The struggle for existence which man has to maintain in Siberia is easy and toilless now, and will probably remain so for centuries to come—easy and toilless especially among the lavishly endowed lands in the south of the country, and not too hard or laborious even in those regions which we are wont to picture as an icy waste, an inhospitable desert, which we still regard in this light if we only travel hastily and unwillingly through them. In the far north of West Siberia the climate is harsh and severe; the earth which, a little below the surface, is frozen and stiffened for ever, refuses to bring forth fruit; the sun will not ripen the bread-yielding grain; but even here Nature has bountifully shaken her horn of plenty, for what the land denies, is yielded by the water. The people who have dwelt for centuries in these latitudes, which we so carefully avoid, may appear poor and miserable in our eyes; in reality they are neither. They are able to procure all they need; they can even secure many luxuries, for their country yields them much more than is enough merely to sustain life. They do of course struggle, more or less consciously, for “an existence worthy of man”, but not with any grudge, outspoken or suppressed, against those whose lot is happier. Indeed they are happier than we think, for they are more modest, more easily satisfied than we are; they are utterly ignorant of what we call passion in the stricter sense; they accept the pleasures within their reach with a childlike joy, and the sorrows which visit them, with that deeply felt but quickly forgotten grief which is characteristic of childhood. Black care may stand beside their bed; but they banish it whenever they perceive a ray of joy, and they forget affliction whenever the sun of good fortune once more shines upon them. They rejoice in wealth and complain of poverty, but they see their riches disappear without giving way to despair, and their poverty turn to wealth without losing their equanimity. Even in mature age they remain children in thought, feeling, and behaviour; they are happier than we.

The Ostiaks with whom we came most frequently in contact on the lower Obi, whose society we preferred, and whom we learned to know best, belong to the Finnish family, and profess the same religion as another branch of the same family, the Samoyedes, while their manners, customs, and way of life generally, are approximately the same as those of all the Finns in a restricted sense, and therefore also of the Lapps. They are wandering herdsmen and fisher-folk, huntsmen and fowlers, like the Samoyedes and like the Lapps. Apart from their religion, and perhaps also their language, they resemble the Lapps more than the Samoyedes, for there are among them dwellers in fixed homes as well as nomadic herdsmen, while the Samoyedes, even when engaged in fishing, very rarely exchange their movable hut for a fixed log-house, at least in the parts of Siberia through which we travelled.

It may be that the Ostiak tribe was more numerous at one time than it is now, but it was probably never a people in our sense of the word. In some parts of the territory inhabited, or at least traversed by them, the population is said to be continually decreasing, while in others it is slightly on the increase; but the extent of increase or decrease seems inconsiderable. To reckon the whole number of these people at fifty thousand individuals is probably a high estimate. In the whole of the great district of Obdorsk, which extends from 65 degrees northern latitude to the northern end of the Samoyede peninsula, and from the Ural to the upper Chass river, there live at present, according to official statistics, not more than five thousand three hundred and eighty-two male Ostiaks, of whom not more than one thousand three hundred and seventy-six are able-bodied or assessable men. If we take for granted that there are as many women and girls, the whole number does not reach eleven thousand; and the above estimate is rather too high than too low, even though the tract inhabited by our people extends up the Obi to the district of Surgut, and up the Irtish to the neighbourhood of Tobolsk.

All the Ostiaks on the upper Irtish and middle Obi live in fixed log-houses, very simple, but resembling those of the Russians, and only here and there among these permanent dwellings, which indicate a higher degree of civilization, do we come upon a birch-bark tent or tshum. On the other hand, on the lower Obi, and especially between Obdorsk and the mouth of the stream, only birch-tents are to be seen, and they are, naturally, the only homes of the nomadic reindeer herdsman. Almost, if not exactly in agreement with this difference in dwelling, is the difference in religion, for the Ostiaks inhabiting settled villages belong to the Orthodox Greek Catholic Church, and are reckoned among its members, as they have been baptized, while those dwelling in the tshum are still true to their ancient faith, which, although regarded by the Russian priests and their followers as blind heathenism, is by no means devoid of poetic grandeur, still less of moral worth. The tent-dwellers certainly practise their religion with more ardour and conviction than the settled villagers do their so-called Christianity, which, as far as can be observed, seems to an unbiassed onlooker rather a superstitious idolatry than a nobler substitute for the religion which grew out of a childlike mood, and finds expression in childlike ways. With the adoption of log-houses and of Christianity, the Ostiaks of the central Obi and lower Irtish regions have, to a certain extent, given up their own dress in favour of that of the neighbouring Russian fisher-folk, and in their intercourse with these, have adopted many of their manners and customs. In part, too, they have lost their purity of race, and have retained only the inalienable characteristics, the language and all peculiarities preserved by it, perhaps also the skill, dexterity, and harmless good-nature common to all the Ostiaks. But one cannot venture to assert that their morals have improved with their civilization, or that their purity of life has increased with Christianity; and in any case it is more satisfactory to get to know the heathen Ostiaks, and to come into close contact with a still primitive people, than to concern ourselves with that portion of the tribe which gives us but a dim picture of what they once were, or others still are. I shall, therefore, limit my remarks to a consideration of those Ostiaks who worship the divinity Ohrt, who live in polygamy when their means permit, who bury their dead exactly as their fathers did. My sketch will lose nothing, and will gain in unity, if it takes account of these alone, and leaves the others out.

It is difficult to speak of a common type among the Ostiaks, and still more difficult to describe it. I have repeatedly attempted to do this, but have always been forced to recognize the impossibility of adequately describing a face in words, or of satisfactorily delineating with the pen those tribal peculiarities which are evident enough to the eye. In shape of face, colour of skin, hair, and eyes, they vary greatly; their racial affinity, that is, their Mongol origin, is by no means always very apparent, in fact, it is often difficult to detect, and when at last one imagines one has formulated certain definite average characteristics, one learns from other members of the same stock that their applicability is only relative and by no means unconditional. In what follows I shall attempt to give a comprehensive idea of what I saw among the Ostiaks whom we observed.

The Ostiaks are of middle height, somewhat slender in general build, their hands, feet, and limbs generally well-proportioned, the hands perhaps rather large, the calves of the legs almost always thin; their features seem intermediate between those of the other Mongols and those of the North American Indians: for their brown eyes are small and always set obliquely, though by no means very strikingly so; the cheek-bones are not very prominent, but the lower portion of the face is so compressed towards the narrow pointed chin that the whole has an angular appearance, indeed, as the lips are also sharply cut, it is often really cat-like, especially among women and children, though the nose is, on the whole, slightly, and in many cases not at all flattened. The rich, smooth, but not stiff, hair is usually dark brown or black, rarely light brown, and still more rarely blonde; the beard is scanty, but this is chiefly in consequence of the habit young dandies have of pulling out the hairs; the eyebrows are thick, often bushy. The colour of the skin is not much less white than that of a European who is much in the open air and exposed to wind and weather, and the yellowish look which it usually has is sometimes entirely awanting.

Though the above holds good of most Ostiaks, I do not mean to imply that one can have any doubt about their racial affinities if one examines them closely. In a few individuals the Mongolian traits are apparent on the most cursory glance; these types are small in stature, the lively brown eyes are elongated and obliquely set, the cheek-bones are very prominent, the stiff hair is deep black, and all the exposed parts of the body have a decided copper-red or leather-brown colour.

I can offer no opinion as to the language of the Ostiaks; I can only say that it embraces two dialects which can be readily distinguished even by strangers. That in use on the middle Obi is euphonious, if somewhat drawling and sing-song, while that prevailing on the lower Obi, probably because of the general habit of preferring the softer Samoyede tongue, is much more rapid and flowing, though there is still distinct enunciation of the syllables.

The Christian Ostiaks, as has already been mentioned, imitate the dress of the Russians, and the clothing of their women only differs from that of the Russian fisher-women in being decorated in many places with glass beads, and in the addition of special sash-like ribbons, like the stole of a Catholic priest, embroidered all over with such beads. The heathen Ostiaks, on the other hand, use nothing but the skin of the reindeer for clothing, and only employ the furs of other animals for the occasional decoration of the reindeer, or, as the Russians call them, stag skins. Their dress consists of a close-fitting skin coat reaching to the knee; in the men it is slit down the breast, in the women it is open down the whole front, but held together with leather thongs; a hood of the same material is usually attached to or forms part of the dress; mittens also are sewn on; leather breeches reach below the knee; and leather stockings, which fasten over the knee, complete the attire. The fur garment worn by the women is edged down the sides of the opening with a carefully pieced border of variously-coloured little squares of short-haired fur, and has always a broad band of dog-skin round the foot; that worn by the men has at most a border of dog-skin, and has always a hood; the leather stockings, if they are decorated at all, are composed of many prettily-combined, diversely-coloured stripes of skin from the leg of a reindeer, with a stout shoe partly sewn on, partly laced over the foot. A broad leather belt, usually studded with metal buttons, confines the man’s garment at the waist and holds his knife; a gaily-coloured head-wrap, with long fringes, which replaces the hood in summer, falls down over the woman’s dress. Shirts are unknown; but, on the other hand, the woman wears a girdle, of a kind unknown among us. By way of ornament, the woman puts on her fingers as many brass, or, where circumstances permit, silver rings as the lower joint will wear, so that that portion of the hand is literally mailed; a more or less handsome string of glass beads is hung round the neck, and very heavy tassel-like ear-rings of glass beads, twisted wire, and metal buttons, are hung rather over than in the ear; finally, the hair is plaited into two rope-like braids reaching to the middle of the calf, and interwoven with woollen threads. The Ostiak dandy dresses his hair in the same way—a proof that fools are alike all the world over—while the ordinary man usually wears his hair long, but loose.

Still simpler than the dress, but equally well adapted to its purpose,—for their costume, though not beautiful, is suited alike for summer and winter use,—is the dwelling of the Ostiak, a cone-shaped, movable hut covered with birch-bark, the tshum of the fisher-folk and wandering herdsmen. The framework is formed of twenty or thirty thin, smooth poles, from four to six yards in length, and pointed at both ends. These are fixed in a circle, which is very exact though measured only by the eye, two of them bent towards each other are fastened near their tops with a short cord, and serve as a support for all the rest. The outer covering consists of from five to eight sheets cut to the convex curve of the cone, and composed of little pieces of birch-bark previously boiled and thus rendered pliant. On the least exposed side is an opening which serves as a door, and which can be closed at will with another sheet of bark; the pointed top of the tent is always left uncovered to admit of the free passage of smoke. From the door straight to the opposite side of the hut runs a passage, in the middle of which the fire is built; over this two horizontal poles, fastened to the supports of the hut, serve as a drying-stand, from which also the cooking-kettle hangs. To right and left of the passage, boards, or at least mats, are laid down, and serve as flooring and also to mark off the sleeping places, whose head-end is towards the wall. Mats, made of bundles of sedge, long-haired, soft reindeer skins, and cushions stuffed with reindeer hair or dried moss, form the bed, and its coverings are of fur. A mosquito tent, under which the whole family creeps in summer, protects the sleepers more effectually against the winged tormentors than the smoky fire of rotten willow wood which is kept constantly burning in the entrance of the tshum. Cooking vessels, tea and drinking kettles, bowls, leather bags for holding flour and hard-baked bread, little chests with locks for holding the most valuable possessions, especially the tea-set, an axe, a gimlet, leather scrapers, a bowl-like work-box, a bow, crossbow or gun, snow-shoes, and various implements of the chase, make up the domestic plenishings. A household god replaces the crucifix, which is rarely absent from the huts of the Christian Ostiaks.

The tshum is protected against the cold and storms of winter by a leather covering of worn-out skins sewn together, or, more effectually, by spreading a second layer of sheets of birch-bark over the first.

If the owner of the tshum be a fisherman, one may see in front of his dwelling drying-stands for hanging up the nets, and others for drying fish, all very carefully made; also exceedingly light, daintily-wrought fishing-baskets, several excellent little boats, and other fishing apparatus; if he be also a huntsman there are in addition all kinds of implements of the chase, such as bows and spring-crossbows; if he be a reindeer-herdsman there are several well-made sledges with their appropriate harness, and the boat which is also indispensable.

Every Ostiak is experienced in fishing, almost all hunt or set snares, but not all are herdsmen. To possess reindeer means, among them, to be well-to-do, to possess many is to be rich; to live by fishing alone is poverty. Horses and cows are to be seen in some of their settlements, though in very small numbers, and only in the district about the middle of the river-basin; sheep, and sometimes even a cat may be kept; but the real domestic animals are the reindeer and dog. Without these, especially without the reindeer, a well-to-do man would scarcely think life possible, and it is indeed to them he owes all that makes up what he looks on as the joy of existence. As the Bedouin, the wandering herdsman of Central Africa, deems himself superior to those of his race who till the fields; as the Kirghiz looks down almost contemptuously on those who strive to wrest subsistence from the soil, so the possessor, or even the herdsman of reindeer, only uses net and hook to supply his own necessities, while the fisherman casts his nets and sets his baskets not for himself alone, but in the service of others. The wealth of a man is calculated by the number of his reindeer; with them his prosperity and his happiness are alike bound up. And when the deadly murrain annihilates his herds, he loses not wealth and happiness alone, but much more: esteem and rank, self-respect and confidence, even, it may be, his religion, manners, and morals, in short—himself. “As long as the plague did not ravage our herds,” said the district governor, Mamru, the most intelligent Ostiak whom we met, “we lived joyously and were rich, but since we have begun to lose them, we are gradually becoming poor fishermen; without the reindeer we cannot hold out, we cannot live.” Poor Ostiaks! in these words your doom is pronounced. Even now the reindeer, which once were counted by hundreds of thousands, have dwindled to a total of fifty thousand, and still the Destroying Angel passes almost yearly through the antlered herds. What will be the end? The Russian priests will gain more and more Christians, the Russian fishermen more and more hirelings, but the Ostiaks will be Ostiaks only in name, and that at no far distant time.[82]

The reindeer of Northern Asia is an essentially different creature from that of Lapland, for it is not only larger and more stately, but it is a domestic animal in the best sense of that term. We all imagined we knew the reindeer; for in Lapland we had examined it precisely and carefully with the eye of the naturalist; but in Siberia we were obliged to admit that till then we had gained a very imperfect idea of this most remarkable of domestic animals. In Lapland we had known the deer ceaselessly resisting, submitting with visible reluctance to the yoke of the little men, and always apparently bent on regaining its freedom; here in Siberia we found a docile, willing animal, attached to man, and trusting in him. Certainly the Ostiak knows well how to deal with it. Though he does not treat it with the tenderness he bestows on his dog, he is, on the whole, not unkind to it, and he is very rarely rough or brutal. Unlike the Laplander, he refrains from milking it, but he harnesses it more frequently; for, winter and summer, it must draw him and his family, the tshum with its appurtenances, and all the other requisites for the continual migrations. The Lapp, on the other hand, only harnesses the reindeer to his sledge in winter. Like the Lapp, the Ostiak makes use of every portion of the carcase of a slaughtered animal, with the sole exception of the stomach and intestines. The flesh serves him as food, the bones and horns make all sorts of implements, the tendons supply twine for sewing his clothing, that, and whatever else he requires in the way of leather, is furnished by the skin; even the hoofs are utilized. On a light sledge, drawn by the reindeer, the Ostiak travels, in summer and in winter, from place to place—to weddings, to festivals, to the chase, and to the burial of his friends; with it he draws his dead to their last resting-place; he slaughters the reindeer and eats it with his guests, or in honour of his dead, whom he wraps up in its skin, as he does himself. Truly, without the reindeer he cannot endure, cannot live.

Of scarcely less importance than his horned herds is the Ostiak’s second domestic animal, the dog. It is possessed and cared for not only by the wandering herdsman, but by every Ostiak—fisher as well as huntsman, settler as well as nomad. The Ostiak dog is represented by two different breeds, whose chief difference, however, is only in size. Whether our dog-fanciers would find it beautiful I cannot say. For my part, I must pronounce it beautiful, because, with the sole exception of the colour, it possesses all the characteristics of a wild dog. It most resembles the Pomeranian dog, but is usually larger; indeed, it is often so large as to approach the wolf in size; and its slender build also distinguishes it from the Pomeranian. The head is elongated, the muzzle moderately long, the neck short, the body long, the limbs slender, the tail moderately long, the brassy eyes obliquely set, the short pointed ears held erect, the hair extraordinarily long and thick, consisting of a mixture of decidedly woolly and bristly hairs. The colour varies, but is predominantly pure white, or white with deep black, usually regular markings on both sides of the head, including the ears, on the back and on the sides of the body; or it may be wolf or mouse gray, or dun-coloured, watered and waved, but never striped. The slightly bushy tail is always carried hanging, or extended, but never curled, and the resemblance to a wild dog is thereby greatly increased.

Constant and intimate association with man has transformed the Ostiak dog into an exceedingly good-natured animal. He is watchful but not given to biting, brave but not pugnacious, faithful and eager but not hostile to strangers nor violent. Though he hastens suspiciously, if not exactly with unfriendliness, towards a stranger, he becomes confiding as soon as he hears him speak with his master, or sees him step into the tshum. He is in no way pampered, for though he loves to share the dwelling of his master or mistress, he exposes himself without apparent discomfort to wind and weather, throws himself unhesitatingly into the cold water of the river and swims straight across a broad arm, or, when on a journey, trots on uncomplainingly under the sledge to which he is chained, whether the way lead over bog or morass, among dwarf-birch bushes or through water. Intelligent and cunning, ingenious and inventive, clever and active, he knows how to make his life comfortable, and to adapt himself to all situations. In the tshum he lies self-denyingly beside much-desired foods; outside of his master’s hut he is a bold and greedy thief; among the dwarf-birches of the tundra he trots indifferently under the sledge, but over smooth or other easy ground he places himself with all four legs together on the runners of the sledge and lets himself be carried. While hunting he is a faithful and useful assistant to his master, but he snaps away the game which he has scented and a stranger shot, and devours it with such an air of inoffensive enjoyment that one cannot be angry with him. In tending the herds he shows himself acquainted with all the peculiarities and tricks of the reindeer, and he is docile enough; but he is never quite so trustworthy as our sheep-dog, for he allows himself an opinion of his own, and only yields his services without resisting when it appears to him absolutely necessary.

The Ostiak dog is at once playmate, sentinel of the tshum, guardian of the herds, and draught animal, and he is made use of even after death. He is only harnessed to the sledge in winter, but the harness is so awkward that if he has to exert himself much he becomes in a few years weak in the loins or hip-shot. After death his splendid coat is much prized; indeed, many of the Ostiaks evidently keep a disproportionately large number of dogs solely to have skins at their disposal every winter.

It is probably for the same or some similar reason that the various mammals and birds, such as foxes, bears, owls, crows, cranes, swans, &c., which one sees chained in or before the tent of the fisherman or the herdsman, are taken from the nest and reared. As long as they are young they are tended carefully and kindly; whenever they are full-grown and in good fur or feather they are killed, the edible parts are eaten, and the skin or feathers made use of or sold, the former especially often fetching an astonishingly high price.

Here, as everywhere else, the dog submits to man’s will, but man must adapt himself to the requirements of the reindeer. These requirements, and not the will or humour of the herdsman, determine the wanderings of the nomad Ostiak, as the coming and going of the fishes influences the doings of his relatives in fixed abodes, to a considerable extent at least. The migrations of the reindeer herdsmen and their herds take place for almost the same reasons and in the same direction as those of the Kirghiz, and are distinguished from them chiefly by the fact that they do not cease in winter, but rather become more constant and varied. When the snow begins to melt, the Ostiak herdsman travels slowly towards the mountains; when the mosquito plague begins he ascends their sides, or at least betakes himself to the shoulders of the ranges; when it ceases again—and even the open heights are not entirely free from it—he gradually descends to the low tundra to pass the winter, if possible on his native river-bank. This is the course of his life one year after another, unless he is visited by that most terrible of disasters, the reindeer plague.

Before the short summer comes to the inhospitable land, before even the first breath of spring is stirring, when a thick sheet of ice lies still unbroken over the mighty river, its tributaries, and the innumerable lakes of the tundra, the reindeer bring forth their calves; it is therefore more than ever necessary to seek out a place which offers sufficient pasture for both mothers and young. Our herdsman migrates, therefore, not to the deepest valleys, but to the heights from whose crests the raging storms of winter have blown away much of the snow, and here, in the best available spot, he erects his tshum. For days, even weeks, he remains there until all the exposed reindeer moss has been eaten up, and the broad hoof of the reindeer itself, which has been used to clear away the snow, almost refuses duty. Then the herdsman breaks up his camp, and wends his way to some not far distant spot, which offers the same attractions as the first. Here, too, he remains until pasturage becomes too scarce, for this is still what he looks on as the good season. The herds feed in dense troops; among the stags, whose antlers have just begun to sprout, the deepest peace reigns; the calves are never lost sight of by their anxious parents; the herd neither scatters nor wanders out of hearing of the loud call which summons them to the tshum at sundown. At night, indeed, the greedy wolf, which has been driven by winter from the mountains, prowls around them, but the brave dogs keep sharp watch, and resist the cowardly robber; and our herdsman therefore is as little troubled about the wolves as he is about winter, which he, like all the peoples of the far north, looks on as the best season of the year. The days—still very short—are gradually lengthening, the nights becoming shorter, and the dangers threatening his defenceless herds are gradually diminishing. The river throws off its winter covering; and with the floods warmed in the steppes of the south, soft winds blow through the land; one hill-top after another is laid bare of snow, and here, as well as in the valleys, where the buds are sprouting luxuriantly, the weather-hardened animals find food in abundance. The low tundra has become a paradise in the eyes of our herdsman. But this comfortable life lasts only a short time. The quickly-rising sun, which shines longer and becomes hotter every day, soon melts the snow in the more level valleys and the ice in the broad lakes, thaws even the surface of the frozen earth, and calls into life, along with other harmless children of the spring, milliards of torturing gnats and persecuting gadflies, whose larvæ were snorted out of the reindeers’ nostrils only a few weeks before.[83] Now wandering begins in earnest; the herdsman travels, in short daily marches, but still hastily, towards the mountains.

As soon as the dew is dry on the moss, lichens, grasses, and the young leaves of the dwarf bushes, the women take to pieces the tshum they erected only the day before, and load the sledges which were only then unladen. In the meantime the herdsman himself, on his light sledge drawn by four strong stags, goes in search of the herd scattered about to find pasture, or resting contentedly in groups, collects them and drives them towards the camping ground, where the rest of the family are prepared to receive them. Holding in their hands a thin rope, over which the reindeer seldom venture to jump, they form a circle round the herd; the herdsman, with his lasso in his right hand, goes in among the reindeer, throws his noose almost unfailingly round the neck or antlers of the chosen stags, secures and harnesses them, orders that all the others be let loose, mounts his sledge again and drives away in the direction of the next camping-ground. All the other sledges, driven by different members of the family, follow him in a long train, the whole free herd follows them, lowing or grunting, their hoofs crackling at every step. The dogs run about the whole procession, barking continually and collecting the animals that are inclined to wander. They cannot, however, prevent a few from breaking off from the sides of the herd and remaining behind. The herd spreads out more and more, picturesquely adorning all the heights; now and again they pause in groups over some favourite food; importuned by the calves the mother deer perform their maternal duties, and then, to please their satisfied offspring, lie down beside them till the eagle eye of the herdsman spies them, and, taking a wide circuit round the laggards, he drives them by a word of command, or by the help of the dogs, to join their fellows trotting briskly on ahead. Amid renewed general grunting, and loud barking from the dogs, the reassembled herd surges onwards; a very forest of antlers presses forwards, and something akin to sportsman’s joy stirs the heart of the spectator who is unfamiliar with the sight.

The sun is declining; the draught animals groan heavily, their tongues hanging far out of their mouths; it is time to allow them rest. At a short distance, beside one of the innumerable lakes, there rises a low flat hill. Towards it the herdsman directs his course, and on its summit he brings his antlered team to a stand. One sledge after another arrives; the herd also soon comes up and immediately betakes itself to the best grazing-ground, quickly followed by the unharnessed draught animals.

The women select a suitable spot for erecting the tshum, place the poles upright in a circle, and cover them with the sheets of bark; the herdsman in the meantime takes his already prepared noose, and with experienced eye picks out a young, fat stag from the herd. Quickly he casts the lasso over its horns and neck. In vain the animal struggles for his freedom; the huntsman comes nearer and nearer, and the reindeer follows him unresisting towards the tshum, which has now been erected. An axe-stroke on the back of the head fells the victim to the ground, and a knife is plunged into his heart. In a couple of minutes the animal is skinned and dexterously cut up. A minute later all the members of the family, who have assembled hastily, are dipping strips of cut-up liver into the blood collected in the breast-cavity, and the “bloody meal” begins. Crouching in a circle round the still warm stag, each cuts himself a rib or a piece of the back or haunch; lips become red as if they had been badly painted; drops of blood flow down over chin and breast; the hands, too, are stained, and, dripping with blood, they smear the nose and cheeks; and blood-stained countenances meet the astonished stranger’s gaze. The baby leaves its mother’s breast to share in the meal, and after he has swallowed a piece of liver, and reddened face, hands, and whatever else he can reach, he crows with joy as his careful mother breaks a marrow-bone and gives it to him to suck. The dogs sit in a circle behind the feasting company, ready to snap up the bones which are thrown to them. One after another rises satisfied from the meal, wipes his blood-stained hands on the moss, cleans his knife in the same way, and retires into the tshum to rest. But the housewife fills the cooking-kettle with water, puts into it as much of the flesh of the half-eaten animal as it will hold, and lights the fire to prepare the evening meal.

Meantime the herdsman has thrown off his upper garment and looked through it hastily, yet not without result, and he has drawn near the fire so that the flames may play with full effect on the naked upper portion of his body. He feels comfortable, and begins to think of another enjoyment. A wonderful man who is travelling towards the mountains in his company, a German, perhaps even a member of the Bremen exploring expedition to West Siberia, has not only presented him with tobacco—horrible stuff, it is true, yet at any rate strong—but he has also given him a great sheet of paper, a whole Kölnische Zeitung. From this he carefully tears off a small square piece, twists it to a pointed cornet, fills this with tobacco, bends it in the middle, and the pipe is ready. A moment later it is alight, and it smells so pleasant that the wife distends her nostrils, and begs to share the enjoyment. Her wish is at once granted, and the little pipe wanders round so that every member of the family may enjoy it in turn.

But the contents of the pot begin to bubble, the supper is ready, and all “raise their hands to the daintily prepared meal”. Then the herdsman stands outside the door and utters a far-sounding call of long-drawn notes, to collect the restless herd once more. This done, he returns content into the tshum. Here his wife has spread the mosquito tent and is still busy stuffing its lower edge under the coverlets. While waiting for this work to be finished the man on his couch amuses himself by seizing one of the dogs and nursing it like a baby, the dog enduring it patiently in the consciousness that it is a high honour. Then the man creeps half-naked under the mosquito net, his fifteen-year-old son follows his example, the little thirteen-year-old wife of the latter does the same, the anxious mother sees to the safety of the little one in the cradle, the nursling already mentioned, lays more decayed wood on the smoky fire at the entrance to the tshum, shuts the door, and lies down like the rest. A few minutes later loud snoring announces that all are sleeping the sleep of the just.

The next morning the same daily round begins again, and so it goes on until the mountain heights permit of a longer sojourn in one place. The snow, which falls very early, warns them to return even in August, and again, this time more slowly and leisurely, herdsmen and herds journey back to the low grounds.

With the disappearance of the ice the activity of the fishermen on the river begins. Many of the Ostiak fishermen work in the pay of, or at least in partnership with the Russians, others only sell to them the superfluous portion of their catch, and fish on their own account. Immediately after the ice has broken up, the former class pitch their tshums beside the fisher huts of the Russians, and the others settle by the river banks in their summer dwellings—log-huts of the simplest construction. Where a tributary flows into the river, they raise across it, or across the mouth of an arm of the stream, a barricade which leaves only one channel, and in the deep water they place baskets and set bottom-lines; beyond that they use only drag- and seine-nets.

Bustling activity prevails about all the fishing-stations when the catch is good. On a shaky stand above the opening in the barricade the young men, more boys than men, are crouching, peering keenly into the dark flood beneath them to see whether the fish are going into the draw-net which they are holding so as to close the channel. From time to time they lift their burdened net, and empty its contents into their little boat. The men fish together on a sand-bank with the drag-net, or in shallower parts of the river with the seine. In the afternoon, or towards evening the fishermen return home, and the fish are distributed among the different households. Next morning the women’s work begins. Singly, or in groups, they sit beside a great fish heap, each provided with a board and a sharp knife, and scale, gut, split, and crimp the fish, afterwards stringing them on long thin sticks, which are hung up on the drying-stands to dry. With dexterous and certain strokes the abdominal cavity is opened and the side muscles separated from the backbone, a few touches more separate the liver and other viscera from the head, ribs, and more valuable side portions of the body. Liver after liver slips between the smacking lips; for the women have not yet broken their fast and they take the titbits as a preliminary snack. If they are still unsatisfied, a fish is scaled, gutted, and cut in long strips, the end of one of these is dipped into the trickling blood and, thus seasoned, is put into the mouth, divided into suitable mouthfuls with quick knife-strokes which seem to pass perilously near the point of the eater’s nose. The children playing about their busy mothers receive pieces of liver or strips of muscle according to their size; four-year-olds use the knife to cut the pieces almost as cleverly as their elders, who invariably divide their fish or strips of reindeer flesh in this manner. Soon the faces of mothers and children shine with fish blood and liver oil, and the hands glisten with adhering fish-scales. When all the fishes are scaled, split, and hung up to dry, the dogs which have been sitting, covetous but not importunate, beside the women, receive their portion also—the scales and debris, which are thrown into a heap amid which the black muzzles burrow eagerly.

The morning work is over, and a short period of rest has been earned. The mothers take their children on their laps, suckle the nurslings, and then proceed to a work which is absolutely necessary, not only to the little ones’ comfort but to their own—the hunt for parasites. One child after another lays its head in its mother’s lap, and finally she lays her own in that of her eldest daughter or of a friend who hopes for a similar service, and the hunt proves productive. That the booty secured is put between the lips, and if not actually eaten, at least bitten to death, is nothing new to a naturalist who has observed monkeys, and it confirms those who see more than a mere hypothesis in Darwin’s doctrine, or in the belief that men may exhibit atavism, or a reversion to the habits of a remote ancestor.

The sun is sinking, the men, youths, and boys come back with a new and rich harvest. They have eaten raw fish as they required, but now their souls long for warm food. A great steaming kettle of cooked fish, delicious salmonoids (genus Coregonus), the nearest relative of the salmon, is set before them; its accompaniment is bread dipped in and thoroughly saturated with fish fat. Brick-tea,[84] put on the fire with cold water and boiled for a long time, brings the meal to an end. “But when the desire for food and drink is appeased” the spirit also longs for satisfaction, and the musician with harp or zither of his own manufacture is eagerly welcomed, whether to play one of their strange, old, indescribable melodies, or an accompaniment to the quaint dance of the women, in which they raise themselves and sink again, throw one arm round the other, stretch both out, and drop them to their sides. These amusements last until the mosquito-curtain is prepared, then here, too, old and young disappear beneath its folds.

The summer is past, and winter follows the short autumn. A new activity comes into play with the migration of the birds; a new, indeed the full, true life of the Ostiaks begins with winter. For the departing summer guests the treacherous net is spread. Gaps are cut in the dense willow growth of the banks on the direct course between two large sheets of water, and in each space is spread a thin, easily-moved limed net, into which fly not only ducks, but geese, swans, and cranes. These are welcome booty, both on account of flesh and feathers, for birds of all kinds form a considerable portion of the food not only of the Ostiaks but of all the dwellers in the river-basin. At the time when the bird-catcher begins his work the nomad herdsman sets out on the chase, and sets his fall-traps in the tundra for the red and Arctic foxes, or in the forest, in company with his more settled relatives, he sets snares, spring-bows, and self-acting cross-bows for wolves and foxes, sables and ermines, gluttons and squirrels. If snow has fallen, the experienced huntsman buckles on his snow-shoes, puts on his snow-spectacles, and betakes himself with his fleet dog to the tundra or the forest to seek out the bear in his den, to follow the track of the lynx, to chase the elk and the wild reindeer, now impeded by the snow, which will not bear their weight though it bears the huntsman’s. He has never lied, never sworn falsely by the bear’s tooth, never done a wrong, and the bear is therefore powerless against him, the elk and the reindeer are not fleet enough to escape him! When a bear has been shot he returns triumphantly to the village, neighbours and friends gather round him in the tshum, rejoicing, and as the general jubilation infects him, he slips quietly away, disguises himself, puts on a mask, and begins the bear-dance, executing wonderful movements, which are meant to mimic and illustrate those of the bear in all the varied circumstances of his life.

The huts of the fisher-folk soon contain a rich treasure of skins, the tshum of the herdsman a still richer, for he has stored up the skins of all the reindeer slaughtered throughout the year. Now it is time to get rid of them. Everyone, far and near, prepares for the fair which is held every year, in the second half of January, in Obdorsk, the last Russian village, and the most important trading centre on the lower Obi. The fair is attended by natives and strangers, and during its progress the Russian government officials collect taxes from the Ostiaks and Samoyedes, settle disputes, and deal out justice generally; the Russian merchants are on the outlook for buyers and sellers, the dishonest ones among them, and the swindling Syryani, for thoughtless drunkards, and the clergy for heathen to be converted. Among the Ostiaks and Samoyedes all sorts of agreements are made, weddings arranged, enemies reconciled, friends gained, compacts with the Russians formed, debts paid and new ones contracted. From all sides appear long trains of sledges drawn by reindeer, and one tshum after another grows up beside the market-place, each tshum surrounded by heavily-laden sledges containing the saleable acquisitions of the year. Every morning the owner, with his favourite wife in gala attire, proceeds to the booths to sell his skins and buy other commodities. They bargain, haggle, and attempt to cheat, and Mercury, as powerful as of yore, shows his might not only as the god of merchants but of thieves. Alcohol, though its retail sale is forbidden by the government, is to be had not only at every merchant’s, but in almost every house in Obdorsk, and it blunts the senses and dulls the intelligence of Ostiak and Samoyede, and impoverishes them even more than the much-dreaded reindeer plague. Brandy rouses all the passions in the ordinarily calm, good-tempered, inoffensive Ostiak, and transforms the peaceable, friendly, honest fellows into raging, senseless animals. Man and wife alike long for brandy; the father pours it down his boy’s throat, the mother forces it on her daughter, should they begin by rebelling against the destructive poison. For brandy the Ostiak squanders his laboriously-gained treasures, his whole possessions; for it he binds himself as a slave, or at least as a servant; for it he sells his soul, and denies the faith of his fathers. Brandy is an indispensable accompaniment to the conclusion of every business, even to conversion to the orthodox church. With the help of brandy a dishonest merchant can get possession of all an Ostiak’s skins, and without these, with empty purse and confused head, the man who arrived in Obdorsk full of hope and pride, returns to his tshum cheated, not to say plundered. He repents his folly and weakness, makes the best of resolutions, becomes tranquil in doing so, and soon remembers nothing except that he enjoyed himself excellently with his fellow tribesmen. First they had drunk together; then men and women had kissed each other, then the men had beaten their wives, had tried their strength on each other, had even drawn their sharp knives, and, with flashing eyes, had threatened each other with death; but no blood had been shed; there had been a reconciliation; the women who had fallen on the ground, stupefied with blows and brandy, were lifted up tenderly, and were tended by other women; to celebrate the reconciliation an important compact had been made, a bridegroom was sought for the daughter, a little bride for the son; even a widow had been married, and they drank again to the occasion; in short, they had had a splendid time. That the government officials had shut up all those who were dead drunk, that all, all their money had gone the way of things perishable, had certainly been disagreeable, very disagreeable. However, the prison had opened again; after a time, the loss of the money had been got over, and only the golden recollection, over which they could gloat for a whole year, and the betrothal, so satisfactory to all parties, remained as permanent gain from the delightful festival.

The bridegroom and bride had also been at the fair, had drunk with the rest, and thus made each other’s acquaintance, and the bridegroom had agreed with his parents to choose the maiden as his wife, or rather had agreed to receive her. For it is the parents’ decision, not the consent of the couple themselves, that concludes a marriage among the Ostiaks. They may perhaps have some regard for the bridegroom’s wishes, may allow him to cast his affections on one or other of the daughters of his people, but they only send an agent to treat with the girl’s father if their own circumstances correspond with his. The maiden herself is not consulted, perhaps because, at the time of her betrothal, she is much too young to be able to decide upon her own future with discretion. Even the future husband has not reached his fifteenth year when the agent begins to treat for the twelve-year-old bride. In this case the general exhilaration of fair-time had considerably hastened the course of proceedings. The matrimonial agent had gained an immediate consent; the negotiations, often very protracted, had been at once begun, and thanks to brandy, which usually proves an evil demon, but in this case expedited matters, they were brought to a speedy conclusion. It had been agreed that Sandor, the young bridegroom, should pay for his little bride, Malla, sixty reindeer, twenty skins of the white and ten of the red fox, a piece of coloured cloth, and various trifles such as rings, buttons, glass beads, head-dresses, and the like. That was little, much less than the district governor, Mamru, who was scarcely better off, had to give for his wife; for his payment consisted of a hundred and fifty reindeer, sixty skins of the Arctic and twenty of the red fox, a large piece of stuff for clothes, several head-dresses, and the customary trifles. But times were better then, and Mamru might well pay what was equivalent to more than a thousand silver roubles for his wife, who was stately, rich, and of good family.

The amount agreed on is paid; the nuptials of the young couple are celebrated. The relatives of the bride’s family come to her father’s tent to bring presents and to receive others from the bridegroom’s gift, which is laid out for everyone to see. The bride is arrayed in festive garments, and she and her friends prepare for the drive to the tshum of the bridegroom or of his father. Beforehand they have eaten abundantly of the flesh of a reindeer, fresh killed, according to custom. Only a few fish caught under the ice have been cooked to-day; the flesh of the reindeer was eaten raw, and when one began to grow cold a second was slaughtered. The bride weeps, as becomes departing brides, and refuses to leave the tshum in which she was brought up, but she is consoled and coaxed by all, and at last she is ready. A prayer before the domestic idol solicits the blessing of the heavenly Ohrt, whose sign, the divine fire Sornidud—in our eyes only the flaming northern light—had shone blood-red in the sky the evening before. The daughter is accompanied by her mother, who keeps close by her side, and even remains near her during the night. Mother and daughter mount one sledge, the rest of the invited kinsfolk mount theirs, and, in festive pomp, to the sound of the bells which all the reindeer wear on their harness, the wedding procession sets forth.

In his father’s tent the bridegroom awaits the bride, who modestly veils her face with her head-dress in the presence of her future father and brothers-in-law. This she continues to do after the marriage is consummated. A new banquet begins, and the guests, who have been joined by the bridegroom’s relatives, do not disperse till late at night. But the next day the mother brings the young wife back to her father’s tent. A day later all the bridegroom’s relatives appear to demand her back again for him. Once more the low hut is filled with festive sounds; then the bride leaves it for ever, and is again conducted with pomp to the tshum which she is thenceforward to share with her husband, or with him and his father and brothers and sisters, or later on with another wife.

The sons of poor people pay at most ten reindeer for their brides; those of the fisher-folk only the most necessary furnishings of the tshum, and even these are often shared among several families; but their weddings, too, are made the occasion of a joyful festival, and there is as much banqueting as circumstances will allow.

The poorer Ostiaks marry only one wife, but the rich look upon it as one of the rights of their position to have two or more. But the first wife always retains her privileges, and the others appear to be rather her servants than her equals. It is otherwise, however, if she should have no children; for childlessness is a disgrace to the man, and a childless wife in the tshum, as elsewhere, is much to be pitied.

The parents are proud of their children, and treat them with great tenderness. It is with unmistakable happiness in look and gesture that the young mother lays her first-born in her bosom, or on the soft moss in the neat birch-bark cradle with its lining of mouldered willow-wood and shavings; carefully she fastens the cover to both sides of the cradle, and envelops the head-end of the little bed with the mosquito curtain; but her ideal of cleanliness leaves much to be desired. As long as the baby is small and helpless she washes and cleanses it when she thinks it absolutely necessary. But when it grows bigger she only washes its face and hands once a day, using a handful of fine willow fibres as sponge, and a dry handful as towel, and afterwards looks on quite complacently when the little creature, who finds many opportunities for soiling itself, goes about in a state of dirt, to us almost inconceivable. This state of things comes gradually to an end when the young Ostiak is able to take care of himself; but even then, hardly anyone considers it necessary to wash after every meal, even should it have left stains of blood. The children are as much attached, and as faithful to their parents as these are to them, and their obedience and submission is worthy of mention. To reverence parents is the first and chief commandment among the Ostiaks, to reverence their god is only the second. When we advised Mamru, the district governor already mentioned, to have his children taught the Russian language and writing, he replied that he saw the advantage of such knowledge, but feared that his children might forget the respect due to their father and mother, and thus break the most important commandment of their religion. This may be the reason why no Ostiak, who clings to the faith of his fathers, learns to do more than make his mark, a sort of scrawl binding on him and others, drawn upon paper, or cut in wood or reindeer-skin. Yet the Ostiak is capable and dexterous, able to learn whatever he is taught so quickly and easily that, at the early age at which he marries, he understands everything connected with the establishment and maintenance of his household. It is only in religious matters that he seems unwilling to trust to his own judgment, and on this account he, in most cases, shows unmerited respect for the shamans,[85] who profess to know more about religion than he does.

For our part, we regard the shaman, who claims the status of a priest among the Ostiaks as among the other Mongolian peoples of Siberia, as nothing short of an impostor. The sole member of the precious brotherhood with whom we came in contact, a baptized Samoyede, bore the sign of Christianity on his breast; according to report he had even been a deacon in the orthodox church, and yet he did duty as a shaman among the heathen Ostiaks. I learned later, on good authority, that he was no exception to the general rule; for all the shamans met with by my informant, Herr von Middendorf, during years of travel in Siberia, were Christians. I have already mentioned in the report of my travels that the shaman whom we met took us also for believers; but I have reserved my account of his performances and prophecies for to-day, as this description seems to me a fitting frame for such a picture.

To begin with, he demanded brandy as a fee, but was satisfied with the promise of a gift, and retired into a tent, saying that he would let us know when his preparations were finished. Among these preparations, apparently, was the muffled beating of a drum which we heard after a considerable time; of other arrangements we discovered nothing. On a given signal we entered the tshum.

The whole space within the birch-bark hut was filled with people, who sat round in a circle pressing closely against the walls. Among the Ostiaks and Samoyedes, who were there with wives and children, there were also Russians with their families. On a raised seat to the left of the entrance sat the shaman Vidli; at his right, crouching on the floor, was an Ostiak, the master’s disciple at the time. Vidli wore a brown upper garment, and over it a kind of robe, originally white, but soiled and shabbily trimmed with gold braid; in his left hand he held a little tambour-like drum, in such a way that it shaded his face; in his right hand was a drum-stick; his head was uncovered, his tonsured hair freshly oiled. In the middle of the tshum a fire was burning, and now and again it blazed up and shed bright light on the motley throng, in the midst of which we sat down in the places reserved for us. A thrice-repeated, long-drawn cry, like a song from many voices, preluded by beating of the drum, greeted our entrance, and marked the beginning of the proceedings.

“That you may see that I am a man of truth,” said the master’s voice, “I shall now adjure the messenger of the heavenly will, who is at my behest, to appear among us and communicate to me what the gods have determined concerning your future. Later, you yourselves will be able to determine whether I have told you the truth or not.”

After this introduction, which was translated to us by two interpreters, the favourite of the gods struck the calf-skin, or rather reindeer-skin of his drum, with quick strokes which followed one another at equal intervals, but were indefinitely grouped, and accompanied his drumming with a song which, in the usual Samoyede fashion, was half-spoken, or rather muttered, and half-sung, and was faithfully repeated by the youth, whom we may call the clerk. The master held the drum so as to keep his face in shadow, and he also shut his eyes that nothing might distract his inward vision; the clerk, on the other hand, smoked even while he sang, and spat from time to time, just as he had been doing before. Three slow, decided strokes brought the drumming and the song to an end.

“I have now,” said the master with dignity, “adjured Yamaul, the heavenly messenger, to appear among us, but I cannot say how much time must pass before he arrives, for he may be far off.”

And again he beat his drum and sang his incantation, concluding both song and accompaniment as before.

“I see two emperors before me; they will send you a writing,” spoke the messenger of the gods through his lips.

So Yamaul had been kind enough to appear in the tshum to oblige his favourite. Then the individual sentences of the heavenly message, with the invariable prelude of drumming and song, were uttered as follows:—

“Once again, next summer, you will traverse the same route as this year.”

“Then you will visit the summit of the Ural, where the rivers Ussa, Bodarata, and Shtchutshya begin their course.”

“On this journey something will befall you, whether good or evil I cannot tell.”

“Nothing is to be achieved at the Bodarata, for wood and pasture are lacking; here something might be accomplished.”

“You will have to render an account to your superiors; they will examine you and will be satisfied.”

“You will also have to answer to the three elders of your tribe; they also will examine your writings, and then come to a decision about the new journey.”

“The course of your journey will henceforward be happy and without accident; and you will find your loved ones at home in the best of health.”

“If the statements of the Russians who are still at Bodarata corroborate yours, two emperors will reward you.”

“I see no other face.”

The performance was at an end. On the Ural Mountains lay the last glow of midnight. Everyone left the tent, the faces of the Russians showing the same credulity as those of the Ostiaks and Samoyedes. But we invited the shaman to accompany us to our boat, loosened his tongue and that of his disciple with brandy, and plied him with all manner of cross-questions, some of them of the subtlest kind. He answered them all, without exception, without ever getting into a difficulty, without hesitation, without even reflection; he answered them full of conviction, and convincingly, clearly, definitely, tersely, and to the point, so that we recognized more clearly than before the extreme craftiness of the man with whom we had to deal.

He described to us how, even in his boyhood, the spirit had come upon him and had tortured him till he became the disciple of a shaman; how he had become more and more intimate with Yamaul, the messenger of the gods, who appears to him as a friendly man, riding on a swift horse, and carrying a staff in his hand; how Yamaul hastened to his help, and even, if need were, called down aid from heaven when he, the shaman, was struggling with evil spirits often for several days at a time; how the messenger of the gods must always communicate the message to him just as he received it, for that otherwise he felt every drum-beat as a painful stroke; how Yamaul, even to-day, though visible to him only, sat behind him in the tshum and whispered the words in his ear. He also informed us that, by his own art, or by the grace bestowed upon him, which even his conversion to Christianity could not weaken, he could reveal what was hidden, find what was stolen, recognize diseases, prophesy the death or recovery of the sick, see and banish the ghosts of the dead, work much evil, and prevent much evil, but that he did nothing but good, because he feared the gods; he gave us a clear and detailed, if not quite correct picture of the religion of the Ostiaks and Samoyedes; he assured us that all his people, as well as the Ostiaks, came to him in their troubles to ask advice, or to have the future unveiled, and that they did not doubt, but trusted in him and believed him.

The last statement is not correct. The great mass of the people may regard the shaman as a wise man, perhaps even as an intermediary between men and the gods, and possibly as the possessor of mysterious power; but many believe his words and works as little as other races do those of their priests. The real faith of the people is simpler and more child-like than the shaman approves of. It is here as elsewhere; the priest, or whoever acts as such, peoples heaven with gods, and councillors and servants of the gods, but the people know nothing of this celestial court.

According to the belief of the people there is enthroned in heaven Ohrt, whose name signifies “the end of the world”. He is an all-powerful spirit, who rules over everything but Death, and he is benevolently inclined towards men. He is the giver of all good, the bestower of reindeer, fish, and furred animals, the preventer of evil, and the avenger of lies, severe only when promises made to him are not fulfilled. Feasts are held in his honour, sacrifices and prayers are offered to him; the suppliant who prostrates himself before a sacred symbol thinks of him. The symbol, called a longch, may be of carved wood, a bundle of cloth, a stone, a skin, or anything else: it possesses no powers, affords no protection, it is in no sense a fetish! People assemble before a longch, place it in front of the tshum, lay dishes of fish, reindeer flesh, or other offering before it, place valuables before it, or even pack them inside it; but they always look up to heaven, and both their offerings and their prayers are intended for their god. Evil spirits dwell in heaven as on earth; but Ohrt is more powerful than they all; only Death is mightier than he. There is no everlasting life after death, and no resurrection; but the dead still wander as ghosts over the face of the earth, and have still power to do good or evil.