
own districts, but the hardship comes in when their Chinese rulers
undertake to reclaim land from the desert and commandeer men from
considerable distances. They are supposed in such cases to be paid
threepence a day for their food, but it is rumoured that this money
usually goes into the pockets of the headmen.
The Kashgar Oasis is watered by the Kizil Su (Red River, so called from
its colour) and its branch the Tuman Su, which make the city and its
environs an island. In April there was little water in either stream,
so we could ford them easily on horseback; but during the summer it was
a different matter. We were warned to be on our guard for quicksands
in these rivers. Mr. Bohlin was once nearly caught in one, but feeling
his horse sinking beneath him he threw himself off in haste and wading
waist-deep he pulled the animal ashore. On another occasion he observed
several men trying to extricate a horse that had sunk so deeply that it
took the whole day to free it. These quicksands are less to be feared
in deep water which buoys the animals up. The Kashgaris always hurry
their horses over any suspicious place, but as the dangerous areas are
constantly changing, it is impossible to be sure of their whereabouts.
Charming as spring is in Chinese Turkestan, it has a serious drawback
in the violent sandstorms that are particularly frequent during March
and April, in fact it has been computed that there are only a hundred
really clear days during the year. For several days after our arrival
the air was thick with dust that veiled the sun and accounted for
the strictures passed by travellers on the “grey atmosphere” and
depressing climate of Kashgar. Either by day or by night a furious
wind would arise, bringing clouds of sand from the desert and coating
everything in our rooms with a layer of reddish grit that hurt our
eyes if we chanced to be caught in the open. I was told, however, that
the inhabitants liked this haze that enshrouded their city as being
a welcome change from the brilliant sunshine, and also as tempering
the heat that was beginning to be considerable during the middle
of the day. We noticed great changes in the temperature, sometimes
experiencing a drop of as much as twenty degrees from one day to
another. This I found out to my cost when I had a tiresome attack of
rheumatism caused by riding on a cold morning in the thin linen coat
that had been just the thing on the previous day.
These sandstorms raging through the centuries are supposed to have made
the loess formation which is so characteristic of Chinese Turkestan,
and so amenable to the spade of the cultivator when irrigated. The
countless layers of compressed sand are capable of producing splendid
crops, and the apparently lifeless desert of Central Asia is able to
support large populations if the beneficent agency of water be
provided.
[Illustration: WATERING HORSES IN THE TUMAN SU. _Page 56._]
The loess is also most useful in another way; for, when mixed with
chaff and water, it forms the staple building material of Chinese
Turkestan, and edifices of sun-dried loess bricks will endure through
the centuries, if repaired at intervals. I have often seen a peasant
mending a wall in most primitive fashion by filling the breach with
wet mud, which he slapped into position with his hands. Naturally this
style of building is suitable only in a dry climate, and a prolonged
period of heavy rain, such as sometimes occurs in winter, works havoc
with it, the flat roofs of houses staving in and walls frequently
collapsing. To the traveller, the loess, though picturesque when broken
up into crevasses and castellated forms, has its drawbacks. Unless
cultivated it is inexpressibly dreary, in dry weather the traffic stirs
it up into clouds of suffocating dust, and in wet it turns into a sea
of slippery mud, in which the surest-footed horse may come down. If
the rain be of long duration the soil is apt to turn into a veritable
morass, which engulfs many a poor little donkey and chokes it to death.
I was fond of riding through the bazar on a Thursday, the day of the
weekly fair, when crowds of people poured in from the many hamlets in
the Oasis, making a feast of colour. Among the men there was a great
mixture of types, the upper-class Kashgaris usually having handsome
features and full beards and moustaches; a group of Afghans with
hawk-like profiles and proud bearing would catch the eye, reminding me
of birds of prey when contrasted with the flat-faced, ruddy-cheeked,
hairless Kirghiz; and the lower classes with the high cheek-bones of
the Mongol seemed a link between the Iranian and the Chinese.
The men wore long coats, purple, red, green, or striped in many
colours, with gay handkerchiefs serving as waistbands. Snowy turbans
denoted _mullas_ and merchants, but the others in fur-edged velvet hats
or prettily embroidered skull-caps made gay splashes of colour as they
rode by on spirited stallions or donkeys. The women were, if possible,
more brightly clad than the men; their under shirts and trousers
contrasting with their coats and hats. One _belle_, for example, had an
emerald green coat lined with a flowered pink cotton; her under-garment
was a vivid orange, and her hat purple, with a spray of blossom
coquettishly stuck under the brim. It seems almost incredible, but she
fitted in well with her surroundings in the brilliant sunshine and the
spring green of foliage and crops.
The only visible differences between the dress of the men and of the
women were the long white cotton shawls of the latter which they
wore over their heads, and the small face-veils usually made of
hand-embroidery, sometimes with a handsome border and fringe. These
coverings were fastened to the brim of the hat, and were usually flung
back over it, only to be hastily pulled down by some very orthodox
dame at sight of my brother; but if I happened to be riding behind
him it would usually be pushed aside to enable its wearer to have a
good look at the English _khatun_. Girls of good family veil and are
kept secluded; but there were few “gentry” in Kashgar, for when the
Chinese retook the province on the death of Yakub Beg nearly all the
upper-class Kashgaris fled to Andijan. Both men and women wore
abnormally long sleeves, answering the purpose of gloves in cold
weather, and long leather riding-boots. The latter were often made of
scarlet leather and were more like stockings than boots, and over them
was worn a shoe with stout sole and heel. Indeed these long boots were
seen everywhere and constituted a special feature of the country, being
worn by men, women and children alike.
[Illustration: KASHGAR WOMEN AND CHILDREN. _Page 58._]
On one occasion I was invited to the house of a Turki lady who was
kind enough to display her wardrobe for my benefit. All her dresses
were beautifully folded and kept tied up in large cloths. A woman of
fashion wears five garments visible to the eye, the first two being the
long gown and the trousers under it. The gown is made of Bokhara or
Chinese silk, brocade, Russian chintz and so on, and over it is worn a
waistcoat, often of cloth of gold or silver, edged at the neck with the
handsome gold thread embroidery made at Kucha. Then comes a short coat
with long sleeves, usually of velvet woven in Germany and decorated
with a broad band of gold embroidery. One black brocade coat that I
saw was embroidered round the neck with big tinsel butterflies set
with artificial stones. The fifth garment is a long velvet or brocade
coat covering its wearer to the heels; I noticed a handsome one of
magenta velvet, the buttons being big bosses of scarlet coral set in
gold filigree and small pearls, a product of the Yarkand bazar. Draped
on the head is a big white shawl, often of pretty gauzy material, that
falls to the heels, and upon this are set the dainty skull-cap and the
big velvet fur-edged cap. To this latter is attached the face-veil
of fine-drawn thread edged all round with gold embroidery, the very
handsome broad band of needlework at the top being concealed by the
brim of the hat. This seemed a waste to my practical English mind, but
the lady to whom I pointed this out explained that such was the fashion.
Many of the young Kashgari women were most attractive in appearance,
and some of the little girls quite lovely, their plaits of long hair
falling from under a jaunty little embroidered cap, their big dark
eyes, flashing teeth and piquant olive faces reminding me of Italian
or Spanish children. One most beautiful boy stands out in my memory.
He was clad in a new shirt and trousers of flowered pink, his crimson
velvet cap embroidered with gold, and as he smiled and salaamed to us I
thought he looked like a fairy prince. The women wear their hair in two
or five plaits much thickened and lengthened by the addition of yak’s
hair, but the children in several tiny plaits.
The peasants are fairly well off, as the soil is rich, the abundant
water-supply free, and the taxation comparatively light. It was always
interesting to meet them taking their live stock into market. Flocks
of sheep with tiny lambs, black and white, pattered along the dusty
road; here a goat followed its master like a dog, trotting behind
the diminutive ass which the farmer bestrode; or boys, clad in the
whity-brown native cloth, shouted incessantly at donkeys almost
invisible under enormous loads of forage, or carried fowls and ducks in
bunches head downwards, a sight that always made me long to come to the
rescue of the luckless birds.
[Illustration: WATER-CARRIERS AT KASHGAR. _Page 60._]
It was pleasant to see the women riding alone on horseback, managing
their mounts to perfection. They formed a sharp contrast to their
Persian sisters, who either sit behind their husbands or have their
steeds led by the bridle; and instead of keeping silence in public,
as is the rule for the shrouded women of Iran, these farmers’ wives
chaffered and haggled with the men in the bazar outside the city,
transacting business with their veils thrown back.
Certainly the _mullas_ do their best to keep the fair sex in their
place, and are in the habit of beating those who show their faces in
the Great Bazar. But I was told that poetic justice had lately been
meted out to one of these upholders of the law of Islam, for by mistake
he chastised a Kashgari woman married to a Chinaman, whereupon the
irate husband set upon him with a big stick and castigated him soundly.
Market day at Kashgar presented an ever-changing kaleidoscope. Here a
turbaned grandfather bestriding a tiny donkey, his grandson clinging
on behind him and holding tight to his waistcloth, would cross the
imposing-looking bridge, a favourite haunt of the numerous beggars. On
the river bank the dyers would be beating long pieces of cloth in the
shallows; horses would be drinking standing knee-deep in the water,
and at the ford loaded asses could be seen staggering across, and men
and women with their garments kilted high wading to the opposite bank.
Donkeys carrying covered tubs were ridden by children who scooped up
the water in gourds and filled the receptacles that were to supply
their households for the day. Small mites hardly able to do more than
toddle, were fearless riders, sometimes two or even three children
being perched on the same animal. The excellence of the river brand
accounts for the fact that cholera is unknown in Kashgar, and the
inhabitants do not suffer from the goitre that is so prevalent in other
cities of Chinese Turkestan.
The little stalls in the bazar exposed all sorts of commodities for
sale. Melons that had been stored all through the winter; horseshoes
or murderous-looking knives laid out on benches; here were small piles
of almonds, walnuts and pistachios, there macaroni of native make and
rice; and at one corner of the road the dyers hung up their blue and
scarlet cloths to dry. As far as I could see the vendors made no effort
to press their wares, and there seemed to be no fixed hours of work,
men apparently sleeping, gossiping or drinking tea at any time of day.
In the bakers’ shops the ovens were big holes flush with the floor of
the shop, and the baker stuck the flat cakes of dough against their
sides and pulled them off when ready, with the aid of a long-handled
iron instrument. The bread, the little be-glazed rolls in the form of
rings, and the heaps of flour were all plentifully besprinkled by the
dust of the traffic; and during the cold weather the children would
squat all day close to these ovens and frequently tumble in and get
terribly burnt, poor little things. There was always business doing
at the forge, where the horses being shod were lashed so tightly to
an ingenious wooden framework that they could not move. Unluckily the
Turki farrier is more inclined to make the hoof fit the shoe than _vice
versa_, and as a result often cuts away the wall in most unscientific
fashion, as we sometimes found to our cost.
[Illustration: SHOEING IN THE KASHGAR BAZAR. _Page 62._]
Partridges and the pretty little desert larks kept in small round
cages called and twittered, but their notes would be drowned by the
performance of a group of professional singers who had drawn a crowd
round them. The leader in turban and silk attire, with a huge silver
buckle on his belt, sang, or rather shouted, a solo with many a trill
and tremulo, making excruciating facial contortions, the monotonous
chorus being taken up by the rest of the troupe. Some of these were
greybeards, others mere boys, but all had the appearance of undergoing
acute torture as they yelled at the top of their voices, and brought to
mind my old maestro who was in the habit of suddenly holding a mirror
in front of me if I wore a pained expression as I sang.
Yet the Kashgaris have the reputation of being very musical, and even
to my western ears there was considerable charm in many of their songs;
but try as I might, I could never pick up any of their airs, probably
owing to the fact that their notation is quite different from ours.
They do not understand part-singing, but play several instruments, such
as _sitars_, drums, pipes and tambourines. In the spring and summer
men and boys would sing up to a late hour at night, and with the first
glint of dawn I was often roused by cheerful peasants chanting on their
way to work in the fields.
The people say that travelling dervishes bring fresh tunes to the
towns, and that when the spring repertoire, for example, has been
learnt by the inhabitants it will be succeeded by new tunes for the
autumn and winter. There are sometimes no words to these refrains,
each singer supplying his own, in the fashion of the Italian
_improvisatori_. No woman of good repute may sing in public, and only
once did I hear a little girl of some eight or nine years old singing
away to herself and evidently much enjoying the exercise. Whistling
is not allowed even to children, but I could not find out whether the
Kashgaris believed, as do the Persians, that it summons the demons.
As the Kashgari woman is spoken of as _khatun_, mistress, and sometimes
as _khan_, or master, of the house, I thought that she had a far better
position than her Persian sister; yet the law of Islam presses heavily
upon her in many ways. Owing to the emigration of men from the Oasis
there is a large surplus of women, and marriage is consequently cheap
for a suitor. Parents often sell their daughter to the highest bidder
in the matrimonial market without allowing her any freedom of choice.
True, divorce may be had for a couple of _tungas_ (about fourpence),
but as the woman may not re-marry until a hundred days have elapsed,
she often has difficulty in keeping herself meantime, although the
man is supposed to return the dowry that he received with her at
her marriage. If she has children she must take charge of any under
seven years of age, but if they are above that age the husband looks
after the sons and the wife has the daughters, the husband paying a
maintenance allowance.
There is a law that, if the husband divorces his wife, the latter
may take all the movables in the house, and as in the case of a
merchant much of his wealth consists of carpets and brass utensils,
he often finds it cheaper to take a second wife rather than divorce
the first, who would make a clean sweep of the household plenishing. I
confess that this law rejoiced me, as I always resented the state of
inferiority to which Islam subjects my sex, and was glad that it gave
them the advantage for once.
[Illustration: A KASHGAR GRANDMOTHER. _Page 64._]
Kashgar is a great resort of traders, and the degrading custom of
temporary marriages is in full force, a man often marrying a woman for
a week or even a couple of days, the _mulla_ who performs the ceremony
arranging for the divorce at the same time. The missionaries told me
that most of the women in Kashgar had been married several times, and
this constant divorce leads to the wives taking whatever they can from
their husbands and secreting it against a rainy day. And one cannot
blame them; for, if a man wants to get rid of his helpmate, especially
if she be old, he often ill-treats her in order to force her to divorce
him and thus free him from the necessity of restoring her dowry. If
she does this she may find herself in evil case without means of
subsistence, and possibly unable to remarry.
How the children fare in all these matrimonial complications must be
left to the imagination. Fortunately marriage is a far more stable
institution in the villages, where monogamy is the practice and divorce
uncommon. Here the women are more on an equality with their husbands,
though on one occasion Mr. Bohlin saw a man guiding a plough to which
he had harnessed his wife and a donkey!
The Chinese also practise polygamy; but they never divorce a wife if
she be the mother of a son, and I understand that they do not approve
of the practice at all, regarding it as the ruin of family life and as
full of evil consequences to the children.
CHAPTER IV
ROUND ABOUT KASHGAR
Arabic is science, Persian is sugar,
Hindustani is salt, but Turki is Art.
_Turki Proverb._
As soon as we had settled down at Kashgar we were anxious to explore
the city and its environs, and Mr. Bohlin proved an invaluable guide in
our various expeditions.
From its position the capital of Chinese Turkestan was a commercial
centre from very early times. The town as we knew it is built on high
ground above the Tuman Su and surrounded by a mud wall and a dry moat,
but there are ruins of old Kashgar close by, and the Oasis has changed
hands many times. The small traders and peasant proprietors, who form
the bulk of the population, are by no means a warlike race, and have
apparently accepted with equanimity the rule of whatever master fate
might send them. Throughout the centuries it never seems to have
occurred to the cities of what is now Chinese Turkestan that they might
with advantage have combined against a common foe, instead of letting
themselves be subjugated piecemeal.
[Illustration: PRIEST AT THE TEMPLE OF PAN CHAO. _Page 67._]
Perhaps the earliest mention of Kie-sha, as it was then called, was
when the famous Chinese general Pan Chao in the first century of our
era conquered the Oasis and marched his armies almost as far as the
Caspian. Accordingly we made our first expedition to the picturesque
temple erected by the Chinese to this hero, who, we were told, defended
the city most valiantly against fierce attacks from the Kirghiz tribes.
This monument is quite modern, the Mohamedan conqueror Yakub Beg having
destroyed the original temple during the ’sixties, and the legend that
places the remains of the great soldier in the high mound on which the
temple stands is open to doubt.
The dirty, black-clad priest in charge of the building pointed out to
us the gods in their ill-kept shrines, life-size plaster figures clad
in gorgeous silken robes with finger-nails of monstrous length. The
god of war was a jet-black deity of peculiarly repulsive appearance,
and all had stands before them in which worshippers could burn
joss-sticks. There was an upper story to the temple, which we reached
by means of a rickety wooden staircase not fastened to the wall in
any way, and giving me the impression of being a most insecure mode
of communication, and here I remember the quaint figure of the god of
schoolboys, appropriately armed with a formidable cane. But the view
was what held us enchained. From our post of vantage we could see over
the entire town, with its shrines and mosques standing out from the
thousands of mean, flat-roofed, mud dwellings, and as the sky was clear
that morning the serrated peaks rose up grandly, ramparts, as it were,
of the Roof of the World, that we were to visit later on.
We looked down upon the castellated city wall, which is some eighteen
feet wide between its high parapets, and I was told the legend
according to which it was built by half-starved slaves who were urged
to their task by overseers armed with whips. If one of the labourers
died, as frequently happened, his fellows were not allowed to remove
the body, but were forced to build it into the wet mud in order that
it might form part of the fabric, and the narrative haunted me when I
stood upon the wall itself.
Though modern artillery would bring down this defence of the city, and
the outer moat is always dry, as water would undermine the ramparts,
the wall with its square bastions has nevertheless an imposing
appearance: so also have the four great bronze-covered gates giving
entrance to the town, which are shut at sunset to the accompaniment of
Chinese crackers.
[Illustration: KASHGAR CITY. (Showing the city wall and Tuman Su.)
_Page 68._]
[Illustration: WOMEN AT THE SHRINE OF _HAZRAT APAK_. _Page 69._]
The centre of Moslem veneration is _Hazrat_ Apak, the shrine where the
Priest-King of Kashgar, who died at the end of the seventeenth century,
is buried, together with many of his descendants. Apak not only ruled
over Chinese Turkestan, but had disciples in China and India. He was
credited with powers of healing, and even of bringing the dead to life,
and the Kashgaris regard him as second only to Mohamed and count him
equal to _Hazrat_ Isa (Jesus Christ): he is said to have converted many
thousands from Buddhism to Islam. The road leading to the shrine is a
vast cemetery, about two miles in length and stretching some distance
inland on either side, and along this _Via Appia_, as Sir Aurel Stein
has named it, burial is a costly affair and can be afforded only by
the well-to-do. The domed mud tombs have an underground chamber in
which are four niches, and here the principal members of a family
are buried, each body being laid in turn in the receptacle that faces
Mecca. As we passed along the road we heard women weeping loudly at
some of the graves, in reality performing a kind of ancestor worship in
imitation of their Chinese masters and not in accordance with Moslem
practice. The idea is that deceased relatives will take more interest
in the welfare of the survivors than do the saints, and accordingly the
graves of the former are visited on holidays, and in this particular
city of the dead also on Fridays and Saturdays. If any special blessing
has been vouchsafed to a family, such as recovery from illness or a
safe return from a journey, its members go in a body to express their
gratitude at the tomb of parent or ancestor.
A number of beggars ran after our horses along this road; some of them
dwell in small houses in the cemetery and are paid to keep certain
graves in order. It is hinted that when the tombs crumble away these
men are in the habit of turning them into dwellings, in order to sell
the land again for burial plots after a decent interval has elapsed.
We dismounted at the imposing-looking gateway leading to the shrine,
and were received by the _mutawali bashi_, or chief custodian, who
takes a third of the large revenues, and a couple of turbaned,
green-robed _shaykhs_. These escorted us up a poplar avenue past a big
tank of water to a large building with a façade covered with blue and
white tiles bearing Arabic inscriptions, the dome and the borders of
the façade being in green, which contrasted curiously with the main
colour scheme.
This was the famous shrine, and we were invited to step inside, where
we saw a crowded mass of blue-tiled tombs, that of the Saint-King being
draped with red and white cloths. There were numbers of flags and
banners before the tombs, and on one side was a palanquin in which a
great-grandson of Apak had travelled to and from Peking. While there he
had married his daughter to a Chinaman, and at the date of our visit a
Celestial had arrived in Kashgar accompanied by a band of relatives,
to demand his share of the great wealth of the shrine. His credentials
were unexceptionable, and during a century and a half his ancestors
had been given pensions by the Chinese Government; but owing to the
revolution these subsidies had been stopped. Hence his appearance,
which was causing much perturbation among the managers of the shrine
funds.
We were shown the pool where the saint was wont to make his ablutions
before praying, and close by was a great trophy of the horns of _ovis
poli_ and other wild sheep, the offerings of many huntsmen. There were
two wooden mosques in the enclosure, the roofs and pillars of the
verandahs being carved and brilliantly coloured in the characteristic
native fashion. Between them once lay the grave of Yakub Beg, but when
the Chinese recovered Turkestan they destroyed the tomb and flung away
the ashes of that masterful ruler.
On another occasion we visited the Chinese cemetery, which was very
small when compared with the acres round _Hazrat_ Apak that are covered
by Moslem tombs. But the rulers of Chinese Turkestan are conspicuous by
their absence in Old Kashgar and, moreover, they are always anxious,
if possible, to have their remains interred in their native land. The
enclosure, surrounded by a high wall, had usually a custodian of most
hideous appearance standing at the open gateway, and the place had a
tragic story attached to it. It was called _Gul Bagh_ (Flower Garden),
and was formerly the cantonment of Chinese troops in Kashgar. But when
Yakub Beg wrested Turkestan from China he killed many soldiers of the
Celestial Empire, and their remains were left unburied within this
enclosure until the Chinese regained the Province in 1877. Then all the
scattered bones were collected and placed under three big mud domes,
the site of the former barracks being turned into a graveyard for
Celestials.
Just inside the entrance was a temple with a wall on which was an
inscription to keep off evil spirits, and at the end of each long, low,
mud tomb was a tiny door facing south, through which the spirit of the
dead man was supposed to emerge. In the mortuary chambers near the gate
were placed the corpses of rich men who wished to be buried in China
and whose coffins were awaiting fitting escort for the long journey.
I was told that when a Chinaman of importance dies, or, as it is put
poetically, “drives the fairy chariot on a long journey,” the body is
kept in the house for several days, during which a priest offers up
prayers before it, music being played and crackers let off. At the
funeral a cock is brought to the cemetery on the coffin and killed at
the moment of burial, in order that the spirit of chanticleer may be
ready to waken the spirit of the dead man in the next world. Paper
houses, attendants, soldiers, horses, carriages, beds, boxes, money--in
fact every kind of thing pertaining to the daily life and use of the
deceased--are burnt before the coffin, in order that the spirit may
have all these in the next world and may thus be enabled to take its
proper position there. In the case of a wealthy man this ceremony is
repeated on the three anniversaries following his death, and in front
of a temple outside Kashgar a small pagoda-like tower was pointed out
to me in which masses of paper prayers were burnt for the benefit of
the deceased founder.
The Chinese are not considered particularly brave, but, though a man
will avoid death by any possible means, yet he will meet it calmly when
inevitable, and suicide is looked upon as rather a meritorious act
than otherwise. If a man is condemned to death he is strangled; but
for serious crimes short of murder the culprits are beaten severely on
the legs, and men who have expiated their misdeeds in this way have
frequently been brought into the Swedish hospital with their leg-bones
broken in two or three places, and in some cases so badly injured that
death ensues.
“There is something of a baby and something of an old man in every
Chinaman,” quoted Mr. Bohlin on one occasion, and I was naturally
interested when we were entertained at a lunch given by the _Taoyin_,
or Governor, of Kashgar. The invitation, written on a strip of scarlet
paper, described my brother as _Sa Ta-jen_ (the Big Man), while my
title _Gu Ta-tai_ (Sister of the Big Man) appeared below.
I had hoped that we were bidden to a real Chinese dinner where
sharks’ fins, swallows’ nests and such like delicacies would figure
in the menu, though I was somewhat staggered at being told that a
first-class dinner would comprise no fewer than a hundred and twenty
courses, second and third class banquets having sixty and thirty
courses respectively. No wonder that after such orgies the yamen is
wont to remain closed for three days. But in this case, though the
dinner lasted with an interlude from one o’clock to four, it was,
as far as the food went, an inferior Russian repast. It began with
many _zakuskas_, consisting principally of dubious-looking tinned
fish, followed by soup, several meat courses, jelly, ices, tea and
champagne. The Russian Consul-General and his staff were present, and
all the Europeans were placed on one side of a long table under an
awning, while their Chinese hosts sat opposite. These latter amused me
by getting up at intervals. Some would take the Governor’s children
on their knees--he was the proud father of four sons--and give them
tit-bits from the table; others smoked opium in curious pipes and had
choking fits, during which they retired into the garden to cough in
peace; while others would leave the table to give instructions to the
servants in charge of two gramophones that discoursed popular European
airs all the time.
The commander-in-chief, a quaint-looking figure with grey locks, a
putty-coloured complexion and claw-like nails that made me shudder,
strolled up and down in a khaki uniform and made amiable remarks to the
guests; other officials rose to ply all and sundry with vodka and wine,
and the only one that kept his seat was a small boy clad charmingly in
blue and purple silk and wearing a sailor hat woven in blue and mauve
straw. He ate manfully of every course, and even demanded a second
helping of some of the more indigestible of the delicacies, but looked
so strong and rosy that I suspected he was not accustomed to indulge
his appetite in this way very often.
There is a great mortality among Chinese babies if their mothers are
unable to feed them; for Celestials have the strongest repulsion to
cows’ milk. “We do not wish to become calves,” they say, and if a
mother dies her offspring is nourished on rice and sugar.
There was a crowd of soldiers at this party, some quite aged men,
clad in black cotton uniforms, their heads bound up in handkerchiefs
and holding curious weapons, such as steel prongs at the end of long
sticks, and all having a highly unmilitary appearance. The army is
looked down upon in China, it being a common saying, “We do not make
nails from good iron or soldiers from good men,” and in consequence
of this strong pacifist feeling no man of decent standing would enter
the profession of arms, except in the higher ranks where successful
generals have temples built in their honour.
Our host gave the European ladies fans and silk handkerchiefs as
souvenirs, showing us how to unfurl a fan to its full extent with a
movement of the wrist, and then escorted us to the house to visit his
wife, who met us at the entrance. She was a pleasant-faced lady, with
well-oiled hair brushed back from her forehead, and was dressed in a
black silk coat and tightly-fitting trousers. As she clambered with
difficulty over the extremely high door-step, and tottered towards us
on the tiniest of feet, I was unkind enough to reflect that my Russian
friends with their narrow skirts and heels of abnormal height did not
progress much better.
[Illustration: CHINESE SOLDIERS AT THE KASHGAR YAMEN. _Page 74._]
We were invited to drink tea in a room adorned with a couple of
charming Chinese pictures, together with a mass of European
photographs and knick-knacks in bad taste, and afterwards passed into
two large bedrooms, where we were received by the daughter-in-law, and
inspected huge bedsteads hung round with curtains and furnished with
long silk-covered bolsters and neatly-folded piles of silken quilts.
My entire ignorance of the language prevented me from enjoying this
glimpse of a Chinese home in the way I might otherwise have done, and
my thoughts centred on the neat little “hoofs” shod in black satin
that served our hostesses for feet. I had heard Mrs. Archibald Little
lecture on this fashion, and her account of the tortures inflicted on
so many thousands of tiny girls to bring about the repulsive mutilation
which the Chinese euphemistically call “golden lilies” had filled me
with an abiding indignation. And yet a recent traveller in China says
that these crippled feet possess for him a “quite extraordinary exotic
charm,” and he exhausts himself in conjecture as to which mistress of
an Emperor’s heart introduced a custom that “entailed a new charm on
her sex.” I have no theory to offer as to the origin of the custom, but
from the position of women in China it seemed to me that some man must
have been responsible for a plan that would firmly tether his womankind
to their homes, just as the veiling of Mohamedan women was a masculine
device.
During our visit to his house the Governor, who could talk Russian,
kept the ball rolling with Princess Mestchersky while we sipped
our tea. He had met her some years before in China and afterwards
she quoted to me one of his remarks, of which she had not entirely
approved. He had said, “When we were in China we were young, but now
in Kashgar we are old!” I thought the Governor distinctly lacking
in tact, but how easily can one jump to wrong conclusions through
ignorance. Later on I heard that there is such reverence for age in the
Celestial Empire that it is a high compliment to impute many years; an
aged man, even if poor and blind, being regarded as a fortunate being.
To this veneration for age is united an intense respect for parents,
especially for the head of a house. No son would retire to rest before
his father, nor would he sleep upon the roof if his parent occupied a
room below.
The death of a father is one of the greatest calamities that can
befall a man, and Sir Aurel Stein illustrated this by an incident that
occurred when he was returning to Kashgar from one of his long desert
expeditions. It became known that his Chinese interpreter’s father had
passed away, and all along the road there was a friendly conspiracy to
keep all letters from Jongsi until his journey was at an end and he
could indulge his grief at home.
When we said good-bye to our host we drove off, as we had arrived, to
the accompaniment of three loud detonations, and this time the crackers
were exploded so close to us that I marvelled that our horse did not
smash the carriage and its occupants in its terror.
[Illustration: JAFAR BAI DISPLAYING THE VISITING CARD. _Page 77._]
Later on my brother attended real Chinese feasts, where the procedure
was quite different from that I have just described. He would drive
into the outer courtyard of the yamen, where musicians would be
discoursing weird music from a latticed gallery, and the great doors
of the inner courtyard would be flung wide to the deafening sound
of crackers. The etiquette was to leave the carriage and proceed
across a stage with an altar on one side, Jafar Bai walking ahead
waving his master’s red visiting-card, and calling out his name and
title, while the _Amban_ met his guest half-way and escorted him to
the repast. My brother’s name, as rendered in Chinese, was _Si-Ki-Su_,
and we were told that it is considered _chic_ to have a name of two
or three syllables, whereas a name running into four is not good and
a five-syllable name would expose its bearer to derision, as the slip
of paper on which it was written would be so long. The custom of
visiting-cards is supposed to have originated in the Celestial Empire
centuries before the coming of Christ.
As is the habit in Persia, the Chinese spend about half-an-hour before
the meal in discussing fruit, nuts, tea, wine and native spirit, this
last being served hot and poured from a kettle. The host takes the
lowest seat at table, helps his guests to tea, putting in the sugar
with his fingers. Later on he serves them the various dishes and is
full of attentions towards them. The dinner proper is placed on the
table in bowls, from which every one supplies himself by means of
chopsticks, fishing out what he fancies and transferring it to the
small saucer placed before him.
Sharks’ fins, turtle fat, a _plat_ prepared from the stomach of a fish,
fried fowls’ livers, year old eggs, edible seaweed and preserved duck
were some of the numerous dishes. My brother always carefully avoided
this last, as the Consulate interpreter had had an illness which
resulted in deafness from partaking on one occasion too freely of the
delicacy, and perhaps it was this comestible that caused Captain Deasy
to write so feelingly of the ill-effects that he experienced from
Chinese banquets. Swallows’-nest soup is almost unprocurable nowadays
and prohibitive in price; bread is seldom served, and if it appears it
is rather like dough.
When the meat courses are concluded the servants bring in a basin of
water in which they wash all the chopsticks and spoons, and then the
sweets appear, beans in syrup and a kind of plum-pudding being among
them. The last course is a bowl of rice, the national dish; when it
makes its appearance it is a sign that the feast has reached its close,
and after partaking of it the guests depart.
Sir George Macartney told me that the Chinese are very fond of playing
games with their fingers at their dinner-parties. One game is for a
man to put forward a certain number of his fingers, his opponent doing
the same, and he who first guesses the total correctly is the winner,
the whole being done at lightning speed. The guests do not call out
five, six or seven as the case may be, but there are elegant titles for
each number, such as Mandarin of the First Empire, and so on. Another
curious game is as follows: The hand, when clenched, is supposed to
represent a stone, two fingers protruded stand for scissors and two
hanging down for a sack. The point of the game is that a _stone_
cannot be cut by _scissors_ but can be put into a _sack_, but on the
other hand, a _sack_ can be cut by _scissors_. If, therefore, a player
responds with _scissors_ to his adversary who has clenched his hand for
_stone_ he loses; but if he replies with _sack_ he wins. It sounds a
childish amusement, but the Chinese will play the game for hours at a
time with tremendous zest.
I have omitted to mention that there is usually a length of wall placed
in front of the gateway leading to any yamen, temple, rest-house, or
graveyard, its purpose being to prevent evil spirits from entering.
Most fortunately these can only go straight forward and cannot turn
corners, so the wall brings them to a full stop and foils them in any
malignant design.
The “name day” of the Tsaritsa fell early in May--Russians keep the
baptismal day, and not the birthday, as we do--and the Cossacks
attached to the Russian Consulate gave in her honour a display
of horsemanship known as _jigitofka_. It was held on their sandy
parade-ground close to the river, where the Russian colony assembled in
full force. The men went through quite a military tournament programme,
springing off and leaping on to galloping steeds, riding at breakneck
pace facing the tails of their mounts, and leaping across kneeling
camels. The “ships of the desert” strongly objected to this particular
feat, and with loud roarings struggled to rise, until the men who held
them bound cloths over their eyes. There were the usual V.C. races,
and we had a glimpse of the war in watching the exciting rescue of a
Cossack attired as a woman from the hands of a troop masquerading as
Huns. The most sensational item was when the soldiers galloped their
horses through a big barrier of flaming bundles of reeds, firing off
blank cartridges, the sight of the flames and the noise of the rifles
driving the animals almost mad.
The Princess gave away the prizes, chiefly money, daggers, and huge
silver watches, and the simple-looking, fresh-faced youths rode past in
a body when all was over, singing beautifully. They had a natural gift
for song, taking parts as if by instinct, and on quiet evenings I used
to listen for their hymn.
The Kashgaris had assembled in hundreds to see the spectacle, and
opposite to where we sat the high loess cliffs were crowded with
brilliantly clad spectators, who climbed with the agility of monkeys
to apparently inaccessible points of vantage. Horsemanship naturally
appeals strongly to a nation of riders; but the Kashgaris, though as it
were born in the saddle, never appeared to use their horses otherwise
than as a means for getting about, in contrast to the young Persian or
Arab, who is for ever racing his steed. Later on we saw much of the
“goat game” as practised by the Kirghiz, but the only horses which were
galloped in Kashgar were ridden by Cossacks, who occasionally ran riot
in the narrow public roads, to the imminent danger of passers-by.
Our Russian friends drove instead of riding, and, as my brother and
I much preferred our saddles to being jolted in a carriage, we never
organised any joint-picnics. To be perfectly frank, a dinner or a
garden-party always left me quite exhausted in my efforts to play the
hostess, talking French to this one, helping out the inadequate German
of that one, and cudgelling my brains for some Russian sentence of
welcome to those guests, alas, in the majority, who knew no language
save their own. The Russians enjoyed coming to our garden, especially
when the strawberries were in season, and I always took them over the
house, winding up with the roof for the sake of the view. The ladies
were specially interested in the kitchen arrangements, and the Princess
declared that the Consulate was far more convenient in every way than
the grandiose building that was in course of erection for her future
residence. When my brother and I went over it later I was struck with
the difference between British and Russian ideals. We love comfort
and privacy in our homes, but our Slavonic friends appeared to need
constant social intercourse. They had crowded many buildings on to a
small piece of ground, each house raked by the windows of the others,
and at the end of a long avenue stood the imposing-looking Consulate.
I was surprised at its internal plan; for there were four very large
reception rooms, but only three fair-sized bedrooms and a couple of
small servants’ rooms. There was apparently no pantry, scullery, larder
or storeroom; and, as there was no central passage in the house, all
the rooms opened one into another, an intolerable arrangement according
to English ideas.
We were also shown over the Cossack barracks close by, big rooms
with rows of grey blanketed beds, the long tables and benches for
meals being in the same apartments, and the icons in a prominent
position. The Cossacks all looked healthy and hardy, replying to their
officer’s salutations with a formula of greeting that they chanted with
precision, but I fancy that Kashgar must be a place of exile to men who
have left their farms on the Don at the bidding of the Tsar, and they
must look forward to settling down upon them for good when their term
of service is ended.
Shortly after our arrival we had an interesting guest in the person of
M. Romanoff, a young Russian archaeologist whom my brother had met both
in London and Bokhara. He was studying the Moslem art of Central Asia,
and showed us carvings, pottery, carpets and embroideries that he had
bought at Kashgar and Yarkand, and was consequently able to help us
with our own purchases.
The old Khotan carpets, their colours made from vegetable dyes, were
attractive, and the silk carpets are highly prized and very difficult
to obtain. One belonging to our guest had a pale yellow colouring, but
was terribly damaged. The best woollen Khotan carpet that I inspected
had a pattern in a series of panels; indigo, a faded-looking madder and
yellow being the chief tints. There were Chinese vases in the design,
and also the conventionalized _swastika_, that symbol of good luck
which originally came from India, and which later on I saw copied _ad
nauseam_ in glaring aniline dyes. Certainly none of the old carpets
that I came across, whether woven of wool or of silk, could compare
in design, colouring or texture with the beautiful Persian works of
the loom with which I was familiar. The modern Khotan carpet, with its
aniline dyes, is rarely pleasing to the eye. A favourite subject is a
row of magenta, purple and orange pots, with flowers stiffly protruding
from them, the whole design being thrown upon a scarlet background and
making one wonder how the artistic Chinese can descend to such depths.
[Illustration: STUDY OF KASHGAR WOMEN. (One woman is shown with face
veiled.) _Page 82._]
The pottery brought to us for sale and sold in the bazars was rough and
not particularly good as to pattern, while the tiles on the façades of
mosques and those that covered a few of the tombs were practically all
white and blue, comparing unfavourably with the fine work of much of
Central Asia. What specimens of jewellery I saw were heavy and clumsy
and to me devoid of charm. The native art seemed to find its chief
expression in the columned verandahs of mosques and dwelling-houses,
the pillars and roofs of these being often profusely carved with
charming patterns in the style known as chip-carving; and also in the
fretwork of doors and windows, frequently carried out with a wealth of
intricate design that reminded us strongly of the art of Kashmir, and
may possibly have been influenced by that country.
The old brass and copper utensils are often very beautiful, with
open metal work showing Persian influence; in fact my brother and I
sometimes thought that they must have been brought from Iran, so much
did they resemble those we had picked up at Kashan.
It seemed to me that the embroideries produced by the women were
more typical of the race than anything else. Shaw mentions that in
the ’sixties the women wore wide trousers, the borders of which were
embroidered, and though the trousers are now narrower and worn without
adornment, we were able to collect many specimens of the old work.
Moreover, the long gowns worn by the women were formerly profusely
embroidered, conventional flowers appearing with charming effect on
the red, green or yellow silk of which the costume was made. Now,
alas, this beautiful handicraft seems almost to have died out, and is
reserved for the pretty skull-caps which are worn by both sexes, and
over which both alike place the “little pork-pie hat” with fur border
mentioned by Shaw.
In spite of the Turki proverb that heads this chapter, it appeared to
me that Chinese Turkestan had evolved no art of its own, everything of
the kind being influenced by its neighbours, China, India or Persia.
The province is a back-water of the Chinese Empire, and the race of
petty farmers who inhabit it cultivate the soil as if by instinct. The
so-called cities are comparatively small towns, where the trade is not
on a large scale. They are separated one from another by the Takla
Makan desert, and have been conquered and re-conquered during their
whole history at bewilderingly short intervals, an experience which
does not make for progress in art.
We rode all over Kashgar and its environs, and also visited every
building of any pretensions in Yarkand and Khotan, but found nothing
of real architectural merit; nor could any mosque or shrine compare
with the magnificent monuments of India or Persia. As to Chinese
architecture, it must be borne in mind that the conquerors would
scarcely raise fine temples in a country which they looked upon as
a land of temporary exile; moreover, buildings constructed of mud
crumble away in the course of centuries, and it has been the custom of
some of the many rulers of Turkestan to destroy the places of worship
erected by those of another religion. For example, Yakub Beg, when
he made himself ruler of Turkestan, set to work to raze all Chinese
monuments to the ground, and perhaps the two ruined Buddhist _stupas_
to the north and south of the Consulate owe their dilapidated condition
partly to the fury of the early Mohamedan conquerors. At present these
_Tims_, as the Kashgaris call them, are shapeless mounds giving no idea
of their original form. Sir Aurel Stein, who has carefully examined
them, believes that they date from between 600 and 800 A.D.; but too
little was left for him to have any opinion as to what they looked like
when erected. It seems curious that, although Kashgar is supposed to be
on the site of Kie-sha, visited by Hiuen-Tsiang, yet these two _stupas_
are apparently all that remains of the hundreds of Buddhist monasteries
that he mentions.
[Illustration: RUINS OF THE BUDDHIST _TIM_, KASHGAR. _Page 85._]
CHAPTER V
OLLA PODRIDA
It is doubtful if these Central Asian towns _ever_ change. Their dull
mud walls, mud houses, mud mosques look as if they would remain the
same for ever. In most climates they would be washed away, but in
Central Asia there is hardly any rain and so they stay on for ages....
“As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be,” would be a
particularly appropriate motto to place over the gateway of a Central
Asian town.--_The Heart of a Continent_, Sir F. YOUNGHUSBAND.
We arrived at the capital of Chinese Turkestan in the spring, with
the best of the year before us. The trees that bordered the countless
irrigation channels were all in leaf, the _jigdah_, or Babylonian
willow, was bursting into flower with gusts of perfume, one species
bearing later on a yellow fruit something like a date in appearance and
called _nan_, or bread, by the Kashgaris; the sickly-sweet white, and
the big purple mulberries were ripening; the fields brilliantly green
with lucerne and young corn, and the many gardens enclosed by low mud
walls pink with fruit blossom. The picturesque loess cliffs--such a
characteristic feature of Chinese Turkestan--broke up the country in
every direction and the two branches of the river added great charm to
the landscape, the frequent haze of dust giving a curious glamour to
the scene.
During our rides outside the city we often came across some little
mosque with carved wooden columns and roof, the building overlooking a
large _hauz_ or tank of water planted round with tall silver-stemmed
poplars, or a vacant space in some village lane would be occupied by
a huge spreading poplar, or the beautiful elm of the country, or the
rather rare weeping-willow. There were few flowers to be seen, save
the small mauve irises that were always found in the graveyards, where
they spread themselves in sheets of blue among the tombs; but along the
sandy tracks big bushes of wild roses with their faint scent reminded
us of home.
There were plenty of birds, hoopoes and doves being the commonest, if
one excepts the ubiquitous crows and sparrows; the cuckoo was heard
occasionally and the swallows skimmed after flies. I was interested
in a pair of hawks that had made a rough nest in a tall poplar in
the garden, their wild “keening” sounding all day long as they came
backwards and forwards with food for their offspring. On one occasion
they attacked M. Romanoff as he was standing on the terrace below their
nest and looking through a pair of field-glasses. He said that they
swooped down upon him again and again, brushing his head with their
wings and uttering piercing cries, and they even pursued him to the
roof of the Consulate whither he retreated to continue his survey of
the country. His idea was that the hawks must have imagined the glasses
to be a weapon directed at the nest. Mr. Bohlin once observed one of
these birds swoop down in the midst of the crowded bazar and snatch
a piece of meat from a boy, and he had often seen men washing the
carcasses of sheep in the river and calling to the hawks that caught
bits of offal flung into the air.
There were only harmless snakes in the Oasis, and not many of them.
The boys were fond of winding them round their heads under their
skull-caps, and they keep them in their shirts. On the other hand,
the big six-inch-long lizards were feared, as their bite was said to
be very poisonous. We sometimes saw the pretty jerboa, and there is a
kind of small rat indigenous to the country, called “bag-mouth” by the
natives, from its habit of filling the pouches in its cheeks with grain
that it stores away. On one occasion Mr. Bohlin discovered that a large
box of garden-seeds was nearly empty, and setting a watch he caught the
ingenious little thief busily filling its pouches. On killing it he
recovered a surprising quantity of the stolen goods!
The newly built Consulate was agreeably free from scorpions, which
usually come out at night and can move at a great rate with a curious
rustling noise; but we had plenty of spiders. The very large ones that
could run at lightning speed I was assured were harmless; but one of
the missionaries told me that the pain she had suffered from this
spider’s bite was intense, and that her finger had had a lump on it for
many a long day after. An entomologist endorsed her experience, saying
that these were hunting spiders, and killed their prey with a bite that
was poisonous. Their size may be judged from the fact that Mr. Bohlin
once saw a sparrow try to attack one, but the spider defended itself
by waving its legs, and by this manœuvre apparently so much alarmed
the bird that it flew off! I used to call Sattur to the rescue when
my rooms were invaded by one of these creatures, and he often had
an exciting chase with the broom before he could dislodge his agile
prey from its niche, its long leaps filling me with fear lest it might
alight upon my head and then wreak vengeance upon me. Finally, it would
be caught in a cloth and flung outside the house, my henchman refusing
to destroy it, as the world-wide superstition that it is unlucky to
kill a spider holds good in Kashgar. A comparatively small, but very
hairy spider, I was told, was extremely poisonous. Great black bees
and dragon-flies flew about the garden, big horse-flies often attacked
our mounts as we rode, and, when the first cold of autumn set in, we
suffered from a regular invasion of wasps crawling about on windows and
floors, all in a half-torpid condition.
During the summer it was almost impossible to read in the evenings,
because a light attracted swarms of midges, little beetles and other
insects; but we could sit or walk on the terrace in the darkness
unmolested, nor were we troubled by mosquitoes.
Until I became accustomed to it, the noise of Kashgar disturbed
me a good deal. At dawn the whole world was up and about, men and
boys singing lustily, or yelling at their donkeys, which from their
continual braying are nicknamed the “nightingales of Kashgar,” the
bird of the poets not being a visitor to these regions. A jingling of
bells would denote the passing of the blue-tilted Chinese _mapas_ drawn
by sturdy ponies, or a deeper booming would indicate that a caravan
of camels was on its way across the desert, perhaps to far Khotan, or
even to Peking. The city gun, really a Chinese cracker, went off with
a bang at sunrise to announce that the city gates were open, and it
seemed to let loose a perfect pandemonium of sound. Women shrieked to
one another, children cried and quarrelled, dogs barked, horses neighed
and cocks crew; the flocks of small birds twittered unceasingly, there
was an all-pervading hum of insects, in which one could distinguish the
shrill chirp of the tree-cricket, and multitudes of frogs croaked from
the watercourses.
At intervals throughout the day would be heard the blowing of an ibex
horn, resembling the hoot of a motor. This was a signal from one of
the many mills, to inform customers that the miller was ready to grind
their grain, or perhaps that the flour was waiting to be carried away.
These mills are ramshackle mud buildings on the river or on a water
channel, everything being open to the air and no provision made to
keep out wind and rain and dust. The wheat is poured into boxes which
feed the millstones, and these cast the flour, when ground, on to flat
tables, upon one of which I noticed a dirty old cap being used to
sweep it up. The Kashgar millers had by no means a good reputation for
honesty. A customer’s grain is weighed before grinding, yet when it is
returned to him as flour it will probably be mixed with some inferior
cereal or even with sand, of which there is enough and to spare.
With the noonday heat there always came a welcome lull in the concert
of noise, this being the hour of siesta for most living things. But
when the sun descended towards the west all the world awoke, and a
crescendo of sound would be reached by sunset, all the sounds of
the early morning recurring, the legions of cocks seeming to salute
the parting day as vociferously as they greeted its appearance. The
Kashgaris, by the way, have a very inferior breed of poultry, and
their rendering of our saying: “To count your chickens before they are
hatched” is “To count your chickens in the autumn.” They speak of a
coward as being “chicken-livered,” just as we do.
There must be added to the noises I have already enumerated the
thudding of drums, the drone of bagpipes, the twanging of _sitars_ and
the singing of choruses, often most agreeable to western ears. Nor
must I omit to mention the _muezzins_ calling men to prayer from the
minarets of the mosques, their powerful voices ringing out over the
city with a solemn beauty as they testify that there is but one God and
that Mohamed is His Prophet.
The sunsets of Kashgar were most lovely, with a delicacy and charm all
their own. They were not spectacular displays of scarlet, purple and
gold as in many parts of the world, but the sky was softly flushed
with pale pinks, mauves and yellows, while a wonderful golden haze,
due I imagine to the dust particles in the air, shimmered over the
whole landscape. The broken loess cliffs, on which stood shabby mud
hovels and tombs with no pretensions to architecture, seemed now to be
crowned with castles and domes worthy of some city of high romance, the
ruined garden-house with its columned verandah standing high above the
river was turned into a Greek temple, and the tall poplars silhouetted
darkly against the glow resembled cypresses, transporting me in spirit
to many an Italian garden in Rome or in the City of Flowers. The
chocolate-coloured river flowing below us was now iridescent as the
breast of a dove, and across the sands of its wide bed there gleamed
the enchanted light that cast a spell over the whole landscape. And
then the sun would set, and in an instant a grey, deathlike pallor
would creep over everything, making me shiver and turn away with a
curious sense of depression.
During the spring the Kashgaris make pleasure expeditions to the
different shrines round the city, going rather to eat and gamble than
to say their prayers. Bands of friends are in the habit of feasting
one another in turn in some garden, meeting four afternoons a week for
the purpose, and sometimes on our evening walks we came across these
revellers returning home. The _Begs_ and the _Sayyids_, who claim to
be descendants of the Prophet, rode showy stallions or well-fed asses
and looked imposing figures in their snowy turbans and long silk coats.
They were usually handsome men with well-cut noses, fresh complexions
and full beards. The young men had moustaches and invariably stuck
a rose or a sprig of blossom under the brim of their embroidered
caps, and all alike presented a strong contrast to the flat-faced,
yellow-skinned Chinese.
The women, who, as in all Moslem countries, have no social intercourse
with the men, took their outings by visiting the shrines, one of which
they had all to themselves, the _Mazzar_ of Bibi Anna. The grave of
this female saint was situated on a bluff opposite the Consulate, the
mud tomb, on which a white flag fluttered, being enclosed with a mud
wall. Here widows and divorced women who desired remarriage and girls
anxious for a husband were wont to resort: putting their hands into
holes built in the tomb, they would implore the holy woman to aid them.
[Illustration: THE SHRINE OF BIBI ANNA. _Page 93._]
Try as I would, I was unable to gain any information about the _Bibi
Khanum_, as she was called. The white flag brought her often to my
mind, as I could not stand upon the garden-terrace without seeing it,
and now and again at night I observed a lighted lamp hanging above her
last resting-place. In a Mohamedan country where woman in theory is
little regarded, what had the Lady Anna done that a shrine at which
miracles were reputed to be performed should be erected to her memory?
When did she live? Was she perhaps kin to _Hazrat_ Apak the Priest-King
of Kashgar? I can answer none of these questions, and merely know that
she was regarded with much veneration.
On one occasion, when many women were assembled at her grave, I asked
some of them to put their hands into the holes of the tomb and allow me
to photograph them in that position, but realized at once how tactless
I had been. With shocked faces the women explained that such a thing
would practically amount to sacrilege; but they had no objection to
being photographed seated beside the _mazzar_.
Perhaps the most popular shrine is that of Ali Arslan, a couple of
miles to the north of the city, the road leading up to it being
bordered on either side by gardens, the property of the _mazzar_ and a
great holiday resort. The lofty brick gateway is barred to horses and
vehicles by a tree-trunk, over which we clambered, to find ourselves
in a large enclosure with a great tank of water planted round with
stately poplars, a usual and pleasing characteristic of holy places in
Chinese Turkestan. Behind it lay the shrine, an insignificant building
entered by an old carved and fretted doorway, one of the best specimens
of this form of native art that we came across in the country. An old
_akhun_--his office is to read the Koran at the graves for the benefit
of the departed--was kneeling and reciting prayers before it, and
inside the small space was filled by a large tomb covered with blue and
white tiles, trophies of flags, and horns of the wild sheep.
Sultan Arslan Boghra, the hero-saint, surnamed the Tiger for his
bravery, who is honoured here, fought with great valour against the
Buddhist inhabitants of Khotan, who did not wish to change their
religion for the tenets of Islam. He was one of the earliest Mohamedan
conquerors of Kashgar, and it is recorded by Bellew that the pagan
ruler of Khotan, who led his force against the Moslems, offered a
large reward to the man who could compass the Sultan’s death. At this
time the Nestorian Church had its adherents throughout Asia, and the
story runs that one of its priests counselled the Buddhists to fall
upon their opponents at dawn, as they would then be engaged with their
devotions and so would be taken unawares. The advice was followed, and
in a great battle on the desert plain of Ordam-Padshah, some fifty
miles south-east of Kashgar, the adherents of the Prophet were utterly
routed and their gallant leader slain.
Ali Arslan’s head was carried in triumph round the walls of Kashgar,
into which the Moslems had retreated for the time, and it is supposed
to be buried in the shrine that we visited. His body, however, rests
at Ordam-Padshah, and Sir Aurel Stein writes that a mound covered with
poplars from which flutter rags is all that marks the grave of the
saint, although it is a peculiarly holy spot and is annually visited by
hundreds of pilgrims.
There are various shrines outside the city that claim to cure
particular diseases. A relative of Ali Arslan is interred in one of
these, and before the fretted windows of his _mazzar_ is an ancient
willow that leans over nearly to the ground. If a patient afflicted
with rheumatism will go round the tree seven times in a believing
spirit, bending nearly double in order to rub his back against the
bark, it is said that he will be freed from his complaint. Old Jafar
Bai tried the treatment one day when we were there, but I never
ventured to question him as to the result. The so-called Tombs of the
Mongols outside the city seemed to me to be somewhat of a fraud, as the
mud-domed graves were quite modern. But they are visited annually by
thousands of the Faithful, who gamble, feast and have a day’s outing in
the neglected cemetery, many, I was told, omitting to say their prayers.
To turn to another subject, although Kashgar is the seat of Government,
the entrance of the yamen being marked by the masts, some seventy feet
high, and the grotesque stone lions that signify authority, yet the
Chinese troops are in barracks at Yangi Shahr (New City) some six or
seven miles distant. This town is surrounded by high parapeted mud
walls in good repair; two sally-ports have to be passed before the big
bazar can be entered, and, as is customary, these entrances are crooked
in order to foil the evil spirits. Just inside the _Pai-fang_, or
roofed gateway, there is a Chinese temple, and over the gate a building
in which paper prayers are burnt on fête days and the ashes flung to
the heavens.
The stalls in the bazar, with their wooden shutters and matting
awnings, seemed much the same as those in the Old City, but in Yangi
Shahr the Celestial was at home instead of looking like an intruder,
and soldiers in khaki uniforms and forage caps of German appearance
were everywhere to be seen. Black, the royal colour of the Manchus,
was still affected by the inhabitants, and most unsuitable wear it
was for such a dusty place, but the flag of the Republic, with its
five colours, flew over every yamen. It interested me to hear that the
yellow stripe stood for China, the black for the Manchus, the red for
the Mongols, the blue for Tibet, and the white for the Moslem subjects.
The Chinese seem to hold the province more by bluff than by force, the
troops being few, of all ages, and not troubled by overmuch drill.
Certainly the Governor and the Commander-in-Chief always go forth in
considerable state with detonations of crackers in order to impress the
populace, but as, owing to Chinese arrogance, the officials decline
to learn any foreign language, they never get into touch with the
people they are supposed to govern. Being intensely proud of their old
civilization, they utterly decline to move with the times or absorb new
ideas, and so are, as it were, petrified.
The upper classes are brought up to despise manual labour and are
admirers of the pen, holding the sword in contempt, and as a result
are often incapable of defending themselves if attacked. Social
distinction goes by learning, a _literatus_ being the equal of any one
and invariably accorded a seat of honour at the yamen. Probably their
unhealthy lives--for they take no exercise, love darkened rooms and
are addicted to drink and opium-smoking--have brought them to this
ignominious pass; and one Governor said that the long nails he affected
were an excellent aid to self-control, for he could never clench his
hand to strike any one in anger! They rule the province easily, because
the inhabitants are a mild unwarlike race, accustomed for centuries to
be under the heel of a conqueror and preferring the tolerant domination
of China to that of Russia.
Liu-Kin-tang, the general who reconquered the province after the death
of Yakub Beg, has a big temple erected to his honour outside the New
City, and one afternoon we made an expedition to see it. It is just off
the broad tree-planted road, always full of traffic, which is spanned
by imposing-looking painted bridges that cross the Kizil Su. On our
arrival we rode into a large courtyard, where we dismounted to pass
through a fantastically decorated gateway into a second courtyard,
and were met by the Governor of the City, whose robes of black and
blue were crowned by a panama hat. One of his attendants wore a black
felt “billy-cock” that looked oddly out of keeping with the rest of
his costume, as did the caricatures of English straw hats that were
affected by the others. The Governor escorted us to the temple, the
façade of which was a blaze of gold, blue and scarlet mingled with
Chinese inscriptions. The tomb of the famous general was under a
carved canopy, over which gilded dragons careered, and before it was
the hero’s portrait, an enlarged coloured photograph. An old bronze
tripod for burning joss-sticks, and a great bronze bell that the
Governor struck in order that we might hear its wonderful tone, stood
in front of the photograph, and on one side of the tomb was a fresco
of a black and white tiger. Formerly there were large paintings on the
walls depicting the general’s career, but unluckily all these had been
destroyed by a recent earthquake, and the temple had practically been
rebuilt and was shorn of much of its original decoration.
I wondered whether Liu-Kin-tang at all resembled the general of an
amusing story told us by Sir Aurel Stein. This Chinaman set out with an
army of twelve thousand men to conquer an enemy that inhabited a very
hilly country, and he was obliged to negotiate an extremely difficult
pass in order to get into touch with the foe. His soldiers clambered to
the crest of the ascent and, as he had foreseen, were seized with fear
and refused to go farther, but took heart of grace when a body of the
recalcitrant tribesmen came forward and tendered their submission. In
reality these were devoted followers of the general, who had commanded
them to disguise themselves, and on their appearance the army, with its
_moral_ restored, streamed gaily down the pass into what they imagined
to be a conquered country. And so in effect it was; for the tribesmen,
terrified at the great host, hastened to surrender, and thus fully
justified the astute plan of the general.
The priest in charge of the temple, clad in black and wearing a curious
cap, was a weird object, with long greasy hair standing out from his
face, and I did my best to reproduce his Cheshire-cat grin with my
kodak. When we had seen everything we were invited to partake of tea,
and seated ourselves at a small table covered with a cloth badly in
need of the wash. Our host put huge chunks of dingy-looking sugar into
our glasses with his fingers, and with the same useful members helped
us to little sponge cakes and thin biscuits made of toffee and meal.
He himself had the usual little china bowl in which the tea is seethed;
a small inverted bowl is placed on the top to prevent the escape of the
leaves, and the tea is drunk through the crack between the two.
In common with most upper-class Chinese, the Governor looked ill and
had bad teeth, and certainly the fondness of Celestials for turning
night into day and carefully avoiding fresh air makes them look very
different from the robust Kashgaris, who are at their best on horseback
and are essentially an outdoor race. A Celestial is proud of his
half-inch-long finger-nails, which show that he has never condescended
to manual labour, and if he lives abroad he will send his parents a
packet of nail-parings in order to assure them that he is one of the
_literati_, who are treated with such consideration throughout the
Empire. When forced to travel a Chinaman will not ride, but will go
in a _mapa_. This is a painted cart having a blue and black awning
and a tasteful dash of scarlet at the back, on which a charm is
inscribed, and there are jingling bells on the horses to ward off evil
spirits. But the lower classes are very different; strong, hardy and
uncomplaining, and seeming to bear out the saying--“A Chinaman is ill
only once in his life, and that is when he is dying.”
There were not many Chinese women at Kashgar, and I was told that the
conquering race does not look upon any marriage as legal unless it is
contracted with a girl of their own country, whom they practically
buy. The amount that a would-be husband must pay for a wife is fixed
by go-betweens according to her looks and her position in the world.
When this is settled, the couple, clad in their best clothes, enter
a room where their friends are assembled, bow low to each other, and
then carry round a tray of bowls of tea, which they offer to their
guests. This ceremony completes the marriage, and when the bridegroom
has lived several days in the house of his parents-in-law he takes his
bride to his own home, where she is henceforth under the rule of her
mother-in-law.
Although according to English ideas the Chinaman makes but an
indifferent husband, he is very proud of his sons. The Celestials
carry the Oriental regard for the male sex to extremes. For example,
an Englishwoman who had lived in China told me that when she bade her
Chinese nurse chastise her little boy if naughty, the woman looked at
her in horror, saying in shocked tones, “Him piecee man--I no touch
piecee man!” I was told that parents like a boy to be headstrong and
uncontrolled, because they think that he is likely to make his way in
the world; and they are pleased if he steals cunningly, saying to one
another, “Our son is beginning to help the house early.” Lying is a
fine art among both Chinese and Kashgaris, and there is little shame at
being found out.
There is no need for a “Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to
Animals” among the Chinese, for they are trained to be considerate
to the “brute creation,”--a very pleasant trait in their characters.
They certainly live up to their own saying, “Be kind to the horse that
carries you, to the cow that feeds you and to the dog that guards your
possessions,” and they are an example to the Kashgaris, who are callous
if not actually cruel in their treatment of animals.
The frequently over-fat horses, mules and dogs belonging to Celestials
presented a strong contrast to the usually overworked and underfed
Kashgari donkeys, that were beaten by their owners on the slightest
provocation. And yet these little creatures, sometimes almost hidden
under piles of brushwood or staggering along under loads of sun-dried
bricks, or perhaps a plough, the handles of which scraped the ground
at every step, keep their independence strangely. They do not obey the
voice of their masters, as do the horses; each donkey in a drove picks
his own path and does not, like the caravan ponies, follow a leader
slavishly. Surely an animal so strong and intelligent deserves a better
fate than blows and semi-starvation.
Every one who has travelled in Mohamedan countries knows that the dog
is looked upon as an unclean animal, and the starved and mangy pariahs
of Kashgar merely filled the position of town-scavengers, though others
that were kept to guard the houses were somewhat better treated. These
watch-dogs used to rush out and leap at our horses in most unpleasant
fashion, until my brother taught them better manners with the lash of
his hunting-crop. Fortunately for the cat, the Prophet made a pet of
this animal, and it is therefore held in high favour.
At the end of May we had a most interesting visitor in the person of
Sir Aurel Stein, on his return from two years in the desert, where he
had made fresh discoveries of great importance and extent, his finds
filling a hundred and fifty packing-cases. Owing to the wonderful
preservative power of sand he had found some specimens of very ancient
paper, in connection with which Sir George Macartney drew my attention
to the following passage in Chavannes. The French scholar wrote of two
particular documents found by Sir Aurel Stein, “qu’ils paraissent bien
remonter au deuxième siècle de notre ère, et sont ainsi les plus vieux
spécimens de papier qu’il y ait au monde.”
Although Sir Aurel liked the Chinese so well, he said that he was glad
to return to Turkestan, where the inhabitants are most hospitable and
always ready to place houses and gardens at the disposal of strangers.
In fact they are so open-handed that they offer food to any one who
comes to the house at any hour; the well-to-do apparently eating at
short intervals all day long. But in China, with its old civilization,
the custom is very different, the people allowing no one to enter their
doors unless he be armed with introductions. Fortunately, the gods
are always ready to receive guests, and Sir Aurel has spent many a
night in temples full of hideous idols. Such quarters, however, though
pleasantly cool in summer, are icy cold in winter.
Another thing that makes travelling in China disagreeable to Europeans
is that the inhabitants crowd round any stranger to observe him. They
consider that in so doing they are showing attention, and the luckless
man renders himself unpopular if he resents it. This behaviour is in
strong contrast to that of the Turki, who are most polite, in the
English manner, to travellers, and though my brother and I rode and
walked through the whole Oasis we never once had a disagreeable look or
word; in fact, the only curiosity about us was shown by the women, and
that in most unobtrusive fashion.
CHAPTER VI
ON THE WAY TO THE RUSSIAN PAMIRS
This Central Asian scenery has a type of its own, quite different from
the Swiss or Caucasian mountain scenes....
Here, though the mountains are higher, the glaciers, owing to the
small snowfall, are much more puny, while below there is a picture of
utter desolation that would be hard to match in any other part of the
world.--ST. GEORGE LITTLEDALE.
At the end of May we found it unpleasantly hot at Kashgar, with a
temperature close on 100 degrees; so, early in June, we decided to
start off on our tour to the Russian Pamirs, that hitherto jealously
guarded district. It was a journey needing a considerable amount of
forethought and preparation, because, once away from the Kashgar oasis,
we should have to depend on what we had brought with us, save in the
case of meat and milk. My brother inspected the tents, saw that a good
supply of tent-pegs and horseshoes was laid in, and arranged for some
eighteen ponies to carry the loads, which included large amounts of
flour and barley. I had to calculate what quantities of tea, sugar,
rice, tinned foods, compressed vegetables, dried fruits, jam, biscuits,
candles, et cetera, would be required for seven weeks, had to make
stout calico bags in which to put them, and had, moreover, to pack my
store-boxes with judgement. For one thing, they must not be too heavy
for the baggage animals, and for another, each box must contain a
complete assortment of stores, in order that only one should need to be
opened when we halted. The question of supplies haunted me for weeks,
so afraid was I of forgetting some indispensable article; but my method
of marking the boxes A, B, and so on, and then entering their contents
in my note-book, proved my salvation later on, and made me realize that
the more trouble one takes beforehand, the more successful a journey is
likely to be. The fruit season had just begun with the apricots, and I
had baskets of these stoned and laid out to dry in the sun on the roof,
while Daoud made jam, salted and potted down butter, and baked bread
and cakes to last for the first ten days. As we should camp at heights
of ten to fourteen thousand feet, I took my warmest winter clothing, a
thick astride habit, leather jacket and fur-lined coat, and ordered an
addition to my bedding in the shape of a thick cotton-padded sleeping
sack. To complete my equipment, Sir Aurel Stein insisted on giving me
a pair of double-lined native boots, a gift that proved invaluable in
camp at night, and my pith helmet and blue gauze veils were equally
necessary to ward off sunstroke and to keep my face from being skinned
when we rode during the heat of the day.
To be perfectly frank, I was by no means easy about this expedition, to
which my brother looked forward with the eagerness of the sportsman. I
have never had a good head for heights or for walking along the edge
of precipices, and from the various books of travel that I had read it
seemed that one ought to be possessed of unusual nerve and agility to
negotiate the passes by which the Roof of the World must be reached.
But I try to make it a rule to see only one lion in my path at a time
and not to waste strength and courage in picturing what may after all
turn out to be imaginary dangers, and naturally my blood was stirred
at the thought that I was about to start upon an adventure vouchsafed
to very few women. The Pamirs had always been a name to conjure with,
and evoked visions of high uplands, galloping Kirghiz, wild sheep with
great curled horns and an almost complete isolation from the world,
and made me ashamed of my twinges of faint-heartedness, which, indeed,
vanished for good and all when once we were on the road.
At last the day of our start arrived. The Russians, who interested
themselves considerably in what they thought was a mad enterprise,
were shocked that we had fixed on a Monday to begin our journey, and
prophesied disaster. I made enquiries as to why this day should be
regarded as a _jour néfaste_, and was told that, as it was the custom,
among the lower classes at all events, to have a drinking-bout on
Sunday, there were usually accidents in plenty on the first day of the
working week. As our servants were all Mohamedans, bound by the tenets
of their religion to touch no alcohol, we were not in danger from this
cause, and the prognostications of our friends did not depress us in
the slightest.
Besides ourselves and the servants, the party included _Khan Sahib_
Iftikhar Ahmad the Head of the office, who was an Indian gentleman
possessed of much varied information, and the sport-loving Indian
Doctor.
Sir Aurel Stein, Mr. Bohlin and a group of _Aksakals_, or British
Agents, whom my brother had just been entertaining on the occasion of
the King’s birthday, rode out with us for two or three miles, their
fine stallions squealing and trying to attack one another at intervals.
When these men, who were clad in brilliantly coloured silk coats and
snowy turbans, left us, we stopped on the bank of the Kizil Su to
have a last cup of tea with our guest, who was staying behind in the
Consulate in order to re-pack his priceless treasures and dispatch them
to India. With the fording of the river I felt that we were really off,
and all my housekeeping anxieties dropped from me like a garment; for,
whatever might be my faults of omission or commission, it was useless
to trouble about them, as I could now do nothing to repair them.
Our way led due south, and there was cultivation during the whole
march, the barley turning yellow, the wheat in ear, and ploughing going
on busily for the autumn crop of Indian corn. I rode astride on a
native saddle. “Tommy,” as I called the sturdy white pony which was to
be my second mount, had an unpleasant trick of stumbling that detracted
from his merits as a steed; yet, to do him justice, he came down only
once, and that was on the last march of the journey, and on a sandy
road without a pebble.
A couple of days of riding and camping brought us to the oasis of
Tashmalik, where we were separated from the cultivated area of Kashgar
by a strip of stony desert varied by sand-dunes. In spite of the
planting of tamarisks and reeds the sand was encroaching on the oasis,
and a house and garden had been lately overwhelmed by this insidious
foe, which the prevailing winds piled up in lofty mounds. Seeing this
we could better understand Sir Aurel Stein’s explorations of cities
that had been buried for centuries in the sand, which had also choked
up the rivers by which their inhabitants had supported life.
The _Beg_ of Tashmalik offered us tea, roast fowl, bread and
hard-boiled eggs. The eggs had been coloured red, because white is the
emblem of mourning in China, and the inhabitants of Turkestan copied
this as well as many other customs from the dominant race. Our old host
partook of tea with us, and I noticed that, when his bowl required
refilling, his servant obligingly drank up what was left and then
poured in fresh liquid and handed it to him.
That night we camped on an open space surrounded by trees and
irrigation channels, and as it was hot we slept _à la belle étoile_
outside our tents. It was delicious to feel the cool night breeze as
I dropped off to sleep, but not so pleasant to wake suddenly in the
dark with the horrible sensation that something large was creeping over
my face. By the dim starlight I saw crawling forms on my bed, and my
torchlight revealed the largest beetles that I have ever seen--and I
have a considerable experience of the cockroach--some reposing on my
pillow and others flying round with a booming noise. How I regretted my
mosquito net! But luckily I had a head-net in my hold-all, and after
shaking off the unwelcome intruders I composed myself to sleep again as
best I could, knowing that I had none too long a night, as I must rise
at four o’clock.
On the third day we rode towards low conglomerate hills with a
background of snowy peaks, and were soon painfully stumbling among the
smooth boulders of the wide bed of the Gez River, which was the crux
of the first part of our journey. In this district no one comments upon
the weather--it is almost monotonously fine during the summer--but
travellers ask one another how high or rather how low the water is. In
our case the answer was important because, if we had arrived too late,
the dangerous Gez River could not have been crossed and we should have
had to make our way over a series of steep passes in the hills.
Fortune favoured us; for the “great water,” which is due about the
middle of June and continues throughout July, had not yet commenced.
But two or three days later the fast melting snows would have swollen
the stream and rendered any crossing impossible: as it was, it was
touch and go once or twice. The next three days were spent in the long
Gez defile, the frowning mountains rising up in many places sheer from
the river-bed and hemming the water within narrower and narrower limits
as we proceeded. I was reminded now and again of the gloomy canyons
of the Fraser River in British Columbia, and all the time the roar of
the water crashing over rocks and boulders rang in our ears. During
each stage we had to ford the river some five or six times, and at
first I had the queer sensation of being carried down-stream, the land
opposite appearing to swim away from me. But, having traversed rivers
in Persia, I knew the danger of becoming giddy and falling helplessly
into the torrent; therefore I kept my eyes on some fixed object and
not on the swirling water, and as I was well looked after and had no
responsibility, I enjoyed the excitement of the crossings. Old Jafar
Bai took one of my reins and my brother’s huntsman, Nadir, rode at my
side to rescue me in case my horse fell, leaving me nothing to do
but to sit in my saddle and urge my steed with voice and whip. The
animal, unaccustomed to deep water, would plunge and stumble as it
tried to make good its footing on the slippery boulders, and now and
again would become nervous, lose its head and attempt to swim. All
around us were struggling horses, whose excited riders without ceasing
yelled at the top of their voices as they drove the baggage animals
before them, and shouted countless directions that could not be heard
above the tumult and hurly-burly of the water as it poured over its
stony bed. I was advised to keep my horse up-stream at first, and when
half-way across to let it go down-stream, and was told that I must on
no account cling to it if it lost its footing and fell, for it would
probably trample upon me in its struggles. Apparently the best thing in
case of an accident was to let myself go with the current and trust to
being rescued. The natives are said to cross rapid rivers in safety,
even when the water reaches to their armpits, by jumping all the
time--a very exhausting method, I should imagine.
[Illustration: FORDING THE GEZ RIVER. _Page 109._]
Though our baggage ponies were lightly laden they seemed at times
almost overwhelmed, but the _Beg_ of Tashmalik and his men who escorted
us, knew the dreaded Gez River in all its moods, and shepherded the
terrified animals most cleverly. At the deepest fords camels were
called into requisition and with much querulous complaining were
forced into the stream with our loads, and on these occasions the
_Beg_ insisted that I should mount his own horse, saying that it was
an expert at negotiating torrents. The lord of this district was a
big, ruddy-faced man, and could hardly take his eyes off the first
Englishwoman he had ever seen, being particularly interested in my
side-saddle, which he thought was a most insecure perch. He looked upon
me as being more or less in his charge, and I heard afterwards that he
had deputed three of his men who were strong swimmers to keep an eye
upon me in case my horse foundered. As a rule the early morning is the
best time to cross these rivers, because no snow melts in the mountains
during the night, when everything is frozen, nor does it do so until
the sun has been up for some hours. Once or twice our baggage animals
were greatly delayed by the water, and on one occasion only our bedding
reached the camping ground, a pasturage dotted with tamarisk scrub.
That night I was roused more than once by some grazing pony lurching
against my bed in the darkness.
The dreary Gez gorge became wilder as we penetrated its recesses. Here
and there rocks and stones were piled one upon another in a chaotic
confusion that gave one a glimpse of the tremendous power of ice and
water, the scenery being so savage as to seem more like a nightmare
than reality. It inspired me with a kind of awe, and I am not ashamed
to own that I should have been terrified to find myself alone in these
solitudes, shut in by the lofty conglomerate hills, above which one
gained occasional glimpses of snowy peaks. The river, beneficent and
life-giving in its lower reaches, is here an agent of destruction,
with not a tree and hardly a plant on its banks; and yet at one of
the gloomiest reaches, when I was filled with a sense of impending
disaster, my mood was changed in a second by the sight of two small
birds pursuing one another in a love flight.
We had to cross several native bridges made on the cantilever system,
and always dismounted, for they swayed from side to side, and our
horses were nervous at first, even when led over them. As the raging
torrent at these points was penned into narrow limits it swirled and
eddied and foamed among the huge boulders below us, and I was thankful
that these bridges had been improved since Lord Dunmore visited the
Pamirs in 1892 and wrote that they consisted of a couple of beams on
which brushwood and large round stones were laid.
When there were no bridges and the water was too deep for our horses
we were obliged to negotiate various passes. In these the narrow
track, with only room for one animal abreast, was often formed of
loose shale, which here and there poured down the mountain side in big
fans, the shingle rustling as it fell on to our path and descended
the precipitous cliffs to the torrent surging far below. I did not
appreciate my pony’s fondness for treading on the extreme edge of the
track and sending showers of tiny pebbles hurtling down; but as it
would have been a physical impossibility for me to have walked up all
these passes--I always descended them on foot--I used to console myself
with the reflection that our horses were by no means anxious to commit
suicide.
At the end of the gorge, dome-shaped Muztagh Ata, with its covering of
snow, stood up magnificently, seeming to block up the end of the narrow
valley, and from that moment it entered into my life, so familiar
did it become to me and so greatly did I admire it. Sandy tracks now
led us to the shallow Bulunkul Lake, more than half-filled with sand
blown from the hills that encircle it, and we halted on a stretch of
pasturage on which yaks were grazing, and were glad to think that a
critical part of our journey was safely accomplished.
It may be of interest if I give some account of how we travelled during
this tour. The rule was to rise at 5 A.M., if not earlier, and I would
hastily dress and then emerge from my tent to lay my pith-hat, putties,
gloves and stick beside the breakfast table spread in the open. Diving
back into my tent I would put the last touches to the packing of
hold-all and dressing-case, Jafar Bai and his colleague Humayun being
busy meanwhile in tying up my bedstead and bedding in felts. While
the tents were being struck we ate our breakfast in the sharp morning
air, adjusted our putties, applied face-cream to keep our skins from
cracking in the intense dryness of the atmosphere, and then would watch
our ponies, yaks or camels as the case might be, being loaded up. These
last-mentioned ungainly creatures used to cry and protest all the time,
giving their owners as much trouble as possible before they could be
induced to lie down, and occasionally throwing off their burdens. A
baby-camel being of the party during part of our journey, its mother
greatly resented being made to work, and all the animals were shedding
their winter coats, the fur hanging on their bodies in loose, untidy
patches. My chief objection to the camel is its disagreeable odour, and
I have often wondered why an animal that is such a clean feeder should
smell so horribly.
When the loads were at last adjusted and the caravan was ready to
start, we would mount our horses, or one of our men would lead them
behind us while we walked for an hour before we began to ride. As
we had three horses between us, I usually rode half the stage on my
side-saddle if the going were good, and the other half on Tommy with a
native saddle which had a cushion strapped on to it, and I found that
the change of seat kept me from getting overtired, while my astride
habit did for either mode.
We usually marched for five hours and then halted for lunch, waiting
until our caravan had overtaken and passed us. Sattur, who accompanied
us on his pony, would unpack his tiffin basket, and we would lie by the
water, in the shade of a tree if possible, as the sun by noon was very
powerful. When the worst of the heat was over, and our baggage animals
had been given an hour’s start, we would ride another three or four
hours into camp, to revel in afternoon tea and warm baths, I having an
extra treat in the brushing out of my hair, so hastily done up in the
morning. Then would come a consultation with Daoud as to our evening
meal, and one of the store boxes would be opened to give out everything
needed for it and for the morrow’s breakfast and lunch. After dinner
we usually strolled up and down for an hour, warmly wrapped up--for
it became very cold when the sun went down--and then turned in to
dreamless slumbers.
From Lake Bulunkul and onwards we saw a great deal of the Kirghiz, and,
though travellers differ as to their opinion of these peaceful pastoral
people, we ourselves liked them and found them most friendly and
hospitable. Their broad hairless faces and high cheek-bones show their
Mongol descent, but though akin to the yellow-skinned, oblique-eyed
Chinese, they look very different, and both men and women have fresh
ruddy complexions.
We first camped with them at a spot called “Stone Sheep-folds,” from
the presence of a roughly walled enclosure into which the flocks
were driven at night to be guarded from the wolves by the savage
Kirghiz dogs. As we rode across a wide grassy plain towards a group of
_akhois_, the native dwellings that look like huge bee-hives, it was
the hour of the afternoon milking, and Kirghiz women in gaily coloured
coats, long leather boots and the characteristic lofty white headgear,
were busily at work. They had tied the sheep and the goats and the
black, brown or particoloured yaks to long ropes and let the animals go
free one by one when they had been milked, a loud chorus of bleating
and grunting going on all the time. Troops of mares, accompanied by
their foals, were feeding all round the camp, and our Badakshani horses
were excited to such an extent that the chestnut had to be blindfolded
in order to quiet him; and throughout the tour I had often from
this cause an unpleasantly lively time with my grey, which had been
imperturbable when at Kashgar.
It was mid-June, but a high wind was blowing and drove the sand in
clouds from the hills, invading the little tent, in which I could not
stand upright save in the centre, and whisking up its flaps. As I could
not perform my toilet unless I fastened up the entrance, I had to grope
for everything in almost total darkness, and though the space was
extremely limited, it was surprising how easily things got mislaid. My
tent was still less desirable as a residence when it rained, as after
a while tiny streams would begin to trickle down inside at the points
where my camp furniture touched the walls, and my belongings--most of
them perforce on the ground--got damp and clammy. Of course a large
tent with talc windows is very comfortable--with certain exceptions;
but we had heard so much about the storms that sweep over the Pamirs
that we had taken only small ones on this expedition.
At our next halt, Kuntigmas, meaning “the place that the sun cannot
reach,” I was provided with an _akhoi_ all to myself. Indeed, I always
dwelt in these roomy “white houses” whenever possible. They are usually
eighteen feet in diameter, the same size as the Turkoman _kibitkas_
in the north of Persia, and the framework of willow-wood is a trellis
about four feet high, which pulls out and is placed on the ground in
a circle. To the upper edge of this a series of curved laths are tied
about a foot apart, the other end of these laths being inserted into
the holes of a thick wooden hoop that forms the top of the dome-like
erection. Large felts are now fastened with ropes over the _akhoi_,
leaving free the opening at the top to admit light and air--also rain
and snow on occasion--and to let out the smoke of the fires. In case of
really bad weather a felt can be drawn over the circular opening, and
again withdrawn, on the same principle as the ventilation arrangements
in some of the London theatres. A wooden framework, often prettily
carved, is placed between the two ends of the trellis-work to serve as
a doorway, and is hung with a piece of matting and a felt or carpet.
Inside, the framework is completely covered with felts, and along the
top of the trellis I noticed throughout our tour an effective finish
in the shape of a band of red felt with a blue floriated pattern that
passed half-way round the _akhoi_, the other half being decorated with
the same design, but with the colours reversed.
These dwellings can be purchased for £7 (a Chinese _yambu_), but those
of superior quality often go up to £35 in price. The earthen floor is
beaten hard and covered with carpets, a depression being left in the
centre for the fire. Some of the old carpets were very pleasing, with
their soft madders and indigoes and greens, a favourite design being
conventionalized flowers; but alas, most of them were badly burnt by
the sparks that had leapt on to them from the brushwood used to start
the fires. The Kirghiz of to-day does not appreciate their velvety
sheen, but loves the modern Khotan productions, with their crude
scarlets, purples, yellows and magentas all introduced into the same
pattern in a series of violent colour discords.
All travellers speak of the _akhoi_ with esteem, and I was always
grateful for its space, and, in fine weather, for its comfort, although
during snow and rain I found that it had some drawbacks. For example,
the hole at the top let in much wet, but if the felt were drawn across
it I was deprived of light, and if I rolled up my entrance carpet I had
no privacy and was exposed to violent draughts, as the walls were by no
means airproof. The felts that covered them were so full of holes that
on a rainy day one had to use much discrimination as to where to put
one’s belongings in order to keep them comparatively dry, and on more
than one occasion I have slept with my mackintosh drawn up over my head
in order to prevent the rain from splashing on my face during the night.
There is little in the way of “furniture” in these dwellings save
picturesquely shaped copper jugs in which water is boiled, a few copper
pots and basins used for cooking and as receptacles for milk, and
some rough wooden buckets. On one occasion we were ushered into an
_akhoi_ to eat our lunch out of the glare of the sun, and had ensconced
ourselves on a rug, at one end of which was a bundle of cotton-padded
quilts. Jafar Bai warned us that a small boy was sleeping under them,
and it was just as well that he did so, as we might easily have sat
upon him. The child moaned and coughed, and then, hearing strange
voices, began to cry with terror and made violent efforts to get free
of his coverings, under which he could hardly have breathed. We sent
for his mother, but she was too shy to make her appearance, so her
eldest son, attired in a long green coat, ventured in and carried off
his frightened little brother.
We were now and onwards camping at a height of eleven to fourteen
thousand feet, and when there was no sunshine it was disagreeably cold
and raw, despite the season of the year. We were held up for a couple
of days by snow soon after we left Kuntigmas, and as a Kirghiz woman
had washed our underclothing just before the weather broke, I had a
fire lit in my _akhoi_ both to keep myself warm and to dry the wet
garments. Nadir was an expert in lighting these fires, and brought
in an armful of wild lavender and a basket of cakes of _argon_, the
dried dung of the yak, the only fuel obtainable in this part of the
world, where trees are conspicuous by their absence. He squatted on
the ground, set light to the brushwood, and piled the fuel in a bank
round it, manipulating it with a pair of tongs and coaxing the fire to
burn with the aid of an ingenious pair of bellows made from a whole
goatskin. At first the result was a cloud of acrid smoke that made my
eyes smart and shed floods of involuntary tears; the only way to avoid
this ordeal being to sit on the ground _à la nomade_. After a while
the smoke ceased and left a clear red fire that gave out considerable
heat, but turned to ashes so soon that I wondered whether it was worth
all the trouble it took to make. Certainly it was of practically no use
in drying our extensive wash, which had to be carried along in its wet
condition until the sun appeared again.
Whenever we stopped at these Kirghiz encampments, the principal women
would come to visit me, bringing usually an offering of a kind of puff
pastry the size of a plate, made with cream, very crisp and rich,
layer above layer, and about three inches thick: my gifts in return
were gaily coloured handkerchiefs and strings of coral beads, both of
which gave great satisfaction. As my guests entered the _akhoi_ they
would kick off the low shoes that men and women alike wear over their
long leather boots, and would seat themselves on the floor, looking
picturesque in their flowered chintz coats padded with cotton and their
curious turban-like headgear that is formed by winding muslin on a
wooden frame and is laid aside in the privacy of their own homes. All
wore roughly made, but effective-looking, necklaces of coral and silver
with long pendants, and had silver clasps and buttons on their coats.
Some of them had beautifully embroidered caps bordered with silver
buttons and ending in bossed chains which hung over their ears, this
headgear being worn under the turbans.
[Illustration: KIRGHIZ WOMEN IN GALA DRESS. _Page 118._]
The elder women were hard-featured and weather-beaten, a natural
consequence of their exposure to all sorts of climatic conditions,
but some of the young girls were rosy-cheeked and attractive-looking,
despite their flat faces and rather snub noses. Old Jafar Bai and
Nadir were very useful in helping to entertain my guests, translating
my Persian remarks into Turki, and the ladies enjoyed drinking tea
sweetened with many lumps of sugar instead of the customary salt, and
eating European biscuits and sweetmeats. Before leaving they would
gather up any sugar and eatables that were left, packing them away in
the cloth wound round their waists or in a breast-pocket of their thick
outer coats. They struck me as being very pleasant and easy-tempered
with one another, and when they took their leave with profuse salaams
they would thank me most politely for the entertainment.
I believe that the Kirghiz women have a better position than their
Mohamedan sisters in other parts of the world; yet their lives are
strenuous and filled with unceasing work. As women are in a decided
minority in the Pamirs they are valuable, and a man possessed of
several daughters counts himself rich indeed. A suitor for the hand
of one of them induces three of the chief men of the tribe to bargain
with the fortunate father, and I was told that a hundred sheep or
five Chinese _yambus_ (£35) is a moderate price to pay for a bride.
At one of our camps, for example, the headman was pointed out to
me as having produced money and stock to the value of £500 for his
unprepossessing-looking wife. On the other hand, the girl brings
with her a dowry of camels, horses, yaks, clothes and jewellery that
is supposed to equal in value what her father has received from the
bridegroom.
A wedding entails but slight expense as compared with a funeral, the
father merely giving a big feast to the whole tribe, and this does not
seriously embarrass him as it is customary for the guests to present
gifts in kind to the bridegroom, who is expected to hand them over to
his future father-in-law.
Miss Czaplicka writes that as a rule a man pays for his bride by
instalments and does not visit the residence of her parents until the
first lot of live-stock has been delivered to her father. On this
occasion the future husband is not allowed to see his _inamorata_, and
neither bridegroom nor bride makes an appearance at the wedding-feast.
Late at night the _jinai_, or female matchmakers, conduct the young
couple separately to the _akhoi_ of the bride’s parents, the girl
making a feint of resisting and the _jinai_ pretending to hinder the
husband by barking like dogs. The bridegroom goes off early the next
morning and avoids his parents-in-law for the whole day, and when he
has paid the full price for his wife he carries her off with a show of
force, which she plays up to by pretending to resist the attempt to
take her to a new home.
It happens sometimes that a man does not possess enough live-stock to
purchase a wife, in which case he will enter into an agreement with
his would-be father-in-law to serve him and look after his flocks for
a term of years, just as did Jacob many centuries ago in order to gain
the hand of Rachel. He is allowed to marry the girl of his choice and
lives with her family during his service, at the end of which her
father will give him an _akhoi_, yaks, mares, sheep and goats, and
the couple will go off and live independently of the old people. My
brother’s best Kirghiz _shikari_, Shamshir by name, confided to him
that he was most anxious to marry, but so far he had only gathered
together thirty sheep towards the realization of his heart’s desire.
However, his hard case so touched his employer’s heart that, when
we left the district, Shamshir received a parting gift that would
appreciably hasten the wedding-day.
There is practically no divorce among the Kirghiz, marriage being
looked upon as permanent. A wife is considered to belong to her
husband’s family and lives with them if she becomes a widow, and in
the event of her remarriage she is obliged to forgo the dowry that
she brought to her first husband. Mohamedans are permitted to have
four wives, but, owing to the scarcity of women, few Kirghiz can avail
themselves of this privilege, though a man occasionally takes a second
wife at the urgent request of his first one.
Certainly a good wife must be “above rubies” to a Kirghiz. She looks
after the flocks and herds more or less, does all the milking, makes
cream, curds, cheese and _koumiss_, cooks the food, fashions clothes
for herself and her family, and of course has to rear her children.
Besides all this, she is skilled in weaving felts with which to cover
the _akhois_, and the effective embroideries that adorn them are the
work of her hands, as are also the coarse but pleasing carpets. I have
seen her staggering along under the big bundle of laths that form the
framework of the “white house,” and she lends a hand to its erection
and ties on its felt coverings. Her lord and master has often filled
me with indignation by standing idly by and looking on at his wife’s
labours.
Though the women are almost as good riders as the men, they ride only
for the practical purposes of travelling from camp to camp or herding
the mares and cattle. Recreation, as we understand it, does not come
much into their lives, and when guests have to be entertained, or
feasts are given, they have to work harder than usual at the cooking.
In fact I was not surprised to hear that when he recounts his
possessions a Kirghiz will mention his camels, yaks, horses, sheep and
goats first, relegating wife and children to the end of the list.
The man’s part in life struck me as being by far the easier one. He
rides about on his wiry ponies, attends all the wedding and funeral
feasts in the district, loves to play the “goat game,” and will drive
his yaks and sheep into Kashgar to sell, if he is in need of flour,
clothing or boots. He is too wise to wed the pretty Kashgari girls, who
would be utterly useless and out of their element in an _akhoi_, nor do
the active, weather-beaten maidens of his tribe hanker after the life
of the city.
In the different encampments that we visited children were often
conspicuous by their absence, and I was told that most of those born
during the long winter succumb to the rigours of the climate, a large
proportion of infants being stillborn from the same cause. Smallpox
also carries off many, and although the health of the Kirghiz is, as
a rule, excellent, they die very easily if they fall ill, there being
no doctor on the Pamirs, or any knowledge of the rudiments of nursing.
It seems a case of the survival of the fittest; for I have never come
across sturdier, hardier-looking men and women than those I encountered
during our tour. They live almost entirely on milk, curds and cheese,
killing their flocks for food only when milk is scarce or guests
arrive, or for wedding and funeral feasts. Their favourite drink is
_koumiss_, the fermented milk of mares. One sip of this was enough for
me, as I found it so acid and smoky that I had no desire to repeat
the experiment. Bread, sugar and tea are luxuries, and, as they grow
nothing save a little barley in places, they never taste either fruit
or vegetables; but they certainly thrive on their milk diet. The best
milk comes from the yaks. These sturdy animals looked very dishevelled
at this season, as their shaggy hair was coming off in patches. They
are far hardier than cows, and, though their yield is less, the milk is
much richer and is yielded over a longer period.
Neither my brother nor I derived much benefit from the limitless
quantities of milk and cream that we saw at the encampments. The
Kirghiz boil the milk in open vessels, with the result that it always
tasted so strongly of the pungent smoke that we found junkets and
milk puddings quite uneatable. Moreover, they are in the habit of
manipulating the cream with their hands, both these and the bowls
being very far from clean. Only twice were we offered cream that was
smokeless and white, and this we found delicious.
The yaks--black, brown, grey or black and white--are of two species,
those carrying big branching horns and those without any. They are
strong and remarkably sure-footed, though slow, and we used them often
for pack work. The curious single grunt which they emit at frequent
intervals earns them their scientific name of _Bos grunniens_. It was
frequently my fate when camping to have a yak ensconced somewhere
outside my _akhoi_, separated from me only by a felt, so that it
seemed as if it were literally grunting into my ear during the night.
They appeared to be very docile to their owners, but sometimes took
a violent dislike to Europeans, as my brother once experienced to
his cost in Ladak, when he was chased by a black bull and escaped
with considerable difficulty. The Kirghiz are on the most familiar
terms with their animals. I often found a crowd of lambs and kids
behind a screen in an _akhoi_, or struggling to emerge from some hole
underground, and if I rolled up my hanging door I was frequently
visited by the most engaging kids, only too ready to make friends with
the intruder. I was told that the Kirghiz keep cocks in order that the
birds may rouse their owners at daybreak, but we ourselves came across
no poultry during our travels among these nomads.
Washing is not a Kirghiz characteristic, and, indeed, in a country
where the rivers are partly ice-bound in July one could hardly
expect the inhabitants to be fond of bathing. They must find the
long winter with its bitter winds very trying, even in their lowest
grazing-grounds. The flocks scrape away the snow with their hoofs in
order to find the grass underneath, but are in extremely poor condition
before the approach of spring, and have to be carefully guarded from
the depredations of snow-leopards, wild dogs and wolves. These last
come round in packs and lie in wait, watching their opportunity; on
one occasion Nadir lost eighty of his sheep in the full daylight of
a winter morning. His brother, who was in charge of the flock, went
to his _akhoi_ for a short time, leaving a small boy and his savage
dogs in charge. As soon as he was out of sight the wolves set upon the
sheep, killing them one after the other in a kind of orgy of bloodshed,
and paying no heed whatever to the dogs, which were powerless to
prevent the slaughter. Many of the sheep fled into the hills in
their terror, and Nadir recovered very few of them.
[Illustration: LOADING UP THE YAKS. _Page 124._]
Iftikhar Ahmad related to me how once a large and exceptionally savage
dog that he possessed was killed by a couple of wolves. They stalked
the dog, one getting in front of it and one behind, and, while it stood
undecided which foe to attack first, one of the wolves rushed at it
with tremendous force and threw it down. In less time than it takes to
relate, the victim was torn asunder, and the conquerors made off, each
carrying half of the spoils of victory.
The tribesmen keep their _akhois_ warm in winter by banking snow round
them, closing up all interstices and crowding together; for fires
cannot be used indiscriminately, the supply of _argon_ being by no
means unlimited.
Though the Kirghiz nominally follow the religion of the Prophet and
are Sunnis, they pay little heed to its observances beyond keeping the
fast of Ramazan; but this is not to be wondered at, since they have few
_mullas_ to show them the right path. When they die they are buried
in a little cemetery belonging to the tribe, and usually situated
on the side of a hill. Low mud domes, looking much like _akhois_ in
the distance, are placed over the remains of men of importance; and
when these latter die, their relatives invite the tribe to great
feasts and also organize horseraces, in which the winners are awarded
handsome prizes. The idea is that the dead men are giving these lavish
entertainments in order to disperse the wealth which they need no
longer, the Kirghiz not being concerned to “lay up riches for those
that shall come after.”
Here and there we came across the tomb of a _sayyid_, the mud dome
enclosed by a rough stone wall, on which were set poles hung with
fluttering rags. One such dome was erected over a mighty hunter, and
the _shikaris_ had hung it round with horns of the wild sheep and were
in the habit of depositing pinches of gunpowder on the grave, in order
that the departed Nimrod might give them success in the chase. These
primitive monuments are the only buildings that we came across during
our tour.
The headman of a tribe or district is called a _Beg_, and in Chinese
Turkestan, in the uplands of which we travelled at first, he is
put in authority by the _Amban_, to whom he gives a gift for the
honour, recouping himself afterwards by taking a fortieth part of
the flocks and herds of the families in his charge. These officials
were most helpful to us, arranging for transport--usually the great
stumbling-block of travellers in Central Asia--sending men on ahead to
prepare _akhois_ for us, accompanying my brother and treating us as
honoured guests when we passed through their districts. One of these
hosts was an officer in Chinese employ, and said that he had a force of
thirty-two men under his orders. The truth was that the _Amban_ drew
pay for thirty-two soldiers and gave our friend the money for _eight_.
He in his turn economized by paying _three_ soldiers, his wife and
children figuring as the remaining _five_.
A _choga_ or “robe of honour” was usually presented to the _Beg_
when we left his district, and the man would kneel to receive the
brilliantly coloured coat, and make the gesture of passing his
hands across his face, which was meant to signify his humility in
the presence of my brother. Then, calling out, “_Allah Ho Akbar_,”
he would spring to his feet and rush off in high glee to show his
“decoration”--for so he regarded it--to the men of his tribe.
During the first days of our arrival on these uplands we had
disagreeable weather, although it was mid-June. Sometimes there was
driving rain and snow of exceptionally melting quality, and when it was
dry the high winds blew up the sand in great clouds. Once or twice,
after starting off on a fine morning, we were forced at the end of
the march to make a hurried rush to the encampment at which we were
to halt, in order to avoid an imminent dust-storm, the excited horses
racing across ground so boggy that on ordinary occasions we should have
negotiated it with care. At intervals we could hear what I imagined
to be peals of thunder, but was in reality the roar of avalanches as
they slid down the sides of the snow-clad mountains that were almost
hidden by the dust haze. We were delayed in one place for a couple of
days, as the local _Beg_ said that the heavy rain had made the going
too bad for our baggage-camels, and a very damp and chilly wait it was.
If we ventured outside our _akhois_ we were drenched to the skin, with
no means of drying ourselves save by the inadequate fires that I have
described. I was delighted when the sun reappeared, and, as we started
off, the _Beg’s_ wife came to bid me a most kindly farewell and to wish
me good luck on the road; and throughout the journey the chief woman of
every camp always took a particular interest in my welfare.
We left the grazing ground beside the river and ascended a broad,
barren valley leading into a range of low bare hills which we crossed
by easy passes, and for a couple of days travelled through a stony
desolation among brown hills crested with snow. There was barely a
sign of life to be seen save once, when a butterfly fluttered feebly
among the boulders and _débris_ through which the track lay, and I
wondered how the poor insect could survive, as we were some miles from
vegetation of any kind. There were often little flowers in abundance
on the grassy banks of the streams, and I noted two or three varieties
of primulas, some tiny and of palest mauve, while others, big and
lusty, were of a dark tint. The buttercups and a small cistus spread
themselves in golden patches, crimson lousewort flushed the ground, and
I was sorry to have no acquaintance with scores of low-growing plants
that were bursting into minute cream, yellow or purple blossoms. The
whole flora was Alpine, and reminded me of the beautiful display that
I had often enjoyed in Switzerland; but here the gentians were either
white or a pale blue.
At times we enjoyed superb views of the great snow-clad peaks towards
which we were travelling, and these visions of remote and unearthly
beauty compensated for the weary miles of stumbling over rounded
boulders and pebbles. We were only able to go at a foot’s pace.
The horses disliked the journey more than we did, because they got
footsore; and Jafar Bai had to keep a vigilant eye upon their shoes, as
the nails had a habit of dropping out.
On June 18 we camped, at a height of 13,000 feet, below the Katta
Dawan, or Great Pass, by crossing which we should leave Chinese
Turkestan and reach the Russian Pamirs, the goal of our journey.
CHAPTER VII
THE ROOF OF THE WORLD
I scaled precipitous mountain crags clad with snow: found my way
through the scarped passes of the Iron Gates;--I have traversed the
valley of Pamir.--_Life of Hiuen Tsiang_, BEAL.
The Pamirs are both fertile and barren, both habitable and desolate,
both smiling and repellent according to the point of view from
which they are regarded. They are among the deliberate paradoxes of
nature.--_The Pamirs and the Source of the Oxus_, Hon. GEORGE N.
CURZON.
It was a thrilling thought that I was about to tread in the footsteps
of some of the intrepid travellers in High Asia, such as the Buddhist
monk, Hiuen Tsiang, Marco Polo, Wood, the first Englishman to enter
the Pamirs, and many another whom the Red Gods called to feats of
daring and endurance. But my lot was an extremely easy one compared
with theirs; for, being the only woman of the party, I was guarded and
protected in every possible way. Perhaps some of my readers may be
a little vague as to the exact meaning of the word Pamirs. They are
described by Sir Thomas Holdich, the eminent geographer, as “valleys
reaching up in long slopes to the foot of mountain peaks,” and they are
known by the Persian term of _Bam-i-Dunia_ or Roof of the World.
On that June morning we were up at 5 A.M. and, although snow had fallen
during the night, the day was fine and gave good hopes of a successful
crossing of the pass. It was bitterly cold, but my leather coat was
impervious to wind, a Shetland shawl swathed my pith-hat and neck,
and I had besmeared both face and feet plentifully with vaseline and
therefore felt prepared to meet whatever might befall.
When we had seen our baggage yaks loaded we walked up the narrow
valley, down which ran a little stream with scanty grazing on its
banks; but before long the stiff pull up the mountain side began, and
we were obliged to mount. Our Kirghiz guide halted every few yards to
let the panting horses take breath--in fact, the rarefied air on these
heights seemed to try them almost as much as it would have exhausted
us had we been forced to walk. We soon reached the snow-line, and our
animals plunged and stumbled through freshly fallen snow on the narrow
track where we moved along in single file. It seemed a long time, but
in reality we reached the crest of the Katta Dawan in a couple of hours
and found ourselves on a little plateau some 16,000 feet high. Clouds
had been gathering during our climb and fine snow now began to fall
fast, making us fear that we might be caught in a storm and possibly
miss the track, which it needed the practised eye of the Kirghiz to
discover. Fortunately the wind came to our rescue, sweeping the air
clear at intervals, and I saw that we were in the midst of great white
giants shouldering one another, a glacier lying to our left, shining
in the fitful gleams of the sun. Ahead of us low green hills scantily
flecked with snow opened out to give a glimpse of the intense blue of
the Great Karakul Lake, a soft mist half revealing the landscape, and
the whole making a picture of exquisite beauty that somewhat reminded
us of the Highlands of Scotland. But it was no time to linger and enjoy
the view, and we began the descent, soon dismounting as our horses
floundered badly in the snow and I had no wish to be shot over Tommy’s
head. Then followed an hour of struggling downwards during which I was
sometimes up to the knee in the snow, and once or twice fell headlong,
my thick clothing impeding me a good deal but saving me from hurt in my
tumbles. Somehow we scrambled down at last into a long defile, and the
falling snow turned into a chilly sleet that cut our faces. But nothing
of that sort mattered, and as we drank hot tea from our thermos bottles
I felt a glow of pride that not only was I the first Englishwoman to
negotiate the Katta Dawan Pass, but that I was actually on that Roof of
the World, which in my wildest day-dreams I had never imagined that I
should visit.
It seemed an auspicious omen that almost as soon as we reached the
Pamirs, Nadir discovered a small herd of _ovis poli_ on the side of one
of the mountains between which we were passing. Although there was not
a head among them, they held out a promise of better things to come,
and I was greatly interested in watching them through my glasses.
From now onwards we saw much more of Nadir, who came from the Sarikol
district, and showed his Aryan descent in his boldly cut aquiline
features, his big dark eyes, black beard and moustache. He was
strikingly handsome, and would have passed very well for a Spaniard,
except that, when he took off his white felt Kirghiz hat, his shaven
head looked oddly out of keeping with the rest of the picture. He was
most intelligent on any matter connected with sport or the country,
and was accustomed to the use of field-glasses, through which his keen
eyes swept the hills unceasingly. Yet he did not understand a watch,
and our method of computing time conveyed nothing to him; in fact,
when my brother spoke to him of “hours” he said reproachfully that he
hailed from Sarikol, where such things were unknown. I admired his gift
of making every one work; for, although he was merely my brother’s
huntsman, he arrogated much authority to himself and ordered about the
guides, and even our servants, in the most masterful way. He could turn
his hand to anything, was accounted an excellent singer and was quite
aware of his fine appearance, being fond of decorating his hat with a
bunch of primulas that set off his handsome face to advantage. He had
of course the defects of his qualities, one of his failings being that
he was so determined to pose as omniscient that he occasionally gave us
wrong information; moreover, his deep-rooted contempt for the peaceful
Kirghiz also led him astray, as he sometimes refused to pay attention
to their advice as to tracks and camping grounds.
To return to the march, long boulder-strewn defiles led us eventually
into a gravelly waste where we saw ahead of us the Great Karakul
Lake, and a group of _akhois_ gleaming white in the distance held
out hopes of rest and food. But suddenly a violent sandstorm, one of
those “mountain devils” that blotted out the landscape, came on so
completely, that it was quite a surprise when I found that we had
reached a stream, on the further side of which stood the beehive-like
dwellings. I was half-blinded as I staggered into a dirty _akhoi_,
smelling strongly of the kids and lambs that had lately been herded
behind a prettily coloured matting; and, with my face swollen from the
snow and sleet on the Katta Dawan, my eyes sore from the sand and my
whole person grimy with dust, I did not feel at my best when four gaily
attired Kirghiz women with towering white headgear came to call upon
me. One was a good-looking, rosy-cheeked girl, who said she did not
know her age, but thought it might be twenty. She had a beautifully
embroidered headgear bordered with silver buttons and ending in bossed
silver chains which hung over her ears.
I felt too tired to play the hostess well, and found the ladies rather
inquisitive, as they fingered my pith-hat, slipped their hands into my
fur-lined gloves and examined my habit; in fact the manners of this
tribe were the worst I encountered, and so constantly was I peeped at
through the many holes in the felt covering of my _akhoi_ that I had to
shorten all my toilet operations considerably.
Although our baggage yaks had started from camp at 7 o’clock that
morning they did not arrive until 8 P.M., and of course we got nothing
to eat until an hour later, and before I went to bed I had to open the
store boxes in order to provide my brother and Nadir with three days’
supplies for a shooting expedition in the mountains bordering the lake,
on which they were to start off at dawn on the morrow.
We were now in Russian territory, and at nightfall four Cossacks
rode up to the _akhois_ with orders to escort us, and next day they
accompanied me and the servants to the Russian post where we were to
stop. This consisted of a series of rooms opening on to a courtyard,
the whole built of brick and surrounded by a high wall. It had
evidently been cleaned up in our honour, and the corporal who was in
authority here ushered me into a white-washed room with a table and
a couple of stools, and was astounded at my request that he should
open the double window. As soon as my belongings had been brought in
I mounted Tommy and went off, accompanied by Jafar Bai and my camera,
to see the lake. It is exquisitely situated, with a background of
snowy peaks picturesquely serrated, the water and the great gravelly
plain being ringed about with mountains partly covered with freshly
fallen snow, the Trans-Alai range with the magnificent Kaufmann peak
rising up into the sky. The water of the lake was an intense sapphire
blue, with broad streaks of purple and emerald and a wide band of salt
efflorescence round its shores, the whole reminding me of pictures of
the Dead Sea.
Captain Cobbold, who visited the lake in 1896, mentioned the sandy
ridge running north and south that divided it; but the water has
risen since then, and at the time of my visit there was no sign of
a division. He also spoke of its fish, and it was disappointing to
hear on all sides that there was no life in its bitter waters: it is
stagnant, no animal drinks from it, and the only birds I noted during
my three days’ visit were a pair of Brahminy ducks and an occasional
vulture and raven. The salt efflorescence made the ground rotten in
places, and once the horses, which Jafar Bai was holding while I
photographed the group, sank into a kind of quicksand, from which we
had some difficulty in extricating them. This district is called the
Khargush Pamir (Pamir of the Hare), and I felt that the name must
have been given in irony, as it is really a desert, boulder-strewn
in some parts, sand-strewn in others. The grazing is so poor as to
be almost negligible (which probably accounted for the high charges
that were levied upon us by our late Kirghiz hosts), and the Russian
post-house overlooked a dreary waste of solidified ridges of sand,
in appearance much like the low mud mounds raised over the dead. I
thought it a most depressing view, but fortunately it did not appear
to affect the spirits of the Cossacks; for, on the arrival of half a
dozen soldiers who had driven from Osh with supplies, the whole party
started dancing in the little courtyard. One man played the concertina,
and another, small and well-made, clad in buff coat, blue trousers,
long riding-boots and a grey sheepskin cap, would have been a worthy
member of the Russian ballet corps so popular in London. He and his
partner danced with tremendous zest and agility, though their faces
never for an instant relaxed their serious expression as they rehearsed
the old themes of attraction and repulsion, masculine boldness seeking
to conquer maidenly coyness. Then on a sudden the tender melody
would change to something wild and barbaric, and the dancers became
warlike, were enemies, exchanged threats, feigned to attack one another
and stamped their feet menacingly, somewhat in the manner of the
blood-stirring ballet of Prince Igor.
There was much excitement at the post when my brother’s first trophy
arrived; but the head was small, and as he and Nadir had heard that
larger rams might be found elsewhere, he decided that we had better
move on.
My readers will see that we had had some trouble in reaching the
Pamirs, but when once we had arrived I was astonished at the ease
with which we travelled from place to place. For the greater part
of our tour we were on a high plateau which in reality consisted of
valleys so filled up with the moraines of the glaciers of centuries
ago that, as Sir Francis Younghusband puts it, “the bottoms of these
Pamir valleys are level with the higher summits of the Alps.” Owing to
this, the mountain ranges were often shorn of much of their grandeur
as we surveyed them from a height of thirteen or fourteen thousand
feet, though some of the panoramas we were privileged to see were
unforgettable in their superb majesty.
I have travelled among the Swiss Alps, and know something of the
Canadian Rockies, the Elburz Range and the Caucasus, but the mountains
of the Pamirs are far wilder and more savage in appearance than these,
because of the entire lack of life at their feet. In Switzerland,
Canada and the Caucasus the foothills of the great ranges are clad
with pine and fir; long grassy slopes gemmed with tiny flowers give a
charm to the scenery, and there is usually bird life. Even the barren
Elburz has juniper and other scrub on its lower slopes and there are
grass and flowers in its valleys; but here we could travel for days in
a desolation that was almost terrifying.
Often we did not see a human being during the whole day’s march, the
only signs of life being an occasional vulture and sometimes a few snow
pigeons, crows, choughs and the ubiquitous marmot. It was a red-letter
day if I came across swallows, finches, desert larks or the handsome
but uneatable Brahminy duck; indeed my horse would actually sometimes
shy if we met a Kirghiz on the lonely track.
The climate during our visit in June and July was one of the most
changeable in the world. It was always cold when we left camp between
six and seven o’clock, the sky often grey and cloudy and the mountains
veiled in mist. After a while the sun would come out and I would throw
off my overcoat, but probably would soon put it on again, as icy blasts
were in the habit of descending suddenly from the hills. At noon it
was often extremely hot, and I found the mid-day halt, even in such
favourable spots as on the banks of a stream, very trying, owing to the
scorching heat from which there was no escape. There are no trees on
the Pamirs, and I have vivid memories of halts on bare hillsides where
there was not even a boulder large enough to give shade, and where,
in spite of my pith-hat, sun umbrella and thick clothes, I felt as if
I were being slowly roasted as we lay exposed to the fierce sunshine.
It was difficult to read or write, almost impossible to sleep, and I
could appreciate the Jewish prophet’s word-picture of “the shadow of a
great rock in a weary land.” Our chief alleviation was hot tea from the
thermos bottles, our throats and lips being always parched with the dry
air, and every now and again we had an unexpected shower-bath. Peals
of thunder would reverberate from the hills, over which dark-purple
storm-clouds had gathered, and suddenly a deluge would descend upon us.
But the sky would be as blue as ever after a few moments, though the
whole atmosphere felt sensibly refreshed; and later in the day these
smart showers would descend in the form of snow. It was always very
cold when the sun went down, and in camp I wore all the clothing I
could muster and pulled a fur coat over all; my feet were slipped into
my big felt boots lined with lamb’s-wool; and a woollen cap on my head
completed the costume in which I sat at our dinner-table. At night my
sleeping-bag lay on a thick mattress and a rug, as it is important to
have as much below as above, and when my fur coat was thrown over me I
was by no means too warm.
We were living at a height of twelve to fourteen thousand feet, and
although the air was deliciously keen, like that of some Alpine winter
resort, personally I never felt braced up, but was always languid and
disinclined for exertion owing to the rarefied atmosphere. Riding did
not fatigue me and I could walk for a considerable distance on the
level, but I panted at the least effort and had a curious sensation as
if a hand were on my throat. Certainly I slept profoundly and felt a
continual wish to slumber, both in season and out; but in spite of all
the exercise I was taking I had no appetite, and ate only as a matter
of duty. Directly we descended to the level of 10,000 feet I felt a
different being, and life, appetite and energy returned in a rush, as
if by magic.
I had imagined that there would be an abundance of rich grass to
support the flocks and herds of the wandering Kirghiz tribes, and was
disappointed to find the Pamirs, as far as our tour extended, a dreary
waste, often covered with boulders and gravel from the moraines of
the mountains, with only small strips of pasturage at intervals. In
general the grazing was scanty, and the inhabitants, who number but a
few thousands, must often have a struggle to support life during the
winter. Even during the summer they move their flocks frequently to
fresh pastures, for the grass is soon eaten up, and a large population
would starve. In narratives of travel in the Pamirs the provision
of food for the baggage animals is always mentioned as one of the
difficulties to be encountered, and it was fortunate for us that my
brother’s official position saved us from anxiety on this score. We had
been obliged to carry several loads of barley from Kashgar, but the
local _Begs_ were able to arrange for fresh supplies of forage at some
points of our journey, and led us usually to camping grounds where the
grazing was fair.
When we bade farewell to the Great Karakul Lake we spent three days on
the Russian cart road, riding the ninety miles to Pamirsky Post on the
Murghab River. On the morning of our start snow was falling fast, and
as I dragged myself out of my warm sleeping-bag at 3.30 A.M. I felt
thankful that my lot was not cast permanently in the Pamirs. But, when
once we were on horseback and muffled up, the going left nothing to
complain of. We rode along a broad unmetalled track made for the most
part by the simple expedient of removing the boulders which thickly
strewed these sterile valleys, having been brought down from the ranges
bounding us on either side. This road was marked at intervals by piles
of stones measuring it into versts and half-versts--five versts being
equal to three English miles. The distances were painted on a stone on
every other heap, though often the figures were placed upside down, and
now and again were omitted altogether. All our servants were provided
with smoked glasses, but would not use them at first, Sattur, for
example, wearing his across his lips or hanging under his chin, until
after a while he came to understand that they were of real benefit.
Our Cossack escort, consisting of a corporal and three soldiers, were
cheery sturdy youths, clad in buff uniforms with blue facings and long
buff greatcoats. Their forage-caps were set rakishly on one side, and
the corporal brushed his thick yellow hair into a big well-greased roll
which almost hid his forehead, and was evidently proud of his personal
appearance. They wore blue glasses, a necessary precaution against the
glare of the sun on the snow, and rode handy little ponies as born
horsemen. I felt that they must have but a dull time in these outposts
of the Russian Empire with so few of the amenities of life, especially
as their pay was at the low rate of one and fourpence a month,
supplemented by rations of meat and flour, forage for their horses, and
the provision of a uniform and three shirts annually. Their service
lasts for three years, after which they are free to return to their
farms for the rest of their lives. Each man has a rifle and a limited
amount of ammunition, and the corporal was for ever on the look-out for
something to shoot at.
At one part of our second day’s march the road wound over a pass in
the hills, and my brother and Nadir, who had espied game in a valley
beneath us, went off to stalk while the rest of the party rode forward.
On a cliff to our right the corporal pointed out a large group of
vultures feeding on a dead sheep and emitted shrill whistles that
made the great birds hop about in a most ungainly fashion. I watched
them with interest, which changed to anger when the Cossack let off
his rifle at them, making our horses shy violently. The birds, though
unharmed, were so gorged that they could hardly rise from the ground,
but my brother’s quarry, startled at the shot, made off and escaped,
and Nadir became livid with rage as he endeavoured to explain to the
Russian how ill-timed his love of sport had been on that occasion.
During these three days the country was monotonous in the extreme, the
stone-strewn plateaux having hardly a sign of life. At one spot, where
the hills were formed of hardened mud, Nadir told us that Mr. Haydon,
the well-known geologist, whom he had accompanied on a tour in the
Pamirs, had found fossils. We were anxious to see some for ourselves,
and he led us to a curiously shaped hill where, after some groping, he
disinterred two or three sea-shells, a sight that filled me with wonder
as I realized that this mighty Roof of the World, with its valleys
twelve to fourteen thousand feet high, had long ages ago been under the
sea, and indeed sea-sand composed much of the mountain whose side we
were probing. That afternoon, between the intermittent showers of snow,
we had the curious spectacle of a violent thunderstorm in the range
to our right, another raging at the same time in the mountains to our
left, while overhead were brilliant sunshine and a bright blue sky.
On the afternoon of the third day, as we neared Pamirsky Post, we were
met by a couple of _Mingbashis_ or Headmen, gorgeous in purple robes,
broad silver-embossed belts and snowy turbans. These officials led us
down the valley to the Murghab, one of the head waters of the classic
Oxus, and here we were warmly welcomed by the Russian commandant with
his Cossack escort. He had most kindly ordered out his carriage for
me, and though I should have much preferred to stick to my horse,
politeness made me dismount and do my best to scramble into what
was really a box on wheels. As the ponies were too fidgety for me to
mount by the wheel, and there was no step, I fear that I got in with
a sad lack of dignity, and then I was hurled from side to side of the
conveyance as the coachman whipped up his horses to a breakneck speed.
We tore along at a great pace to a stone fort built on a spur of the
mountains above the river, and galloped through a gateway of the high
wall that surrounded it into a large courtyard. The Cossack captain
insisted on putting us up, turning out of his own carpet-hung room for
my benefit, and, as his quarters faced the barracks of the soldiers, I
had from the windows a good view of lounging Cossacks, who spent much
of their time playing with a crowd of thick-coated, quarrelsome dogs
or shouting at their ponies, which were driven in at sunset from the
grazing grounds along the banks of the river.
We met here a colonel of engineers who was engaged in putting
up signalling posts on the hills in the vicinity, in order that
communication might be established with the headquarters at Kharuk; for
there was no telegraph wire connecting Pamirsky Post with the outer
world. As he and our host spoke only their own language I could take no
part in the conversation at supper, and, moreover, I felt very sleepy,
since the meal began at nine o’clock, an hour when I, who had risen at
half-past three, wanted to be in bed! A diversion was provided in the
shape of a wolf-cub, a quaint and engaging little creature, but not the
sort of animal that I should care to bring up as a household pet.
Next morning I grasped the difference between English and Russian
meal-times, and when at half-past nine there was no sign of breakfast,
my brother and I went down to our camp, pitched by the river, where we
had a meal and I gave out stores and made arrangements for our clothes
to be washed. We were now at a comparatively low level, and it was
warm as an English summer’s day, with just a “nip” in the air; but the
long narrow valley must be a dreary abode in winter, as it is shut in
by lofty mountains from which the wild sheep descend to graze and then
fall an easy prey to the hunters. As we stood by the river we spoke
of Lieutenant Wood, the first Englishman to travel in the Pamirs, who
wrote of the yak as an unknown animal. But Lord Dunmore and Major Roche
were the first to visit Pamirsky Post after the occupation of this
desolate region by the Russians, and the former gives a description of
how in 1893 the officers and Cossacks were living in _akhois_ furnished
with brick stoves.
Just below the fort there was a squalid little village of mud and stone
shanties inhabited by Kirghiz, and here were collected great bundles of
wild sheep horns ready to be sent to Tashkent, where they are used to
decorate native saddles or to make knife-handles or combs, the hunter
receiving only a rouble and a half--less than three shillings--for the
horns and skin.
My brother and the commandant discussed where we had best go in search
of sport on the way to Sarikol, and they eventually decided on a valley
three marches off, two of which lay along the Russian road to Kharuk,
and with many compliments on both sides we left Pamirsky Post. Most
of the country along our route was absolutely sterile, except when,
after crossing low passes, we descended now and again to the river,
on the banks of which was scanty grazing and tamarisk scrub, just
enough to support life for a few camels, yaks and ponies. As a rule
the marmots were the only creatures that broke the lifeless monotony
of the marches, and whenever it was sunny the little animals sat upon
their hind legs in front of their burrows, uttering excited cries as
they saw us pass. They were larger than those with which I was familiar
in Persia, and were orange-coloured instead of buff, their noses, paws
and tails being black. They hibernate during the long winter, and the
Kirghiz affirm that when they emerge from their seclusion they have no
hair on their bodies. They also sleep during the middle of the day. My
brother computed that they must pass about 80 per cent of their time in
slumber, and had a contempt for these sadly idle creatures. But they
appealed to me because of their cheery squeakings and lively scuttling
to earth. They live on the roots of grasses, and are apparently
independent of water, for large colonies are often situated miles from
any stream. We had to ride carefully in places in order to avoid the
entrances to their burrows, which were sometimes in the middle of the
track.
At the end of our second day’s march we met Colonel Yagello,
Commissioner of the Pamirs, on his way to Pamirsky Post, and as he
spoke French I enjoyed the conversation of a cultivated man, keenly
interested in the geology of the country, and anxious to exploit the
mineral wealth, which he said was considerable.
At the time of our visit to Pamirsky Post there was great excitement,
because the local _Mingbashi_ had been dismissed from office, and in
order to mark his resentment had collected four hundred families of
his tribe and fled with them across the Afghan border into Wakhan.
The Cossack officer informed my brother that immediately after our
departure he intended to pursue and bring back the fugitives. As such
an action would have been looked upon at Kabul as constituting an
invasion of Afghanistan, and would have strengthened the anti-Ally
party in that state, my brother strongly urged our host to await the
arrival of Colonel Yagello before taking action, and finally persuaded
him to adopt this course. When we met the Commissioner my brother
discussed the Wakhan question with him, but at first the latter
said that he was determined to pursue the recalcitrant _Mingbashi_,
exclaiming that the honour of Russia was at stake. However, after long
arguments he promised not to cross the Afghan frontier, but to send
representations to the Governor of Badakshan, who was also the ruler of
Wakhan, and thus settle the matter without using force.
Our camp at the shooting ground was at the bottom of a long valley
running into the mountains, with grazing on the banks of a stream for
our animals and a clump of _akhois_ for ourselves and the servants.
Here we halted for some days, and, while my brother left long before
dawn for the hills, I amused myself by riding about, photographing,
entertaining Kirghiz ladies, repacking the boxes of stores and doing
the hundred and one odd jobs that accumulate when one is travelling. I
was fond of collecting the tiny, short-stalked Alpine flora, and found
edelweiss, gentians, white and pale blue, little mauve vetches, cream
and yellow flowers of the hawkweed order, pyrethrums and camomiles,
while minute cream, mauve and pink blossoms exuded from the edges of
unpromising-looking dull-green patches. Were it not for the buttercup
and the yellow or white cistus the flora would be hardly noticeable;
but at a lower level I found yellow poppies, large yellow labiatae,
candytuft that scented the air with honey, and many plants that I could
not identify.
When my brother had secured his fourth head we left the valley, our way
leading us along a river that was ice-bound in long stretches although
it was now July, reminding me of Mr. Douglas Freshfield’s remark that
the climate of the Roof of the World is nine months of winter and three
of cold weather.
Now and again we came across fine _ovis poli_ skulls lying on the
ground, and I chose a fine head to keep as a memento of my visit. One
day a young _poli_ stood in our path; allowing us to get quite close to
it before it took alarm, and even then it only trotted along in front
until a dog that belonged to the caravan behind rushed after it, and
the pretty creature made off at once into the hills.
I had been told that the rich Kirghiz hung their _akhois_ with
embroidered silks and covered the ground with beautiful carpets, but
we never came across such luxury. I was always on the look-out for
carpets, but saw few that I liked, the old ones being either torn or
covered with tiny burns made by sparks from the fires. One woven with
a modification of the well-known pine-cone pattern in indigo on a
beautiful rose ground took my fancy greatly, but alas, it had a huge
hole in the centre. The design of one carpet was a series of square
crosses in diagonal rows; half of them framed a conventionalized
_swastika_, an emblem of good fortune, and the other half enclosed
representations of various implements. It does not sound alluring,
yet it was an attractive product of the loom and had fine reds, blues,
browns and greens in its colouring. Elsewhere I met a commonplace
pattern of conventionalized flowers in small blocks linked together
by lines, but the beautiful vegetable dyes of the old carpets are
unfortunately being ousted by the crude aniline tints so much in vogue
at Khotan.
[Illustration: BRINGING IN AN _OVIS POLI_. (Nadir with rifle.) _Page
146._]
My brother often had some difficulty in arranging the marches, for the
Kirghiz have no notion of either time or distance as we understand
it, and could never tell us how long a stage would be unless they
could compare it with that of the previous day. As a result we seldom
knew when we should arrive at our camping ground, the distance being
sometimes considerably greater than we had imagined and at other
times much less. But such slight drawbacks matter little to the true
traveller who has succumbed to the lure of the Open Road, and to the
glamour of the Back of Beyond.
CHAPTER VIII
THE ARYANS OF SARIKOL
A SARIKOLI LOVE SONG
1
Alas, my unfaithful Love!
Alas, my inconstant Heaven!
I am become thin as a blade of grass from craving for thee.
2
Oh, thou heavenly Beauty
Whose ears are adorned with gold,
Would that I might become thy closest companion.
3
Thy breasts are as a newly plucked apple.
Oh, mount thy swift steed and ride with me.
When its shoes are worn, I will replace them with silver.
We left the Russian Pamirs by a pass that seemed, when we reached its
summit, to have an almost interminable descent, as we saw miles of a
stony track stretching out below our feet. Half-way down we were met by
a contingent of tribesmen clad in long red, blue, yellow, or crimson
coats, with the white felt Kirghiz hats or leather and sheepskin caps,
their bedding of vividly coloured felts being strapped on to their
saddles; and when we finally emerged from the long winding valley,
great Muztagh Ata was so close that it seemed as if we could easily
ride up to its snow-line. We were now back again in the delightful
uplands of Chinese Turkestan, and for the first time for many days we
saw what might by courtesy be called a house. It consisted of two dark
and dirty rooms opening into a squalid courtyard surrounded by a mud
wall, and I felt that the Kirghiz _akhoi_ was a far preferable dwelling
to this, as it can be moved from place to place and its surroundings
are thus kept clean. In the few instances where the Kirghiz had built
a walled enclosure for their flocks, and in consequence occupied the
same camping ground permanently, the place was quite uninhabitable for
Europeans.
We made one of our longest halts on the fine grazing grounds of
Tagharma, a broad plain with encampments at intervals. A group of
_akhois_ had been prepared for us, and a big crowd welcomed my
brother as we rode into camp, many Sarikolis having ridden over from
Tashkurghan, their capital, some sixteen miles off, to greet him. We
were now at an altitude of some nine thousand feet, and the lassitude
and the “hand-at-my-throat” feeling that I had experienced on the Roof
of the World left me entirely, and I revelled in the delicious weather,
which was neither too hot nor too cold. It was delightful to stroll
about the valley in the evenings, my heavy fur coat and wool-lined
boots being no longer needed, and I was charmed with the sheets of
mauve primulas, the big white cistus, white and mauve anemones, pretty
blue daisies with yellow centres, millions of little cream flowers with
a most deceptive resemblance to a daisy, the familiar dandelion, and
others. In the hills I came across a curious plant, dark brownish-red,
the size and shape of a sheep’s tongue, which had no leaves, but pushed
its way out of the sandy soil. It was rough to the touch when pulled
up, but white and fleshy under the outer skin, and was heavy, with no
distinctive smell.
One day the Kirghiz gave a display of the _baigu_, or “goat game,”
which is the national form of sport. A goat was killed, and after
its head and entrails had been removed and all its bones broken,
the skin was stitched up and it was then thrown into the middle of
a throng of men mounted on their wiry little ponies who constituted
the _mêlée_. The first man that succeeded in picking it up tucked it
under his thigh, holding it with one hand while he rode off, pursued
by the others eager to wrest it from him. If he managed to keep his
booty while he galloped round a flag and returned to the goal, he
won the round and the game began afresh. The riders often held their
short-handled whips in their mouths in order to have the right hand
free when they bent down from their saddles to seize the goat, but
owing to the shortness of their stirrups they had not particularly
good seats and seemed to come off easily. I noticed that there was no
excitement on the part of the ponies, and their masters could keep
them at a canter only by tugging at their mouths, using the whip and
belabouring their sides with their long boots. We watched the game
from the far side of a stream that surrounded the playing-ground, but
every now and again were obliged to retreat hurriedly; for some of the
performers would plunge into the rivulet with a great splashing, or
even leap it, and ride amuck among the spectators. Our servants and
the large crowd of onlookers did their best with shouts and crackings
of whips to keep the players to their own side of the water; but the
Kirghiz were half mad with excitement, yelling, shrieking,
pulling at one another, and never ceasing to urge their unfortunate
ponies.
[Illustration: THE GAME OF _BAIGU_--THE MÊLÉE. _Page 150(a)._]
[Illustration: THE GAME OF _BAIGU_--THE PICK-UP. _Page 150(b)._]
[Illustration: THE GAME OF _BAIGU_--THE VICTOR. _Page 150(c)._]
My brother gave a coloured silk handkerchief to the victor of each
round, a gift much appreciated, and when these were used up, lengths of
fine white mull muslin were awarded, which would be used by the women,
who had been left in the _akhois_, to wind on the framework of their
headgear. After about an hour, seeing that the grass-fed ponies were
becoming exhausted, he offered one big prize for a round that was to
be the last, and so the game closed. The lofty mountains that ringed
us made a glorious background to an animated scene that was full of
colour, the riders fastening back the skirts of their gay coats to get
them out of the way and thus displaying the brilliant linings.
_Baigu_ did not commend itself to me when I learnt that the ponies
were often forced to play for four hours on end, and were then tightly
tied up and left without food and water until the next morning, when
they were turned loose to graze. In fact, the inhabitants of Chinese
Turkestan struck us as very bad horse-masters, and one might almost
say that their ideal was for their unlucky animals to have no food, no
drink, and no rest. For example: the practice was to tie up the heads
of the baggage animals when they reached the halting-place, the poor
things being left without food and water for a period in proportion to
the length of the march. If possible their masters never allowed them
to lie down, stirring them up if they did so during grazing, and tying
them up tightly at night, the idea being that the legs of a horse swell
if he is allowed to repose himself. Again and again I have seen horses
tethered to trees growing on high banks, the poor animals being left in
discomfort for hours owing to the uncertain foothold.
My brother had a constant struggle to induce our grooms to water our
horses during our long mid-day halts, old Jafar Bai asserting that they
would go lame if allowed to drink. On one occasion when my particular
mount took to limping he was very triumphant, and told every one that
it was owing to our way of flying in the face of custom with regard
to the water question. But his triumph was short-lived, for when the
grey’s shoe was removed it was found that the farrier had cut the hoof
ruthlessly in order to make it fit the shoe--a common practice. My
brother’s plan of picketing our animals with long ropes while grazing
also came in for much censure, and was said to be the cause of any
malady that the water theory did not cover.
As we had not tasted fresh fish since leaving Europe, we enjoyed a
large but somewhat tasteless variety that was caught in the river
which meandered through the Tagharma Valley, and thought it would be
interesting to do some angling ourselves. We had brought fishing-rods
with us, having been told that the rivers simply swarmed with a
species of trout, and one afternoon, when the heat of the day was
over, we sallied forth attended by a horde of bare-legged Kirghiz who
carried our landing-net, and who so scared the few fish we saw that
not a single nibble rewarded our efforts. On enquiry I found that the
natives, who evidently scorned our orthodox methods, were accustomed to
dam up the shallow river in suitable places with clods of earth, making
a _cul de sac_ into which they drove the fish, which then fell an easy
prey.
It was a proud day for Nadir when we left Tagharma to go to
Tashkurghan, his native place. I was sorry to leave the pleasant
grassy valley dotted with groups of _akhois_, from which shaggy dogs
in charge of the flocks of sheep and goats rushed out to bark at us.
Nearer and nearer we approached the mountains, until we reached a gorge
through which ran the Sarikol River. This defile led us into the wide
Sarikol Valley, where we were met by a big group of its inhabitants
headed by the _Aksakal_, or British Agent, a native of Lahore. They
had as usual erected a tent, and pressed _pillaus_, tea, sweetmeats,
and little squares of tough native bread upon us. Nadir, who was a
kind of understudy to the _Aksakal_, with the title of Watchman,
proudly brought his little son to show me. He had been met by three
generations of strikingly handsome relatives, and all round us were
Persian-speaking Aryans with no resemblance whatever to the surrounding
Kirghiz tribes. They were handsome, well-built men and youths, with
aquiline noses, clear-cut features, fine dark eyes and thick black
beards and moustaches; and one and all looked intelligent and alert.
As we rode past the cemetery on our way to camp, I noticed that the
tombs were more ornate than those of the Kirghiz, and was struck by
curious clay erections at one end of them which reminded me of rabbits
sitting up. These, I was told, were intended to hold lights, a custom
which had nothing to do with Mohamedan practice, but probably was
borrowed from Buddhism.
Our _akhois_ were pitched on a stretch of grazing near a branch of
the river which cuts up the valley with its numerous tributaries and
is so deep, and runs so swiftly in summer, that every year without
fail it takes a toll of human and animal life. High above us towered
the long ridge on which Tashkurghan is built. As the town is printed
in large type on all the maps I was surprised to find it but a small
collection of dilapidated mud houses, many of which were in ruins. It
is, however, the spot alluded to by the Chinese traveller Hiuen-Tsiang,
who visited it in the seventh century. On the highest point stood
a large castellated Chinese fort, and not far off, in an equally
dominating position, was the small Russian fort, where an officer, his
wife, and a troop of Cossacks were quartered. The young captain called
upon us, saying that his wife had not seen a European woman for two
years, and asked us to dine with them that evening, while in our turn
we entertained them in camp. They must have led a very dreary life as
they were cut off almost completely from the outer world, and there are
but few resources in the Sarikol Valley, especially during the long
winter. The Russian lady was delighted to meet me, though, as she could
speak no language save her own, conversation was very difficult. She
took me into her tiny garden, a walled-in plot which the Cossacks had
cleared of boulders and in which a few poplar saplings and some minute
cabbages and lettuces were struggling to gain a livelihood from the
barren ground. It almost brought the tears to my eyes when she pointed
out with intense pride a solitary bloom of mignonette, the only flower
in this mockery of a garden, though it was mid-July. To amuse me she
told the Cossacks to release a couple of wolf-cubs kept in a den in the
courtyard, and when the poor little beasts made a dash for liberty I
secretly hoped that they would escape, in spite of the Persian proverb
which says, “To be kind to the wolf is to be cruel to the lamb.”
Though the Chinese Governor met my brother when he entered Tashkurghan,
providing tea for him on the road and calling upon him, he was
evidently unwilling to admit Europeans into the fort, and gave what I
imagine must be the stock excuse, that he had not the wherewithal to
entertain an English guest. When I read Sir Thomas Gordon’s account of
his visit to Sarikol in _The Roof of the World_, I was struck by the
fact that the Chinese Governor of that day--it was 1874--put off Sir
Thomas and his party with the same excuse when they wished to return
his call.
The Sarikolis are Mohamedans of the Ismaili sect, and acknowledge the
Agha Khan as their spiritual head. They talk Persian with a somewhat
uncouth accent, and the very warm welcome they gave my brother was
partly due to their delight at hearing him speak the Persian of Persia.
One day we crossed the many branches of the river and clambered up a
steep neck in the hills in order to have a view of the long valley
leading up to the stony Taghdumbash Pamir. At our feet small hamlets
were dotted about, surrounded by badly-grown crops of wheat, barley,
peas, lucerne and mustard. The plant last mentioned is grown for its
oil, which is used in the little native lamps, and I was told that
the Sarikolis show traces of their fire-worshipping ancestry by never
blowing out a flame, thus copying the practice of the Zoroastrians. I
was much interested to find in this backwater of the world a close
connection with the bygone legends of Persia, Nadir informing us that
Mount Afrasiab was the name of the hill behind us, and pointing out a
hill of remarkable shape just opposite across the valley, saying that
it was Besitun, the scene of Ferhad’s almost impossible engineering
feat. Let me tell this famous legend of old Persia as far as possible
in his own words:
Now King Afrasiab[2] greatly loved the fair Shirin his wife and cared
for no other woman, and his wrath was kindled when he perceived that
her beauty had cast a spell over Ferhad the architect, who became as a
man distraught. Near the palace of the monarch lay Mount Besitun and
behind it was a stream that ran down from the hills above and gave the
mighty king an idea by which to cure the vain passion of his servant.
Therefore he summoned Ferhad to his presence and swore to him that if
he could bore a tunnel in the mountain through which the stream could
run he should have the lovely Queen as his reward.
Afrasiab knew that the task was not in the power of man to perform,
but love increased the strength of Ferhad an hundredfold, and at the
end of a year the tunnel was nigh completion and the king was greatly
alarmed. At last he thought of a plan by which he hoped to keep his
beloved wife and yet not break his royal oath. Therefore, one day when
Ferhad was in a perilous position on the face of the rock, a royal
servant suddenly announced to him that beautiful Shirin was dead; and
her lover, losing his foothold from the shock, fell headlong from the
mountain and was killed on the spot.
There was also a further proof of the work of Ferhad in the shape of a
long furrow on a rock, which all the inhabitants believed was made by
the Persian’s chisel.
[Illustration: NASIR ALI KHAN, A _MUKI_ OF SARIKOL. _Page 156._]
While we enjoyed the wide view from our eyrie and listened to
Nadir we became aware that an old man in a flowered coat, snowy
turban and slippers, was struggling up the steep track, helped along
by two servants. It was the _muki_, the priest of the Sarikolis,
and a man of great importance in the valley, as I grasped when our
_shikari_ hastened to meet him and kissed his hands and those of his
servants. The old gentleman, panting with his exertions, had come to
offer us hospitality and insisted that we should descend and drink
tea in his house. We were soon ushered into a little plastered room
with an elaborately carved wooden ceiling and seated ourselves at a
table covered with a red silk cloth, on which were biscuits, raisins,
almonds, and loaf sugar, three or four lumps of which the servants
tried to put into the little Russian glasses of tea which they handed
us. The principal men of the district squatted on the floor and
listened as the _muki_ told my brother how he travelled every two years
to India bearing the offerings of the Faithful to the Agha Khan. Our
host was very anxious for us to wait while his invisible womenkind
prepared a feast in our honour. Though we declined this invitation our
visit did good; for two brothers, rich landowners who had long been at
enmity with one another, became reconciled that morning when they met
to pay their respects to the Consul.
On our return to camp I received the _Aksakal’s_ wife, a Kashgar woman
who came gorgeously attired in an embroidered blue silk coat and
brought her three children with her. One was a most attractive little
girl of five, dressed in a striped silk coat with gold embroidered
green velvet cap, under which hung her four black plaits of hair.
She enjoyed looking at our illustrated papers, and where children
were depicted she pointed them out as being herself or her brothers,
according to size. When Sattur gave her tea she was imperative about
the quantity of milk and the number of lumps of sugar that she wanted,
and I was thankful that she condescended to approve of the strings of
coral that I gave her and allowed me to fill her pockets and those of
her brothers with fancy biscuits.
The Sarikolis are very fond of music and dancing, and a troupe of
youths led by a man who banged the drum in masterly fashion performed
for our amusement. A couple played on pipes and the others sang many
songs interspersed with dances, one small boy doing most complicated
steps and waving his arms gracefully. All had their hands hidden by
the sleeves of their thick blue, red, buff, or striped coats, and
wore white felt Kirghiz hats with black brims, and either leather or
clumsy felt riding boots. They sang with great _entrain_ and some of
the tunes were very pleasing, though monotonous, while others had a
curious accompaniment of howls--I can describe it in no other way. The
performance lasted for hours, and every now and then the troupe divided
into two groups which sang alternately to one another something in this
style:
First Group: “Your cheeks are like tulips.”
Second Group: “Your eyes are dark as spring-water.”
Only the old people remember the songs of war and fighting; for now the
young are not interested in these and only care to listen to themes of
love. Iftikhar Ahmad kindly took down for me the words of two of these
songs, one of which forms the heading of this chapter. This is the
other:
_The Song_
Oh, my faithless Beloved whose garments are of gold
The whole world is praising you,
You are indeed the daughter of your mother.
Your silver head-dress gleams;
Your teeth are white as pearls,
And your lips red as coral.
Oh, beautiful one with the dancing eyes!
_Chorus_
I praise you, but the world blames you.
You enter the feast with pomp.
Your cloak is of silk and your turban is wound twice round your head.
My love is fairer than all other women.
A good mother has given birth to a most beautiful daughter.
On her bosom she wears pearls.
These pearls are gifts from me.
Her boots are scarlet of the softest leather,
And she is attired in a cloak from India.
[Illustration: SARIKOLI DANCERS. _Page 158._]
Nowadays the Sarikol Valley is at peace. The walled town on the ridge
is half in ruins, while the defences of the villages below are full of
breaches and most of its former inhabitants live outside it.
The Sarikolis make but a scanty livelihood in their beloved valley.
It is covered with snow during several months of the year, and their
meagre crops of wheat, barley and peas were plentifully mixed with
weeds. Their women enjoy a good position and are not veiled; monogamy
is the custom of the country and divorce is rare. They are a hospitable
race, and when a man gives a feast he never appears at it, and comes
into the room only when it is over, at the urgent appeal of his guests.
When these thank him he says that the collation he has set before them
is merely “a refuge beneath a rock,” and when the guests depart he
speeds them on their way with the wish that their “road may be white.”
They have a curious custom of placing a newly-born child in a skin full
of powdered cow-dung, its head only being left outside. The contents
of the bag are changed every day, and during the winter a hot stone is
placed at the feet of the infant.
When the time came for us to leave, my chief regret was that I must bid
farewell to the particular view of Muztagh Ata seen from our camp, its
snowy dome seeming to block up one end of the valley and looking its
grandest and most majestic, especially in the moonlight.
Our servants were now very efficient. Jafar Bai was an invaluable
packer, and so ready to turn his hand to any job that I always fancied
he was put upon by the other servants. He looked after our interests
in every way, and was so trustworthy that I often handed him the keys
of the store-boxes to give out supplies if I were busy. I would not
have granted the same privilege to lusty Daoud, who purloined all he
could and always said that he had _hich_, or nothing, in his particular
store-box. Indeed my old factotum once neatly summed up the contrast
between my cook and my butler by remarking, “Daoud always tells you
that he has nothing, but Sattur always has everything.”
Daoud, however, could rise to an occasion, and he invariably surpassed
himself if we had guests; but honest Sattur took a pride in making our
tea, sugar, and so on, last as long as possible. He was more like a
child than a grown-up man with wife and family dependent upon him, and
at first he used to bring one cup or plate at a time from his boxes,
when laying the table or producing tiffin in the open. We remonstrated
about his slow method, and one day he arrived carrying everything in a
coloured table-cloth and laughing softly to himself as he pictured our
surprise at his cleverness.
On the return journey to Kashgar our first camp was at Issak Boulak,
a secluded little valley high up in the hills. The name means Hot
Springs, and we reached it by crossing a series of steep nullahs, up
and down the crumbling banks of which our horses had to scramble,
as our guide could find no track. At last we arrived at a fold of
the mountains, within which was an orange-coloured stream fed by hot
sulphur springs that gushed out of the hillside at a temperature of
150° Fahrenheit. My brother and I clambered up to the source of the
water, and I dipped a finger cautiously into one of the two springs
that were bursting out of the barren rock and pouring into a big pool
below, which is visited by sufferers from rheumatism, who sit all day
in the hot water. Sattur brought a can of almost boiling water for my
bath, bursting into giggles as he poured it in, so mirth-inspiring did
he find this labour-saving phenomenon.
Issak Boulak was an isolated spot at the back of beyond, and behind our
camp a long twisting defile led into the very heart of the mountains,
making me hope to come across some wild creature as we turned corner
after corner; but the only sign of life was a hawk that swooped so
low as to brush my hat. All the birds we saw during our tour were
wonderfully tame. Hoopoes and choughs flew close as if to observe
us, the pretty yellow wagtails merely hopped aside as we passed, the
cheery desert-larks almost let us tread upon them, while pigeons and
partridges had little fear of the gun.
At our halt at Subashi I had my first experience of riding a yak, or
_kutass_. Though I had watched these creatures with their formidable
horns moving with ungainly gait over their pastures and had laughed
at the uncouth gambols of their calves at play, I had no wish for a
more intimate acquaintance with them. But one morning, as we looked
at the tremendous mass of Muztagh Ata, my brother proposed that we
should try to reach one of the glaciers that hang on its mighty slopes,
and accordingly we set off mounted on yaks. Instead of a bridle, the
animal has a rope passed through the cartilage of the nose, and, though
this is sufficient for the experienced, in the case of novices it is
necessary to have the mount led. I sat astride on the peaked Chinese
saddle, and found the movement of the _kutass_ comfortable though
slow, and we were soon working our way up the flank of the mountain
without track of any kind. The ugly, good-tempered Kirghiz who led my
yak wore a padded cotton coat striped with scarlet, blue, black and
yellow; his long riding-boots were of red leather, and his velvet cap
both lined and bordered with fur, while a cloth tied round his waist
held his knife and various odds and ends, among which was a hunch of
native bread. “I don’t know Persian,” he remarked to me in that tongue,
and “I do not speak Turki” was my reply; but in spite of the language
difficulty we understood one another quite well, and I did my part in
urging my mount when it hung back and pulled at the nose-rope. It was a
long stiff climb to reach the glacier, and all the yaks were panting,
grunting and gnashing their teeth before we dismounted and stumbled
over the mass of big boulders that were hurled in confusion one upon
another just below the immensely thick curtain of ice. The altitude
took my breath away, even the hardy Kirghiz complained of splitting
headaches, and a big yellow dog, guardian doubtless of some flocks
feeding on the scanty grazing below, made a sudden appearance and gave
vent to the most lugubrious howls. The Kirghiz never venture into the
fastnesses of Muztagh Ata, believing the “Father of the Snows” to be
haunted by fairies, by camels of supernatural whiteness, and by the
sound of drums, this last being possibly the thunder of avalanches. It
was thrilling to be on the slopes of this great mountain, its crest as
yet unscaled by any human being, in spite of the efforts of Sir Aurel
Stein, and we were entranced with the magnificent mountain panorama
from our point of vantage. As the descent was very steep we remounted
our yaks, and my brother led off along the mountain side. But my
guide was of an enterprising nature, and to my horror we started down
what appeared to me to be a sheer precipice. Expostulations were of
no avail; he turned a deaf ear to them; so I rammed my feet into the
stirrups, leant back as far as I could, and clung to the pommel of
my saddle, feeling that I might at any moment be flung over the head
of my steed. I confess that my heart was in my mouth as my _kutass_
accomplished the descent in a series of long slides, always recovering
itself when I imagined that it was just about to fall headlong and
bring us both to disaster. My opinion of it as a mount was unbounded,
and it crowned its perfections by picking its way unerringly among the
boulders that were piled up on either side of the glacier stream along
which our route lay. Wild rhubarb was growing in profusion, and I made
my boy gather it, as we had not tasted fresh fruit or vegetables for
some weeks, and the Russian jam I had bought at Kashgar had fermented
and gone off like bombs when the bottles were opened, though Daoud’s
apricot conserve had borne the long journey perfectly.
[Illustration: MUZTAGH ATA--THE SNOUT OF A GLACIER. _Page 162._]
We had had a superb view from the flank of Muztagh Ata, but nothing
to compare with that which we enjoyed from the shore of Little Lake
Karakul that lies at the foot of this giant of the Pamirs. Here to
the north stood up in all its grandeur the great mountain barrier
separating us from Kashgar, which we had looked upon as some enchanting
vision when seen at rare intervals from the roof of the Consulate. The
“Father of the Snows” and its rival--the natives call it Kungur--rose
sheer from the lake, in company with peak behind peak, all nobly
serrated and wrapped in eternal snow. Guardians of the Roof of the
World, their proud virginal crests, as yet untrodden by the foot of the
explorer, offer an indescribable attraction to him who has felt the
lure of the Inaccessible.
[Illustration: A KIRGHIZ AND HIS DAUGHTER. _Page 164._]
Our tour was now drawing to a close. I felt a keen regret at leaving
our free life in these uplands and exchanging an _akhoi_ for a house,
and I had also become fond of the friendly Kirghiz. These people are
most devoted to their children. In one camp the _Beg_ brought his
little daughter to see me, and my guest played tune after tune on her
rough home-made _sitar_, her fingers working with wonderful agility.
In fact, her repertoire was so extensive that I feared the performance
would never end; so I showed her a string of coral, which made her
stop short in a glow of rapturous excitement. It was pretty to see her
holding out the ornament to her proud father and then whispering in
his ear to ask him to express her thanks, and finally putting on the
necklace with shy smiles for the donor. A sturdy boy, some twelve years
old, also rises in my memory, son of a _Beg’s_ wife. This lady, who, I
was told, practically ruled the tribe, was most pleasant and voluble
and called upon me with her boy, bringing offerings of dirty lumps
of cheese, a skin of rancid fat, and a strip of woven carpet. It was
the fifth day of Ramazan and she expressed much regret that the fast
forbade her to sample my tea and biscuits; but Kuli did full justice
to everything, drinking with loud noises and waving his teaspoon
excitedly, as he had never seen such an object and could not understand
its use. Next day I noticed that he was taking an active part in the
“goat game,” a green silk handkerchief that I had given his mother
being tied round his waist. His father was giving the performance in
my brother’s honour, and the players accompanied us as we left their
encampment for a new halting-place.
The game began with a series of wild yells, and so recklessly did the
players dash about that we were really in danger of being ridden down,
in spite of shouts of warning from Jafar Bai and our Kirghiz guide.
To our amusement Daoud joined in, forcing his pony into a reluctant
canter; but, as he could not bend low enough from the saddle to pick up
the goat when it lay on the ground, he was jeered at by Sattur and our
less ambitious followers. The game finally ended on the shore of Lake
Bulunkul, which is so choked up with sand from the hills rising close
to it that, when we crossed, we found it practically dry ground with
shallow streams meandering over its bed. It was towards the end of July
and our horses were tormented by horse-flies, which we avoided as best
we could by cantering whenever the rough ground allowed. In camp the
grass was full of mosquitoes, which as we walked rose up in swarms and
fastened upon us greedily. Luckily their bite was mild, and as this was
our only experience of these pests we could not complain. Since we had
left Lake Bulunkul we had made, as it were, a loop and returned again
to Kuntigmas, where we halted for two days in order to meet Sir Aurel
Stein, who was bound for the Russian Pamirs and Persia.
We could not return to Kashgar by way of the Gez defile, as it would
have been impossible to cross the river, which was now in full flood;
therefore we traversed the difficult Ulughat Pass, which is open only
during the summer, and is dangerous for animals at the best of times.
A long stony valley led us past great glaciers hollowed into caves,
the entrances to which were fringed with stalactites of ice, and the
mountains seemed to close in more and more forbiddingly. I confess that
my heart almost failed me when we reached the foot of the pass and I
saw a series of zigzag tracks faintly marked on what seemed to me to
be the face of a precipice. It would have been impossible to negotiate
such a place on horseback; but yaks were in readiness, and I mounted
mine thankfully, with a grateful remembrance of the shaggy bull that
had carried me up the flank of Muztagh Ata.
But I was now to learn that there are yaks _and_ yaks. The animals
assigned to my brother and me strongly objected to the job, and,
looking at the path ahead, I did not wonder. They jibbed constantly,
refused to proceed, and, what was most unpleasant, took to backing
off the path and sliding in perilous fashion on to the long slopes of
shifting rubble. They seemed quite callous to the pulling of their
nose-ropes, and, though I clung to the peak of my saddle and vigorously
belaboured the shaggy sides of my mount, it returned to the track only
when it pleased. I became nervous on my brother’s account, because the
fastenings of his saddle broke twice, and if he had not realized in
time that he was sitting on the yak’s tail instead of in the middle
of its back, he would have fallen right over the precipice. He had
fastened the thong of his hunting-crop round the branching horns of
his _kutass_, thereby saving himself from disaster. To help matters
both of us imitated the cry with which the Kirghiz encouraged their
animals: “Halbin! Halbin! Halbin! Ha!” These men felt the height
considerably and rested at intervals, holding their heads in their
hands as they were suffering from mountain-sickness--the pass was over
16,000 feet--and one poor boy lay down early in the ascent, weeping
loudly and entirely refusing to proceed. At intervals they halted and
ate yellow squares of tough bread and dried plums, the yaks throughout
panting and gnashing their teeth instead of emitting their usual single
grunt of content. Near the crest of the pass the track lay among rocks
and crags, and I took my feet out of the stirrups and pressed them into
my mount’s neck; for yaks have an unpleasant habit of brushing close
to any obstacle on the path, and, owing to this, our baggage always
suffered considerably. I was riding behind a Kirghiz pony that had been
led in front of our party all the way, when suddenly this animal lost
its footing and tumbled back right on to my mount, dragging its master
along with it. If I had been on horseback we could not have avoided an
accident, but luckily yaks appear to have no nerves, and mine stood
firm and bore the shock right nobly.
Certainly it was a relief to reach the level ground at the top of
the pass, and to dismount while the Kirghiz knelt in prayer before a
big cairn of stones crowned with rag-laden sticks. I looked back to
enjoy the view of the immense glacier that filled the valley and the
peaks towering far above us; but suddenly I had a splitting headache
combined with nausea and faintness, which made me realize that I
must be experiencing a touch of the mountain-sickness of which I had
often read. I felt that I should soon recover if I could only leave
the height on which we were standing, and a sturdy native assisted me
down the steep track of shifting shale until my brother called to him
to halt, thinking I might faint outright. Hot tea was produced from
our thermos bottles, and after lying flat for a short time I revived,
and enquired of Iftikhar Ahmad, who was also supported by a servant
down the mountain-side, whether he, too, were suffering from _mal de
montagne_? He explained that he was merely recovering from the effects
of an opiate that he had taken to avoid the malady; but it seemed to me
that the remedy was almost worse than the illness.
Although we were over the pass proper, our troubles were not yet at an
end, for we had now to ride for a couple of hours along very steep and
narrow tracks, where a false step of our ponies on the shifting shingle
would have hurled us into the yellow water of the river roaring below,
and so into the next world. At last a breakneck descent brought us to
the bank of this river. We forded it and reached a group of _akhois_,
where we halted for the night and enquired into casualties. Daoud and
one of our grooms were quite lame; the chestnut had fallen and strained
itself, and all the animals were badly in need of a rest after their
exhausting experiences.
Consequently, next day’s march was a short one, but disagreeable; for
the track lay along the stony bed of one of the dried-up watercourses
that are so common throughout Chinese Turkestan. The valley widened out
and the air became milder and milder as we descended, until we reached
the first trees that we had seen for weeks. Willows, firs and poplars
clung to the hillsides, rising from patches of abundant scrub, tamarisk
with pink flower spikes, berberis with scarlet and orange berries and
aromatic juniper; wild roses were in bloom, and the swallow and a brown
bird with crimson under-wings flew and twittered.
Our baggage yaks were now discarded for camels, and when our caravan
reached camp I was distressed by the lugubrious cries of a she-camel
that resounded through the night. I found that her young one had
been unable to keep up on the march and had accordingly been left on
the road in the care of some Kirghiz, but would be rejoined by its
disconsolate mother on her return. Female camels are greatly attached
to their young, and I was told that, if deprived of them, they mourn
and lament for at least three months, so that the general idea of the
camel as an impassive and callous animal is quite wrong.
At the end of July we finally left the hills and rode some thirty miles
into the plain to Opal, our last halt before we reached Kashgar. The
march began down stony river-beds, valleys that widened out, and hills
that became lower and lower until on our left they vanished altogether,
while to our right they terminated in a bold cliff that rose sheer from
a great plain shimmering with light. Silver streaks meandering across
this plain indicated rivers, and beyond it we saw again the snowy
crests of the Celestial mountains, and the picturesquely serrated peaks
behind Miniol, while low hills, beautiful in pink and amber, ochre and
mauve, made a fairy vision in the early morning light.
Luckily for us, the weather was cloudy and inclined to rain, as
otherwise our sudden descent into the summer heat would have been
somewhat trying. At Opal we were in the midst of trees and irrigation,
and it was delightful to see golden wheat and barley ripe for the
sickle, waving crops of maize and millet, fields of linseed in bloom,
cotton in flower, and one of the six annual crops of lucerne in sheets
of vivid green.
[Illustration: KASHGAR MUSICIANS. _Page 170._]
Next day we were at Kashgar, and, much though I had enjoyed my
late experiences, the comfort and cleanliness of the Consulate
appealed strongly to us both, as did also the abundance of tomatoes,
cauliflowers, cabbages, egg-plants, cucumbers, pumpkins and carrots in
its well-stocked garden. We had returned to a season of plenty; for,
although the apricots and the first crop of figs were over, the melons
were at their prime, white, yellow, green and pink-fleshed, while the
small peaches and nectarines were ripe, to be followed by a larger
variety later, and the splendid grapes of many kinds and flavours were
almost ready. To the servants it could not have been so pleasant, since
we arrived in the middle of the great fast of Ramazan, half of which
they had escaped owing to being on a journey. During the following
fortnight they were very slack and tired, and, though we spared them as
much as we could, I felt ashamed to eat three good meals a day while
they might touch nothing, Daoud having to prepare our food, and Sattur
having to see us eat it. Certainly it is more trying in the hot weather
than in the cold of winter, but at any time of year it is not a light
matter to let no food pass the lips between dawn and sunset for a whole
lunar month. On the stretch of melon beds that lay below our terraced
garden the owners had built shelters of leafy boughs and sang and
played the whole night through, the noise of drums, pipes and bagpipes
not being particularly conducive to our slumbers. The flies had become
a nuisance, though I did my best to cope with them by making the doors
and windows of the kitchen and larder practically fly-proof, and I
found that carbolic sprinkled on a hot shovel stupefied the insects
with its pungent smoke, so that they could be swept up. But, as might
have been foreseen, nothing I could do was really efficacious, owing to
the _vis inertiae_ of the Oriental, and to his inherent incapacity to
shut doors properly.
We found a temperature of 98 degrees somewhat trying at first after
the uplands we had left, but we enjoyed some pleasant rides to gardens
outside the city, where we drank tea and ate fruit, and were offered
trays of pistachios. The shell of these nuts is usually split at
one end, and Mr. Bohlin quoted a Turki saying to the effect that “a
smiling man is like an open pistachio.” In every garden there was a mud
platform covered with felts or carpets, on which the natives lie, and
sometimes, instead of this, a large oblong wooden table with very short
legs. On these expeditions, Sattur followed in the carriage carrying
our tea, and we heard that the townsfolk thought we must esteem him
very highly to allow him to drive in state while we merely rode.
The crops of Indian corn were usually of the variety with big heads and
no “cobs,” our informant saying that both children and dogs steal and
eat the milky cobs to such an extent that it was hardly worth while to
grow them. This is the last crop to be reaped, and there is an anecdote
describing how one year the devil entered into a compact with a farmer
who was to give His Satanic Majesty everything _above_ ground. The wily
cultivator then sowed carrots, and the disappointed devil accordingly
stipulated that his share during the second year should be everything
_below_ ground; whereupon wheat was sown. Upon this, Satan demanded
at the beginning of the third year that the _top_ and _root_ of the
crops sown should be his. But the farmer again outwitted him by raising
Indian corn and taking all the cobs, which grow partway down the plants.
All along the roads, mixing with the lofty _durra_ plants, were the
fan-like hemp leaves which emitted a strong odour. The Chinese forbid
the cultivation of this plant, for _hashish_ has worse effects upon its
victims than opium; but the Kashgaris appear to pay little heed to the
prohibition and prepare the deadly drug from the pollen which falls
from the flowers upon the leaves. Much flax is grown, but only for the
oil which is obtained from the seeds, and the natives were amazed, and
even disbelieving, when Mr. Bohlin showed them linen made from its
fibre. The oil is squeezed out by means of a wheel turned by a horse in
a very narrow space, and when the poor animal gets dizzy, going round
and round, it is blindfolded, and in the end it often goes blind in
reality. On one occasion an intelligent Armenian brought a machine to
Kashgar to extract the oil, but the _mullas_ said it was unclean, and
as no one dared to buy the oil the man was ruined. The _mullas_ act
more or less as guardians of order. We were told that during the summer
there had been a fight about irrigation water--a most fruitful cause of
dissension in the East--with the result that several of the townsfolk
had been wounded. The priests, anxious to prevent the recurrence
of such a scandal, had visited every house in the city and broken
the _points_ of all the knives, a somewhat original way of checking
quarrels.
After being among the lusty, ruddy Kirghiz, the Kashgaris seemed to us
pale and underfed, and I was not surprised to hear that any illness
carries them off very quickly. Of course they were all suffering from
the effects of Ramazan, but their usual food, a thin broth mixed with
flour and piles of boiled macaroni, cannot be very sustaining. It was
a great relief to me when August 12 arrived, and the fast was over
and all our staff attended a service in the little mosque attached to
the Consulate. Poor Jafar Bai looked very old and worn out, and told
me that the torture of being unable to quench his thirst had been
terrible. He and the other servants came to salaam us clad in new, or
at all events clean, clothes, and to show their joy they beat a little
hand-drum during the entire day. The townsfolk in their new dresses
were a feast of colour for the eyes, and I remember one pretty little
girl in yellow silk with a crimson skull-cap worked in gold, while
another in a long magenta and green-patterned cotton held a big melon
in each hand and gazed at us under a jaunty green cap. Many were fond
of combining magenta and scarlet, which looked quite in place among the
green trees and crops, and their love of colour greatly added to the
charm of our daily rides.
Here are the words of one of the songs sung by children during the
month of Ramazan, which was translated for me, its charming tune having
haunted me. The chorus, however, struck me as somewhat ironical, for
the yearly fast presses with great severity on the poor, who are forced
to work for their livelihood, and cannot sleep all day and eat all
night as do the rich.
1
These thirty fasts are our guests,
Those who do not keep the fast are animals.
_Chorus._
Ramazan, the good month of Ramazan!
Holy and welcome Ramazan is the King of Months!
2
I come to your door singing praises of Ramazan,
May God in His mercy grant you a son to adorn your cradle.
_Chorus, etc._
3
I shall not weary of singing the praises of Ramazan,
Nor will I leave until you have given me seven cakes of bread.
_Chorus, etc._
4
On the tenth night of Ramazan Fate casts the lot of all men,
Therefore omit not to give alms to the poor on the eve of Destiny.
_Chorus, etc._
CHAPTER IX
THE ANCIENT CITY OF YARKAND
The Turki have long-shaped faces, well-formed noses and full beards....
These facts show that the modern Yarkandees are not pure Tartars like
the Kirghiz ... but rather Tartarized Aryans, if I may so express
myself.--ROBERT SHAW, _Visits to High Tartary, Yarkand and Kashgar_.
It was the beginning of September when we set off on the tour which
had Khotan as its goal and which was in reality a passing from oasis
to oasis along the edge of the Takla Makan Desert. This sahara may be
regarded as the western extension of the immense waste of the Gobi
that stretches for more than a thousand miles to the east, a very
abomination of desolation.
Golden autumn was on the land as we rode out of Kashgar along the broad
tree-shaded road that leads to the New City, and turned off after a
couple of miles to cross the imposing-looking Kalmuck bridge. Along the
river bank the rice was being cut and then threshed by means of a stone
roller, which bullocks and donkeys were pulling round and round over
the heaped-up ears, the handsome millet crop was turning yellow, the
big leaves of melons, pumpkins and gourds were withering, and only the
lucerne kept its vivid green.
Jafar Bai and Humayun rode behind us, Iftikhar Ahmad and the Doctor
were escorted by their own attendants, and Sattur, with the lunch and
tea-box, kept up with us fairly well in a blue-tilted _mapa_. Our tents
and baggage were packed into covered carts termed _arabas_, drawn by
three, and later on by five, ponies apiece, Daoud finding a seat in
one of them. These waggons have very high wheels, with only one horse
between the shafts, the others being harnessed in front, pulling at the
side. The drivers shouted “Oo--ah! Oo--ah!” to their horses all the
time, but I noticed that riders called out “Choo! Choo!” to stimulate
their mounts, and without that magic exclamation I should never have
got my pony along, as the whip made no impression upon him. The donkeys
in this part of the world were urged by a peculiar sound reminding
me of one of the symptoms of _mal de mer_, while a series of sharp
whistles answered the same purpose with the sheep and goats.
In the East, travellers like to attach themselves to the caravan of any
one of position, partly for the sake of protection and partly for the
prestige which it gives them among the natives. As highway robbery is
practically unknown in Chinese Turkestan the men that joined us did so
for the latter reason, and among them the Master of the Horse of the
Rajah of Punyal and his groom were picturesque figures, always riding
as if they were showing off the points of their wiry ponies to would-be
purchasers. They were in search of a couple of Badakshani stallions for
their chief, and throughout the entire journey their eyes were riveted
on the handsome grey and the chestnut that my brother and I rode. At
each town where we halted they searched for horses, even making a
purchase once or twice, which they sent back as unsuitable before the
expiration of the three days during which either side has the right to
break a bargain. They were unsuccessful in their quest, so that when we
returned to Kashgar they purchased our Badakshanis, and we felt glad to
know that the animals that had carried us so well and had given us so
much pleasure were in the hands of horse-lovers, whose methods were far
more enlightened than those of the Kashgaris.
[Illustration: OUR _ARABAS_ ON THE YARKAND ROAD. _Page 176._]
Another interesting personality was the Chief Falconer of the Mehtar of
Chitral, who was engaged in a search for a pair of white hawks. These
birds, which are extremely rare, if indeed they exist as a species,
are said to be found in the district of Ili; but our fellow-traveller,
having heard that one had been offered for sale at Kashgar and another
at Khotan, determined to throw in his lot with us, as we were bound
for the latter city. Truth to say, he was a timid man, entirely devoid
of the love of adventure that is part of the equipment of the true
traveller, and moreover he had no knowledge of the Turki language. He
found no white hawk in Kashgar and probably expected none in Khotan,
but I fancy he joined our caravan to pick up the language and so fit
himself more or less for the still longer journey to Ili.
When we were at Tashkurghan during our visit to the Pamirs, we heard
that a pair of white falcons had been procured in the valley for
presentation to the Agha Khan. Unluckily one of the birds died, but the
Sarikolis, not to be foiled, stuffed it and offered it to the Head of
their faith together with its live mate.
This admiration for white falcons is old, and in the annals of the
crusades it is mentioned that Philip of France owned a white falcon
to which he was greatly attached. According to the chronicle, “Le roi
aimait beaucoup cet oiseau, et l’oiseau aimait le roi de même.” But one
day it made a long flight and came down among the Saracens, who refused
to give it up until Philip had paid a huge ransom for its recovery.
Another addition to our party was a Hindu trader with a wooden leg,
who had a few words of English at his command, saluted us in military
fashion, and excited my admiration at the agility with which he
mounted and dismounted from his horse. If Chaucer could have come to
life again, he would have delighted in our caravan, composed of such
diverse elements, and I never tired of observing the many gradations it
contained between the Aryan and Mongol races. For example, one youth
from Gilgit had the features and limbs of the immortal riders of the
Elgin marbles and bestrode a big grey with the same effortless mastery,
carrying my mind back to Alexander and his Greek colonies in Asia.
Our first real halt was the town of Yangi Hissar, which is practically
a continuation of the Kashgar Oasis, the cultivation being merely
broken at intervals by bands of salt desert and narrow stretches of
sand-dunes. The inhabitants worked the land up to the edge of the sand,
and in many cases had placed their mud-built hamlets so close to the
dunes that they were in danger of being overwhelmed, should a violent
sandstorm occur. The whole of our route was marked by _potais_, these
Chinese equivalents of milestones being erected two and a quarter miles
apart. They are built of mud bricks, in form not unlike the castles
used in chess and some fifteen feet in height. Whenever the _potai_
stood near a rest-house or at the entrance of a town it was attended
by five miniature _potais_, reminding me of a hen and its chickens, a
device employed to show the traveller that rest and refreshment were
close at hand. It impressed me to know that these “milestones” not only
marked the road to Khotan, but the entire distance to Peking, a journey
that would take six months to accomplish. The Forsyth Mission speak of
tall wooden mile-posts as marking this road, placed about five miles
apart, _i.e._ a _farsang_ or one hour’s journey, the same word being
used as in Persia.
The autumnal weather was very pleasant, as the nights and early
mornings were refreshingly cool, and we made, wherever possible, a
long mid-day halt. As we rose at 5 A.M. I was quite ready to rest
from twelve to three, and had a head-net wherewith to circumvent the
flies during the lazy hours spent beside irrigation channels bordered
by willows, where the peasants made us gifts of melons, peaches,
nectarines and grapes, the last sometimes an inch and a half long and
deliciously flavoured. Lemons were unobtainable, but we found that
grape-juice mixed with water made a refreshing drink. The cultivators
were always most polite, and when paid for their offerings smiled and
said, “Allah is gracious.”
Throughout the tour I practically lived on fruit, and I suppose there
is nothing more refreshing in hot weather than slices of the splendid
melons that I considered superior in taste to those I had so often
enjoyed in Persia. Perhaps the _taus_ or “peacock”--as the natives call
the great dark-green water melon with black and white seeds set in its
scarlet flesh--quenches thirst the best, but it has not the “bouquet”
of the _karbuzeh_ proper, and wherever we went the peasants were
devouring huge chunks of this fruit, which they prefer to all others.
Thousands of melons were being prepared for winter storage, the method
adopted being to lay them in the sun for a month, turning them over
frequently, and then to place them on sand in cold rooms. The natives
eat them throughout the winter and until the fresh fruit comes round
again, though we did not appreciate them much when we sampled a last
year’s specimen on our arrival at Kashgar in April.
Yangi Hissar is a small town surrounded by a high wall and is a centre
of gardens and cultivation, the river on which it stands flowing
through a deep gorge in the loess, which is broken up into picturesque
cliffs. From the city we enjoyed superb views of the snowy Muztagh
Ata range. We camped in a so-called garden that was really an orchard
of fruit trees planted along irrigation channels, in the middle of
which, on a large concrete platform, was a _shefang_, or Chinese
garden-house. It was square and had a prettily painted wooden roof, the
open sides being partly curtained in. Throughout the tour in all our
halts we usually left the house proper to the servants and lived in
the _shefang_ all day, sleeping in our tents at night. One drawback to
these gardens was the myriads of mosquitoes brought by the water; but
as we slept under our nets we avoided the malaria that had attacked the
Swedish missionaries, who have a neat compound at Yangi Hissar: I was
also always on the look-out for scorpions after I had found one in my
tent nestling on the collar of my tweed coat.
We halted at Yangi Hissar only for a day to rest our caravan, but
my brother borrowed fresh horses in order to visit the shrine of
Agri Su, some eight miles to the south-west. A gloomy group of old
poplars, that reminded him of the sacred groves outside Greek temples,
lay at the foot of a steep cliff, in which steps were cut to enable
pilgrims to ascend to the small domed shrine in honour of _Shaykh_
Ata-ul Vali and his son Kasim. The object of my brother’s visit was to
see a certain inscribed stone some three and a half feet in diameter
which the inhabitants greatly venerated; but he could not decipher the
inscription, and after photographing the stone and visiting the site
of an ancient city which the inhabitants called by the lengthy name of
Jam-i-Taghai-Agri-Su he returned to camp.
Next day we traversed a vast marshy plain covered with dried-up reeds,
on which, to my surprise, herds of lean cattle were browsing. The
glorious mountains were hidden by a veil of dust, and when we reached
our camp on the edge of the Yarkand Oasis thunder rolled, lightning
flashed, and the sand whirled up in clouds, half-blinding us until
our servants managed to pitch our tents. Then the rain came down in
sheets, practically the first that we had experienced since we reached
Kashgar in April; for on the Pamirs we had had only snow or heavy
passing showers. It cleared the air and revealed the mountains, which
looked magnificent as we rode across the gravelly desert, now and again
coming upon a rest-house built by Yakub Beg. At one of these a party of
Hindus, British subjects from Yarkand, entertained us with tea, eggs,
sweetmeats and fruit; but we did not dare to halt long, as they said
that another storm was imminent.
Our camp that night was pitched among trees, and some men brought a big
horned owl to show us, a beautiful creature, buff with dark markings,
and held by a string tied to its leg. My brother gave its captors money
to release it, and I rejoiced to see it flap its great wings and sail
off to the shelter of a tall Turkestan elm, where I trusted that it
would rest in security.
We often saw the great golden eagles which are trained to hunting in
this part of the world. They kill gazelles, hares and foxes, and I
always wondered how their masters could ride at breakneck pace and
mount and dismount while carrying such a weight on their arms. The
great birds seemed wonderfully docile, and apparently indifferent as
to whether their hoods were on or off. The hunting eagle is captured
by means of a live fox tied to a rope; the bird, busily employed in
tearing its prey, does not observe that the quarry is being drawn by
the rope gradually nearer and nearer to a hole, in which the hunter
lies concealed with a net to throw over the eagle. When captured the
unfortunate bird is confined in a dark room, its eyelids are sewn up,
and its spirit is broken by the incessant beating of drums which allows
it no sleep. It remains morose for a time, refusing all food, but
gradually becomes tame and attaches itself to the man who feeds it and
takes it out hunting.
[Illustration: A HUNTING EAGLE. _Page 182._]
The British Consul-General is always welcomed throughout Chinese
Turkestan, and I will give a description of our entry into Yarkand,
which will serve as an example of what occurred at every town during
our tour. Some miles from the city we were met at intervals by groups
of British subjects, mostly Hindus, who dismounted to greet my
brother and then rode behind us, our escort thus becoming bigger and
bigger as we proceeded. Some of its members were but indifferent
horsemen. Now and again a rider would be thrown and his steed gallop
off, or a horse tethered by the roadside would break loose, agitating
the procession and making my chestnut scream with excitement until the
runaways were captured, usually by the men from Punyal.
Old Jafar Bai had a reception all to himself. Though he lived at
Kashgar and owned shops there, he told me that the chief part of his
property was at Yarkand, acquired in the old days when he owned a
caravan and carried goods between the two towns. I was interested
to note the number of acquaintances who clasped his hands warmly,
and, when we stopped to partake of the usual spread of fowls, eggs
and tea laid out in a marquee, the old man had the joy of seeing his
small grandson brought to him by his son-in-law. He kissed the child
passionately, and then, full of pride, brought it to me and smiled as I
gave the little fellow sweets and biscuits.
After this the whole company remounted and swept on again, to be
stopped nearer to the city by the Russian Agent accompanied by the
Russian subjects, who were standing in a large group beside tables
laden with food, to which our servants always did full justice,
surprised that their employers did not appreciate these incessant
meals. Just outside Yarkand the beating of drums, the squealing of
pipes and the scraping of _tars_, producing music most excruciating
to European ears, announced the Chinese reception. As I always
avoided this ceremony, I was glad to be met by Dr. Hoegberg, head of
the Swedish Missions and incidentally the architect of the Kashgar
Consulate, who drove me along the broad tree-bordered road to the
new Chinese town and through interminable bazars to the pleasant
garden-house of the British Agent.
“The people of Yarkand display an entire lack of energy and enterprise,
or indeed of any interest in life,” was the dictum of Lieutenant
Etherton, who visited the city in 1909. Though I thought the statement
somewhat sweeping at first, I soon noticed how apathetic the Yarkandis
were when contrasted with the lively, laughing Kashgaris, and the
reason was not far to seek. The inhabitants of this district are
afflicted with goitre in its most distressing forms; and the Swedish
doctor told us he believed that about fifty per cent of the population
were victims of the complaint, which in his opinion was not the same as
the European goitre, and for which he knew of no remedy save iodine.
One theory is that it is due to the habit of drinking stagnant water
stored in tanks, the river unfortunately being at some distance from
the city; but the peasantry living right out in the country are by
no means exempt from the scourge. Many thus affected become idiots,
and the children of goitrous parents inherit the disease, which Marco
Polo commented on in the following words: “A large proportion of them
have swollen legs and great crops at the throat, which arises from
some quality in their drinking-water.” The old Chinese travellers also
make mention of the complaint, but I heard that the Celestials, who
boil all their water, whether used for drinking or for washing, never
fall victims to it, nor apparently do the Hindu traders or travellers,
although if they marry Yarkandi women their children may develop it.
Some say that all who drink from a certain canal are sure to contract
the disease, while others affirm that it is caused by the grey water of
the Yarkand River. Be that as it may, the health of half the population
is undermined, and the aged and children alike are sufferers, some
unfortunates having their heads permanently tilted backwards by the
horrible swelling in their throats. This has given rise to the popular
anecdote of the man who rode his horse to the water but had to ask a
neighbour if the animal were drinking, as he could not himself look
down to see.
Besides goitre and skin-diseases induced by lack of washing, opium and
hashish-smoking, and the squalor in which they live, contribute to the
sickly look of the people, and I decided that dirty, dusty ruinous old
Yarkand was a good place to live out of. The mosques and shrines were
in a state of dilapidation, and in spite of a large body of Hindus, who
trade with India by one of the highest routes in the world, the whole
place looked much poorer than Kashgar.
Masses of snowy-white cotton were to be seen everywhere in the bazars,
ready for the stuffing of cushions and quilts or to be spun into
yarn, while at odd corners we came across groups of children busily
removing the pods or beating out the seeds with sticks. Here, as at
Kashgar, there is no grazing for the sheep; hence the poor quality
and the toughness of the mutton. The animals were trying to get some
nourishment from the withered cotton bents, and I sometimes saw a
woman holding out bunches of lucerne to her half-starved charges or
letting them munch dried maize leaves from a basket. One must ride in
single file through the narrow alleys of the bazar, which are covered
in with awnings of maize leaves to keep off the heat. Children and
chickens get in the way; here a goat is tied up or a camel is lying
down in the midst of the traffic; there a horse, tethered by a rope to
a stall, lashes out with its heels at passing riders, and now and again
one gets glimpses of extremely unsavoury courtyards. But in fairness
to the inhabitants of Chinese Turkestan I defy any one to keep clean
who has to live in a house of unbaked mud where there are no washing
arrangements, and where, in the absence of chairs, every one must sit
on the mud floor: fortunately the brilliantly coloured flowered prints
do not show the prevailing dirt as much as might be expected.
The best shops in the bazar were near the Hindu serai, that was hung
with silks in honour of my brother’s visit, and I was told that the
Chinese are so considerate to the traders from India that they forbid
the opening of any butchers’ shops near their quarters, and orders to
this effect, inscribed on boards and stuck up on walls, were pointed
out to me. Sometimes the Yarkandis tear down these notices and the
butchers reopen their stalls, but whenever this occurs a complaint
from the Hindus to the authorities is ultimately successful. This
praiseworthy tolerance of the religious views of other races partly
accounts for the easy Chinese mastery over a Mohamedan population.
Quantities of beautiful fruit, such as peaches and grapes, were on
sale in the bazars, the vendors keeping off the swarms of flies by
means of horse-hair flappers, and naked children were munching enormous
chunks of melon. Horses were being shod, horse-shoes hammered out on
the anvils, and near by picturesque copper pots were being worked into
shape, a noisy operation. At intervals we came across a mosque with
the columned verandah so characteristic of the province, its beams
and pediments covered with incised carving something in the style of
Jacobean work. The principal mosque had lost about half the blue and
white tiles that had once adorned its façade, and the city wall was out
of repair to such an extent that people could enter the town by many a
breach after the crazy-looking wooden doors had been closed at sunset.
Among the callers on my brother was the son of the _Thum_ of Hunza,
whose defeat by the British in 1891 is so graphically described in
Knight’s book _Where Three Empires Meet_. The young chief, who was
a child at that time, now ekes out a penurious existence on a small
estate given to his ancestors by the Chinese, and has a pension of a
couple of _taels_ a month, a sum equivalent to 4s. 8d. Safdar Ali Khan,
the old _Thum_, after his defeat fled to Kucha, where he still lives
with an ancient retainer or two, and earns a humble livelihood as a
market-gardener. _Sic transit!_
During our stay I had the pleasure of entertaining a Yarkandi lady. She
arrived accompanied by her mother and three sons, and was clad in a
purple satin coat, while across her forehead was a richly embroidered
head-band, over which fell in graceful folds her long white muslin
shawl. When she had removed her lace-work veil her pretty face was set
off by big gold earrings and her long black plaits reached half-way
down her back. I photographed both ladies, together with the small
boys, who were attired in velvet. Going next day to return their visit,
I found myself in a garden that had formerly belonged to Yakub Beg,
where the mud platform on which he was wont to perform his devotions
was pointed out to me. On this occasion I gained a little insight
into native etiquette; for my hostess, after graciously accepting a
small gift which I presented, put it aside and did not open the parcel
until I had retired, it being considered bad manners to look at and
admire a present in the way that Europeans are accustomed to do. Our
conversation happening to turn on scorpions, my hostess said that she
had suffered agonies for three days after having been stung by one,
and her husband related that the followers of a certain Indian saint
have the power of taking away the pain of a scorpion sting by breathing
on the afflicted part. Though he had not had personal experience of
this, he had met many who swore that they had been cured instantly
by this means, which was perhaps akin to hypnotism. On our return to
Yarkand some three weeks later I was invited to attend the feast of
the “shaving of the head” of my host’s youngest son, but having no
interpreter, as men were tabooed, I declined, though I much regretted
missing the sight of some forty or fifty ladies attired in their best
and adorned with much jewellery.
While at Yarkand we visited the little colony of boys and girls who
were being trained by the Swedish missionaries in their large compound.
These children were taught to read and write in Turki, to weave and
to sew. The girls cooked all the food, made the bread and did the
housework, wearing aprons over their gowns of pretty Russian print. The
boys were dressed in clothes of their own weaving, and Mrs. Hoegberg
hoped that the girls might later on marry the boys, who were being
trained to be self-supporting. In any case she trusted that they
might lead happier lives than usually befall the maidens of Chinese
Turkestan, who are practically sold by their parents and are often
handed over to old men. It is true that the husband engages to pay a
certain sum for the maintenance of his wife should he divorce her, and
this he does in the presence of witnesses. But the onus of finding
these witnesses and bringing them up before the _Imam_ lies on the
woman, and the man can often persuade them to swear that he promised
to pay his wife much less than he really did. The parents of a wealthy
woman can help her to obtain her rights, but a poor woman may have a
hard fight for bare existence before she can find a new husband to
support her.
Village life is better for the women than life in the town, for they
have fewer matrimonial adventures, and there are none of the temporary
marriages that are common in all the centres of population. I noticed
that they veiled far less in Yarkand than in Kashgar, the result of
stronger Chinese influence; but here and throughout the province they
were not permitted to enter the little village mosques that are such
a characteristic feature of the country. These places of worship are
usually built by some pious benefactor, who gives a piece of land for
an endowment fund. This is called a _wakf_ or “trust,” and the trustees
appoint a _mulla_, who is often a villager with a good voice who merely
calls the Faithful to prayer.
Dr. and Mrs. Hoegberg had done missionary work in Persia, and said
that they found the Turki very slow-witted and disinclined to discuss
religion, a strong contrast in this respect to the keen-brained,
argumentative Persians, who enjoy nothing more than metaphysics, and,
being Shias, are less orthodox and priest-ridden than the primitive
Sunnis of Chinese Turkestan.
Whether Christianity is gaining a hold in Chinese Turkestan or not, the
high standard which it sets up is not without its influence, as the
following anecdote told me by Dr. Hoegberg shows. A Yarkandi merchant
went with some traders to buy figs, and on the way his friends jeered
at him on account of his leanings towards Christianity. When they
reached the market they were offered the fruit packed in baskets said
to contain a hundred, but the buyers never dreamt of trusting the word
of the vendor, and counted the contents of the baskets, finding several
figs short in each. The merchant then enquired of his colleagues
whether, when they bought calico or print that had come from Europe,
they found any deficiency in the number of yards that were stamped upon
each piece. “Never,” they answered in chorus, and he then pointed out
that this honesty was due to Christian principles of fair-dealing.
CHAPTER X
THROUGH THE DESERT TO KHOTAN
... The view was boundless, there were no traces either of man or
horse, and in the night the demons and goblins raised fire-lights as
many as the stars; in the day time the driving wind blew the sand
before it....--_Travels of Hiuen Tsiang._
Yarkand is the richest oasis in Chinese Turkestan, but we did not
appreciate this fact until we had left the city and saw the open
country covered with wide stretches of rice, maize, wheat and millet;
and I confess that I had to revise my opinion as to the lethargy of
the Yarkandis, or at all events of the peasantry, when I realized the
ceaseless labour required to produce such abundance.
The Yarkand River, the source of which had recently been fixed by the
Filippi expedition, was about six miles from the town, and we crossed
it in broad ferry-boats like punts, which were some forty feet long. We
clambered over a barrier at one end of the boat, and our nine horses,
stepping in nimbly behind us, one after the other, without any fuss,
were packed in tightly, close up to the plank that separated us from
them. Sattur’s _mapa_ was fixed into a second boat with some difficulty
as it was too broad, but finally all our belongings were settled,
and two muscular men--one handling a long pole and the other a
paddle--took us across the river, which is dangerous on account of its
shifting quicksands. Our horses seemed to enjoy the novel experience,
some of them craning over to drink as we slowly approached the opposite
bank. There I anticipated some trouble, as the animals had to turn
round and step out at the end by which they entered. However, they
grasped the situation at once, and very soon we were mounted, fording
a couple of shallow branches of the main stream and stumbling over a
dreary waste of rounded boulders which formed an old river bed. Beyond
this lay trees and villages and a band of British subjects ready to
welcome us with the inevitable tea, fruit and sweetmeats; an attention
that I did not appreciate, as several of our hosts were afflicted with
goitre in its most distressing forms.
At Posgam, where we halted for the night, quarters were assigned to
us in a garden that boasted a magnificent walnut-tree, and we had our
beds placed on platforms outside the attractive garden-house, where my
room, carpeted with crudely coloured products of the loom, had fretted
woodwork windows.
Next day our twenty-four mile march led us entirely through
cultivation, along a broad highway bordered with willows, the rice
fields stretching for many acres on either side. The River Tiznaf
flowed clear over a stony bed, in pleasing contrast to the muddy
streams we had encountered hitherto, and we were told that those
drinking from it never suffered from goitre.
[Illustration: FERRY ON THE YARKAND RIVER. _Page 192._]
In this part of the world it is customary for the villages to open
their bazars on different days and to name them accordingly. At the
_Panjshamba_, or Thursday market, every kind of article is offered
for sale, because the bazars are all closed on _Juma_ (Friday), the day
on which the Faithful visit the mosques, and I was told that at Khotan
the _Chahar-shamba_ (Wednesday) bazar is held only for the sale of milk
products.
We met crowds of people coming to the Posgam market. There were
beggars galore, whole families of them, sometimes accompanied by big
dogs; and tramping along to gain their livelihood were the religious
mendicants, who were striking figures clad in rags of many colours,
wearing sugar-loaf hats and carrying bowls and stout sticks, or
sometimes gourds and rattles. They evidently aimed at the picturesque
in their appearance, and their outward dirt was a sign of inward
holiness and conferred on them the power to drive away demons and heal
diseases. Farther on we came across musicians carrying _tars_, some
having instruments resembling zithers and others drums and pipes, while
parties of Chinese laden with gambling tables struck a sinister note.
The crowd was largely composed of women of the peasant class mounted on
ponies or donkeys and driving their cattle and sheep to market, some
clasping fowls in their arms. Two or three wore a curious globular hat
of cloth of silver, the like of which I saw only once at Kashgar, when
I was told that it was the headgear of a bride. All the world seemed
bound for Posgam, and as we passed through village after village on
our way to Kargalik hardly any one was to be seen, and the little
stalls under the vine-covered trellises that roofed in the bazars were
shuttered up or bare, with the exception of the bread stalls. The boxes
of flowers on the roofs gave touches of light and colour in the form
of asters, balsams and marigolds, while here and there masses of golden
maize were drying in the sun.
On this occasion the Hindus had provided for us a refection of chops
and poached eggs, evidently considering this food more suitable for
a Sahib than the usual fowls, and when we had coped with this I left
my brother to enjoy the reception given by the Russian subjects, and,
attended by Jafar Bai, rode on to our quarters, passing the Chinese
_Amban_ on his way to greet the British Consul-General. This dignitary,
with a most impassive face, drove in an elaborately painted _mapa_,
preceded by a youth carrying a huge magenta silk umbrella with a deep
fringe, while his escort of soldiers, in quaint black uniforms, were
carrying mediaeval-looking spears and halberds.
The house prepared for us stood in a little garden crammed with
vegetables and with enormous specimens of the misshapen and velvety
crimson coxcomb. An outside staircase led to a balcony that ran round
a large upper room with heavily barred wooden windows, which was the
ladies’ abode--a very depressing one to my mind, as it remained in
perpetual twilight, and from it no glimpse could be obtained of the
outside world, though its smells and noises were extremely obvious.
But, as I slept on the balcony, it served me for a convenient
dressing-room, as well as for a retreat when my brother held the usual
receptions of British subjects and Chinese officials in the house below.
About this time all the horses seemed to become lame at once. The
Badakshani chestnut and the grey both took to limping, and the nice
little pony on which I rode astride cut its fetlock badly. Kalmuck,
our last purchase, though sound, was an exasperatingly sluggish horse
and consequently very fatiguing to ride. Jafar Bai, as usual, persisted
that the lameness was due to my brother’s order to water the horses
after they had been about an hour in camp, and was in no way convinced
when it was proved that bad shoeing had lamed one animal, and when the
others gradually recovered in spite of adherence to the English rules
as to forage and watering.
We were now to have our first sight of the real desert, which lay
between us and the Khotan Oasis. On the night before our march across
it we rested in a tiny village on its very edge, some of the mud-built
houses being half-buried by the sand and others having trenches dug
round them to keep it off. An irrigation channel ran between willows,
with patches of cultivation on either side. We put up as best we could
in the courtyard of a serai, the building itself being too crowded with
peasants to accommodate us. Owing to the reluctance which all Orientals
feel to leaving a town, the drivers of the _arabas_, in spite of their
being drawn by five horses apiece, arrived so late that our supper,
eaten by the light of the moon, was extremely scanty.
When we rose in the morning the desert stretched before us vast and
undulating. In Canada in the early spring the prairie, reaching to the
far horizon on either side of the train, had reminded me of a desert,
so limitless, so barren and devoid of life did the largest wheat field
in the world appear. But oh, the difference! The Takla Makan kills all
life unless there is water to correct its baleful influence, while the
prairie holds in its bosom food for millions.
As we rode on our way at six o’clock the early morning wind was
swirling up the sand, obscuring the sky and magnifying everything
strangely. At intervals the _potais_, most of which were in a ruinous
condition, loomed monstrous through the haze, a caravan that I imagined
to be composed of camels resolved itself into a group of diminutive
donkeys, while a gigantic figure draped in fluttering robes turned into
a harmless peasant carrying a staff and water-gourd. We followed the
broad track made by _arabas_ and the hoofs of countless animals; but
I thought how easy it would be to lose the way, were a strong wind to
blow the sand across our route and cover the skulls and other traces
of bygone caravans. In the days of Hiuen Tsiang and Marco Polo there
were no _potais_, and travellers must often have been lost; indeed the
Chinese pilgrim tells us that when he crossed this desert the heaps of
bones were his only means of knowing whether he was following the right
track or not. I was interested to hear that this particular stage had
the reputation of being haunted and that no peasant would traverse it
alone at night. In fact, a Hindu trader told Iftikhar Ahmad that he and
his servants had been greatly terrified a few days before our arrival.
They were travelling after dark and, though there was no moon, a sudden
light in the sky revealed a broad road bordered by irrigation channels
and trees, along which marched an army. The onlookers imagined from
their uniforms that the soldiers were Turks, but they could not see
their faces, and suddenly they vanished, only to give place to droves
of cattle and sheep, which seemed to pour in an unending stream past
the frightened travellers. In the life of Hiuen Tsiang mention is made
more than once of the hallucinations to which he was subject in the
desert, and the following passage occurs: “He saw a body of troops
amounting to several hundreds covering the sandy plain--the soldiers
were clad in fur and felt. And now the appearance of camels and horses
and the fluttering of standards and lances met his view....” I quote
this passage because the Chinaman’s vision in the seventh century seems
strangely akin to that of the Hindu and his servants. As we neared the
large oasis of Guma the inevitable receptions began several miles out
in the desert, and I was struck with the appearance of our host, the
_Aksakal_. He was a tall, handsome man, remarkably like a high-class
Persian, and wore a long mauve coat with a magenta waistband, and
a purple felt hat with broad gold band, a purchase from India. He
installed us in his newly built house, which, being in the middle of
the bazar, was the haunt of legions of flies. It consisted of several
small rooms opening on to a little courtyard planted with shrubs and
flowers, over which lovely humming-bird moths were hovering; but, as
there was no exit at the back and we were at very close quarters with
our servants, I did not altogether appreciate what was evidently the
_ne plus ultra_ of Guma taste. Our rooms and the verandah were painted
in pink and mauve, the window frames bright green with their shutters
picked out in blue and brown, while above the window of the principal
room was a richly coloured and gilded floral design. The entrance
door, draped with green plush, cloth of gold and silver and a piece of
purple and green embroidery, and the chairs, upholstered in orange
and sky-blue velvet, made up a gorgeous whole, in which I felt rather
like a prisoner, as I had to retreat constantly to my apartment, pull
the shutters to, and sit in a dim twilight when the Chinese _Amban_ and
other callers arrived in state.
Guma is noted for its manufacture of paper, and we went to see the
process. The pale green lining of the bark of the mulberry is boiled
in great iron pots and ladled out upon broad stones, to be pulped by
wooden hammers. The mixture is then spread over canvas-filled frames
which are held under water during the operation, and afterwards set
upright in the open air to dry, when sheets of a coarse whitish paper
about the size of foolscap can be pulled off the canvas. This paper is
mainly used for packing; if needed for writing, it is rubbed with glass
to glaze it.
As the oasis is rich in mulberry trees it produces a considerable
amount of silk; but Khotan is the chief centre of this profitable
industry. The women tend the silkworms.
The soil of Guma is so sandy that the inhabitants cannot build the
usual mud-houses, but are obliged to have recourse to wattle-and-daub
structures, composed of a framework of sticks plastered inside and out
with a mixture that is for ever dropping off in flakes, thereby giving
to these dwellings a most unsubstantial air. I noticed that in the
cemeteries the graves were marked by tall withered saplings, to denote
the sites when they are covered up by the all-pervading sand.
The time of our visit coincided with the _Mizan_ or Equinox, which is
supposed to mark the close of the hot weather, and the “kindly fruits
of the earth” were nearly ready for the harvest. The cotton crop was
being gathered, its bursting pods lying on the ground; the handsome
man-high maize and millet were yellowing, and we revelled in delicious
corn cobs, boiled and then smeared with butter and sprinkled with salt,
as I had learned to eat them in Canada. We were also given another
vegetable, the roots of the lotus, which the Chinese look upon as a
delicacy; but it did not appeal to my taste. The pomegranates were a
glorious scarlet and the many varieties of grapes were in their prime;
the melons, peaches and nectarines had passed their zenith.
On the evening before we left Guma our servants, together with the
various travellers who had attached themselves to our party, organized
an entertainment. There was much singing, the performers yelling at
the top of their voices, accompanied by a thrumming of _sitars_, a
thudding of drums and a squealing of pipes. Three of the men executed
a pantomime dance, one being disguised as a woman, another as an old
man, and the third, a handsome young fellow, having no make-up at all.
All three went round in a circle one after the other with curious steps
and much waving of arms, the play being based on the well-known theme
of the girl-wife snatched from an old husband by her youthful lover. I
felt rather like an Oriental woman as I watched the show from behind
a curtain, and was amused to hear later that I was considered to be
a model of discreet behaviour because I had not attended any of the
Chinese banquets.
It was rather disturbing at night to hear the Chinese watchman going
his rounds, beating two sticks together as an assurance to the citizens
that he was guarding them faithfully, but I fancy that he and his
colleagues were of the Dogberry type and would probably pretend not to
notice were any devilry afoot.
Although we saw very little veiling after we had left Yarkand, this
Mohamedan custom prevailing less and less the nearer we approached
China, the women were extremely nervous at our approach, having seldom
or never seen Europeans. They would rush in all directions, hiding
their faces in the long cotton shawls which they wore over their heads,
and would vanish like rabbits into their mud hovels, giving me the
queer sense of being watched by legions of eyes as we rode through
the mean bazars. There were many public eating-houses in this part of
the world, with Chinese painted screens to hide the customers seated
behind them, and with gaily coloured pictures on the walls. The food
was cooked in big cauldrons in full view of the public, and I was
told that the restaurant-keepers, who are Tunganis (Chinese Moslems)
usually become rich, especially in one district, where both men and
women take all their meals in public. As a rule no payment is demanded
until six months have elapsed, and then mine host goes round to collect
his debts, with the not uncommon result that greedy folk who have
partaken too lavishly of the seven dishes provided are obliged to sell
their property in order to pay up. Fuel is certainly a heavy item for
the poor, who use it only for cooking and not to heat their houses;
therefore these restaurants, if used with discretion, ought to make for
economy.
During this journey the weather as a rule was perfect--fresh in the
morning and evening, quite cold at night, and only during the middle
of the day uncomfortably hot. I felt as if I were on a riding-tour
and picnic combined, so little of the discomforts of travel did we
experience, the supply question being easy and our servants doing their
work with scarcely a hitch. At night we generally slept in the open air
under our mosquito nets, and when the full moon rode across the heavens
I was often obliged to bandage my eyes to shut out the brilliant light.
It was on our march between Sang-uya and Pialma that the desert, for
once, showed itself in an unamiable mood. The morning was fine when we
left our comfortable quarters in a Chinese country house, and we soon
entered the region of sand-dunes, our horses racing up and down them
with much spirit, though the loose sand made the going very heavy.
We stopped a picturesque party of wayfarers with their donkeys in
order to photograph them, and gave them money for their trouble. They
posed themselves and their animals as my brother directed, but when
we had finished they remarked that they had expected to be shot, as
they imagined the camera to be some kind of firearm! Not unnaturally
I thought that this was a joke on their part, but later on we passed
a company of beggars, and my brother took a group consisting of a
wild-looking woman leading an ox and a man wearing a red leather
sugar-loaf hat. I noticed that the latter clasped his hands in an
attitude of entreaty as he stood perfectly motionless beside the
animal, and when he received his douceur he burst into speech, saying
with many exclamations that he had verily believed that his last hour
had come. These incidents gave me a glimpse of the docile spirit of the
race, and partly explained why the inhabitants of Chinese Turkestan
have nearly always been ruled by a succession of foreign masters. They
are small cultivators and petty shopkeepers, taking little interest
in anything outside their immediate circle, and their life seems to
destroy initiative and independence, thus rendering the task of their
Chinese rulers easy.
The morning breeze that blew in our faces was pleasant enough at
first, but gradually turned into a gale, which raised the sand in such
great clouds that the sun and sky were obscured with a yellow haze. In
spite of my veil and blue goggles the grit whipped my face and eyes
as we galloped our fastest in order to reach our destination before
matters grew worse. The horses were much excited, being as anxious as
we were to escape from the whirling sand, and it was annoying when
the grey broke loose from the rider who was leading him and cantered
off until we nearly lost sight of him in the thick haze. A couple of
men did their best to head him back, while the rest of us waited, my
chestnut screaming loudly and plunging violently in his eagerness to
join in the chase. The grey behaved in the usual provoking manner
of horses on the loose, circling round and round us, almost letting
himself be caught, and then galloping off a short distance before he
returned to coquet with the other horses. Finally my brother made a
lucky snatch at the trailing halter, and off we went faster than ever,
noting with thankfulness _potai_ after _potai_ as they loomed up out
of the blinding dust. Suddenly a change occurred that seemed almost
like magic. We plunged into a tree-bordered lane with fields of maize
stretching on either side, while overhead the clear blue sky seemed
free from every particle of dust. I looked back at the whirling yellow
inferno from which we had escaped, and in a few minutes thankfully
dismounted in a large garden with irrigation channels through which
the water flowed with a faint delicious splashing. Here our tents were
in readiness, pitched under shady trees, and hot tea was brought that
served a double purpose; for we found it a soothing lotion for our sore
eyes as well as grateful to our parched throats.
The waggons, which had done this last stage during the night, left
again at five o’clock in the afternoon, as the horses would be forced
to do a double stage of some thirty miles, with no water obtainable
on the road. But the animals had had thirteen hours’ rest and the
going was good for the first part of the way, so we hoped they would
be able to manage it. We ourselves were to break the stage at Ak
Langar, some fourteen miles away, and rest there for four hours before
undertaking the remainder of the march, which, we were told, was a
continuous series of lofty sand-dunes. Accordingly, after our evening
meal we mounted at seven o’clock, and leaving the little oasis, rode
off under the full moon across an absolutely barren gravelly desert.
We were told that some years before our visit a governor of Khotan had
placed posts at intervals along this stage, upon which lamps were hung
and lighted on dark nights. Unluckily this benefactor, a _rara avis_
among officials, failing to keep his finances in order, was dismissed
from his post and was now dragging out a precarious existence in the
Chinatown of Kashgar.
We of course stood in no need of lanterns, but in spite of the
moonlight the desert seemed rather eerie, and our horses, unaccustomed
to night marches, were curiously nervous and suddenly shied at some
dark moving shapes that turned out to be camels grazing on the scanty
tamarisk scrub. A little farther on they were startled by a large
dog, which we disturbed at its meal on a dead ass, and here and there
the moon gleamed on the white bones of deceased pack-animals that lay
beside the track. I am not ashamed to confess that I should not have
cared to ride this stage alone, and I did not wonder that the peasants
whom we passed driving laden donkeys were always in large parties.
After a while we came to a ruined _potai_, against which a rough
post was leaning, and learnt that this was the boundary between the
districts of Kargalik and Khotan. We were therefore in the Kingdom of
Jade, and our horses, having become used to their novel experience,
trotted along briskly in the keen night air, pricking their ears and
hastening whenever they espied the remains of a deserted serai sharply
silhouetted in the moonlight; for they were as anxious for their
night’s rest as I was.
With the exception I have mentioned there were no _potais_ to mark this
particular route, so I had not the pleasing sensation of knowing that
two and a quarter miles were accomplished whenever we passed one, and
was feeling extremely sleepy, when a black mass of building seemed to
rear up suddenly ahead of us. It was just upon midnight, and I was most
thankful to dismount and pass into a serai built of hewn stone, the
welcome cleanliness of its rooms being due to the fact that practically
no one halted there, owing to the lack of water. Yet the first sight
that met my eyes was a man drawing up a bucket from a well by means
of a windlass; but Jafar Bai explained that the water was bitter and
harmful to horses.
The natives had given us such alarming accounts of the difficulties
of the latter part of the stage that, tired as we all were, we were
allowed to sleep for only four hours, and it seemed to me as if I had
hardly closed my eyes when Sattur roused me. He brought a lighted
candle by which I dressed; for my room had no window and opened on to
the public courtyard, and a fat pigeon, disturbed by the light, flopped
down from the rafters and fluttered feebly round and round until I let
it out.
When we rode off in the crisp air of the early morning we were
surprised to find that for some miles ahead of us the road lay across
a gravelly plain that made excellent going for horses and baggage
waggons. Close to the serai four huge vultures were feeding on the
remains of a dead camel, and the loathsome birds were so gorged that
on the approach of our party they could only with difficulty flap or
hobble away for a few feet; they watched us until we had passed and
then returned to their interrupted meal. How horrible it must be for
a dying animal to be ringed about with these birds biding their time,
or even fastening on their prey before life is extinct! Owing to the
recent storm the atmosphere was unusually clear, and we enjoyed the
somewhat rare experience of seeing the lower slopes of the Kuen-lun
range, the existence of which was not even mentioned by Marco Polo,
presumably on account of its invisibility, which is notorious.
After a while we rode among low sand-dunes curved and ribbed by the
wind, and then crossed a high ridge that was more like a low hill
than a dune and must have meant a stiff pull for even our five-horse
_arabas_. Below its crest stood a couple of wooden posts, signifying
that we had reached the boundary of the famous _Kaptar Mazzar_ or
Pigeon Shrine, where all good Moslems must dismount to approach the
sacred spot on foot. There in the midst of the sand lay a graveyard
marked by poles on which hung fluttering rags and bits of sheepskin,
and near by was a tiny mosque with fretted wooden door and window
and some low buildings, the roofs of which were crowded with grey
pigeons. Legend has it that _Imam_ Shakir Padshah, trying to convert
the Buddhist inhabitants of the country to Islam by the drastic agency
of the sword, fell here in battle against the army of Khotan and was
buried in the little cemetery. It is affirmed that two doves flew forth
from the heart of the dead saint and became the ancestors of the swarms
of sacred pigeons that we saw. Our arrival caused a stir among them
and a great cloud rose up, with a tremendous whirring of wings, and
some settled upon the maize that our party flung upon the ground as an
offering.
The guardian of the shrine, in long blue coat and white turban, left
his study of the Koran and, accompanied by his little scarlet-clad
daughter, hurried to meet us. My brother asked them to attract their
charges to the graveyard, where he wished to photograph them; but
unluckily the holy birds entirely declined to be enticed in that
direction, paying no attention to the grain flung lavishly or to the
voice of the _mulla_. They merely wheeled round and round in lessening
circles until they descended on to the roofs of the pigeon-houses; for
they were sated with the offerings of the Faithful and extremely fat.
It might be thought that these birds, which are supposed to eat their
own weight daily, would be a menace to the crops of the neighbouring
Zawa oasis, but fortunately food is so abundant at home that they
hardly leave the vicinity of the shrine. They are certainly highly
favoured; for we were told that if a hawk were to venture to attack
them it would fall down dead in the act!
[Illustration: THE PIGEON SHRINE. _Page 206._]
We visited the sheds fitted with flat nests of basket work, on many
of which were fluffy yellow fledglings, and beams were laid from wall
to wall on which the birds could perch. As may be imagined, the smell
and dirt deterred me from taking more than a glance at this pigeon
sanctuary; but our servants had no such qualms, and probably felt
that the longer they stayed the more merit would accrue to them. Sir
Aurel Stein shows that the legend about these pigeons is merely a
variant of Hiuen Tsiang’s story of the sacred golden-haired rats, to
whose burrowings the pilgrim attributed the conical sand-dunes that
lie round this spot. The province, so the narrative runs, was invaded
by a barbarian host that encamped close to the mounds thrown up by
the creatures, whose aid the King of Khotan invoked in his despair.
During the night a huge rat came to him in a vision, promising him
success, and on the morrow, when the men of Khotan fell upon the
enemy, they gained an easy victory, because the rats had gnawed the
harness of the horses, the fastenings of the armour and the bowstrings
of the invaders. From that day the miraculous rodents were accorded
high honour: a temple was erected in the midst of the dunes, in which
sacrifices were offered to them and where all who passed by worshipped
and brought gifts, misfortunes falling upon those who neglected to do
so. The pigeon has now taken the place of the rat of Buddhist legend in
the minds of these primitive people, with whom tradition dies hard.
When we left the shrine we were prepared to cope with the gigantic
dunes that we had been warned to expect; but, not for the first time,
we grasped the inaccuracy of most of the statements made by the
natives, there being only two or three somewhat difficult places for
waggons. At the foot of the sandy waste in which the _Mazzar_ stood was
a stretch of reed-covered marshy ground, watered by a wide stream alive
with water-fowl, beyond which flocks were grazing. We soon saw ahead
of us the remarkably lofty weeping-willows of Zawa, and fetched up
finally at a small garden beyond the village, where we found our tents
ready pitched under the trees and were all thankful for a good rest and
a general tidying up, in anticipation of our entry into Khotan on the
morrow.
CHAPTER XI
KHOTAN THE KINGDOM OF JADE
There is no article of traffic more valuable than lumps of a certain
transparent kind of marble, which we, from poverty of language,
usually call jasper. These marbles are called by the Chinese
Iusce.[3]--BENEDICT GOES, 1603 A.D.
To Mrs. St. George Littledale belongs the distinction of being the
first English, if not European, woman to enter the town of Khotan,
and I felt proud at being the next to follow in her footsteps. We had
travelled over three hundred miles from Kashgar to this farthest city
in the East of Chinese Turkestan, and hundreds of miles of desert lay
between it and any place of importance in the Celestial Empire. A broad
sandy road shaded by trees led to the capital, broken only by the wide
stony bed of the Karakash River, the three branches of which we forded
with ease, since much of the water had been drawn off for irrigation
purposes into a broad canal.
_Khan Sahib_ Badrudin, the British Agent, a fine-looking old man in a
long coat of rich brocade and a snowy turban, met us and, dismounting
from his showy horse, conducted us to the usual _dasturkhwan_. We were
told that he wielded great power in the city. He was so frank and
hearty that I took to him on the spot, and after running the gauntlet
of the other receptions, we were conducted by him to his newly built
and elaborately ornamented garden-house. During our tour we had the
good fortune to be quartered in three entirely new residences, which
any traveller who knows the dirt and squalor of the East will recognise
as no small boon.
Badrudin’s “garden,” in common with all that I saw, was intersected
with irrigation channels, had no paths, and was planted with a
confused, ill-grown mass of fruit trees, so crowded together that
his orchard produced a very indifferent crop. Flowers are usually
conspicuous by their absence in these pleasaunces, although one
sometimes comes across zinnias, asters and marigolds, but to me their
redeeming feature was the _shefang_, and at Khotan the open-air parlour
was a particularly large and handsome one, curtained round with muslin
that ensured some privacy without excluding the air.
The trees surrounding it were the roosting-place of hundreds of small
birds, and about five o’clock every evening they would appear in a
large flock and a fearful squabbling would ensue, caused, I imagined,
by their desire to take possession of one another’s pet twigs. After
half an hour they settled down, and only a few drowsy murmurs would be
heard as one bird or another made a sleepy remark.
At Khotan I was anxious to replenish our butter-jars, but fear that no
one will believe me when I say that the united efforts of five cows
during two days only resulted in a single pound of butter! There is no
grazing in these oases, and the animals are allowed on the fields only
when the crops have been gathered, their usual feed being a bundle of
lucerne, fresh or dried according to the season, a meagre dietary not
conducive to a plentiful supply of milk.
My brother, as in all towns, was busy in receiving and returning
official visits and in settling cases, some of which had been in
abeyance for years. One of these interested me particularly, as I was
brought into touch with it in a way. It was concerned with righting
a widow whose relatives were trying to defraud her of property that
justly belonged to her, and the poor soul waylaid me as I was returning
from a ride and, seizing my hand, kissed it repeatedly, with loud
lamentations that went to my heart. When justice had been done, and
she was reinstated, the old lady came to my brother to express her
gratitude, which she evinced by kissing the hem of his riding-coat, to
his great embarrassment.
I had visitors of my own, as Badrudin’s three wives, accompanied by his
eldest son, wearing a suit of would-be British cut, called upon me.
The chief wife was a handsome Afghan lady, her eyebrows painted with
antimony in order to make them meet across her forehead, and as she
spoke Persian we got on well together. She had plenty of character,
and it was evident that she kept the other wives in due subjection.
Despite the heat the ladies wore rich velvet jackets and had gold or
silver braid on the brims of their velvet hats, and long white shawls
shrouding them from head to foot. They enjoyed sampling the cakes and
biscuits that I provided for tea, and liked seeing the curios that we
had bought in the town, some quaint jade monkeys throwing them all into
convulsions of laughter and most effectually breaking the ice between
my visitors and myself. As a result I felt quite at home with them when
I went next day to return their call, merely passing through a door
in the wall of our garden into theirs, where I found them installed in
a shabby old house very different from the gorgeous edifice in which
we had our quarters, and which I suspected would be entirely reserved
for the men of the household when we departed. Owing to the emigration
of the men, the women, as at Kashgar and Yarkand, are in great
preponderance, and here, as throughout Chinese Turkestan, the cheapness
of marriage encourages frequent divorce and so lowers the status of the
wives.
But, on the other hand, the women mix freely with the men, sell their
wares in the bazars and practically dispense with the face-veil. It may
be that the superior freedom enjoyed by the women of Khotan centuries
ago has been handed down to their descendants. According to Rémusat,
the Chinese writers remark again and again that the women mixed with
the men even when strangers were present, and rode like the men on
horses and camels. It is curious to note that over a thousand years ago
the women wore the long coats and trousers and plaited their hair just
as they do at the present day, the hair of yaks’ tails being used then
as now to thicken and lengthen these tresses, which are adorned with
gold or silver tassels.
Badrudin rode out with us one morning to see Ilchi, as the inhabitants
call their city, and I thought that the people looked as sickly as
those of Yarkand. Goitre was very prevalent, and there were, alas, many
idiots to be seen, both the bodily and the mental afflictions being
probably caused by the limited supply of water, which is kept in tanks,
a sure method in the East of propagating disease.
[Illustration: BEGGARS AT THE GATE. _Page 212._]
Three years before our visit a large part of the principal bazar had
been destroyed by fire, and our host had lost many shops on this
occasion; but the visitation was a blessing in disguise, for neat
wooden stalls with well-made shutters had been built in place of the
former dirty, untidy booths. We were taken to see the principal mosques
and shrines, architecturally beneath notice and all very shabby in
appearance, and beyond the bazar was the dismantled mud brick fort
erected by Yakub Beg. Separated from the old native town was the
modern China-town, walled in and dominated by a fort, and on all sides
stretched the well-watered oasis. Maize, barley, millet, buckwheat,
rice, cotton, hemp, grapes, peaches, melons and mulberries were grown
in abundance, while the numberless irrigation channels were planted
with poplars and willows which serve as fuel.
Khotan is famous for its silks and felts, its cotton cloth, carpets,
paper and jade, but the modern silk carpets with their aniline dyes are
not artistic, and the few old ones to be found command an exorbitant
price. In Rockhill’s _Life of the Buddha_ there is a curious legend
relating to the introduction of the silk industry into the province.
A king of Khotan married a Chinese princess, who wished to benefit
the country of her adoption by teaching its inhabitants how to make
silk. She had brought the eggs of the silkworm with her, concealed
in her hat, as one version has it; but the Chinese ministers, who
were determined that Cathay should retain the monopoly of a lucrative
trade, told the credulous king that the harmless worms would turn into
venomous serpents and ravage the land. The monarch in a panic commanded
the rearing-house to be burnt down; but his wife managed to save some
of the caterpillars, and later on appeared in beautiful garments woven
from their silk. Her husband, realizing that he had been duped by the
Chinese, repented of his foolish act and thenceforth warmly fostered an
industry that greatly contributed to the prosperity of his kingdom.
Silk is said to have been made in China from remote ages, for it is
recorded that to the wife of an emperor who reigned about 21,640 B.C.
(_sic_) belongs the credit of inventing the loom; but the secret was
guarded so jealously that centuries passed before the industry took
root in Khotan and Central Asia. At the commencement of the Christian
era raw silk was literally worth its weight in gold, and we read that
the Emperor Justinian had a monopoly of the costly stuff and set up
weaving-looms in his palace. The story goes that he persuaded two
Persian monks to bring him the precious eggs from Cathay at the risk
of their lives, for death would have been the penalty had the Chinese
discovered the contents of the hollow bamboo staff which they carried
to Byzantium about A.D. 550. Khotan is believed to be the district from
which those eggs and the great silk industry of Europe actually came,
and only at the present day has it been necessary to procure a fresh
supply of the former from the East to renew the original stock brought
across the desert so many centuries ago.
It was interesting to visit the chief silk factory of Khotan, where
thousands of pale yellow cocoons were being boiled in big cauldrons,
in defiance of the command of the Chinese princess, who said that such
a proceeding was a sin against the light, and would be followed by a
silkworm famine during the following year. Beside these vats women
were squatting who deftly picked a thread from each cocoon, unwinding
it until it was ready to be handed on to other women sitting beside
primitive spinning-wheels, who wound the threads off upon a spool.
From small reels the shining silk was wound on to large ones, and
finally it was hung up in thick hanks of delicious creamy colour, ready
for export. The native-woven silk is coarse in texture and dull when
compared with that produced from European looms, but when dyed with
deep vegetable colourings it has an indescribably rich appearance, and
much of it is exported to India.
_Yu_ is the Chinese name for jade or nephrite, and Yu-tien or Khotan
signifies Kingdom of Jade; therefore I was naturally anxious to obtain
all the information I could about this stone, which is valued above all
others in China and is even spoken of as “the quintessence of Heaven
and Earth.” The jade of Khotan has been known to the Chinese for over
two thousand years. Rémusat points out that there are references to
it as far back as 140 B.C., and it was often sent as tribute from the
rulers of the province to the Emperor of China.
One Chinese author compares a wise man to jade, affirming that both
have five of the same good qualities, and another talks of the
different colours of the stone, saying it is red as the comb of a cock,
yellow as a cooked chestnut, and so on. Again, a third writer affirms
that it gives forth light and a perfume, and others speak of its weight
and of the way in which it can be imitated and how easily it can be
dyed.
In popular belief the Jade River was separated into three branches
that carried down the white, black and green varieties respectively
from the mines situated at its source; and in bygone days the King of
Khotan used to inaugurate the “Jade Harvest,” or season of the year
when his subjects began to fish in the streams for the precious stone.
This beautiful mineral is found in veins running through rocks of
schist or gneiss, and is of almost every shade of white, grey, green,
yellow, or black. Until the recent revolution it was worn profusely by
the royalties and their courtiers, and was buried with the dead in the
form of bracelets and amulets, a carved bowl, screen or goblet being
a choice gift for the Emperor to send to a ruling sovereign, in which
connection a jade screen presented to Queen Victoria was valued at
£300,000 by English experts.
Badrudin took us into the town to see the jade workers turning cups
on lathes and polishing them by means of sand. On the ground lay some
small dull green boulders, the stone in its raw state, and I was told
that, had they been white flecked with green, they would have fetched
between two and three hundred pounds apiece. After the white, the
yellow is the most highly prized, and then comes the green and lastly
the black, for which the famous cenotaph of Tamerlane at Samarkand is
renowned. But alas, since the revolution the royal stone is no longer
popular in China, and the export to Peking has practically ceased. To
counterbalance this there is a small demand for it in India, where
it is bought by the British; but so low has the industry fallen that
my brother and I could not procure nearly as many cups as we wished.
The best that we found were a transparent black speckled with moss
green, most beautiful when held up to the light; but only four of
these goblets could be bought, and the rest of our purchases were in
an attractive dull reseda green that reminded me of sea-water in its
translucent delicacy.
One day we rode out to inspect the old jade pits several miles to
the east of the city, Badrudin supplying us with horses, as our own
always enjoyed a well-earned rest whenever we halted. He and his son
escorted us through the Oasis to the broad stone-strewn bed of the
Yurungkash or White Jade River, which we easily forded. We then trotted
and cantered along sandy paths between the high mud walls of countless
gardens. Our goal was a wide tract, formerly a river-bed, now a series
of pits ringed with boulders, the result of digging for jade during the
centuries. The sand-dunes of the great desert had crept to the edge of
the masses of rubble, among which our horses painfully stumbled as we
examined the so-called mines, holes about a dozen feet in depth. It is
at that distance from the surface that the blocks of jade washed down
in bygone days are to be found, the jade obtained from the mines being
soft and inferior in quality. Few finds of value are made nowadays,
and all good pieces are sent direct to Peking, the Khotan craftsmen
being unable to execute the carving for which the Chinese are famous.
The glory of Khotan was its jade, and it was owing to the high esteem
in which the Chinese held this stone that we hear so much about the
province from the early pilgrims and travellers.
When the Chinese travellers Fa-hien and Hiuen Tsiang visited the
province, in the fifth and seventh centuries respectively, there were
many towns in the kingdom which are now buried beneath the desert sand,
and according to the accounts of both pilgrims there were a hundred
Buddhist monasteries in the Oasis. It appears that the Khotanis
were not whole-hearted followers of the Master, for we hear that the
adherents to Buddhism were violently persecuted towards the end of
the ninth century, by those that worshipped spirits; but the religion
lingered on until it was finally extinguished by Islam, which swept
like a great wave through Chinese Turkestan.
On the day that we left Ilchi we made a _détour_ in order to visit the
site of Yotkan, which was the capital of the province a thousand years
ago. Old Badrudin led us a zigzag course round low-walled fields, and
after four or five miles announced that we had reached our goal. We
then dismounted and scrambled down a muddy slope on to a stretch of
cultivated ground at the foot of a low cliff. This latter had been
cut through by a _yar_, or ravine created by the action of the water
which had escaped from an irrigation canal, and this _yar_ revealed
bits of gold and _débris_ of all kinds on its banks. Sir Aurel Stein,
who began his famous excavations with the investigation of this site,
points out that without this fortunate accident the city so often
mentioned in the Chinese annals might never have been discovered.
The inhabitants of the village close by immediately began to dig for
treasure, washing the earth for gold, and by their efforts the fields
had been lowered several feet, because the strata containing the finds
were some thirteen feet beneath the surface. Sir Aurel Stein discovered
no remains of buildings, but was not surprised at this, for mud
bricks crumble away in the course of centuries; and it also occurred
to me that perhaps the peasants may follow the custom of the Persian
cultivator, who uses the _débris_ of ruins as a dressing for his crops.
Moreover, as the fields lying on the site of Yotkan were irrigated,
the action of the water would soon disintegrate any buildings
constructed of sun-dried bricks. The fact that the soil lies to-day
some nine to twenty feet above the old capital is due to the system of
irrigation; for the water let in over the fields carries much silt with
it. The roads throughout all the oases in Turkestan are from this cause
much lower than the fields, while the cemeteries, not being cultivated,
are at about the same level as the roads.
Badrudin told us the current legend that Yotkan had been destroyed by
a great flood which overwhelmed both the city and its inhabitants,
but Sir Aurel Stein shows this theory to be untenable, although he
apparently offers no other to account for the desertion of what was an
important city ten centuries ago.
Our host showed us various interesting objects found on the spot, a
beautiful terra-cotta vase with a Buddha on either side being the
chief, together with tiny terra-cotta figurines and a white jade ring.
I was told that the Chinese archers wear these rings on their little
fingers to keep them from being cut when they twang their bows. Sir
Aurel Stein bought a tiny monkey made of gold, and says that there is
still a small but profitable yield of the precious metal in the form of
gold-leaf, which was used extensively to decorate the Buddhist temples
and statues. Fa-hien mentions the splendour of these shrines and their
attendant monasteries in the fifth century, and Rémusat gives details
of the gorgeous ceremonial worship.
When we left Yotkan we rode to Zawa, where we rested, in anticipation
of the night march across the desert to the serai of Ak Langar. In
spite of our protests, genial old Badrudin insisted on accompanying us
thus far on our homeward way, and it was not till half-past eight that
night that with sincere regret we said good-bye to him. The moon, now
in its third quarter, had not risen, and our late host did us a final
good office by sending his body-servant ahead of our party, carrying a
little native lamp of classic design with two wicks hanging from its
spout. He proved a most useful torch-bearer, for the darkness under the
trees of the oasis seemed impenetrable at first, and he pointed out
the many small bridges and irrigation channels over which our horses
might have come to grief in the all-pervading gloom. Time and again the
feeble light seemed about to be extinguished by the breeze, but it held
out until we were free of the village, and we were then put in charge
of a Chinese runner who was to be our guide across the sand-dunes. The
British Agent’s trusty henchman now dismounted, kissed my brother’s
knee in token of farewell and, to my astonishment, actually _wept_,
though I cynically reflected that this emotion must be due rather to
the amount of his _pourboire_ than to affection for the British Consul.
Half an hour later the moon cast a faint gleam across the desert,
and we walked our horses in the track of the tall, wiry guide who
kept ahead of us all the time, now and then breaking into a run when
he reached the crest of a dune or descending it with great leaps.
Our horses certainly walked at the rate of four miles an hour on an
average, but the _ya-yieh_ did the ten miles to the serai without
turning a hair and arrived in better condition than I did. I had had a
fatiguing day; for there is always much to do when setting off again
after a longish halt, and, counting the distance to and from Yotkan,
I had ridden nearly forty miles. This in itself was nothing, as I
loved being in the saddle; but it was trying to set off on a _second_
march at the hour when I was usually making ready for bed, and I felt
grateful to the pure tonic air of the desert that made me feel as fit
as ever on the morrow.
Having retraced our steps to Yarkand, we made a _détour_ by way of
Merket, my brother being anxious to see that part of the country and
to shoot some of the pheasants named after Shaw. We and our horses
were again punted across the main stream of the river, and then had to
ride warily, following defined tracks in order to escape the dangerous
quicksands, and when we forded branches of the stream we avoided
places where stakes protruding from the water warned us of holes or
treacherous sands. It was rather a relief to clamber out upon the loess
banks of the river, from which we had picturesque glimpses of sandy
islets on which duck and water-birds were feeding, and I remember the
delicious perfume of the melons that were laid out to dry in a field
close to our encampment for the night.
It was mid-October when we reached Merket, and my brother, who had had
many disappointments as to the duck-shooting he had been promised,
felt his hopes revive as the natives spoke of a lake some four miles
off which simply teemed with water-fowl. I suppose it is inbred in
Orientals to say what they think will please a superior; the peasants
at all events were seemingly unconcerned as to whether their statements
were accurate or not. On this occasion, for example, the so-called lake
turned out to be a small marsh, dried up by the summer heats and with
never a sign of bird-life among its withered rushes. This was rather
a blow; but, on making enquiry about game at a prosperous-looking
village that lay outside one of the wide belts of stunted trees through
which the sandy road led, we heard that the jungle was swarming with
pheasants. A party of beaters was improvised on the spot, and my
brother went off full of hope, while I rode slowly on with old Jafar
Bai and the one-legged Hindu trader, having agreed to halt for our
mid-day meal a couple of miles farther on. And now the Hindu began to
play the well-known game of dangling a lure before the European, the
bait in my case being water. He professed that he knew every inch of
the road and that a refreshing stream was close at hand; but, when
we had ridden considerably farther than the stipulated distance, I
revolted, and stopping in the shade of the trees ordered lunch to be
served as soon as Sattur and his _mapa_ arrived. Hardly had I finished
when the sporting party cantered up with the disheartening news that
they had not seen a single pheasant. It was a day of disappointments;
for, as we were riding into camp, a servant rushed up with the news
that wild-duck were in abundance on a lake near which we had passed.
Hope again revived, and off my brother went, but, as usual, after
a _fata Morgana_. This day is a sample of many. During our halt at
Merket my brother shot only two or three of the Shaw pheasants, and
he had no luck when he rode off at five o’clock in the morning to
watch the great hunting eagles bring down gazelle, although they made
successful flights at hares. Probably the scarcity of game is owing to
the fact that the country is comparatively thickly populated and
well-cultivated, and that many of the peasants are sportsmen and have
no scruples as to close seasons.
[Illustration: A DULANI _SHAYKH_. _Page 222._]
Just outside the village my brother was met by an old greybeard who
saluted in military style, and it turned out that he had been formerly
in a Panjabi regiment, and had been sent into Turkestan with letters
for Dalgleish, whose murder resounded through Central Asia a generation
ago.
Merket is interesting as being the home of the Dulanis, supposed
to be Kirghiz who settled on the land a couple of centuries ago
when the Kalmucks ruled the province. These people are remarkable
as being Moslems who mix freely with their women, the latter going
about unveiled, and eating, dancing and singing with the men at
entertainments which often last the whole night long. They have a
great reputation as singers, and one morning we were favoured with a
performance, the songster being a tall greybeard clad in a long red
robe and a sheepskin cap. He beat on a tambourine-like instrument,
throwing his head into the air and emitting tremendously long-drawn
notes and then taking breath in deep gasps, much as the Germans
sing their _Lieder_ in Lutheran churches. His songs seemed full of
repetition, he made fearful grimaces, and as he yelled at the top of
his voice, I was not surprised that after a while he became hoarse.
His companion played a _rubab_, a stringed instrument much like a
mandoline, the plectrum being a bit of wood, and crowds of villagers
gathered to hear the performance, to which they listened in enraptured
silence; for we were told that the singer was renowned throughout the
district.
Iftikhar Ahmad kindly translated for me two of his songs, which run as
follows:
If I say that I am a Mohamedan and do not keep the commands of Allah
How shall I escape punishment when I am laid in the dark grave?
No young girls will dance at my bidding.
They have blackened their eyebrows with _kohl_ and refuse to bow down
before the youths.
The second is the lament of a love-sick maiden:
1
Oh, my beloved, fresh coloured as an apple,
I entrust thee to the keeping of Allah until we meet again.
2
Oh, that I could ride to Aksu on my white horse newly-shod,
Or could see thee, my love, walking beside the river.
3
I am feeble as a rush, I am in the power of a giant;
I cannot sleep at night and am forced to think of thee all day long.
4
Alas, my love has gone from me in anger and how shall I persuade him
to forgive me?
I will place tea[4] before him and by dancing and smiling I will make
my peace with him.
The Merket bazar was one of the poorest and most squalid I had seen in
the course of my travels, and was in curious contrast to the apparent
prosperity of the large oasis. The inhabitants, who hovered about our
camp all day long, were certainly of a lower type than the ordinary
villagers of Chinese Turkestan, but as far as I could judge they did
not merit the scathing condemnation of one writer, who says: “These
people are in the most backward state of human intelligence that it
is possible to imagine human beings to be capable of. In physical
strength and stature they are perhaps the most miserable objects on the
face of the earth, but their social position is still more deplorable
...”
[Illustration: DULANI MUSICIANS. _Page 224._]
When we left Merket we plunged into sand covered with low tamarisk
scrub and the _toghrak_ tree, _populus heterophyllus_, peculiar, I
understand, to Chinese Turkestan, which looks like a cross between the
willow and the poplar. When this tree is quite young all the leaves are
pinnated, like those of the willow; at an older stage the upper part
has the poplar leaf, and when it is full-grown there is no trace of the
narrow willow-like leaf, which has dropped off. It was now mid-October
and the foliage was a brilliant gold, bright as the trees in a Canadian
fall, but without the flaming scarlets of the maple and oak of the
Dominion.
We and our belongings had to cross the Yarkand River again in one of
the clumsy ferry-boats, and the vigorous-looking boatman was obliged to
make such Herculean efforts to pole his unwieldy craft round that I was
not surprised to learn that men of his calling contract heart complaint
from the strain.
The ferryman’s wife, a handsome young woman, charmingly clad in a
rainbow-striped coat and a green velvet gold-embroidered cap, watched
her husband’s progress, and I was told that she was a Dulani. Certainly
she looked a credit to her tribe, as she strolled about unconcernedly
among the men, with many of whom she exchanged greetings. Her bare
feet were thrust into the overshoes that all wear over the long
riding-boots, and her big silver earrings added to the picturesqueness
of her appearance. I was seated on a felt beside a table heaped with
grapes and melons, and smiled at her as she gradually edged up to me
on pretence of flicking the flies off the fruit. She held her pretty
little boy by the hand, the child all too warmly clad in a padded red
coat and fur cap, and a small gift unsealed her lips, putting us on
such friendly terms that she was delighted to be photographed by the
first European woman she had ever seen.
And now we turned our backs on the Yarkand River and were piloted
across sandy tracks and rode through barren spaces dotted with
tamarisk, towards the dunes of a strip of desert, the loose sand of
which made the going heavy for our horses. The sun sank at half-past
five and, as is usual in the East, there was hardly any twilight, but
by the waning moonlight we could see the track as we plodded along, our
horses snorting suspiciously and starting at isolated tamarisk bushes
or stunted _toghrak_ trees. At last we surmounted a dune and saw below
us a deserted mud building and the gleam of a pool of water, indicating
the goal of our march. To me there was something curiously eerie in the
scene; for the moonlight cast strange shadows, and the desert seemed as
if it were listening for I knew not what, reminding me of Meredith’s
lines:
I neighbour the invisible
So close that my consent
Is only asked for spirits masked
To leap from trees and flowers.
The servants and horses had disappeared round the ruined rest-house,
and I had a queer sense that things seldom seen by mortal eyes would
have revealed themselves had I been quite alone. I remember strolling
up to a largish _toghrak_ tree, under which a little tent was to be
pitched for me, and what was perhaps a big rat ran down the bark with
incredible speed and seemed to vanish, and later on, as my brother
and I walked back along the road to listen for the _mapa_ which was
to bring Sattur and our evening meal, some creature, probably a fox,
noiselessly rushed past us like a flash, giving the impression of being
a shadow rather than anything material.
[Illustration: A DULANI WOMAN AND HER SON. _Page 226._]
The water here was brown and bitter and smelt so disagreeably that
neither we nor our animals could quench our thirst. When the waggons
came up they made only a short halt and went on at 2 A.M., and we
ourselves followed soon after, as we were anxious to water our horses,
not to mention our own thirst.
The usual early morning breeze changed to a wind that blew up clouds
of sand; therefore we pushed forward as fast as we could, in case a
real sandstorm should overtake us. This particular tract of desert is
called _Karakum_ or Black Sand, and I imagined that the name must be
some kind of native joke, as the sand was particularly white. We rode
on hour after hour and were thankful finally to reach a serai, before
which stood a trough full of water. My chestnut was so impatient to
quench his thirst that he kicked my ankle as I dismounted, presumably
to hasten my movements. He was always a bad-tempered animal--_Shaitan_
(Satan) the grooms called him--snapping with his ears laid back at any
human being or animal within reach; but in spite of this he was my
favourite on the march, as none of our other horses could rival his
elastic walk and easy canter. I was thankful that he had not started
kicking earlier in our acquaintance; for on every subsequent occasion
that I rode him he lashed out at me as I slipped from the saddle, and
in order to save me from a broken ankle my brother was obliged to hold
up his fore-leg; so perforce I changed to another mount.
There are many advantages in travelling officially, transport and
supply being thus made easy, but never before had roads and bridges
been mended in honour of our arrival, as was the case in the Merket
district. The highway was dotted at intervals with parties of peasants
who were piling earth over the many holes in the bridges, and driving
rows of stakes into the ground along the irrigation channels where
the road had broken away. These stakes would then be padded with
maize-bents, reeds or tamarisk scrub, and plastered over with thick
lumps of wet mud. This method of road-making, which prevails throughout
Chinese Turkestan, is by no means an ideal one, for when the earth and
padding fall away the points of the props stick out in a manner most
dangerous to horses if going at any pace.
The glorious weather we had had on the whole was now changing, and,
after a gale so violent that our tents that night seemed to be in
danger every moment, we became aware of the approach of winter. The sun
had vanished, a grey veil lay over the landscape, and there was black
frost in the air. The villagers had donned their padded red, black or
blue long winter coats, those of the women being often striped in many
colours, and all wore their pork-pie hats of velvet or cloth edged with
fur or sheepskin and looked cold and miserable. Jafar Bai amused us by
pointing out a shady spot where we could eat our mid-day lunch, with
his usual formula, “Here you will find shelter from the sun,” although
he himself had told us that it was now the season of the storms that
herald in the winter.
October 20 was the _id_, or festival to commemorate the sacrifice of
_Ishmael_ by Abraham (so the Koran has it, quite ignoring the Isaac of
the Bible), and our servants were naturally eager to arrive at Kashgar
on the previous evening, the _id_ being an occasion of feasting as well
as of prayer in the mosques.
As usual we suffered from the vague ideas of the natives concerning
distances, and the so-called twenty-mile ride, that was to bring us
within easy reach of Kashgar, dragged out to a thirty-mile march,
which, to me at all events, was peculiarly dreary. It lay along sandy
tracks crossing great stretches of crumbling salt-encrusted soil, with
here and there a reed-covered lake or swamp that alternated with strips
of cultivation. The grey mist hung round us, hiding villages and trees
until we arrived quite close to them, and seeming to enclose us in a
ghostly world with a curiously depressing atmosphere of its own. I felt
as if we were in one of Maeterlinck’s plays, so heavily did a sense of
impending disaster weigh upon me, in spite of vigorous struggles on
the part of my common-sense. No misfortune overtook us save that the
servants were deprived of the eve of their festival; for my brother
decreed that, _id_ or no _id_, we should halt for the night by a broad
canal running parallel with the Kizil Su. It was well that he did so;
for all our horses were tired out, and next day, even with the stimulus
of their homes ahead of them, they could scarcely manage the twenty
miles that lay between our last camp and Kashgar. Delightful as our
tour had been, it was very pleasant to be in a clean, well-built house
once more, and to be welcomed effusively by Bielka and Brownie. I
was thankful to see them both in good condition, as well as the sweet
little desert lark in its round cage.
Khotan, with its silk and jade, the desert, and the Yarkand River,
receded into the background; for in about six weeks’ time we should be
leaving Kashgar for good, and setting our faces towards Europe and home.
Indeed, I was not altogether sorry, for at first after our return
Kashgar, enveloped in a frosty grey mist, was sunless and cold, and
the revel of colour that the Kashgaris had displayed in their garments
during the summer had gone. Fortunately in this part of the world
the winter is short; for the houses are not designed to keep out the
cold, and the people are too poor to heat them. Fuel is so dear that
it is used only for cooking, and during the day the natives usually
sit huddled up in sheltered spots and bask in the sunshine, which
luckily does not fail them for long at a time. From December 22 to the
beginning of February is called the “Forty Days of the Great Cold,” and
it is followed by the “Little Cold,” which lasts about twenty days.
It has sometimes happened, when a wind blew during the “Great Cold,”
that peasants coming in to market on their donkeys have been frozen to
death. In consequence of this the Chinese have passed a law that, if
any one demands shelter at a house during this period and dies because
the door is shut against him, the inhospitable owner of that house is
to be tried for murder.
We had enjoyed the very best of the year, and were fortunate to leave
without seeing Kashgar at its worst, graphically described by Lord
Dunmore, thus: “It is as desolate, dirty and uninteresting looking
a city as can possibly be imagined ... a series of yawning abysses;
roads full of gaping chasms ... tumbledown mud houses, obsolete mud
cemeteries.... [The town is] always either swimming in mud or smothered
in dust, and what offends the eye still more is the one uniform
melancholy tint of dirty drab that pervades the whole picture....”
To me it will always remain a most picturesque and interesting place,
embowered in foliage, surrounded by water and gilded by sunshine, while
its brilliantly clad, pleasant-mannered inhabitants greatly contributed
to its charm.
* * * * *
Sir George Macartney arrived in November and we again started off
through Central Asia and Northern Europe, reaching home about a month
later, when the War, with its urgent claims upon every man and woman,
took possession of our thoughts and energies. But I shall never forget
the wonderful sunsets of Kashgar seen through a haze of gold, or the
glorious dome of Muztagh Ata, the immense sweep of the desert over
which the moon and stars hung like lamps in a sky of sapphire velvet,
and the friendly races, Turki or Kirghiz, who added so greatly to the
pleasure of my last experience of the Open Road.
PART II
CHAPTER XII
THE GEOGRAPHY, GOVERNMENT AND COMMERCE OF CHINESE TURKESTAN
Le Turkestan est pour les Chinois une position stratégique et un
excellent débouché pour l’aristocratie mandarine qui ne trouve
plus assez de places disponibles dans la vieille Chine. C’est tout
simplement une bonne terre de pâture pour engraisser une portion
notable du troupeau administrateur--GRENARD, _La Haute Asie_, ii. 273.
Hsin-Chiang, or “the New Province,” as the Chinese term it, includes
the province now generally known as Chinese Turkestan, together with
Urumchi and other districts situated to the north of the Tian Shan
which lie outside the scope of this work. The province we are dealing
with has had many names, such as Lesser Bokhara, Moghulistan, Tartary,
High Tartary, Eastern Turkestan, the Six Cities and Kashgaria, the last
four names having been in use until quite recently.
The country is a vast plain, measuring about 1000 miles from east to
west and about half that distance from north to south. Its altitude
is some 4000 feet in the west, and decreases steadily as it stretches
eastwards, until at Turfan an area lying below sea-level is found. The
physical boundaries are definite, being formed by some of the loftiest
mountains in the world. To the north runs the Tian Shan; to the west
lies the Kizil Art, holding up the Pamirs, those elevated valleys of
High Asia; on the south are the lofty Kara Koram and Kuen Lun ranges,
the latter being the Kasia Mountains of Ptolemy, bounding Serindia,
as he termed the province. The eastern boundary is the vast _Gobi_
or “Desert,” where Sir Francis Younghusband travelled for nearly one
thousand miles without seeing a house.
The Takla Makan desert, distinct from the Gobi, occupies the centre
of the country. From east to west this paralysing waste stretches for
500 miles, while its greatest breadth from north to south is half
that distance. It is indeed a Land of Death, covered with monstrous
sandhills, which overlie the ruins of great cities and dense forests
and represent the triumph of the wind, combined with desiccation, over
the patient industry of man. There are also smaller deserts, such as
that lying between Merket and Kashgar, which we crossed on our journey.
[Illustration: THE TIAN SHAN OR CELESTIAL MOUNTAINS. (Taken from the
West on the Osh-Kashgar route.) _Page 236._]
Chinese Turkestan may be described as a desert, or series of deserts,
fringed by oases forming a horseshoe, with the toe pointing west. In
Persia, except in the heart of the Lut, there are villages at intervals
all over the country, depending mainly on the underground irrigation
channels termed _kanats_, whereas in Chinese Turkestan, outside a few
large oases, more fertile than any areas in Persia, the desert is of
a more intense type, and rarely supports even a scanty covering of
bushes such as are usually found in Persia. Indeed the desert, with
its waves of sand advancing in regular lines and rising to the height
of perhaps one hundred feet, is the most noticeable feature of the
country, which is full of legends of the destruction through this
agency of many famous cities. The description of Hiuen Tsiang, the
great Chinese traveller, is worth quoting: “These sands extend like a
drifting flood for a great distance, piled up or scattered before the
wind. There is no trace left behind by travellers, and often-times the
way is lost, and so they wander hither and thither, quite bewildered,
without any guide or direction. There is neither water nor herbage to
be found, and hot winds frequently blow. When these winds rise, both
man and beast become confused and forgetful, and there they remain
perfectly disabled. At times, sad and plaintive notes are heard and
piteous cries, so that between the sights and sounds of this desert
men get confused and know not whither they go. Hence there are so many
who perish on the journey. But it is all the work of demons and evil
spirits.”[5]
It has been calculated that the area of the oases is rather less than
1½ per cent of the whole, so that if the deserts were taken away we
should have to deal with a very small stretch of habitable country.
As it is, we see oases, generally separated by miles of desert, all
producing wheat, barley and other essentials within their own limits,
and therefore needing but little communication with their neighbours,
from whom they want nothing and to whom they sell nothing. The result
is a state of general well-being, unprogressive in character and
tending to stagnation. The more one travels the more one realizes
how the progress and prosperity of a country depend upon good
communications and an abundant rainfall.
There is another point of view from which the detached oases have
affected the history of the region. They have never possessed enough
resources to support a powerful army; but, owing to their isolation
and proximity to the mountains, they were doomed to become the prey of
every powerful force which swept down from the undefended frontier and
took the cultivated areas in detail. The inhabitants have at no time
displayed military virtues, and are to-day singularly unwarlike.
Of the rivers of the province, the Yarkand, known in its upper reaches
as the Zarafshan, and lower down as the Tarim, is the most important.
It frequently changes its course, and is perhaps responsible for the
proverb, “A river, like a king, obeys no law.” Its chief tributaries
are the Ak Su from the north and the Khotan River from the south.
The Kizil Su or “Red River,” which flows through Kashgar, was also
in past times a tributary of the Yarkand River, but it now fails to
reach the main stream, for its water falls into the Lalmoi marsh below
Maralbashi. Other rivers do not even approach the Zarafshan, but lose
their waters in the sands.
It is a far cry from Egypt to Chinese Turkestan, but they are alike in
this, that both countries depend absolutely and entirely on rivers for
their life. As in Egypt, so in the basin of Chinese Turkestan, there is
no rainfall which counts; everything therefore depends on a full river.
The snowfall on the ranges affects the volume of water, which on the
whole is decreasing. “The Land of Withering Rivers” is the appropriate
title of a chapter dealing with this question in Huntington’s _The
Pulse of Asia_. Apart from this, a cold summer in the Pamirs, such as
occurred in 1915, may hinder the melting of the snows to such an extent
that very little water reaches Maralbashi, below Kashgar, during the
entire summer; and even in the Kashgar Oasis there was in that year a
distinct deficiency of irrigation water.
The climate of Chinese Turkestan is intensely continental. The province
is surrounded, as we have seen, by some of the highest ranges in the
world; we therefore find extremes of heat and cold. Kashgar, where
alone meteorological observations are taken, lies at an altitude
of 4277 feet, and it might be thought that in consequence of this
altitude, together with a latitude which is that of Central Spain, and
the proximity of snow-covered ranges, the summer would be short and
cool. Yet, mainly owing to the almost total absence of rainfall, the
three summer months have a mean maximum of 90° with a mean minimum of
62°. On the other hand, the three winter months have a mean maximum of
38° with a mean minimum of 17°, but it is to be noted that, owing to
the dryness, the cold is not severely felt. The scanty rainfall of only
3·34 inches is distributed over the whole year and is irregular. During
the spring and summer of 1915 no rain fell in Kashgar beyond a few
showers which were too light to record, but in the mountains the falls
of snow and rain were frequent, especially in June.
The Kashgar Oasis certainly merits the epithet of “windy” during the
spring. The storms blowing mainly from the west, or from the Takla
Makan, are generally accompanied by clouds of dust which envelop the
Oasis in a haze, and so prevalent is this condition that there are,
as already mentioned, only one hundred clear days in the year. This
disagreeable phenomenon was noted by _Mirza_ Haidar, who, in the early
part of the sixteenth century, wrote: “But Kashgar has also many
defects. For example, although the climate is very healthy, there are
continual storms of dust and sand, and violent winds charged with black
dust.”[6]
The population of Chinese Turkestan is estimated at about one million
and a half. It is almost entirely confined to the oases, chief of
which are Kashgar with 300,000, Yangi Shahr with 200,000, Yarkand
with 200,000, and Aksu and Khotan each with 190,000 inhabitants. The
population may also be grouped into two main classes as “settled” and
“nomadic,” with a small semi-nomadic division. The nomads, together
with the semi-nomads, do not aggregate more than 125,000 in all.
They inhabit the cold highlands, moving about in summer and winter
alike as their flocks exhaust the grazing, which is rich in summer
and scanty at other seasons. The Kirghiz, who are the leading nomads,
estimated to number 50,000, implicitly believe that their ancestor was
a Kazak Prince, Saghyon Khan by name. According to the legend, his
forty daughters were walking by a river one day when they remarked
foam covering its surface. From curiosity they all dipped their
fingers into the water, and thereby became pregnant, and the Kirghiz
claim to be the descendants of these “Forty Maidens” or _Kirk Kiz_.
This tradition evidently rests on a poor pun, but it proves that the
Kirghiz regard themselves as a branch of the Kazaks, or “Cossacks,”
as we write the word. They furthermore believe that the same Prince
had thirty sons, _Utuz Ughul_, whose descendants inhabit the Alai and
the country between it and the Ili province. In Chinese Turkestan the
principal Kirghiz tribes inhabiting the uplands between Kashgar and the
Taghdumbash Pamir are the Naiman, the Kapchak and the Tait. The Kirghiz
are all Moslems of the Sunni sect.
The Dulanis, whom we met in the Merket Oasis below Yarkand, are
another tribe of importance in the province. Their origin is called in
question, but they are akin to the Kirghiz, although they differ in
appearance owing to their sedentary life in a forest-covered country.
Their name is said to have been given them by a _Khoja_ monarch, who
termed them his _dulan_ or “two shoulders.” They live in miserable
shanties made of wood and are poor cultivators, relying more on their
flocks than on the produce of their land.
The semi-nomads include the Taghliks or “Highlanders,” who herd the
flocks belonging to the sedentary population. They spend the summer
in the mountains, but occupy huts or caves in the foot-hills during
the winter; these “Highlanders” are all Sunni Moslems. On the other
hand, the Mongols of Karashahr, who in numbers are about equal to the
Kirghiz, are all Buddhists.
In addition to the tribes already mentioned, there is a strong colony
of five thousand families of Tunganis, mainly immigrants from Central
China, Kansu and Shensi. As Sunni Mohamedans converted in the early
days of Islam they were hostile to the Chinese, and have rebelled
more than once; but during the recent Revolution they changed their
policy and supported the local authorities. In consequence they are now
being given posts in the government, and at the time of my visit the
commander of the troops at Khotan was a Tungani.
To conclude this enumeration, the Tajiks, who are Aryans from Farghana,
numbering 13,000, the Chinese 6000, the Indians 5000 and the Abdalis
1000, make up the population of Chinese Turkestan. The Abdalis claim
kinship with the Abdalis of Khorasan or Herat, now the Durranis. They
are locally believed to be the descendants of Yezid, the slayer of the
_Imam_ Husayn at Kerbela, and until the time of Yakub Beg’s rule are
said to have acted a play in which the Shias are reviled. Grenard,[7]
who studied this mysterious people, came to the conclusion that they
were the descendants of a Persian Shia colony, but Stein, whose
authority is superior, believes that they are Gipsies.
The province of Hsin-Chiang is ruled by a _Chiang Chun_[8] or
Provincial Governor, who resides at Urumchi. Under him are _Taoyin_,
or Governors, of Urumchi, Tarbagtai, Ili, Aksu and Kashgar. The
situation is complicated by the fact that the commander of the troops
in the districts south of the Tian Shan is independent of the Governor
of Urumchi, taking orders direct from Peking. Under the _Taoyin_ of
Kashgar, with which we are especially concerned, are _Hsien Yin_, or
Sub-Governors, of Khotan, Yarkand and other districts; there are also
officials appointed to deal with foreign affairs. The term _Amban_ is
applicable to all Chinese officials, and is used especially as a mark
of respect. The above-mentioned officials, constituting the superior
civil service, are all Chinese, but their subordinates, known as
_Begs_, _Ming Bashis_ and _Yuz Bashis_, are usually Moslems. The
_Begs_ are the local landowners and are generally men of considerable
influence, and to them is entrusted the collection of the taxes, the
administration of justice so far as minor cases are concerned, and the
arrangements for forced labour. The irrigation system is also in the
hands of the _Begs_, whose subordinates are elected by the cultivators
of the district.
[Illustration: THE TUNGANI COMMANDER OF THE TROOPS AT KHOTAN. _Page
242._]
The nomads are administered quite independently of the provincial
governors, by an official generally known as the Ili Tartar General,
who is the acknowledged head of the various tribal organisations.
Their taxes are one-fifteenth of the crop in the case of those who are
engaged in agriculture, and about the equivalent of three shillings per
100 sheep, or 10 horses, or 5 camels; cattle are not taxed.
The system sketched above, by which there are three independent
authorities in the province, is bad enough; but it is made infinitely
worse by the corruption which prevails, especially in the collection of
the revenue. On the other hand, the taxes are generally light, and the
condition of the people is one of acquiescence in Chinese domination.
The chief tax levied from the “settled” population is on land, which
for this purpose is divided into “well-irrigated” and “white” land.
The survey on which the revenue is raised was that fixed after the
final expulsion of the Khokandis and Andijanis, when less than one-half
of the land now cultivated was occupied. The tax is light, amounting
to one-tenth for the good land and one-fortieth for the bad land.
It is payable in grain; but, as the Chinese officials demand money,
the _Begs_ fix the rate high and share the difference with their
superiors. By this and other means the land tax is now increased to
about one-fifth of the crop; but prices have risen considerably of late
years, and when prices rule high the farmer makes money. Apart from
the land tax revenue is raised from registration of sales of land,
from _likin_ or internal customs, and from taxes on wine, salt, mills,
etc. Labour has also to be provided for public works and transport
for the use of troops. For the assessment of this impost the unit of
fifteen houses termed a _choka_ is taken, and each _choka_ provides a
labourer and a cart; building material, if required, is partly paid
for. Artisans, who are organized into guilds, are obliged, if required,
to work for Government on five days in each month, and receive the
equivalent of fourpence a day. In 1913 the revenue levied by the
_Taoyin_ of Kashgar was as follows:
Taels.
Land Tax 570,000
Tax on registration of land sales 200,000
Tax on sale of live stock 250,000
_Likin_ 180,000
Miscellaneous taxes on wine, salt, flour mills 100,000
---------
Taels 1,400,000
This sum, with the tael reckoned at 2s. 8d., is equivalent to £186,666.
The revenue is all ear-marked for local expenditure, 800,000 taels, or
rather more than one-half of the entire amount, being absorbed by the
inefficient army, which exists mainly on paper.
The administration of justice is fairly good, although bribery is not
uncommon. As a rule, civil cases are tried by the _Kazis_ and criminal
cases by the _Begs_. The Chinese authorities merely supervise, and
prefer that all cases, whether criminal or civil, should be settled
out of court. By Chinese law no punishment can be inflicted without
confession of guilt, and torture is freely administered to secure this
confession. Punishments include beating on the back of the thighs above
the knees, and the _cangue_, a board two feet square and weighing
thirty pounds, which is worn round the neck; and also imprisonment.
Death sentences (which have to be confirmed at Urumchi) are carried out
by hanging, strangling or beheading.
In this system as a whole, as in the administration of justice, the
Chinese work as far as possible through the leading inhabitants, while
retaining a general supervision. They are very greedy for money, but
are acute enough to avoid causing too much discontent, and they remove
any official who becomes unpopular. In short, although their system
may be inefficient and aims at no improvements in administration or
communications, it is believed that the natives, with their memory of
Yakub Beg’s tyranny, would not care to exchange their Chinese rulers
for Moslems.
We come now to the trade of the province, concerning which my remarks
refer mainly to the three cities of Kashgar, Yarkand and Khotan.
Kashgar, the residence of the Governor, is not only the chief town, but
the centre of Russian trade. Owing to its favoured position with regard
to the railway at Andijan and the wealth of its rich oasis, the city
is increasing in population, which is now estimated at 80,000. Land
is rising in price and there is hardly a vacant house. Yarkand, with
70,000 inhabitants, is also rich and prosperous, but in a less marked
degree, and is the chief centre of the trade with India. Khotan, with
a population of 50,000, is the centre of the manufacturing activity of
the province, being celebrated for its jade, silk and carpets.
The mainstay of the export trade with India is the drug known as
_charas_ in India, prepared from the hemp which is planted round the
fields of maize; raw silk is the next most valuable export. The chief
articles of import from India are muslins, longcloths, and red cotton
prints; while spices from Southern India are in great and increasing
demand, and penetrate even to the western provinces of China. Surat
brocades are imported for covering caps and for women’s cloaks, and I
have seen some good specimens of the beautiful cloth of gold.
In no part of Asia are communications more difficult. The route to
India, _via_ Leh, perhaps the highest and roughest trade route in
the world, runs across range after range of stupendous mountains,
culminating in the Kara Koram, which is crossed by a pass at the
immense height of 18,550 feet. This track is open for not more than
six months in the year, and the difficulties from storms, avalanches
and flooded rivers are increased by the scantiness of the grazing, and
for some six stages by the entire absence of villages. This trade with
India _via_ Leh is of small amount, showing a total value of about
£200,000 for 1913.
By treaty Russo-Chinese trade _via_ Irkeshtam or Narin is free of
customs dues. Its value in 1913 was two and a half million roubles, or
rather more than the British total at the pre-war rate of exchange,
cotton tissues being the most important article. The Russian flowered
prints with which the natives are chiefly clothed--only the poorer
classes wearing the dingy white native calico--are artistic, and make
the crowds in the bazar delightfully picturesque. As may be supposed,
the chief articles of export are raw materials, such as cotton,
sheepskins, silk and wool; but there is also a considerable trade in
the local white cloth, which is worn on both sides of the frontier, and
in carpets.
The trade with Afghanistan is local and is mainly with the province
of Badakshan, the imports being almonds, pistachio and gall-nuts, and
the horses which were famous even in Marco Polo’s day. Opium, too,
is smuggled in considerable quantities; the _lapis lazuli_ mines are
not worked regularly, but occasional blocks are brought for sale. The
Badakshani traders carry back Russian piece goods, carpets and the
local white cloth. The route, which runs across the Wakhijir pass, is
open during the summer only, and the pedlars--for those who use it are
little more--must be a hardy race to withstand its rigours.
CHAPTER XIII
AN HISTORICAL SKETCH OF CHINESE TURKESTAN: THE EARLY PERIOD
L’histoire des Turos occidentaux est comme la clef de voûte oû
convergent et se rencontrent pendant quelques années les histoires
particulières de grandes nations qu’on regarde trop souvent comme
isolées les unes des autres; elle nous rappelle que la continuité
est la loi de l’univers et qu’il n’est pas d’anneau qu’on puisse
ignorer dans la chaine infinie dont toutes les parties sont
solidaires.--CHAVANNES, _Documents sur les Turcs Occidentaux_.
The history of Chinese Turkestan presents the difficulty that until
mediaeval times it filled but a small part on the stage of Asia. On
the other hand, it lay on the highway of the nations, and migrations
from the Far East to the West, which have so deeply influenced the
history of mankind, generally traversed the Tarim basin, the country
to the south being almost impracticable, and the country to the north
presenting a longer and a more difficult line of advance. Holding
firmly to the belief that history should be studied as a whole rather
than in watertight compartments, I have attempted in this sketch to
give some account, not only of events affecting Chinese Turkestan but
also of their connection with, and reaction upon, neighbouring states
of Asia.
The earliest recorded connection of China with what is now the province
of Chinese Turkestan is the progress of Mon Wang, one of the emperors
of the Chow Dynasty, to a province in the vicinity of the Kuen Lun
mountains which may be identified with Khotan. This tour is alleged to
have taken place about 1000 B.C., but is possibly legendary, and we
reach firmer ground at the beginning of the third century B.C., when
China, under the Han dynasty, became a world power. At this period
the chief concern of the ruler was the powerful tribe of the Hiong-Nu
or Huns, which occupied Mongolia. These ambitious nomads attacked
the Yue-chi (known later as the Lido-Scythians) then inhabiting the
north-west parts of Kansu, Kokonor and the southern half of the Gobi,
and not only defeated but expelled their enemy, thereby setting in
motion a series of human avalanches, with far-reaching consequences.
The dispossessed Yue-chi crossed the desert to Kucha and, advancing to
the Ili river, subsequently broke up into two divisions, the Little
Yue-chi who moved into Tibet, and the Great Yue-chi who occupied the
Ili valley and drove the Sakas from Kashgar in 163 B.C. But the Huns,
some fifteen or twenty years later, followed up and again defeated the
Yue-chi, and the latter, fleeing westwards and driving the Sakas before
them, invaded Bactria and, in 120 B.C., destroyed its Greek dynasty.
They then crossed the Hindu Kush and carved out an empire in India with
Peshawar as their capital.
The wide outlook of the Han dynasty is demonstrated by the fact that,
between 120 B.C. and 88 B.C., missions were despatched across Chinese
Turkestan to distant Parthia, known in China as An-Sih, from the
Chinese form of the name of the royal house of Arsaces. It is worthy of
mention that Mithradates II. of Parthia, who received the earliest of
these missions, and thereby initiated an intercourse with China which
was invariably peaceful, was also the first Parthian monarch to receive
an embassy from Rome.
Wars with the Huns were a constant preoccupation of the Chinese until,
in the first century B.C., they began to take most vigorous action
in Chinese Turkestan. By 59 B.C. the entire province was conquered
and a strong government was established. In 51 B.C. the nomads of
Central Asia, exhausted by internecine strife, appealed to China,
whose supremacy--so Chinese historians declare--was acknowledged in
some form, however slight, from the province of Shensi to the Caspian
Sea. Owing to the wide range of nomadic tribes the statement is not as
fantastic as at first sight it would seem to be.
This vague authority was consolidated in the first century of our
era by the famous warrior Pan Chao, who in the course of his earlier
campaigns steadily annexed provinces and districts lying to the west of
China. In A.D. 70 he defeated the ruler of Khotan, and six years later
he conquered the entire province with which we are dealing. According
to a local legend, on one occasion Pan Chao was besieged in Kashgar
and access to the river was cut off, but the great general rose to the
occasion and stamped on the ground, whereupon springs, still known as
“the Springs of Pan Chao,” gushed out and the army was saved.
In 88 the Yue-chi, who had assisted Pan Chao in a campaign against
Turfan, sent a tribute of jewels and lions to China, and demanded a
princess of the Han dynasty as a consort for their ruler; but this
proceeding was viewed with disfavour by Pan Chao, and he arrested
the ambassador. The Yue-chi, to avenge the insult, despatched an army
estimated at 70,000 men across the Pamirs. Broken down by hardships, it
was defeated with ease, and as the outcome of further negotiations the
Yue-chi continued to pay tribute to China.
In 91 Pan Chao was appointed General-Protector, and according to the
Chinese historian not only crossed the Pamirs, but conquered fifteen
kingdoms lying between Kashgar and the Caspian Sea. Probably what
occurred was that he received envoys from the various nomadic tribes,
who agreed to recognize Chinese suzerainty; for it is unlikely that a
Chinese army actually marched to the Caspian Sea.
In 97 Pan Chao despatched a certain Kan Ying on an embassy to visit
Parthia and Rome; but the envoy, after safely reaching Ctesiphon,
was deterred from the long voyage down the Persian Gulf, across the
Indian Ocean, and up the Red Sea and the Gulf of Akaba to Aelana, by
exaggerated reports that on the return journey, if the winds were
adverse, the ocean might take two years to cross! According to the
local belief, Pan Chao is buried inside the present city of Kashgar, on
a high mound which is surmounted by an artistic temple and overlooks
the springs already mentioned.
In time the power of the Celestials waned in Chinese Turkestan, and we
learn from the annals of the later Hans that at the beginning of the
second century A.D. the ruler of Su-le (as Kashgar was then termed) was
forced to send as a hostage to the king of the Yue-chi at Peshawar one
of his relatives, who was subsequently placed on the throne of Kashgar.
This piece of history is corroborated by Hiuen Tsiang. Under Kanishka,
the most celebrated ruler of the Yue-chi, the tribe regained Kashgar
about A.D. 125,[9] more than two centuries after their first seizure of
the province--truly a remarkable cycle of conquest.
The Huns had recovered their strength at this period, and in 138, the
Chinese Emperor sent a certain Chang Kien, with a suite numbering one
hundred persons, to open up relations with the Yue-chi, whom he wished
to enlist as allies. Chang Kien was unfortunately captured by the Huns
and kept prisoner for ten years, after which he escaped with some of
his followers and reached Farghana, where he was well treated. The
Yue-chi had recently conquered Tokharistan, situated in the great bend
of the Oxus, where the undaunted Chang Kien at last gained touch with
them. As was to be expected, he found them unwilling to quit their new
conquest in order to undertake a campaign in the interests of China.
Chang Kien finally returned home with the two surviving members of his
mission and drew up a valuable geographical and ethnographical memoir;
he also introduced the vine into China. He will ever be famous in the
annals of his country as the first Chinaman who “pierced the void.”
The Yue-chi introduced Buddhism into China after the conversion of
Kanishka to that faith; they also undoubtedly brought to India a
knowledge of Chinese civilization, together with the peach and the pear
tree. Moreover, they had intercourse with Rome both from India and from
Central Asia, and in various ways played a distinguished rôle until
they finally succumbed before the onslaught of the White Huns.
About the same time that the Prince of Kashgar recognized the
paramountcy of the Yue-chi the Uighur tribes in the Turfan and Hami
districts revolted from China, and for five centuries Chinese control
over the entire province was lost.
Buddhism reached Khotan and Kashgar from India and thence spread to
China. In 399 the Chinese monk Fa-hien, “deploring the mutilated and
imperfect state of the collection of the Books of Discipline,” set off
on a long and successful journey to India, and to him we owe the first
detailed account of the province of Khotan, which was at this period an
important centre of Buddhism.
In the middle of the fifth century, not long after the journey
of Fa-hien, the reigning member of the Toba Wei dynasty of China
despatched an envoy to Po-sz, as Persia was then termed. The Persian
monarch sent a return mission with a gift of trained elephants, which
the independent Prince of Khotan detained, but in the end released. In
all, ten missions are recorded as passing between Northern China and
Persia between 455 and 513; and reading between the lines we find clear
indications that at this period there was considerable intercourse
between China and Persia _via_ Khotan.
In 509, envoys from Khotan presented themselves at the Chinese Court
bearing tribute. In the annals they are described as follows: “The
people are Buddhists, and their women are in society as amongst other
nations. They braid the hair into long plaits, and wear pelisses
and loose trousers. The people are very ceremonious and polite,
and curtsey on meeting, by bending one knee to the ground.” Except
that Buddhism has given place to Islam, this description, generally
speaking, stands good at the present time.
The next great wave of invasion was that of the Juan Juan, a tribe
newly appearing on the stage of Manchuria. Gathering Turks and Mongols
to their banners, the Juan Juan destroyed the Hiong-Nu, who were
probably weakened by emigrations westward, and about 460 swept across
Chinese Turkestan like a devastating tornado, without making any
attempt at permanent conquest. The Hoa or White Huns, a vassal tribe,
subsequently threw off their allegiance to the Juan Juan and founded an
empire on the ruins of that of the Yue-Chi, embracing most of Chinese
Turkestan to the east, but having its centre in the middle Oxus, whence
for many generations it seriously threatened the existence of the
Persian Empire.
In the middle of the sixth century the empire of the “White Huns” in
its turn succumbed to the attack of the Western Turks, the Tu-chueh of
the Chinese, who were organized in a confederacy of ten tribes. From
the centre of this new power, which lay in the rich valleys to the
north of the Tian Shan, the Paramount Chiefs ruled over a vast empire,
leaving the states subject to their sway to be governed by their
hereditary rulers, under the control of Turkish collectors of tribute.
Such was the state of the province we are dealing with when the great
traveller Hiuen Tsiang passed through the empire of the Western Turks
in 630. His meeting with the Paramount Chief is described by his
biographer. In that very year this chief was assassinated. His death
was a signal for the breakup of the confederacy of the ten tribes, and
for Chinese Turkestan it was the end of a well-defined period.
A new epoch opened with the establishment of the Tang dynasty in China
early in the seventh century, and during the reign of its founder the
invasions of the Northern Turks made him in the first instance seek the
help of the Western Turks. The Chinese dynasty, however, rapidly became
strong, and the year 630 not only marked the downfall of the Western
but also the subjugation of the Northern Turks, and China once again
found herself in a position to recover her lost western provinces. With
this end in view a Chinese army crossed the great desert in 640 and
occupied Turfan, and later on Karashahr and Kucha. The King of Khotan,
presumably alarmed by these successes, returned to his allegiance, the
tradition of which had probably not been forgotten, and the annexation
of the entire province to China was secured in 658 by a victory won on
the banks of the Ili over the revolted Paramount Chief. By this final
triumph the existence of the Western Turks as a power came to an end,
and China succeeded to their vast empire, which extended southwards
across the Hindu Kush to Kabul and westwards to the borders of Persia.
At this period Chinese Turkestan was known as the “Four Garrisons,” the
reference being to the forces stationed at Kucha, Khotan, Karashahr and
Kashgar, because Chinese power was based on this quadrilateral. Not
that it remained unchallenged; for the Tibetans seized the province
in 670 and retained possession of it until 692, when the Chinese
reoccupied it in force.
The consolidation of Chinese dominion in the west opened the way for
the almost simultaneous introduction of Christianity and Zoroastrianism
into China and Chinese Turkestan. The first Nestorian missionary
reached China with sacred books and images in 635; and Yule[10] shows
how the Nestorian sees of China formed part of a wide-spreading
ecclesiastical system controlled by the Patriarchal see in Persia.
The recent discovery of Nestorian cemeteries west of the Issik Kul,
with dates ranging from 858 to 1339, throws interesting light on the
fact that Kashgar is shown as a Nestorian see in the middle of the
thirteenth century. In 621, a few years before the introduction of
Christianity, the first Fire Temple was erected in China, and we learn
from Chavannes that the Zoroastrian cult existed at Kashgar, Khotan and
Samarcand.
A new and bewildering factor had now to be reckoned with in the rise
of Islam; for its conquering spirit, which so profoundly affected the
Near and Middle East and Northern Africa, even approached the confines
of the distant Chinese empire. Yezdigird III., the last Persian monarch
of the Sasanian dynasty, implored China for aid against the invading
Arabs, but received the reply that Persia was too distant for help to
be sent. Subsequently a son of the hapless Sasanian took refuge with
the Chinese, but his attempt to win back the throne of his ancestors
failed utterly. In 655, three years after the murder of Yezdigird
at Merv, the Arabs despatched an embassy to China and thus opened
up direct communication with the Celestial Empire, whose frontier
officials must have watched their advance with apprehension.
The great Arab conqueror of Central Asia was Kutayba ibn Muslim, who
made his headquarters at Merv, and, in a series of campaigns waged
for a decade, subdued Bokhara, Samarcand and Farghana. About 715 he
actually raided as far as Kashgar, described by the Arab historian as
“a city near the Chinese frontier.” A curious legend of this campaign
has been preserved, according to which Kutayba swore to take possession
of the soil of China, and the ruler enabled him to fulfil his oath by
the gift of a load of soil to trample on, a bag of Chinese money to
symbolize tribute, and four youths to be stamped with his seal. Two
years later the Arabs and Tibetans, taking advantage of the rebellion
of the Western Turks, again penetrated into the “Four Garrisons.” This
was the farthest east reached by the Arab armies, and the exploit is a
signal proof of their marvellous initiative and warlike prowess.
Based on their garrison in Chinese Turkestan, the Chinese mainly
devoted their energies to preventing the Tibetans from stretching out
their hands to the Arabs through Gilgit and Yasin, in which districts
the Celestials built forts; and we read of more than one campaign
successfully conducted in these ice-bound highlands in pursuance of
this policy. But the power of China in this distant province was
short-lived. One of her generals, who had successfully conducted two
campaigns to the south of the Hindu Kush, treacherously seized and put
to death the tributary King of Tashkent. Under this king’s son the
country rose, the Arabs were called in, and the Chinese, owing to
the defection of their native allies, were annihilated. A few years
later internal troubles broke out in China, and the Tibetans, taking
full advantage of them, overran the province of Kansu and interrupted
communications with the heart of the Empire. About this time, too, in
751, a Chinese army 30,000 strong was annihilated in the _Gobi_.
The deserted officials with consummate skill maintained Chinese
authority for a whole generation after being thus cut off from China,
as the Chinese traveller Wu Kung testifies. Returning home by way
of the “Four Garrisons” after a long residence in India, he reached
Kashgar in 786; and, remaining in the province for a considerable
period, noted that everywhere he found Chinese governors. By 791,
however, the Tibetans had destroyed this paper government, and their
own, which took its place, and at one time even threatened their old
allies the Arabs, lasted until, in turn, it was broken by the Uighurs.
The complete disappearance of China from the scene marks the end of
another period in the history of the province.
The Uighurs, whose ancestors claimed descent from the Huns, originally
lived in north-west Mongolia and, when they were expelled by the Hakas
from their homeland, two of their sections founded states in the
eastern Tian Shan. A third section, with which we are more especially
concerned, broke the power of the Tibetans about 860 and became the
masters of Kashgar, although Khotan remained independent for some
years. The rulers of this section of the Uighurs--known also as the
Karluks or Karakhani--were termed the Ilak Khans, and the part they
played on the stage of Central Asia was important. The career of
these Uighurs was chequered, as in 840 Karakoram, their capital, was
captured by the Kirghiz and their Paramount Chief was killed. This led
to the dispersal of the tribe but not to its downfall, as Bishbaligh,
the modern Urumchi, was occupied about this period and remained one
of their chief centres for many centuries. They held sway under the
designation of the _Arslan_ or “Lion” Khans for many generations, and
in the notices of the various embassies exchanged with China there is
evidence that a comparatively high stage of civilization was reached
in the country. Indeed their culture influenced Central Asia more than
that of any other race, the script of the Mongols being adopted from
the Uighurs, who in their turn had learnt it from the Manichaeans, or
perhaps from the Nestorians.
The remarkable growth of the Persian creed of Manichaeism in Central
Asia is closely connected with the Uighurs, whose chief became a
convert to this faith in the eighth century. Among the manuscripts
discovered by Sir Aurel Stein in the course of his excavations is a
book of their omens, which makes curious reading: “A gambler staked
his son and his servants. He went away after having won the hazardous
game. Without losing his son and his servants, he won again ninety
stray sheep. His son and his attendants all rejoice. Know ye this.
This is good.” And again: “An old ox was being eaten by ants, by their
gnawing around its body. It stands without being able to move. Know ye
this. This is bad.” Manichaeans took part in the Uighur embassy sent to
China in 806 and their religion existed in Chinese Turkestan until the
thirteenth century.
The movement in favour of conversion to Islam began in Chinese
Turkestan in the middle of the tenth century of our era, Boghra[11]
Khan, a scion of the Karluk stock, being the first convert. The
legend, as given in the fantastic hagiology known as the _Tazkirat_ or
“Chronicles of Boghra,” runs that the young Satok Boghra Khan, at the
age of twelve, was secretly converted by a certain Abu Nasr, Samani.
His stepfather, who was the reigning monarch, suspected this, and, in
order to test his fidelity to the old religion, invited him to help
in laying the foundation-stone of a new idol-temple. In despair the
young prince sought the advice of Abu Nasr, who replied that, if he
worked with the intention of building a mosque, he would obtain merit
in the presence of Allah and be delivered from the evil designs of the
infidels. Having escaped this danger, the young convert decided to make
an end of his stepfather, and breaking into his apartment by night, he
awoke him, being unwilling to kill a sleeping man. The monarch refused
to accept Islam at the point of his nephew’s sword, but upon the prayer
of Satok the earth opened and swallowed up the infidel, whose fate
resembled that of Korah. As the chronicle runs: “The earth devoured
Harun Boghra Khan, and he was not.”
Satok Boghra Khan enjoyed considerable power and captured Bokhara. His
last campaign was undertaken against Turfan, where in 993 he fell ill
and whence he was carried back, a dying man, to Kashgar. His son and
successor, Hasan, is known to history as having ended the Samanid
dynasty by the capture of Abdul Malik. In Chinese Turkestan he is still
better known for having waged a desperate campaign with the “infidel”
Prince of Khotan, whom he defeated; not, however, without first
suffering a disaster, in which Ali Arslan, his nephew and the Kashgar
champion, was killed. The body of the latter is buried on the field of
battle at Ordam Padshah, to the east of Yangi Hissar, but his head is
preserved at a shrine, in the Dolat Bagh, near Kashgar. A few years
later both Hasan and his brother were killed by the Princes of Khotan,
but this province, after a series of campaigns lasting twenty-four
years, was ultimately annexed to Kashgar. From this period what we now
call Chinese Turkestan was definitely occupied by the Turks. _Turki_
became the universal language; and Grenard aptly draws attention to the
fact that the oldest Kashgar book which has reached us, and which dates
from 1068, is written in a pure Turki dialect.
In 1125 a new dynasty made its appearance in the Tarim basin. Yelui
Tashi, a near relation of the head of the Kara Khitai or Leao dynasty
of China, realizing that his position in the homeland was hopeless
in view of the military superiority of the Nuchens, who subsequently
founded the Kin dynasty, decided in that year to seek his fortune
elsewhere. Collecting a force in Shensi, he marched into the valley
of the Tarim and annexed it, thereby ending the dynasty of the Ilak
Khans. He next invaded Western Turkestan, upon which he imposed an
annual tribute of 20,000 pieces of gold, and later he assumed the title
of _Gur Khan_ or “Universal Lord.” He died in 1136. His successor, in
alliance with Atsiz of Khwarazm or Khiva, inflicted a crushing defeat
on the great Seljuk, Sultan San jar, in 1141. The Seljuk losses were
estimated at one hundred thousand, and the Kara Khitai temporarily
occupied Merv and Nishapur.
It is of special interest, as illustrating the wide range of Sadi’s
travels, to note that the great Persian poet visited Kashgar at this
period. He commences one of his stories as follows: “In a certain year
Mohamed Khwarazm Shah, for some good reason, chose to make peace with
Cathay. I entered the chief mosque of Kashgar and saw a boy with beauty
of the most perfect symmetry,” etc.
In 1200 the tables were turned on the _Gur Khan_ by Mohamed of
Khwarazm, who was joined by Guchluk son of the Naiman chief whose
defeat by Chengiz is recounted in the next chapter. Escaping from
the field, he arrived, after great privations, at the court of the
_Gur Khan_, where he was treated kindly, received a daughter of the
monarch in marriage, and was converted to Buddhism. But, with base
ingratitude, he gradually collected a force of his tribesmen, and with
Mohamed of Khwarazm and the Prince of Samarcand formed a plot against
his benefactor. The nefarious scheme was successful, and by 1212 the
_Gur Khan_ was a prisoner, and the usurper ruled over the Tarim basin.
During the few years of his power he persecuted the followers of
Islam and massacred the _mullas_ at Khotan, hanging their leader head
downwards from a tree in front of the chief mosque. But the reign of
this detestable traitor was short, and the avenger of the _Gur Khan_
was at hand.
CHAPTER XIV
AN HISTORICAL SKETCH OF CHINESE TURKESTAN: THE MEDIAEVAL AND LATER
PERIOD
Cascar constituted a Kingdom in former days, but now is subject to the
Great Kaan. The people worship Mohamed. There are a good number of
towns and villages, but the greatest and finest is Cascar itself. The
inhabitants live by trade and handicrafts; they have beautiful gardens
and vineyards, and fine estates, and grow a great deal of cotton....
There are in this country many Nestorian Christians, who have churches
of their own.--MARCO POLO.
The rise of the Mongols from the position of despised tributaries of
the Kin dynasty to that of lords of Asia and Eastern Europe is among
the greatest events in history. Chengiz Khan, the organizing genius who
welded tribes, with their constant feuds, raids and petty wars, into a
single vast, obedient army, was born in 1162. When a boy of thirteen he
succeeded to the confederacy built up by his father Yissugay, and for
many years he suffered the vicissitudes of fortune that were usual in
those times and circumstances; among them being capture by his enemies.
After these early difficulties, we hear of the youthful chieftain
serving the Kin Emperor and attacking with success the Buyr Nur Tartars
who had killed his father.
Among his allies were the Keraits, a Nestorian Christian tribe whose
chief, Toghril, better known as the Wang Khan, was probably the
original subject of the stories associated with Prester John, the
fabulous monarch renowned in mediaeval Europe. In 1199 the two chiefs
attacked the powerful Naiman tribe of Christians which occupied
the country to the north of the Tian Shan, but the campaign was
unsuccessful owing to the treachery of the Kerait leader, who drew off
his troops at a critical moment. Three years later Wang Khan actually
attacked and worsted the Mongols, but this defeat was avenged by
Chengiz, who surprised him by a night attack. Wang Khan fled to the
Naiman, by whom he was put to death. The results of this encounter were
important, since it gave Chengiz control of the southern part of the
present province of Mongolia.
His next campaign was directed against the Naiman. The two forces met
to the north of the Tian Shan, and the result was a decisive victory
for Chengiz, who thereby subjugated the Naimans and their allies. The
Naiman king was carried out of the battle mortally wounded, but his
son Guchluk escaped to Chinese Turkestan and took refuge with the _Gur
Khan_, whose hospitality he abused as mentioned in the previous chapter.
In 1218 Chengiz invaded Chinese Turkestan and detached a force of
20,000 men from the main body to attack Guchluk. The latter fled
without attempting to fight for his throne, but was overtaken in the
wilds of Badakshan and put to death. The Mongol general proclaimed
freedom of worship, which was one of the few benefits conferred by
these nomad rulers. Through their influence, too, the position of
Moslem women was considerably raised in Central Asia, where it is
still relatively high. Later on commerce prospered, owing to the
removal of the boundaries of states, and during the second half of the
thirteenth century the illustrious Venetian, Marco Polo, traversed the
province from the Pamirs to Kashgar, from that city to Yarkand and
Khotan, and thence to China.
Chengiz Khan divided his dominions among his four sons. To Chagatai,
his second son, was assigned Transoxiana as a centre, with appanages
in every direction; Eastern Turkestan, Ili, Tibet, Ladak, Badakshan,
Afghanistan, Kashmir and Bokhara being all included in his
wide-spreading kingdom. Chagatai was a follower of Buddha, and his
rule was both vigorous and tolerant. His capital was at Almaligh,
near the modern Kulja, where he led a nomad’s life remote from the
great cities of Samarcand and Bokhara. He bestowed Eastern Turkestan
on the Dughlat family, and its chiefs became hereditary rulers of the
province. Early in the fourteenth century a permanent division was
made, Moghulistan[12] being separated from Transoxiana. For the former
kingdom a Mongol prince, Isan Bugha, was elected and set on the throne,
which he occupied until his death in 1330. His successor, after an
interval of anarchy, was his son Tughluk Timur, whose mother, while
pregnant with him, had, on account of the jealousy of the head wife,
been married to a nobleman and sent away from the Court. Owing to this
it was not even known whether a son or a daughter had been born to the
_Khan_ until the head of the Dughlat tribe despatched a confidential
servant, who ascertained the facts and brought back the youth, then
sixteen years of age.
The Tarikh-i-Rashidi, the sole important literary work produced in
Eastern Turkestan,[13] opens with the following sentence, which merits
quotation: “One day, when Tughluk Timur Khan was feeding his dogs with
swine’s flesh, _Shaykh_ Jamal-u-Din was brought into his presence. The
_Khan_ said to the _Shaykh_, ‘Are you better than this dog or is the
dog better than you?’ The Shaykh replied, ‘If I have faith I am the
better of the two, but if I have no faith, this dog is better than I
am.’ The _Khan_ was much impressed by these words, and a great love for
Islam took possession of his heart.” His conversion did not take place
during the _Shaykh’s_ lifetime, but was accomplished by a _Maulana_ or
“Master,” a small, weak man in appearance, who, when challenged, smote
the Champion of the Infidels senseless. This seemingly miraculous blow
resulted in 160,000 persons becoming Moslems, and by the end of the
fourteenth century Islam had supplanted Buddhism generally throughout
Eastern Turkestan.
Tughluk Timur’s first capital was Aksu, but later he selected Kashgar,
and his chief claim to distinction is his connection with the great
Tamerlane. At this period the western division of Chagatai’s kingdom,
which was ruled by puppet _Khans_, had fallen into a state of anarchy.
Tughluk Timur accordingly determined to annex it, and in 1360 crossed
the frontier at the head of an army. The chief of the Barlas tribe was
defeated and fled to Khorasan, but his nephew Timur, destined to become
famous as Tamerlane, saved the situation by timely submission, and was
received into favour.
On the death of Tughluk Timur in 1363 Tamerlane drove out his son, who
died shortly afterwards, and the throne of Kashgar was usurped by Amir
Kamar-u-Din, of the Dughlat tribe.
In 1375, hearing that Moghulistan was weakened by disorders, Tamerlane
decided to invade it. In the chronicle known as the _Zafar Nama_ an
interesting account is given of this campaign. At the outset the
weather was terribly severe: “No one ever yet saw so much snow; the
world looked like a morsel in the snow’s mouth.” But Jahangir, the
invader’s eldest son, defeated the enemy, who had taken refuge in
deep ravines. Kamar-u-Din escaped, but his wife and daughter were
captured, and Tamerlane married the latter and ended the campaign
with festivities. He invaded Moghulistan altogether five times, the
valley of the Yulduz being the meeting-place of his armies, and Eastern
Turkestan suffered terribly from these raids, in the course of which
the country was laid waste.
In 1392 Kamar-u-Din died, and a son of Tughluk Timur, who had been
leading a wandering life, hidden by his attendants, at first in the
Pamirs, then in the Kuen Lun, and finally in the wild Lob Nor region,
was set on the throne, and concluded a peace with Tamerlane.
Tamerlane’s last projected campaign against China would have led across
Moghulistan, and the _Khan_ was much perturbed by orders to sow large
tracts of land with corn and to collect thousands of head of cattle
for the use of the army. But one day “they saw advancing rapidly a man
mounted on a black horse and clothed in white robes. The chamberlains
ran up from every side to try to stop him in his course, but he did not
slacken his speed till he came up to where the _Khan_ was standing.
Then he called out in a loud voice, ‘Amir Timur is no more; he has died
at Otrar!’ Many horsemen were sent after him, but none could overtake
him.” The news announced in this dramatic fashion was confirmed
forty-five days later. The “Scourge of God” had died on February 4,
1405, and the country was thereby saved from being eaten up by the vast
armies which he would have led on this distant campaign.
It is interesting to note that in 1420 Amir Khudadad, the then ruler,
entertained the embassy despatched by Shah Rukh, the celebrated
successor of Tamerlane, to the Emperor of China. The outward route of
the ambassadors ran by Samarcand and Tashkent and thence to the north
of the Tian Shan by Yulduz to Turfan, the return route passing through
Khotan and Kashgar. The autograph letters of Shah Rukh are still
extant, and the description of the journey given by one of the envoys
is delightfully vivid.
We learn a good deal about Eastern Turkestan during the early part
of the sixteenth century through _Mirza_ Haidar’s description of the
career of Sultan Said, whose service he entered. This ruler, unable
to face the Uzbegs, whose power had become formidable, decided in
1514 to forsake Andijan and to attack Aba Bakr, of the Dughlat tribe,
who ruled at Kashgar and Yarkand. The expedition was a complete
success and re-established the Moghul dynasty, Aba Bakr being murdered
while fleeing to Ladak. Sultan Said invaded Badakshan, Ladak and
Kashmir during the next two decades, and died from the effects of
the rarefication of the atmosphere on his way back from Ladak, near
the celebrated Karakoram Pass. Rashid Khan, who gave his name to the
history, succeeded to the throne and ruled for some years with much
cruelty. After his death his sons divided their heritage, and the
country relapsed into anarchy.
[Illustration: TAMERLANE. _Page 268._]
Under the later Chagatai Khans, Islam recovered from the set-back it
had received from the invasions of Chengiz Khan and his immediate
successors, thanks mainly to the influence of Bokhara and Samarcand,
which had become important centres of Moslem learning. During the
reign of Rashid Khan, the celebrated saint _Sayyid Khoja_ Hasan, more
generally known as _Makhdum-i-Azam_ or “The Great Master,” visited
Kashgar from Samarcand and was received with extraordinary honours. The
saint’s sons settled at Kashgar, where their father had married a wife
and had received rich estates, and gradually established a theocracy,
laying upon the necks of the submissive, apathetic people a heavy
yoke which they still bear. In course of time two parties were formed
whose influence on the subsequent history of the country has been
profound. The supporters of the elder son were termed _Ak Taulin_ or
“White Mountaineers,” from the name of the range behind Artush, their
headquarters, whereas the supporters of the younger were known as _Kara
Taulin_ or “Black Mountaineers,” from the hills near Khan Arik. Both
parties of _Khojas_, as they were termed, aimed at political supremacy
and intrigued with any external power that appeared likely to favour
their ambitions.
In 1603 the famous Portuguese monk Benedict Goez reached Yarkand and
was honourably received by its ruler, to whose mother he had lent money
at Kabul. The Prince repaid the debt in jade, which the traveller sold
to great advantage during his onward journey.
We now come to the rise of the Zungars or Kalmuks, a Mongol race which
then dwelt in Ili and the surrounding districts. Under Khan Haldan
Bokosha, one of the outstanding figures of the period, their power
stretched northwards to Siberia and southwards to Kucha, Karashahr
and Kunya-Turfan; but Haldan rebelled against the Chinese and was
decisively beaten.
His nephew and successor, Tse Wang Rabdan, ruled from Hami on the east
to Khokand on the west, and, until his murder in 1727, was the most
powerful of Zungarian rulers. The Torgut Mongols from fear of him fled
to the banks of the Volga. Sir Henry Howorth gives an interesting
account of the relations between Tse Wang and the Russians, from which
it appears that Peter the Great, attracted by rumours of gold in
Eastern Turkestan, despatched a body of 3000 men up the Irtish with
Yarkand as their objective; but the Zungars assailed the column and
forced it to retire.
To return to the _Khoja_ family, its most celebrated member was Hidayat
Ulla, known as _Hazrat Apak_ or “His Highness the Presence,” head of
the _Ak Taulins_, who was regarded as a Prophet second only to Mohamed.
Expelled from Kashgar he took refuge at Lhassa, where the Dalai Lama
befriended him and advised him to seek the aid of the Zungars. In 1678
the latter seized Kashgar, which remained in their power for many
years, and _Hazrat Apak_ ruled as the deputy of the _Khan_, paying
tribute equivalent to £62,000 per annum. In his old age the saint
retired from the world to end his days among his disciples.
Some years later internal disorders enabled Amursana, one of the Zungar
chiefs, to declare himself and his tribe Chinese subjects, and to
persuade other tribes to follow his example; he also induced Kashgar
to tender allegiance to the Chinese. It was the policy of the Emperor
Keen Lung to reconquer Ili and Eastern Turkestan for the Celestial
Empire; and in 1755 he despatched an army 150,000 strong, which met
with little resistance and enabled him to consolidate the allegiance
tendered through Amursana, who was appointed Paramount Chief. The
Zungar soon tired of Chinese rule and massacred a detachment of the
Celestial forces; but the Chinese reoccupied Zungaria in 1757, and in
the following year crushed the tribe. Kulja was founded on the site of
the Zungarian capital, and the modern name of Hsin-Chiang or the “New
Province” was formally bestowed on the reconquered countries.
The Chinese, realizing their numerical weakness, settled soldiers
and landless men in the fertile districts of the “New Province,” to
which they also deported criminals and political prisoners, among the
latter being Tunganis deported from Kansu and Shensi. Chinese rule was
evidently less harsh than Russian; for in 1771 the Torgut Mongols to
the number of 100,000 families fled back to the Ili valley from the
banks of the Volga, as narrated in dramatic fashion by De Quincey.
The prestige of China after her splendid successes was naturally very
high and led to further acquisitions. First the Middle and then the
Little Horde of Kirghiz, in spite of their connection with Russia,
offered their submission; it was accepted, and the rulers of Khokand,
Baltistan, and Badakshan followed suit.
The _Khans_ of Central Asia were alarmed by this display of Chinese
power, and formed a confederacy, headed by Ahmad Khan, the Amir
of Afghanistan, who despatched an embassy to Peking to demand the
surrender of Chinese Turkestan on the ground that it was inhabited by
Moslems. Receiving an unsatisfactory reply, the Afghan Amir was careful
not to attack the Chinese, but contented himself with holding Badakshan
in force; and soon afterwards the confederacy broke up.
Chinese exactions both in taxation and in forced labour for the
erection of cantonments now became very heavy, and many of the
oppressed peasants fled to Andijan, where they formed a party of
malcontents, who awaited their opportunity.
The first attempt to expel the Chinese was made in 1822 by Jahangir,
the _Khoja_, who, supported by the Kirghiz, raided Kashgar, but was
repulsed, and retreated to the country south of Issik Kul, where he
defeated a Chinese expedition. In 1826 he again tried to win Kashgar,
and this time with success. Enormous forces were organized for its
recovery, and after a trial by champions, in which a Kalmuk archer
defeated a Khokandian armed with a musket, the Chinese won the day, and
Jahangir was captured and put to death. Confiscations and executions
followed, and 12,000 Moslem families were deported to Ili and settled
as serfs under the name of Tarantchis. Forts, too, were built at all
important centres and Chinese authority seemed to be stronger than
ever. As a further precaution a blockade was declared against Khokand.
The _Khan_, resenting this policy and using Yusuf, the brother of
Jahangir, as a puppet, invaded the province in 1830, but was forced to
return to defend his own country against an invasion from Bokhara.
In the following year the Chinese made peace with Khokand, bestowing
valuable privileges on the _Khan_, including a yearly subsidy of £3600,
in return for which he was pledged to prevent hostile expeditions;
he was also granted entire control of his subjects in Chinese
Turkestan, to be exercised through _Aksakals_ or “Elders” of their
own nationality. The term _Alti Shahr_, or “Six Cities,” now began to
be applied to the western part of the province, which was specially
affected by the treaty.
In 1846, the result of the British operations against China and the
weakness of that empire becoming known, the sons of Jahangir attempted
another expedition, headed by Ishan Khan _Khoja_, known as _Katta
Tura_, or “Great Lord,” who was the moving spirit among the brothers.
Kashgar was captured by treachery; but the tyranny of the victors
alienated the province, and the Chinese garrison at Yarkand was
strong enough to expel the motley gathering of Kirghiz and Khokandi
adventurers, in whose wake some 20,000 families left their homes and
crossed the Terek Dawan in mid-winter.
A decade later another attempt was made by Wali Khan _Khoja_, who
occupied Kashgar in 1857 and massacred the Chinese. Surrounding
himself with fanatical Khokandis, he ill-treated and oppressed the
population, enforcing five daily attendances at the mosques, by means
of cruel punishments, and forbidding the time-honoured custom of
plaiting the hair; he also barbarously murdered the German traveller
Adolph Schlagintweit. Thanks to his unpopularity the Chinese army which
attacked the usurper met with no resistance, and the Khoja fled back to
Andijan, followed, it is said, by some fifteen thousand families. But
probably all these numbers are exaggerated.
A new figure was now about to appear on the stage, through whose action
Chinese Turkestan was opened up to Great Britain and Russia. We may
therefore fitly end the second section of this historical sketch before
describing the kingdom founded by Yakub Beg.
[Illustration: Supplementary Sketch Map showing COUNTRY TO THE EAST OF
ROUTE MAP]
CHAPTER XV
AN HISTORICAL SKETCH OF CHINESE TURKESTAN: THE MODERN PERIOD
The soldiers of the _Atalik_ in the Six Cities were many;
gold-embroidered turbans and silk cloaks were the instruments of death
for these dainty warriors.--FROM A KASHGAR BALLAD.
By way of introduction to this chapter some reference to the Khanates
of Central Asia is called for. Half a century ago little or no accurate
information on the subject was obtainable in England; for, although a
brilliant band of British officers had penetrated to remote Bokhara and
Khiva before the middle of the nineteenth century, the Khanates of the
Sir Daria were beyond their ken.
With Russia it was otherwise. She was drawn forward mainly, perhaps,
by the ambitions of her frontier officers but also by the desirability
of controlling the raiders of the steppe. The Russian columns met with
little serious opposition, being materially aided in their advance
southwards by the Sir Daria, which not only provided drinking water,
but to a certain extent helped to solve the difficult problems of
supply and transport.
Russia reached the Sea of Aral and the mouth of the Sir Daria in 1847
and erected two forts, one in a harbour of that sea and the other at
the mouth of the river. This forward step brought her into hostile
contact with the state of Khokand, whose rulers bitterly resented the
appearance of the Northern Power in an area where they had hitherto
been unchallenged. But Russia was not to be denied. In 1849 the advance
up the great river was begun, the first outpost of Khokand being
captured in that year; and four years later Ak Masjid, situated 220
miles up the Sir Daria, was taken. The Crimean War paralysed Russian
activity for some years, but in 1865 Tashkent was captured and the
territory lying between the Sea of Aral and the Issik Kul was formed
into the frontier province of Turkestan.
Having very briefly traced the advance of Russia to this point, we turn
to Khokand, where a movement originated which profoundly influenced
Chinese Turkestan and the adjacent countries. At this point some
account must be given of Yakub Beg, an adventurer destined to play a
leading part on the stage of Chinese Turkestan. The future Amir was
born near Tashkent in 1820, his father, who claimed to be descended
from Tamerlane, being a _kazi_ or judge. At the age of twenty-five
we find Yakub Beg a chamberlain in the service of the youthful
Khudayar Khan, who was placed on the throne of Khokand by the Kapchak
chief, Mussalman Kuli. Yakub’s sister married the Kapchak governor
of Tashkent, and Yakub, mainly through his influence, was appointed
Governor of Ak Masjid, which fort he stubbornly but unsuccessfully
defended against the Russians. In 1858 Mussalman Kuli was barbarously
executed by his ungrateful master, and the Kapchak and Kirghiz united
to expel Khudayar in favour of his eldest brother, whom they set on
the throne. Yakub tendered his services to the new _Khan_, who was
assassinated two years later, whereupon Khudayar returned to the throne
and took Yakub into favour once again. But that treacherous official
soon deserted Khudayar in favour of Shah Murad Khan, another claimant
to the throne. He was ordered by his new master to hold Khojand, but
being threatened by a Bokharan force he surrendered his charge and
joined the invaders. Later, Yakub Beg fought the Russians before
Tashkent in 1864, when General Chernaieff, after the fall of Chimkent,
failed in his attempt to capture the city by a _coup de main_.
At this juncture the envoys of Sadik Beg, a Kirghiz chief, brought
news of an anti-Chinese revolt in Kashgar and asked for a scion of the
_Khoja_ family to lead it. Buzurg Khan, last surviving son of Jahangir,
who lived in Khokand, was accordingly approached. He readily embraced
the opportunity and appointed Yakub Beg to command the tiny body of
sixty followers which constituted his entire military force, the _Khan_
of Khokand being naturally averse from parting with his soldiers in
face of the imminent Russian menace.
The little party of adventurers crossed the Tian Shan in mid-winter
without encountering any opposition, and in January 1865 reached
the neighbourhood of Kashgar. Meanwhile Sadik Beg had repented of
the invitation given to the _Khoja_ prince, and pointed out that
the Chinese were sure to reconquer Kashgar, where they would exact
stern retribution. But Yakub Beg, moulded in the school of adversity,
disregarded the warning and insisted on entering Kashgar, where
Buzurg Khan was received with enthusiasm and proclaimed _Khan_. The
new ruler, who was cowardly, idle and dissolute, immediately became
immersed in sensual pleasures, and Yakub Beg was left to deal with the
difficulties of the situation, which were almost overwhelming.
In the first place Sadik Beg soon changed his attitude and, from being
an ally, became an open enemy. Hostilities therefore commenced, which,
mainly through the personal exertions of Yakub Beg, ended in the defeat
of the Kirghiz chief, who fled to Tashkent.
Kashgar having been made fairly safe by this action, albeit the Chinese
held the cantonment with a force 7000 strong, Yakub Beg decided to
attack Yangi Hissar and Yarkand. He reached the latter city with a
small force, leaving troops to invest Yangi Hissar; but the dominant
_Khojas_ were hostile to his pretensions and were strong enough to
drive him back to Yangi Hissar. Nothing daunted, the indomitable
adventurer, with the aid of reinforcements from Kashgar, pressed the
siege of the Chinese cantonment at Yangi Hissar and finally captured
and put to death its garrison of 2000 men. He followed up this success
by enlisting the services of Sadik Beg, who had again appeared on the
scene, and also of a force from Badakshan.
But his new allies were only half-hearted, and when he was attacked by
a large force of Tunganis from Maralbashi he could only rely on his
own followers. The action, which was fought outside Yangi Hissar, was
nearly lost owing to the defection of the Kirghiz and Badakshanis, but
Yakub Beg stood his ground firmly and won a well-earned victory, the
immediate fruits of which included the submission of Yarkand.
The scene now shifts back to Kashgar, where the Chinese garrison
surrendered and was enrolled in the army of Yakub Beg as “New
Mussulman”; but the Amban, imitating the fine example of his colleague
at Yarkand, blew up himself and his followers in the fort. Yakub Beg
married the beautiful daughter of the Chinese general, and was much
influenced by this wife, who bore him many children.
For a short time it seemed as if all would go well, but the Tunganis
who had surrendered decided on a final bid for power at Yarkand and
treacherously attacked Yakub Beg. Buzurg Khan, too, at this juncture
deserted his general, whose position appeared desperate; but again
Yakub Beg’s remarkable courage saved the situation. He imposed his will
on the Tunganis by attacking and capturing Yarkand; then, marching on
Kashgar, he defeated Buzurg Khan, who had declared him a rebel. As a
sequel to this victory Buzurg Khan was deposed and finally expelled,
and Yakub Beg assumed the powers of his master. His position was
recognized by the Amir of Bokhara, who in 1866 conferred upon him the
title of _Atalik Ghazi_ or the “Champion Father”; but, on the other
hand, he had to reckon with the constant jealousy and hostility of
neighbouring Khokand, which was continually inflamed by Russia. The
capture of Khotan, which followed in 1867, ended his first successful
period of action, during which, in spite of inadequate means, he had
accomplished much.
While Yakub Beg was establishing his power in Kashgar, Yarkand and
Khotan, his chances of success were being increased by events in the
districts to the north of the range. The Taiping rebellion, which
raged from 1850 to 1864, had laid waste the richest provinces of China.
In 1855, apart from this convulsion, a fierce Moslem insurrection broke
out in Yunnan; and in 1862 there was a rebellion among the Moslems of
Shensi and Kansu, which gradually spread across the desert to the Ili
province, where the Tarantchis combined with the Tunganis against the
Chinese authorities. This rebellion was successful, and Ili was seized
in January 1866, when a Tungani-Tarantchi Government was formed, which
remained in power until the occupation of the province by Russia in
1871.
We now turn to Yakub Beg’s campaigns to the east of Kashgar. The
Tunganis and _Khojas_ of Aksu were not supported to any material
extent from Ili, and he therefore had mainly to deal with an already
defeated force when he commenced operations in 1867. Aksu, although
naturally a strong position, offered but slight resistance, and the
_Atalik_ marched on to Kucha, which he also captured. After receiving
the submission of Karashahr, Turfan, Hami, and Urumchi he returned in
triumph to Kashgar. He subsequently annexed the upland district of
Sarikol, carrying off its inhabitants and filling their place with
Yarkandis and Kirghiz.
It is probable that Yakub Beg was induced to resume operations against
the Tunganis as much by the difficulty of feeding and paying his army
as by ambition. In the autumn of 1869 he passed farther east to Korla,
which fell, and the series of campaigns was continued, generally with
success, until 1873, the Kashgar troops penetrating as far east as
Chightam, a small town to the east of Turfan. Little regard was paid
to the wretched inhabitants, who were plundered without mercy and
sometimes massacred, in accordance with the usual practice in Central
Asia. The _Atalik_ thus achieved military success, but he failed to
organize his conquests against the day when the slow-moving Chinese
Government should attempt to regain its lost provinces. On the other
hand, he probably could not control his troops, who would have deserted
had looting been forbidden. In any case his constant military successes
produced a great impression in the neighbouring states and spread his
fame far and wide.
Yakub Beg’s power was based on a mercenary force which was remarkable
for its heterogeneous composition. Just as his palace, which was
built and organized on the lines of barracks, was full of cannon of
every description, ranging from ancient Chinese pieces to modern
artillery, so his army included men from every neighbouring province.
The most trustworthy and efficient soldiers were Khokandis, who,
being strangers in the land, would naturally be loyal to their chief
and fellow-countryman, whereas the local peasantry made indifferent
fighters. An element numerically important, but for the most part of
untrustworthy quality, was the Tunganis, who served mainly from fear.
There were also a number of Indian and Afghan adventurers, some of the
former being deserters from the Indian army. The Chinese troops were
never used for distant campaigns.
The men above mentioned, who constituted the regular troops, were
divided into mounted infantry, artillery and infantry, the force
being increased by levies of Kirghiz, Dulanis and other irregulars of
doubtful military value. It is now believed that Yakub Beg had never
more than 20,000 trustworthy men in his service, although exaggerated
accounts of his strength were generally credited. His troops, owing
to his somewhat remarkable personality and many victories, were of
better fighting value than those of Khokand and Bokhara; but, as the
event proved, they were unable to cope with Chinese troops trained on
European lines, nor would they have withstood equal numbers of Russian
troops.
His government was based on the Moslem law, and was very onerous. It
must be recollected that he maintained a court and a large army, mainly
at the expense of perhaps a million poverty-stricken peasants, who,
in addition to paying the heavy taxes of nominally one-tenth of all
produce, were ground down by the unjust tax-collectors until their
condition was pitiable. Moreover, he kept a huge body of town police
and also a large force of secret police, whose united activities must
have added considerably to the general misery. The fact that he was a
strong ruler implied the imposition of heavier burdens on his unhappy
subjects. Moreover, during the period of his rule, trade with China
entirely ceased, to the great loss of the merchants, who had but little
commercial intercourse with Russia or India.
The relations of Yakub Beg with Russia were of primary importance to
him until the Celestial army re-entered Chinese Turkestan, and it
is consequently desirable to summarize them briefly. The _Atalik’s_
defence of Ak Masjid and his action before Tashkent have already
been mentioned and were not forgotten by the Russians, who in 1866
dismembered Khokand and defeated Bokhara. The establishment of his
power at Kashgar caused the Russians much anxiety, and their frontier
officials were at first instructed not to recognize Yakub Beg, but, at
the same time, to be conciliatory, in the illusive hope that this line
of action would induce the _Atalik_ to make overtures.
In pursuance of this fatuous policy the Russians requested sanction
to bridge the river Narin and to construct a road to Kashgar; but,
needless to say, these concessions were categorically refused. By way
of marking their displeasure the Muscovites began to construct a strong
fort at Narin; but their hands were tied by attempts on the part of the
Central Asian _Khanates_ to throw off their hated domination. Yakub
Beg, openly at any rate, preserved neutrality, and for five years the
struggle continued, with the result that the Russian yoke was riveted
more firmly than before on Khokand and Bokhara. To these preoccupations
the _Atalik_ probably owed his safety for the time being, as the
construction of Fort Narin was avowedly intended as a preliminary to
an attack on Kashgar, and it appears that an expedition destined for
that task in 1870 was at the last hour diverted against Khokand, which
unexpectedly revolted.
Later on the Russian authorities exchanged their somewhat menacing
policy for one of peaceful penetration and attempted to gain an
entry into Chinese Turkestan through their merchants. They also
sent a young officer to discuss various questions with Yakub Beg,
who in turn despatched one of his nephews to Russia. As, however,
his envoy was accorded no official recognition, little progress was
made in developing relations, and the _Atalik_ maintained towards
his formidable rival an uncompromising attitude, which convinced the
Russians that his power was much greater than was actually the case.
Accordingly, in 1872, although military preparations were continued, an
accredited envoy, Baron Kaulbars, was entrusted with the difficult task
of opening up official relations with the _Atalik_. He was received
by the gratified ruler with the extravagant expression of Oriental
hyperbole: “Sit on my knees, on my bosom, or where you like, for you
are guests sent to me from heaven.” For the first time complete freedom
was accorded to the envoy, and two Russian merchants who accompanied
the mission were granted every facility for visiting Yarkand and
Khotan. Baron Kaulbars was so fully impressed with a sense of the power
of his host that he regarded him as a potentate ranking with the Amir
of Afghanistan; and, owing to these impressions, a treaty of commerce,
satisfactory to both parties, was drawn up, Russian goods being
subjected to a maximum charge of 2½ per cent _ad valorem_. The envoy,
who had learnt a good deal about the country and had certainly scored a
great personal success, returned to Tashkent with glowing accounts of
the _Atalik_ and his dominions.
Another nephew of Yakub Beg’s, _Haji_ Tora by name, who had travelled
widely, was next despatched to Russia, where he was received with
much honour and entertained by the Tsar. From the court of the
Northern Power he went on to visit Constantinople, where he conducted
negotiations by which Yakub Beg, in return for an acknowledgment of his
independence, accepted the suzerainty of the Sultan and issued coins
bearing his effigy. Furthermore, as a mark of high favour, the _Atalik_
was gazetted an _Amir_, with the title of _Amin-ul-Muminin_ or “The
Trusted One of the Believers.”
The Russian authorities in Central Asia naturally took umbrage at an
alliance which united a leading Moslem power with their hereditary foe.
Moreover, relations with Yakub Beg were not developing smoothly; for,
realizing that his state would be overrun by Russian merchants, the
Amir decided to go back on the spirit of the treaty of commerce and to
discourage all Russian intruders. In the case of the first important
caravan to reach Kashgar, he kept the owners under surveillance
although he purchased their goods at a fair rate through one of his
agents. But, as the payment was made in debased coinage the merchant
stood to lose, and finally did lose, in spite of strenuous official
Russian support. A year later Yakub again changed his mind and
invited another Russian merchant to visit Kashgar. He received better
treatment, with the result that trade gradually increased. The chief
aim of Russia was to be permitted to appoint an Agent at Kashgar,
whereas Yakub Beg would only allow a _Caravanbashi_ or Superintendent
of caravans (a man of little standing or education) to reside at the
capital. In 1874 a Russian official was sent to arrange this question,
but Yakub Beg, relying on the support of Great Britain, was entirely
unyielding on the subject; indeed, his attitude towards Russia became
almost menacing. So much was this the case that in the autumn of the
same year the Russian authorities decided to break his power. They
had massed twenty thousand troops on the frontiers, when a revolt in
Khokand forced General Kaufmann to divert his forces. Had Yakub Beg
been a great man he would have seized the opportunity to aid Khokand,
and would thereby, in all probability, have given a serious set-back to
the Power which had resolved on his destruction. His inaction on this
occasion stamps him as an Oriental adventurer who kept the kingdom he
had won rather by good fortune than by signal capacity.
The relations of Yakub Beg with the Indian Empire were of little
permanent importance from the political point of view, but are of
considerable interest to the geographer and to the student of politics
and commerce. In the middle of the nineteenth century the British
representative in Ladak heard vague accounts of affairs in Chinese
Tartary, as it was then termed, from merchants, but gained little or
no accurate information, although the veil was lifted somewhat in 1857
by Adolph Schlagintweit, the first European to travel from India to
Yarkand and Kashgar. Unfortunately for him, Wali Khan was besieging
the Chinese cantonment of Kashgar at that time, and by his orders the
German explorer was murdered. Eight years later, in 1865, Johnson,[14]
an English surveyor, crossed the Kuen Lun to Khotan, where he was
received with much hospitality by its chief; but to Robert Shaw belongs
the credit of being the first Englishman to explore this unknown land
and open up relations with its ruler and people.
While he was living at Ladak an agent of Yakub Beg passed through,
bound for the Punjab, under orders from his master to report on the
neighbouring land. Shaw mentioned to this agent his intense desire to
visit Yarkand and Kashgar for the purpose of paying his respects to its
celebrated ruler. This proposal was almost immediately agreed to, and
late in 1868 Shaw crossed the Kara Koram and reached Yarkand safely.
His courage and resolution were evidently combined with considerable
tact, as throughout his journey he created an excellent impression both
on Yakub Beg and on his officials. The inopportune arrival of another
Englishman, Hayward, who was an explorer and also a trader, aroused
suspicions in the mind of the Oriental, and both men were treated for a
while as honoured state prisoners; but in the end they were sent back
to Ladak, thoroughly pleased with their reception.
Shaw’s reports excited intense interest, and created exaggerated
ideas both as to the power of Yakub Beg and as to the richness of the
prospective market. He had suggested to the _Atalik_ the appointment of
an agent for Chinese Turkestan at Lahore. This suggestion was accepted,
and the agent was the bearer of a cordial invitation to the Government
of India to despatch an official for the purpose of establishing
friendly relations and opening up trade.
Forsyth, a capable Indian civilian, was appointed to carry out this
mission, and, accompanied by Shaw, he reached Yarkand in 1870; but
unfortunately the _Atalik_ had just started off to his distant eastern
frontier, and Forsyth returned to India without accomplishing his
object.
Yakub Beg was as much disappointed as the British envoy at this
fiasco, and through the insistence of his agent Forsyth was again
appointed in 1873 to head a mission, which was of greater size than its
predecessor. Under him were Lieut.-Colonel Gordon, Captain Chapman and
Captain Trotter, who have all had distinguished careers. The caravan,
consisting of 400 animals, required elaborate supply preparations,
and great difficulty was experienced in crossing one of the passes,
the last hundred feet of which was a wall of ice. But in due course
Kargalik was reached, and thenceforward the mission was treated with
friendliness and sumptuous hospitality. In December 1873 the party
reached Kashgar, and Forsyth describes his reception as follows:
“According to etiquette we dismounted at about forty paces from the
gateway, and walked slowly along with the Head Chamberlain going
ahead. In the outer gateway soldiers were seated on a daïs with their
firearms laid on the ground before them, their arms folded and their
eyes on the ground. We then passed through a second gateway filled with
soldiers, and crossed another court, on all sides of which soldiers
in gay costumes were ranged seated. From this court we passed into
the penetralia, a small court in which not a soul was visible, and
everywhere a deathlike silence prevailed. At the further end of this
court was a long hall, with several window-doors. The Chamberlain then
led us in single file, with measured tread, to some steps at the side
of the hall, and entering almost on tiptoe looked in, and returning,
beckoned with his hand to me to advance alone. As I approached the
door he made a sign for me to enter, and immediately withdrew. I
found myself standing at the threshold of a very common-looking room;
looking about I saw enter at a doorway on the opposite side a tall
stout man, plainly dressed. He beckoned with his hand, and I advanced,
thinking it must be a chamberlain who was to conduct me to ‘The
Presence.’ Instinctively, however, I made a bow as I advanced, and soon
found myself taken by both hands and saluted with the usual form of
politeness, and I knew that I was standing before the far-famed ruler
of Eastern Turkestan.”
This interesting description shows that Forsyth took Yakub Beg very
much at his own valuation, and the fact that the British envoy agreed
to dismount at a distance from the gateway must, at any rate, have
raised the _Atalik_ in the eyes of his subjects.
At the formal interview a few days later the gifts, consisting mainly
of munitions, were presented, but Yakub Beg was chiefly pleased
with the autograph letter from Her Majesty, which was enclosed in a
magnificent casket. After exclaiming “Praise to Allah!” several times
he proceeded to declare his friendship for the British, referring
to the Queen as the sun “in whose genial rays such poor people as I
flourish.”
The mission remained four months at Kashgar, its labours culminating in
a treaty of commerce which was concluded in February 1874. By its terms
a 2½ per cent _ad valorem_ tax was to be levied on goods imported from
India, British trade thus being placed on the same favourable footing
as Russian.[15]
In addition to important surveys made along the main road, Gordon led
a party to the Pamirs, which were explored to some extent. Indeed the
Forsyth mission was a distinct success, if only because these surveys
proved beyond doubt that India could not be seriously invaded from the
Pamirs or from Chinese Turkestan. Moreover, it enlarged the horizon
of the authorities in India, and by the establishment of friendly
relations with Chinese Turkestan inaugurated a small but profitable
trade.
Yakub Beg, however, regarded the mission far otherwise, as to him it
signified an alliance, granting British protection against Russian
hostility, and, had he retained his power, constant appeals for aid
would have been received at Calcutta. As matters turned out, both Yakub
Beg and his family were destined to disappear from the stage of Central
Asia, and that speedily.
While the _Atalik_ was entertaining the Forsyth mission the Chinese
Government, having restored order at home, was preparing a formidable
force for the reconquest of its lost possessions beyond the Gobi. The
task was very difficult, owing to the width of the desert, estimated
at about 1200 miles, but the Chinese army was well disciplined,
well equipped, and well led, the difficulty as to supplies being
successfully overcome in a very simple manner. The advanced guard
sowed crops in one of the rare oases, and an abundant harvest was thus
provided in the following autumn.
As soon as this was gathered in, an army 50,000 strong advanced
without encountering any serious opposition, until in the spring of
1876 it reached the neighbourhood of Urumchi. The capture of this town
in August, followed by that of Manas, fully re-established Chinese
authority to the north of the Tian Shan.
The Celestials were now free to deal with Yakub Beg, whose position had
become unenviable. His refusal to aid Khokand in her last desperate
struggle with Russia must have lowered his prestige, while his
hostility to that power must have weakened his position; it was clear,
too, that Great Britain had no intention of supporting him with troops
or money. Apart from this, his heterogeneous force was no match for
the veteran Chinese army, to which, moreover, it was far inferior in
numbers and equipment.
In the spring of 1877 the Chinese main force marched on Turfan,
crossing the Tian Shan by the Devanchi Pass; while a second force,
10,000 strong, moved west from Hami in co-operation. Yakub Beg had
placed his main body for the defence of the Devanchi Pass, but while it
was holding this position news was received of the capture of Turfan
by the Hami column. A panic ensued, and, although the _Atalik_ fought
a rearguard action to the west of Turfan, he was obliged to retreat
to Karashahr, and later to Korla. Before this defeat Yakub Beg had
sought aid from Russia, but in vain, partly because Kuropatkin (then
a captain) had visited his camp and reported most unfavourably on his
position.
For some unexplained reason, probably from lack of supplies, the
Chinese army remained immobile for several months, while events were
moving fast in the enemy camp, where the star of Yakub Beg was setting
in gloom. After losing the eastern part of his territory the _Atalik_
became morose and a danger to his courtiers. According to trustworthy
information gained by me in Kashgar, the actual cause that led up to
his death was a savage flogging, inflicted without any adequate reason,
on one of his officials. This alarmed Niaz Hakim Beg, one of his
principal followers, who poisoned him.
Thus died Yakub Beg, who for a period of twelve years had played a
leading rôle on the stage of Central Asia. He was fortunate, as one
of his titles of _Bedolat_ signified, inasmuch as he quitted Khokand
just before its fall and successfully founded a state only a few
marches off. He was fortunate in his dealings with Russia, which
would have crushed him, but for more serious tasks which stayed her
hand, and finally he was fortunate in being killed just as his kingdom
was falling from his grasp. Among the chiefs of Central Asia he was a
man of capacity, and he was undoubtedly brave and resolute; but his
outlook was narrow, as was inevitable from his environment. He remained
alert and virile to the end, and was not addicted to the vice or
self-indulgence that ruins many members of the upper classes in Central
Asia. Although the stage he trod was circumscribed, Yakub Beg is the
only Moslem of the nineteenth century in Central Asia whose name will
live.
The death of the _Atalik_ was followed by a period of confusion. One of
his sons escorted his father’s corpse to Kashgar. There he was murdered
by his elder brother Beg Kuli Beg, who succeeded to the throne, but not
unchallenged, as a certain Hakim Khan Torah was able to seize Karashahr
and Korla, and there were also outbreaks at Khotan. The new ruler in
the end overcame his rivals, but in the effort exhausted his resources
to a dangerous extent and made the way still easier for the Chinese.
The final operations for the recovery of Kashgar and Yarkand were
conducted on somewhat the same lines as the first. The main force
assembled to the north of the Tian Shan and, using a little-known pass,
descended in overwhelming strength on Aksu, while a second column drove
the Moslems before it to Karashahr and on to Kucha, where a hard-fought
battle was won by the Chinese; and in December 1877 the campaign was
brought to a successful conclusion by the capture of Kashgar.
The Celestials showed moderation in the hour of victory. They deprived
the population of their horses, to prevent a fresh rising, but they
appointed Moslem headmen and also recognized the religious law of
Islam. Their strong position was acknowledged by Russia in 1881, when,
by the Treaty of St. Petersburg, that Power restored Kulja to the
Chinese, receiving in return the post of Irkeshtam, two stages on the
eastern side of the Tian Shan. By the same treaty freedom of trade was
secured, and this agreement is still in force.
In the last two decades of the nineteenth century great forward strides
were made in the direction of Chinese Turkestan both by Great Britain
and by Russia. The former Power, thanks to the energy and activity of
Younghusband (a nephew of Robert Shaw) and other travellers, realized
the importance of exploring the passes through which India could be
threatened, if not invaded, from Russian Turkestan. A second aim was
the control of the No Man’s Land which lay between the fertile valley
of Kashmir and the plain of Chinese Turkestan. To this end British
Political officers were stationed at Gilgit and Chitral, supported by
the Imperial Service troops of the Maharaja of Kashmir.
During this period Russia also displayed considerable activity in the
exploration and occupation of the No Man’s Land bordering on Russian
Turkestan. One of her most active agents, Captain Grombchevsky, visited
the hill state of Hunza in 1888, meeting Younghusband in the following
year on the upper reaches of the Yarkand River. In 1891 Younghusband
travelled in Wakhan, and at the stage of Bozai Gumbaz met Colonel
Yonoff, who had issued a proclamation that the Pamirs (with the sole
exception of the Taghdumbash Pamir) were Russian territory. That
officer subsequently received instructions to escort Younghusband back
to Chinese territory. He showed good feeling about his disagreeable
task, and as Younghusband agreed, under protest, to proceed to Chinese
Turkestan, he waived the instructions relating to escort. Upon this
incident being reported, the Russian Government apologized for Yonoff’s
act, and the two Powers finally decided to despatch a commission to
settle their respective claims in a country visited hitherto merely by
a few travellers. In 1895 the commission met, and by its findings the
narrow strip of Wakhan was awarded to the Amir of Afghanistan, with
the result that the boundary of the British Empire was drawn in this
section some thirty miles to the north of the crest line of the Hindu
Kush.
The great revolution which had broken out in China in 1911 began to
make itself felt in its remote western provinces in the following
spring. The first outbreak occurred in the district of Ili, where a
young officer entered into a conspiracy against the Tartar general,
with whom he had a private quarrel. The conspiracy was entirely
successful, and resulted not only in the murder of the general, but
in the capture of the machinery of government. As the revolution
progressed in China, the republic was proclaimed in Ili, and after
the defeat of a force despatched from Urumchi the Ili rebels became
undisputed rulers of the surrounding country.
The unrest soon affected Urumchi itself, where Chinese rowdies, members
of a secret society which existed for the sake of loot and blackmail,
began to demonstrate in favour of the republican cause and to show
their sympathy by acts of robbery and incendiarism. The governor,
however, was no weakling, and realizing that the loyalty of the regular
troops was very doubtful, he enlisted Tunganis in considerable numbers,
through whose instrumentality he was able to control the situation for
a time. Subsequently he dealt so mercilessly with every one suspected
of being a member of the secret society, slowly slicing to death
innocent and guilty alike, that the Chinese population rose and drove
him out of Urumchi.
In April of this year the outward calm hitherto maintained in Kashgar
was rudely disturbed by the murder of the _Taotai_ and the Prefect
of Aksu. Upon the arrival of the telegram announcing this deed,
the Kashgar _Taotai_ immediately cut off his queue and issued a
proclamation advising the Chinese to follow his example. Moreover, he
had a scroll prepared with the inscription, “Long live the Chinese
Republic!” which he hung up in his yamen. After some hesitation the
leading Chinese officials followed the example of the governor, the
commander-in-chief of the province not only cutting off his queue and
flying the flag of the Republic, but donning a nondescript European
cap. The united officials then solemnly changed their chronological
system from the fourth year of Hsuang-tang, the boy-emperor, to the
first year of the Chinese Republic, an act which possessed tremendous
significance in their eyes. The soldiers were by no means ready to
follow the lead of their superior officers, but maintained a sullen
and resentful attitude, which boded ill for the safety of the higher
officials, military and civil alike.
Meanwhile Yuan-Shih-Kai had been informed by telegram of the adherence
of the New Dominion to the Republic and had appointed the governor of
Kashgar to Urumchi, hoping by this means to end the state of hostility
which still existed between Ili and Urumchi. The governor of Kashgar at
first refused the appointment, pleading his age and weak health, but
in the end accepted it. The actual position, therefore, was that the
Republic had been acknowledged throughout the province, and that the
Chinese officials were all obeying the instructions of Yuan-Shih-Kai.
It might have been supposed that the crisis had passed without
bloodshed, but this was not so. At night a band of fifty Chinese,
members of a secret society, forced their way into the yamens of the
governor and of the city magistrate. The governor, who was awake, was
greeted with the ironical exclamation,“Greetings to Your Excellency,”
and both he and his wife were cut to pieces. The magistrate was also
killed and the republican flags in the two yamens were cut down and
destroyed.
In the morning the gamblers, as they were termed, were harangued by
the commander of the garrison at the head of a few soldiers. They
insisted on being armed and formed into a new regiment under the
command of a ruffian, a pork-butcher by trade; and when this was done
they appointed new officials to succeed the murdered men. The soldiers
in the New City killed two of their officers and a panic ensued in
Kashgar, but the disturbances and looting were confined to the New
City. The administration was now controlled by the gang of gamblers,
who appointed all officials and took advantage of their power to levy
blackmail, mainly on Chinese officials. In the other centres there were
murders. The governor of Yarkand, among others, was singled out for
assassination; but an exceptionally violent storm, which turned day
into night, suggested to the Chinese gamblers that heaven forbade the
deed--and the official still lives to tell the tale.
In consequence of the unrest and lack of security caused by these deeds
of violence, the Russian Government despatched a force 800 strong
to protect Russian subjects. For some weeks after its arrival there
was no friction or cause of alarm, but the celebration of a Chinese
rite nearly gave rise to most serious consequences. On the day of the
Festival of the Departed Spirits it is the custom of the Chinese to
burn paper-money before the temples in order to ensure financial ease
for their deceased relatives. One of the temples in Kashgar was the
scene of this ceremonial, and a rumour reached the Russian consulate
that the bazar was on fire. Help was immediately despatched in the
shape of fifteen Cossacks, who, misunderstanding the situation,
forcibly put out the fires in which the paper-money was being burnt.
While this was being done some of the Cossack horses broke loose
and galloped back to the consulate, where considerable anxiety was
felt. The city gate was shut at the usual hour of 8 P.M., and, upon
its arrival, the Russian main body, under the impression that their
detachment had been cut off, blew it up with dynamite, and marching
through the opening found the Cossacks perfectly safe.
Not long after this the “Gambler” regiment was ordered to Urumchi,
and the officer commanding the Cossacks, who was disappointed at the
entirely peaceful attitude of the Chinese, decided to attack it, his
plan being to carry out night manœuvres to the east of the city
across the line of march--and to create a “regrettable incident.” But
he reckoned without Sir George Macartney, who, getting wind of this
typically Russian scheme, which received confirmation from the sudden
departure of the Cossacks, induced the Chinese authorities at the very
last minute to change the line of march from due east to north-west,
with a wide detour afterwards to the north. Thanks to this action by
our able representative the trap was set in vain. The regiment, which
had obeyed its orders with deep reluctance, finally reached Urumchi
with its numbers much diminished by desertion, and the ruffianly
pork-butcher was subsequently put to death. The Russian troops were
shortly afterwards withdrawn from Kashgar, and that city once again
settled down to its habitual drowsiness.
In conclusion, the old-world policy of China was to surround her
fertile empire with buffer states. At the end of the eighteenth century
these included Annam, Siam, Burma, Assam, Bhutan, Sikkim, Nepal, Ladak,
Kashmir and Khokand, together with the maritime provinces of Siberia.
But the nineteenth century, which saw the advance of Russia, the rise
of Japan, and also powerful strangers from the west thundering at the
watergates of the Middle Kingdom, brought heavy territorial losses to
China, and to-day her system of buffer states has been swept away by
the new powers. Great Britain has shown considerable activity and has
occupied or gained political ascendency over many of these states, and
at the present time marches with the Chinese Empire not only on the
confines of Burma to the south, but also on the borders of Ladak and
Kashmir.
Russia, on her side, has made a great advance, and now occupies
Khokand, Andijan and the Khanates generally, together with the Pamirs
to the west of Chinese Turkestan; to the north the Russian province
of Semirechia, through which is being constructed a railway that will
attract much of its commerce, overshadows the province of Chinese
Turkestan.
Thus the old order of isolation, on which China relied, is passing,
and the new order, which includes modern methods of communication,
is coming into force, hastened by the desire for progress which is
affecting large sections of mankind in Asia.
The future of Chinese Turkestan is not finally settled, but the World
War which has temporarily broken up the Russian Empire will undoubtedly
stimulate China to move along the path of progress. If so, there is
hope that the condition of this outlying province of her empire may
benefit, more especially by improved communications. At the same time
there are many parts of Asia which have reason to envy the peace and
plenty enjoyed by the inhabitants of Chinese Turkestan.
CHAPTER XVI
A KASHGAR FARMER
La latitude assez basse du Turkestan chinois combinée avec son
altitude considérable, la sécheresse de son atmosphère et ses saisons
nettement tranchées rendent le pays propre à des cultures très
diverses, à celles qui se contentent d’un climat tempéré comme à
celles qui exigent des chaleurs fortes et prolongées; mais excluent
les plantes qui craignent les froids hivernaux ou réclament une grande
humidité.--GRENARD, _La Haute Asie_, ii. 173.
The cultivator, who is the backbone of Chinese Turkestan, depends
entirely on irrigated crops, as there is no regular rainfall in the
country. Rain, termed the “mercy of Allah” in Persia, is considered to
be the opposite in Kashgar, partly because of the utter irregularity
of its incidence. If there be a heavy fall in the spring, the soil
cakes and the young plants cannot force their way through, and this
necessitates a fresh sowing. Rain at harvest time, or when the melons
ripen, is equally unwelcome, and when there is a heavy rainfall the
farmer exclaims, “What great crime has been committed that we suffer
such a calamity?” Snow is regarded with less disfavour. As a rule there
is plenty of water for every one in the Kashgar oasis, and fights for
it occur only in the spring, when each cultivator wishes to water his
land first, in order to secure an early crop for the market.
Owing to the abundance of water and the absence of hail-storms or other
serious climatic drawbacks, agriculture, except for rust and blight,
which are seldom experienced, is a certainty, in complete contrast to
the reputation it bears in countries that depend on the rainfall for
their crops. The life of the oasis, where every acre is cultivated and
where the agricultural population is comparatively dense, is quite
unlike that of Persia, where each village is surrounded by square
miles of uncultivated land, which furnishes grazing, fodder and fuel.
There are a few isolated villages, or groups of villages, in Chinese
Turkestan, but the country generally consists of extensive oases set in
a lifeless desert.
The chief crops are millet, rice, maize, wheat, barley, cotton, lucerne
clover, hemp, linseed, turnips, carrots and tobacco. Millet and rice
are regarded as the best-paying crops, the former occupying one-half of
the total area cultivated.
Of fruits and vegetables, apricots, grapes, peaches, nectarines,
quinces, cherries, figs, apples, pears, mulberries, pomegranates and
melons grow in great profusion, and pumpkins, which are the staple
vegetable, are supplemented by carrots, turnips, onions, cucumbers,
garlic and fennel.
The upper classes are less civilized than in Persia, partly because
they do not mix socially with the European colonies; good fruit trees
and seeds have therefore not been introduced. This state of affairs
reflects little credit on the merchants from Andijan, who could easily
introduce the magnificent fruit trees which are now grown at Tashkent.
The Chinese of the New City farm much better than the native Moslems,
and have introduced the curious plum-cherry, with its blue, white and
red varieties of fruit, beans of various kinds, beetroot, cabbages,
including kohl rabi, lettuces, potatoes, tomatoes and spinach; but
there is little contact between the Chinese and Moslem farmers, so that
the latter do not learn much from the efficient Celestials.
The trees in the Kashgar Oasis, other than fruit trees, include the
Lombardy and the spreading poplar, the latter growing to a great size,
and the Turkestan elm, of which a grafted species grows in a pyramidal
shape. The common willow and the Babylonian willow of two species--one
with an edible fruit resembling the Bohemian olive--are planted along
every irrigation channel and serve as fuel.
Next to agriculture the most important industry is the raising of
live-stock--horses, donkeys, camels, cattle, sheep and goats. The
horses bred by the Kalmucks around Karashahr are the best, being
stronger than the Kirghiz ponies, because the Kalmucks do not drink
mare’s milk. They are usually geldings, standing about fourteen hands,
and are ideal for transport purposes. The Kirghiz pony is hardy and
enduring, but not strong or up to much weight. The Yarkandi, especially
a roan, was a favourite mount in India in the last century, and is
mentioned in Anglo-Indian novels of the period; it is still exported in
small numbers.
[Illustration: A LOAD OF CLOVER FROM ISA _HAJI’S_ FARM. _Page 302._]
Donkeys are found in thousands and take the place of the wheelbarrow
and the cart in England, besides carrying the bulk of the internal
trade. Camels, of the two-humped or Bactrian species, are highly
esteemed, especially by the Kirghiz, as they are not affected by
cold or deep snow, and can cross rivers that ponies have to swim.
Cattle-breeding is carried on mainly in the mountains and in the wooded
tracts along the courses of the rivers. The animals are small, and are
bred for milk and for ploughing. Sheep are usually of the fat-tailed
species, but in the southern districts there is also a short-haired
breed. All animals, as a rule, are miserably thin owing to the almost
entire absence of grazing.
I think it may be useful to select a typical farmer and study his
life closely; for by this means we shall get down to the bed-rock of
definite fact, which is preferable to vague generalizations about
agriculture. Isa _Haji_, the subject of this sketch, was a farmer, aged
75, who lived not far from the city wall. Helped by two of his five
sons, aged 18 and 16 respectively, he farmed 40 _mows_, or about six
acres of land, which is the average size of a farm close to Kashgar.
Here the manure obtained from the city enables the whole of the land
to be cultivated at once, whereas farther off, where little manure is
available, the farms are larger because a part of the land must always
be allowed to lie fallow. One half of the _Haji’s_ land was devoted
to lucerne clover, the remainder being sown with millet, wheat, rice,
cotton, melons and linseed. As a rule only one crop a year was taken
off the land; but millet, carrots and turnips were sown after the wheat
crop; in this case the millet did not ripen, but was valuable as green
forage; the clover was cut four times in the year. In one corner of
the farm were willow trees, which were pollarded every four years to
serve as fuel for the owners. Isa _Haji_, being an old man, merely
assisted in watering the fields, while his sons did all the ploughing,
harvesting and threshing. His two eldest sons kept a grain-shop in
Russian Turkestan, the third was a bricklayer, and the others, when not
at work on the farm, earned sixpence a day as labourers. The _Haji_
owned a yoke of plough-oxen and four donkeys, the former being fed
on cotton-seed and the latter on millet. His agricultural implements
included a primitive plough, a harrow, mattocks of two sizes, sickles,
_zambils_ or hurdles for carrying earth, a stone roller for threshing
rice and a shovel for winnowing. Manure, consisting of horse and cow
droppings, night soil and ashes, was bought in the city at the rate of
threepence per donkey load, and used freely on the land, which was a
rich alluvial loam; the frequent storms also deposited layers of dust
which were regarded as good for the crops.
The house, which Isa _Haji_ owned and had built room by room as he
could afford it, at a total cost (including the land) of £50, covered
a square of sixty feet. The guest-room, in which he lived during the
summer and in which the meals were cooked and served, was about twenty
feet square and was lighted by a hole in the roof. A mud platform
covered with felts, on which the family slept, occupied a prominent
position, and the chief piece of furniture was a carved box, which held
clothes and served as a bedstead. Above it was a shelf full of Russian
teapots. Off this room opened the store-room, in which grain was kept
for winter consumption and which served as the living-room in winter.
There was also a courtyard partly roofed in with matting during the
summer, in which grew a shady tree, and this was the chief working room
of the wife and daughters-in-law at that season. Here we noticed a
cradle, a spinning-wheel and various pans. Two small rooms belonged to
two unmarried sons, and the rest of the square contained stabling, an
oven and a store for dry fodder.
[Illustration: THE SONS OF ISA _HAJI_ PLOUGHING. _Page 304._]
The home was managed by the wife and her three daughters-in-law, who
cooked the food, looked after the children and made the clothes. They
did not work in the fields, but spun the cotton into yarn, which they
wove into the rough white calico of which most of the clothing of the
poorer classes is fashioned.
The staple food of the family was bread made from millet, a grain that
is held to be more sustaining than wheat or rice. Isa _Haji’s_ large
family consumed all his share of the crops, except the lucerne and some
of the melons, turnips, carrots and linseed, which were sold. The oil
of the linseed was used for cooking and lighting.
The chief meal of these peasant-farmers was eaten at sunset and
consisted of _suyukash_, a soup prepared from pieces of paste-like
macaroni and vegetables boiled in water. In the morning they took tea
with cream and salt, and fruit and bread were eaten at odd hours. Meat,
generally beef, appeared on their table only once a week. There was
plenty of this rude fare, supplemented by slices of pumpkin eaten hot
and by other delicacies; and Isa _Haji’s_ sons appeared healthy, their
teeth being noticeably fine and sound. They said that they suffered a
good deal from lack of warmth in the winter, as charcoal was dear and
had to be used sparingly. They placed a bowl of lighted charcoal under
a wooden frame, over which a quilt was thrown, and the family sat by
day and slept by night under this covering, with their feet towards
the centre.
Isa _Haji_ had been the tenant of the farm for more than ten years. It
included three small properties belonging to three Kashgar merchants.
Two-thirds of the lucerne, amounting in value to about five pounds, and
one half of the other crops, were paid over as rent. He had no security
of tenure, and could be turned out at will, but the prospect of this
appeared to him unlikely, and he expressed satisfaction with his lot.
The farm paid revenue to the extent of 105 lbs. of wheat, a similar
quantity of millet and 2100 lbs. of chopped straw, Isa _Haji_ and his
landlords each paying one half of the whole. There had also to be met
the demand of the Chinese authorities for forced labour on public works
and transport, but this was compounded for in money and might come to
the equivalent of two shillings per annum. Nothing was paid for the
use of irrigation water, and the taxation represented less than 5 per
cent of the two main crops. In the case of villages situated at some
distance from the city double this amount may be taken by the tax
collectors, who are more exacting in proportion to their distance from
headquarters.
To sum up, we have an oasis in which agriculture is not affected by
the rainfall, but depends entirely on the rivers. The peasants have
enough to eat, a good climate and neighbours in abundance. There are
few parts of the world where the people are so contented, and, although
discontent might perhaps bring an improvement of their lot, it is
pleasant to see such cheerful, friendly tillers of the soil leading a
healthy agricultural life, and to meet them returning home at night
singing their tuneful songs:
How happy he who crowns in shades like these
A youth of labour with an age of ease;
Who quits a world where strong temptations try,
And, since ’tis hard to combat, learns to fly.
CHAPTER XVII
MANNERS AND CUSTOMS IN CHINESE TURKESTAN
Straight and slender-waisted are the maids of Kashgar,
Short, with sack-like figures, are the maids of Yangi Hissar.
A goitre above and fat below are the maids of Yarkand.
Arranging apples on saucers are the maids of Khotan-Ilchi.
Wearing felt caps, with foreheads high, are the maids of Sarikol.
_The Maids of Turkestan._ (From an old ballad.)
The inhabitants of Chinese Turkestan are divided by the anthropologist
into four distinct groups. The first consists of the Sarikoli and
Pakhpo mountaineers, who are pure Aryans. The second is a desert group
including the mass of the inhabitants of the country, the basis of this
population being Aryan with some Uighur admixture, more especially
at Aksu in the north. The third group is formed of the Kirghiz, the
Dulanis and the inhabitants of Aksu; the fourth consists of the Chinese
and Mongols, whose differentiation from the Kirghiz is to be noted. The
Aryan type has been best preserved in the southern and south-western
parts of the province, with their rugged mountain areas which are
difficult of access. In the western districts Turkish influence is
evident, in the northern the Mongol zone begins, and this, as our
survey moves eastwards, gives place to the Chinese.
Throughout this work reference is constantly made to the people of
Chinese Turkestan, and here an attempt will be made to summarize their
character. They are distinctly to be classified as “tame,” in the
frontier officer’s sense of the word, being submissive, lacking in
spirit and ready to serve any master, provided that they can enjoy life
in their own way, with feasting, women and music. In their ballads they
complain of forced labour, with its separation from wife and family,
and they sing the praises of the home. But they are not faithful to
their wives: “Let every one follow his inclination and enjoy himself
with the woman he prefers. If the kings were just, every one would have
his beloved mistress at his side.” Lack of physical and moral energy
and dislike of hard, continuous work and, above all, of discipline,
are notable characteristics of these apathetic oasis-dwellers; but
against these imperfections, which they share, more or less, with
the neighbouring peoples of Russian Turkestan, must be set many good
qualities. Hospitality is found everywhere, strangers are welcomed and
the people are pleasant to deal with, their politeness being especially
marked. The Chinese rule, though supported by few troops, is a living
force, and this proves that the people are law-abiding. Moreover, there
is very little fanaticism, and the inhabitants of Chinese Turkestan,
although obedient to their spiritual leaders, are not easily excited
to rebellion. One inconsistent trait in this home-loving race is the
readiness they show to undertake a journey, though travelling is
generally hard and wearisome; but perhaps the chief cause of this
is curiosity, and, after all, relatively few travellers leave their
beloved province. “We love our festivals” is the general refrain of
this happy, but nonchalant, race of lotos-eaters.
During the months we spent in this little-known country, I employed
my spare time in collecting information regarding its manners and
customs, which, as is natural, bore strong traces of Chinese origin.
They were also influenced by the fact that the people were Buddhists
for many hundreds of years before their forcible conversion to Islam in
the tenth century, when they became Sunnis, looking up to the _Khan_
of Bokhara and, above him, to the Sultan of Turkey. Their holy places
remained unchanged so far as the sites were concerned, and on them
shrines in honour of Moslem saints have been erected. Ancestor-worship,
too, is inherited from the Chinese, with the result that the tombs are
visited with a frequency unknown elsewhere in Central Asia.
Girls, when they reach a marriageable age, visit one of the shrines
and pray as follows: “O Allah, O Lord of the Shrine, grant me a house
with a kettle ready placed on the stove, and a spoon in the kettle. May
it be a house with its four sides decorated with cloth, with carpets
and druggets ready spread, and with towels hanging from the pegs.
Grant me a husband whose father and mother are dead; and may he have
no other wife!” When the saint vouchsafes to hear this delightfully
naïve petition and a suitor appears on the scene, there is no formal
betrothal, although in the case of the wealthy large sums are paid by
the bridegroom and the bride is richly dowered. Costly gifts, too, are
given to the bride by the bridegroom and by relatives and friends. In
the case of a poor man, a payment of merely one or two pounds sterling
is made to the parents, who defray the bride’s outfit from the money.
The next step taken is to obtain a certificate from the _Imam_ of the
quarter, that the woman is free to marry, and after the payment of a
small fee a written permission for the marriage is given by the local
_Beg_.
Nowadays there is no special wedding-dress, and even the globular
wedding-cap of cloth of gold or silver has ceased to be worn. The
marriage ceremony is generally celebrated at the termination of a
feast which lasts until the evening. A _mulla_ reads the _fatiha_ or
opening chapter of the Koran, after which the agent of the bride goes
to the women’s apartment and asks her thrice whether she accepts the
bridegroom, and upon receiving her bashfully given consent, he returns
to the men to announce the success of his mission, thereby completing
the _nikah_ or legal ceremony. Two pieces of bread soaked in salt water
are then given to the bridegroom and bride respectively, and this, in
popular opinion, is the most important act of the marriage. Indeed many
marriages are contracted by the observance of this custom alone, bread
and salt probably symbolizing the inauguration of a new household,
although the meaning has now been forgotten.
As the bride leaves her old home, the mother laments: “O my black-eyed
darling! Alas, my child, my child! My sweet-voiced, soft-eyed darling!
My daughter leaves me, and I remain in an empty house. Alas, my child,
my child!”
When conducted to her new home, the people of the quarter bar her path
by means of a fire, and demand gifts in the shape of handkerchiefs. The
groom, too, will not allow her to dismount from her horse until he
is handsomely fee’d, and finally, when the bride enters her husband’s
house, flour and cotton are set before her and given away to the poor.
This ceremony is termed _Ak-Yul-luk_ or “White Road,” and symbolizes a
happy journey through life. During the lifetime of the older generation
the bridegroom is called _kiau oghli_ or “son-in-law” by the parents,
and the bride _kelin_ or “daughter-in-law,” but she is spoken of as a
_chaukan_ or married woman by her neighbours.
There is an immense difference between the villagers and the
townspeople in Kashgar, both in the position of women and in their
morality. The villagers as a rule marry only one wife and rarely
practise divorce, and their wives take a high position inherited from
pre-Islamic days. For example, it is customary to agree, before the
reading of the _nikah_, that the wife shall be taken to the shrine of
_Hazrat Apak_ for _tawwuf_ or “circling” of the tomb when the apricots
are ripe, other stipulations being that the woman cannot be taken to
another town without her consent, and sometimes that the husband shall
not take another wife. The women may frequently be seen riding to
market on good horses and attending to business almost on an equality
with the men. In the city wives are constantly divorced, so much so
that the majority of them remarry many times. Temporary marriages,
resembling in effect _sigheh_ marriages in Persia, are also very
common, and some women systematically indulge in divorces in order
to gain money. They cannot remarry until after the expiration of the
_iddat_ of three months and ten days, but upon receiving two letters
of divorce--generally obtained in different towns--they can remarry
at once by using the older letter. It is an indication of the low
position held by women in the towns that a merchant, on starting off to
business, will sometimes return home if he first meets one of the fair
sex, this being looked upon as a bad omen.
Constant intermarriage, as in most Moslem countries, produces sad
results in the form of idiocy, deafness and dumbness in the offspring,
such visitations being especially noticeable among the rich, landed
classes, who intermarry generation after generation, in order to keep
the family property intact. So far is this policy pursued that in the
richest family of Kashgar many of the girls have perforce remained
single because there were not enough cousins to go round. It is
interesting to note that in this matter the Chinese go to the opposite
extreme, the whole nation being divided up into about one hundred
divisions, and no man being permitted to marry a woman of his own
division, although she be in no way related to him.
In Kashgar, marriage is not the chief event in a woman’s life, the
ceremony of _chachbagh_ or “braiding of the hair” being far more
important, although held at no fixed time after marriage, and not
depending on the birth of a child. It is celebrated by a great feast,
with dancing, which sometimes lasts for three days. Gifts, far richer
than those given at marriage, are bestowed on the wife, the parents in
many cases handing over landed property. The culminating point is the
appearance of the woman, who, attired in her richest clothes, takes the
seat of honour in the room; and then, in the presence of all, her hair,
hitherto worn in four or five plaits, is formally and for the first
time braided in two plaits, and she becomes thereby a _jawan_. She is
now entitled to wear five red semicircular strips of embroidery on the
right side of the neck of her gown, one below the other, and increasing
successively in length. In the case of the rich, Indian cloth of gold
is generally used.
One day a woman was seen weeping at a shrine, and her prayer was as
follows: “O Holy One! What shall I do? How shall I live? I have been
left an orphan. I am become a stranger. What shall I do? Am I to suffer
the hardships of an orphan? Am I to remain lonely? I have no father, no
mother. Every one is oppressing me. O Allah, I am lost among friends
and foes. Alas, my stranger’s fate! Alas, my orphan’s fate! O Holy One,
put love into the heart of my husband and make his mind just towards
me. O Allah, grant me the wish of my heart, give me a son, a son with
a long life. I have become a stranger. Thou hast left me an orphan. O
Allah, help me and make my enemies like dust.”
After this fervent prayer the suppliant, with her eyes shut, put her
hand into a hole in the tomb and drew forth a morsel of earth, which
she swallowed. Her faith was justified, and in due course of time
she began to make arrangements for an easy delivery, to ensure which
a visit was paid to a _bakhshi_ or magician. He played upon a drum
and chanted some incoherent gibberish, the woman meanwhile holding a
rope that hung from the roof, and dancing round it until giddiness
ensued. After this ceremony she paid a fee, gave alms to the poor, and
returned home with her heart at ease. Later on she visited the tombs
of her ancestors, taking with her an offering of food, and begged them
to intercede for an easy delivery and, above all, for the birth of
a son. She laid the offering near the grave, praised her ancestors,
lamented her own failings, walked round the tomb seven times and
finally distributed the food to the beggars. About a month before the
event, she went on foot to a place where there were seven water mills,
and after slowly crossing the seven ducts that fed them, returned home
with happy confidence in the special efficacy of the ceremony.
[Illustration: A MAGICIAN AND HIS DISCIPLE. _Page 314._]
When her hour was come, no one was allowed to leave the house unless
upon business that was urgent, in which case no harm was anticipated,
provided that some article of dress was left behind. The women of the
neighbourhood assembled to help, and during the delivery cried out
with the idea of keeping the birth a secret, a custom adopted from
the Chinese. The newly born infant, too, was carefully concealed from
visitors.
If former children belonging to the parents have all died, which is,
alas, a frequent occurrence, the father, dressed as a beggar, takes the
baby to the bazar and begs from the shopkeepers small pieces of calico,
which are made into a shirt, the idea being to avoid misfortune by thus
humbling himself. Special names signifying “solid” or “stay” or “may he
stay!” are in such cases given to the child when he is named, between
the third and seventh day, by a _mulla_, who first whispers the _azan_
or call to prayer into his ear. On the fortieth day the head of the
infant is shaved and the hair buried. A sheep is sacrificed and eaten
on this occasion, while its bones, which must not be broken, are buried.
The rite of circumcision, one of the most important of the “five
foundations” of Islam, is performed between the third and eighth
years. The barber operates, and in the case of the rich the event is
celebrated by a feast lasting two or three days, at which the boy
receives presents including hard-boiled eggs, with which he plays a
game by knocking them together.
Children of both sexes are sent to school very young, the idea being
that they will gradually pick up their letters. Education in Kashgar
merely consists of learning by heart a chapter of the Koran and its
Turki equivalent. The letters are taught, penmanship is encouraged, and
lessons are given in the forms of prayer and of ablution. Geography,
history (as distinct from legend), mathematics and foreign languages
are utterly neglected, and the girls leave school at about ten and most
of the boys a year or two later. The teachers are narrow-minded bigots,
and the parents are content to have it so, with the result that there
is not much progress in Kashgar.
We visited the chief boys’ school in Kashgar, where the master bade
his favourite pupils recite passages from the Koran. This they did in
a lugubrious sing-song, swaying backwards and forwards as if in pain.
The pedagogue and his scholars were then photographed, holding imposing
leather-bound and silver-embossed books, which on enquiry proved to be
commentaries on the Koran.
[Illustration: A KASHGAR SCHOOL. _Page 316._]
The death ceremonies are in general those common to Islam throughout
Asia, but there are also some customs peculiar to Kashgar. The body,
after being washed and shrouded, is laid out with the thumbs of the
hands and the big toes tied together, while the chin is also tied
up. It is then carried out of the house and, at seven paces from the
door, a spoonful of rice water is poured on the ground. At every seven
steps this is repeated, and the following verse recited:
_Zir_[16] has come, _Zabar_ has come,
From the centre of the earth news has come.
O swift dogs of the door of heaven,
Come, open the gates of paradise for this man.
This mention of dogs is due to Chinese influence; in Islam they occupy
a degraded position and are considered unclean. Contrary to the general
usage of Islam, white is the mourning colour, as in China. The funeral
procession to the grave is headed by professional mourners, and
accompanied by a _mulla_, who reads sentences from the Koran on the
way, and conducts the service at the grave.
Women do not attend at the graveside, but mourn at a neighbouring
mosque: “O my father! My brave father! My good father!” or “O my
mother! My beautiful mother with black eyebrows! Thou leavest us and
we are alone.” One curious custom is that of driving a stick into the
grave near the head of the corpse, which Grenard considers to be a
survival of the ancient practice of offering food to the dead. On the
third day a solemn feast is held in the house of the deceased. The
mourning lasts for forty days, and upon the termination of this period
a second feast is given, and the normal life is then resumed by the
mourners.
The system of medicine at Kashgar is based on the ancient Greek theory
as taught by Hippocrates, Galen and Plato, whose works were translated
into Arabic and Persian, especially by Abu Ali bin Sina, known in
Europe as Avicenna. Diseases are divided into the categories of “hot”
and “cold,” to be cured by medicines and food of the opposite category.
For instance, in the case of fever, cock’s flesh, which is “cold,”
is eaten, or fish. Hen’s flesh is considered “hot” in Persia, but in
Kashgar there is some difference of opinion among the faculty.
The Kashgar doctors believe implicitly in giving pigeon’s or duck’s
blood in cases of poisoning, and, moreover, prescribe the flesh of a
nestling sparrow torn in two to ease swellings in the groin; they stop
bleeding by means of a pad composed of burnt felt, or a bit of leather
covered with mud or filth. Rheumatism and dropsy are treated by burying
the patient in hot sand or by wrapping him in the skin of a recently
killed sheep, and abdominal complaints by sticking several lighted
candles into a loaf and placing it on the patient’s stomach.
So much for the doctors of Kashgar; but, as their reputation is very
low, recourse is had to other means of curing sickness. Among the most
common is the female diviner, who, when called in, kneads flour into
a ball, recites some gibberish in which the names of the archangels
and of Solomon are mentioned, and solemnly buries the ball under the
fire, reciting the names of all the holy men who are buried in the
neighbourhood. Whichever of these saints is being mentioned when the
ball bursts has to be propitiated. Oil is taken to his shrine, where
it is boiled and the steam is inhaled by the patient, after which
it is mixed with food, part of which is distributed to the poor and
part eaten for seven days by the sufferer. This ceremony is termed
_chachratku_ or “bursting of a ball of kneaded flour” and is regarded
as most efficacious.
The power of the evil eye is firmly believed in by all classes,
and children usually wear round their necks a little leather case
containing a verse of the Koran as a protection against it. If a child
is believed to be possessed, an old woman recites the following:
“Allah is sublime. Praise be to Allah! There is no god but Allah. If
thou art an evil eye depart, as this place is not for thee. Go to a
deserted watermill; go to a deserted house; go to a grave; go to the
house of the _Kazi_. These are the commands of Allah, of Solomon and of
the Saint.” The evil eye cannot withstand this invocation and leaves
the sufferer forthwith.
In cases of possession by the devil, a magician is called in, and
chants as follows: “Another head has come to the head; another body has
come to the body. Your master has come; a jade lamp and blood sherbet
are here. You will soon be like ashes, for I have an iron knife to cut
you with and coal bullets to shoot you with.” The devil, hearing these
threats from the magician, quits the patient without more ado.
Among general remedies are the following: The eyes of sheep sacrificed
at the _Id-i-Gurban_ at Mecca are dried and kept as powerful charms for
sickness. When used they are moistened and applied to the forehead.
Another remedy consists of bread and meat, collected from seven bakers
and butchers. The food, when prepared, is taken, together with a doll,
to the grave of a saint, after which some of it is eaten and the
remainder distributed to the poor. This effects the cure. Yet another
curious treatment is to cover up the patient’s head while a man walks
round him with lighted straw, uttering certain special prayers during
the fumigation.
As to children’s ailments: if a child cries too much, straw is swept up
from three roads, dust is taken from the footprints of passers-by and
Syrian rue is collected from the desert; the mixture is then lighted
and the child is cured by being held over the smoke. If a child suffers
from deafness, one method is to call in the services of a trumpeter,
who spits into the ear, while another plan is to cut seven small twigs,
wrap them up in cotton and, on market day, to tie the little bundle to
the ear of a donkey loaded with salt. For other ailments, seven coral
beads are thrown into a spring; or, again, copper pieces are begged
from seven men named Mohamed, others are added by the parents, and a
charm is made to hang round the child’s neck.
Finally, there are certain shrines famous for the cure of specific
diseases. For skin disease a shrine known as the _Sigm_ is much
frequented. There mud is taken from a well outside and thrown at the
wall with a prayer to the saint, after which the suppliant walks away
without looking back.
[Illustration: A WOMAN THROWING MUD TO EFFECT A CURE. _Page 320._]
I conclude this brief account of the treatment of diseases in Kashgar
by a story entitled “The Clever Physician”:[17]
“Once upon a time there was a physician. When this physician entered
the room where the sick person was, he looked all about it, and
whatever met his eyes in the shape of an eatable, he looked at the
patient and said, ‘You have eaten such and such a thing and that is
what has done you harm.’ The physician had a pupil, and wherever the
physician went, there went his pupil with him. A rich man had become
paralysed, that is to say, unable to walk. Many physicians had treated
him, but his disease did not abate. At last, having heard that the
aforesaid physician’s pupil was a wonderful medical adept, he summoned
him to his house.
“When the physician’s pupil had entered the house and had carefully
looked round, he perceived that there was nothing at all in the shape
of an eatable in it, but in one corner of the room an old donkey-saddle
had been thrown down. When he saw this he exclaimed, ‘Oh, rich man!
you have eaten an old donkey-saddle, through which your disease has
increased and you have become paralysed.’ When he said this, the rich
man was very angry, and exclaiming, ‘Does one who is called a human
being eat donkey-saddles?’ sprang up in his rage in order to beat him
and--walked!
“The physician, poor fellow, was terrified and had fled away. The rich
man was struck with wonder and exclaimed, ‘This is a great man; for my
leg, which grew no better for any physician’s medicine, has now become
quite well through this person.’ He caused the physician’s pupil to
be summoned, apologized to him, and sent him away with many valuable
gifts.”
At the first fall of snow a man frequently calls on a friend with some
snow wrapped in an envelope, while in another are enclosed verses:
My dear friend with this document I throw you snow;
From joy of heart this game arose;
Cups and jugs we have collected and wooden trays;
And we have prepared sweetmeats.
The mandoline, violin, zither and tambourine we have made ready.
When snow has fallen in winter, do not people give entertainments?
If there are friends living around do not people invite them?
If you are clever enough to seize the man who has brought the snow,
Powder his face, paint him like a girl, and beat him severely.
The visitor places his verses secretly in the house and then decamps.
If the owner of the house catches him he beats him, paints his face
like a girl and leads him through the streets calling out, “This is the
punishment for the man who throws snow”; and the visitor is then bound
to give an entertainment. But if the owner of the house does not catch
the visitor, he himself must prepare a banquet. If he fails to do so
within a week, bulrushes are tied on the top of his door, and if this
hint is not sufficient, the bier from the cemetery is placed outside
his house.
Owing to Chinese influence, there is no Moslem country where respect
for parents and for superiors is so strong as in Kashgar. During the
lives of the parents they are never referred to by name by their
children, but are always addressed as “My Lord.” A son will never
sit in the presence of his father without special permission, but
will stand with the head bowed and hands folded in token of humility.
He would never dream of retiring to sleep before his father, nor of
smoking in his presence. To superiors deference is shown by dismounting
from horseback, and by always prefacing an answer with _taksir_ or
“fault,” which has come to be the equivalent of our “Sir.” Upon receipt
of a robe of honour, the recipient bows low, sweeping the arms in a
circle to stroke the beard. Women courtesy by bowing low with folded
hands.
The Kashgaris have few games, but kite-flying, an elementary form
of rounders, pitch-and-toss into a hole with walnuts or coins, and
a kind of tip-cat are favourite amusements. Grown-up men indulge in
ram-fighting and partridge-fighting, heavy bets being made on the
contests.
Music is extremely popular, the Kashgar peasants being distinctly
musical, and their refrains, sung in unison on returning from work, are
pleasing to the European ear. The usual instruments are the tambourine,
the mandoline and the four-stringed _rubab_. In Kashgar dancing is
regarded as improper, and is indulged in only by professional women
or boys; but in the Khotan oasis, among the Dulanis of Merket, the
Sarikolis and the Kirghiz, men and women dance together at weddings.
At entertainments the men and women sit on opposite sides and, when
the music commences, a woman rises and places a handkerchief in front
of a man, who thereupon rises also, sings a song and returns the
handkerchief. This is done by all present, and men and women then dance
together.
During my stay in Chinese Turkestan I sought for any custom which might
be a survival from the days of the Nestorian Christians. One such is
that horse-dealers, when a bargain is not concluded, make the sign of
the cross on the horse to avert the evil eye. It is interesting to note
that, owing to Chinese influence, black and dark grey are the favourite
colours for horses, whereas few people care to buy a roan, whose colour
is deemed unlucky.
CHAPTER XVIII
STALKING THE GREAT SHEEP OF MARCO POLO
Do you know the world’s white roof-tree--do you know that windy rift
Where the baffling mountain-eddies chop and change?
Do you know the long day’s patience, belly-down on frozen drift,
While the head of heads is feeding out of range?
It is there that I am going, where the boulders and the snow lie,
With a trusty, nimble tracker that I know,
I have sworn an oath, to keep it on the Horns of Ovis poli,
And the Red Gods call me out and I must go!
KIPLING, _The Feet of the Young Men_.
Life in the East, more especially away from important centres, lacks
most of the amenities which are taken as a matter of course in the
civilized West. Family life is broken up, society is restricted,
communications are bad, involving few and irregular posts, and health
frequently suffers from the climate and from indifferent food. So much
for the debit side. But fortunately there is a credit side, and for the
Englishman sport is a large item on this side and does much to brighten
the otherwise trying monotony of life in Asia. It also helps him to
maintain his energy and health, and with it that sane outlook which is
one of the main secrets of our success as a world-power.
When appointed to Kashgar I had hopes of fulfilling the ambition of a
life-time by stalking one of Marco Polo’s great sheep, the _Ovis poli_.
As a youth I had been fascinated by the record of the celebrated
Venetian traveller, and after joining the army had made considerable
efforts to travel in the Pamirs in 1891 and 1892. But the arrest of
Younghusband, mentioned in Chapter XV., closed the “Roof of the World”
to the private traveller, and it seemed as if I were not destined to
tread these mysterious upland valleys. But the fates were kind. On the
way to Kashgar I stopped at Petrograd, where a high Russian official,
whose colleague I had been at Meshed, said that he felt sure I should
wish to shoot an Ovis poli in the Pamirs. I replied emphatically in
the affirmative, and it was speedily arranged that I should receive
an invitation to travel in the regions which for so many years I had
longed to visit.
Before describing the _Ovis poli_, which confers the blue riband upon
the hunter of big game, both from the magnificence of the trophy and
the inaccessibility of its habitat, I will quote Marco Polo, who wrote:
“There are great numbers of all kinds of wild beasts [in the Pamirs];
among others, wild sheep of great size, whose horns are good six palms
in length. From these horns the shepherds make great bowls to eat from,
and they use the horns also to enclose folds for their cattle at night.”
The credit of Marco suffered through the ignorance of mankind, and it
was not until the nineteenth century that his character for accuracy
was vindicated by Lieutenant Wood, who, when he reached England in 1838
after his famous journey to a chief source of the Oxus, exhibited some
skulls with horns 4 feet 8 inches long, and on the strength of these
specimens the species was appropriately named _Ovis poli_ or “The sheep
of (Marco) Polo.”
It is the most splendid member of a splendid group, to which belong
also the _Ovis ammon_ of Tibet, with more massive but shorter
horns, and the _Ovis karelini_ of the Tian Shan, which is a smaller
sub-species of the _poli_, the “record” head, shot by E. W. Dixon,
measuring only 58½ inches. In the _Ovis poli_, the enormous horns are
longer and relatively narrower than in any of the other wild sheep,
forming a more open spiral and much more than one complete circle, with
the flat surface markedly angulated.[18] The summer coat is lightly
speckled and the legs are white, but in the winter the ruff becomes
pure white. The height at the shoulders exceeds 12 hands, and the
weight may be about 22 stone. The length of horns is enormous, one
specimen, believed to be the longest on record, measuring 6 feet 3
inches! Marco’s “six palms” may perhaps be the equivalent of 5 feet; so
that his estimate was in no way exaggerated.
The great distinction of being the first European to shoot an _Ovis
poli_ was won by Captain (the late Sir Henry) Trotter, who describes
the event as follows: “It was during a very tedious and long march of
thirty-seven miles, mostly through snow, that my attention was suddenly
called to the presence of some wild sheep about two hundred yards up
the hillside. My rifle was handy, and in a few seconds one of them came
rolling down. It was the first _Ovis poli_ ever shot by a European
sportsman, but it was unfortunately a very poor specimen.”[19] Since
that date British big-game shots, including the most famous of their
generation, have visited these remote upland valleys in pursuit of this
king of sheep.
When I actually visited the Pamirs I found that some of the
descriptions I had read did not convey a clear impression on all
points. Perhaps my chief disappointment was the aridity of the country,
for, travelling in June and July, I had expected to find rich meadows
decked with Alpine flowers. On the contrary, nowhere did I see anything
but the scantiest pasturage, and it remains a subject of wonder that
the huge _Ovis poli_ can find nourishment in such a barren land. A
second point which struck me was that the Pamirs were for the most part
open and easy to traverse, and the mountains, although actually rising
very high above sea-level, appeared almost insignificant when viewed
from the high altitude at which we were travelling. The one point on
which there was no mistake was the severity of the weather.
Starting from Kashgar in considerable heat on June 7, we crossed the
Katta Dawan twelve days later in equally considerable cold, and from
its crest, at an elevation of 15,250 feet, the Pamirs lay before us.
To the north the Trans-Alai range rose up in snow-covered peaks,
while almost at our feet a corner of the Great Karakul, the largest
lake of the Pamirs, was visible. Descending into the valley from the
storm-swept pass, I felt very happy that I had at last reached the
haunt of the _Ovis poli_, and my elation was increased by seeing three
small herds of females grazing on the mountain side as we passed down
the valley to our camp near the lake.
The following morning I started off to try for game, feeling as keen
and excited as I had done during my first shooting expedition more
than twenty-five years ago, when everything was “fair and new.” I had
fortunately secured the services of a good _shikari_, by name Nadir,
who has already been mentioned. He had travelled with other Englishmen
and quite grasped our methods of stalking, which utterly puzzle an
untutored Kirghiz. He was indeed a treasure; for, besides being a good
stalker, he understood how to manage the Kirghiz, who worked willingly
under him.
Followed by some ponies carrying bedding and food, we rode across the
level steppe to the foot-hills. By good luck we sighted a herd of six
or eight four-year old rams, which were grazing about a mile off to our
right, and before very long we saw their horns moving over a low ridge
about 400 yards away. I jumped off and, running up to the ridge, had an
easy shot and bagged my first _Ovis poli_. Though the head was a small
one, such a start was of good omen for the future.
We afterwards examined the ground for miles, but saw no tracks of big
rams; so we bivouacked in the hills and returned to camp the following
day, satisfied that the local _shikari_ was speaking the truth when he
explained that the veterans visited the range only in winter. There
was, indeed, no chance of a big head anywhere near the Karakul, and as
sport was merely a pleasant incident of the journey, not its object, we
marched on to Pamirsky Post.
[Illustration: _OVIS POLI_--THE 51-INCH HEAD. _Page 328._]
From this centre we were making for Sarikol, and, owing to it being
midsummer, when the Kirghiz were grazing their flocks all over the
country, the prospects of bagging a good head appeared to be small.
Nadir, however, knew of a _nullah_ to the south, and we determined
to give it a trial, and therefore made for the Uchak Valley, where we
camped at an elevation of 13,500 feet, some miles from the stalking
ground, for the sake of obtaining supplies and water. It was bitterly
cold at night, but we started off for our day’s stalking by 4 A.M.,
warmly wrapped up and riding the invaluable yak. Walking at these
high altitudes is trying to the heart, especially to the middle-aged,
and I decided, wisely I think, to save myself as far as possible. We
gradually made our way up the open but stony valley towards the skirt
of the main range, riding up the side of the mountain almost to the
snow line, where we dismounted to spy. The bare, open hillside was
littered with large and small boulders; there was little grass and no
cover to speak of; so I did not feel hopeful.
Fortune, however, was kind, and before very long a herd headed by a
really fine ram was sighted, slowly grazing its way uphill. For a long
while we watched our quarry, as at one time it bore away from us and
then again turned in our direction, until we finally saw that its line
lay about a mile from where we were in hiding. The stalk consisted
mainly in crawling round boulders; but although the wind was favourable
we were seen before we approached within the usual range for a shot, as
was indeed inevitable owing to lack of cover.
The only course left was to rely on my telescopic sight and risk a long
shot. But I could not see the quarry either from a lying or from a
sitting position, owing to the boulders, and at the distance a standing
shot would have been folly. Accordingly I told Nadir to bend down and,
using his shoulder as a rest, was able to aim steadily at the big ram,
which, after stopping for a moment to gaze at us, was moving off at a
slow pace. My _shikari_ was as steady as a rock, and, thanks to this,
I was able to hit the ram through the heart. It was a most fortunate
shot; for the distance was paced out at 300 yards.
Nadir and the Kirghiz, wild with excitement, raced off to the fallen
ram, while I, equally elated but far less active, slowly followed them,
panting for breath when I attempted to run. It was indeed a lucky day,
as the ram was a fine six-year-old specimen, standing as high as a
small mule, and with a perfect pair of horns measuring 51 inches.
On the following day I wounded a second ram in the shoulder by another
long shot, and tracked it until nightfall, leaving it when we were
about five miles from camp. Early the next morning we sighted it again
near the foot of a precipitous hill on a wide open plain where it had
joined some ewes. Stalking was out of the question, as concealment
was impossible, and we felt depressed until the Kirghiz told us that
a few miles off there was a man, the owner of two hunting dogs who
would run down the wounded quarry. In time he appeared on the scene
and handed over his dogs to the Kirghiz _shikari_, while I sat down
to watch. The Kirghiz showed great skill in separating the ram from
the ewes, and when the dogs were let loose he ran at their heels at
a remarkable pace. The ram went very fast at first, but then circled
and doubled, threatening the dogs at times. But its efforts to escape
were vain, and after a five minutes’ run the noble quarry was pulled
down and the _shikari_ cut its throat. The scramble down to the
valley was very steep and long, but my yak was equal to it, and I was
interested in watching some snowcock, which kept flying past us in
alarm, displaying their striking plumage to great advantage. When we
reached the bottom of the hill we found the ram to be a fine head, but
smaller than the one shot on the first day, which, according to our
information, was the biggest in that area, although not a first-class
head.
[Illustration: HUNTING-DOGS WITH KIRGHIZ OWNER. _Page 330._]
The dogs were not fed until they were rested, and to my surprise they
refused a piece of bread; but it was explained to me that bread was
such a delicacy among the Kirghiz that a dog never had a chance of
tasting it and so did not know what it was!
Their owner, like all the Kirghiz I met, was friendly and gave me his
views on life. He laid down emphatically that no man of substance could
be comfortable without four wives, and on my challenging this statement
he was quite contemptuous and said that the Prophet, on Him be Peace,
gave his commandments wisely when he permitted Moslems to marry four
helpmates, as two were needed to milk the yaks and the sheep, a third
to do the cooking and a fourth to sew and weave carpets. He ended up by
saying, “Praise be to Allah! I have four obedient wives, who spend all
their days in trying to please me!”
On the way home we passed a number of fine skulls lying about below a
bluff which the Kirghiz referred to as a “cemetery.” They said that the
_Ovis poli_ are hunted in the snow by packs of wolves and take refuge
on such steep places, where they are surrounded. In spite of their huge
horns the rams apparently never attempt to defend themselves, and as
their joints, heated by the pursuit, stiffen from the cold, they fall
an easy prey to their enemies.
* * * * *
As I sit at home surrounded by trophies gained in the plains of India,
in Kashmir, in Ladak, in Persia and finally in the Pamirs, each head
evokes pleasing memories of the stalk and recalls some of the happiest
days of my life. On no expedition does the golden haze lie deeper than
on the successful stalking of the great sheep of Marco Polo, in the
remote upland valleys of the “Roof of the World.”
INDEX
Aba Bakr, 268
Abdalis, 242
Abu Ali bin Sina (Avicenna), 318
Abu Nasr, 260
Achmet, 22, 24, 27, 40-41, 46
Afghanistan, Amir of: China and, 272;
Wakhan awarded to, 294
Afghanistan, trade with, 247
Afghans in Kashgar, 57
Afrasiab, Mt., 156
Agha Khan, the, 155, 157, 177
Agriculture in Chinese Turkestan, 300-307
Agri Su, shrine, 181
Ahmad Khan, Amir, 272
_Akhois_, 114-17, 125, 146, 149
Ak Langar, 203, 220
Ak Masjid taken, 276, 282
_Aksakals_, 105, 273;
of Guma, 197-8;
of Sarikol, 153, 157
Aksu, 240, 266, 280, 292, 295
_Ak Taulin_, 269, 270
_Ak-Yul-luk_ ceremony, 312
Alai range, 31
Ali Aralan, 93-5, 261
Almaligh, 265
_Alti Shahr_, 273
_Ambans_, Chinese, 126, 194, 198, 242, 279
_Amin-ul-Muminin_, 284
Amundsen, Captain, 4
Amursana, 271
Andijan, 21, 245, 272, 274, 299, 301
Apak, _Hazrat_, 68-70, 270-71, 312
Arabs, conquests by, 256-8
Architecture of Chinese Turkestan, 84-5
_Argon_, 117, 125
_Arslan_ Khans, 259
Aryans of Sarikol, 131, 153, 155, 157-60, 308
_Atalik Ghazi_, 279
Ata-ul-Vali, _Shaykh_, 181
Austrian prisoners, 19
Avicenna, 318
Badakshan, 145, 247, 272, 278
Badakshani horses, 28, 53, 114, 176-177, 194, 227-8, 247
Badrudin, _Khan Sahib_, 209-10, 212, 216-20
Bag-mouth rat, 88
_Baigu_, game of, 150-51, 165
Baths, Russian, 13-14
Beg Kuli Beg, 292
_Begs_, 25, 27, 92, 126-7, 139, 164-5;
of Tashmalik, 107, 109;
official powers of, 243-5
Bergen, 4-5
Besitun, Mt., 156
Bibi Anna, shrine of, 92-3
Bielka, 54, 230
Birds of Chinese Turkestan, 87-8, 161, 182, 221
Bishbaligh, 259
Black Mountaineers, 269
Bohlin, Mr., 51, 55, 65, 66, 72, 87, 88, 105, 171, 173
Bokhara, 269, 274, 279, 282-3
“Braiding of the hair” ceremony, 274, 313-14
Bridge of Gez River, 110-11
Britain and Chinese Turkestan, 293-4, 298;
Yakub Beg and, 285-290
Brownie, 54, 230
Buchanan, Lady Georgina, 10
Buddhism, 94, 153, 217-19, 241, 310;
in China, 252-3
Buddhist ruins, 84-5, 217-19
Buffer states, Chinese, 298
Bulunkul, Lake, 111, 165
Buzurg Khan, 277, 279
Camels, 15, 28, 79, 109, 112, 169, 302-3
Caravans, 25, 28, 89, 176
Carpets, 82, 116, 146-7, 213
Carts, native, 26, 176
_Chachbagh_ ceremony, 313-14
Chagatai, 265, 266
Chang Kien, 252
Chapman, Captain, 287
Chengiz Khan, 263-5
Chernaieff, General, 277
Chightam, 280-81
Childbirth ceremonies, 314-15
Children, 315-16
China: buffer states of, 298;
travel in, 102
Chinese Turkestan and, 55, 97, 186, 242-5;
during Revolution, 294-9;
struggle for suzerainty, 67, 249-53, 255-6, 257-8, 271-4;
Yakub Beg and, 70-71, 277-81, 290-93
Chinese: administration, 55, 97, 186, 242-5;
authorities, 37, 186, 242-5;
banquets, 72-3, 76-8, 199;
burial customs, 71-72;
cemetery, 70-72;
farmers, 301-2;
finger-nails, 73,96-7, 99;
foot-mutilation, 74-5;
forced labour, 55, 306;
games, 78;
habits unhealthy, 96-7, 99;
_hashish_ prohibited by, 172;
jade, 215-17;
kindness to animals, 100-101;
lying, 100;
marriage, 65, 99-100;
missionaries persecuted by, 52;
soldiers, 74, 95-6;
travellers, 28;
veneration for age, 76
Chinese Turkestan: administration, 55, 97, 186, 242-5;
agriculture, 300-307;
art, 82-4;
boundaries, 235-6;
climate, 56, 239-40;
deserts, 236-8;
flora, 87, 128, 149-50, 169, 210;
halting-places, 35;
hospitality, 102;
justice, 245;
loess formation, 36, 56-7, 86, 91;
marriage, 189;
population, 240-42, 308-10;
religions, 94, 153, 217-19, 241-2, 310;
rivers, 258-9;
road-making, 228;
taxes, 243-4, 306;
trade, 245-7, 289
history of: Chinese rule, 67, 70-71, 249-53, 255-6, 257-8, 271-4,
277-81, 290-93, 294-9;
Huns and Yue-chi, 249, 252-3;
Juan Juan, 254;
Western Turks, 254-5;
Arabs and Tibetans, 255-6, 257-8;
Uighurs, 258-9;
Turks, 260-62;
Chengiz Khan, Timur, Tamerlane, 263-8;
Chagatai Khans, 267-9;
Zungars, 270-71;
Khojas, 269, 270, 272-274, 278;
Yakub Beg, 70-71, 276-81, 290-4;
Britain and Russia, 275-6, 282-6, 293-4, 299
_Chini Bagh_, 39-40, 81
Chitral occupied, 293
Christian tribes, 263-4
Christianity in Chinese Turkestan, 190;
Nestorian, 94, 256, 323
Circumcision, 315-16
Cobbold, Captain, 134
Consulate premises, 39-40, 81, 170-71
Coronation Chapel, Moscow, 11
_Corvée_ system, 55, 306
Cossacks in Kashgar, 46, 52, 79-80, 81, 297-8;
in Pamirs, 133, 135, 140, 141-3;
Kirghiz descended from, 240
Croquet, 46
Czaplicka, Miss, 120
Dalai Lama, 270
Dalgleish, 223
Dancing, 323
Daoud _Akhun_, 41, 50, 160, 165, 168, 171, 176
Deasy, Captain, 40, 77
Death ceremonies, 316-17
Deserts, 175, 236-8
Devanchi Pass, 291
Divorce in Chinese Turkestan, 65, 212
Dixon, E. W., 326
Dogs, pariah, 101
Donkeys, Kashgari, 89, 101, 176, 302
Dughlat tribe, 265, 267-8
Dulanis, 223, 225, 241, 281, 323
_Dumba_, 26, 44
Dunmore, Lord, 111, 143, 230
Eagles, hunting with, 182, 222
Education in Kashgar, 316
Elburz Range, 136
Embroidery, 83
English Hospital in Petrograd, 10
Etherton, Lieutenant, 184
Evil eye, charms against, 319
Fa-hien, 217, 219, 253
Falconer of the Mehtar of Chitral, 177
Falconry, 177-8
Ferhad, 156
Finger-nails, Chinese, 73, 96-7, 99
Finland, 8-9
Fish, poisonous, 43;
Kirghiz fishing, 152-3
Flax cultivation, 172-3
Flora:
of Chinese Turkestan, 87, 128, 149-50, 169, 210;
of Pamirs, 145-6
Forsyth mission, 287-9
“Four Garrisons,” 255-6
Freshfield, Mr. Douglas, 146
Games:
Chinese, 78;
Kashgari, 323;
Kirghiz, 122, 150-51, 165
German prisoners, 19
Gez River, 107-11, 166
Gilgit occupied, 293
Goat game, 122, 150-51, 165
Gobi, the, 175, 236, 258, 290
Goez, Benedict, 270
Goitre:
in Khotan, 212;
in Yarkand, 184-5, 192
Gordon, Sir Thomas, 155, 287, 289
Governor of Kashgar, lunch given by, 72-6;
of Tashkurghan, 155;
of Yangi Shahr, 97, 99
Great Karakul Lake, 130, 132, 134, 327-8
Grenard, 242, 261, 317
Grombohevsky, Captain, 293
Guchluk, 262, 264
_Gul Bagh_, 71
Guma, 197-9
_Gur Khan_, 261, 262
Haidar, _Mirza_, 240, 266 (_note_), 268
Hakim Khan Torah, 292
Haldan Bokosha, Khan, 270
Han dynasty, 249-50
Hasan Boghra Khan, 260-61
Hasan, _Sayyid Khoja_, 269
_Hashish_, 172, 185
Hawks, 87-8;
white, 177-8
Haydon, Mr., 141
Hayward, 287
_Hazrat_ Apak, 68-70, 93, 270-71, 312
Hemp, 246
Hindus:
in Kargalik, 194;
in Yarkand, 183, 185, 186
Hiong-Nu tribe, 249, 254
Hiuen Tsiang, 129, 196, 197, 207, 217, 237, 251, 254
Hoa tribe, 254
Höegberg, Dr., 52, 184, 190;
Mrs., 189, 190
Holdich, Sir Thomas, 129
Horsemanship:
Cossack, 79-80;
Kashgari, 80, 99
Horses:
Badakshani, 28, 53, 114, 176-7, 194, 227-8, 247;
Kalmuck, 302;
treatment of, 151-2
Hospidset Hotel, 4
Howorth, Sir Henry, 270
_Hsien Yin_ or Sub-Governor, 242
Hsin-Chiang, Chinese name for Chinese Turkestan, 235, 271
Humayun, 112, 175
Huns, 249-50, 252, 254;
White, 253-4
_Id_ festival, 229
Iftikhar Ahmad, _Khan Sahib_, 105, 158, 168, 175, 196, 224
Ilak Khans, 258, 261
Ilohi, native name for Khotan, 212
Ili, 265, 270, 271, 272, 280, 294
Ili Tartar General, 243
India:
trade with, 246;
Yue-chi invade, 249, 252
Indian Empire and Yakub Beg, 286-290
Indians in Chinese Turkestan, 183, 185, 186, 194
Insects of Turkestan, 88-9, 107, 171
Intermarriage, results of, 313
Irkeshtam, 33, 293
Isa _Haji_, 303-7
Isan Bughs, 265
Ishan Khan _Khoja_, 273
Islam:
rise of, 256, 260-61, 262;
supplants Buddhism, 266, 269, 293, 310
Issak Boulak, 161
Jade of Khotan, 215-17, 270
Jafar Bai, 26-7, 30, 40-41, 43, 50, 77, 95, 108, 112, 117-18, 152,
160, 165, 173, 175, 183, 195, 204, 222, 228
Jahangir, 267, 272
Jam-i-Taghai-Agri-Su, 181
Johnson, Mr., 286
Juan Juan, 254
Justice in Chinese Turkestan, 245
Justinian, Emperor, 214
Kalmuck tribe, 270;
horses of, 302
Kamar-u-Din, 267
Kanishka, 252
Kan Ying, 251
_Kaptar Mazzar_, 205-7
Karakash River, 209
Kara Khitai dynasty, 261, 262
Kara Koram, 236, 246
Karakoram, capital of Uighurs, 259
Karakul Lake, Great, 130, 132, 134, 327-8;
Little, 164
Karashahr, 241, 255, 280, 292;
horses, 302
_Kara Taulin_, 269
Kargalik, 193-4, 288
Karungi, 7-9
Kashgar:
agriculture, 170, 172, 301-2, 303-7;
bazar, 57-63;
birds, 87-8;
British mission at, 288-9;
Buddhist ruins, 84-85;
cemetery, 68-9;
childbirth, 314-15;
Chinese Republic, disturbances in, 295-8;
climate, 56, 230-31, 239-40;
crops, 170, 172, 301-2;
death ceremonies, 316-17;
donkeys, 89, 101, 302;
education, 316;
farmers, 303-7;
food available in, 43-4;
fruit, 170, 179-80, 301;
handicrafts, 82-4;
insects, 88-9, 107, 171;
laundry difficulties in, 45-6;
marriage and divorce, 64-5, 310-13;
medical science in, 317-21;
millers, 90;
Oasis, 37, 54-5, 240, 300-302;
population, 245-246;
prices, 44-5;
revenue, 244;
Russian colony in, 46-51, 79-84, 105;
sandstorms, 56, 239-40;
shrines, 92-5, 320;
sunsets, 91-2, 231;
Swedish missionaries, 37, 44, 51-3;
trade, 245;
trees, 86-7;
wall, 67-8;
winter in, 280-81
history of:
Huns drive Yue-chi from, 249;
Pan Chao conquers, 66-7, 250-51;
Yue-chi regain, 252, 253;
Buddhism reaches, 253;
China recovers, 255;
one of “Four Garrisons,” 255, 257;
Christianity and Zoroastrianism in, 256;
Arab raids reach, 257;
Ali Arslan defeated, 94, 261;
Turkish rule, 261;
Sadi visits, 262;
Marco Polo in, 265;
Timur’s capital, 266;
under Dughlat Amirs, 267-8;
_Khojas_ established in, 269;
_Hazrat_ Apak rules, 68, 270-71;
Chinese masters of, 271-3;
attempts of _Khojas_ to regain, 272, 273-4, 277;
Yakub Beg rules, 277-8, 279-91;
Russian designs on, 283, 285;
British mission in, 287-90;
Chinese overthrow Yakub Beg, 97, 290-92;
Revolutionary disturbances in, 295-8
Kashgari:
costumes, 29, 58-9, 83, 193;
cruelty to animals, 100-101;
dirtiness, 44;
farmers, 303-7;
games, 323;
health, 99, 173;
horsemanship, 80, 99;
lying, 100;
medical mission and, 52-53;
music, 63-4, 323;
peasants, 60;
pleasure expeditions, 92, 95;
religious observances, 68-9, 92, 95, 314-315;
superstitions, 69, 318-21;
women, 58-61, 64-5, 83, 92-3, 122, 310-15;
workmen, 29, 31, 58
Kashmir, 269;
Maharaja of, 293
Kasia Mountains, 236
Katta Dawan, 128-31, 133, 327
_Katta Tura_, 273
Kaufmann, General, 18, 285
Kaufmann, Mt., 134
Kaulbars, Baron, 284
_Kazis_, 243, 245
Keen Lung, Emperor, 271
Keraits, 263
Khanates of the Sir Darya, 275, 283, 299
Khargush Pamir, 134-9
Khiva, 275
_Khojas_, 269, 270-71, 272-3, 274, 277-8, 280
Khokand, 20-21;
submits to China, 272, 273;
Russian advance on, 276, 277, 279;
Russian rule established, 282, 283, 299;
revolt, 283, 285
Khotan:
ancient cities of, 217-19;
carpets, 82, 116, 146-7, 213;
history, 94, 253, 255, 261, 279, 286, 292;
jade, 215-17;
oasis, 323;
population, 240, 246;
products, 213-17, 246;
women, 211-12
journey to:
the caravan, 175-8;
Yangi Hissar, 178, 180;
Yarkand, 182-90;
Posgam, 192-3;
crossing the desert, 195-7, 201-208;
arrival, 209-11;
Merket, 221-5;
return to Kashgar, 225-9
Khudadad, Amir, 268
Khudayar Khan, 276, 277
Kirghiz, 240-41, 308;
_akhois_, 30, 114-17, 125, 146, 149;
character and customs, 113-14, 118, 123-5, 164-5, 331;
features, 57, 113;
fishing, 152-3;
goat game, 122, 150-51, 165;
headgear, 25, 118, 133, 148;
hunter, 330-31;
Karakoram captured by, 259;
marriages, 119-22, 323;
ponies, 302;
religion and superstition, 125, 163;
submit to China, 272;
women, 23, 114, 118-22, 133
Kizil Art, 236
Kizil Su River, 35, 55, 238
Korla, 292
_Koumiss_, 122
Kucha, 280, 292
Kuen-lun range, 205, 236
Kuli, 165
Kulja, 271, 293
Kungur, Mt., 40, 164
Kuntigmas, 166
Kuropatkin, 291
_Kutass_ riding, 162-4, 166-8
Kutayba ibn Muslim, 257
_Kvass_, 9
Labour, forced, 55, 306
Ladak, 268, 269, 286
Lalmoi marsh, 238
_Lapis lazuli_, 247
Leh route to India, 246
Little, Mrs. Archibald, 75
Littledale, Mrs. St. George, 209
Little Lake Karakul, 164
Liu-Kin-tang, 97-8
Loess formations, 36, 56-7, 86, 91
Macartney, Lady, 38-39, 45, 54
Macartney, Sir George, 3, 37, 52, 78, 102, 231, 298
_Makhdum-i-Azam_, 269
Manichaeism, 259
Maralbashi, 238, 239
Marmots, 136, 144
Marriage:
Chinese, 65, 189;
Kashgar, 64-5, 310-13;
Khotan, 212;
Kirghiz, 119-22, 323
Master of the Horse, 176-7
_Mazzars_, 92-5, 205-7
Medical missionaries attacked, 51-2
Medicine in Kashgar, system of, 317-21
Melons, 179-80
Merket, 221-5, 241
Meshed, 51, 325
Mestchersky, Prince, 46, 48;
Princess, 46, 48, 75, 79, 80
Metal-work, 83
Millers, 90
_Ming Bashis_, 25, 141, 144-5, 243
Miniol, 37, 170
Mithradates II., 249-50
Moghulistan, 235, 265, 267
Mohamed of Khwarazm (Khiva), 262
Mongols:
of Karashahr, 241;
races of, in Chinese Turkestan, 308;
rise of, 263-5;
Tombs of the, 95
Mon Wang, 249
Moscow, 11
Moslems deported, 271, 272, 273;
rebellions of, 280
Mountain sickness, 138, 149, 168
_Muezzins_, 91
_Mullas_, 52, 58, 61, 173
Murghab River, 130, 141
Mussalman Kuli, 276, 277
Muztagh Ata, 40, 111, 148, 160, 163, 164, 166, 180, 231
Nadir, the huntsman, 108, 117, 119, 131-2;
his sheep taken by wolves, 124-5;
stalking _ovis poli_, 133, 135, 140-41, 328-30;
at home in Tashkurghan, 153, 156-7
Naiman tribe, 264
Narin, Fort, 283
Nestorian Christianity, 94, 256, 323
Niaz Hakim Beg, 291
Nomad tribes, 240-41, 243
Norwegians, 4-5
Oases, 240, 301-2, 306
Opal, 169-70
Opium, 247
Ordam-Padshah, 94, 261
Oriental slackness, 40, 42
Osh, 23-6
_Ovis ammon_, 326
_Ovis poli_:
horns, 143, 326;
stalking, 131, 135, 146, 324-32
Pamirs:
British mission in, 289;
Russian authority in, 293-4, 299, 325
travel in:
preparations, 103-5;
journey begun, 105-7;
Gez River crossing, 107-11, 166;
daily routine, 112-13;
among the Kirghiz, 113-27;
Katta Dawan crossed, 129-31, 133, 327;
Karakul Lake, 130, 132, 134, 327;
_ovis poli_ stalking, 133, 135, 327-8;
Khargush Pamir, 134-9;
fossils found, 141;
Pamirsky Post, 141-3, 328;
Uchak Valley, stalking in, 144, 329-31;
with the Sarikoli, 148-60;
Ulughat Pass, 166-8
Pamirsky Post, 139, 141-3, 328
Pan Ghao, General, 67, 250-51
Paper manufacture, 198
Parthia, Chinese missions to, 249, 251
Persia:
agriculture, 301;
character of people, 190;
China and, 253, 256;
deserts, 236
Peter the Great, 270
Petrograd, 3, 9-10
Philip of France, 178
Pigeon Shrine, 205-7
Polo, Marco, 129, 196, 205, 265, 324-5
Posgam, 192-3
_Potais_, 178-9, 196, 204
Pottery, 82
Prester John, 264
Przemyzl, capture of, 17
Ptolemy, 236
Races of Chinese Turkestan, 308
Rainfall, 239, 300
Ramazan, fast of, 125, 165, 171, 173-4
Raquette, Dr., 51-2
Rashid Khan, 269
Rémusat, 212, 215, 219
Revenue system, 243-4, 306
Revolution, Chinese, 294-9
Roads in Turkestan, 25, 27, 30-32, 228
Roche, Major, 143
Romanoff, M., 17, 81-2, 87
Russia, journey through, 9-15;
peasants, 14;
soldiers, 9, 10, 14;
the steppes, 15, 16, 22;
trains, 6, 13, 15, 17
policy of:
Sir Daria entered, 275-6;
hostilities with Khokand, 276, 277, 282, 283;
Turkestan province formed, 276;
Ili province occupied, 280;
Yakub Beg and, 282-6, 290, 291, 292;
treaty with Chinese, 293;
Pamir delimitation, 293-4;
troops in Kashgar, 297-8;
territories acquired, 299;
trade with, 245, 246, 247, 284
Russians:
colony in Kashgar, 46-51, 79-81, 105;
devotion, 11-12;
hospitality, 24, 47-9;
outposts in Pamirs, 133-5, 140, 141-3, 154;
primitive customs, 33-5;
Sarts and, 18, 19, 21
Russian Turkestan, journey through, 17-35
Sadi, 262
Sadik Beg, 277, 278
Safdar Ali Khan, 187
Said, Sultan, 268
Sakas, 249
Samara, 13-14
Samarkand, 216, 269
Sandstorms, 56, 239-40
Sanjar, Sultan, 262
Sarikol annexed, 280
Sarikolis, 131, 149, 153, 155, 157-160, 177, 308, 323
Sarts, 18-21
Satok Boghra Khan, 260
Sattur, 41-3, 50, 88, 113, 139, 158, 160-61, 166, 171, 172, 176
_Sayyids_, 92
Schlagintweit, Adolph, 274, 286
Semirechia, 299
Shah Murad Khan, 277
Shah Rukh, 268
Shakir Padshah, _Imam_, 206
Shamshir, 120-21
Shaw, Robert, 286-7
Sheep:
fat-tailed, 26, 44, 303;
Osh district, 26,44;
Yarkand, 185-6;
wolves and, 114, 124-5, 331;
wild, of Marco Polo, 131, 143, 146, 324-32
Shirin, 156
Shrines, 68-72, 92-5, 205-7, 310, 320
_Sigm_ shrine, 320
Silk industry of Khotan, 213-15
Sir Daria, the, 20, 275-6
Snakes, 88
Snow-throwing custom, 321-2
Spiders, 88-9
Stein, Sir Aurel:
researches of, 76, 84, 94, 98, 107, 218-19, 242, 259;
returns from desert, 101-2;
helps in Pamir preparations, 105, 106;
bound for Persia, 166
Steppes, 15-16, 22
Stockholm, 5
“Stone Sheep-folds,” 114
Sturgeon, 8
Subashi, 162
Superstitions of Kashgari, 69, 318-320
Swedes, 5, 7-8
Swedish missionaries, 37, 44, 51, 52-53, 180, 184, 188-9, 190
Tagharma, 149, 152, 153
Taghdumbash Pamir, 155
Taghliks, 241
Taiping rebellion, 279-80
Tajiks, 242
Takla Makan desert, 84, 175, 195-7, 201-8, 236
Tamerlane, 216, 266-8
Tang dynasty, 255
_Taotai_ of Kashgar, 295-6
_Taoyin_, or Governor, 242, 244
Tarantchis, 272, 280
Tarikh-i-Rashidi, 266
Tashkent, 18-20, 276, 277, 282;
fruit, 301
Tashkurghan, 149, 153-5, 177
Tashmalik oasis, 106-7
Taxes in Chinese Turkestan, 243-4, 306
Temple of Liu-Kin-tang, 97-8;
of Pan Ghao, 67
Terek Dawan, 30-32, 36, 273
_Thum_ of Hunza, the, 187
Tian Shan, the, 25-37, 291
Tibetan invasion, 255, 257-8
_Tims_, 84
Tiznaf River, 192
_Togkrak_ tree, 225
Toghril, 263-4
Tokharistan, 252
Tombs of the Mongols, 95
Tora, _Haji_, 284
Torgut Mongols, 270-71
Tornea, 9
Trade of Chinese Turkestan, 245-7, 289
Trains, Scandinavian and Russian, 6, 13, 15, 17
Trans-Alai range, 134, 327
Treaty of St. Petersburg, 293
Trotter, Capt., 287, 326
Tsar’s prohibition edict, 9, 24, 47
Tse Wang Rabdan, 270
Tughluk Timur, 265-6
Tuman Su River, 55, 66
Tunganis, 200, 241-2, 271, 278-9, 280-81, 295
Turfan, 235, 250, 253, 255, 260, 280, 291
Turkestan, city of, 17
Turkey and Yakub Beg, 284-5
Turki:
farriers, 62;
language, 261;
uncleanliness, 43
Turks:
Chinese Turkestan under, 261;
Northern, 255;
Western, empire of, 254, 255
Uchak Valley: _ovis poli_ stalking in, 144, 329-31
Uighurs, 253, 258-9, 308
Ulughat Pass, 166-8
Urumchi, 242, 245, 259, 280, 290;
Chinese Revolution in, 294-5, 297-8
Uzbegs, 268
Victoria, Queen, 289
Vyborg, 9
Wakhan incident, 145, 293-4
Wakhijir pass, 247
Wali Khan _Khoja_, 273-4, 286
Wang Khan, the, 264
Whistling, 12, 64
White Huns, 253-4
White Mountaineers, 269
Wolves, 114, 124-5, 331
Wood, Lieutenant, 129, 143, 325
Women:
Chinese, 74, 75, 99-100;
Dulani, 223, 226-6;
Kashgari, 58-61, 64-65, 83, 92-3, 122, 310-15;
Khotan, 211-12, 253;
Kirghiz, 23, 114, 118-22, 133;
Moslem, 26, 40, 64-5, 92-3, 264-5;
Persian, 61;
Russian peasant, 14;
Sarikoli, 159;
Takla Makan, 200;
Tashkent, 20, 22;
Yarkandi, 187-9
Wu Kung, 258
Yagello, Colonel, 144, 145
Yaks, 123-4, 143;
riding, 162-4, 166-8
Yakub Beg:
army of, 281-2;
Britain and, 286-90;
Buddhist monuments destroyed by, 67, 84;
conquests of, 67, 71, 278-281;
fort of, 213;
garden belonging to, 188;
overthrown by Chinese, 58, 70, 290-92;
rest-houses built by, 181;
Russia’s relations with, 282-6;
tomb destroyed, 70
Yangi Hissar, 178, 180, 278
Yangi Shahr, 95-9, 240
Yarkand:
arrival at, 182-4;
bazars, 185-7;
Goez in, 270;
goitre, 184-5, 192;
horses, 302;
_Khojas_ beaten at, 273;
mission colony, 188-9;
oasis, 181, 191;
population, 240, 246;
Shaw at, 286-7;
women, 187-9;
Yakub Beg captures, 278-9
Yarkand River, 225, 226, 238, 239
Yelui Tashi, 261
Yezdigird III., 256
Yezid, 242
Yonoff, Colonel, 293-4
Yotkan, 218-19
Younghusband, Sir Francis, 136, 236, 293-4, 325
Yuan-Shih-Kai, 295-6
Yue-chi, or Indo-Scythians, 249, 250-53
Yurungkash River, 217
_Yuz Bashis_, 243
Zarafshan or Yarkand River, 238
Zawa oasis, 206, 208, 219-20
Zoroastrianism, 155, 256
Zungars, 270-71
THE END
_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_.
[Illustration: MAP to illustrate AUTHORS’ ROUTES.]
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Tashkent, Kashgar, Cossacks.
[2] The monarch in question was actually Khusru Parviz.
[3] _Iusce_ is _Yu-shih_ or Jade stone.
[4] To offer tea is a symbol of apology.
[5] _Si-Yu-Ki_, by S. Beal, ii. pp. 324, 325.
[6] _Tarikh-i-Rashidi_, p. 303.
[7] _La Haute Asie_, ii. 308.
[8] Most of these terms are new, the old titles having been abolished
after the Revolution.
[9] There is considerable uncertainty about this date, which good
authorities give as some decades earlier.
[10] _Cathay and the Way Thither_, vol. i. p. 101 (Cordier edition).
[11] Boghra signifies a male camel--names of animals being used by
Turks as tribal names. It is an interesting form of totemism; _vide_
“La Légende de Satok Boghra et l’histoire,” _Journ. Asiat._, Jan.-Fév.
1900, pp. 24 _et seq._
[12] This province generally signifies the country lying to the north
of the Tian Shan, but, as used in the text, the term includes the whole
of the eastern division of the _Khanate_.
[13] The writer was _Mirza_ Haider, Gurkhan, who wrote a history of
his ancestors, and also graphically described the events in which he
sometimes played a leading part.
[14] “Journey to Ilchi Khotan (1866),” _J.R.G.S._ vol. 37 (1867).
[15] The text of the treaty is given in _The Life of Yakub Beg_, by D.
G. Boulger.
[16] _Zir_ is the mark for the sound “i,” and _zabar_ for the sound
“a”; their inclusion is apparently unmeaning.
[17] Vide _The Eastern Turkestan Dialect_, by G. Raquette.
[18] Vide _The Sheep and its Cousins_, by the late R. Lydekker, who
termed the _poli_, _Ovis ammon poli_, and the _karelini_, _Ovis ammon
littledalei_.
[19] “The Amir Yakub Khan and Eastern Turkestan in Mid-Nineteenth
Century,” by Colonel Sir Henry Trotter, K.C.M.G., C.B. (_Journal of the
Central Asian Society_, vol. iv., 1917, Part IV.).
Transcriber's Notes:
Italics are shown thus: _sloping_.
The Index entry for Chinese Turkestan: taxes, has been corrected
to page 306 from page 366 which does not exist.
Variations in spelling and hyphenation are retained.
Perceived typographical errors have been changed.
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