escape the attentive ears of the mothers. A loud and simultaneous call
from every throat is the answer; all the maternal longing, increased to
the utmost by the long waiting, is condensed in a single cry. And from
the distance, down from the hills towards the yurt, the eager lambs and
kids come rushing to find their mothers; the biggest and strongest in
front, the youngest and weakest behind, but all hurrying, running and
leaping, almost enveloped in a cloud of dust; and stretching out into
a longer procession the nearer they approach their goal. An apparently
inextricable confusion arises, old and young, united at last, run
hither and thither, touching each other lightly as they pass, to find
out, by touch as well as by smell, whether they have found their
own or not; both run on if this is not the case, the lambs and kids,
however, in most cases only after they have been made aware of their
mistake by a push or tread from the mother animal. Gradually the dense
crowd dissolves, for by degrees, in a much shorter time than one would
imagine, every mother has found her child, every child its mother, and
the young one now kneels down under its parent, eagerly drawing from
the udder what milk remains. And if the bleating still continues, the
sounds are now indicative only of the liveliest satisfaction.
But this state of mutual delight does not last long. The udders,
already milked, are quickly exhausted, and, in spite of all the thrusts
of the suckling, the fountain will flow no longer. But mother and young
still enjoy the pleasure of being together. The mixed flock spreads
out in all directions, the complaisant mother following the lively
youngster as it climbs the nearest height after the manner of its kind,
or looking contentedly on when a little kid tries its strength in
playful combat with another of its own age. The whole space round the
yurt is picturesquely decorated by the lively flocks, a most charming
picture of peaceful and comfortable pastoral life lies before the eyes
of those who have feeling and understanding to enjoy it.
The women now allow themselves a short rest, take their children in
their laps, and fulfil their maternal duties or desires. But more
work awaits them. A lowing announces the approach of the cows, also
eager for their share of maternal joy, and the industrious women rise
hastily, bring the calves which were tied up beforehand to the cows,
let them suck for a little, wrench them from the udder again, and only
after milking allow the calves full freedom. Meanwhile the shepherds
and dogs have once more collected the sheep and goats, and now old and
young, men and women, boys and girls, unite in the work of catching the
lambs and fastening them in rows, with nooses which are firm without
being too tight, to a cord in front of the yurt, so that the mothers
cannot suckle. As may be supposed, this is not completed without much
bleating and noise, and mingled with it are the cries and wailings of
the children wearying for their mothers, the lowing of cows, and the
barking of dogs. Only the lambs and kids just tied submit quietly to
the inevitable. A few kids still try their sprouting horns in playful
duels, but they soon tire, and lay themselves peaceably down opposite
their quondam rivals. Before the long row is fastened most of the young
ones have tucked in their legs and given themselves up to repose. One
mother-sheep and goat after another sniffs at the little ones till she
has found her own, but returns to the flock when she has satisfied
herself that it is impossible to lie down beside her offspring.
The sun has long since disappeared from the horizon, and twilight has
given place to darkness. It becomes quieter and quieter in the yurt.
Men and animals have sought and found rest; only the dogs begin their
rounds under the guidance of a watchful herdsman; but even they only
bark when there is a real reason for it, when it is necessary to scare
away some prowling wolf or other thief. A cool, but fragrant, dewy
summer night descends upon the steppe, and the refreshing slumber of
this richest and most beautiful season blots out the hardships of
winter from the memory of man and beast alike.
FAMILY AND SOCIAL LIFE AMONG THE KIRGHIZ.
To escape the threatening hand of justice, four thieves fled from
the homes of honest men, and sought refuge and concealment in the
vast steppe. On their flight, they fell in with two beggar-women,
driven out, like themselves, from among their industrious fellows.
The beggar-women found favour in the eyes of the thieves, and they
married them, two thieves taking one woman. A great many children
resulted from these alliances, so contrary to the laws of God and man,
and the children became the parents of a numerous people who spread
over the hitherto uninhabited steppe. But they were faithful to their
origin--thieves like their fathers, beggars like their mothers, and
like both in being without religion or morals. This people is the
Kirghiz, whose name signifies “Robber”.
Thus a religious Tartar poet pictures the origin, and describes the
character of a people closely related to his own, who speak the same
language, and worship the same God according to the precepts of the
same prophet. He speaks thus, solely because the Kirghiz, in matters of
religion, cling less slavishly to words, and think less narrowly than
he does. His words simply illustrate the old and ever new story; the
offence which the poet’s words express is constantly repeated among
every people, the pious lie, which no sect has shrunk from uttering, to
lower the credit of those who think differently from themselves.
But the traveller who sojourns among the Kirghiz, the stranger
who seeks and receives hospitality under the light roof of their
yurt, the scholar who endeavours to investigate their manners and
customs, the official who lives among them as guardian of the law,
or as representative of the State; in a word, everyone who has much
intercourse with them, and is unprejudiced, gives an account of them
widely different from that of the Tartar poet.
There was a time when the Kirghiz in general justified their name,
but this time has long gone by, at least as far as most branches of
the different hordes are concerned. The sentiments, the adventurous
expeditions, and brigand exploits of their fathers may awaken an echo
in the breast of every Kirghiz; but, on the whole, these horsemen of
the steppe have submitted to the laws of their present rulers, live
at peace among themselves, as well as with their neighbours, respect
the rights of property, and do not rob and steal oftener or more than
other people, but rather more rarely and less. Under Russian dominion
the Kirghiz of to-day live in such satisfactory circumstances, that
their fellow-tribesmen beyond the boundaries look with envy on the
Russian subjects. Under the protection of their government they enjoy
quietness and peace, security of property, and religious freedom; they
are almost entirely exempt from military service, and are taxed in a
manner which must be acknowledged as reasonable in every respect; they
have the right of choosing their own district governors, and many other
privileges to the enjoyment of which the Russians themselves have not
as yet attained. Unfortunately, these governors are not so reasonable
as the government, and they hamper, oppress, and overreach the Kirghiz
whenever and in whatever way they can. But, happily, they have not
been able in any way to influence the manners and customs of the people.
The Kirghiz are a race of true horsemen, and can scarcely be thought
of apart from their horses; they grow up with the foal and live with
the horse till death. It is not, indeed, on horseback only that the
Kirghiz is at home, for he understands how to ride every kind of
animal which can bear him at all: but the horse is always, and under
all circumstances, his favourite bearer and most cherished companion.
He transacts all his business on horseback, and the horse is looked
upon as the only steed worthy of a man. Men and women ride in the same
fashion, not a few of the women with the same skill as the men. The
position of the rider is lazy and comfortable, not very pleasing to
the eye of the spectator. The Kirghiz rides in short buckled stirrups,
without a leg-guard, touching the front edge of the saddle with the
knees only, and thus balancing himself freely; trotting, he raises
himself in the stirrups, often standing upright in them, and bending
his head so far forward that it almost touches the horse’s neck; when
the horse walks or gallops, as it usually does, he holds himself
erect. He holds the reins with the whole hand. The knout, which is
held by the loop or knot, he uses with the thumb, index and middle
fingers. Falling out of the saddle is by no means a rare occurrence,
for he takes not the slightest heed of ways and paths, but leaves the
horse to find these for itself. And even if he be of more careful
mood, he will take any path which the beast can tread, with as little
hesitation as he mounts the wildest, most intractable horse. Difficult
paths do not exist for him; in fact, path simply means the distance
across a given area; what may lie between the beginning and the end
of the journey is to him a matter of the utmost indifference. As long
as he is in the saddle he expects incredible things of his steed,
and gallops uphill or downhill, over firm ground or through bog,
morass, or water; without giddiness or any of the fear which seizes
him when afoot, he climbs precipices which any other rider would deem
impassable, and looks calmly down from the saddle into the abyss by
the side of the goat-track, which he calls a road, where even the most
expert mountaineer would be unable to repress a shudder. When he has
dismounted, he acts upon all the rules deduced from long experience
for the care of an over-strained horse, and is as careful of it as he
had previously been inconsiderate. On festive occasions the Kirghiz
performs feats of horsemanship for the amusement of the spectators,
who are never awanting; he raises himself erect in the stirrups, which
are crossed over the saddle, and springs from them without falling,
he holds fast to the saddle or stirrups with his hands, and stretches
his legs into the air, or hangs from one side of the saddle, and
attempts to pick up some object from the ground, but he does not seem
to practise the military sports of his Turkish relatives. Racing is to
him the greatest of all pleasures, and every festival is celebrated by
a race.
To the race, which is called “Baika”, only the finest horses, and of
these only amblers are usually admitted. The distances to be traversed
are always considerable,--never less than twenty, and frequently forty
kilometres: the riders make for a certain point in the steppe, such
as a hillock, or a burial-place, and then return as they went. Boys
of seven, eight, or at most ten years of age, sit in the saddle, and
guide the horses with remarkable skill. The spectators ride slowly to
meet the returning horses, give help, called “guturma”, to the steed
which seems to have most chance of winning, by taking off the little
rider, seizing reins, stirrups, mane, and tail, and leading, or rather
dragging it to the goal between fresh horses. The prizes raced for
consist of various things, but are always reckoned as equivalent to
so many horses. Two or three thousand silver roubles are frequently
offered as the first prize: among the richer families the stakes are
one hundred horses or their equivalent. Young girls, too, are sometimes
offered as prizes, the winner of one being allowed to marry her without
making the usual payment to her family.
While the race-horses are on their way, the men often pass the time
by exercising their own physical powers. Two men divest themselves
of their outer garments, baring the shoulders and upper parts of the
body, and begin to wrestle. The mode of attack varies. The combatants
seize one another, bend towards one another, turn about in a circle,
each always watching the other carefully, and seeking to parry every
effort, real or feigned, till suddenly one of them exerts his full
strength, and the other, if he has not foreseen this, is thrown to the
ground. Others begin the attack more impetuously, but meet with such
strenuous resistance that the struggle lasts a long time before one
succeeds in vanquishing his opponent. The spectators encourage them,
praise and blame, cheer and scoff, betting among themselves the while,
and becoming more and more excited as the balance inclines to one side
or the other. At length, one lies on the ground, laughed at by the
whole company, ashamed and humiliated, in his secret heart probably
embittered. Cries from every throat fill the air, pieces of cloth,
perhaps only rags of cotton, are torn up and distributed to balance
accounts; reproaches mingle with shouts of applause, and the match is
over, unless the vanquished one suddenly seeks his revenge, and attacks
his Opponent once more. A wrestling match never comes to an end without
noise, screaming, and wrangling, but actual fighting seldom takes place.
[Illustration: Fig. 71.--Hunting the Wolf with the Golden Eagle.]
Hunting must be reckoned among the equestrian sports of the Kirghiz.
When a sportsman gets on the track Of a wolf, he follows it with such
eagerness and persistence that he takes little heed though the cold,
doubly felt when riding quickly, should seriously imperil him, that is,
if his face and hands should become frozen; for, if his horse holds
out, he almost certainly succeeds at length in throwing his heavy club
at his victim’s head. But his favourite mode of hunting is with eagles
and greyhounds. Like his forefathers, he understands how to tame and
carry the golden eagle, and with the bird sitting on his thickly-gloved
hand, which is supported on a wooden rest fastened to the saddle, he
ascends some hillock from which he can command a wide view. Meanwhile,
his companions beat the surrounding steppe for game. The game may be
wolf or fox, unless the eagle is not yet thoroughly trained, in which
case it is either a marmot or a fox. No very special training of the
eagle is required; it is only necessary that it be taken young from the
nest, that it be always fed by the sportsman himself, and that it be
taught to return to its master at his call: inherited habit does the
rest. As soon as the beaters have started a fox, the huntsman unhoods
and unchains his bird, and lets it fly. The eagle spreads its wings,
begins to circle, and rises in a spiral higher and higher, spies the
hard-pressed fox, flies after him, descends obliquely upon him with
half-closed wings, and strikes its outspread talons into its victim’s
body. The fox turns round in a fury, and attempts to seize his foe
with his sharp teeth; if he succeeds, the eagle is lost. But almost
all these birds of prey, which are as strong as they are bold, have an
instinctive feeling of such danger, and the skill to avoid it. The very
moment the fox turns, the eagle lets go its hold, and an instant later
its talons are fixed in its quarry’s face. Triumphant acclamations from
its much-loved master, who now draws near, encourage the eagle to hold
fast, and a few minutes later the fox, felled by the huntsman, lies
dying on the ground. Many an eagle has to pay for the boldness of its
first venture with its life; but if the first attempt is successful,
it soon becomes so skilful that it can be flown at a wolf. Though the
attack on the wolf is made in precisely the same manner, the eagle’s
bearing is, from the very beginning, perceptibly more cautious;
the size of the wolf teaches it that it has to do with a much more
dangerous foe. But it learns to vanquish even the wolf, and its fame,
as well as its master’s, spreads abroad among the people, and as its
renown becomes greater its value increases. An eagle which can kill a
fox is worth thirty or forty silver roubles; one which can vanquish a
wolf is valued at twice or three times as much, if, indeed, its master
would sell it at all. It is not possible to hunt with two eagles, as
one would disturb the other; but one alone often enters into the chase
with so much ardour that it makes it very difficult for its master to
help, especially if it will not willingly let go its hold of the quarry
it has seized.
If the Kirghiz who is hunting with an eagle requires to bring all his
powers of horsemanship into play, that is still more necessary when
hunting antelopes with greyhounds. These rather long-haired dogs run
like shot arrows when they have sighted the game, and the rider courses
after them up hill and down dale until he and they have overtaken
the fleet fugitive. If anyone falls on such a ride, he earns only a
half-pitying, half-mocking smile, as the mad hunt rushes past him.
[Illustration: Fig. 72.--Kirghiz in pursuit of Wild Sheep.]
Even when driving game among the mountains, the Kirghiz do not dismount
from their horses. It was a magnificent sight to see the horsemen who
were driving wild sheep for our guns in the Arkat mountains begin their
break-neck ride. Here and there on the highest points, as well as in
the hollows, valleys, and ravines between them, one horseman after
another showed up clearly against the clouds, and was lost to view
again between masses of rock, to appear shortly afterwards upon the
stony slopes. None dismounted, none hesitated an instant to choose his
path. It was easier for them to ride among the mountains than to walk.
The sportsman’s endurance is on a par with his boldness. Not only on
horseback, but while stalking and lying in wait for his game, he shows
marvellous perseverance. That he follows a trail for several days is
not remarkable, when we take his love of riding into account; but with
the matchlock, which he still uses as often as the flintlock, in his
hand, he will creep for five or six hundred yards along the ground like
a stealthy cat, or lie in wait for hours in storm and rain until the
game comes within range of his gun. He never shoots at long range, and
never without resting the barrel of his gun on the fork attached to it,
but he aims with certainty, and knows exactly where to send his bullet.
Though the Kirghiz is thus persistent and untiring as horseman,
sportsman, and herdsman, he is very unwilling to do any other kind of
work. He tills the fields, but in the most careless manner, and never
more than is absolutely imperative. Tilling the soil appears to him as
inglorious as every other employment not connected with his flocks and
herds. He is remarkably skilful in turning water aside for purposes of
irrigation, has a highly-developed sense of locality, and can mark out
his drains without using a surveyor’s table or water-level. But it is
only in his boyhood that he takes up such work with any willingness;
after he has attained to possessions of his own he never touches pick
or shovel again. Still less does he like to work at any trade. He knows
how to prepare leather, to fashion it into all kinds of straps and
saddlery, and to decorate these very tastefully with iron or silver
work, and he can even make knives and weapons, but when he does such
work, it is always unwillingly and without taking any pleasure in it.
Yet he is by no means a lazy or careless workman, but is diligent and
conscientious, and whoever has succeeded in gaining his skilful hand
has seldom reason to be dissatisfied with it.
He rates mental work much more highly than physical. His eager, active
mind demands occupation, and thus he likes not only light conversation,
but serious discussions of all kinds, chiefly, perhaps, because of
the variety they give to his monotonous life. So he amuses himself in
converse with others of his tribe, and he can become a perfect bore
to a stranger with his glibness of speech, which often degenerates
to mere chatter. With this love of talking is closely connected a
thirst for knowledge, which in the same way often degenerates into
inquisitiveness, for the “red tongue” is never allowed a holiday.
Whatever the wind blows over the steppe the listening ear of the
Kirghiz picks up and the “red tongue” clothes in words. If anything is
discussed which the Kirghiz understands or does not understand, if any
conversation takes place in a language with which he is acquainted,
he has no hesitation in making his way to the yurt and, invited or
otherwise, pressing his ear to its walls, so as to lose no syllable. To
keep to himself an occurrence which differs from the everyday routine
by a hair’s-breadth, an event of any kind, a piece of information, or
a secret, is to the Kirghiz an utter impossibility. Does the noble
horse keep silence when he sees anything which excites his interest,
or the sheep and the goat when they meet with their fellows? Does the
lark soar up from its nest on the steppe in silence? And shall the
lord of the steppe be more silent than they? Never! “Speak on, red
tongue, while thou hast life, for after death thou shalt be still.” An
uninterrupted stream of speech flows from the lips of every Kirghiz.
Two men never ride silently together, even though their journey lasts
for days. The whole time they find something to talk about, some
communication to make to each other. Usually it does not nearly satisfy
them to ride in pairs; three or four of them ride abreast wherever the
path admits of it. This way of riding is so deeply rooted in them that
the horses press close together of their own accord, and a European is
obliged to rein them in to prevent their doing so. In a yurt filled
with Kirghiz there is a buzzing like that about a bee-hive, for
everyone wishes to speak, and does everything he can to gain a hearing.
One good result of this love of talking, so unusual among men, is
the command of language which they acquire. In this they seem all
alike, rich and poor, high and low, educated and uneducated. Their
rich, sonorous, but rather hard language, though only a dialect of the
Tartar, is remarkably expressive. Even a foreigner who is unacquainted
with it can feel that every word is distinctly pronounced, every
syllable correctly accented, so that one can almost make out the sense
from the sound. Their way of speaking is very sprightly, the cadence
of each phrase corresponding to its meaning, and the pauses correctly
observed, so that a conversation sounds somewhat broken, though the
flow of speech is never arrested for a moment. An expression of face
which speaks for itself, and very lively gestures, add to the effect
of their speech. If the subject be particularly interesting, their
vivacity is apt to increase to such a pitch of excitement that one
begins to fear that from words they will go on to blows. But even the
most heated wordy strife invariably ends in quietness and peace.
It will be readily understood that the bard holds a prominent place
among such a people. Everyone who distinguishes himself above his
fellows by his fluency of speech gains respect and honour. The presence
of a singer who can improvise is indispensable to every festival. His
creative power need not be of a very high order; but his words must
flow without interruption and in a definite and familiar metre to gain
him the reputation of a poet. But every Kirghiz bard has at his command
a store of poetic ideas which is by no means scanty, and to clothe
these ideas in words is easy enough to him. The nomadic pastoral life,
though on the whole monotonous, has its charms, and certain chords only
require to be struck to give keen pleasure to every hearer. Numerous
sagas and legends, which live in the minds of all, yield abundant
material for filling up blanks; and thus the bard’s narrative flows on
like a calm stream whose springs never dry up: it is only necessary
to keep it in the proper metre to make him a poet for ever. Even this
is made easy to him; for every bard accompanies his recitative on the
three-stringed Kirghiz zither, and as he links on each measure to the
next by playing on this, he can make the interlude last until the next
verse has taken shape in his mind. The speed and skill with which this
is done determines his rank as a poet. But if a woman is inspired to
poetry she is sure of universal admiration, and if she consents to sing
in competition with a man, the enthusiastic listeners extol her above
all others of her sex.