CHAPTER III.
FROM MY JOURNAL.
AMONGST THE TURKOMANS.
13th April.
Struck with astonishment and surprise at the strange, social relations, amongst which I was to-day living for the first time, I was sitting in the early morning hours upon one and the same carpet with Khandjan, my hospitable host, listening with eager attention to his descriptions of Turkoman life and manners. He was one of the most influential chiefs amongst the nomads, by nature an upright man, and anxious to make me acquainted with the faults as well as the merits of his countrymen; for being firmly convinced of my Turkish and semi-official character, he hoped to gain, through my position with the Sultan, on whom the whole Sunnitish world relies, assistance against Russians and Persians. He spoke with zeal, without betraying it outwardly; and after having given me his first lesson he rose, to show me, as he said, his house and court-yard, or in our phraseology, to make me acquainted with the ladies of the family. This is a very especial mark of distinction among Asiatic nations; however, a man supposed to be an agent of the Sultan, well deserves such an attention; and accordingly I endeavoured, by my attitude in sitting, my whole mien and carriage, to show myself worthy of it.
After a few minutes I heard a strange clattering and clinking, the curtain of the tent was raised, and there entered a whole crowd of women, girls and children, who, headed by a corpulent and tolerably old matron, walked towards the place where I was sitting. They were evidently as much struck as myself by the scene; looking timidly around, the young women cast down their eyes, whilst the children clung with evident signs of fear to the clothes of their parents. Khandjan introduced the matron to me as his mother. She was about sixty years old, in the primitive costume of a long, red silk garment, and wearing across her chest, to the right and left, several large as well as small silver sheaths, in which as many talismans of great virtue were preserved; some even were inlaid with precious stones, as were also a considerable number of armlets, necklaces and anklets,—the heirlooms of the family through several generations, and, to judge from their appearance, bearing the traces of high antiquity. The other women and children were likewise arrayed in ornaments of a similar kind, varying, however, with the wearer's rank and position in the favour of their lord and master. The clothes themselves are often torn and dirty, and are looked upon as quite a matter of secondary importance; but a Turkoman lady is not fashionably dressed, unless she carries about her person one or two pounds of silver in ornaments.
The old lady was the first to extend her wrinkled hands for the customary greeting, the others followed, and, after the young girls and children had embraced me,—for such is the rule of the bon ton,—all squatted down around me in a semicircle and began to question me about my health, welfare, and happy arrival. Each one addressed me three or four times on the same subject. I had to return just as many answers; and not in Europe alone does it happen that a circle of ladies may perplex and embarrass an inexperienced Solomon: even in the desert of Central Asia the like may occur. Everywhere among the nomad people of the Mahomedan East the women lose more and more their moral and physical attributes, the older they grow. During my first interview I was obliged to reply to the most delicate questions of the younger portion; whilst the elder ones conversed on religion, politics, and the domestic relations of the neighbouring tribes. I had to guard against exhibiting surprise at the manner of either of them; the younger women I succeeded in inspiring with awe for my strict virtue as a Mollah, and the elderly ones received an ample share of blessings. Several men, neighbours and relatives, arrived during this visit, but they caused no disturbance or discomposure among the ladies, who enjoy, as I have often had the opportunity of observing, a certain respect, although they are exclusively the working class of the community. And indeed the Turkoman women deserve such, for nowhere in the East have I met with their equals in exemplary virtue, devotion to their families, and indefatigable industry.
This visit lasted nearly an hour, and towards the end of it I had to write several talismans, in return for which the women presented me with sundry small gifts, their own handwork. The old lady came several times afterwards to visit me; once I even accompanied her to the tumulus which is raised over the remains of her husband, in order to pray for the soul of the departed. The good understanding between us two struck even the nomads: however, at present the reason for it is sufficiently clear to me. In the first instance a certain foreign look in my appearance, as well as the halo of piety which surrounded me, had attracted her, at the same time that I was ever ready to lend a patient ear to her conversations; listening attentively to her discourses on the short-comings of the Persian female slaves in her household, on the want of skill in the women of the present day, in weaving carpets, preparing felt, &c., interspersing now and then an observation of my own, as if I had been accustomed to these subjects from my youth and took an especial interest in all the details of a nomad household.
And, after all, this is the philosophy of life that should guide a traveller everywhere, if he wishes to learn anything. Here, for instance, a pliant demeanour proved of considerable use, since the affection of the old matron towards me contributed in a great measure to render my residence amongst the Turkomans agreeable,—a people, amongst whom not even an Asiatic stranger can move freely, still less an European.
16th April.
I entered the tent of Khandjan after the morning prayer and found here a whole company, listening with the greatest attention to the narrative of a young Turkoman, who was covered with dust and dirt, and whose face bore evident traces of excitement and severe hardships. He was describing in a low voice, but in lively colours, a marauding excursion against the Persians of the evening before, in which he had taken part. Whilst he was speaking, the women, servants and slaves (what must have been the thoughts of these latter), squatted down around the circle of listeners, and many a curse was hurled at the slaves, the clanking of the chains on their feet interrupting for a time the general quiet. It struck me as remarkable, that, in proportion as the speaker warmed in describing the obstinate resistance of the unfortunate people, who were fallen on unawares, the indignation of the audience increased at the audacity of the Persians, not to have at once quietly submitted to being plundered.
No sooner was the narration of this great feat of arms at an end when all rose to their feet to have a look at the spoils, the sight of which excites in the Turkoman's breast a mixed feeling of envy and pleasure. I followed them likewise, and a terrible picture presented itself to my eyes. Lying down in the middle of the tent were two Persians, looking deadly pale and covered with clotted blood, dirt and dust. A man was busily engaged in putting their broken limbs into fetters, when one of them gave a loud, wild shriek, the rings of the chains being too small for him. The cruel Turkoman was about to fasten them forcibly round his ancles. In a corner sat two young children on the ground, pale and trembling, and looking with sorrowful eyes towards the tortured Persian. The unhappy man was their father; they longed to weep, but dared not;—one look of the robber, at whom they stole a glance now and then, with their teeth chattering, was sufficient to suppress their tears. In another corner a girl, from fifteen to sixteen years old, was crouching, her hair dishevelled and in confusion, her garments torn and almost entirely covered with blood. She groaned and sobbed, covering her face with her hands. Some Turkoman woman, moved either by compassion or curiosity, asked her what ailed her, and where she was wounded. "I am not wounded," she exclaimed, in a plaintive voice, deeply touching. "This blood is the blood of my mother, my only one, and the best and kindest of mothers. Oh! ana djan, ana djan (dear mother)!" Thus she lamented, striking her head against the trellised wood-work of the tent, so that it almost tumbled down. They offered her a draught of water, and her tongue became loosened, and she told them how she (of course a valuable prize) had been lifted into the saddle beside the robber, but that her mother, tied to the stirrups, had been obliged to run along on foot. After an hour's running in this manner, she grew so tired that she sank down exhausted every moment. The Turkoman tried to increase her strength by lashing her with his whip, but this was of no avail; and as he did not want to remain behind from his troop he grew in a rage, drew his sword, and in a second struck off her head. The blood spirting up, had covered the daughter, horseman and horse; and, looking at the red spots upon her clothes, the poor girl wept loud and bitterly.
Whilst this was going on in the interior of the tent, outside the various members of the robbers' family were busy inspecting the booty he had brought home. The elder women seized greedily upon one or another utensil for domestic use, whilst the children, who were jumping about merrily, were trying on the different garments,—now one, now another, and producing shouts of laughter.
Here all was triumph and merriment; not far from it a picture of the deepest grief and misery. And yet no one is struck by the contrast; every one thinks it very natural that the Turkoman should enrich himself with robbery and pillage.
And these terrible social relations exist within scarcely a fortnight's distance from Europe, travelling by St. Petersburg, Nishnei Novogorod, and Astrakhan!
18th April.
Eliaskuli, who dwelt in the fourth tent from mine on the banks of the Görgen, was a "retired" Turkoman, who, up to his thirtieth year, had carried on the usual profession of kidnapping and pillaging, and had now retired from business, in order, as he said, to spend the rest of this futile, ridiculous life (fani dünya) here below in the pious exercise of the law; as far as I know, however, it is because several shot wounds of the "hellish" weapons at Ashurada prevented him from carrying on any longer his infamous trade. He was in hopes I might invoke upon his wicked head every blessing of heaven by my prayers, and to this effect he narrated to me, with many details, how the Russians, after having declared a religious war, had once landed here, and attacked and set fire to all the tents that stood on the banks of the Görgen. This religious war was in fact nothing else than that the Russians wanted to release some countrymen of theirs, whom these robbers had carried off prisoners, but the fight lasted more than a whole day. He added, that although the Russians, being too cowardly to come near, shot only from a distance, yet the valiant Gazis (religious combatants) could not resist their devilish arts, that he too received at that time some death wounds, and was a whole day without giving a sign of life, until at last his Pir (spiritual chief) called him back into existence.
This same Eliaskuli offered to accompany me to-day to the Ova of the Ana Khan, who is the chief of the Yarali tribe, and dwells on the upper Görgen, close to the Persian frontier. From curiosity, perhaps, or some other motive, he wished to make my acquaintance. Our road lay for some time along the left bank of the river, but soon we were obliged to make a considerable circuit, in order to avoid the large marshes and morasses. Unacquainted as the people around me were with my motives for travelling, I laid myself open to suspicion, no doubt; but the experience of a few days calmed my fears for the security of my position, and indeed all misgivings vanished, when I saw how the people, whenever we were passing some tent on our route, came towards me with milk, cheese and other presents, asking for my blessing. Thus I rode on in high spirits, troubled at nothing but the heavy Turkoman felt cap, on the top of which in addition several yards of linen were folded round in the shape of a turban, and the heavy musket on my back, which for propriety's sake I was obliged to carry, in spite of my character as Mollah. Eliaskuli sometimes remained behind for full half an hour, but I continued my way alone, meeting now and then a few marauding stragglers, who, returning home empty from some unsuccessful foray, measured me with sinister looks from head to foot. Some saluted me, others only asked, "Whose guest art thou, Mollah?" in order to judge from my personality whether it was feasible to plunder me or not; but no sooner did I reply "Kelte Khandjan Bay," when they rode on in evident displeasure, muttering in their beard an abrupt "Aman bol," (farewell.)
Towards evening we arrived at the tents, together with Khandjan, who, having taken a different road, had joined us on the way. Ana Khan, the patriarchal chief, a man about sixty years of age, was seated on the green slope of a hill, surrounded by his grandchildren and little children, (it is only in the east that one meets with people, thus related to one another, of the same age,) watching them with looks of pleasure, as also the flocks of sheep and herds of camels who were returning home from their rich pasturage. Our reception was short, but friendly. Walking before us, he conducted us into the ready prepared tent, where I was appointed to the seat of honour; the proper conversation, however, not beginning until the very last remnants of the sheep, killed expressly for the occasion, had disappeared from the table. Ana Khan spoke little, but he listened attentively to my description of Turkish life and Russo Turkish relations. The next morning, however, he grew rather more talkative, and he began by treating us with the narrative of an act of hospitality on his part towards an English iltshi (ambassador) on his way to Khiva. I guessed at once that this must have been the mission of Mr. William T. Thomson, who was sent thither by his government to adjust the differences between Persia and the Khan of Khiva. Ana Khan, in describing the arms, trinkets and person of the Frenghi ambassador, laid such particular stress upon the resemblance of his features to mine, that the cause of his curiosity was at once evident, as well as his reason for wishing me to visit him. Looking significantly and with glowing eyes at his countrymen, as if to persuade them of the keenness of his perceptions, he came close up to me, and gently tapping me on the shoulder, said, "Efendi! the Tura (rule) of the Sultan of Rum is held in high honour amongst us; first, he is the prince of all the Sunnites; secondly, Turkomans and Osmanlis are blood-relations, and thou art our honoured guest, although thou hast brought us no presents." In this remark I read much, but inferred still more from it. My incognito, then, as dervish, did not always meet with implicit belief. The majority, however, especially the Mollahs, trusted in me, and single sceptics did not by any means cause me disquiet.
I observed, moreover, that Khandjan did not share the views of Ana Khan, the subject was never again broached, and I enjoyed the full hospitality of the suspicious chieftain.
20th April.
In distant Mergolan, in the Khanat of Khokand, religious zeal recommends the frequent collection of money among the people, to support the high schools at Medina, which town possesses a large number of such institutions. Here, at the fountain-head of Islamism, ardent students crowd together, eager interpreters of the Koran, who, under the protecting Ægis of their pious occupation, are supported in luxurious idleness by all the Mahometan countries far and near. Stipends arrive here from distant Fez and Morocco; the chiefs of the Algerine tribes send their annual gifts; Tunis, Tripolis and Egypt as well as other smaller Mahommedan states, send hither their tribute. Turkey vies with Persia in the support of these pupils. The Tartar, living under Russian protection, the native of India, subject to English dominion, all give freely to the high schools of Medina. And yet all this is not deemed sufficient; even the poor inhabitants of the oasis in Turkestan are asked to contribute their mite.
It was at the time of my travels in Central Asia, that Khodja Buzurk, the much-revered saint in those parts, had collected, no doubt by dint of immense assiduity, 400 ducats for Medina. Mollah Esad, the confidential friend of His Holiness, was commissioned to take the sum to its destination. Although in Central Asia the possession of money, the great source of danger for its possessor, is always kept secret, yet the above-mentioned Mollah made no mystery of the object of his journey, in the hope of enlarging his fund. Bokhara, Khiva and other towns he visited had contributed to increase it, and in the belief of meeting with equal success among the Turkomans, he entered upon his journey through the desert, relying upon his letters of recommendation to several of the nomad learned men.
He reached Gömüshtepe without any mishap, but with the news of his arrival there spread simultaneously that of the contents of his travelling bag. The Turkomans were told at the same time that the money was destined for a pious object, but this did not trouble them. Each man endeavoured to catch him before he became the guest of any one, for until a traveller enjoys the rights of hospitality he is completely unprotected among the nomads; he may be plundered, killed, sold into captivity,—there is no one to call the offender to account. The host alone it is, whose vengeance is dreaded; whosoever is taken under his protection is looked upon as a member of his family, and is tolerably secure from attack.
With these facts our Khokand Mollah must have been acquainted, and nevertheless he trusted to the mere lustre of his religious zeal. One morning, having gone a short distance from the caravan, he was fallen upon by two Turkoman men, and plundered of all his money. No entreaties on his part, no appeal to the holiness of his mission, no threats of terrible and condign punishment, nothing was of any avail; they stripped him even of his clothes, and left him nothing but his old books and papers. Thus he returned to the caravan, stunned and half naked. This happened about a fortnight before my arrival, during which time the delinquents were found out and summoned before the religious tribunal. In my position, as Mollah from Constantinople, I had the good luck to be honoured with a seat in court, and the scene at which I was present, and in which I took an active part, will long remain vivid in my recollection. We, that is to say, the learned men, had assembled in a field, where we were sitting in the open air, forming a semi-circle, and holding large volumes in our hands, surrounded by a great crowd, who were eager with curiosity. The robbers made their appearance accompanied by their families and the chief of their tribe, without betraying the least embarrassment, just as if they had come for the settlement of some honest transaction. When questioned, who has taken the money? the culprit answered in the haughtiest tone, "I have taken it." I felt sure from the very beginning that a restitution of money would never be made. Most of the council having exhausted their talents of rhetoric by endless quotations from the Koran, it was my turn to try and impress the hero, and I did so by pointing out to him the wickedness of his deed. "What wickedness!" the Turkoman exclaimed, "is robbery punished in thy country? This is strange indeed! I should have thought that the Sultan, the Lord of the Universe, was a man of more sense. If robbery is not permitted amongst you, how do thy people live?"
Another Mollah threatened him with the Sheriat (religious precepts,) and depicted in glowing colours the punishments of hell, which the Turkoman had to expect in another world. "What Sheriat?" he replied, "each man his own! Thou, Mollah, possessest laws and precepts in thy tongue, which thou twistest as thou likest, I possess my Sheriat in my good sword, which I brandish whenever my arm commands!" After long and fruitless exhortations, and equally long consultations amongst the grey-beards, our sitting was closed without any success on our part. The Turkoman went away with his money, which he spent in furnishing himself with new weapons, instead of its being sent to Medina towards the support of her students. Mollah Esad returned with a sad heart to Khokand, having learnt from bitter experience that the Turkomans, although calling themselves orthodox, are the blackest Kafirs on the face of the earth.
6th May.
Oraz Djan, a young, daring and wild looking Turkoman, of about eighteen years old, who had taken part in marauding excursions ever since he was twelve, was a daily guest in our tent at Etrek, in order to listen to the Pir (spiritual chief) of the kidnapping robbers, in his discourses on religion and moral philosophy. It happened one day, that Omer Akhond, a Mollah from the neighbourhood, was present, a man celebrated for his great knowledge, and still better known as the owner of a particularly excellent horse. The animal was spoken of, and every one was loud in the praise of its high qualities, when young Oraz, catching fire on hearing this, called out half in earnest, half in joke, "Akhond, I will give thee three asses and a Persian for thy horse. It is a pity that it should rest in the stable, whilst the Persians so freely wander in their fields. But, if thou dost not consent, then mark my words, in a few days it will be stolen from thee!" The Mollah and Pir rebuked him severely, but he laughed aloud wildly, and the conversation continued as before.
Scarcely four days had passed when the Mollah entered our tent one morning with tears in his eyes, and looking very sad. "My horse has been stolen from me," he exclaimed with a sigh, "thou alone, Kulkhan, canst restore it to me. Let me entreat thee, by the love of the Tshiharyar (the four first chiefs,) do thy utmost!" "This is the work of the Haramzade (Bastard) Oraz," muttered Kulkhan, "you will see, I shall tear his black soul from out of his dirty body."
At the time of evening prayer our amiable Oraz was, as usual, among the rest of our orthodox friends, who assembled on the terrace-like height, where stands the mosque of the desert, and certainly no one would have guessed, from his devotional expression at his prayers, that this very day he had been robbing a father of the church. When after the Namaz all formed the customary circle (Khalka,) Oraz did not fail to come. Kulkhan at once addressed him with, "Young fellow! The horse of the Mollah has been stolen, thou knowest where it is; to-morrow morning he must be again in his stable, do you hear me?" This address caused the young robber not the least embarrassment. Playing with one hand in the sand, and with the other pushing on one side his heavy fur hat, he replied, "I have the horse, but I shall not return it; he who wants it must fetch it." These words, I thought, would have roused the indignation of every one present, but not a trace of it was seen in the features of one of the company. Kulkhan went on speaking to him in his former quiet tone of voice, but the robber insisted on refusing to restore the horse, and when some of the grey-beards began to use threats, he, too, caught fire, and having turned to his spiritual chief with "Hast thou done better with the mare of the Hadji?" rose and left the company; and for some time was heard singing aloud the refrain of the poem Körogli, in the still evening air, thus proving sufficiently his joy at the victory he had gained.
A considerable time was spent in consultation after he was gone. No one ventured to attack him, since his tribe, according to custom, would have taken him under their protection, in spite of his abominable conduct, and they were too powerful to risk an attack. Spiritual aid, therefore, had to be called in, and that it should have taken immediate effect is not to be marvelled at.
According to the Deb no greater punishment can befal a living man, than to be accused before the shade of his departed father or ancestor. This is done by planting a lance upon the top of the grave, and fastening to it a couple of blood-stained rags, if murder has been committed, and for any other crime a broken bow. Such an appeal unites the Turkomans as one man against the offender and his tribe, and how deep an effect it has on the mind of the culprit, I saw on this occasion, for no sooner did Oraz perceive the lance fixed upon the high Yoska of his grandfather, when in the silence of the following night he led the horse back to the tent of the Mollah, and tied it to its former place. This act of restitution, as he himself told me, will pain him for a long time to come. But it is better to lie in the black earth than to have disturbed the repose of one's ancestors.
CHAPTER IV.
THE CARAVAN IN THE DESERT.
"The Chil menzili Turkestan, or the Forty Stations across the desert of Turkestan," I often heard my friends say, "are far more troublesome and much more difficult to get over than the Chil menzili Arabistan, or the Forty Stations on the Pilgrims' route from Damascus to Mecca. On this last one finds every day fresh cisterns, which furnish drinkable water for thousands; the pilgrim is sure to get fresh bread, a good dish of pilaw or meat, cool shade, and all the comforts he longs for after the exhausting day's march. But on the former route, man has done nothing for the support of the poor traveller. He is in constant danger of dying from thirst, of being murdered, of being sold as a slave, of being robbed, or of being buried alive under the burning sand-storm. Well-filled water-skins and flour sacks, the best horses and arms, often become useless, and there is nothing left to one but to strive to get forward as fast as possible, while invoking the name of Allah."
The readers of my "Travels in Central Asia," may be supposed to have some idea of the awfully imposing journey from Persia to the oasis-lands of Turkestan. I may here furnish a few additional particulars about the experience of our caravan. I have several times been blamed for being too concise to be graphic, and this charge, I confess, is not altogether undeserved. I propose here to make up for my faults of omission.
During the first three days' march, the impressive, endless silence of the desert—a silence as of the grave—cast a most powerful spell over my soul. Often did I stare vacantly for hours, my eyes fixed on the distance before me, and as my companions believed me to be sunk in religious meditations, I was very seldom disturbed. I only half observed how, during the march, certain members of our caravan nodded in sleep on the backs of their camels, and by their ludicrous movements and sudden starts afforded our company exquisite amusement. Any one overcome with sleep would lay hold of the high pummel of the saddle with both his hands, but this did not prevent him from either, with a forward lurch, knocking his chin with such force that all his teeth chattered, or, by a backward one, threatening to fall with a summersault to the ground. Indeed this last often happened, arousing the hearty laughter of the whole party. The fallen became the hero of the day, and had to support the most galling fire of jokes on his awkwardness.
The most inexhaustible fountain of cheerfulness was a young Turkoman, named Niyazbirdi, who possessed no less liveliness of spirits than agility of body, and by every word and movement contrived to draw laughter from the most venerable of the Mollahs. Although he was owner of several laden camels, he was, nevertheless, for the most part, accustomed to go on foot; and running now right, now left, he alarmed by cries or gestures any group of wild asses that showed themselves along our route. Once, indeed, he succeeded in getting hold of a young wild ass, which, through fatigue, had loitered behind the rest. The young shy creature was led along by a rope, and was the occasion of really droll scenes, when its lucky captor gave a prize of three spoonfuls of sheeps-tail fat to any one who dared to mount it. Three spoonfuls of mutton fat is a tempting prize for Hadjis in the desert, so that many were seduced by the prospect of gaining it. Nevertheless, they could make nothing of this uncivilized brother of Balaam's charger, for the unfortunate Hadjis had no sooner seated themselves on its back than they were stretched sprawling in the sand.
Only after a march of several hours is general weariness to be remarked. All eyes are then turned towards the Kervan bashi, whose gaze at such a time wanders in every direction to spy out a suitable halting place, that is to say, one which will afford most plentiful fodder for the camels. No sooner has he found such, than he himself hastens towards it, while the younger members of the caravan disperse themselves to right and left to collect dried roots, or scrub, or other fuel. Dismounting, unpacking, and settling down, is the work of a few moments. The hope of much-desired rest restores the exhausted strength. With speed the ropes are slackened, with speed the heaviest bales of merchandize are piled up in little heaps, in whose shade the wearied traveller is accustomed to stretch himself. Scarcely have the hungry camels betaken themselves to their pasture-ground when a solemn stillness fills the caravan. This stillness is, I may say, a sort of intoxication, for every one revels in the enjoyment of rest and refreshment.
The picture of a newly-encamped caravan in the summer months, and on the steppes of Central Asia, is a truly interesting one. While the camels, in the distance but still in sight, graze greedily, or crush the juicy thistles, the travellers, even the poorest among them, sit with their tea-cups in their hands and eagerly sip the costly beverage. It is nothing more than a greenish warm water, innocent of sugar, and often decidedly turbid; still human art has discovered no food, has invented no nectar, which is so grateful, so refreshing in the desert, as this unpretending drink. I have still a vivid recollection of its wonder-working effects. As I sipped the first drops a soft fire filled my veins, a fire which enlivened without intoxicating. The later draughts affected both heart and head; the eye became peculiarly bright and began to gleam. In such moments I felt an indescribable rapture and sense of comfort. My companions sank in sleep; I could keep myself awake and dream with open eyes.
After the tea has restored their strength the caravan becomes gradually busier and noisier. They eat in groups or circles which are here called kosh, which represent the several houses of the wandering town. Everywhere there is something to be done, and everywhere it is the younger men who are doing it, while their elders are smoking. Here they are baking bread. A Hadji in rags is actively kneading the black dough with dirty hands. He has been so engaged for half an hour, and still his hands are not clean, for one mass of dough cannot absorb the accumulations of several days. There they are cooking. In order to know what is being cooked, it is not necessary to look round. The smell of mutton-fat, but especially the aroma, somewhat too piquant, of camel or horse-cutlets, tells its own tale. Nor have the dishes when cooked anything inviting to the eye. But in the desert a man does not disturb himself about such trifles. An enormous appetite covers a multitude of faults, and hunger is notoriously the best of sauces.
Nor are amusements wanting in the caravan-camp when the halt is somewhat prolonged. The most popular recreation is shooting at a mark, in which the prize is always a certain quantity of powder and shot. This sort of diversion was very seldom possible in our caravan, as on account of our small numbers we were in continual danger, and had therefore to make ourselves heard as little as possible. My comrades were accustomed to pass their leisure time in reading the Koran, in performance of other religious exercise, in sleeping, or in attending to their toilet. I say "toilet," but it is to be hoped that no one will here understand the word to imply a boudoir, delicate perfumes, or artistical aids. The Turkomans are accustomed to pluck out the hair of the beard with small pincers. As to the toilet of the Hadjis, and, indeed, my own, it is so simple and so prosaic as to be scarcely worth alluding to. The necessary requisites were sand, fire, and ants. The manner of application I leave as a riddle for the reader to solve.
Certainly, of all the nations of Asia, the Tartar seems to fit in most appropriately with the bizarre picture of desert life. Full of superstition, and a blind fatalist, he can easily support the constant dread of danger. Dirt, poverty and privations, he is accustomed to, even at home. No wonder, then, that he sits content in clothes which have not been changed for months, and with a crust of dirt on his face. This inner peace of mind could never become a matter of indifference to me. At evening prayers, in which the whole company took part, this peace of mind struck me most forcibly. They thanked God for the benefits they enjoyed. On such occasions the whole caravan formed itself into a single line, at whose head stood an imâm, who turned towards the setting sun and led the prayers. The solemnity of the moment was increased by the stillness which prevailed far and wide; and if the rays of the sinking sun lit up the faces of my companions, so wild yet withal so well satisfied, they seemed to be in the possession of all earthly good, and had nothing left them to wish. Often I could not help thinking what would these people feel if they found themselves leaning against the comfortable cushions of a first-class railway carriage, or amid the luxuries of a well-appointed hotel. How distant, how far distant are the blessings of civilization from these countries!
So much for the life of the caravan by day. By night the desert is more romantic, but at the same time more dangerous. As the power of sight is now limited, the circle of safety is contracted to the most immediate neighbourhood; and both during the march and in the encampment every one tries to keep as close as possible to his fellows. By day the caravan consisted of but one long chain; by night this is broken up into six or eight smaller ones, which, marching close together, form a compact square, of which the outmost lines are occupied by the stoutest and boldest. By moonlight the shadow of the camels as they stalk along produces a curious and impressive effect. During the dark starless night everything is full of horror, and to go one step distant from the side of the caravan is equivalent to leaving the home circle to plunge into a desolate solitude. In the halt by day each one occupies whichever place may please him best. At night, on the contrary, a compact camp is formed under the direction of the Kervan bashi. The bales of goods are heaped up in the middle; around them lie the men; while without, as a wall of defence, the camels are laid, tightly packed together, in a circle. I say laid, for these wonderful animals squat down at the word of command, remain the whole night motionless in their place, and, like children, do not get up the next morning until they are told to do so. They are placed with their heads pointing outward and their tails inward, for they perceive the presence of any enemy from far, and give the alarm by a dull rattle in the throat, so that even in their hours of repose they do duty as sentinels. Those who sleep within the rayon find themselves in immediate contact with these beasts, and, as is well known, they have not the pleasantest smell. It often happens that the saline fodder and water which these animals feed upon produce palpable consequences for such as sleep in their immediate neighbourhood. I myself often woke up with such frescoes. But no one takes any notice of such things, for who could be angry with these animals, who, although ugly in appearance, are so patient, so temperate, so good-tempered, and so useful?
It is no wonder that the wanderers over the desert praise the camel as surpassing all other beasts of the field, and even love it with an almost adoring affection. Nourished on a few thorns and thistles, which other quadrupeds reject, it traverses the wastes for weeks, nay, often for months together. In these dreary, desolate regions, the existence of man depends upon that of the camel. It is, besides, so patient and so obedient that a child can with one "tshukh" make a whole herd of these tall strong beasts kneel down, and with a "berrr" get up again. How much could I not read in their large dark blue eyes! When the march is too long or the sand too deep, they are accustomed to express their discomfort and weariness. This is especially when they are being laden, if too heavy bales are piled upon their backs. Bending under the burden, they turn their heads round towards their master; in their eyes gleam tears, and their groans, so deep, so piteous, seem to say, "Man, have compassion upon us!"
Except during a particular season of the year, when through the operation of the laws of nature it is in a half-intoxicated, half-stupefied condition, the camel has always a striking impression of seriousness. It is impossible not to recognise in its features the Chaldee-aramæan type, and in whatever portions of the earth he may be found at the present day, his original home is unquestionably Mesopotamia and the Arabian desert. The Turkomans disturb this serious expression of countenance by the barbarous manner in which they arrange the leading-rope through the bored nose. With the string hanging down to the chest, the camel resembles an European dandy armed with his lorgnon. Both of them hold their heads high in the air, and both are alike led by the nose.
As the word of command to encamp is enlivening and acceptable, so grievous, so disturbing, is the signal for getting ready to start. The Kervan bashi is the first to rouse himself. At his call or sign all prepare for the journey. Even the poor camels in the pastures understand it, and often hasten without being driven to the caravan; nay, what is more extraordinary, they place themselves close to the bales of merchandize with which they were before laden, or the persons who were mounted on them. In a quarter of an hour everybody has found his place in the line of march. At the halting-place there remains nothing but a few bones, gnawed clean, and the charred traces of the improvised hearths. These marks of human life in the desert often disappear as quickly as they were produced; sometimes, however, they are preserved through climatic accidents for a long time; and succeeding travellers are cheered by falling in with these abandoned fireplaces. The black charred spot seems to their eyes like a splendid caravanserai, and the thought that here human beings have been, that here life once was active, makes even the vast solitude of the desert more like home.
Speaking of these spots where a fire has been kindled, I am reminded of those vast burnt plains, often many days' march in extent, which I met with in the desert between Persia and Khiva, and of which I heard so many wonderful tales from the mouths of the nomads. During the hot season of the year, when the scorching sun has dried shrubs and grass till they have become like tinder, it often happens that a spark, carelessly dropped, and fanned by the wind, will set the steppe on fire. The flame, finding ever fresh fuel, spreads with such fearful rapidity that a man on horseback can with difficulty escape. It rolls over the scanty herbage like an overflowing stream, and, when it meets with thicket and shrubs, it flares up with wild wrath. Thus traversing large tracts of country in a short time, its raging course can only be checked by a river or a lake. At night such conflagrations must present a terrible appearance, when far and wide the horizon is lit up with a sea of flame. Even the bravest heart loses its courage at the appalling sight. The cowardly and hesitating are soon destroyed, but one who has sufficient presence of mind can save himself, if, while the flames are yet a great way off, he kindle the grass in his neighbourhood. He thus lays waste a space in which the approaching fire can find no sustenance, and in this he himself takes refuge. Thus only with fire can man contend against fire with success.
This weapon is often used by one tribe against another, and the desolation thus caused is terrible. It is often used by a runaway couple to secure themselves against pursuit. As long as no wind blows they can easily fly before the slowly-advancing fire; but it often happens that the flames are hurried forward by the least breath of wind, and the fugitives find a united death in the very means they had taken to secure their safety.
It is remarkable that the imposing aspects and most frequent natural phenomena of the desert do not fail to impress even the nomads who habitually witness them. As we were crossing the high plateau of Kaflan Kir, which forms part of Ustyort, running towards the north-east, the horizon was often adorned with the most beautiful Fata Morgana. This phenomenon is undoubtedly to be seen in the greatest perfection in the hot, but dry, atmosphere of the deserts of Central Asia, and affords the most splendid optical illusions which one can imagine. I was always enchanted with these pictures of cities, towers, and castles dancing in the air, of vast caravans, horsemen engaged in combat, and individual gigantic forms which continually disappeared from one place to reappear in another. As for my nomad companions, they regarded the neighbourhoods where these phenomena are observed with no little awe. According to their opinion these are ghosts of men and cities which formerly existed there, and now at certain times roll about in the air. Nay, our Kervan bashi asserted that he also saw the same figures in the same places, and that we ourselves, if we should be lost in the desert, would after a term of years begin to hop about and dance in the air over the spot where we had perished.
These legends, which are continually to be heard among the nomads, and relate to a supposed lost civilization in the desert, are not far removed from the new European theory, which maintains that such tracts of country have sunk into their present desolation, not so much through the operation of natural laws as through changes in their social state. As examples are cited the great Sahara of Africa and the desert of central Arabia, where cultivable land is not so much wanting as industrious hands. As regards these last countries, the assertion is probably not without some truth, but it certainly cannot be extended to the deserts of Central Asia. On certain spots, as Mero, Mangishlak, Ghergen, and Otrar, there was in the last century more cultivation than at present; but, taken as the whole, these Asiatic steppes were always, as far back as the memory of man goes, howling wildernesses. The vast tracts which stretch for many days' journeys without one drop of drinkable water, the expanses—many hundred miles in extent—of deep loose sand, the extreme violence of the climate, and such like obstacles, defy even modern art and science to cope with them. "God," said a central Asiatic to me, "created Turkestan and its inhabitants in his wrath; for as long as the bitter, saline taste of their springs exist, so long will the hearts of the Turkomans be full of anger and malice."
CHAPTER V.
THE TENT AND ITS INHABITANTS.
An able critic of my "Travels in Central Asia" wrote—"Mr. Vambéry wandered because he has the wild spirit of dervishism strong within him." On first reading this it struck me as a little too strong, and I shall ever protest against such attribution of the title of vagabond, however refined may be the terms in which it is couched. Still I must candidly confess that the tent, the snail shell of the nomad, if I may be allowed so to call it, has left on my memory an ineffaceable impression. It certainly is a very curious feeling which comes over one when he compares the light tent with such seas of stone buildings as make up our European cities. The vice of dervishism is, to be sure, contagious, but happily not for everybody, so that there is no danger in accompanying me for a little while to Central Asia, and glancing at the contrast there presented to our fixed, stable mode of life.
It is almost noonday. A Kirghiz family, which has packed house and household furniture on the backs of a few camels, moves slowly over the desert towards a spot indicated to them by the raised lance of a distant horseman. The caravan rests, according to nomad notions of rest, while thus on the march, to become lively and busy when they settle themselves down to repose according to our ideas. Nevertheless, the elder women seated on the bunches of camels (for the younger ones travel on foot), grudge themselves repose even then, and occupy their time in spinning a sort of yarn for sacks out of the coarser camels' hair. Only the marriageable daughter of the family enjoys the privilege of being completely at leisure on her shambling beast. She is polishing her necklace of coins, Russian, Ancient Bactrian, Mongolian, or Chinese, which hangs down to her waist. So engrossed is she in her employment, that an European numismatist might take her for a fellow connoisseur; nevertheless not a movement of the young Kirghizes, who seek to distinguish themselves by all manner of equestrian gymnastics, as they caracole around the caravan, escapes her notice.
At last the spot fixed on by the guide is reached. An inhabitant of cities might imagine that now the greatest confusion would arise. But no—everybody has his appointed office, everybody knows what he has to do, everything has its fixed place. While the pater-familias unsaddles his cooled horse and lets him loose on the pasture, the younger lads collect, with frightful clamour, the sheep and the camels, which are only too disposed to wander. They must stay to be milked. Meanwhile the tent has been taken down. The old matron seizes on the latticed framework and fixes it in its place, spitting wildly right and left as she does so. Another makes fast the bent rods which form the vaulting of the roof. A third sets on the top of all a sort of round cover or lid, which serves the double purpose of chimney and window. While they are covering the woodwork with curtains of felt, the children inside have already hung up the provision-sacks, and placed the enormous tripod on the crackling fire. This is all done in a few moments. Magical is the erection, and as magical is the disappearance of the nomad's habitation. Still, however, the noise of the sheep and camels, of screaming women and crying children, resounds about the tent. They form, indeed, a strange chorus in the midst of the noonday silence of the desert. Milking-time, the daily harvest of these pastoral tribes is, however, the busiest time in the twenty-four hours. Especial trouble is given by the greedy children, whose swollen bellies are the result and evidence of an unlimited appetite for milk. The poor women have much to suffer from the vicious or impatient disposition of the beasts; but, although the men are standing by, the smallest help is rigorously refused, as it would be held the greatest disgrace for a man to take any part in work appointed to women.
Once, when I had, in Ettrek, obtained by begging a small sack of wheat, and was about to grind it in a handmill, the Turkomans around me burst out into shouts of laughter. Shocked and surprised, I asked the reason of their scornful mirth, when one approached me in a friendly manner and said: "It is a shame for you to take in hand woman's work. But Mollahs and Hadjis are of course deficient in secular savoir faire, and one pardons them a great many such mistakes."
After the supply of milk has been collected, and all the bags of skins (for vessels of wood or of earthenware are purely articles of luxury) have been filled, the cattle, small and great, disperse themselves over the wide plain. The noise gradually dies away. The nomad retires into his tent, raises the lower end of the felt curtain, and while the west wind, rustling through the fretted wood-work, lulls him to sleep, the women outside set to work on a half-finished piece of felt. It is certainly an interesting sight to see how six, often more, of the daughters of the desert, in rank and file, roll out under their firm footsteps the felt which is wrapped up between two rush mats. An elderly lady leads this industrial dance and gives the time. It is she who can always tell in what place the stuff will be loose or uneven. The preparation of the felt, without question the simplest fabric which the mind of man has invented, is still in the same stage among these wandering tribes as when first discovered. The most common colour is grey. Particoloured felt is an article of luxury, and snowy white is only used on the most solemn occasions. Carpets are only to be found among the richer tribes, such as the Turkomans and the Œzbegs, as they require more skill in their manufacture and a closer contact with more advanced civilization. The inwoven patterns are for the most part taken from European pocket-handkerchiefs and chintzes; and I was always surprised at the skill with which the women copied them, or, what is still more surprising, imitated them from memory after having once seen them.
While the poor women are fatiguing themselves with their laborious occupation, their lord and master is accustomed to snore through his noonday siesta. Soon the cattle return from their pasture ground and collect around the tent. Scarcely does the afternoon begin to grow cooler, than the migrating house is in a trice broken up, everything replaced on the backs of the camels, and the whole party in full march. This is already the second day of their journey, and yet all, men and beasts, are as lively as if they had dwelt for years on the spot, and, at length released from the talons of ennui, were delighted at the prospects of a change.
Long after sunset, while the endless waste of the desert is gradually being over-canopied by the clear starry heaven, the caravan still plods steadily, in order to rest during the colder hours of the night under the shelter of their warm felts. Quickly is their colossal batterie de cuisine placed on the fire; still more quickly is it emptied. No European can have any idea of the voracious appetite of a nomad.
The caravan has been scarcely an hour encamped before everybody has supped and retired to rest; the older members of the family within the tent, the younger ones in the open air, their flocks around them. Only where a marriageable maiden lives is there any movement to be found. Among the nomad tribes of Central Asia, Islamism has not succeeded in carrying into effect its rigorous restrictions on the social intercourse of the sexes. The harem is here entirely unknown. The young nomad always knows by what star to direct his course in order to find the tent of his adored on the trackless desert. His appearance is seldom unexpected. The nomad young lady has already divined from what quarter the hoof-tramp will sound through the nightly stillness, and has already taken up an advanced post in that direction. It is scarcely necessary to observe that the conversation of the two children of the desert, in this their tender rendezvous, is not quite in unison with our ideas of æsthetical propriety; but poetry is to be found everywhere, nay, I might say, is more at home in the desert than in these western countries. Sometimes a whole company of loving couples come together, and on such occasions the dialogue, which must be in rhyme and adorned with the richest flowers of Tartar metaphor, seems as if it would never come to an end. I was at first enchanted with listening to such conversation; but how irritated I was when I had to pass the night in the same tent with such amorous society, and in spite of all the fatigue of the day could not find quiet slumbers to refresh me!
The above is but a faint picture of the life of the nomads during the more agreeable portion of the year. In winter, especially in the more elevated regions, where severe cold prevails, this wandering life loses everything which can give it the least tinge of poetry in our eyes. Even the inhabitants of the cities of Central Asia marvel that the nomads can support life in the bleak open country, amid fearful storms and long weeks of snow. Indeed, with a cold of 30° Réaumur, it cannot be very pleasant to live in a tent; still even this occasions no serious inconvenience to the hardy child of Nature. Himself wrapped up in a double suit of clothes, he doubles the felt hangings of his tent, which is pitched in a valley or some other sheltered spot. Besides this the number of its inhabitants is increased, and when the saksaul (the root of a tree hard as stone and covered with knobs) begins to give out its heat, which lasts for hours, the want of a settled home is quite forgotten. The family circle is drawn closer round the hearth. The daughter of the house must continually hand round the skin of kimis. This favourite beverage opens the heart and looses the tongue. When, furthermore, a bakhshi (troubadour) is present to enliven the winter evenings with his lays, then even the howling of the tempest without serves as music.
When no extraordinary natural accidents, such as sand-storms or snow-storms, break in upon his regular course of life, the nomad is happy; indeed, I may say, as happy as any civilization in the world could make him. As the nations of Central Asia have but very few wants, poverty is rare among them, and where it occurs, is by no means so depressing as with us. The lives of the inhabitants of the desert would glide peacefully away, were it not for the tendency to indulge in feuds and forays—a leading feature in their character. War, everywhere a curse, there draws after it the most terrible consequences which can be conceived. Without the smallest pretext for such violence, a tribe which feels itself stronger often falls upon the weaker ones. All who are able to bear arms conquer or die; the women, children, and herds of the fallen are divided as booty among their conquerors. Often does it happen that a family, which in the evening lay down to rest in all the blessedness of security, find themselves in the morning despoiled of parents, of freedom, and of property, and dragged into captivity far apart from one another!
Among the Turkomans near Khiva I saw many Kirghiz prisoners, who had formerly belonged to well-to-do families. The unfortunate creatures, who had been but a short time before rich and independent, and cherished by parents, accommodated themselves to the change of their fortunes as to some ordinary dispensation of nature. With what honesty and diligence did they attach themselves to their masters' interests! How they loved and caressed their masters' children! Yet these same masters were they who had robbed them of their whole property, murdered their father, and branded them for ever with the opprobrious title of "Kul" (slave.)
Buddhism, Christianity, Mohammedanism, have one after the other attempted to force their way into the steppes of upper Asia. The first and the last have succeeded to some extent in making good their footing, but the nomads have, nevertheless, remained the same as they were at the time of the conquests of the Arabs, or of the campaigns of Alexander—the same as they were described by Herodotus. I shall never forget the conversations about the state of the world which I had with elderly Turkomans and Kirghizes. It is true that one can picture to oneself beforehand a specimen of ancient simplicity, but that is still something quite different from seeing before you one of these still standing columns of a civilization several millenniums old.
The Central Asiatic still speaks of Rome (Rum, modern Turkey) as he spoke in the days of the Cæsars; and when one listens to a grey-beard as he depicts the might and the greatness of this land, one might imagine that the invincible legions had only yesterday combated the Parthians and that he was present as an auxiliary. That his Rum (Turkey) is a state of but miserable proportions in comparison with old Rome, is what he cannot believe. He has learned to associate with that name glory and power. At the most, China may be sometimes compared to Rome for might and resources; although the legends that are told of this latter empire dwell rather on the arts and the beauty than on the valour of the Chinese people. Russia is regarded as the quintessence of all fraud and cunning, by which means alone she has of late years contrived to effect her conquests. As for England, it is well known that the late emir of Bokhara, on the first occasion in which he came into contact with the British, was quite indignant "that the Ingiliz, whose name had only risen to notice within a few years, should dare to call themselves Dowlet (government) when addressing him."
Extremely surprising to the stranger is the hospitality which is to be found among the nomads of Central Asia. It is more abounding than perhaps in any other portion of the east. Amongst the Turks, Persians, and Arabs, there still linger faint memories of this old duty, but our European tourists have had, I believe, ample opportunity of satisfying themselves that all the washing of feet, slaughter of sheep, and other good offices, are often only performed in the hope of a rich Bakhshish, or Pishkesh, (as they say in Persian.) It is true that the Koran says, "Honour a guest, even though he be an infidel;" but this doing honour is generally the echo of orders issued from some consulate or embassy. Quite otherwise in Central Asia. There hospitality is, I may say, almost instinctive; for a nomad may be cruel, fierce, perfidious, but never inhospitable.
One of my fellow-beggars went, during my sojourn among the Turkomans, on a round of begging visits, having first dressed himself in his worst suit of rags. Having wandered about the whole day he came at evening to a lonely tent, for the purpose of lodging there for the night. On entering he was saluted in the customary friendly manner; nevertheless he soon observed that the master of the poverty-stricken establishment seemed to be in great embarrassment, and moved hither and thither as if looking for something. The beggar began to feel very uncomfortable when at last his host approached him, and, deeply blushing, begged him to lend him a few krans, in order that he might be able to provide the necessary supper, inasmuch as he himself had nothing but dried fish, and he wished to set something better before his guest. Of course it was impossible to refuse such a request. My comrade opened the purse which he carried under his rags, and when he had given his host five krans, everything seemed to be satisfactorily arranged. The meal was eaten amidst the most friendly conversation, and when it was ended, the softest felt carpet was assigned to the stranger as his couch, and in the morning he was dismissed with the customary honours.
"I was scarcely gone half an hour from the tent," so my friend related his adventure subsequently to me, "when a Turkoman came running towards me, and with violent threats demanded my purse. How great was my astonishment when I recognised in the person of the robber no other than my host of the previous night! I thought he was joking, and began to address him in a friendly manner; but he grew only more and more serious. So, in order to avoid unpleasant consequences, there remained nothing for me but to hand over my purse, a few leaves of tea, my comb, and my knife, in one word, my whole property. Having so done, I was about to proceed on my way, when he held me back, and opening my—that is to say now his—purse, and taking out five krans, gave them to me with these words:—'Take my debt of yesterday evening. We are now quits, and you can go on your way.'"
CHAPTER VI.
THE COURT OF KHIVA.
The courts of oriental princes have been frequently and variously described. Beginning with the shore of the Bosphorus, where Dolma Bagtsche, Beshiktash and Serayburun furnish the first pictures in the panorama, and ranging as far as the palaces of Pekin and Yedo, we have read again and again of the love for ostentation and empty splendour, the glitter of gold and diamonds of oriental life. But to complete the series, a few sketches of life at the court of Turkestan sovereigns are wanting, and the description of such may not, therefore, be deemed superfluous.
My readers must not expect either to be dazzled, or to have their amazement and admiration excited, and yet it will repay the trouble to accompany me through the tortuous streets of Khiva and the bazaar with its vaulted roof to the Ark (the Royal Castle.) Like all the residences of sovereigns in Central Asia, this castle is strangely fortified and surrounded by a double wall. Through a narrow gate we enter into the first court, which is crowded with the royal body-guard and other soldiers and servants. Near the entrance two cannons are planted, brought thither by the mighty Nadir, and left behind on his hasty retreat. They are decorated with pretty symmetrical ornaments, and seem to have been made at Delhi. After having passed the second gate, we enter a more spacious court, with a mean looking building on one side, not unlike an open coach-house; it is here that the high officials pass the hours of office, the Mehter (Minister of the Interior) presiding. To the left of this building is a kind of guard-house, in which divers servants, policemen and executioners live during the day time, awaiting the commands of their royal master. A small gate leads between these two buildings, to the residence of His Majesty of Khiva. On the outside it resembles a poor mud-hut, like all the other houses in the town, and is of course without windows, nor is any particular luxury to be met with inside, except several large and valuable carpets, a few sofas and round cushions, together with a considerable number of chests—the entire furniture of this place—which serve in some degree to remind us of the princely rank of the master. The number of apartments is very small, and as every where the case, is divided into the Harem, (the rooms set apart for the women,) and the Selamdjay, (the reception hall.)
Nowhere are any signs of splendour perceptible; the large train of followers alone mark the distinction, the lacqueys are the sole insignia of the ruler. Let us pass them in review before us. At the head of the household is the Desturkhandji, (literally, the man who spreads the table cloth,) whose peculiar office is to superintend the royal table. He is present during dinner, clothed in full armour and state dress, and on him devolves the inspection and control of the entire number of servants. Next to him follows the Mehrem, a kind of valet de chambre in officio, but in reality rather a privy councillor, who shares in the business of the state besides his immediate domestic affairs, and, conjointly with the former, exercises the most powerful influence upon his royal master. Then follows the rest of the servants, of whom each has his distinct office. The Ashpez, or cook, prepares the food, whilst the Ashmehter serves it. The Sherbetshi prepares tea, sherbet, and other drinks, but he is expected to be skilled besides in the decoction of wonder-working elixirs. The Payeke is entrusted with the tchilim (pipe,) which at court is made of gold or silver, and must be replenished with fresh water every time it is filled with tobacco. This office does not exist in any other court in Central Asia, tobacco being strictly forbidden by law. His Tartar Majesty has no dressing room, it is true, but, nevertheless, several servants are appointed to assist at the toilet. Whilst the Shilaptshi kneeling holds the wash-hand basin, the Kumgandshi (the man who holds the can or jug) pours the water from a silver or golden vessel, and the Rumaldshi is ready, as soon as the two former have withdrawn, to throw the towel to the prince, holding it with the tips of his fingers. The Khan has an especial Sertarash (who shaves the head,) who is expected to have nimble fingers and at the same time a skilful hand for squeezing the skull, a favourite operation throughout the east. Then the prince possesses a Ternaktshi, or nail cutter, a Khadimdshi, whose duty it is to knead and pummel his back, also to kneel upon him and make his limbs crack, whenever the Khan, after long fatigue, wishes to refresh himself. Lastly, there is a Töshektshi, or bed maker, whose office it is to spread out at night the soft pieces of felt or the mattresses. The magnificent harness, saddles and weapons are in charge of the Khaznadshi (treasurer,) who, whenever the sovereign rides out in public, walks beside him. The Djigadj, or keeper of the plumes, walks at the head of the train of servants.
In dress and food, the prince's household is little distinguished from that of rich merchants or officials of rank. The king wears the same heavy cap of sheep-skin, the same clumsy boots, stuffed out with several yards of linen rags, the same thickly-wadded coats of print or silk as his subjects, and, like them, endures in this Siberian costume, under the oppressive heat of July, a state of fearful perspiration. On the whole, the position of the Prince of Kharezm is one little to be envied, nay, I feel inclined to say, it is far more wretched than that of other Eastern princes. In a country, where pillage and murder, anarchy and lawlessness, are the rule, and not the exception, a sovereign has to maintain his authority by inspiring his subjects with the utmost dread and almost superstitious terror for his person; never with affection. Even those nearest to him fear him for his unlimited power; and wife and children, as well as relations, not unfrequently attempt his life. At the same time, the sovereign is expected to be the model of Islamitic virtue and Œzbeg manners and customs; every most trifling, insignificant error of his Majesty, becomes the talk of the town; and although nobody would venture to blame him for very considerable offences, yet in the former case it is the influential Mollahs who would feel affronted,—a result entirely opposed to the interests of the sovereign.
The Khan, like every orthodox Mussulman, is obliged to leave his bed before sun-rise, and to be present at the morning prayer in full assembly. It lasts rather more than half an hour, after which he partakes of several dishes of tea, seasoned with fat and salt. Not unfrequently some of the learned Mollahs are invited, in order to enliven the breakfast, by explaining some sacred precept or arguing upon some religious question, of which his highness rarely of course understands anything. Profound discussions generally invite sleep, and no sooner does his Majesty begin to snore aloud, when the learned men take it as a signal to withdraw. This sleep is called the morning doze, and lasts from two to three hours. When it is over, the selam (reception) of the ministers and other high dignitaries commences, and the Khan enters in full earnest upon his duties as sovereign. Consultations are held as to the maurauding expeditions to be undertaken, politics are discussed in reference to the neighbouring state of Bokhara, the Yomut- and Tchaudor-Turkomans, the Kasaks, and at present probably the Russians, who are pushing their advances nearer and nearer;—or the governors of the provinces and the tax-gatherers, who had been sent out over the country, have to submit to the Khan and his ministers their several accounts. Every farthing has to be paid over with the most scrupulous accuracy, and woe to that man in whose account the smallest error is detected; it may happen that he is dismissed, leaving his head behind. And now, after having transacted for several hours the ordinary business of the state, breakfast is served, consisting for the greater part of rather light food, that is to say, "light" for an Œzbeg digestion—the déjeuner à la fourchette of his Majesty of Khiva sufficing in all probability for several of our active working men at home. During this meal all present have to stand round respectfully and look on, and after having finished, he invites one or the other of his favourites to sit down and play with him at chess,—an amusement which is continued until the time for mid-day prayer. This lasts about an hour. When it is over, his Majesty proceeds to the outer court, and taking his seat on a kind of terrace, the arz (public audience) takes place, to which every rank, every class is admitted,—men, women, and children, either in the greatest négligé or even half naked. All crowd round the entrance, where amidst noise and shouting they wait for audience. Each in turn is admitted, but only one person at a time, who is allowed to approach quite close to his sovereign; to speak out freely and without reserve, to make entreaty or complaint, nay, to engage even in the most violent altercation with the Khan, the smallest sign from whom would suffice to deliver his subject, without any reason whatever, into the hands of the executioner. Thus the East is, and ever was from times immemorial, the land of the most striking contradictions. The inexperienced may interpret this as love of strict justice. I, however, see in it nothing but a whimsical habit of demeanour, permitting one person to defy the royal authority in the coarsest terms of speech, while another forfeits his life for the smallest offence against the rules of propriety.
At the arz not only all great and important lawsuits are settled, and sentences of death pronounced and executed; but even trifling differences are not unfrequently adjusted, as for instance, a quarrel between a husband and wife, or between one man and his neighbour on account of some few pence or the stealing of a hen. No complainant whatever can be refused a hearing; and although the Khan may send him to the Kadi, yet he must first listen to whatever he has to say. The afternoon prayer alone puts an end to this wearisome occupation. Later in the day the prince takes his customary ride on horseback outside the town, and usually returns just before sunset. Evening prayers again are said in full assembly, and these ended, the prince retires to take his supper. The servants, and all those who do not live in the palace, withdraw, and the king remains alone with his confidants. Supper is a luxurious meal, and lasts longer than any other. Spirituous drinks are seldom taken by the sovereigns of Khiva and Bokhara, although the other members of the royal family and the grandees frequently transgress on this point, and indulge in the practice to excess. After the supper, singers and musicians make their appearance, or jugglers, with their various performances. Singing is very popular in Khiva, and the native singers of this place are the most renowned in Turkestan, and indeed throughout the whole Mahomedan East of Asia. The instrument upon which they excel is called girdshek, and bears a general resemblance to our violin. It has a longer neck and three strings, one of wire and two of silk; the bow, too, is like our bow. Then there are the tambur and dutara, on which instruments the Bakhshi plays the accompaniment to his songs, improvised in praise of some popular hero of the day; whereas at the royal court they select for the most part ghaseles from Nevai and the Persian poets. The young princes are instructed in music, and it often happens that the Khan invites them to perform either alone or with the troubadours at court. Particular merriment and good humour, such as presides at the drinking-bouts at Teheran, or at the banquets in the palaces on the Bosphorus, is not to be met with at the court of Œzbeg princes; it is unknown here, or at least such is not the custom. The national character of the Tartar is chiefly marked by seriousness and firmness; to dance, jump, or show high spirits, is in his eyes only worthy of women or children. I have never seen an Œzbeg person of good manners indulge in immoderate laughter.