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.
[Illustration: Fig. 65.--The Burial of an Ostiak.]
When an Ostiak dies his spirit-life begins at once; so his friends
proceed immediately to arrange for his burial. They had all assembled
before his death, and as soon as life is extinct they kindle a fire in
the tshum in which the body lies, and keep it burning until they set
out for the burial-place. A shaman is called to ask the dead where he
wishes to lie. This is done by naming a place, and attempting to raise
the head of the corpse. If the dead man approves he lets his head be
raised; if he does not, three men cannot move it. Then the question
must be repeated until the man gives his consent. Skilled persons are
despatched to the chosen spot to prepare the grave, for this work often
requires several days.
The burial-places are always in the tundra, on elevated spots, usually
on a long ridge; the coffins are more or less artistically wrought
chests, which are placed above the ground. Failing solid planks to
construct the coffin, a boat is cut up and the corpse is laid in that;
only the very poor people dig in the ground a shallow hollow in which
to bury their dead.
The corpse is not washed, but is arrayed in festive garments, the
hair anointed, and the face covered with a cloth. All the rest of the
deceased’s clothing is given to the poor. The Ostiaks never touch the
dead body of a stranger with their hands, but they do not hesitate to
touch a loved relative, and even to kiss his cold face with tears in
their eyes. The corpse is brought to the burial-place on a sledge,
or in a boat, and is accompanied by all the relatives and friends. A
reindeer-skin, on which the dead is to rest, is laid in the chest or
coffin. At the head and sides are placed tobacco, pipes, and all manner
of implements which the dead man was wont to use in his lifetime. Then
the corpse is lifted with cords, carried to the chest, and laid on
the bed thus prepared; the face is covered for the last time, a piece
of birch-bark is spread over the open top of the chest, which, if the
family be a rich one, is perhaps first covered with costly skins and
cloths, the lid of the chest is put on above the sheet of bark, or at
least heavy branches are laid close together upon it. Around and under
the chest are laid such implements as could not be placed within it,
but they are first broken up and thus rendered useless for the living,
or, according to Ostiak ideas, made the ghosts of what they were.
Meanwhile, a fire has been kindled in the neighbourhood of the grave,
and one or more reindeer slaughtered, and now the flesh is eaten, raw
or cooked, by the funeral company. After the meal, the skulls of the
slaughtered reindeer are fixed upon a pole, their harness is hung on
the pole or on a tree, the bells they have worn on this, as on all
solemn occasions, are hung on the top of the coffin itself, the sledge
is broken to pieces and thrown beside the grave as its last ornament.
Then the company travels homewards. Mourning is now silenced, and the
daily round of life begins again.
But in the shades of night the ghost of the dead, equipped with his
ghostly tools, begins his mysterious spirit-life. What he did while he
walked among the living, he continues to do. Invisible to all he leads
his reindeer to pasture, guides his boat through the waves, buckles
on his snow-shoes, draws his bow, spreads his net, shoots the ghosts
of former game, catches the ghosts of former fishes. During night he
visits the tshum of his wife and children, causing them joy or sorrow.
His reward is to be able to show beneficence to his own flesh and
blood; his punishment, to be obliged continually to do them injury.
Such in outline is the religion of the Ostiaks, whom the Greek
Catholics despise as heathen. But a just estimate of these honest
people, with their child-like nature, inclines us rather to wish that
they may ever remain heathen, or at least may never be other than they
are.
THE NOMAD HERDSMEN AND HERDS OF THE STEPPES.
Though the steppe of Central Asia is really rich, and may even seem gay
to one who visits it in spring, and though it contains much fruitful
land, it is nevertheless only its most favoured portions which admit of
a settled life, of a continued residence on any one particular spot.
Constant wandering, coming and going, appearing and disappearing,
is the lot of all the children of the steppe, men and animals alike.
Certain portions submit to the labours of the husbandman; in others,
towns and villages may be established, but the steppe as a whole must
for ever remain the possession of the nomadic herdsman, who knows how
to adapt himself to all its conditions of life.