always large but not always beautiful, though the difference between
it and the hideous curs to be met with elsewhere in Siberia and
Turkestan is very marked and greatly in its favour. The head is long
but rather heavy, the limbs more like those of a greyhound than a
sheep-dog, the hair long and woolly, the colouring very varied.
Watchful and courageous in the highest degree, he is a worthy adversary
of the wolf, an efficient and careful protector of the weaker herds,
a suspicious sentinel towards strangers, the faithful slave of his
master, an unsociable recluse as far as grown-up people are concerned,
but the willing playmate of the children. He has many of the virtues
of his race, and is therefore to be found in every yurt or at least in
every aul.
The whole life of the Kirghiz centres in his herds,--making use of
them and their products, and to that end tending them carefully. The
former is the chief occupation of the women, the latter the most
important work of the men. With the exception of the bones, which
are thrown away unheeded, every portion of the body of every one of
their animals is used, just as every female among the live stock is
milked as long as possible. The quantity of vegetable food used by the
Kirghiz is extremely small; milk and meat form his chief diet in all
circumstances, and vegetable products are merely accessory. Bread,
in the real sense of the word, he scarcely uses at all, and even the
little lumps of dough which may be reckoned as such, are sodden in
fat, not baked. Flour and rice,--the latter a frequent dish only among
the rich,--also serve to give variety to the everlasting monotony of
milk and meat dishes. Little wonder then that death from starvation
threatens the Kirghiz, indeed too often overtakes him, when general
murrain breaks out among his beasts in the midst of the steppe.
The wealthier people keep the milk of sheep and goats separate from
that of cows, and of mares and camels; poor people mix all the milk in
one vessel, and thus get only the effect of sheep’s milk, while the
rich secure some differentiation of palatal pleasure. From the milk of
sheep and goats, which is invariably milked into the same vessel and
collected in the same leathern bottle, they prepare not only various
dishes, which are eaten at once with or without flour, but also butter,
small, sour or bitter, gritty cheeses, most distasteful to a European
palate, and a yellow curd very agreeable even to our taste, which,
like the cheese, is stored up for use in winter, when it is dissolved
in water to make a sort of soup. Cow’s milk, on the other hand, they
use chiefly as sour milk, and only rarely make into curds, cheese, or
butter, while that of mares and camels is used for making the koumiss
so often described. This is a milk-wine made by allowing milk to
ferment for four days, and by constantly shaking and beating it. It
is much appreciated, and indeed justly prized among the Kirghiz, and
the well-to-do among them often drink it to intoxication on festive
occasions.
During summer even the wealthier Kirghiz live almost entirely on milk
in various forms, for they only kill a member of their herd for a
festival or on some specially important occasion. When winter sets in,
however, sheep and goats, horses and cattle, even camels are killed.
The flesh of the horse, especially of the mare, is looked on as the
noblest, that of cattle as the worst and poorest food. The flesh of
sheep ranks next to horse flesh; camel flesh is good for the soul’s
health; goat flesh is a mark of poverty, or is set before a guest in
expression of contempt. Of the slaughtered horse the loins are most
highly prized, and the breast of the sheep. A dainty of the first order
is the belly fat of a young horse; this is therefore salted, made
into smoked sausages, and set before the honoured guest with as much
ceremony as the koumiss itself.
The Kirghiz turns to profit not only the edible portions but every
usable part of the animals he rears. From the wool of the sheep he
prepares the indispensable felt; he weaves and spins the hair of the
camel, and the mother lays her new-born babe in its soft down-like
under wool. The long hair of the goat is made into fringes for rugs
and cloths, or into tassels or cords; the short woolly hair is spun
and woven into bands for the yurt, and the hair of the horse’s mane
and tail is plaited into much-prized leading-reins or cords for the
yurt. Sheep-skin furnishes the ordinary winter fur coat; the skins of
lambs and kids make valuable fur-trimmings; the flocks of wool rubbed
off make good wadding for lining other garments, and the skins of all
the animals supply leather of different kinds. The Kirghiz barters
the superfluous or little-prized fat of his beasts, and some of his
sheep, cattle, and horses for various other commodities of the general
market; with the proceeds of the sale of his herds he pays his taxes
and tributes, buys the uncoined silver with which he loves to make a
display, the iron which he works, the rugs, garments, and silk stuffs
with which he decks his person and his yurt. The herds are and must
remain the sole support and source of wealth of the nomadic herdsman;
the little land which he occasionally ploughs, sows, waters, and reaps
is hardly worth taking into account.
It is not their own humour, but the necessity of satisfying the
requirements of their stock, that regulates the roamings and
sojournings of the Kirghiz, that compels them to wander this way to-day
and that to-morrow, to rest for a little in one place, and shortly
afterwards to leave it for another. The journeyings of these people are
therefore by no means aimless wanderings about the vast steppe, but
carefully-considered changes of residence determined by the season, and
by the species of animal requiring fresh pasture. The steppe allows no
planless roaming either in summer or winter, autumn or spring; aimless
roving would expose the herds in winter to the most terrible storms,
in summer to the danger of drought; in spring there would probably be
an embarrassing superfluity of fodder, and by autumn the supply would
have unpleasantly diminished. So the Kirghiz begins his journey from
the low-lying plains, ascends slowly to the higher ground and even to
the mountains, then moves slowly back to the low grounds again. But the
various herds have different needs: sheep and goats like hard, fragrant
plants such as are to be found on the salt steppe; horses prefer the
mountain plants, especially those growing among masses of rock, while
the favourite grazing-ground of cattle is soft meadow-land, and camels,
besides eating the hard salt steppe plants, appear to look upon thorns
and thistles as an indispensable part of their food. The well-to-do,
who can group the different animals in separate herds, let each herd
wander and feed by itself, and only the poorer people move from one
place to another with all their stock together. Finally, the movements
of one party are influenced by those of another. There are, indeed,
no landmarks nor boundary stones, but even in the open steppe
rights of possession and definite boundaries are recognized by ancient
agreement; every horde, every branch of a horde, every community, the
members of every aul, claim a right to the land traversed by their
forefathers, and suffer no strange herd or herdsman to encroach on it,
but take to arms and wage bloody warfare with every intruder, even
with other members of the same tribe. This explains the fact that the
nomad herdsman not only travels along definite routes, but restricts
himself to a strictly limited range. His path may occasionally cross
that of another herdsman, but it is never the same, for each respects
the rights of the other, and is prevented by the rest of his tribe from
encroaching upon them.
[Illustration: Fig. 69.--Kirghiz and their Herds on the March in the
Mountains.]
“Settled”, in our sense of the word, the Kirghiz never is, unless in
the grave, but he is not without a home. In the wide sense, his home
is the district through which he travels, in most cases the basin and
valley of a small stream or brook, or, in a more restricted sense, his
winter camping-ground from which he sets forth on his journeys, and to
which he always returns. In the neighbourhood of this camping-ground
rest nearly all, if not all his dead; here he may even have a fixed
dwelling; hither the government sends its messengers to collect his
taxes or appraise his possessions and count the members of his family
and of his herds; here he spends, if not the happiest, at least the
largest part of his life; here, gay and careless as he usually is,
he passes through his severest and most serious trials. The exact
locality of the winter dwelling may vary, but the camping-ground does
not. Indispensable conditions are, that it be as much as possible
protected from the cold, deadly, north and east winds, that the yurt
can be erected on a sunny spot, that fixed houses may be built without
much difficulty, that the necessary supply of water be certain,
and that sufficient pasturage be available within easy distance.
These conditions are best fulfilled by the valley of a river whose
tributaries have cut deeply into the surrounding country, where the
grass does not dry up in summer, so that hay can be cut at the proper
season and yet enough food be left for the herds in winter, and where,
in addition to the dung used for fire-lighting, fuel may be procured
from the willow-bushes and black poplars on the river-bank. Other
localities are only selected when it is a question of taking advantage
of some place, such as the salt steppe, which has to be avoided in
summer because it lacks water, that being supplied in sufficient
abundance for man and beast as soon as snow has fallen. Though the
winter dwelling may be a fixed one, it is always truly miserable, a
musty, damp, dark hut, so lightly built that the inmates depend on
the snow for thickening the walls and roof, and protecting them from
storms. These walls are occasionally made of piled-up tree-trunks,
oftener of rough stones, but most frequently of plaited willows or
bundles of reeds. The roof and thatch are always of reeds. Close beside
the dwelling-house is a similarly-constructed stable for the young
animals, and at some distance there is a shelter for the rest of the
herds.
In the beginning of winter the Kirghiz moves into such a winter
dwelling, unless, as is perhaps usually the case, he prefers the much
more comfortable yurt. The fuel for either has been long ago prepared,
for in the preceding spring he, or rather his wife, upon whom falls
all the heavier and more disagreeable work, mixed the dung of the herd
animals with straw, and worked it into square cakes, which were then
piled in heaps and dried in the sun. All the grass in the immediate
neighbourhood has been carefully spared, so that the herds may graze as
near the dwelling as possible; here, too, the hay which has been mown
at a distance has been collected. If the winter be a good one, that
is, if not much snow falls, the herds find food enough, but if it be
severe, it often renders all precautions futile, and levies a toll on
his herds heavier than is counterbalanced by the spring increase. Thus,
in a good winter, cheerfulness prevails even in the dark hut of the
wandering herdsman, but in a severe one, which reduces his beasts to
walking skeletons, black care and grief visit even the pleasant yurt.
In hut and yurt alike there is either comfort and plenty or bitter want
during that much-dreaded season of the year.
It is not till towards the end of April, in many years not before the
end of May, that the herdsman leaves his winter camp and begins to
travel. The horses, tended by special herdsmen, move on in advance,
so as not to annoy the smaller animals. It is not the lively foals,
born, like the kids, a few weeks before, that cause so much anxiety;
it is the young stallions and mares which are just reaching maturity.
The foals spring about the whole herd in wanton playfulness, but they
do not go far from the mother mares, who are quietly grazing, and
only look up at them now and again. The young stallions and mares, on
the other hand, cause continual uneasiness, and call for the greatest
watchfulness on the part of the herdsmen, whose numbers are doubled
for the time. Now the young males fight with the old, dignified, and
domineering leader of the herd; now the young females throng about the
sire till he is compelled to drive them away with bites; now one or
another of them attempts to escape, and rushes, with head against the
wind and dilated nostrils, out into the steppe. The herdsman at once
urges the horse he is riding to a gallop, and pursues the fugitive in
mad haste up hill and down dale; in his right hand he holds the long
herdsman’s crook, with a noose attached to one end; nearer and nearer
he presses on the young mare. The dreaded lasso is thrown, and is
about to descend on her head, when she suddenly swerves to one side,
and throwing her hind-legs into the air, as if teasing or mocking her
pursuer, she is off again with renewed speed, and the wild chase begins
anew, and goes on, until at length the herdsman succeeds in catching
her, and leading her slowly back to the herd. Entertaining though this
spectacle may be for the unconcerned spectator, perhaps even for the
herdsman himself, such mad hunts would disturb the quiet and regular
progress of the smaller animals, and therefore the owner does not let
his different herds travel together, if it can be avoided. Nor could
sheep and goats cover such distances as the horses do, for not only are
they much enfeebled by the hardships of winter, but the lambs and kids
are not yet strong enough. Separation of the herds is therefore doubly
necessary.
The Kirghiz, when journeying with his smaller animals, at first only
traverses a short distance, a so-called “sheep’s journey” each day, and
he stops wherever there is good pasture, as long as his flocks graze
with avidity. On the journey the flock of sheep, with its shepherd
riding on an ox, leads the way. The sheep proceed at a tolerably
quick pace, now crowding close together, now scattering widely, here
and there stopping their march to enjoy to the full some specially
dainty plant, but eating, or at least nibbling, all the time, and the
herdsman’s steed also grazes uninterruptedly. The flock of ewes and
mother-goats follows that of the lambs and kids, but at such a distance
that they see and hear nothing of each other. The flock of wethers, if
such still exists, or has just been formed, takes a different route.
After all the flocks and herds have set out, the women take down the
yurt, load camels or oxen with it and the few household requisites,
mount their own horses with their children and other members of the
family, and ride slowly after the milk-giving flocks. By mid-day they
overtake them, milk them, and, carrying the milk in leathern bottles,
continue their journey till sundown, when they set up the yurt again.
One day passes like another. When the spring has brought fresh verdure,
they remain for days, later on for weeks, in the same spot, until the
pasturage around is growing scarce; then they move on again. When
advancing spring calls to full life the slumbering insect larvæ, when
swarms innumerable of gnats, flies, gadflies, and other pests fill the
air, they direct their steps, if it be at all possible, towards the
mountains, and climb gradually to the highest plateaus just below the
snow-line. For the shepherd, who gets no assistance from the dogs, it
is a hard enough task to guide the flocks over the plains; but in the
mountains the difficulty of completing his daily “sheep’s journey”
is immense, and it is impossible for him to get over some obstacles
without the aid of other riders. As long as there is a beaten track the
journey goes smoothly on, whether the path winds through flowery plains
or over slopes and precipices. The leading goats survey such places
for a little, as if deliberating, then choosing their path they go on
their way, and the sheep follow them trustfully. But it is a different
matter when, instead of a murmuring brook, a rushing torrent bars the
way, and must be crossed. At sight of the decidedly hostile element
even the bold goats hesitate, ready though they are to adapt themselves
to all circumstances; but the sheep recoil from it in terror, and even
climb the nearest rocks as if to save themselves. In vain the shepherd
rides through the rushing flood; in vain he returns and collects his
flock on the banks. The sheep express their anxiety in loud bleatings,
even the goats bleat hesitatingly, till the shepherd’s patience is
exhausted. For one moment the fateful sling hangs over the head of one
of the sheep; the next, it feels itself caught by the neck, pulled
up to the saddle, and hurled into the seething waters. Now it must
shift for itself. Swimming spasmodically, or rather making a series of
springs, it struggles on from one mass of rock to another, but before
it can gain a footing, it is hurried on by the torrent, and kicks,
flounders, leaps, and swims again, is every now and then carried away
by the flood, but eventually reaches the opposite bank, exhausted more
by terror than by exertion. Trembling in every limb, it satisfies
itself that it is really on dry land again, shakes its dripping fleece,
looks back timidly once more, and then begins to feed greedily to make
up for the discomfort it has suffered. Meanwhile the rest of the flock
have crossed the torrent one after another, either of their own accord
or compulsorily, and when all have been collected again the march is
resumed. In this manner the nomadic herdsman gradually reaches the
mountains. When it begins to grow cold, when perhaps a slight fall of
snow suggests the approach of winter, herdsman and herd turn downwards
again, this time through the shadiest gorges, till the low-lying plain
is reached, and the circle is completed at the winter camping-ground.
This is the regular yearly routine.
All the Kirghiz domestic animals accustom themselves very quickly to
the different districts in which they graze, wherever the place may be.
After having gone to a pasture once or twice, all know the way thither
again, they find it unfailingly without the herdsman, and return of
their own accord to the yurt to be milked. There is certainly a strong
inducement for them to do so, for from May onwards the young of all
milk-yielding animals are kept from their mothers, and yet allowed to
graze in the neighbourhood of the aul, so that longing for their young
is kept alive in the maternal hearts. Thus milking can always take
place at the same hour, and the mistress of the yurt can regulate her
work and portion out her day.
[Illustration: Fig. 70.--Kirghiz Aul, or Group of Tents.]
With the exception of the mares, which are always milked by men, and
often require the attention of at least two, and not rarely of three
during the process, all the milking is done by the women. Early in
the morning the calves, lambs, and kids are allowed to suck a little
under strict supervision, and are then separated from the mothers, old
and young being driven to their respective pastures. At mid-day the
mothers, without the young, are brought to the yurt to be milked, and
again in the evening the mothers are brought in before the young for
the same purpose. With the help of the dogs, which render no other
service, the whole flock is gathered into a limited space, and the
work begins. The mistress and servants of a yurt, or those who live
together as neighbours in an aul, appear with their milk vessels,
and dexterously seizing one sheep after another, drag it to a rope
stretched between poles, pass a sling formed by the rope itself round
the neck of each, and thus force the animals to remain standing in rows
with the heads turned inwards, the udders outwards. In this manner
thirty or forty head of sheep and goats are fastened together in a few
minutes, and the so-called “kögön” is formed. Taught by experience,
the animals stand perfectly still as soon as they feel the string,
and submit passively to all that follows. The women, sitting opposite
each other, begin at one end, or if there are many sheep, at both
ends of the double row, seize the short teats between forefinger and
thumb, and exhaust the milk with rapid pulls. If it does not flow
freely they shake the udder with a blow from the left hand, exactly as
the sucking young ones do, and only when even by this means nothing
more can be obtained do they proceed to the next sheep. The men of
the yurt or aul, who may perhaps have helped to catch and fasten the
sheep and goats, sit about in all sorts of positions, impossible and
almost inconceivable to us, and allow their “red tongue” the fullest
freedom. Some of the little boys make their first venture at riding on
the sheep, unless they prefer the shoulders of their mothers for that
purpose. The latter are as little distracted by these doings of their
offspring as by any other little incidents. Whether they sit on the dry
ground or in fresh sheep’s dung, whether some of that falls into their
poplar-wood vessels, affects them little, for the vessel is in any
case as dirty as the hand which milks; and though sheep’s dung may be
unclean in our eyes it is not so in those of the Kirghiz, who believe
in the Koran. At length the milking is at an end and the animals, which
have been tethered all this time and have been ruminating for want of
better employment, can be released; a quick pull at one end of the
cord, all the slings are undone, and the sheep and goats are free.
A general, simultaneous bleating is the first expression of their
delight in their newly-recovered freedom; a short, quickly-repeated
shaking throws off the last recollections of their undignified
servitude; and then they run off as quickly as possible, in the plains
as far away from the yurt as the herdsman allows, in the mountainous
districts towards the hills, as if they could only there breathe the
air of freedom. In reality they are longing to meet their young ones as
soon as possible. All day long they have been away from them, but now,
according to all their experience, the little ones must appear. The
sheep run about bleating continuously, and even the intelligent goats
look longingly all around as if they wished to find out whether the
expected flock is already on the way, or at least whether it is visible
in the far distance. The bleating grows louder and louder, for every
newly-released row excites all the sheep assembled in the neighbourhood
of the aul; and the impatience of the mothers, which is increasing
every minute, finds vent in piteous, almost moaning bleatings. The
longer the suspense lasts the more restless do the mothers become.
Aimlessly they wander hither and thither, sniff at every blade of grass
on the way, but scarcely crop any, lift their heads expectantly and
joyously, let them droop again in disappointed sadness, bleat, and
bleat again. The restlessness increases almost to frenzy, the bleating
becomes a perfect bellowing.