CHAPTER XIV

Ashiho

As we journeyed northward once more the cold steadily increased, and a

biting wind found its way even into the railway carriages. At Kharbin a

perfect blizzard had been blowing the previous day, and as it happened

to be the Russian Easter, banks were closed and the tickets for the

Russian State express train were not to be purchased. We discovered that

the train service was all to be changed the next day, May 1st, and no

time-tables were obtainable. The British Consul kindly promised to get

our tickets on the Monday, and ascertained that we could join the express

at Ashiho, a few stations down the Vladivostock line, where we were going

to spend the week end.

We reached Ashiho about 9 o’clock, and set out for our destination in a

droshky. It was a most perilous drive in the dark, for the roads—or what

pass muster as roads—were in the worst possible condition; the spring

thaw had set in, and the surface of the ground was a hopeless quagmire

destined to last until there should be sufficient sunshine to dry it, for

the wet was unable to penetrate the still frozen earth. Our friends at

Hulan had set out that morning to meet us at Kharbin. After a long weary

walk in a snowstorm they found the Kharbin steamer on the Sungari River

crowded with passengers. An hour’s wait in a piercing wind was followed

by the information that it was quite uncertain whether the boat would

go at all that day, so they gave it up in despair and returned home.

Practically speaking all traffic is stopped on the country roads at this

time of the year, and those who walk must be prepared to wade knee deep

in black mud to reach their destination. We had no catastrophe during our

half-hour’s drive, but it was more by good luck than anything else.

Ashiho is rather a dull Chinese town with the usual Russian settlement

round the railway station, which is about half a mile outside the gates.

The Russians have insisted on the town being lighted at nights, but

there is not more than enough light to show the darkness. A red light on

the top of a lofty pole is the sign of public baths, which seemed to be

the scene of much activity. The Russian droshky, with Chinese drivers,

is apparently quite an institution there, but one wonders how they can

make a living in such a locality. The town boasts a sugar factory, but

owing to a bad beetroot season it was closed. A small community of Scotch

missionaries is working there, and when they have got a new hospital and

better premises, there is every prospect of greater growth in the work.

The lady doctor, though only recently from home, and still in the first

stages of learning the language, had over sixty patients waiting to see

her, and the people seem more willing here than elsewhere to send for her

in midwifery cases. As she is the only doctor, she has one day a week for

men patients. The missionary premises are deplorable; if only some of the

home committee could have enjoyed our quarters and heard the walls which

enclose the compound falling down during the night, they would see the

need for haste in building new ones. The girls’ school was being carried

on under difficulties that would daunt any but the most resolute, but

the workers are Scotch, and have learnt to laugh at difficulties. Less

than two years ago one of the ladies was itinerating in the country,

accompanied by a Biblewoman, when she was suddenly attacked by a party of

mounted brigands. They treated her with considerable roughness, robbing

not only her but also the Biblewoman and the carter of all that they

considered worth stealing—money, watches, clothes, and food. Amongst

other things they took her eiderdown—for this took place in the cold

weather—but the Biblewoman had the happy inspiration to tell the robbers

that it only contained feathers (which they utterly scorned), so they

threw it away. They only left her _one cent_ in money (evidently they had

a sense of humour), and decamped somewhat hurriedly on seeing a party of

horsemen appear in the distance, whom they took for soldiers.

There is plenty of ground belonging to the mission, but, as usual, funds

for building are not forthcoming. It seems a pity that the home churches

should keep on sending out workers without the requisite equipment to

carry on their work. At home one frequently hears of the luxury in

which missionaries live, but in my fairly considerable experience of

mission houses, I have _never_ met a single one where this is the case,

and rarely (except in the case of American missions) have I been where

the work has not been seriously hindered for the lack of funds. Most

missionaries are driven by the necessities of their work to eke out by

contributions from their own meagre salaries the insufficient funds

provided from home. Many are consequently unable to afford to have

newspapers and other literature sent out regularly, and the thoughtless

kindness of their supporters does not supply them with anything beyond

religious periodicals and books. The postage of papers and books is only

the same as at home, and parcels weighing not more than 11 lb. can now

be sent to China by post for the small sum of 2s. 11d., so there is no

reason why the missionary’s life should not be occasionally brightened by

a judicious present from the home country.

The one drawback to the position of the mission premises at Ashiho is

that they are so near the wall beside the East gate, outside which is

the public execution ground, and the gruesome procession to it passes

alongside the mission houses. Shortly before our visit there had been

executions twice in one week—the first time two men, and the second time

four men were killed by strangulation.

[Illustration: MOHAMMEDAN MOSQUE]

Near the mission also there is a pretty Mohammedan mosque, built

exactly like a Buddhist or Taoist temple, which provides schools for

boys and girls. The girls’ school is a recent institution, probably in

imitation of the mission one, and is evidently at all events a numerical

success, for a good number of girls filed out on Sunday afternoon as

we happened to be passing. The type of face of many of the boys struck

us as particularly Semitic, and the Chinese here habitually call them

Jews. There is a large proportion of butchers among the Mohammedans, as

is usually the case in China, and this is a boon to Europeans, for it

is only the Mohammedans who kill beef, and they are particular about

the healthiness of the beasts. The Moslems in China do not attempt to

proselytise openly, and they adhere less rigidly than elsewhere to their

religious observances. They conform outwardly as much as possible to

Chinese customs in order to escape notice, but they are no negligible

quantity among the myriads of that land, for they number at least twenty

millions. The Mohammedans entered China in A.D. 755 by the regular trade

route through Central Asia, and even earlier (in 628) according to

Chinese Mohammedan tradition they are said to have sent the prophet’s

uncle as envoy to the Chinese court. The proselytising of the Chinese

was as peaceful as that of the Indians was the reverse. It was mainly

achieved by Moslem traders and artisans, following in the wake of Genghiz

Khan and Kubla Khan’s conquests. They married Chinese women, and their

children all became Moslems; they adopted large numbers of other children

in famine times in order to bring them up in the Faith, and thus they

have steadily but unobtrusively grown in numbers.

In past times there have been terrible massacres of the Mohammedans by

the Chinese whenever they have made any attempt to withstand Chinese

customs, which is probably the reason one hears so little of them

nowadays, but they show a quiet tenacity in sticking to their religion,

which is characteristic of Mohammedanism in every land. It was in a vain

endeavour to reach them that the great Jesuit missionary, Francis Xavier,

died off the coast of China. Up to the present time there has been no

special mission work amongst the Mohammedans in China.

My sketch of the Mohammedan mosque at Ashiho was done under considerable

difficulties, for the boys had just come out of school, and would jostle

up and down, and round about me on the mound of earth where I was

sitting, raising such a dust that at last I was driven defeated from the

field. Though it was the first of May the scene was a winter one, and we

longed and longed for spring to arrive.

On sending to the station to inquire what time our train left in the

evening, they declared there was no train at all, and that the date of

the weekly express from Vladivostock had been changed from Monday to

Sunday. We felt so convinced that this was a mistake, having inquired

about it at Kharbin only two days previously, that we went down to the

station in good time for the usual 9 o’clock train, and were rewarded by

learning that the hour and not the date of the train had been altered,

and that it would pass through Ashiho at 10 o’clock. After waiting for

an hour in the restaurant, where a party of the attendants were playing

cards, the ticket office was opened, but they absolutely refused to sell

tickets to us, saying that the express only stopped for half a minute,

and that we could not get into it. We vainly protested that having no

registered luggage we would take our chance of getting into the train,

and that we _must_ go by it, as we had the long journey to Irkutsk

before us. The reiteration of this fact for about five minutes without

stopping at last began to tell, and the official said he must see what

small luggage we had. After due inspection he agreed to let us have

tickets, but we had to pay for them from a point about fifty miles up

the line, which meant twenty-one roubles instead of the four and a half

we had paid on coming. The next difficulty was that the ticket office

contained no change and seemed unable to get any, so we had to borrow the

requisite amount from our friends. When the train did arrive each of our

friends stood ready holding an article of luggage ready to hurl it into

the corridor, and of course there was no difficulty in getting both our

belongings and ourselves into it. We were soon comfortably established in

the coupé which we were to occupy for the next two days, that is, until

we should reach Irkutsk, where all passengers have to change.

At Kharbin there was a hopeless scrimmage for places, as those booked

in advance for passengers from the south had all been appropriated by a

large party of Americans at Vladivostock, and the ladies had discreetly

retired to bed. It is always asserted that there is plenty of room on the

Russian State Express in contradistinction to the International Sleeping

Car, and that it is unnecessary to book places in advance. Evidently

this was a fallacy, for every berth was full, and it was only after long

and acrimonious arguing that the officials agreed to put on an extra

carriage, and a very dirty one it proved to be. Great dissatisfaction was

caused by this arrangement, and we were over an hour late in starting. We

had been frequently assured that we should find the State Express more

comfortable than the International, but such is by no means the case. The

only point in which it excels is in the smoothness of running, in every

other respect it is inferior. The carriages are smaller, there is no

dressing-room in the first-class coupés, there are no second-class coupés

(only carriages for four people), the washing basins would not hold

water, there was no soap or towel, the restaurant car was far too small,

and the meals were not to the taste of any of the passengers. A piano in

the restaurant does not compensate for such deficiencies.

PART III

The Face of Russian Turkestan

CHAPTER XV

Through Siberia

The railway from Kharbin passes through Manchuria in a north-westerly

direction till it comes to the town of that name, where the customs

examination takes place before entering Russian territory. In a magazine

article recently written by a French lady, she complains of having been

examined at four different places on the line, and in a very thorough

manner, the sleeves of coats being ripped open, and the bedding of the

sleeping car being pulled to pieces, but we saw nothing of this sort,

and I think there must have been some suspicion on the part of the

police. Registered luggage is a much more serious affair, and endless

were the stories we heard from fellow-passengers of the losses they had

sustained—one passenger had waited a whole week for his at Moscow. For

those who like ourselves take all their luggage in the railway carriage,

the examination was a mere farce, consisting of the verbal inquiry,

“Have you any spirits, tobacco, or playing cards?” to which is sometimes

added a cursory examination of the bedding to see if any dutiable article

has been concealed there.

It is a great convenience that passengers can take so much luggage in the

carriage without inconvenience. In the Russian State Express there is not

nearly so much accommodation as in the International Sleeping Cars, where

there is a large recess over the door, extending above the corridor,

in which there was ample room for two suit cases and two bags of

bedding. Besides this there were racks for smaller objects in the other

part of the carriage. The space is so considerable in the first-class

carriages that the upper berth is at right angles to the lower, which

is consequently very much pleasanter than when it is immediately below

the other berth, leaving no space to sit upright. There is a nice

dressing-room between every two coupés, where hot and cold water is laid

on, and this is really an inestimable boon on a long journey. The hot

water supply is somewhat variable, so we generally supplemented it by

buying extra. In some of the trains no charge is made for it; in others

it costs 2½d. If for no other reason than the dressing-room, I should

advise all first-class passengers to go by the International rather than

by the Russian State Express. One is also less worried by the official

trio coming to inspect tickets. It seems odd that on all Russian trains

it requires three men to fulfil so simple a duty, but no doubt it is an

example of the suspiciousness which seems to permeate all officialdom in

this country. There is a comfortable chair and table, so that passengers

can sit facing one another. This is no small convenience on so long

a journey, especially when you prefer having some meals in your own

carriage.

It is not only pleasanter but wiser not to have more than one solid meal

a day on the journey, and we could not help being amused at the general

collapse of a large number of passengers on the third day, evidently the

result of imprudence in this matter. In the restaurant book of food (I

can call it by no other name) there was a page of “fasting dishes” which

was, I fear, neglected. We found that a judiciously stocked luncheon

basket, added to the facilities for securing scalded milk, bread,

_excellent_ butter, and eggs, made it unnecessary to spend much time

in the restaurant car. This was not so important in the International

Sleeping Car as in the Russian State Express, for although the dining-car

was atrociously hot and crowded, the meals were served promptly, but in

the latter we were an hour and a half having a lunch of five courses, so

we determined after that experience to order our meal in advance and _à

la carte_. By so doing we saved a great deal of time, but we were obliged

to have it at an unseasonable hour. That did not matter much, as we

altered our hours in accordance with the “Daylight Saving Bill,” and so

profited in various ways. In order to have comfortable time for washing,

without having other people hammering on the door, it was most convenient

to rise at 5 o’clock, and it was equally convenient to go to bed as soon

as it was dark, because all Russian trains economise in light. Even a

first-class carriage has only a single candle for all illumination, and

that is placed in a lantern above the door, so that it only serves to

reveal the darkness.

Leaving Manchuria we passed into the Trans-Baikal province, at the

western side of which lies Lake Baikal, and to our no small surprise and

disappointment, winter still reigned supreme. Beautiful forests of birch

and pine trees broke the monotony of the plains, and drifts of snow still

lingered in the hollows, where sun or wind had failed to chase it. It

was, of course, very different from when we crossed it in February, with

the thermometer at thirty degrees below zero, but we still found winter

clothing necessary, and were bitterly disappointed to see none of the

lovely flowers which transform the dreary plains into flower gardens.

We had been told that the delphiniums were a dream of beauty, but we

saw none, and I imagine the end of May or beginning of June would be a

much better time to travel across Siberia, in spite of the fact that

the trains are then crowded, and it is necessary to secure seats months

beforehand, or trust to getting one that accidentally falls vacant nearer

the time.

Lake Baikal was still completely frost-bound, and looked beautiful

glittering in the morning sunlight, with snow-capped mountains enclosing

it on every side. The only disappointment about Lake Baikal is that the

mountains are too distant to look really grand and awe-inspiring. The

steamer which plies on the lake during the summer from Baikal station was

still lying close alongside it. Turning westward almost immediately after

leaving it, the railway line follows the course of the river Angara for

about one and a half hours, till it reaches Irkutsk, the present seat of

government.

Irkutsk was a trading town founded in 1652, but was almost completely

destroyed by fire in 1879. It is striking in appearance as one approaches

it by the long railway bridge across the river, and is finely situated,

with an imposing railway station. As we crossed the bridge we saw the

fine bridge of boats used in summer still lying alongside the bank in its

winter quarters, for large masses of loose ice floated past, blocking the

river. But although Irkutsk has a certain comeliness of appearance, and

is the centre of intellectual activity in Siberia, it is not altogether

a desirable place to live in, for not only is the climate trying, but

report says that it is imprudent for any one to go about unarmed. The

great prisons in the neighbourhood of Irkutsk have for generations been

the place where the worst criminals of the Empire, as well as political

exiles have been sent, and when their term of service has expired they

are let loose on the community, the only regulation being that they shall

remain there. The result is that the present population contains not only

the present released convicts, but also a considerable number of the

descendents of former convicts of the worst type.

Irkutsk is in the centre of the gold district, which attracts also a

somewhat undesirable class of people. It is not, I think, generally

known what a large quantity of gold is found in Siberia, but about five

millions worth is annually sent into Russia. This by no means represents

all that is found, although the Government requires that it should all

pass through Irkutsk, and thence be forwarded to Russia. Smuggling

is reported to be extensively carried on, and a considerable Chinese

population are credited with the bulk of it. The working of the gold

diggings is said by experts to be amazingly primitive. Large fortunes are

both made and squandered in Irkutsk. Not only gold but tea is a great

source of wealth, although the trade in the latter is by no means so

great as it used to be in the old caravan days. At the present time by

far the largest quantity of it is sent round by sea; but there are still

many Russians who believe that the flavour of the tea is spoilt by sea

air, so that the demand for caravan tea continues. It is said that wealth

in Irkutsk is estimated by a man’s furs and by a woman’s furs and jewels.

Curiously enough Sunday labour is entirely prohibited in this town, and

fine and imprisonment may follow the breaking of the law with regard to

buying and selling. Trade is greatly hampered throughout the Russian

Empire by the corruption of officials, of whom there are an incalculable

number; and it is the Jews who form the most successful part of the

trading community. There is always a long halt at Irkutsk station,

varying from one and a half to two and a half hours, for passengers have

to change trains on account of the difference of the line in gauge, and

when travelling by the Russian State Express it is necessary to have

tickets visé-ed and fresh places allotted. On the International you are

saved this because the places are numbered and passengers are required

to keep the same number in both trains, so there is no confusion in

having the luggage transferred from one to the other. Having to get

fresh ones was decidedly tiresome, as there seemed to be no method in

the madness of the officials, their knowledge of other languages than

their own was almost nil, and their slowness phenomenal. One of our

English fellow-passengers seemed to have a great deal to say, and knew

no Russian, so he had secured the services of a Chinese waiter from the

restaurant car who acted as interpreter with complete success. I do not

think I am wrong in saying that the issuing of fresh tickets took more

than three-quarters of an hour, and confusion reigned in the train for

more than double the time.

During the first two days of our return journey we had suffered from

continual snow-storms and a leaden sky, but after leaving Irkutsk the

weather improved, and the sun shone most of the time. The land is

sparsely inhabited; at the close of the last century the density of

population was given in the official census as _two_ to the square

mile in the province of Irkutsk. If Siberia be taken as an example

of the effects of land nationalisation, few people, I think, will be

attracted by it; out of an area of 3,240,000,000 square miles no less

than 3,104,000,000 belong to the State. There is only one province,

the Amur region, in which land can be purchased. It is the Russian

village communities who hold the land when it has been allotted for

industrial enterprises. All along the line we were interested in seeing

the colonists travelling to their various destinations; they were taken

in slow trains densely packed, and when they came to the stations where

they had to change they and their belongings were dumped down for an

apparently indefinite number of hours on the station, and there they

remained, eating and sleeping in the midst of their baggage till it was

time to start afresh. There are sheds for them to be housed in when

the weather prevents their being out of doors. They seemed to have

practically no furniture with them, and some of them were remarkably well

dressed in comparison with what one would have expected. They are all

obliged to have passports just like foreigners.

Up to the year 1901 there was an average of nearly 20,000 exiles sent

yearly to Siberia; many of these exiles settled down and helped to

civilise the land. They founded twelve Natural History and Ethnological

Museums, besides starting scientific societies. Now the Government

has altered the system, and great efforts are being made to send

another class of colonists, the political exiles being driven to more

uninhabitable regions. It seems a pity that the Russian Empire, which

extends over an area of no less than one-sixth of the territorial globe,

should leave this fertile land of Siberia, much of it the finest grazing

ground in the world, and other parts excellent wheat-growing land, so

sparsely inhabited, while it stretches envious hands into Manchuria, the

land which China imperatively requires as the natural outlet for her

surplus population.

At the railway stations all sorts of queer people are to be seen, the

men mostly wearing bright-coloured shirts, and tall red leather, or

felt boots; but the nomadic tribes of Buriats, who cultivate parts

of the country with great industry and success, are not often to be

seen near the railway. The Buriats on the eastern side of Lake Baikal

are Buddhists, but those on the west still cling to their original

religion—Shamanism. This mainly consists in the worship of gods, called

“Ongons,” supposed to protect both house and property. The former are

hung up in a box inside the house; the latter, along with the skins of

squirrels and other small animals are in a box fastened to the top of a

pole, with a little roof over it in the fields. Every man has his own

Ongon as soon as he marries, and when he dies it is taken down from the

pole and hung up in the woods, where it eventually rots to pieces.

In a most interesting volume the American linguist and ethnologist,

Jeremiah Curtin, describes these strange tribes. He tells how he

witnessed the Horse Sacrifice, one of the most ancient of Mongol

ceremonials, and which is still perpetuated among Buriat clans. He saw it

performed in 1900 on a hill called Uhér, about seven miles from Usturdi,

which is some forty miles from Irkutsk. There are fifteen large altars

on the hill, on which the sacrifices are offered to the Burkans (namely

the gods) of the hill. These gods include “The Lofty Clear Heaven,” “The

Revered Pure Earth,” “Bull Prince Father,” “Blessed Mother Mist,” “The

Creating Great One” (the hedgehog, who is considered by the Buriats to

be the wisest of all deities), “Grandfather Bald Head,” “Creator of

Cattle,” “Crooked Back,” &c. The different families of the first and

second divisions of the clan Ashekhabat have each their own place near

one or other of the altars. The leaders of the ceremony invoke all the

different deities by name and in turn, while the people pray either aloud

or in silence for what they want. Then the horses are killed, and after

that they are rapidly skinned and dismembered, the bones being burnt in

roaring fires on the fifteen altars. The flesh is boiled in iron kettles,

and when it is cooked all the people stand in groups by the altars,

receding and advancing towards them at intervals, and reciting the

following invocation to the deities, together with any special petitions

of their own.

“We pray that we may receive from you a blessing. From among fat cattle

we have chosen out meat for you. We have made strong tarasun (a liquor

distilled from milk) for you. Let our ulus (villages) be one verst

longer. Create cattle in our enclosures; under our blankets create a

son; send down rain from high heaven to us; cause much grass to grow;

create so much grain that sickle cannot rase it, and so much grass that

scythe cannot cut it. Let no wolves out unless wolves that are toothless;

and no stones unless stones without sharp corners or edges. Hover above

our foreheads. Hover behind our heads. Look on us without anger. Help

those of us who forget what we know. Rouse those of us who are sleeping

(in spirit). In a harsh year (a year of trouble) be compassion. In a

difficult year (a year of want) be kindness (in sense of help). Black

spirits lead farther away from us; bright spirits lead hither, nearer;

grey spirits lead farther away from us. Burkans lead hither to us. Green

grass give in the mouths (of cattle). Let me walk over the first snow. If

I am timid be my courage. If I am ashamed, be a proper face to me. Above

be as a coverlid, below be as a felt bed to me.”—(“A Journey in Southern

Siberia,” page 47.) After this prayer the worshippers all sat down in

groups to eat the horse-flesh and drink tarasun, while many vultures

hovered round to share the flesh. After this strange sacrifice is ended

the Buriats indulge in wrestling.

At Usturdi there is a Russian Orthodox Mission Church, and the Bible

Society has undertaken to publish the Gospel of St. Matthew in the

Buriat language. It seems strange that such uncivilised beings as

those who would take part in the ceremonial described above, should be

sufficiently literate to have a use for the Gospel; but it is estimated

that all the Buriats in the north, and nearly all those in the south,

will be able to read it. The population is about 290,000. The translation

has been made by the Irkutsk Translation Committee, and is to be printed

in Russ characters, as most of the Buriats are able to understand them.

Mr. Curtin mentions a young Buriat whom he met as having studied six

years at the Irkutsk gymnasium, and possessing a knowledge of history and

science, besides being a considerable reader, so that evidently they are

not uninfluenced by education.

The next province through which the railway passes is the Yenisei, which

stretches right away up to the Arctic Ocean, and which at once conjures

up in one’s mind visions of Merriman’s novels: it is one of the largest

provinces in the empire, consisting of 987,186 square miles, but has only

an average of one person to the square mile. The city of Krasnojarsk is

the largest and most interesting on the railway; there are about 30,000

foreigners living in this district, most of them Tartars; it is the

principal seat of Government, and lies just half-way between Moscow and

Vladivostock on this wonderful railway. The whole length of the railway

is 5449 miles, and with the exception of the 193 miles round Lake Baikal,

it was completed in an extraordinarily short space of time, between

eight and nine years, at a cost of, roughly speaking, £85,000,000. It is

fairly correct to say that it was built at the rate of about a mile a

day. At the distance of one verst (namely, two-thirds of a mile) apart,

there are guard houses all along the line, each under the care of an

ex-convict, who comes out of his house to wave a green flag when the

train passes, or more frequently it is a barefooted wife or daughter who

does it for him. There is a fine view of Krasnoyarsk from the train as

you approach it, for the line makes a wide circular sweep before crossing

the River Yenisei, on which it is situated. Of all the noble rivers

which flow through Siberia, the Yenisei is the greatest; it rises in the

mountains of the distant Chinese province of Kobdo in Mongolia, over

3000 miles from the Arctic Sea, and makes its impetuous way through the

mountains of Sagansk, then through the strange, tundra region, with its

countless islands and trackless wastes—the great nesting place of myriads

of migratory birds, who come there led by some marvellous instinct at the

exact time of year when the snow melts, uncovering the berries which form

the requisite food for the nestlings. The Yenisei is only navigable for a

little over six months of the year, and the ceremony of cutting the ice,

which closes its mouth on the Arctic Sea, takes place always on June 10th.

The next province on the route is that of Tomsk, but the principal town,

which has the same name, lies to the north of the Trans-Siberian Railway,

and is only connected with it by a branch line from Taiga, the nearest

point to it on the main line, which is eighty-two versts or, roughly

speaking, 54 miles distant. The reason why Tomsk is not on the main line

is that the city refused to bribe the surveyors and engineers who planned

the route. This accounts for the fact that so many places, which might

quite easily have been on the line, are more or less distant from the

railway, according to their willingness to pay. It takes four hours by

rail from Taiga to Tomsk. It must be most injurious to trade to have such

difficulties as these, and such unnecessary ones. Tomsk boasts the only

university in Siberia, but this is still incomplete, and has only about

500 students. Education has been discouraged in this as in every part

of the Russian Empire, and although the money required for a university

at Irkutsk was offered, the Government refused to grant permission for

it to be established. The number of schools in 1901 was only 3909 for

the whole of Siberia, and the scholars attending them 115,407, while the

population was estimated at 5,727,090; these figures need no comment, and

my authority for them is Prince Krapotkin.

The only important town in the province on the railway line is Omsk,

where we learnt (by telegram) the death of the King. The news came like

a thunderclap, and cast a gloom over every English person on the train.

What made it doubly trying was the impossibility for weeks to come of

getting any further news. The town of Omsk is on the River Irtish. The

number of rivers in the country adds greatly to the charm of the journey,

and they have been the chief highways of the empire in the past; the

bridges over them are remarkably fine. We began to rejoice in the sight

of wild flowers once more, and children brought bunches of marigolds

and anemones to the stations for sale, but generally they were tied up

into tight little bunches without any leaves, and were quite wilted. The

main occupation of some of the passengers seemed to be that of putting

on fresh clothes, and showing them off at the stations where we had an

opportunity at least half-a-dozen times every day of getting a brief

constitutional. We learnt that passengers were allowed to visit the

luggage van, as on board ship, and get out fresh supplies of dresses, but

it did seem rather unnecessary, considering the amount of luggage taken

in the carriages.

The next province through which the railway passes is that of Tobolsk,

but it only skirts its southern border, which adjoins the steppes

inhabited by Cossacks and nomadic tribes, whose caravans may be seen

in the busy markets of Petropavlosk, which was founded in 1752 as

a protection against the Kirghiz Cossacks. About one-third of its

population is Mohammedan, and the Greek Orthodox Church has a mission

in the province for them: the present staff of the mission consists

of thirteen priests, twelve assistants, two deacons, and one Psalm

reader. Last year they baptized eight Mohammedans. They have a very

small educational work. The Greek Orthodox Church has various missions

scattered through Siberia, and the Russian Government does not allow

any foreign ones, which seems the greater pity when it is considered

how inadequate in every respect are those of the Greek Church—they only

number nine. Everywhere in the cities we saw the beautiful green domes

and spires of the churches, but very little is done for the religious

welfare of the people in the country districts, and for the most part

they are in a state of profound ignorance; religion is summed up in (α)

the worship paid to the ikon, (a little coloured print of our Lord, or of

the Virgin, or of a saint), which is to be found, not only in all private

houses, but in every waiting-room or restaurant on the railway, and in

(β) certain religious ceremonies at special times of the year, and on

special occasions.

After leaving Tobolsk, the next important station passed on the line is

Chéliabinsk, in the province of Orenburg, the first town over the border

into Europe. The frontier between Asiatic and European Russia is crossed

about 104 miles to the east of it, and is marked by an obelisk on the

left hand side of the line at its highest point, which may be seen soon

after leaving Kurgan. Chéliabinsk is a cosmopolitan centre; it is the

real starting-point of the Trans-Siberian line, and is the junction where

the line divides, the one going north to St. Petersburg, and the other

west to Moscow. The Russian State Express runs once a week from each of

these cities to Vladivostock, and also in the opposite direction.

We were much pleased with the way our carriages and corridors were

cleaned out daily while we were stopping at stations. A little army of

women swarmed into the train directly it stopped, provided with buckets

of hot water, and they washed out the whole place quite efficaciously

and with great rapidity. It is really much better to have oilcloth on

the floors rather than carpet, for the sake of cleanliness. The dusting

of the carriages was done every morning by the attendant after he had

made the beds, and he kept them quite nice and tidy. The one thing that

provoked me through all our travelling in Russia, however, was the fact

that the attendants had keys which opened all the bolts, so that they

could come in whenever they choose, and the art of knocking before

entering was unknown to most of them. They generally seemed to select the

most inappropriate moment for coming in, when one was either dressing

or undressing; but fortunately all travelling tends to blunt one’s

susceptibilities on such points.

The ninth day after leaving Kharbin we reached Kinel, the next station

before reaching Samara, the real junction for the Turkestan line. There

was only a small margin of time allowed for changing train there, so

we decided it was better to have to wait unduly long at Kinel, rather

than run the risk of missing our train and waiting twenty-four hours

for the next one. We got out at a most dreary hour, which seems to be

rather frequently the case on Russian railways, considering how few are

the trains; it was between one and two o’clock in the morning, and our

baggage was deposited in the ladies’ waiting-room, where we found the

only sofa filled with babies. A considerable number of passengers had

their luggage in the adjoining restaurant, where they slept or smoked.

The atmosphere was decidedly trying, so I spent most of the time pacing

up and down the platform, watching the dawn grow, for even at that early

hour there was a broad belt of orange light lying along the horizon. At

fitful intervals one and another of the passengers would come out for a

breath of fresh air, or order drinks from the somnolent attendants. It

appeared to be the natural thing for people to be spending the night at

the station, though no train disturbed the peace of the place for several

hours. Not one of the officials seemed able to speak or understand any

language but Russian, so I addressed a young German tourist to ask for

information. He told me that there were no sleeping berths on the summer

trains for Tashkent, the “wagon lits” service being suspended on the

first of May, but that we should find the ordinary carriages thoroughly

comfortable, the second class quite as good as the first (in which we

proved him to be correct), for all the trains are arranged with a view

to night travelling. He also told us that instead of the journey taking

five days (as we had been informed when we made inquiries at Peking),

it would only take three. Later on we discovered there was a wagon lits

carriage at the rear of the train (without a single passenger in it),

but no restaurant car. Encouraged, I suppose, by the pleasure which

he saw depicted on my face at such pleasant news, he went on to give

us particulars of our route, by which he said he had just come from

Turkestan. He advised us to go by the Black Sea instead of through the

Caucasus, saying that the journey from Tashkent to Vienna by that route

took not more than _five_ days; the minimum time in reality is seven. He

had a Russian time-table, quite a thick volume, which he advised us to

purchase; we succeeded in buying one later in the day when the bookstall

opened, and although the names were quite a puzzle in Russian characters,

it provided us with constant occupation, both in deciphering them, and

in fitting together the bits of the route, scattered on at least a dozen

different pages. In the station at Kinel they had rather a good sort of

map in a large frame on the wall opposite the ticket-office, arranged as

under. As there are so few trains it is easier than it would be on our

lines, but such a map would be much more intelligible for cheap-trippers

than our time-tables. These maps we saw in various places later on.

[Illustration]

Four hours wore slowly away, and at last the ticket-office opened, and

I presented a paper with “Tashkent—2 klacce,” and held up two fingers.

Traveling is very cheap here; from Tashkent to Kinel, a distance of 1314

miles, the tickets are approximately first class, £4, 5s. 0d., second

class, £2, 10s. 3d., third class, £1, 9s. 0d., fourth class, 14s., but

then the train goes like a snail, and stops perpetually. The third and

fourth class carriages always seemed to be packed with humanity, and the

passengers lie all day, as well as all night long, on shelves one above

the other. The fuel used both on this line and on the Trans-Siberian

is entirely wood, so they have to be continually taking in a fresh

stock, and each carriage has a little room for its own special heating

apparatus. The funnels of the engines have large bulbs at the top to

prevent the escape of sparks.

CHAPTER XVI

Into Turkestan

The first day we travelled through a vast cultivated plain, and the

landscape was dotted over with a sprinkling of houses and many trees.

The children brought forget-me-nots and anemones to sell at the wayside

stations; but on this line the towns and hamlets are fewer than on the

one we had just left. Though the land seemed so uninhabited the train

always seemed full, and the passengers made themselves thoroughly at

home. The second-class travellers, who were going any distance, put on

fresh clothes, the ladies dressed in _négligé_ costumes like tea-gowns.

One amazingly stout lady put on a muslin gown over a pink slip, and

looked just like an animated pin-cushion. These people seem to wear all

their jewels too, when travelling. Often it was difficult to imagine

where the few people visible at the stations had sprung from, especially

to the south of Orenburg. This is one of the only two important places

between Kinel and Tashkent, and is the principal town of the province of

the same name. There are four mission stations in the Orenburg diocese,

and twenty-seven Mohammedans were baptized last year. To the south

of Orenburg the land becomes more and more desolate-looking, and the

vegetation is so sparse that one can hardly believe it is possible for

anything to subsist upon it. Perhaps that is the reason why the Kirghiz

nomadic tribes, who inhabit this territory, known as the Kirghiz Steppes,

cultivate a peculiar kind of sheep called “stéatopyge” by the French

traveller Capus. This sheep has a singularly fat tail, sometimes so long

and heavy that it has to go on a little wheeled cart, and it is this

tail which suffices to nourish the sheep in time of scarcity of herbage,

in the same way that the camel is said to live on his hump; at the end

of the winter the tail has dwindled to quite ordinary proportions.

Unfortunately we did not see any of these interesting animals (though I

once met one at Delhi), but during the following days we saw hardly any

living things but camels, much used also by the Kirghiz. The earth seemed

utterly barren, and exuded nothing but salt; hour by hour elapsed, only

varied by the interest of stopping at some wayside station, standing

alone in the desert, where samovars full of boiling water were eagerly

sought by the passengers with their various pots and kettles; the

ordinary charge for a potful is three farthings, and one wonders how

the poor creatures who supply it are able to make any living out of so

poor a harvest. Their only other wares are eggs (generally hard boiled),

bottles of milk, and baskets of oranges and lemons. The latter are always

in request for Russian tea, and fetch a better price than most things.

The peasants look most amiable, good-natured creatures, and are eminently

picturesque in their embroidered blouses of blue, green, scarlet, or

white, fastened in at the waist with a leathern belt. For the last half

century the Russians have been gradually colonising the steppes. Some

people labour under the impression that the agricultural classes are not

only happier but also more successful when they are ignorant, but this

has certainly not proved the case in the Russian Empire. The colonists

have considerable advantages offered to them by the Government in the way

of cheap grain and agricultural implements, but their ignorance of the

rotation of crops and the necessity of feeding the land cause them to

exhaust it in a few years’ time. The contrast between the Russian peasant

and his German neighbour when you cross the frontier is extraordinary,

and it is deplorable to consider the latent wealth of Siberia in

conjunction with the present condition of its peasant population.

Both on the Turkestan and on the Trans-Siberian Railway we met agents

of the British and Foreign Bible Society selling Gospels, Bibles, and

Testaments in various languages, of which they had a good assortment

in attractive bindings and extremely cheap. These agents are allowed

free passes on all the lines in Russia. Ten of these passes are granted

annually, and the colporteurs are able to carry on what may well be

called a mission work among the immigrants and others. The number of

immigrants into Siberia in 1908 reached the astonishing figure of 760,000

persons. A Russian red cross nurse told me that she had travelled in

charge of a train full of such immigrants, and the description of the

horrors of the journey are only to be equalled by Zola’s tale of the

pilgrims to Lourdes. To these immigrants many free copies of the Gospels

are given, and the value of such a gift in that land must be very great.

Books must be scarce in the greater part of the country, though, thanks

to the generosity of a Russian there is a village libraries’ organisation

in the province of Tomsk, by means of which fifty villages have been

supplied with libraries. The generosity of the state railways department

is not confined to the gifts of free passes for the colporteurs, but also

the free carriage of all their books from the moment they enter Russian

territory, and the remitting of all duty upon them. All the employés,

too, of the Bible Society are exempt from the Trade and Industrial Tax.

The excellent example of the railway companies has been followed by

many of the shipping companies on the Black Sea, the White Sea, and the

Dnieper, Don, and Volga rivers. The companies, where there is a foreign

element present, are much less willing to grant these facilities. Even

the tramway companies in many towns give free tickets to colporteurs.

The second day we reached the little town of Aral at the head of the Aral

Sea, after passing through the most desolate country: it could not have

been more accurately described than in the words of Browning:

“I think I never saw

Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve:

For flowers—as well expect a cedar grove!

But cockle, spurge, according to their law

Might propagate their kind, with none to awe,

You’d think: a burr had been a treasure-trove.

No! penury, inertness, and grimace,

In some strange sort, were the land’s portion. ‘See

Or shut your eyes’—said Nature peevishly—

‘It nothing skills: I cannot help my case:

The Judgment’s fire alone can cure this place,

Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free.’”

Lake Aral, like the Caspian Sea, is salt: at present it covers more than

26,000 square miles, but it is always shrinking. There is a considerable

fishing industry on it, and freshwater fish are found, but its shores are

so barren that they are practically uninhabited. The Steppes which bound

it on the north are inhabited by a nomad population of Kirghiz and Uzbegs

living in felt tents (called kibitkas), whose main occupation is breeding

cattle, horses, camels, and sheep. In the winter time they go to the more

sheltered regions of Syr Daria, the province through which the line next

passes.

We crossed the Syr Daria River, better known as the classic Jaxartes,

and the only town of any size that lay on the route was Turkestan or

Hazret. It still possesses one superb monument of the past, the mosque

of Hazréti-Timur, built in 1404 by order of Tamerlane, which is said to

be one of the finest monuments of that epoch, and is visited by many

pilgrims.

As we neared Tashkent we felt a certain amount of anxiety lest we should

only have reached the goal to be ignominiously turned back by the police,

despite our special permit; but apparently our appearance was disarming,

and at Tashkent they did not even inquire for any thing beyond our

passports. At Samarkand we handed them over as usual on arrival to the

proprietor of the hotel, and the next day he said the police wished to

know if we had the proper authorisation to visit Turkestan. We produced

our _note verbale_, which evidently they were unable to read, as it was

in French; they looked us up and down, from head to toe, asked if we had

nothing more to show, and on being assured that we had not, and that the

_note verbale_ gave full permission for travel, they somewhat reluctantly

took their departure. At Kazan (Bokhara) they got a Russian lady to look

at our permit, who was able to assure them it was quite _en règle_,

for they admitted they could not read it themselves. We heard that had

we wished to go anywhere off the railway line we should not have been

allowed to do so.

The district round Tashkent was a wonderful contrast to the dreary

desert through which we had come, and prepared us in some measure for

the wealth of foliage in which that town is embowered. Along the line

were trees all decked in the vivid colouring of early spring; the air was

filled with the fragrance of their blossoms, and the sound of running

water and rustling leaves whenever we halted, made a happy change from

the monotonous harshness of railway noises. The afforestation work of

the Russian authorities has already produced a marked difference in the

rainfall, and they are keeping a much needed check on the cutting down of

trees for firewood throughout the province.

CHAPTER XVII

Tashkent

Just ten days after leaving Kharbin we got out of the train at the

handsome station of Tashkent, which seemed ablaze with light in

comparison with the dimness to which we had been recently accustomed.

We inquired for the porter of the Hotel de France to which we had been

recommended by an acquaintance at Moscow, but there was none at the

station. A friendly official said that other hotels were better, and

their porters eagerly urged us to go with them. We thought it best,

however, to stick to what we had been advised, especially as our letters

had been directed to the Hotel de France; so we got into a droshky and

drove away into the darkness. What a heavenly drive it seemed after the

long days in the train. Our horses were all too nimble as we drove on

and on through the warm and scented air, under apparently never ending

avenues of tall poplars and bushy elms. A crescent moon shone amongst

myriads of stars, and we wondered how long this mysterious drive would

last, as after a time the driver appeared to have lost his bearings and

turned to us for instructions. Naturally we were utterly unable to

direct him, but after half-an-hour, by the aid of local advice, we drew

up beside the open doorway of a house surrounded by trees. There was

not even “hotel” written up, and instead of a Frenchman coming at our

summons, a person appeared who seemed unable even to recognise the name

“Hotel de France,” though he gave a voluble but quite unintelligible

answer in Russian. However, we crossed the murmuring rivulet which

characterises most of the roads here, and entered the house. We found

that it certainly was an hotel, though there was no one who spoke any

language but Russian, and in the letter case there were no letters for us.

We were shown into a nice large bedroom, and then began the pantomime.

We were extremely hungry, but disinclined to try the fancy dishes which

we feared would be served to us if we failed to be explicit in our

orders. We had not yet learnt the names of many things in Russian, and

we totally disagreed with the one universal sentiment, expressed in the

word “nitchevo = it doesn’t matter,” which met us at every turn, so I

betook myself to my pencil and drew—or tried to draw—a chicken _au plat_.

Not having sufficiently studied the works of art which adorn cookery

books, I failed ignominiously to convey any meaning to mine host. I next

attempted to draw the creature _au naturel_, and the attempt was crowned

with success; but alas, mine host soon returned with graphic gestures

to acquaint us that chicken was not to be had. I then drew chicken

in embryo, which was instantly recognised with an emphatic nod which

heralded success.

The next matter to be dealt with was bed and bedding, but that was more

easily accomplished, and we found the people thoroughly pleasant and

obliging, anxious to get all we wanted and make us comfortable; they

brought an extra bedstead, sheets, and pillows, all thoroughly clean. In

fact our quarters were so comfortable that we rather regretted that we

were only going to spend twenty-four hours there.

Next morning we were awakened by the familiar sound of growling camels

and screeching peacocks in a neighbouring garden. We were soon abroad

and found the pleasant impression gained by our drive of the night

before fully justified, for every road is bordered with trees, and the

poplars are the most beautiful and lofty I have ever seen; their silver

stems stretch up erect as darts into the clear blue sky. There are shady

public gardens where the ash tree and the acacia were in full blossom,

filling the air with their fragrance; on the roofs of the smaller houses

poppies and grass made a brave show of colour against the sky. All the

houses were well shaded by trees except in the centre of the town, where

fashionable shops displayed the latest novelties in hats and other

things dear to the fashionable world of Tashkent. We made our way to the

post-office, where most of the officials were women, and found quite a

large budget of letters. Evidently there is no regular delivery, as they

were all addressed to the hotel, and some of them had been lying there

at least a week. Later in the day we returned to inquire for a book,

which from my letters I learnt had been forwarded there, and after some

searching it was duly produced, but I afterwards found that difficulty

had attended its despatch as well as its delivery; the London post-office

at first declined to send it on the score of not knowing where Turkestan

was.

Tashkent was conquered by the Russians in 1863, and it is only since

then that the Russian town has grown up at a short distance from the old

city; it boasts over 50,000 inhabitants, and has a considerable trade.

At this time of year the climate is delicious, but in the summer it is

said to be intensely hot, and in the rainy season the mud is so deep that

the streets become almost impassable, and the men have to go about in

what we should call wading boots. It is on this account that the natives

have such peculiar carts, with spidery wheels about eight or ten feet in

diameter. The driver sits on a saddle on the horse, with a foot resting

on each shaft. Many of the tall, lean beasts, have handsomely embroidered

horse cloths of blue and scarlet; they also wear broad scarlet or orange

neck cloths, and beaded trappings hang from their manes and over their

hind quarters; altogether they are most attractive.

We were delighted with the beautiful oriental colours of the clothing

of the natives, as they rode about on handsome Arab steeds, looking the

embodiment of pride amongst their prosaic conquerors. Turbaned servants

might be seen holding the horses outside houses while their masters were

within, or the horses might be attached to rings in beams fastened in the

roadway outside shops and offices for the purpose. Ladies, fashionably

dressed, were driving about in troïkas, with three horses harnessed

abreast. The centre horse has to trot, and the side ones canter with

their heads turned away, so that they look all the time as if they were

trying to pull away from the horse in the middle. It my opinion it has a

most unnatural and unpleasant appearance to have one horse trotting while

the others canter, and I cannot understand how they manage to drive so

swiftly under such adverse circumstances. The Siberian horses are capable

of doing twenty versts (about thirteen miles) an hour, says Capus.

Travellers going any distance by carriage continue day and night without

stopping longer than for meals and to change horses, but it must require

an iron constitution to do this. Nearly every one at Tashkent seemed to

ride or drive; in fact we learnt that it was considered quite _infra dig_

to go on foot anywhere in Turkestan.

The town boasts two good new hotels; a fine public library, especially

rich in works on Central Asia; an observatory; a museum; two large

public schools; an experimental agricultural station and school; a

seminary; a bank, and various public buildings. There is also a park

containing a bicycle track, where they have races; at the entrance we

saw a large monument commemorating the conquests of the Russians in

different parts of Turkestan. They first invaded it in 1863, and took

this city and also Chemkend; in 1866 they took Khojend and Kokand, and

completely destroyed the power of the latter, this proving the beginning

of Turkestan as a Russian province. In the next two years they pushed

their conquests further westward, and defeated the troops of the Emir of

Bokhara and entered Samarkand. In 1873 Khiva was invaded and navigation

rights obtained over the whole of the Oxus River, now known as the Amu

Daria. Russia decided to leave Bokhara under the rule of the Emir, merely

maintaining a protectorate, but the remainder of Turkestan has since that

time been under Russian rule.

We called at the office of the Wagons Lits Company for information

about our journey to Samarkand, and the manager obligingly got a young

Russian, attached to the newspaper staff, to act as our guide for the

afternoon. He spoke English with a strong American accent, and was

extremely garrulous, having attained a thoroughly journalistic style of

conversation. We took a carriage and drove to the old city, of which the

walls, alas, have completely disappeared. It is buried in the midst of

trees and gardens, for there is a fine system of irrigation there. All

through both the Russian and also the native town we saw streams flowing;

the watering is done by a simple process; a man goes down each side of

the road simultaneously, armed with a long wooden scoop, with which he

sweeps the water out of the little canals as far as the centre, even on

a wide road. This takes place at intervals during the day. Here and there

in the native city is a good pond surrounded by trees. The houses are low

and made of sun-dried bricks, looking more ruinous than the other cities

we visited. Tashkent, it seems, is subject to earthquakes, which probably

accounts for its dishevelled appearance, and it is difficult to believe

that the population inhabiting it is both large and growing. According to

the latest census the inhabitants number over 100,000, so evidently its

decadent look is entirely misleading.

We first visited the old tombs of Sheikh Zenedjin-baba and Zenghiata,

saints who flourished some centuries ago, and whose tombs are visited by

thousands of pilgrims every year. The graveyard was picturesque; a dead

tree was still standing among the tombs, which a stork had selected to

crown with her nest. A little alley led us to the tomb, in which a devout

worshipper was rocking himself to and fro, while he recited his prayers.

I ventured to sketch him, as he was evidently oblivious (or pretended to

be so) of observers.

[Illustration: PRAYER AT A SAINT’S TOMB]

It was somewhat difficult for our carriage to make its way through

the narrow, tortuous lanes, but we were in no hurry to go fast for

the people were so picturesque. They are mostly Sarts, “a name,” says

Prince Krapotkin, “which has reference more to manner of life than to

anthropological classification, although a much stronger admixture of

Iranian blood is evident in the Sarts, who also speak Persian at Khojend

and Samarkand.” They are noted for their honesty and independence. There

are also Persians and Uzbegs, the latter speaking a pure Jagatai dialect,

and various other tribes are found among the bazaars of Tashkent. These

bazaars are most fascinating, but as it was Friday there were but few

merchants willing to do business, and the whole place had a deserted air.

The bazaars are roofed in at the top, which makes them dark and stuffy,

but they are sufficiently wide for carriages as well as foot-passengers

to go through them. Our guide bargained for some silk scarves, which we

thought rather attractive, but as the merchants refused to come down to

what he thought a reasonable price, we did not buy more than a couple.

The different trades occupy different parts of the bazaar, and one of the

most important was the grain and another the tobacco market. Tashkent is

also noted for its boots and harness.

In one way it was fortunate that our visit happened to be on a Friday,

for we saw the people at prayer. We visited several of the mosques, but

they have little artistic merit, and the oldest one has been so hideously

redecorated with metal work and the crudest painting, that its 700 years

of existence have been entirely obliterated, both within and without.

The chief mosque was crowded with men herded within a rather small sort

of verandah, where they stood while service was conducted in a loud

discordant series of shrieks. A crowd of veiled women and children

pressed against the bars of the enclosure, but Mohammedanism has no place

for women within her gates. Once for all Mohammed made the position of

the women in the Moslem world unspeakably low and degraded: he said,

“Woman was made from a crooked rib, and if you try to bend it straight

it will break.” A woman, according to the universal Mohammedan belief,

has no soul. Years ago I saw the Sultan going to the weekly worship

one Friday at Constantinople, and it was part of the programme for his

principal wife to _see_ him go there from a certain spot; that she should

ever have accompanied him was unthinkable. Another large party of women

and children we saw gathered on a neighbouring roof like Peris outside

Paradise. But we were not allowed to remain long; we were almost thrust

out of the precincts of the mosque, for they have the greatest aversion,

we were told, to Russians looking on at their worship. As our guide

was Russian, I suppose they imagined us to be the same; elsewhere they

treated us with great civility.

The children amused us much by their quaint costumes, and some of them

were extremely pretty. The caps, ornaments, and embroideries they wear

are charming, and a bizarre effect is produced by a bunch of feathers

stuck upright in their caps and attached to their shoulders from the back

like incipient wings.

The houses usually have verandahs outside them, where groups of men were

reclining. They were highly picturesque, red being the predominating

colour of their clothes, heightened by the contrast of their white

turbans. They were mostly smoking, gossiping, and drinking, and for all

these pursuits they seem to have an untiring capacity.

There is only one Madressah (Mohammedan school) now left at Tashkent,

which used to be a seat of learning, and it has few students, and is in a

state of decay.

After dinner we regretfully set out for the station to pursue our way

to the still more attractive city of Samarkand. The train was crowded,

but as we arrived in good time we secured a coupé to ourselves, a most

important matter with a journey of some fourteen hours before us. During

the night we heard a crash of glass in the adjoining carriage; evidently

it was merely accidental, for we heard nothing further; but it accounted

for the rigid scrutiny to which the railway carriages are continually

submitted in the course of every journey by the conductors, who keep

the compartments always locked when unoccupied. One is never allowed to

forget the hateful system of espionage, that has been brought to a rare

perfection throughout the Russian Empire.

CHAPTER XVIII

The Home of Tamerlane

We awoke next morning to find ourselves in a grey desolate wilderness,

as bare as the Hunger Desert. The lovely gardens full of fruit-trees

characterising Tashkent extend for some distance round the city, and

then comes a dull expanse of desert which, when seen through sheets of

rain, is the acme of dreariness. When we reached the end of our railway

journey we found, as usual, that the station was some miles away from

our destination, Samarkand, and we drove through oceans of mud under

a pelting rain to the Grand Hotel, a nice new house where the rooms

looked out on to a little garden. To our relief our host and hostess

had a limited acquaintance with the German language, so that we were

able to make our wishes known, the main one being for thorough washing

accommodation. We were taken to see a fine bath-room, and arranged to

have the stove at once lighted, for it is something of a function to have

a bath in Russia, and cannot be achieved under a couple of hours; our

host was evidently very proud of possessing a bath-room, and we spent a

happy afternoon getting rid of all traces of our eleven days and nights

of travel.

Next morning a radiant sun following the rain showed us Samarkand in its

most attractive guise. We drove through shady avenues, past fashionable

shops towards the _real_ city, and suddenly there burst upon our view a

wonderful dome and lofty archway, jewelled with tiles of dazzling blue.

It is the Gur Amir, the tomb of Tamerlane, the great Conqueror, the

forerunner of the Mogul Emperors. In the midst of a thick cluster of

trees the tomb rises erect, so that only the cupola is visible until you

come close to it. It is enclosed by the care of the Russian authorities

with an inconspicuous little wall, finished off with a metal coping

along the top. Formerly the tomb was entered (according to regulation)

from the south side, but most of the outer buildings have already

fallen to pieces. The present entrance is on the north, and the façade

is completely covered with tiles; it is a marvellous blaze of colour,

composed of various shades of blue, varied with white and a little

yellow, the whole effect being that of a blue mosaic. The decorations are

varied; there are a large number of inscriptions, many of them from the

Koran, in Persian characters of the fifteenth century. They certainly

add rather than detract from the decorative character of the design.

Passing through the entrance gate one comes into a grassy courtyard paved

with black marble, in which are ancient mulberry trees, and the central

building rises beyond them. The whole of this inner façade is also tiled.

Among the inscriptions one was deciphered by Vambéry, which proved to

be the architect’s signature: “This is the work of poor Abdullah, son of

Mohammed, native of Ispahan.”

[Illustration: TAMERLANE’S TOMB (INTERIOR)]

In the days of his glory Tamerlane determined to have erected for

himself a mausoleum excelling in magnificence all the other buildings at

Samarkand. For this purpose he selected the Persian architect, Abdullah,

charging him to build a tomb worthy to enshrine his remains. The two

original towers which flanked the cupola are both gone, one of them

quite recently, and the great western archway is falling to pieces, but

the immense Kûfic[5] characters (white on a blue ground) which form the

frieze immediately below the cupola are still almost perfect. The style

is not entirely Persian, but was probably modified by the influence of

the architecture which the Persians found in Samarkand. On each side of

the main building is a small chapel containing tombs of minor importance.

Entering the tomb by a beautifully carved and inlaid door, we found

ourselves in a little sanctuary, where the faithful come to pray, laying

their foreheads against the walls. The height of the dome (measured from

within) is about 74 feet. Despite a small window at each end containing

alabaster tracery, the light is dim, and a religious hush seems to

pervade the building. Not only Tamerlane but others also are buried

here. Shortly after the building of the mausoleum, his teacher, Saïd

Mir Berke, a venerable mullah (holy man), died, so Tamerlane showed his

supreme reverence for him by having him buried in the Gur Amir, ordering

that his own body should be placed (when he died) at the mullah’s feet.

There are in addition several small tombstones surrounding the special

slab (said to be of green jade) which marks Tamerlane’s resting-place.

This precious monolith was sent for this purpose by a Mongolian

princess ten years after his death to his successor, Nadir Shah, but

was unfortunately broken in the transport. The two pieces have been

fastened together, and it has been elaborately carved with Tamerlane’s

name, titles, and ancestry, interspersed with passages from the Koran.

Copies of these are for sale at the tomb. Monsieur Edouard Blanc, in an

interesting article in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ (Feb. 15, 1893), says

he examined this stone very carefully from the mineralogist’s point of

view, and has no hesitation in declaring that it is not jade. Certainly

there is no other known specimen of this stone anything like the size,

for jade is only found in small pieces; but there are other stones

frequently mistaken for jade, such as jadeite (hence its name), which is

not nearly so valuable. Tamerlane’s known desire to have a tomb of jade

is probably the reason why it is so called. The jade mines of Turkestan

have been celebrated in China for at least 2000 years. Above the mullah’s

tomb are two crossed bamboo poles bearing the Prophet’s green flag, and

the standard, which consists of a horse’s mane and a gold button. The

tombs are enclosed by a low alabaster-work balustrade, as seen on the

left hand in the sketch.

But Tamerlane was so afraid lest cupidity should cause his tomb to be

rifled that he ordered his body to be buried in a crypt below the other

tomb, the existence of which was until quite recently unknown, except to

a few initiated persons. The entrance, which was concealed by a paving

stone, is now open to the gaze of all. We went down into it by a flight

of steep stone steps and found a number of tombs, one of which was the

hero’s, made of specially finely carved marble. We were invited to pay a

small sum in order to place candles on it, so I presume our respectful

attitude had won us the reputation of being good Moslems. The vaulted

roof of this crypt was admirably designed brickwork, of which the rough

sketch opposite may give an idea. It was a twelve-sided figure, and the

whole of the interior was in excellent repair. It was dimly lighted by a

torch, which our guide produced, and we were glad to escape promptly back

to the upper air, where I sat down to sketch. Various worshippers came

in and out to say their prayers, for the worship of saints is a marked

characteristic of Mohammedanism, and there are many shrines in Samarkand.

Every one seemed friendly and devout, except an obvious tourist with his

guide, who certainly disturbed the serenity of the atmosphere.

Another day I sketched the outside of that wonderful mausoleum, and

day by day as we studied the monuments which time has defaced, but

which even in decay surpass all others in their potent effect upon the

imagination, I dreamed of the genius which had left such an imperishable

memory. Surely none of the other conquerors of the world was ever so

strange a mixture as the great Mogul, compounded of ambition, lust of

power, love of beauty, relentless cruelty, domestic affection, and zeal

for “the Faith.”

[Illustration]

Timur i Leng, the lame Timur, or Tamerlane (to use the vulgarised form

of his name), was born at Shahr-i-Sabz, “the green city,” about fifty

miles south of Samarkand, in 1336. His father, Teragai, had been the

first ruler in the country converted to Islamism, and he brought up his

son Tamerlane in the studious retirement which he himself loved. The

young man was well versed in the knowledge of the Koran, but he was

noted also for his good horsemanship and other manly pursuits. Tamerlane

soon abandoned his father’s way of life and reverted to the earlier type

of Genghiz Khan and Kubla Khan. The accounts of the Mongol raids sound

like visions of the lowest hell, beside which Dante’s descriptions are

colourless; these raids are inconceivable to the modern mind, and yet

history shows that they were not the work of madmen, but that they are

due to a strain of ferocious brutality in the Mongol blood. Where this

happens to be combined with great power or genius, as in the case of Ivan

the Terrible, or Tamerlane, the result is appalling.

At the age of twenty-two Tamerlane was sent at the head of a thousand

horse to invade Khorasan, but it was not the first time he had been in

the field, and he was subsequently employed in fighting for his own

throne after his father’s death. In 1369 he had conquered his opponents,

and he mounted the throne at Samarkand. It would be monotonous and vain

to recapitulate the history of the incessant wars which Tamerlane waged

during the next thirty years in order to extend his dominions in Central

Asia, but it was when he was over sixty years of age that he undertook

the greatest of his expeditions, the conquest of India (as it has been

erroneously called). He ravaged the north and sacked its principal city,

Delhi, returning to Samarkand with great spoil. Clavigo, the historian,

says that he brought back ninety captured elephants to carry stone for

the building of a new mosque at Samarkand. It was Baber, his descendant

of the fifth generation, who founded the Mongol Empire in India in 1525,

more than a century and a quarter later than Tamerlane.

During this campaign Tamerlane became embarrassed by the number of

his Hindu prisoners, no less than 100,000 at a single time, so his

counsellors urged him to have them slain. The historian remarks: “He

listened to this considerate and wise advice, and gave orders to that

effect”; so that they were all slain “with the sword of holy war.” In

order to accomplish the frightful task the soldiery was not sufficient,

and “one of the chief ecclesiastics, who in all his life had never even

slaughtered a sheep, put fifteen Hindus to the sword.” (Holden’s “Mogul

Emperors of Hindustan,” p. 27.) On another occasion he slew no less than

70,000, and had the heads piled into a pyramid and plastered over with

mud. In this gruesome conception he was following the example of his

ancestor Genghiz Khan, who had devised the idea of having the thousands

of corpses which were slain on various occasions built into architectural

designs. At the taking of Bagdad the number of slaughtered enemies was

80,000.

Tamerlane was in the habit of taking his wives with him on his campaigns,

as well as learned men, and it is related that when in India he had

the latter placed _behind_ the women, and the women behind the army

during the battles. The fear of him was so great that even after he

had left Delhi prayers were said in his name in the mosque there until

his death; afterwards in the name of his son. Tamerlane’s religiosity

(for it can really be called by no other name) is shown in the account

which he caused to be written in his Memoirs giving his reasons for the

invasion of India. “My principal object in coming to Hindustan and in

undergoing all this toil and hardship was to accomplish two things. The

first was to war with infidels, the enemies of the Mohammedan religion;

and by this religious warfare to acquire some claim to reward in the

life to come. The other was a worldly object, that the army of Islam

might gain something by plundering the wealth of the infidels; plunder

in war is as lawful as their mother’s milk to Mussulmans who fight

for their faith, and the consuming of that which is lawful is a means

of grace.” The necessity for keeping his troops in good humour can be

readily understood, but that the awful atrocities and unmentionable

crimes committed by them, which are veiled in that last sentence, should

be characterised as “a means of grace,” sounds like an unholy jest. It

is impossible to ascertain with any accuracy the numbers of Tamerlane’s

troops, but not only were there picked troops of some 200,000 men, but

also vast numbers of irregulars, who flocked to his standard in the hope

of plunder. But besides Tamerlane’s hosts of soldiers, who are said by

his biographer to have idolised him, he had also hosts of artificers

and workmen, for he built many palaces, mosques, and houses, of which

only a comparatively small number survive the ravages of time. Clavijo

describes the building of a street full of shops, which was to extend

from one end of Samarkand to the other. No heed was taken of the claims

of those who already were in possession; their houses were torn down,

while the inmates fled with such things as they were able to snatch up

and take with them. As fast as the houses were demolished others rose

upon the ruins, as by enchantment, and at the end of twenty days and

nights of uninterrupted labour the street was complete, and Tamerlane had

it occupied forthwith by shopkeepers.

The various trades were formed into guilds as in western lands

apparently, and at one of the feasts given during the visit of the

Spanish embassy we are told that “an amphitheatre was covered with

carpets, where there were masquerades. The women were dressed like

goats, others like sheep and fairies, and they ran after each other.

The skinners and butchers appeared like lions and foxes, and all other

tradesmen contributed specimens of their skill.”

The Conte de Rubruquis, who was sent by St. Louis of France from the

Holy Land to visit the Court of Tamerlane, gives a similar impression of

the way in which building operations were carried on by that autocratic

monarch, all of whose operations seem to have been executed in

desperate haste. He says of the building of one of the great mosques:

“The architects chose a happy moment to begin it, namely, on the fourth

of Ramadam, 801 (May 28, 1399), which answers to the year of the Hare,

the Moon being then in Leo, going out of the sextile aspect of Venus.

The masons, brought from foreign countries, as mentioned before, gave

the greatest proofs of their art and skill, as well in the solidity and

beauty of the angles, as in the strength of the foundations of this

noble edifice. In the inside of the mosque were employed two hundred

masons from Azerbijana, Persia, and India; five hundred men likewise

worked in the mountains in the cutting and hewing of stones, which

were sent into the city. Several other artisans of different trades

performed their parts with the utmost application. Ninety-five chains

of elephants were made use of in drawing large stones with wheels and

machines according to the laws of mechanics. The princes of the blood

and Emirs were appointed to oversee the workmen, that not one moment

might be lost in finishing this stupendous building.” The event was

celebrated with sumptuous banquets, accompanied by all sorts of plays

and diversions. “The Empress Rokia Canica on this occasion gave a noble

entertainment, accompanied with concerts of music and fine dancing.”[6]

The descriptions of Clavijo, the Spanish envoy, are equally vivid and

interesting, giving a thoroughly complete picture of life at the Court

of the great Khan. Referring to the Empress Cano (as Clavijo calls her),

he says that after she had approached the Emperor, attended by her 300

ladies and eunuchs, and had taken her seat, the second wife or “little

Cano” came out and took up her position, followed in turns by his seven

other wives. The tents and pavilions on such occasions were of the utmost

magnificence, scarlet cloth embroidered with gold and silks, white satin

and different coloured silks, with silken cords and tassels. The tables

were of gold, and the ornaments of gold and precious stones. Drinking

formed an important part of the ceremony, and the Empress was greatly

displeased when the monk de Rubruquis refused to drink at her invitation;

he narrates that many of the guests became quite drunk and even fell

down before her, which added to the amusement. There was also a popular

and less harmful beverage of cream and sugar. The meats consisted of

sheep and oxen, roasted whole, and served on dishes of thick stamped

leather. No less than three hundred men were requisite to bring them in,

and camels were used to bring them to the place. This part of the feast

sounds quite unrefined, for the food is said to have been placed in heaps

on the ground, and there is no mention of any utensils.

At another great festival to which the Spanish envoys were summoned,

they were forced to pay elaborate homage to one of the Khan’s grandsons

newly come from India, kneeling time after time before him. Doubtless

they felt there was no choice as to obeying any such order of Tamerlane,

for had they not seen plenty of instances of his summary methods of

so-called “justice.” At the marriage festival of two of his grandsons

Tamerlane said he “knew how to be merciful and kind to some, and how to

be severe to others,” so a number of gallows were set up at the place of

entertainment. When the games were over he meted out “justice” to various

people who had incurred his displeasure, and they were instantly put to

death; hanging was the more aristocratic punishment, and execution was

the fate of the poorer classes.

Tamerlane’s most pleasing characteristic is the deep affection he

entertained for his Chinese wife and for his sons, whose death caused him

deep and passionate grief. There is a legend that he caused his daughters

to be taught magic in order to help him in his conquests, but that sounds

wholly at variance with his character. He was extremely energetic and

ambitious, and brooked no interference. The portraits of his personal

appearance are far from pleasing; he was not only lame, but also blind in

one eye. Tamerlane’s last campaign was against the Turks, and he pushed

as far as to Damascus, taking prisoner the Sultan Bajazet. On his return

he projected another distant campaign against China, but he fell ill of

ague and fever, and died in Syr Daria in 1405. His body was embalmed and

carried for burial to Samarkand.

CHAPTER XIX

Samarkand

Tamerlane’s tomb is on the threshold of Samarkand, and is but the prelude

which introduces the travellers to wonder upon wonder. The whole of the

first day we devoted to it, so as to come with a prepared mind and yet

quite fresh to the wealth of beauty that lies within the city. A fine

avenue of poplars leads from the tomb to the imposing citadel, dipping

into a deep ravine (where a wood market is always going on); as one

mounts the hill the citadel seems to tower above the city. Its one relic

of interest is the Keuk-Tash, a grey stone, ten feet long and four feet

broad, said to have been originally brought from Broussa. This formed the

seat from which Tamerlane dispensed judgment—one cannot say “justice”—and

which in later days was used by the Amirs of Bokhara for the same

purpose. A number of bazaars line the road, giving the impression of a

busy, flourishing town, and the road is thronged with carriages, men on

horseback, and carts. What a fascinating crowd it was. I must briefly

describe its chief elements. The population is principally Sart, but

there are Persians, Afghans, Kirghiz, and others. Some of their horses

are splendid proudly-stepping creatures, and it is a marvel to see their

trappings, handsomely embroidered cloths on which the equally handsomely

decorated antique saddles rest. These are either painted or inlaid wood,

and have a high peak in front; the stirrups are equally decorative, but

fastened so short that the knees are always bent. The Sarts invariably

ride unless extremely poor, and it is astonishing to see how fine some

of them are, who yet have to carry home their purchases from the market,

a somewhat incongruous effect being produced by these gorgeous creatures

having an armful of vegetables. If too poor to ride a horse, the Sart may

at least be able to afford a donkey. Some of them have a closely veiled

woman riding pillion; others will have their young sons riding before

and behind them on the same horse. The Sarts wear long flowing cotton or

silk robes of brilliant colours, especially affecting stripes, and high

leather boots. On their heads they wear little gaily-embroidered caps,

surrounded by a turban of dazzling whiteness, with ends coquettishly

hanging down by the left ear on to the shoulder. A poor man may be

only able to afford two or three yards of coarse white cotton for the

purpose, but the rich man will have twenty or thirty yards of the finest

muslin. Round the waist the men wear ornate belts, into which are stuck

the knife with gold or silver jewelled handle in its sheath of leather,

and in another case a comb, toothpick, and other et ceteras. Among the

foot-passengers are a certain number of women dressed in long, grey-blue

cloaks from head to foot, only just showing the wide trousers fastened

in at the ankle; there is but the smallest peep-hole through a horsehair

veil like a meat sieve. They are mere chattels, and are kept strictly

secluded. The children in their gay clothes form a delicious contrast,

and are as bright and merry as birds, full of mischief and fun; we had

a good opportunity of watching them while sketching, and they were

delightful neighbours for the most part, despite being rather distracting.

The first building that arrests the attention at the entrance to the

town is the citadel, but it has been transformed into Russian barracks,

so that the exterior is the main thing of interest. It boasts in modern

times of having been the scene of a stirring episode when the Russians

first took possession in 1868. A small garrison having been left there

while the main army went in pursuit of the Amir of Bokhara, found itself

surrounded by 20,000 men, and for five days succeeded in holding the

position until relieved by the timely arrival of a corps from Tashkent.

Then a terrible vengeance fell upon the doomed city, which was given over

for three days to pillage as in the days of Tamerlane. What grim irony to

call Samarkand _la bien gardée_, when through all the centuries it has

been desolated, beginning from the conquest of Alexander the Great, more

than twenty-two centuries ago, down to the present time. Under the Arab

Sámánids in the eighth century it became a great centre of learning, and

was renowned throughout the world; then Genghiz Khan fell upon it in

1219, and although it is said to have been defended by 110,000 men, he

took the city and let loose his ferocious hordes upon it. When they left

the city the population had been reduced to one-fourth of the size it had

been, but even then it was said to boast 25,000 families. In the days of

Tamerlane it rose again to 150,000, and at the present day the native

city covers a great area, being enclosed within a low wall of nine miles

in extent.

The next group of ancient buildings which meets the eye is the great

market square, the Righistan, three sides of which are surrounded by

madressahs or colleges, the fourth side being bounded by a row of small

native shops. The four sides are quite separate from one another, a

street passing along the north side of the square in front of the

Tilla-Kari Madressah. It would be impossible to describe the magnificent

effect of these buildings due to their great height, simplicity of

design, brilliancy of colour, and the noble space which they enclose.

The square is more than two centuries later in date than the days of

Tamerlane, but it is the harmonious continuation and completion of his

work. The eastern building is the oldest of the madressahs, called after

its builder, Uleg Beg (A.D. 1420 approximately); he was the grandson

of Timur, a great patron of art and science. He made a table of the

fixed stars, agreeing pretty closely with that made by the celebrated

Danish astronomer, Tycho-Brahé, more than a century later. It is the

smallest of the three madressahs, containing accommodation for only

fifty students, but attached to it was the world-renowned observatory

and school of mathematics. Uleg Beg used the quadrant, the radius of

which, says d’Herbelot, equalled the height of St. Sophia. A description

of one madressah will suffice for the three, as they are all built on

the same plan. The front of the quadrilateral building is about 100 to

150 feet in height, with an immense porch nearly extending to the top

of it; the porch is mostly filled in with beautiful tiles, but contains

a small window in the upper part and a wide door below, with smaller

ones on either side. The broad spaces of masonry flanking the porch are

subdivided into three sections, which are all differently and richly

decorated with tiles, in which blue is the predominating colour. The

two small doorways lead into a paved court surrounded by buildings,

in the centre of each of which is a pointed porch called “pichtack,”

similar to that of the façade, but on a much smaller scale, and generally

of finer workmanship. This is surrounded by arcades, the central one

being a hall for prayer, decorated with suitable inscriptions cut in

hard stone or marble slabs in the walls. The courtyard corresponds to

our cloister of the West, and trees cast a pleasant shade in it where

the studious Mohammedans spend so many weary hours, for the university

training lasts from twenty to twenty-seven years. One of the students

showed us his tiny cell with its store of books—a very limited one.

As we entered another student or Mullah stood praying just within the

porch at the top of his voice, and in shrill and dolorous accents:

the Sunnites adopt this tone in order that there may be no suspicion

of tune or melody. The studies are by no means confined to religion,

however, for they embrace all the faculties, and men are here trained to

fill every office of Church and State. The Koran and its commentaries

are considered fundamentals, and when one reflects that Mohammedanism

owes its widespread success no less to the proselytising spirit of its

merchants and soldiers than of its religious teachers, one is forced to

admire the wisdom which requires that such thorough teaching be given

to the educated classes. We were told that the students have to observe

strictly certain rules throughout the whole course of their university

career; married men are allowed to spend two nights a week in their own

homes, but the remaining five must be spent in the madressah. The length

of the course is a heavy strain on the resources of a family, but many of

these people, living in mean surroundings and with no outward pomp, are

possessors of considerable wealth. In Tashkent the Government is offering

free education for boys in the Russian schools, in order to attract the

Sarts to send their sons to them, and the lessons are given both in

Russian and in Sart, half and half. This is done for political purposes,

and with a view to getting more into touch with the native population:

at present there is a great gulf fixed between them.

To return to our subject—the architecture of the schools. On the right

and left of the central façade there are side wings, originally covered

with tiles, but now somewhat injured by time, and at their outer end rise

lofty cylindrical towers of great height and entirely covered with tiles;

they are now quite out of the perpendicular, and it is impossible to do

anything to preserve them from the effects of the violent earthquakes

which are continually destroying the priceless monuments of Samarkand.

The madressah of Shir Dar (“the lion bearing”), built in 1601, faces that

of Uleg Beg, and the only difference of importance between the two is

that the former has two domes rising from the side wings of the façade,

namely, between the porch and the towers. It is the largest of the three

madressahs, and contains rooms for one hundred and twenty students. Its

name is due to the heraldic figures of lions (only they are more like

tigers) on the façade. Most of the designs on all the architecture at

Samarkand are arabesques, inscriptions, or geometrical figures, but

there are occasionally animals introduced, such as lions, griffons, and

dragons. As regards colour, in the later architecture, black, green, and

gold are added to the blues and yellow characterising the earlier tiles,

but there is comparatively so little other colouring than blue, that it

passes unnoticed without close inspection.

From the summit of the northernmost tower criminals used to be hurled,

we were informed, in the “good old days,” into the square below called

“the Gluttonous Place”; this was the case at Bokhara only last century:

they were trussed up like fowls. Visitors are usually taken by the

professional guide up this madressah to look over the city, from the

platform upon which the cupolas rest. It is perhaps desirable to warn

ladies visiting Samarkand to beware of this guide, as he bears an

unsatisfactory character. Our unofficial guide took us to the top of the

Tilla Kari (“dressed in gold”) façade, which is much loftier, and from

which a fine view of the mountains is to be obtained. The ascent was

steep, rough, and perilous, but well worth not only the effort, but also

the resultant stiffness of many days. The vision that burst upon our

view as we emerged from the dark staircase was that of a city gleaming

among a wealth of trees, stretching far across the plain to the distant,

snow-capped mountains. Far below the motley crowd looked like ants; the

vivid colouring of their robes was almost indistinguishable, and only a

hushed murmur rose to our ears from the busy throng.

In the Tilla-Kari Madressah (built in 1618) there is room for fifty-six

students. It has an important mosque, of which the inside walls were

not only decorated with blue tiles, but also with fine marble slabs

handsomely cut and bearing gilded inscriptions, but the gilding was

somewhat dimmed by time. Evidently there was a large and costly carpet

on the floor, for our feet sank noiselessly into the soft pile, but it

was covered with a drugget, and we were only allowed to see a small

corner. This madressah has no flanking towers, and a less ornate façade,

which probably gave rise to the idea that it was the oldest, whereas it

is the most recent of the three.

Our evident delight in the beauty of the place was obviously a source

of no little gratification to the people; our only regret was that we

were unable to talk to them. Few people know the Sart language, or even

know of its existence, but in the mosques and bazaars Persian as well as

Arabic is current. The people to whom the glories of the place are like

a twice-told tale, watched our expression with some wonder, but keen

appreciation; when they had further inquired as to our nationality, it

seemed as if we were admitted into a sort of friendly intimacy.

We started one day from our hotel with a pleasant old man as droshky

driver; to him our host gave elaborate instructions as to where we should

go and what we should see; but in the old city he picked up a picturesque

native in white turban and wine-coloured robe, who forthwith constituted

himself our guide. Our inability to talk or even to understand his

language was a slight bar to our enjoyment, yet in the course of the

morning we gathered a certain amount of information about the city, and

felt that we had missed seeing nothing of real importance.

One of the finest ruins is the madressah of Bibi Khanum, the daughter

of the Chinese Emperor, and favourite wife of Tamerlane. She is said to

have built this not only as a school, but also as a mausoleum for her

remains; its greatness and beauty, however, were such that she offered it

instead to her lord and master (no doubt a wise policy on her part), and

built instead for her tomb what is known as the little Bibi Khanum, an

unimposing structure overlooking the grain market.

[Illustration: SAMARKAND]

The Spanish historian, Clavijo, gives a vivid picture of the lady taking

part at a great feast in honour of the wedding of Tamerlane’s grandsons.

He says: “When the people were all arranged in order round the wall which

encircled the pavilion, Cano, the chief wife of this lord, came forth to

be present at the feast. She had on a robe of red silk, trimmed with gold

lace, long and flowing. It had no waist, and fifteen ladies held up the

skirt of it to enable her to walk. She wore a crested head-dress of red

cloth, very high, covered with large pearls, rubies, emeralds, and other

precious stones, and embroidered with gold lace. On the top of all there

was a little castle, on which were three large and brilliant rubies,

surmounted by a tall plume of feathers.... Her hair, which was very

black, hung down over her shoulders, and they value black hair much more

than any other colour. She was accompanied by 300 ladies, of whom three

held her head-dress when she sat down, lest it should tilt over. She

had so much white lead on her face that it looked like paper, and this

is put on to protect it from the sun, for when they travel (evidently

Clavijo suffered in the same way as modern travellers when seeking

information) in winter or in summer all great ladies put this on.” The

palace one may very well believe, from what we can see of its remains,

was a fitting background to such a gorgeous company. Its vast height and

the brilliancy of the tiles make it one of the most impressive sights in

Samarkand. The magnificent cupola is sadly broken, but the remains show

that it is different from other cupolas in Samarkand, which were fluted

and ovoid in shape, with blue tiles decorating them in fine contrast to

the pearly whiteness of the remainder of the structure. The Bibi Khanum

cupola is dome-shaped and entirely covered with the turquoise blue tiles

so characteristic of Chinese architecture (in Shansi especially), and one

likes to fancy it as a reminiscence of the princess’s native land. It

is the most glorious note of colour, and at a distance, where the other

tiles lose all their effect, it glows with undimmed beauty. It added

value and charm to the various shades of blue in the great archway below

it. In my sketch of the city I have tried to give this effect. The walls

of the palace are sadly ruined, and it is to be feared that soon little

will remain; the majestic archways can still be traced, and some fluted

twisted columns of vivid blue are almost perfect, terminating below in

an elegant design some feet above the ground. Hard by, but outside the

precincts of the palace, another lofty tower stands erect, entirely

covered with blue arabesques. Surely such a wealth of beauty can be

found nowhere else in the world.

In the centre of the main courtyard, under the shade of the trees, is

a great marble lectern, richly carved, on which the gigantic Koran of

Othman was placed, which, it was alleged, the Chinese princess used to

read from a neighbouring window. It is certainly difficult to see how it

could be read otherwise than from some elevation, except by a giant. The

natives believe in its miraculous efficacy in cases of spinal diseases,

if the patient can bend sufficiently to creep underneath it.

There is still one octagonal tower covered with tiles which is fairly

complete, and also a portion of one of the immense round towers

similar to those in the Rigistan. In the interesting volume of Messrs.

Durrieux and Fauvelle, called _Samarkande la bien gardée_, there is

a true and suggestive comparison of these buildings, the Rigistan

still comparatively complete and perfect, but degraded from its former

greatness by its present inhabitants, the Bibi Khanum an absolute ruin,

but glorious with the imperishable beauty of the past. The Chinese lady

founded the largest of any of the schools of Samarkand.

As I was trying somewhat hurriedly to sketch a few architectural details,

the whole being far too vast to attempt, except from a considerable

distance, a lamentable whining arose almost at my feet, and a litter of

puppies crawled out from some brushwood. Our guide began looking about,

and soon discovered an empty old tin, which he got a lad to fill with

water. He next hailed a man in the bazaar and bought bread; when he had

crumbled it up the puppies fell upon it like starvelings. The buying of

the bread brought to light the fact that a different coinage is current

here from that used in the Russian city, and explained why our tips were

looked on with evident suspicion.