THE PASTORAL TRIBES OF THE STEPPE
A Journey to the Steppe Region of the Southeast--The Volga--Town
and Province of Samara--Farther Eastward--Appearance of the
Villages--Characteristic Incident--Peasant Mendacity--Explanation of the
Phenomenon--I Awake in Asia--A Bashkir Aoul--Diner la Tartare--Kumyss--A
Bashkir Troubadour--Honest Mehemet Zian--Actual Economic Condition of
the Bashkirs Throws Light on a Well-known Philosophical Theory--Why
a Pastoral Race Adopts Agriculture--The Genuine Steppe--The
Kirghiz--Letter from Genghis Khan--The Kalmyks--Nogai Tartars--Struggle
between Nomadic Hordes and Agricultural Colonists.
When I had spent a couple of years or more in the Northern and
North-Central provinces--the land of forests and of agriculture
conducted on the three-field system, with here and there a town of
respectable antiquity--I determined to visit for purposes of comparison
and contrast the Southeastern region, which possesses no forests nor
ancient towns, and corresponds to the Far West of the United States of
America. My point of departure was Yaroslavl, a town on the right bank
of the Volga to the northeast of Moscow--and thence I sailed down the
river during three days on a large comfortable steamer to Samara, the
chief town of the province or "government" of the name. Here I left the
steamer and prepared to make a journey into the eastern hinterland.
Samara is a new town, a child of the last century. At the time of
my first visit, now thirty years ago, it recalled by its unfinished
appearance the new towns of America. Many of the houses were of wood.
The streets were still in such a primitive condition that after rain
they were almost impassable from mud, and in dry, gusty weather they
generated thick clouds of blinding, suffocating dust. Before I had been
many days in the place I witnessed a dust-hurricane, during which it was
impossible at certain moments to see from my window the houses on
the other side of the street. Amidst such primitive surroundings the
colossal new church seemed a little out of keeping, and it occurred
to my practical British mind that some of the money expended on its
construction might have been more profitably employed. But the Russians
have their own ideas of the fitness of things. Religious after their
own fashion, they subscribe money liberally for ecclesiastical
purposes--especially for the building and decoration of their churches.
Besides this, the Government considers that every chief town of a
province should possess a cathedral.
In its early days Samara was one of the outposts of Russian
colonisation, and had often to take precautions against the raids of the
nomadic tribes living in the vicinity; but the agricultural frontier has
since been pushed far forward to the east and south, and the province
was until lately, despite occasional droughts, one of the most
productive in the Empire. The town is the chief market of this region,
and therein lies its importance. The grain is brought by the peasants
from great distances, and stored in large granaries by the merchants,
who send it to Moscow or St. Petersburg. In former days this was a very
tedious operation. The boats containing the grain were towed by horses
or stout peasants up the rivers and through the canals for hundreds of
miles. Then came the period of "cabestans"--unwieldly machines propelled
by means of anchors and windlasses. Now these primitive methods of
transport have disappeared. The grain is either despatched by rail
or put into gigantic barges, which are towed up the river by powerful
tug-steamers to some point connected with the great network of railways.
When the traveller has visited the Cathedral and the granaries he has
seen all the lions--not very formidable lions, truly--of the place. He
may then inspect the kumyss establishments, pleasantly situated near
the town. He will find there a considerable number of patients--mostly
consumptive--who drink enormous quantities of fermented mare's-milk,
and who declare that they receive great benefit from this modern
health-restorer.
What interested me more than the lions of the town or the suburban
kumyss establishments were the offices of the local administration,
where I found in the archives much statistical and other information
of the kind I was in search of, regarding the economic condition of
the province generally, and of the emancipated peasantry in particular.
Having filled my note-book with material of this sort, I proceeded to
verify and complete it by visiting some characteristic villages and
questioning the inhabitants. For the student of Russian affairs who
wishes to arrive at real, as distinguished from official, truth, this is
not an altogether superfluous operation.
When I had thus made the acquaintance of the sedentary agricultural
population in several districts I journeyed eastwards with the intention
of visiting the Bashkirs, a Tartar tribe which still preserved--so at
least I was assured--its old nomadic habits. My reasons for undertaking
this journey were twofold. In the first place I was desirous of seeing
with my own eyes some remnants of those terrible nomadic tribes
which had at one time conquered Russia and long threatened to overrun
Europe--those Tartar hordes which gained, by their irresistible force
and relentless cruelty, the reputation of being "the scourge of God."
Besides this, I had long wished to study the conditions of pastoral
life, and congratulated myself on having found a convenient opportunity
of doing so.
As I proceeded eastwards I noticed a change in the appearance of the
villages. The ordinary wooden houses, with their high sloping roofs,
gradually gave place to flat-roofed huts, built of a peculiar kind of
unburnt bricks, composed of mud and straw. I noticed, too, that the
population became less and less dense, and the amount of fallow land
proportionately greater. The peasants were evidently richer than those
near the Volga, but they complained--as the Russian peasant always
does--that they had not land enough. In answer to my inquiries why they
did not use the thousands of acres that were lying fallow around them,
they explained that they had already raised crops on that land for
several successive years, and that consequently they must now allow it
to "rest."
In one of the villages through which I passed I met with a very
characteristic little incident. The village was called Samovolnaya
Ivanofka--that is to say, "Ivanofka the Self-willed" or "the
Non-authorised." Whilst our horses were being changed my travelling
companion, in the course of conversation with a group of peasants,
inquired about the origin of this extraordinary name, and discovered a
curious bit of local history. The founders of the village had settled on
the land without the permission of the absentee owner, and obstinately
resisted all attempts at eviction. Again and again troops had been
sent to drive them away, but as soon as the troops retired these
"self-willed" people returned and resumed possession, till at last the
proprietor, who lived in St. Petersburg or some other distant place,
became weary of the contest and allowed them to remain. The various
incidents were related with much circumstantial detail, so that
the narration lasted perhaps half an hour. All this time I listened
attentively, and when the story was finished I took out my note-book
in order to jot down the facts, and asked in what year the affair had
happened. No answer was given to my question. The peasants merely looked
at each other in a significant way and kept silence. Thinking that my
question had not been understood, I asked it a second time, repeating a
part of what had been related. To my astonishment and utter discomfiture
they all declared that they had never related anything of the sort!
In despair I appealed to my friend, and asked him whether my ears had
deceived me--whether I was labouring under some strange hallucination.
Without giving me any reply he simply smiled and turned away.
When we had left the village and were driving along in our tarantass the
mystery was satisfactorily cleared up. My friend explained to me that I
had not at all misunderstood what had been related, but that my
abrupt question and the sight of my note-book had suddenly aroused the
peasants' suspicions. "They evidently suspected," he continued, "that
you were a tchinovnik, and that you wished to use to their detriment the
knowledge you had acquired. They thought it safer, therefore, at once to
deny it all. You don't yet understand the Russian muzhik!"
In this last remark I was obliged to concur, but since that time I have
come to know the muzhik better, and an incident of the kind would now
no longer surprise me. From a long series of observations I have come
to the conclusion that the great majority of the Russian peasants, when
dealing with the authorities, consider the most patent and barefaced
falsehoods as a fair means of self-defence. Thus, for example, when
a muzhik is implicated in a criminal affair, and a preliminary
investigation is being made, he probably begins by constructing an
elaborate story to explain the facts and exculpate himself. The story
may be a tissue of self-evident falsehoods from beginning to end, but
he defends it valiantly as long as possible. When he perceives that the
position which he has taken up is utterly untenable, he declares
openly that all he has said is false, and that he wishes to make a
new declaration. This second declaration may have the same fate as the
former one, and then he proposes a third. Thus groping his way, he
tries various stories till he finds one that seems proof against all
objections. In the fact of his thus telling lies there is of course
nothing remarkable, for criminals in all parts of the world have a
tendency to deviate from the truth when they fall into the hands of
justice. The peculiarity is that he retracts his statements with the
composed air of a chess-player who requests his opponent to let him take
back an inadvertent move. Under the old system of procedure, which was
abolished in the sixties, clever criminals often contrived by means of
this simple device to have their trial postponed for many years.
Such incidents naturally astonish a foreigner, and he is apt, in
consequence, to pass a very severe judgment on the Russian peasantry
in general. The reader may remember Karl Karl'itch's remarks on the
subject. These remarks I have heard repeated in various forms by Germans
in all parts of the country, and there must be a certain amount of truth
in them, for even an eminent Slavophil once publicly admitted that the
peasant is prone to perjury.* It is necessary, however, as it seems to
me, to draw a distinction. In the ordinary intercourse of peasants
among themselves, or with people in whom they have confidence, I do not
believe that the habit of lying is abnormally developed. It is only when
the muzhik comes in contact with authorities that he shows himself an
expert fabricator of falsehoods. In this there is nothing that need
surprise us. For ages the peasantry were exposed to the arbitrary power
and ruthless exactions of those who were placed over them; and as the
law gave them no means of legally protecting themselves, their only
means of self-defence lay in cunning and deceit.
* Kireyefski, in the Russakaya Beseda.
We have here, I believe, the true explanation of that "Oriental
mendacity" about which Eastern travellers have written so much. It is
simply the result of a lawless state of society. Suppose a truth-loving
Englishman falls into the hands of brigands or savages. Will he not, if
he have merely an ordinary moral character, consider himself justified
in inventing a few falsehoods in order to effect his escape? If so, we
have no right to condemn very severely the hereditary mendacity of those
races which have lived for many generations in a position analogous
to that of the supposed Englishman among brigands. When legitimate
interests cannot be protected by truthfulness and honesty, prudent
people always learn to employ means which experience has proved to be
more effectual. In a country where the law does not afford protection,
the strong man defends himself by his strength, the weak by cunning and
duplicity. This fully explains the fact that in Turkey the Christians
are less truthful than the Mahometans.
But we have wandered a long way from the road to Bashkiria. Let us
therefore return at once.
Of all the journeys which I made in Russia this was one of the most
agreeable. The weather was bright and warm, without being unpleasantly
hot; the roads were tolerably smooth; the tarantass, which had been
hired for the whole journey, was nearly as comfortable as a tarantass
can be; good milk, eggs, and white bread could be obtained in abundance;
there was not much difficulty in procuring horses in the villages
through which we passed, and the owners of them were not very
extortionate in their demands. But what most contributed to my comfort
was that I was accompanied by an agreeable, intelligent young Russian,
who kindly undertook to make all the necessary arrangements, and I
was thereby freed from those annoyances and worries which are always
encountered in primitive countries where travelling is not yet a
recognised institution. To him I left the entire control of our
movements, passively acquiescing in everything, and asking no questions
as to what was coming. Taking advantage of my passivity, he prepared for
me one evening a pleasant little surprise.
About sunset we had left a village called Morsha, and shortly
afterwards, feeling drowsy, and being warned by my companion that
we should have a long, uninteresting drive, I had lain down in the
tarantass and gone to sleep. On awaking I found that the tarantass had
stopped, and that the stars were shining brightly overhead. A big
dog was barking furiously close at hand, and I heard the voice of the
yamstchik informing us that we had arrived. I at once sat up and looked
about me, expecting to see a village of some kind, but instead of that
I perceived a wide open space, and at a short distance a group of
haystacks. Close to the tarantass stood two figures in long cloaks,
armed with big sticks, and speaking to each other in an unknown tongue.
My first idea was that we had been somehow led into a trap, so I drew
my revolver in order to be ready for all emergencies. My companion was
still snoring loudly by my side, and stoutly resisted all my efforts to
awaken him.
"What's this?" I said, in a gruff, angry voice, to the yamstchik. "Where
have you taken us to?"
"To where I was ordered, master!"
For the purpose of getting a more satisfactory explanation I took to
shaking my sleepy companion, but before he had returned to consciousness
the moon shone out brightly from behind a thick bank of clouds, and
cleared up the mystery. The supposed haystacks turned out to be
tents. The two figures with long sticks, whom I had suspected of being
brigands, were peaceable shepherds, dressed in the ordinary Oriental
khalát, and tending their sheep, which were grazing close by. Instead
of being in an empty hay-field, as I had imagined, we had before us a
regular Tartar aoul, such as I had often read about. For a moment I felt
astonished and bewildered. It seemed to me that I had fallen asleep in
Europe and woke up in Asia!
In a few minutes we were comfortably installed in one of the tents,
a circular, cupola-shaped erection, of about twelve feet in diameter,
composed of a frame-work of light wooden rods covered with thick felt.
It contained no furniture, except a goodly quantity of carpets and
pillows, which had been formed into a bed for our accommodation. Our
amiable host, who was evidently somewhat astonished at our unexpected
visit, but refrained from asking questions, soon bade us good-night
and retired. We were not, however, left alone. A large number of black
beetles remained and gave us a welcome in their own peculiar fashion.
Whether they were provided with wings, or made up for the want of flying
appliances by crawling up the sides of the tent and dropping down on any
object they wished to reach, I did not discover, but certain it is that
they somehow reached our heads--even when we were standing upright--and
clung to our hair with wonderful tenacity. Why they should show such
a marked preference for human hair we could not conjecture, till it
occurred to us that the natives habitually shaved their heads, and that
these beetles must naturally consider a hair-covered cranium a curious
novelty deserving of careful examination. Like all children of nature
they were decidedly indiscreet and troublesome in their curiosity, but
when the light was extinguished they took the hint and departed.
When we awoke next morning it was broad daylight, and we found a crowd
of natives in front of the tent. Our arrival was evidently regarded as
an important event, and all the inhabitants of the aoul were anxious
to make our acquaintance. First our host came forward. He was a short,
slimly-built man, of middle age, with a grave, severe expression,
indicating an unsociable disposition. We afterwards learned that he
was an akhun*--that is to say, a minor officer of the Mahometan
ecclesiastical administration, and at the same time a small trader in
silken and woollen stuffs. With him came the mullah, or priest, a portly
old gentleman with an open, honest face of the European type, and a
fine grey beard. The other important members of the little community
followed. They were all swarthy in colour, and had the small eyes and
prominent cheek-bones which are characteristic of the Tartar races, but
they had little of that flatness of countenance and peculiar ugliness
which distinguish the pure Mongol. All of them, with the exception of
the mullah, spoke a little Russian, and used it to assure us that we
were welcome. The children remained respectfully in the background, and
the women, with faces veiled, eyed us furtively from the doors of the
tents.
* I presume this is the same word as akhund, well known on
the Northwest frontier of India, where it was applied
specially to the late ruler of Svat.
The aoul consisted of about twenty tents, all constructed on the same
model, and scattered about in sporadic fashion, without the least regard
to symmetry. Close by was a watercourse, which appears on some maps as
a river, under the name of Karalyk, but which was at that time merely a
succession of pools containing a dark-coloured liquid. As we more than
suspected that these pools supplied the inhabitants with water for
culinary purposes, the sight was not calculated to whet our appetites.
We turned away therefore hurriedly, and for want of something better
to do we watched the preparations for dinner. These were decidedly
primitive. A sheep was brought near the door of our tent, and there
killed, skinned, cut up into pieces, and put into an immense pot, under
which a fire had been kindled.
The dinner itself was not less primitive than the manner of preparing
it. The table consisted of a large napkin spread in the middle of the
tent, and the chairs were represented by cushions, on which we
sat cross-legged. There were no plates, knives, forks, spoons, or
chopsticks. Guests were expected all to eat out of a common wooden bowl,
and to use the instruments with which Nature had provided them. The
service was performed by the host and his son. The fare was copious, but
not varied--consisting entirely of boiled mutton, without bread or other
substitute, and a little salted horse-flesh thrown in as an entree.
To eat out of the same dish with half-a-dozen Mahometans who accept
their Prophet's injunction about ablutions in a highly figurative sense,
and who are totally unacquainted with the use of forks and spoons,
is not an agreeable operation, even if one is not much troubled with
religious prejudices; but with these Bashkirs something worse than this
has to be encountered, for their favourite method of expressing their
esteem and affection for one with whom they are eating consists in
putting bits of mutton, and sometimes even handfuls of hashed meat,
into his month! When I discovered this unexpected peculiarity in Bashkir
manners and customs, I almost regretted that I had made a favourable
impression upon my new acquaintances.
When the sheep had been devoured, partly by the company in the tent and
partly by a nondescript company outside--for the whole aoul took part
in the festivities--kumyss was served in unlimited quantities. This
beverage, as I have already explained, is mare's milk fermented; but
what here passed under the name was very different from the kumyss I
had tasted in the establissements of Samara. There it was a pleasant
effervescing drink, with only the slightest tinge of acidity; here
it was a "still" liquid, strongly resembling very thin and very sour
butter-milk. My Russian friend made a wry face on first tasting it, and
I felt inclined at first to do likewise, but noticing that his grimaces
made an unfavourable impression on the audience, I restrained my facial
muscles, and looked as if I liked it. Very soon I really came to like
it, and learned to "drink fair" with those who had been accustomed to it
from their childhood. By this feat I rose considerably in the estimation
of the natives; for if one does not drink kumyss one cannot be sociable
in the Bashkir sense of the term, and by acquiring the habit one adopts
an essential principle of Bashkir nationality. I should certainly have
preferred having a cup of it to myself, but I thought it well to conform
to the habits of the country, and to accept the big wooden bowl when it
was passed round. In return my friends made an important concession in
my favour: they allowed me to smoke as I pleased, though they considered
that, as the Prophet had refrained from tobacco, ordinary mortals should
do the same.
Whilst the "loving-cup" was going round I distributed some small
presents which I had brought for the purpose, and then proceeded to
explain the object of my visit. In the distant country from which I
came--far away to the westward--I had heard of the Bashkirs as a
people possessing many strange customs, but very kind and hospitable
to strangers. Of their kindness and hospitality I had already learned
something by experience, and I hoped they would allow me to learn
something of their mode of life, their customs, their songs, their
history, and their religion, in all of which I assured them my distant
countrymen took a lively interest.
This little after-dinner speech was perhaps not quite in accordance
with Bashkir etiquette, but it made a favourable impression. There was
a decided murmur of approbation, and those who understood Russian
translated my words to their less accomplished brethren. A short
consultation ensued, and then there was a general shout of "Abdullah!
Abdullah!" which was taken up and repeated by those standing outside.
In a few minutes Abdullah appeared, with a big, half-picked bone in his
hand, and the lower part of his face besmeared with grease. He was a
short, thin man, with a dark, sallow complexion, and a look of premature
old age; but the suppressed smile that played about his mouth and a
tremulous movement of his right eye-lid showed plainly that he had not
yet forgotten the fun and frolic of youth. His dress was of richer and
more gaudy material, but at the same time more tawdry and tattered, than
that of the others. Altogether he looked like an artiste in distressed
circumstances, and such he really was. At a word and a sign from the
host he laid aside his bone and drew from under his green silk khalát a
small wind-instrument resembling a flute or flageolet. On this he played
a number of native airs. The first melodies which he played reminded me
of a Highland pibroch--at one moment low, solemn, and plaintive,
then gradually rising into a soul-stirring, martial strain, and again
descending to a plaintive wail. The amount of expression which he put
into his simple instrument was truly marvellous. Then, passing suddenly
from grave to gay, he played a series of light, merry airs, and some
of the younger onlookers got up and performed a dance as boisterous and
ungraceful as an Irish jig.
This Abdullah turned out to be for me a most valuable acquaintance.
He was a kind of Bashkir troubadour, well acquainted not only with the
music, but also with the traditions, the history, the superstitions, and
the folk-lore of his people. By the akhun and the mullah he was regarded
as a frivolous, worthless fellow, who had no regular, respectable means
of gaining a livelihood, but among the men of less rigid principles he
was a general favourite. As he spoke Russian fluently I could converse
with him freely without the aid of an interpreter, and he willingly
placed his store of knowledge at my disposal. When in the company of the
akhun he was always solemn and taciturn, but as soon as he was relieved
of that dignitary's presence he became lively and communicative.
Another of my new acquaintances was equally useful to me in another way.
This was Mehemet Zian, who was not so intelligent as Abdullah, but
much more sympathetic. In his open, honest face, and kindly, unaffected
manner there was something so irresistibly attractive that before I had
known him twenty-four hours a sort of friendship had sprung up between
us. He was a tall, muscular, broad-shouldered man, with features that
suggested a mixture of European blood. Though already past middle
age, he was still wiry and active--so active that he could, when on
horseback, pick a stone off the ground without dismounting. He could,
however, no longer perform this feat at full gallop, as he had been wont
to do in his youth. His geographical knowledge was extremely limited and
inaccurate--his mind being in this respect like those old Russian maps
in which the nations of the earth and a good many peoples who had
never more than a mythical existence are jumbled together in
hopeless confusion--but his geographical curiosity was insatiable. My
travelling-map--the first thing of the kind he had ever seen--interested
him deeply. When he found that by simply examining it and glancing at my
compass I could tell him the direction and distance of places he
knew, his face was like that of a child who sees for the first time
a conjuror's performance; and when I explained the trick to him, and
taught him to calculate the distance to Bokhara--the sacred city of
the Mussulmans of that region--his delight was unbounded. Gradually I
perceived that to possess such a map had become the great object of his
ambition. Unfortunately I could not at once gratify him as I should have
wished, because I had a long journey before me and I had no other map
of the region, but I promised to find ways and means of sending him one,
and I kept my word by means of a native of the Karalyk district whom I
discovered in Samara. I did not add a compass because I could not find
one in the town, and it would have been of little use to him: like a
true child of nature he always knew the cardinal points by the sun or
the stars. Some years later I had the satisfaction of learning that the
map had reached its destination safely, through no less a personage
than Count Tolstoy. One evening at the home of a friend in Moscow I
was presented to the great novelist, and as soon as he heard my name he
said: "Oh! I know you already, and I know your friend Mehemet Zian. When
I passed a night this summer in his aoul he showed me a map with your
signature on the margin, and taught me how to calculate the distance to
Bokhara!"
If Mehemet knew little of foreign countries he was thoroughly well
acquainted with his own, and repaid me most liberally for my elementary
lessons in geography. With him I visited the neighbouring aouls. In all
of them he had numerous acquaintances, and everywhere we were received
with the greatest hospitality, except on one occasion when we paid a
visit of ceremony to a famous robber who was the terror of the whole
neighbourhood. Certainly he was one of the most brutalised specimens of
humanity I have ever encountered. He made no attempt to be amiable,
and I felt inclined to leave his tent at once; but I saw that my friend
wanted to conciliate him, so I restrained my feelings and eventually
established tolerably good relations with him. As a rule I avoided
festivities, partly because I knew that my hosts were mostly poor and
would not accept payment for the slaughtered sheep, and partly because
I had reason to apprehend that they would express to me their esteem
and affection more Bashkirico; but in kumyss-drinking, the ordinary
occupation of these people when they have nothing to do, I had to
indulge to a most inordinate extent. On these expeditions Abdullah
generally accompanied us, and rendered valuable service as interpreter
and troubadour. Mehemet could express himself in Russian, but his
vocabulary failed him as soon as the conversation ran above very
ordinary topics; Abdullah, on the contrary, was a first-rate
interpreter, and under the influence of his musical pipe and lively
talkativeness new acquaintances became sociable and communicative. Poor
Abdullah! He was a kind of universal genius; but his faded, tattered
khalát showed only too plainly that in Bashkiria, as in more civilised
countries, universal genius and the artistic temperament lead to poverty
rather than to wealth.
I have no intention of troubling the reader with the miscellaneous
facts which, with the assistance of these two friends, I succeeded in
collecting--indeed, I could not if I would, for the notes I then made
were afterwards lost--but I wish to say a few words about the actual
economic condition of the Bashkirs. They are at present passing from
pastoral to agricultural life; and it is not a little interesting to
note the causes which induce them to make this change, and the way in
which it is made.
Philosophers have long held a theory of social development according
to which men were at first hunters, then shepherds, and lastly
agriculturists. How far this theory is in accordance with reality we
need not for the present inquire, but we may examine an important part
of it and ask ourselves the question, Why did pastoral tribes adopt
agriculture? The common explanation is that they changed their mode of
life in consequence of some ill-defined, fortuitous circumstances. A
great legislator arose amongst them and taught them to till the soil, or
they came in contact with an agricultural race and adopted the customs
of their neighbours. Such explanations must appear unsatisfactory to
any one who has lived with a pastoral people. Pastoral life is so
incomparably more agreeable than the hard lot of the agriculturist, and
so much more in accordance with the natural indolence of human nature,
that no great legislator, though he had the wisdom of a Solon and the
eloquence of a Demosthenes, could possibly induce his fellow-countrymen
to pass voluntarily from the one to the other. Of all the ordinary
means of gaining a livelihood--with the exception perhaps of
mining--agriculture is the most laborious, and is never voluntarily
adopted by men who have not been accustomed to it from their childhood.
The life of a pastoral race, on the contrary, is a perennial holiday,
and I can imagine nothing except the prospect of starvation which could
induce men who live by their flocks and herds to make the transition to
agricultural life.
The prospect of starvation is, in fact, the cause of the
transition--probably in all cases, and certainly in the case of the
Bashkirs. So long as they had abundance of pasturage they never thought
of tilling the soil. Their flocks and herds supplied them with all that
they required, and enabled them to lead a tranquil, indolent existence.
No great legislator arose among them to teach them the use of the plough
and the sickle, and when they saw the Russian peasants on their borders
laboriously ploughing and reaping, they looked on them with compassion,
and never thought of following their example. But an impersonal
legislator came to them--a very severe and tyrannical legislator,
who would not brook disobedience--I mean Economic Necessity. By
the encroachments of the Ural Cossacks on the east, and by the
ever-advancing wave of Russian colonisation from the north and west,
their territory had been greatly diminished. With diminution of the
pasturage came diminution of the live stock, their sole means of
subsistence. In spite of their passively conservative spirit they had to
look about for some new means of obtaining food and clothing--some new
mode of life requiring less extensive territorial possessions. It was
only then that they began to think of imitating their neighbours. They
saw that the neighbouring Russian peasant lived comfortably on thirty or
forty acres of land, whilst they possessed a hundred and fifty acres per
male, and were in danger of starvation.
The conclusion to be drawn from this was self-evident--they ought
at once to begin ploughing and sowing. But there was a very serious
obstacle to the putting of this principle in practice. Agriculture
certainly requires less land than sheep-farming, but it requires very
much more labour, and to hard work the Bashkirs were not accustomed.
They could bear hardships and fatigues in the shape of long journeys
on horseback, but the severe, monotonous labour of the plough and the
sickle was not to their taste. At first, therefore, they adopted a
compromise. They had a portion of their land tilled by Russian peasants,
and ceded to these a part of the produce in return for the labour
expended; in other words, they assumed the position of landed
proprietors, and farmed part of their land on the metayage system.
The process of transition had reached this point in several aouls which
I visited. My friend Mehemet Zian showed me at some distance from the
tents his plot of arable land, and introduced me to the peasant who
tilled it--a Little-Russian, who assured me that the arrangement
satisfied all parties. The process of transition cannot, however, stop
here. The compromise is merely a temporary expedient. Virgin soil gives
very abundant harvests, sufficient to support both the labourer and the
indolent proprietor, but after a few years the soil becomes exhausted
and gives only a very moderate revenue. A proprietor, therefore, must
sooner or later dispense with the labourers who take half of the produce
as their recompense, and must himself put his hand to the plough.
Thus we see the Bashkirs are, properly speaking, no longer a purely
pastoral, nomadic people. The discovery of this fact caused me some
little disappointment, and in the hope of finding a tribe in a more
primitive condition I visited the Kirghiz of the Inner Horde, who occupy
the country to the southward, in the direction of the Caspian. Here for
the first time I saw the genuine Steppe in the full sense of the term--a
country level as the sea, with not a hillock or even a gentle
undulation to break the straight line of the horizon, and not a patch
of cultivation, a tree, a bush, or even a stone, to diversify the
monotonous expanse.
Traversing such a region is, I need scarcely say, very weary work--all
the more as there are no milestones or other landmarks to show the
progress you are making. Still, it is not so overwhelmingly wearisome
as might be supposed. In the morning you may watch the vast lakes,
with their rugged promontories and well-wooded banks, which the mirage
creates for your amusement. Then during the course of the day there are
always one or two trifling incidents which arouse you for a little from
your somnolence. Now you descry a couple of horsemen on the distant
horizon, and watch them as they approach; and when they come alongside
you may have a talk with them if you know the language or have an
interpreter; or you may amuse yourself with a little pantomime, if
articulate speech is impossible. Now you encounter a long train of
camels marching along with solemn, stately step, and speculate as to
the contents of the big packages with which they are laden. Now you
encounter the carcass of a horse that has fallen by the wayside, and
watch the dogs and the steppe eagles fighting over their prey; and if
you are murderously inclined you may take a shot with your revolver at
these great birds, for they are ignorantly brave, and will sometimes
allow you to approach within twenty or thirty yards. At last you
perceive--most pleasant sight of all--a group of haystack-shaped tents
in the distance; and you hurry on to enjoy the grateful shade, and
quench your thirst with "deep, deep draughts" of refreshing kumyss.
During my journey through the Kirghiz country I was accompanied by a
Russian gentleman, who had provided himself with a circular letter from
the hereditary chieftain of the Horde, a personage who rejoiced in the
imposing name of Genghis Khan,* and claimed to be a descendant of the
great Mongol conqueror. This document assured us a good reception in the
aouls through which we passed. Every Kirghis who saw it treated it with
profound respect, and professed to put all his goods and chattels at our
service. But in spite of this powerful recommendation we met with none
of the friendly cordiality and communicativeness which I had found among
the Bashkirs. A tent with an unlimited quantity of cushions was always
set apart for our accommodation; the sheep were killed and boiled for
our dinner, and the pails of kumyss were regularly brought for our
refreshment; but all this was evidently done as a matter of duty and not
as a spontaneous expression of hospitality. When we determined once or
twice to prolong our visit beyond the term originally announced, I could
perceive that our host was not at all delighted by the change of our
plans. The only consolation we had was that those who entertained
us made no scruples about accepting payment for the food and shelter
supplied.
* I have adopted the ordinary English spelling of this name.
The Kirghiz and the Russians pronounce it "Tchinghiz."
From all this I have no intention of drawing the conclusion that the
Kirghiz are, as a people, inhospitable or unfriendly to strangers. My
experience of them is too limited to warrant any such inference. The
letter of Genghis Khan insured us all the accommodation we required,
but it at the same time gave us a certain official character not at all
favourable to the establishment of friendly relations. Those with whom
we came in contact regarded us as Russian officials, and suspected us of
having some secret designs. As I endeavoured to discover the number
of their cattle, and to form an approximate estimate of their annual
revenue, they naturally feared--having no conception of disinterested
scientific curiosity--that these data were being collected for the
purpose of increasing the taxes, or with some similar intention of a
sinister kind. Very soon I perceived clearly that any information we
might here collect regarding the economic conditions of pastoral life
would not be of much value, and I postponed my proposed studies to a
more convenient season.
The Kirghiz are, ethnographically speaking, closely allied to the
Bashkirs, but differ from them both in physiognomy and language. Their
features approach much nearer the pure Mongol type, and their language
is a distinct dialect, which a Bashkir or a Tartar of Kazan has some
difficulty in understanding. They are professedly Mahometans, but their
Mahometanism is not of a rigid kind, as may be seen by the fact that
their women do not veil their faces even in the presence of Ghiaours--a
laxness of which the Ghiaour will certainly not approve if he happen to
be sensitive to female beauty and ugliness. Their mode of life differs
from that of the Bashkirs, but they have proportionately more land and
are consequently still able to lead a purely pastoral life. Near their
western frontier, it is true, they annually let patches of land to
the Russian peasants for the purpose of raising crops; but these
encroachments can never advance very far, for the greater part of their
territory is unsuited to agriculture, on account of a large admixture
of salt in the soil. This fact will have an important influence on
their future. Unlike the Bashkirs, who possess good arable land, and
are consequently on the road to become agriculturists, they will in all
probability continue to live exclusively by their flocks and herds.
To the southwest of the Lower Volga, in the flat region lying to the
north of the Caucasus, we find another pastoral tribe, the Kalmyks,
differing widely from the two former in language, in physiognomy, and
in religion. Their language, a dialect of the Mongolian, has no close
affinity with any other language in this part of the world. In respect
of religion they are likewise isolated, for they are Buddhists, and have
consequently no co-religionists nearer than Mongolia or Thibet. But it
is their physiognomy that most strikingly distinguishes them from the
surrounding peoples, and stamps them as Mongols of the purest water.
There is something almost infra-human in their ugliness. They show in
an exaggerated degree all those repulsive traits which we see toned down
and refined in the face of an average Chinaman; and it is difficult,
when we meet them for the first time, to believe that a human soul lurks
behind their expressionless, flattened faces and small, dull, obliquely
set eyes. If the Tartar and Turkish races are really descended from
ancestors of that type, then we must assume that they have received in
the course of time a large admixture of Aryan or Semitic blood.
But we must not be too hard on the poor Kalmyks, or judge of their
character by their unprepossessing appearance. They are by no means so
unhuman as they look. Men who have lived among them have assured me that
they are decidedly intelligent, especially in all matters relating to
cattle, and that they are--though somewhat addicted to cattle-lifting
and other primitive customs not tolerated in the more advanced stages
of civilisation--by no means wanting in some of the better qualities of
human nature.
Formerly there was a fourth pastoral tribe in this region--the Nogai
Tartars. They occupied the plains to the north of the Sea of Azof, but
they are no longer to be found there. Shortly after the Crimean war
they emigrated to Turkey, and their lands are now occupied by Russian,
German, Bulgarian, and Montenegrin colonists.
Among the pastoral tribes of this region the Kalmyks are recent
intruders. They first appeared in the seventeenth century, and were long
formidable on account of their great numbers and compact organisation;
but in 1771 the majority of them suddenly struck their tents and
retreated to their old home in the north of the Celestial Empire. Those
who remained were easily pacified, and have long since lost, under the
influence of unbroken peace and a strong Russian administration, their
old warlike spirit. Their latest military exploits were performed during
the last years of the Napoleonic wars, and were not of a very serious
kind; a troop of them accompanied the Russian army, and astonished
Western Europe by their uncouth features, their strange costume, and
their primitive accoutrements, among which their curious bows and arrows
figured conspicuously.
The other pastoral tribes which I have mentioned--Bashkirs, Kirghiz, and
Nogai Tartars--are the last remnants of the famous marauders who from
time immemorial down to a comparatively recent period held the vast
plains of Southern Russia. The long struggle between them and the
agricultural colonists from the northwest, closely resembling the long
struggle between the Red-skins and the white settlers on the prairies of
North America, forms an important page of Russian history.
For centuries the warlike nomads stoutly resisted all encroachments on
their pasture-grounds, and considered cattle-lifting, kidnapping, and
pillage as a legitimate and honorable occupation. "Their raids," says an
old Byzantine writer, "are as flashes of lightning, and their retreat is
at once heavy and light--heavy from booty and light from the swiftness
of their movements. For them a peaceful life is a misfortune, and a
convenient opportunity for war is the height of felicity. Worst of
all, they are more numerous than bees in spring, their numbers are
uncountable." "Having no fixed place of abode," says another Byzantine
authority, "they seek to conquer all lands and colonise none. They are
flying people, and therefore cannot be caught. As they have neither
towns nor villages, they must be hunted like wild beasts, and can be
fitly compared only to griffins, which beneficent Nature has banished to
uninhabited regions." As a Persian distich, quoted by Vambery, has it--
"They came, conquered, burned,
pillaged, murdered, and went."
Their raids are thus described by an old Russian chronicler: "They burn
the villages, the farmyards, and the churches. The land is turned by
them into a desert, and the overgrown fields become the lair of wild
beasts. Many people are led away into slavery; others are tortured and
killed, or die from hunger and thirst. Sad, weary, stiff from cold, with
faces wan from woe, barefoot or naked, and torn by the thistles, the
Russian prisoners trudge along through an unknown country, and, weeping,
say to one another, 'I am from such a town, and I from such a village.'"
And in harmony with the monastic chroniclers we hear the nameless
Slavonic Ossian wailing for the fallen sons of Rus: "In the Russian land
is rarely heard the voice of the husbandman, but often the cry of the
vultures, fighting with each other over the bodies of the slain; and the
ravens scream as they fly to the spoil."
In spite of the stubborn resistance of the nomads the wave of
colonisation moved steadily onwards until the first years of the
thirteenth century, when it was suddenly checked and thrown back. A
great Mongolian horde from Eastern Asia, far more numerous and better
organized than the local nomadic tribes, overran the whole country,
and for more than two centuries Russia was in a certain sense ruled
by Mongol Khans. As I wish to speak at some length of this Mongol
domination, I shall devote to it a separate chapter.