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.
[Illustration: Fig. 64.--Interior of an Ostiak Dwelling (Tshum).]
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.