LIFE AT KASHGAR
For stalking about the streets (of Leh) or seated in silent rows
along the bazaar, were men of a different type from those around.
Their large white turbans, their beards, their long and ample outer
robes, reaching nearly to the ground and open in front showing a
shorter undercoat girt at the waist, their heavy riding-boots of
black leather, all gave them an imposing air; while their dignified
manners so respectful to others, yet so free from Indian cringing or
Tibetan buffoonery, made them seem like men among monkeys compared
with the people around them.--_Visits to High Tartary, Yarkand and
Kashgar_--ROBERT SHAW.
On the second day after our arrival the Macartneys and their children
left for England, but, busy though my hostess was, she found time to
show me everything in the house and offices, giving me all sorts of
hints that proved invaluable later on.
I was delighted with _Chini Bagh_ (Chinese Garden), as the Consulate
was called, the well-planned, airy house being set on low cliffs above
the river. The large garden was full of fruit trees in blossom, its
most charming feature being a terrace shaded by lofty poplars, from
which we had a fine view of the river winding away to our right and
could look down upon fields green with spring crops and watch the gaily
clad people moving along the network of roads and paths. In fact we
were so far above the world that I was sometimes reminded of the “Lady
of Shallot” and her magic mirror, the busy life passing below seeming
almost like a vision when viewed from this post of vantage, where we
ourselves were quite unobserved.
Another point that pleased me greatly about our new home was the fact
that we could walk on the flat roof of the house, and every now and
again, when the air was free of the all-pervading dust, we could enjoy
a wonderful mountain panorama. The snow-clad monarchs rose up, peak
behind peak, in indescribable grandeur, Kungur, as the natives called
it, dominating the whole, and I little thought that a few months later
I should be privileged to stand at the foot of these superb mountains
and have an unforgettable glimpse of the “vision splendid.” The
Russians always insisted that the great dome of Muztagh Ata (Father of
the Snows) could be seen from Kashgar, but Captain Deasy definitely
settled by his survey work that this mighty giant was hidden by Kungur.
[Illustration: DAOUD AND SATTUR. _Page 41._]
However, there was far more prose than poetry in my life at Kashgar,
particularly at first, when I was occupied in coping with the details
of housekeeping. I laboured under the disadvantage of being unable
to speak Russian to the cook, or Turki to the other servants, but
fortunately old Jafar Bai, who was entrusted with the purchases
of supplies in the bazar, spoke Persian, and as I have a working
acquaintance with that language he could act as my interpreter. To
counterbalance my lack of tongues I had a fair knowledge of cooking and
a good deal of energy, a quality useful in dealing with the slackness
of the Oriental, particularly in Mohamedan countries, where a woman is
obliged to hold her own, as her sex is of so little account. I speedily
discovered that Achmet, a Russian engaged at Tashkent for the high
sum of five pounds a month, was hardly a cook at all and could only
make two or three soups and prepare the same number of meat dishes; his
bread, moreover, was uneatable, and not a single pudding or cake found
a place in his repertory! This was bad enough; but his unwillingness to
learn, his lack of respect and his ceaseless wrangling with Jafar Bai,
whose office he wished to usurp, made housekeeping a tiresome business.
Before long it dawned upon me that to pay the wages of a _chef_ and to
be forced to do most of the work myself was not good policy, and when I
discovered that Achmet had a weakness for alcohol I made up my mind to
dispense with his services.
The kitchen-boy left by Lady Macartney had all the qualities that my
late cook lacked, and I now entered upon a peaceful existence as far
as the kitchen was concerned. Daoud _Akhun_ (David, the Reader of the
Koran, as his name implied) was a burly intelligent youth, and speedily
grasped my Persian interlarded with Turki words. But he had no claim
to his title of _Akhun_, as he could neither read nor write, and
consequently I had to prepare every dish two or three times before he
could remember the right quantities and be trusted to make it alone.
My little Colonial cookery-book gave all the recipes in cupfuls or
spoonfuls, a method that might with advantage be followed in England,
as it is a great saving of time and trouble.
Sattur, the butler of the establishment, was a gnome-like little man,
perfectly honest, but with the mind of a boy of twelve. The others
called him _Mulla_ Sattur, his title, like that of my cook, being due
to the fact that his father had been a _mulla_ or priest, though he
himself was entirely devoid of education.
He and his underling kept the house fairly well when looked after, but
Orientals are incurably slack according to Western ideas, and it was a
constant struggle to maintain a very moderate standard of cleanliness
and order. At first I tried to teach him to sweep the painted floors by
means of a damp cloth tied over a broom, instead of whisking the dust
from one place to another; but he nearly wept, saying at intervals,
“Not good, not good,” so averse was he to innovations. As a waiter he
had a tiresome habit of stretching his arm across us when serving food
or drink, and he had a constitutional inability to put on the lid of a
biscuit-tin or close a door. It was a proud moment when, after many a
reprimand, he knocked at my bedroom door instead of bursting in without
notice! Apart from these small failings he was very likeable, most
conscientious, and somewhat resembling a dog in his desire for praise
if he did anything well.
With all his virtues, he, on one occasion, nearly caused a disaster,
as the following anecdote will show. Some years before our arrival, a
British officer was in temporary charge of the Consulate, and as he
was a bachelor the servants soon took advantage of the fact that there
was no mistress. One day he found them going off to their respective
homes laden with provisions from his store-room, and in righteous
wrath he dismissed every one save Sattur, who had not joined in the
depredations. The little fellow then united in his person the offices
of cook, butler and housemaid, and apparently did so well that his
master was emboldened to give a tea-party. The guests arrived, but
the _pièce de résistance_ in the shape of rock-cakes was so long in
appearing that the amateur cook was summoned. Sattur then explained
with some perturbation that he was sure something was wrong with the
baking-powder, because, although he had mixed in a double quantity with
the flour, the buns utterly refused to rise. The captain demanded to
see this curious baking-powder, and he and his guests had a shock when
he discovered that it was the arsenic which he kept to cure the skins
of the animals and birds that he shot!
One of the great drawbacks of the Turki is that they never wash. There
are no public baths, as in Persia, nor does the rule of a weekly bath
on Friday before going to the mosque hold good here. The only thing I
could do was to insist firmly on clean garments and well washed hands
and faces. All the servants wore very long sleeves in which they hid
their hands to show respect to superiors. They were in the habit of
using these sleeves as dusters, but had to roll them up when they did
any work.
Jafar Bai, the head _chuprassi_, willing and trustworthy, was my
marketer, but variety in diet was difficult to obtain when we had only
the toughest of mutton and the stringiest of fowls on which to depend.
We were warned that the beef was usually diseased, and as many cases
of illness had occurred from eating the fish caught in the river--some
being diseased and others apparently having a poison-gland--we never
ventured upon that form of food, and no game was to be had until the
autumn.
Fortunately eggs were abundant, and we obtained some butter and milk
from our two cows, attended by their calves, which took about half
what their mothers yielded. As the small quantity of butter produced
was barely sufficient for the table, I tried to supplement it by
procuring cream from the bazar, but unluckily the Kashgaris do not
practise cleanliness in any form. The cream was always distressingly
dirty and had to be passed through muslin and then brought to
boiling-point before it could be made into butter, and even then had
an unpleasant smell and a dingy appearance. After various trials I
resorted to suet for my cooking, and bought _dumba_, the big bunch of
fat that forms the tail of the Central Asian sheep. On our arrival
we found that owing to the War no white flour could be purchased in
Kashgar, and we were obliged to have recourse to the native article,
with its large admixture of grit and dust, before we could procure
Russian flour from Osh.
The Swedes told me that when their mission was started in Kashgar
some twenty years ago the prices of food were very low, there being
practically no money in the country. In those days trading was done “in
kind,” but prices had trebled or even quadrupled in the last few years.
Even so, I did not consider them exorbitant when I could purchase a
small leg of mutton for 1s. 10d., soup-meat at 2½d. a lb., a fair-sized
fowl for 8d., and eggs at about four a penny. Sugar, Russian bacon,
cheese and suchlike imported things were naturally expensive owing to
the difficulties of transport. The weights were a _jing_ (1⅓ lbs.), 16
_jings_ making a _charak_ (21 lbs.), while the Russian _poud_ was 36
lbs.
The prices were usually computed in _tangas_, a coin worth about 2d.,
which, to my great surprise, did not exist. This mythical _tanga_
equalled 25 _darchin_, while 16 _tanga_ and 10 _darchin_ made a
_seer_--a coin worth about 2s. 8d. This sounds easy enough, but was
complicated with the Chinese _tael_, the Indian _rupee_ and the Russian
_rouble_, all these coins being current in Kashgar.
The important question of the laundry was settled satisfactorily by
a woman who arrived on Mondays and installed herself under a shelter
in the yard where were basins and a fireplace. On Tuesdays the ironer
made her appearance, the same woman being unable to see the clothes
through both processes; and she was accommodated in a room with a long
table, shelves on which to deposit the garments, and a supply of irons.
Lady Macartney had warned me that this woman had a fondness for doing
her work on a dirty cloth, and I soon found that she lived up to her
reputation and would lay aside the clean sheet that I provided unless I
looked in upon her at frequent intervals. Though she was a fair ironer
she had no knowledge of starching, but we discovered a male artist who
undertook to get up my brother’s shirt fronts and collars, though he
utterly declined to wash them. I paid both women some _tangas_ extra
on condition that they washed and ironed all the servants’ cloths
and dusters, my rule being to give out clean ones every Monday and
Wednesday in exchange for their dirty ones; a plan that ensured as much
cleanliness as I could reasonably expect.
Shortly before we left Kashgar for England our lady ironer departed
without warning to another town, but the male artist kindly came to the
rescue and took over her job. He used to make the most extraordinary
noises, but I thought nothing of them until I came into the
ironing-room one day, carrying a dress that was creased. He laid it out
on the ironing-board and to my horror began to eject a fine spray of
water from his mouth upon it, making at the same time the noise that
had puzzled me!
There was not much social dissipation at Kashgar, though there was a
colony of fifty Russians, together with a body of sixty-five Cossacks
and their officer. Out of these only a dozen made up “Society,” and
we met twice a week at the “Club,” providing tea and cakes in turn.
Here four of the men and my brother played tennis on a mud court, an
adjoining court being laid out for croquet, where the rest of us played
a game with wide hoops, a “cage” in the centre and small-headed mallets
that took me back to the days of my early youth. Every one “spooned”
and pushed the balls into position in a way contrary to every rule
of up-to-date croquet and got quite excited over the games. It was
curious to see the thoroughly inefficient way in which the servants
swept these courts. Their method was to kneel down and brush up the
sand with little twig brooms that they held in one hand, while with the
other they collected the dust into heaps before piling it on one of the
skirts of their long coats and so carrying it off.
Prince Mestchersky, the Consul-General, and his wife and staff were
most friendly, and we were invited to a round of dinners and lunches,
Achmet’s incompetence giving me many an anxious moment when we returned
the hospitalities lavished upon us. Unluckily for me, only four or five
of the Russians could speak French or German, and as I have no gift of
tongues my attempts to learn Russian were far from successful.
This was rather trying, as the Russian entertainments ran to length.
I always remember the first lunch party to which we were invited. It
was given in a garden at some distance from the Consulate, and I drove
there well swathed in cloak and veils, to avoid arriving with the
complexion of a mulatto from the clouds of suffocating dust that rose
up from the road. Driving was also a penance, owing to the rough roads
along which one was bumped and jolted until one ached all over. Our
goal was an enclosure full of fruit trees in blossom and planted with
flowers, in which two long tables, placed on mud platforms covered with
carpets, were spread with different kinds of wine, fruit, sweetmeats
and so on. The Russian colony, including the three ladies in their
smartest dresses, was assembled on a third platform hung round with
Chinese embroideries. Scarlet awnings were stretched above the tables
to keep off the sun, and when all the guests had arrived we sat at the
first table for an hour and a half, while many _zakouskas_ and course
after course of meat were handed round and interminable toasts were
drunk.
I am a water-drinker, but soon found that I should give offence if I
refused to return the toasts in wine; so I did at Rome as Rome does,
held my glass up, clinked it with other glasses, and sipped as occasion
required. The Tsar’s Prohibition Act had not found its way into Chinese
Turkestan, and never have I seen such a bewildering array of bottles.
The first toasts led off in vodka, after which different wines and
liqueurs were served in unending succession. Among the guests was a
savant who had spent some years in the Gobi Desert copying ancient
inscriptions, and had halted at Kashgar on his return to civilization.
His exploits with the bottle were so remarkable that my table-companion
said he must be slaking his two years’ thirst at one go!
When we had sat till three o’clock at one table we were requested to
adjourn to the second, where ices, sweetmeats, champagne and coffee,
and of course cigarettes, were served. After an hour of this our host
proposed that we should take a little _promenade de digestion_; so
off we all went along dusty paths bounded by high mud walls and round
freshly irrigated fields. To compass these latter we had to walk
carefully on the top of the irrigation banks, the ladies finding this
somewhat difficult owing to their heels of abnormal height. At one
place we came to a ditch where the gentlemen insisted on helping us
across, though it was a very small jump, but my companions had such
extremely narrow skirts that they could not have done it unaided. On
our return to the garden the Princess wished to wash her hands; so
soap and towels were provided and in turn we held out our hands for a
servant to pour water over them, our gallant host waving a bottle of
eau-de-Cologne, with which he besprinkled the ladies.
My heart failed me when I saw tea in readiness, with cakes, biscuits
and sweets galore, and I had to wrestle for some time longer with
linguistic difficulties, thankful that three of those assembled could
talk French fluently. When a surreptitious peep at my watch told me
that it was half-past six, we took our leave amid many exclamations as
to the extreme earliness of our departure from the lunch party!
Nice and friendly as the Russians all were, my brother and I led lives
of such a different kind that we could not well coalesce. If we dined
with them we could never leave before midnight, and they themselves
said that they liked to stay on till five o’clock in the morning, the
domestics serving up a supper, or rather an early breakfast, from the
remnants of the dinner, and possibly they would stroll out to see the
sun rise before they repaired to their homes. Owing to their love of
late hours they did not rise till mid-day, and as they could not enjoy
the cool of the mornings as we did, they used to “take the air” by
moonlight.
They did not play bridge, and we could not learn their difficult
card-game, nor was it possible to play a kind of loto with them, owing
to ignorance of the language.
Those forming “society” lived apparently in one another’s houses all
day long, never liking to be alone, and the little colony reminded us
of the Florentines rendered immortal by Boccaccio, who, when the plague
was raging, left their city and went to a lovely garden outside its
walls, caring nothing for the misery and death they had so skilfully
avoided. In this case it was not a plague, but the World War, that our
neighbours appeared to ignore, except now and again when the Germans
approached some place where they had relatives or friends.
I cannot refrain from giving the menu of one of the dinners we gave
the Russians, in order to show what Daoud and I could accomplish when
working together:
MENU.
_Hors-d’œuvres._
Caviare on toast. Salmon mayonnaise. Fried sausages.
_Tomato Soup._
_Meat Courses._
Chicken aspic. Steaks à la tournados. Indian curry. Vegetables.
_Sweets._
Trifle. Jam tarts. Ices.
_Savoury_--Cheese straws.
_Dessert._
A dinner such as this required my presence in the kitchen the greater
part of two mornings, and the food had to be arranged with an eye to
Daoud’s capacities; for I fought stoutly against the Oriental habit of
long waits between the courses. On these occasions I hired an assistant
who did all that my cook would permit, and Sattur was supported by
Jafar Bai and another _chuprassi_ resplendent in scarlet and gold
uniforms and snowy turbans. The clerk of the office, who spoke English
and Turki, always read over the menu more than once to Daoud, and I
insisted that the latter should repeat it in his turn, in order to
be sure that he had memorized it correctly. When we were seated at
table my anxieties were by no means over; for, in spite of my coaching
beforehand, the waiters were fond of getting into one another’s way,
and occasionally there were unseemly wrangles between Sattur, who
considered that he was the head, and masterful Jafar Bai, who would
sometimes wrench the bottles of wine from him as he was endeavouring
to fill up the glasses of our guests. But on the whole our dinners were
not inferior to those given by the Russians with their larger and more
experienced staffs, and our guests enjoyed coming to us, as some of our
dishes, such as curry, were more or less a novelty to them.
I have always liked entertaining, but in this case the language
difficulty used to leave me quite exhausted at the close of the
evening, and with the depressed feeling that I could not make things
go briskly. Both my brother and I took lessons from a young girl,
the companion of the Princess, but as she was uneducated and knew no
language save her own, I confess I did not get much benefit from her
instruction, although I tried to make her teach me by the Berlitz
method. She was, however, a help to my brother, who had studied the
language at Meshed, where he had had a good deal of social intercourse
with the Russian Consulate, and who only needed practice to talk easily.
The other Europeans consisted of a small body of Swedish missionaries,
men and women, headed by Dr. Raquette, who, besides his medical work,
has published a Turki grammar and dictionary. All the Swedes talked
English and gave us much information about Kashgar and its inhabitants,
in particular Mr. Bohlin, who accompanied us on many of our rides. They
had a hospital and dispensary, doing most useful medical work, and had
the only printing-press in Chinese Turkestan, from which they issued
books printed in Turki for use in their schools throughout the province.
A medical missionary in the East may be of incalculable benefit to
thousands, and Dr. Raquette’s successful operations for cataract, in
particular, brought him patients from far Khotan. Unfortunately the
Kashgaris were much under the influence of their _mullas_ and of the
native doctors, who, not unnaturally, objected to foreign methods, the
result being that they often came to the Swedes only when they were at
the point of death. Moreover, though they looked robust they seemed to
have little strength to resist the inroads of disease, and any serious
illness carried them off very speedily.
The mission was started a quarter of a century ago, Dr. and Mrs.
Höegberg, whom we met later at Yarkand, being its oldest members. At
first it met with persecution, the Chinese stirring up the Kashgaris
to besiege the little community in their house, but fortunately Mr.
Macartney, as he then was, rode to the rescue with his _chuprassis_,
and some Russian Cossacks aided him in the work of driving off the mob.
The Kashgari roughs then wreaked their vengeance on the new hospital
that was being built on the site which it now occupies, and every kind
of threat was used to induce the missionaries to leave Kashgar; but
they stood firm, and finally the Chinese official who was their enemy
was recalled, and forced to rebuild the hospital at his own cost. His
successor announced the change of policy by inviting the members of the
mission to a great banquet, at which the much-esteemed swallows’-nest
soup was served, and so the hatchet was buried for good.
I always thought that the apple-pie order of the mission buildings and
the excellent fruit and vegetables grown in the garden were a good
object-lesson to the Kashgaris, and indeed they were not insensible of
this, as the following anecdote shows. When one of the missionaries had
engaged a servant he heard an old retainer remark to the new recruit:
“You must be sure not to be dirty, because these people are so clean
that if they are forced to say an unclean word they go immediately and
wash out their mouths!” My informant also told me that a servant of one
of the lady missionaries, being short of cash, took all her plates to
the bazar and sold them. When she turned upon him in righteous wrath,
he remarked: “Oh, mistress, you are not blaming me properly,” and he
actually poured out a string of most abusive epithets, inviting, nay
imploring her to use them upon him!
Our days soon fell into a routine broken by the English post with
its month-old newspapers, which we devoured eagerly. The Reuter sent
across the passes from Gilgit gave us somewhat later information
about the War, and the Russians received occasional telegrams; but
their knowledge of geography was so limited that my brother had much
difficulty in eliciting any clear statement as to what was going on.
Riding was our chief amusement, and we purchased two fine Badakshani
horses of the breed described by Marco Polo, and were usually in the
saddle by half-past seven. The morning air was delightfully cool, and
the rides were wonderfully varied, a fresh one for each day of the
month we used to say. There was also the sound of running water in the
numberless irrigation channels as we rode under the trees along sandy
tracks free from stones and ideal for cantering. An added charm was the
fact that the walls enclosing gardens and fields were quite low, and
as a rule the crops were not fenced in at all, save by low banks of
earth.
At first we used to be accompanied on our walks and rides by Bielka
and Brownie, the dogs that the Macartneys had left in our care. Bielka
was a powerful white animal rather like a wolf, and unluckily had
such an unconquerable dislike to Europeans that he had to be chained
up whenever visitors came to the house. On our arrival Lady Macartney
“introduced” us to him by providing us with bits of meat to give him as
a peace-offering, and we became excellent friends.
It was amusing on our walks to watch him and Brownie, the fat,
easygoing spaniel; for the latter, an arrant coward, would pick
quarrels with the pariah dogs and then call his comrade to his aid,
the enemy fleeing in confusion as soon as Bielka appeared. But when we
found that, if a Cossack rode past, the great dog would rush at him
like a fury and try to tear him from his horse, and when on the same
walk we had to race to the rescue of a young Russian couple, the edict
went forth that our would-be guardian must be left at home. It went
to my heart to refuse him when he implored me to let him escort us;
for he was most charming to his friends and kept the Consulate free of
thieves, as he roamed about the place all night.
Though the Consulate was close to the city wall, we could turn almost
at once into shady lanes, bordered with irrigation channels, along
which willows, poplars and mulberries grew luxuriantly; while on either
side stretched fields green with lucerne and springing wheat, barley
and maize. But all the growth and prosperity of the Oasis was entirely
dependent upon the water, and should this source of life fail great
would be the devastation. One day we came upon a district where a big
network of irrigation channels had run dry owing to the bursting of a
dam, and hundreds of men were labouring against time to repair it and
thereby save the trees and crops. The _corvée_ system is in force in
Chinese Turkestan, and although tyrannical according to Western ideas,
it is certainly for the public benefit in such a case as this. The
villagers are forced to repair all roads and water channels in their
own districts, but the hardship comes in when their Chinese rulers
undertake to reclaim land from the desert and commandeer men from
considerable distances. They are supposed in such cases to be paid
threepence a day for their food, but it is rumoured that this money
usually goes into the pockets of the headmen.
The Kashgar Oasis is watered by the Kizil Su (Red River, so called from
its colour) and its branch the Tuman Su, which make the city and its
environs an island. In April there was little water in either stream,
so we could ford them easily on horseback; but during the summer it was
a different matter. We were warned to be on our guard for quicksands
in these rivers. Mr. Bohlin was once nearly caught in one, but feeling
his horse sinking beneath him he threw himself off in haste and wading
waist-deep he pulled the animal ashore. On another occasion he observed
several men trying to extricate a horse that had sunk so deeply that it
took the whole day to free it. These quicksands are less to be feared
in deep water which buoys the animals up. The Kashgaris always hurry
their horses over any suspicious place, but as the dangerous areas are
constantly changing, it is impossible to be sure of their whereabouts.
Charming as spring is in Chinese Turkestan, it has a serious drawback
in the violent sandstorms that are particularly frequent during March
and April, in fact it has been computed that there are only a hundred
really clear days during the year. For several days after our arrival
the air was thick with dust that veiled the sun and accounted for
the strictures passed by travellers on the “grey atmosphere” and
depressing climate of Kashgar. Either by day or by night a furious
wind would arise, bringing clouds of sand from the desert and coating
everything in our rooms with a layer of reddish grit that hurt our
eyes if we chanced to be caught in the open. I was told, however, that
the inhabitants liked this haze that enshrouded their city as being
a welcome change from the brilliant sunshine, and also as tempering
the heat that was beginning to be considerable during the middle
of the day. We noticed great changes in the temperature, sometimes
experiencing a drop of as much as twenty degrees from one day to
another. This I found out to my cost when I had a tiresome attack of
rheumatism caused by riding on a cold morning in the thin linen coat
that had been just the thing on the previous day.
These sandstorms raging through the centuries are supposed to have made
the loess formation which is so characteristic of Chinese Turkestan,
and so amenable to the spade of the cultivator when irrigated. The
countless layers of compressed sand are capable of producing splendid
crops, and the apparently lifeless desert of Central Asia is able to
support large populations if the beneficent agency of water be
provided.
[Illustration: WATERING HORSES IN THE TUMAN SU. _Page 56._]
The loess is also most useful in another way; for, when mixed with
chaff and water, it forms the staple building material of Chinese
Turkestan, and edifices of sun-dried loess bricks will endure through
the centuries, if repaired at intervals. I have often seen a peasant
mending a wall in most primitive fashion by filling the breach with
wet mud, which he slapped into position with his hands. Naturally this
style of building is suitable only in a dry climate, and a prolonged
period of heavy rain, such as sometimes occurs in winter, works havoc
with it, the flat roofs of houses staving in and walls frequently
collapsing. To the traveller, the loess, though picturesque when broken
up into crevasses and castellated forms, has its drawbacks. Unless
cultivated it is inexpressibly dreary, in dry weather the traffic stirs
it up into clouds of suffocating dust, and in wet it turns into a sea
of slippery mud, in which the surest-footed horse may come down. If
the rain be of long duration the soil is apt to turn into a veritable
morass, which engulfs many a poor little donkey and chokes it to death.
I was fond of riding through the bazar on a Thursday, the day of the
weekly fair, when crowds of people poured in from the many hamlets in
the Oasis, making a feast of colour. Among the men there was a great
mixture of types, the upper-class Kashgaris usually having handsome
features and full beards and moustaches; a group of Afghans with
hawk-like profiles and proud bearing would catch the eye, reminding me
of birds of prey when contrasted with the flat-faced, ruddy-cheeked,
hairless Kirghiz; and the lower classes with the high cheek-bones of
the Mongol seemed a link between the Iranian and the Chinese.
The men wore long coats, purple, red, green, or striped in many
colours, with gay handkerchiefs serving as waistbands. Snowy turbans
denoted _mullas_ and merchants, but the others in fur-edged velvet hats
or prettily embroidered skull-caps made gay splashes of colour as they
rode by on spirited stallions or donkeys. The women were, if possible,
more brightly clad than the men; their under shirts and trousers
contrasting with their coats and hats. One _belle_, for example, had an
emerald green coat lined with a flowered pink cotton; her under-garment
was a vivid orange, and her hat purple, with a spray of blossom
coquettishly stuck under the brim. It seems almost incredible, but she
fitted in well with her surroundings in the brilliant sunshine and the
spring green of foliage and crops.
The only visible differences between the dress of the men and of the
women were the long white cotton shawls of the latter which they
wore over their heads, and the small face-veils usually made of
hand-embroidery, sometimes with a handsome border and fringe. These
coverings were fastened to the brim of the hat, and were usually flung
back over it, only to be hastily pulled down by some very orthodox
dame at sight of my brother; but if I happened to be riding behind
him it would usually be pushed aside to enable its wearer to have a
good look at the English _khatun_. Girls of good family veil and are
kept secluded; but there were few “gentry” in Kashgar, for when the
Chinese retook the province on the death of Yakub Beg nearly all the
upper-class Kashgaris fled to Andijan. Both men and women wore
abnormally long sleeves, answering the purpose of gloves in cold
weather, and long leather riding-boots. The latter were often made of
scarlet leather and were more like stockings than boots, and over them
was worn a shoe with stout sole and heel. Indeed these long boots were
seen everywhere and constituted a special feature of the country, being
worn by men, women and children alike.
[Illustration: KASHGAR WOMEN AND CHILDREN. _Page 58._]
On one occasion I was invited to the house of a Turki lady who was
kind enough to display her wardrobe for my benefit. All her dresses
were beautifully folded and kept tied up in large cloths. A woman of
fashion wears five garments visible to the eye, the first two being the
long gown and the trousers under it. The gown is made of Bokhara or
Chinese silk, brocade, Russian chintz and so on, and over it is worn a
waistcoat, often of cloth of gold or silver, edged at the neck with the
handsome gold thread embroidery made at Kucha. Then comes a short coat
with long sleeves, usually of velvet woven in Germany and decorated
with a broad band of gold embroidery. One black brocade coat that I
saw was embroidered round the neck with big tinsel butterflies set
with artificial stones. The fifth garment is a long velvet or brocade
coat covering its wearer to the heels; I noticed a handsome one of
magenta velvet, the buttons being big bosses of scarlet coral set in
gold filigree and small pearls, a product of the Yarkand bazar. Draped
on the head is a big white shawl, often of pretty gauzy material, that
falls to the heels, and upon this are set the dainty skull-cap and the
big velvet fur-edged cap. To this latter is attached the face-veil
of fine-drawn thread edged all round with gold embroidery, the very
handsome broad band of needlework at the top being concealed by the
brim of the hat. This seemed a waste to my practical English mind, but
the lady to whom I pointed this out explained that such was the fashion.
Many of the young Kashgari women were most attractive in appearance,
and some of the little girls quite lovely, their plaits of long hair
falling from under a jaunty little embroidered cap, their big dark
eyes, flashing teeth and piquant olive faces reminding me of Italian
or Spanish children. One most beautiful boy stands out in my memory.
He was clad in a new shirt and trousers of flowered pink, his crimson
velvet cap embroidered with gold, and as he smiled and salaamed to us I
thought he looked like a fairy prince. The women wear their hair in two
or five plaits much thickened and lengthened by the addition of yak’s
hair, but the children in several tiny plaits.
The peasants are fairly well off, as the soil is rich, the abundant
water-supply free, and the taxation comparatively light. It was always
interesting to meet them taking their live stock into market. Flocks
of sheep with tiny lambs, black and white, pattered along the dusty
road; here a goat followed its master like a dog, trotting behind
the diminutive ass which the farmer bestrode; or boys, clad in the
whity-brown native cloth, shouted incessantly at donkeys almost
invisible under enormous loads of forage, or carried fowls and ducks in
bunches head downwards, a sight that always made me long to come to the
rescue of the luckless birds.
[Illustration: WATER-CARRIERS AT KASHGAR. _Page 60._]
It was pleasant to see the women riding alone on horseback, managing
their mounts to perfection. They formed a sharp contrast to their
Persian sisters, who either sit behind their husbands or have their
steeds led by the bridle; and instead of keeping silence in public,
as is the rule for the shrouded women of Iran, these farmers’ wives
chaffered and haggled with the men in the bazar outside the city,
transacting business with their veils thrown back.
Certainly the _mullas_ do their best to keep the fair sex in their
place, and are in the habit of beating those who show their faces in
the Great Bazar. But I was told that poetic justice had lately been
meted out to one of these upholders of the law of Islam, for by mistake
he chastised a Kashgari woman married to a Chinaman, whereupon the
irate husband set upon him with a big stick and castigated him soundly.
Market day at Kashgar presented an ever-changing kaleidoscope. Here a
turbaned grandfather bestriding a tiny donkey, his grandson clinging
on behind him and holding tight to his waistcloth, would cross the
imposing-looking bridge, a favourite haunt of the numerous beggars. On
the river bank the dyers would be beating long pieces of cloth in the
shallows; horses would be drinking standing knee-deep in the water,
and at the ford loaded asses could be seen staggering across, and men
and women with their garments kilted high wading to the opposite bank.
Donkeys carrying covered tubs were ridden by children who scooped up
the water in gourds and filled the receptacles that were to supply
their households for the day. Small mites hardly able to do more than
toddle, were fearless riders, sometimes two or even three children
being perched on the same animal. The excellence of the river brand
accounts for the fact that cholera is unknown in Kashgar, and the
inhabitants do not suffer from the goitre that is so prevalent in other
cities of Chinese Turkestan.
The little stalls in the bazar exposed all sorts of commodities for
sale. Melons that had been stored all through the winter; horseshoes
or murderous-looking knives laid out on benches; here were small piles
of almonds, walnuts and pistachios, there macaroni of native make and
rice; and at one corner of the road the dyers hung up their blue and
scarlet cloths to dry. As far as I could see the vendors made no effort
to press their wares, and there seemed to be no fixed hours of work,
men apparently sleeping, gossiping or drinking tea at any time of day.
In the bakers’ shops the ovens were big holes flush with the floor of
the shop, and the baker stuck the flat cakes of dough against their
sides and pulled them off when ready, with the aid of a long-handled
iron instrument. The bread, the little be-glazed rolls in the form of
rings, and the heaps of flour were all plentifully besprinkled by the
dust of the traffic; and during the cold weather the children would
squat all day close to these ovens and frequently tumble in and get
terribly burnt, poor little things. There was always business doing
at the forge, where the horses being shod were lashed so tightly to
an ingenious wooden framework that they could not move. Unluckily the
Turki farrier is more inclined to make the hoof fit the shoe than _vice
versa_, and as a result often cuts away the wall in most unscientific
fashion, as we sometimes found to our cost.
[Illustration: SHOEING IN THE KASHGAR BAZAR. _Page 62._]
Partridges and the pretty little desert larks kept in small round
cages called and twittered, but their notes would be drowned by the
performance of a group of professional singers who had drawn a crowd
round them. The leader in turban and silk attire, with a huge silver
buckle on his belt, sang, or rather shouted, a solo with many a trill
and tremulo, making excruciating facial contortions, the monotonous
chorus being taken up by the rest of the troupe. Some of these were
greybeards, others mere boys, but all had the appearance of undergoing
acute torture as they yelled at the top of their voices, and brought to
mind my old maestro who was in the habit of suddenly holding a mirror
in front of me if I wore a pained expression as I sang.
Yet the Kashgaris have the reputation of being very musical, and even
to my western ears there was considerable charm in many of their songs;
but try as I might, I could never pick up any of their airs, probably
owing to the fact that their notation is quite different from ours.
They do not understand part-singing, but play several instruments, such
as _sitars_, drums, pipes and tambourines. In the spring and summer
men and boys would sing up to a late hour at night, and with the first
glint of dawn I was often roused by cheerful peasants chanting on their
way to work in the fields.
The people say that travelling dervishes bring fresh tunes to the
towns, and that when the spring repertoire, for example, has been
learnt by the inhabitants it will be succeeded by new tunes for the
autumn and winter. There are sometimes no words to these refrains,
each singer supplying his own, in the fashion of the Italian
_improvisatori_. No woman of good repute may sing in public, and only
once did I hear a little girl of some eight or nine years old singing
away to herself and evidently much enjoying the exercise. Whistling
is not allowed even to children, but I could not find out whether the
Kashgaris believed, as do the Persians, that it summons the demons.
As the Kashgari woman is spoken of as _khatun_, mistress, and sometimes
as _khan_, or master, of the house, I thought that she had a far better
position than her Persian sister; yet the law of Islam presses heavily
upon her in many ways. Owing to the emigration of men from the Oasis
there is a large surplus of women, and marriage is consequently cheap
for a suitor. Parents often sell their daughter to the highest bidder
in the matrimonial market without allowing her any freedom of choice.
True, divorce may be had for a couple of _tungas_ (about fourpence),
but as the woman may not re-marry until a hundred days have elapsed,
she often has difficulty in keeping herself meantime, although the
man is supposed to return the dowry that he received with her at
her marriage. If she has children she must take charge of any under
seven years of age, but if they are above that age the husband looks
after the sons and the wife has the daughters, the husband paying a
maintenance allowance.
There is a law that, if the husband divorces his wife, the latter
may take all the movables in the house, and as in the case of a
merchant much of his wealth consists of carpets and brass utensils,
he often finds it cheaper to take a second wife rather than divorce
the first, who would make a clean sweep of the household plenishing. I
confess that this law rejoiced me, as I always resented the state of
inferiority to which Islam subjects my sex, and was glad that it gave
them the advantage for once.
[Illustration: A KASHGAR GRANDMOTHER. _Page 64._]
Kashgar is a great resort of traders, and the degrading custom of
temporary marriages is in full force, a man often marrying a woman for
a week or even a couple of days, the _mulla_ who performs the ceremony
arranging for the divorce at the same time. The missionaries told me
that most of the women in Kashgar had been married several times, and
this constant divorce leads to the wives taking whatever they can from
their husbands and secreting it against a rainy day. And one cannot
blame them; for, if a man wants to get rid of his helpmate, especially
if she be old, he often ill-treats her in order to force her to divorce
him and thus free him from the necessity of restoring her dowry. If
she does this she may find herself in evil case without means of
subsistence, and possibly unable to remarry.
How the children fare in all these matrimonial complications must be
left to the imagination. Fortunately marriage is a far more stable
institution in the villages, where monogamy is the practice and divorce
uncommon. Here the women are more on an equality with their husbands,
though on one occasion Mr. Bohlin saw a man guiding a plough to which
he had harnessed his wife and a donkey!
The Chinese also practise polygamy; but they never divorce a wife if
she be the mother of a son, and I understand that they do not approve
of the practice at all, regarding it as the ruin of family life and as
full of evil consequences to the children.