LITERATURE IN CENTRAL ASIA.
Tartar muse! Œzbeg Melpomene! This will to many sound passing
strange! That poetry should exist in the oldest spots of rudeness
and barbarism--that persons in those regions where robbery, murder,
and spoliation rage most, should busy themselves with literature,
may to many seem strange; but yet such a notion would be incorrect.
The East was at all times the seat of poetic enthusiasm, and the
more the social relations retain the stamp of olden time, that is,
the nearer civilisation is to its infancy, the more general is the
inclination to poetry and fables, the more passionate the sound of
forced hyperboles and enthusiasm.
That the dwellers in a Kirghis tent are more disposed to poetry
than the members of a polished society in Paris and London, must
surprise no one. Among us it is only over a certain age that poetry
indicates herself more or less; there are only certain individuals
that linger round the Castalian fountains. In Central Asia those
bowed down by age, as well as youthful lovers, passionately affect
poetry, the warrior equally with the shepherd, the priest as well
as the layman,--each one attempts the composition of poetry or
devises tales; and if this attempt is probably not successful in
every instance, still, nevertheless, the habit of even listening to
the compositions of others may be said to be universal.
Since literature in the East is in close connection with religion,
we must then divide the literary productions of Central Asia at the
commencement into two parts.
1st. The Literature of Islam or the Settled Nations.
2nd. The Literature of the Nomadic or Wandering Tribes.
This distinction dates from that time when, with the entrance of
Islam, foreign literary conceptions became universally diffused,
which, without retaining at the present time any special national
character, are in vogue among the different followers of Islam.
Poetry, for this is the essence of that literature, is always
the same now with Arabs, Turks, Persians, and Central Asiatics.
Vainly would one seek there the stamp of a national mint; it is
everywhere the same sprightly imagery of the poets; everywhere
the same metaphors, parables; everywhere the stereotyped image of
the rose and the nightingale, the thorn-resembling eyelashes, the
fuming vapors of rising sighs, &c. Everywhere the same muse of which
the learned M. de Khanikoff rightly says:--"That she comes forth
free and wild, like those plants of strange forms to be met with
in the calcined soil of southern Asia, covered with thistles and
thorns, incrusted with salt; they diffuse through a rugged bark,
here and there, aromatic, beneficent odours, and wave upon their
withered stems wreaths of flowers of elegant forms and brilliant
colours."--_Asiatic Journal_, vol. v., p. 297. Of this literature,
however, which is well known in western countries, through many
translations and learned treatises, we shall say nothing. We rather
pass over the religious literature of many eccentric devotees,
who, in zealous ardour towards God and the prophets, have written
volumes full of pompous expressions on the subject of their love
and resignation. These last productions in the three Khanats are
considered as the exclusive property of the Mollah and Ishan
world. The people listen very patiently to their recitals, but are
not enthusiastic, for the mystical current of thought in copious
language is beyond the reach of their understanding. What we wish to
say, then, of the literature of Central Asia is confined, to speak
correctly, to the Popular Poetry. Here we do still find something
original, here some types which deserve the real name of Turkestan,
and with these we wish to make our readers acquainted. The most
poetically attuned people are in the Khanat of Khiva. This part of
Central Asia had at the beginning of the twelfth century acquired
the reputation of a special eminence in music, tuneful voices,
distinguished poets and poetesses; indeed, it is hardly fifty years
ago that in the courts of the Kadjars, in Teheran, a Khivite
lute-player was in great honour. Bokhara, before the ascendancy of
the Turkish element, had only a few great poets, such as Rudeki and
Figani; but these must be rather classed in Persian literature. To
return to Khiva, I must remark that as it always surprised myself
when I heard a heavy-looking, coarsely-dressed Œzbeg, with wild,
sun-burnt features, sing one or another soft minor air; so, also,
with travellers in general, this feeling will be found to exist on
their entry among Turkomans and Kirghis. These people esteem music
and poetry as their highest pleasure. After a fortunate adventure
the marauder, however tired and hungry he may be, will listen in the
open street with real delight to the bakhshi (troubadour), who comes
to meet him. Returning home from a foray, or other heroic deed, the
young warriors are in the habit of amusing themselves throughout
the night with poetry and music. In the desert, where man is either
ignorant of the luxuries of life, or does without them, it is,
nevertheless, that the bakhshi is very seldom wanting, and besides,
that the latter are found in great numbers, going about to exercise
their art. The nomads have the habit of amusing themselves with
poetic games.
As people regard in company the happy finding of a rhyme or cadence
as indispensable to education, the young nomad girl will also, say,
give the preference to him who would answer her question in a verse
with happy rhymes. The poetry of the Œzbegs consists first of
narratives, which either appeal to religious life or famous heroic
deeds. The first are composed by the Mullah world, or by the more
polished bakhshis, after Arabic or Persian sources, and adapted to
native taste,--the last are genuine Tartar compositions, in which
there are not wanting at times both glowing language and good
metaphors. These tales of heroic exploits, which are similar to our
romances, begin already to be of even greater extent, and are often
recited or sung many evenings together, and although Islam plays
here and there a conspicuous part, nevertheless those pieces are
preferred in which home-heroes figure on well-known historic fields.
Of these last-named compositions, one much esteemed in Central Asia
may serve as a specimen. It bears as its title
"AHMED AND YUSUF,"
And is the history of two sons of heroes, who, after their country's
fashion, even in early youth undertake a tchapao or razzia against
heretical Iran, in which the leading motive is not so much the
thirst for spoil as the chastisement of the unbelieving Shiites.
Just at the beginning Yusuf harangues his heroes ready for the foray
in the following fashion:--
"With the worthless fellow unite not, for he makes known the deepest
secret. Speak no secret words in bad spots, for thy deep hidden
mystery will become known. Better is the bare leaf than the faded
rose. Better is dry earth than worthless grass. Better is a staff
than a stupid fellow-traveller. For he makes known the direction
of thy route to the foe. Do not instruct the fool, because he will,
nevertheless, reach the grave of misery unconsciously. When you
enter at a good-for-nothing fellow's as a guest, he attacks you like
the little cur, and makes his vice known. Would that I could give
you the picture of a true hero! He draws his sword only for the
destruction of the unbelievers. Do not march against the enemy with
a coward, since he makes known the trodden track as well as his own
path. Yusuf Beg says, 'Such a time is come. This home-land is for us
no longer. Fools know not their own lair; they speak angrily, and
make their evil speech known.'"
They march away. The report of their heroic deeds spreads far and
wide, and naturally reaches their home-land. Here governed only
petty princes, each of whom would take renowned warriors into his
service. The usual career of warfare proceeds, and Yusuf takes the
command, but only with the consent of his comrades.
They draw out afresh for an expedition against Guzel Shah, the
Governor of Isfahan. The Œzbegs are overpowered by Persian
cunning. Both princes are taken and dragged in chains to Iran. This
misfortune rouses deep cries from the heart of Yusuf, and as he
could not turn for sympathy to his captors, he pours forth his wail
to the lofty hills that surround him, and exclaims:--
"Ye snow-bedecked, many coloured hills, what has befallen me;
have you seen it? I am become the slave of these unbelievers; my
tarrying behind, have you seen it? No one pities my tears, the
hills only throb at my tears. With lashes around my head, how must
I have stepped along the way; have you seen it? Heedless were my
attendants. Ah! I weep tears of blood! How captured with Ahmed Beg
came I here, have you seen it? I drink blood,--in this world too
heavy is my sorrow! Walking on foot, unbelievers on steeds; have
you seen it? Yusuf Beg says, 'I am inwardly consumed, my sorrow is
endless. Dragged with these bound hands at a horse's pleasure, have
you seen me?'"
He is then thrown into prison, where he finds a fellow-sufferer in
the person of a Sunnite, who as enchanter and fortune-teller by
profession, had drawn on himself the displeasure of the Persian
monarch; and he also finds in the daughter of the gaoler, who
had become enamoured of him, a kind friend. Up to this point the
strifes, the mighty hero-deeds, the religious enthusiasm, are
constantly detailed. From this point love also mingles in the
strain. Yusuf Beg had left at home a sister and a lady love. The
former vainly waiting his return, cries bitterly, and in tears calls
on her maidens to loosen her hair; the latter, in his absence,
maintains her passionate regard, and sends the trained cranes of the
hero with a love-letter to him. It contains the following charge:--
"Oh, ye five cranes of Yusuf Beg! Rush out and draw near to N.
Strengthen yourselves and fly away over the hills! Seeing Yusuf Beg,
hasten back, that the hawk see not on the plains the tips of your
wings. I am deprived of half my heart. Come back, asking him of
his health! Hasten back! I was once the world-rose; flown hence is
the nightingale of my grove! Should my lover be living, then brush
with your lively wings early back. Should the red roses have become
withered; should his life have reached its end; should my lover be
dead, put on mourning, and weeping return! Calling on God, shake
then your wings. With ardour look forth to the heaven; burst out for
the town of Ürgendj. Break out and draw towards the town of N. Gain
true intelligence, and come back. Oh, hear Gul Assl's cry! Carry to
him my heart-sorrow! Oh, make a pilgrimage to his grave. Bring me a
little dust, and hasten back."
The birds circle around the prison of their sorrowful master with
plaintive chirping. He remarks them, and sends back to his home the
following message:--
"Oh, ye cranes! Fly round me, right and left, in mazy sweep in air.
Go back,--say my greeting to my people! Oh, ye cranes! right and
left, looking round, go back.--say my greeting to my people! The
crane flies and rests high in the air. Tired are his wings with the
long way. Here in prison breaks out afresh my sorrow. Oh, greet,
then, my kinsmen! Kharezm town is my home. There stays my friend,
my beloved, my well-wisher, my dear one, my tender one. Oh, greet
her, my mother! my Kaaba! On the mountains of sorrow are pines high,
high. Oh, pray for me all of you, young and old. Mournful autumn
became my fate; before the life's blossoms had opened yet! Oh, greet
for me my poor little sister! She from early morn waiting for me
looks around. She is inwardly consumed by the torture of separation.
Looking on the path in the morning with dishevelled hair, she cries:
'He is not come!' Her whole soul for me is waste and empty,--my love
Gul Assl, for her I mourn. Oh, greet her! In one day, oh crane!
thou wilt reach from here to Kharezm. On the way thither go over
the seven mountains. Note this thou hast seen, Yusuf Beg; greet the
cowardly Begs for me."
The birds depart, but the heroes languish yet long in prison. At
last they are condemned to die. But the miraculous power of the
Sunnee saints saves them. All the weapons employed become blunt. The
Persian tyrant remarks it, and summons the heroes to his presence.
As the chief condition of obtaining the wished-for freedom, Yusuf
must improvise in opposition to the court fool, Kökche, and in the
event of his overcoming the latter in poetic ability, then he is
to be restored to his home in full liberty. Yusuf improvises in
strikingly bold language. He sings not the praises of the tyrant,
but his own, while he says,--
"My people is a fine people. Winters there are continually
summers, gardeners tend the gardens, the trees give their fruits.
In white tents repose the aged, the youths hunt around them. In
cordial companionship live the youths, spending time in delight and
pleasure. Fast as the wind the steeds. In racing thy steeds lay
behind them. High soaring to heaven is the flight of the birds. In
scorn they carry off men. Should intelligence of me arrive in a day,
in a day also an army can come. Out of six pounds of thick cord are
the strings of their bows. Their princes rule in equity, partiality
is far from them. Hear me, Guzel Shah, thou unbeliever, should I
return to wage war on thee, then know that one wave of my arm kills
100,000 men. Of Isfahan are their swords. Their streets are united
bazaars, their fields like beds of tulips. With deers, hares,
falcons, the fields of my people are full. Their free inhabitants
are like Hatem,[56] their leaders are like Behram and Rustem in the
day of battle, heroes in the strife. I am a slave without power, the
unbeliever regards not this; without fate the fly dies not; let not
my tears flow in vain."
[56] The oriental emblem for generosity.
He conquers, goes laden with treasure to Ürgendj; and though he has
to undergo some hard struggles on the road, arrives happily home,
where his reception is described in many deeply-moving, highly
poetical images. After an interview with his beloved and his sister
they conduct him to Lalakhan, his mother, who in consequence of
mourning for him for several years, has almost lost her sight.
They bring her the joyful intelligence, which she disbelieves at
first, and says,--"My ardent desire has bent me low. Am I really
to see thee, my dear child? Sunk in sorrow, I only sighed, with
eyes tremulously searching for you. The whole world would I look
through could I really find thee, my child. Shall I mourn like the
nightingale? Shall I, like Mansur, succumb to sorrow? Shall I, like
Djerdjis, weep tears of blood? Am I again to find thee, oh my dear
child," &c.
Yusuf Beg is led to her. He bides apart, and when he hears the cry
of his mother, his anguish bursts forth for their fatal separation
in yet more sorrowful words. By the voice his mother recognises him.
Overpowered by excessive joy, she yet welcomes him in the following
words:--
"Oh, thou seven years' sufferer in prison! Oh, thou balsam of my
wounded heart! My star of happiness brightens. Vanished is the night
of misery! Oh, prince of my people and land! Thou Rustem, thou hero
of the world! My Yusuf, my glorious son, my comfort, my life-power!
Thou crown of happiness, thou highest grace of my life! Lalakhan has
found her son, the All-powerful has shown mercy to her. Gone is all
pain from my breast, all sorrow. Yusuf, my son, is come!"
Soon after this the marriage of the lovers takes place, his hero
blood suffers not the adventure-seeking chief to rest. He collects
an army, of which all the people of Central Asia form part. It is to
take vengeance on Guzel Shah. Fortune attends his arms. The Persian
is conquered; his old fellow-sufferer, Kamber, freed. He goes home
crowned with glory, and the conquered Guzel Shah must pay him the
following tribute.
DEMANDS OF YUSUF FROM GUZEL SHAH.
"He shall give me the whole Kharads of the town, N.,--40,000 silk
stuffs embroidered with gold, and 40,000 khimhal (stronger silk
stuffs) shall he send. His tolls and taxes he shall collect; 40,000
magnificent dresses shall he send; 40,000 chargers, with golden
saddles; 40,000 male and female camels; 40,000 young slaves with
golden girdles; 40,000 youths, with beautiful eyes, shall he send;
40,000 oxen (well bred) shall he send; 40,000 rhinoceri, bound in
chains, shall he send; 40,000 reins, well shod, with gold nails, and
40,000 grey falcons shall he send; 40,000 whips shall he send, the
nails of which shall be symmetrically arranged; lashes, worked in
silver, the handles with golden spangles; 40,000 iron greys, 40,000
foxes, 40,000 noble steeds, with snake like tails, shall he send;
40,000 ambling nags, 40,000 roadsters, 40,000 peasants, as caravan
guides, shall he send; these, with black locks falling down right
and left, whose faces are covered with moles; 40,000 wonderfully
beautiful maidens, with golden girdles, shall he send; 40,000 caps,
60,000 turbans, shall he send. Also, 70,000 sheep and double horned
rams shall he send. Yusuf Beg says he shall have all ready quickly;
100,000 Russian thalers and 10 gold dishes shall he send."
This was, in short, the material of an Œzbeg romance, of which
there is an innumerable quantity, and of domestic tales also; and
these are considered the most valuable portion of their literature.
Here and there, one finds an union of religion and valour. The
Heroes are taken out of the Islam world, as, for instance, in the
story of Zerkum Shah, where Ali conquers the last named heathen
prince of Persia, in wonderful engagements, which border upon
the imaginative, and may be compared to the poems of Ariosto and
Bojardi; finally, he converts him to Islam. There are also numerous
tales of Ebu Muslim, the old Field-Marshal of the Abassides,
and, later, the independent ruler of Khorassan and Kharezm. The
historical facts are pretty old, and yet each Œzbeg, in the great
desert which separates his home from Persia, points out many a
spot where the Arabian Field-Marshal encamped, fought, and enacted
supernatural deeds of valour. Finally, there are also the epics, in
which the old princes of the house of Shah Kharezmian are extolled.
In these, as well as in those which tell of Mohamed Emin, Khan of
Khiva, Mohamed Ali Khan of Khokand, we find many an image which
indicates the natural feeling and pride of the Œzbegs.
Then follow, also, on these compositions, which are always
of greater length, short poems, which tell of love, morality,
heroism,--or contain special directions for handling of weapons,
dressing of horses, and the duties of a good warrior. These are,
for the greater part, productions of plain burghers, professional
Bakhshis, people who are unacquainted with reading and writing, and
leave their poetry to be written by others; or, finally, productions
by women and young girls, who break out into poetic effusions from
the fire kindled by passion. I brought with me a pretty collection,
written on soiled paper, in a bad hand, bound in rough leather,
which I found among the Turkomans at a Bakhshi's, who hid the
"Opus Curiosum" in the broad leg of his boots; and it has really
very strange things in it, sometimes not without beauty. We wish
to produce some specimens, under the names of the writers; some of
them appear to be anonymous. The first one, in the genuine Oriental
style, mourns the transitory condition of humanity and the vanity of
the world.
ALLAH YAR.
1. To build castles in this world is a fruitless thing; finally, all
will become ruin, and building is really not worth the trouble.
2. Day and night, for each poor wanderer to labour and strain
himself, is really not worth the trouble.
3. Friends! For idle good in this empty world, to mourn and lament
oneself, is really not worth the trouble.
4. To do homage to passion out of ostentation, to torment the poor
and the sick, is really not worth the trouble.
5. To destroy the lands of Islam, and to draw the sword to
annihilate, is really not worth the trouble.
6. With taxes, duties, with hundredfold griefs and sorrows to vex
Molla Khodja,--nay, the whole world, is really not worth the trouble.
7. As you cannot, Allah Yar, stand the brunt of the world, why
plague yourself going up and down it? it is really not worth the
trouble.
REVNAK.
1. I went to my love one evening, on foot, treading softly. In sweet
sleep lay the dear one. I embraced her softly, softly.
2. I took a kiss from her lips and refreshed my soul by it. I
embraced her tender limbs, and kissed her once more,--softly, softly.
3. I said, give me a kiss, then. What, are you not ashamed, said
she? Return whence you came, quickly,--treading softly, softly.
4. I was obstinate, and would not go. She seized my arm and pushed
me out. At last, I saw no other chance, and sneaked off,--softly,
softly.
5. I departed; could not endure separation, and came back. Oh,
merciless one, I implore thee, give me a kiss,--softly, softly.
6. Too genial to suit European taste.
7. Revnak says, as the whole world is full of jokes and sport, so
let no one blame me, and read this softly, softly.
MESHREF.
1. My soul blazes in flame, yet my mistress comes not. What said
I,--Mistress! The beloved of my heart comes not.
2. I am inwardly consumed for the love of this cypress-like beauty.
She is so cruel. Into her thoughts I enter not.
3. I see in dreams her ringlets, and rise deeply saddened at noon.
From this lock of her hair my heart separates not.
4. Medjnun and Leila, take a lesson from me in love; my charming
dear one heeds me not.
5. The life of foolish Meshref seems coming to its end, and the sad
flirt heeds me not.
FUZULI.
1. Hold fast to the leading strings of modesty, for nothing is
lovelier than modesty. Immodesty, mark this well, advances neither
in this nor that world.
2. Oh! bird of my heart, flutter not in the air, but light on the
hand of a king. The too high-flying hawk is never employed in the
chase.
3. Desire treasure only from God; he has many storehouses. Should
a drop only fall to thee for portion, this is amply sufficient: it
ends not.
4. He, on whom the bird of happiness has rested, flies high, even
without wings. He, on whom a dark lot has fallen, can scarcely raise
his own hand.
5. Be always humble: strive to obtain a contrite spirit. He who
suffers gold-hunger can never be satisfied.
6. You, Fuzuli, live in this world only for friendship. Winter lives
in unfriendly hearts; never can it be summer there.
NESIMI.
1. _Saturday._ I met my cypress-like charmer, and she made me
distracted.
2. _Sunday._ I was frantic, and a wanderer, and fell down senseless.
I saw her face, and thought it was the shining moon.
3. _Monday._ At last I told her my heart-secret. Her eyes are like
the narcissus, her cheeks resemble roses, her eyebrows are like a
bow.
4. _Tuesday._ I became a huntsman, and went over the country
(walked), yet I myself became the chased, and fell a sacrifice to
the ever coy one.
5. _Wednesday._ My beauty walked in the fields; the nightingale saw
her face and uttered wild cries.
6. _Thursday._ I said to my loved one: Hearken, then, to my advice:
hide thy secret still from both good and bad.
7. _Friday._ At last Nesimi saw her beauty, and drank to satiety of
the sherbet of her rosy lips.
These, although through the poetic beauty of our European tastes
they may not prove quite agreeable, give yet sufficient evidence
that the inhabitants of Central Asia, apart from the roughness of
their social relations, despite their incessant wars and forays,
are not unskilled in the expression of traits of poetic feeling and
tender love. The higher classes, though they do not look on the
popular poetry with contempt, still wish to show traces of refined
taste, a higher education, and enjoy the works of the elder Persian
poets, or the books of Nevai, who stepped forward as the first of
the Tchagatay poets in that kind of accomplishment, by which all the
rest of the poets of the Islamitish polite world acquired renown.
Nevai is a scholar of the celebrated Sheikh Abdurrahman Djami,
during many years minister, field marshal, and governor of many
provinces. He is of rare genius in poetry, and of great fertility;
for he has produced more than thirty-two distinct works on poetry,
history, morals, logic; and though his works are thoroughly Persian
in spirit, and not pervaded with the spirit of Central Asia, yet the
merit of having reined and ennobled the Turkish dialect of Central
Asia cannot be taken from him.
Here I give a few specimens.
NEVAI.
1. Oh! heart, come, let us seek out a love; the cypress-growing one,
the silver-cheeked one, let us seek.
2. As the darling of our eyes has looked for another friend, we also
have eyes; therefore, another let us seek.
3. She greets the glance of men only with the dust of death. Why
stand longing here? Another beauty let us seek.
4. Should I not find another like thee, who destroyest all the
world, then a lowly, modest, but tender one, I will seek.
5. We will hasten through field and plain for the loved one; we will
search garden and meadows. Her will we seek.
6. As the wish is good, it shall not remain unfulfilled. Among small
and great, through all as far as possible, we wish to seek.
7. Oh! Nevai, from this passion you will never get freed. Come,
therefore, before the meeting. Patience and perseverance let us seek.
NEVAI.
1. Absent from the loved one, the heart is like a land without a
king. A land without a king is like a body without a soul.
2. Oh! Mussulman, what service is a body without a soul! It is like
black earth, which has no sweet smelling roses.
3. Black earth, that has no sweet smelling roses, is like a dark
night, that has no bright moonbeams.
4. A dark night, that has no bright moon, is like darkness without a
life-source.
5. A darkness, that has no life-source, is like a hell, which has no
paradise-plains.
6. Oh! Nevai, as the loved give so much pain, it is certain that
absence has its pangs, and the return no aid.
His Tchihardivan is beautiful, in which he celebrates the various
ages of men, as also his adaptation of the well-known romances,
Ferhad and Shirin, Medjnun and Leila, Yusuf and Zuleikha, &c. Also
his versification of some stories out of the 1,001 Nights, among
which Prince Seif-ul-Muluk is the most successful. The following
will serve as a specimen of the latter.
_How Seif-ul-Muluk sets out from the town of Tchin, and journeys to
the sea._
1. Come, tale-teller, let us hear the story of the adverse fate that
befel the king's son?
2. The tale-teller replied, "That is hard to do; for the sword of
sorrow cleaves the breast."
3. The prince had everything prepared for his departure, and first
enquired about the town of Katine.
4. Satisfactory information was soon received; all his effects
brought to the ship.
5. The whole crew were on board, the officers stood prepared, and
the army equipped.
6. Then the prince betook himself on board, and confided his person
to the "god's device" (the ship).
7. The pilots led the way, followed by an endless host of ships.
8. There sat the prince in sweet reverie, with smiling lips and a
heart free from sorrow.
9. Six months he went across the sea, with pilot carefully watching
his way.
10. Soon, Fate made him feel the sting of envy, and maliciously
opposed him.
11. The sea became moved and girded on the blood-thirsty sword.
12. She opened herself, and the deluge wildly burst forth,--a deluge
on all sides of streams of fire.
13. Every moment she showed a fresh scene of horror--every instant
makes a thousand souls tremble.
14. Wildly swelled the waves, and threatened with mighty floods:
with blood-thirsty jaws rush and roar the waters of the sea.
15. Then dark fearful winds arise--the horizon veils itself in
pitchy darkness, and from the surface of the sea there sounds forth
wild lamentation.
16. The day, bright with the sun, becomes a pitch-dark night. What a
fearful day! It is the image of the day of judgment.
17. Wherever thou lookest no man is visible, not even the hand
before the eyes,--all, and over all, is water.
18. The salt waves toss and roll incessantly, and raise the ships
with keels upward.
19. Ever does the mighty sea rage and roar and mount with fury from
the deep abyss.
20. Wild cries of creatures break out together, you would think it
was the day of Resurrection.
21. In frightful hurly-burly one ship runs into the other; they
split, and sink to the bottom of the sea.
22. The yards break, the planks fall in pieces, no possibility of
escape.
23. Those hundred ships, said the tale-teller; that crew, those
possessions,
24. All was wrecked on the sea coast, not a trace remained behind on
the surface of the waters."
Wide as the territory of Turkestan-Proper extends, so far does
the literature of which we have tried to give a slight sketch in
the foregoing pages. And the further we betake ourselves from the
frontiers into the desert, so in like manner does Islam become
weaker, and here commences the change from Mohamedan civilisation
into the old Shamanism. Among the Kirghis, notwithstanding the
greater part of them profess Islam, one meets here and there with
a tale which was generated in the Khanats; this, however, is
looked upon as an exotic plant, and never preferred to the native.
The popular poetry that one finds among them forms the point of
transition from the currents of ideas of one society into another.
Indeed, only two days' distance from the borders of the Yaxartes,
or northward from the Sea of Aral, may a bakhshi prosper, provided
he can give in the best fashion tales or narratives of a purely
Kirghis character. The poetry of the wild inhabitants of the steppe
is more strange and odd than pretty. Here and there a happy image
occurs, at other times there are only broken exclamations and
solitary verses without the smallest connection. Since each person
is a poet, a tale cannot long preserve its originality, either they
add something new to it or cast the whole off, and few people can
keep themselves from annexing to their songs the momentary influence
of their fantasy. Of the love-lays of the Kirghis, Lewschine has
introduced a short poem, not without charm, in his book, p. 380:--
"Dost thou see this snow? The body of my loved one is whiter still."
"Dost thou see the dropping blood of the slain lamb? Her cheeks are
redder still."
"Dost thou see the trunk of this burnt tree? Her hair is blacker
still."
"Dost thou know with what the mollahs of our Khan write? Her
eyebrows are blacker than their ink."
"Dost thou see these glowing embers? Her eyes are brighter still."
Another specimen which follows this consists of detached sentences
without any connection.
"The hawk has pounced on the ducks--on a flight of ducks--on a great
flight!"
"I am very ill, and hardly ever think of eating," or "yonder is a
tall pine-tree, the mist has fallen over it."
"Yesterday she allowed me to enter her house. Formerly she would
come herself and caress me."
These more or less may be found among all purely popular tales of
oriental people. There is even a trace of them in Hungarian, as for
example,--
"Three apples and a half, I invited thee, and thou camest not," or
"the crane flies high, singing beautifully, my loved one is angry,
for she will not speak to me," &c.
A considerable number of tales or narratives of hero deeds exists
among nomadic tribes, partly in verse, partly in prose. In these the
spirit of the literature of the Turkish tribes of South Siberia is
more prominent than that of their Central Asiatic neighbours; and
I have heard many compositions of Kirghis Bakhshis, which I find
with little variation and dialectic differences faithfully conveyed
in the more recent work,--"Proofs of the Popular Literature of the
Turkish tribes of South Siberia," by Dr. Radloff.
It leaves no doubt that as the learned A. Schiffner, in the myths
and tales of Dr. Radloff's collection, finds traces of a Buddhist
influence, so many of the irtegi (tales) of the modern Kirghis
have reached them from the further south, beyond Djungaria; for
Islam, coming from the south-west, could take no firm root over the
Yaxartes, and now that the mighty waves of Russian power roll down
from the north, will certainly prevail no further. This kind of
literature belonging rather to the Turks of South Siberia, we shall
conclude our present sketch by a tale of the Kirghis, which belongs
to this little horde, according to European opinion, but according
to inland appellation, to Mangishlak Kazagi, _i.e._, a Kirghis of
Mangishlak. It is from the book of Bronislas Zaleski, who, as a
Polish exile, dwelt nine years in the desert, and on his return,
1865, published under the title of "La Vie des Steppes Kirghizes."
Paris. Fol. 1865.
THE TALE OF KUGAUL.[57]
Man is, in Heaven, helpless without God; on earth, powerless without
a horse.
[57] I adopt the orthography of the original, although Kugaul
(hunter) Barzagai (master lion) instead of Buruzgay would be
preferable.
There was once a Kirghis, named Buruzgay. He had great numbers of
sheep and horses, and nothing was wanting to him if God had not
denied him children. He was alone, consequently, in an advanced
state of life. He said not his daily prayer (namaz), nor kept the
enjoined feasts. One day, the sorrow of his childless condition
overcame him, and he determined to go to the Holy places, in the
hope that his prayers might obtain for him a son. He forged for
himself shoes of iron, and took a staff of iron in his hand, and so
betook himself on his way. He travelled and travelled ten years
long, and probably more. So long, so long did he travel, until his
iron shoes were quite worn out, and only the handle of his iron
staff remained. At last, he fell down on the ground, prostrate.
Great were his sufferings, for he could neither raise himself up nor
die.
Lo! before him appeared a holy man, who perceived him lying on
the earth, had compassion on him, bent over him and enquired what
ailed him. Buruzgay could not utter a word. The holy man fell on
his knees, recited his prayer, (namaz) and prayed the Almighty to
loosen the tongue of the unhappy man. Hardly had he done this, when
Buruzgay began to feel his strength revive. He related his history,
and on what grounds he had abandoned his aoul. The holy man withdrew
a short distance, and continued in prayer until God said to him,
"Thou art well pleasing in my sight. I will accomplish thy wish.
But why dost thou interest thyself in Buruzgay? He pays no impost,
he says no prayer (namaz), he observes no fast. How shall I have
compassion on him?" "Lord," said the holy man, "in time to come he
will serve Thee devoutly, and will repeat his prayers; only do not
reject my intreaties. Grant my prayer and take me for an hostage."
Then God said, "Depart, faithful servant, thy prayers are granted.
Enquire of Buruzgay what is his desire. Will he have forty sons
and forty daughters, or only one son and one daughter especially
approved by me."
The holy man returned to Buruzgay. He found him quite restored, and
on his knees; and he cried aloud with joy, "Oh, God, I have not
lied to Thee: Buruzgay, before my return, had begun to perform his
duty." He then told Buruzgay the words of God. "What shall I do with
forty sons and forty daughters? If the Almighty hear my prayers, he
will give me one son and one daughter." The holy man blessed him,
and conveyed back to the Lord his reply. Buruzgay found his iron
shoes as though unworn, and betook himself to his aoul. Approaching
it, he appeared to recognize his steppe and flocks. He viewed all
with heartfelt joy. Slowly and slowly regaining his recollection,
he perceived that nothing had changed since his departure. He
approached a shepherd, to enquire of him as to the owner of the
herds. The shepherds did not recognise him, he had so fallen away,
and become so changed through fasting and hardships, and his clothes
were worn out. "What is our master to thee," enquired the shepherds,
"go thy way." They went their way to their flocks. Buruzgay waited
until their return, and questioned them afresh. The shepherds drove
him away as a poor beggar (baygouche), without wishing to speak to
him, till at last he uttered his name. They immediately looked at
him attentively, recognised him, and told him that his wife, whom
he had left in the family way, was near her confinement, and they
were expecting guests in the aoul. Then, without waiting for his
reply, the shepherds ran off swifter than an arrow, and coming
to Buruzgay's wife, demanded the suyundji, (the customary gift
for good news). They received it, and informed the wife of the
arrival of her husband. She was highly delighted, and immediately
afterwards Buruzgay entered. A few days after his arrival, his wife
was delivered of two fine, strong children,--twins. One was a son,
the other was a daughter. Buruzgay was beside himself with joy, and
he kept constantly meditating on what names he should give these
children, with whom God had rejoiced his old age. Whilst he was
buried in thought, his former intercessor with Heaven, the holy
man, came to him, and said, "Thou wilt name thy son Kugaul, and thy
daughter Khanisbeg. And Buruzgay hearkened to the holy man, who
immediately left him.
The children grew, and were beautiful. Four years passed away. The
twins began to learn shooting, with little bows prepared for them.
Kugaul easily learned to shoot, and ten years passed away. At this
time, it came to pass that a mighty Sultan gave a feast (Toy).
During the banquet, he gave notice that he wished a lofty mast to
be erected, with a piece of gold on the summit, and that whoever
could pierce with his arrow the gold piece, should be the husband
of his daughter. A host of competitors presented themselves. The
mast was very high; they shot in turns; none could pierce the gold
piece, and the renowned archers of the Steppe missed their aim. At
length, the last guest at the banquet missed also. The Sultan cried
out, "are these all the young people that there are in the Steppe?
Have none stayed away who will let fly an arrow for the hand of
the Sultan's daughter?" "Only one remains," they replied, "Kugaul,
son of Buruzgay; but he is only a little boy ten years old." "That
matters nothing," said the Sultan, "bring him here immediately."
They went into the aoul to seek him. He appeared on a broken-winded
horse, in old clothes, with a bow at his back. He had plenty of
beautiful clothes, and good horses, for his father was rich, and
denied him nothing, but he wished, before the rich, to appear poor
and humble. When the Sultan's wife saw him riding forward, she cried
out immediately, "This shall be my son-in-law, and none other among
those present." Arrived at the mast, Kugaul would not immediately
draw his bow.
"You are many," said he; "I am alone, and young; and if I were to
hit successfully, I might, perhaps, not then receive the hand of
the Sultan's daughter. The Sultan assured him that he would give
him his daughter, but only on the condition that he should shoot
successfully. Kugaul prepared to pierce the gold piece. He took
aim, bent his bow so powerfully, that his lean, miserable horse,
sank beneath him. He struck him with his whip until he rose. Kugaul
took aim again, stretched the cord afresh. This time the horse
only bent the knee. The arrow went off and pierced the centre of
the golden piece. Kugaul, exhausted with the effort, dismounted,
unsaddled his horse, lay down on the ground, and, reclining his head
on the saddle, fell asleep. He slept there three days long in his
miserable attire, little as he was on a poor saddle. The Sultan had
fully intended not to give his daughter to such a wretched-looking
being. In vain Kugaul awaited the messengers. No one came, and he
thought of some means by which he could obtain his bride. Suddenly
a woman appeared before him from the Sultan's household, and
explained to him fully the position of circumstances. Kugaul said
to her, "Return to the Sultan, and tell him that I give him until
mid-day to-morrow for consideration. If he does not then give me his
daughter, and forty laden camels, and forty carpets, I will kill him
and exterminate his whole family." The woman took a fancy to Kugaul,
imagining him to be a great warrior (batyr), returned quickly to
the aoul of the Sultan, gave the Sultana an account of the meeting,
who rushed to her husband, saying, that Kugaul would become a great
hero (batyr), and if he should not keep his word, he would draw on
himself a disgrace darker than the earth. The Sultan's wife spoke
many similar speeches, until at last her husband resolved to marry
his daughter, and he gave Kugaul notice to that effect. Kugaul now
attired himself in splendid robes, mounted a magnificent courser,
and presented himself to the Sultan. The marriage was celebrated,
and after the accustomed wedding feast (toy) Kugaul conducted
his young wife home, and returned to his father's aoul. Forty
camels, laden with costly objects, and covered with forty carpets
followed him. This was the dower of the bride. When he reached
home, Kugaul's wife lowered her veil, according to the custom of
the Kirghis. But when they were in the presence of his father and
mother, Kugaul lifted it for the first time. Hardly had his parents
seen her countenance, when they presented her gifts of horses and
cattle. Then, because they had not guessed her favourite colours for
animals, the daughter-in-law did not fall at their knees to thank
them. The old Buruzgay was angry at this, and cried out, enraged,
"What an animal is this maiden! We have given her a host of presents
and she will not humble herself before us, nor give us even the
usual salute (selam)." She replied, "What are your presents to me?
I do not require them. You have not given me the very best. Behind
the house there is a chesnut mare, she sinks knee-deep in the sand;
she alone suits me. For she will produce a stallion, which will save
my Kugaul from many misfortunes, and become a true warrior's steed.
Give me this mare, she is the most valuable, and I prefer her to
all." "My daughter-in-law is, though young, prudent enough," said
Buruzgay. This pleased him, he became reconciled to her, gave her
the mare, and the young bride fell at the feet of her parents, and
gave the usual greeting. A beautiful tent was erected near the old
people, and the newly-married dwelt therein, and the wife of Kugaul
ordered her servants to attend to the chesnut mare as the apple of
their eye. They then dug a deep recess, covered it with grass, and
there the mare was protected and well fed. During the night a fire
was lighted around. Forty days passed and the mare brought forth a
colt, a little bay stallion. The servants ran immediately to apprise
the lady, and demanded a reward for the joyful intelligence. "Wait
another forty days," she answered; "take great care of the stallion,
give him plenty to eat and drink." The servants obeyed, and when
the appointed time was passed they returned to their mistress,
who informed them that from that moment they were all free, and
could go where they wished. As for the young colt, a silk noose of
forty fathoms was prepared,--they fed him on pure barley, milk,
and kishmish (a kind of dry raisin), and he grew up with Kugaul.
It happened at this time that the Khan (chief of the Kirghis) came
on a visit to the old Buruzgay, and when he saw Khanisbeg and the
wife of Kugaul they pleased him so much that he fell senseless to
the ground. They brought him back to life, and prepared food for
all. They all set to work to cut meat for mishbarmak (a Kirghis
dish). The Khan did the same, but whilst his hands were occupied
his eyes admired the beautiful women. He became inflamed with a
mighty passion, and could not turn his looks away from her face.
So absorbed was he that he did not even remark, that instead of
cutting meat he had cut his own finger, and did not discover this
for some minutes. Aware of it, he became so ashamed that he could
cut nothing,[58] and not to displease his host he made belief as
though he were tasting the dishes. He took leave quickly, and
returned home with a concealed longing in his heart. Hardly had he
reached it when he gathered his friends and relatives together, and
consulted with them on the means he should take to remove Kugaul,
and become possessed of his wife and his sister. Every body said
that he could not kill him, for he was far too great a hero.
[58] This same episode occurs in the romance of Yusuf and Zuleikha,
where Zuleikha's friends at the banquet are so astonished at the
beauty of Yusuf that instead of paring the pomegranates before them
they cut off the skin with their fingers.
But they devised another plan; they resolved to send Kugaul against
a hostile horde with the command to bring the Khan, who was there
ruling, alive or dead. This idea pleased the love-lorn Khan. People
assured him that the envoy could not return under ten years, and it
was indeed very probable that he might perish. They sent for Kugaul
immediately, and gave him the instructions. He returned home to his
aoul and related to his wife the commands he had received. "Not on
this account does he send thee," replied she, "I know the feelings
of his heart. When he was here he was seized with a passionate
longing for me and thy sister; he will have us and send thee away,
so that thou mayest die; but thou hast thine horse, thou canst not
fail, only return quickly." Kugaul departed, and only took with him
his servants and his horse, and travelled over many steppes, until
at last he reached the hostile border. Ten years, perhaps, more
or less, he travelled, I do not know exactly. At last his horse
stopped, Kugaul pressed him on, but the animal suddenly began to
speak with a human voice. "Compel me not to advance further, we are
near the enemy. Take off my bridle and saddle, I will go thither and
see how many they are in number." Kugaul obeyed his horse, which
began to roll on the ground, and by this means to increase his
strength more than by the best food. Then he rose, shook himself,
neighed, changed into a bird, and flew up into the clouds. Thus he
flew for three days. At last he returned and said, "There are more
enemies than hairs in my mane or tail. Consider well what thou dost.
Wilt thou fight or return?" Kugaul was not terrified. He left his
servants with the command that they should await him on that spot.
"If you hear of my fall," continued he, "bear the news to my wife
and my mother." He then offered an earnest prayer to God for help,
and departed. The enemy surrounded him, but he permitted not himself
to be conquered. His horse was a great help to him, for hardly did
one of the enemy take aim at him with his gun than he changed into
an eagle and flew far away with Kugaul towards the heaven. If he
were threatened with an arrow, the horse changed into a sparrow
and disappeared among the grass like a small ball. Kugaul fought
thus many days and at last slew and exterminated all the men of
this race, carried off the women, children, cattle, and possessions
with him, brought them to the place where he had left his servants,
commanded them to convey the booty home, and he himself rode forward
on his faithful steed. On and on he journeyed for a long time. One
evening, however, his horse would go no further, did nothing, and
stood petrified. Kugaul dismounted and lay down to sleep. Towards
the morning he awoke, approached his horse, and perceived that he
was shedding bitter tears. "What dost thou ail, my good horse,"
inquired Kugaul, "why dost thou weep?" "Alas, why should I not
weep!" answered the horse. "this is the spot where once I trotted
in my silken halter. Here was also our aoul, and now there is not
a trace remaining of it, all is destroyed." And he began again to
weep. "Take off my saddle and bridle, let me take rest, and so
recruit my strength, and I will make enquiry as to the doer of all
this, and discover thy enemy."
Kugaul took the saddle and bridle off the horse; he began to roll
afresh; and when he had regained strength he raised his head, took
a deep breath with his powerful nostrils. He bounded, changed into
a bird, and flew up into the air. He flew three days, without,
however, discovering anything, and was already on the point of
returning, when, on the opposite side, he discovered the aouls
of the Khan. Hither he directed his course; flew over the tents
and flocks, and saw everything. No one guessed that the bird was
Kugaul's horse, only the wife of the hero (Batyr) had a presentiment
that some one was coming to her, and nigh at hand, which idea she
communicated to her sister. The bird returned to Kugaul, related
what he had seen, that the Khan had carried off his wife and sister,
taken his flocks, compelled his father to collect tezek (a fuel
made of manure), his mother to tend the sheep. The horse began to
weep afresh. Kugaul prayed God to come to his assistance, so that
he might punish his insulting foe. He then commanded the horse to
convey him forthwith to his mother. He departed, and soon found her
in the steppe, occupied in tending the sheep. He threw himself into
her arms. "Why dost thou thus embrace me?" said the good old woman;
"can it be that thou art my son?" "If I am not thy son, am I not
worth as much as he?" "Oh, no; none in the steppe is worth as much
as my son." "Have you no news of him?" "I do not know where he is.
The Khan has despatched him against a hostile people; since that
time I have never heard talk of him. Only, to-day it appears to
me that I heard the noise of his horse's wings; but I do not know
whether it was reality or a trick of Satan." "And is it long since
thy Kugaul departed?" "Yes, yes; a long, long, very long time." "But
I am Kugaul himself. Dost thou not recognise me?" The old woman
looked at him more attentively, and she did not recognise him, and
said: "No, thou art not Kugaul; but if thou art his companion, or
if thou knowest anything of him, then speak. But do not deceive
me--do not torment me." "I am Kugaul," cried the son. "It was my
horse that flew over thy head this day." But the old woman was still
incredulous. He asked her if Kugaul had no birth-mark, and she
replied, that he had a black spot on his shoulder, big as a hand. He
then asked his mother to rub his shoulder (a common habit among the
Kirghis). "But," the old woman replied, "the sheep will run about in
all directions, and the Khan will beat me; for he often beats me.
Go, then, and let me manage my flocks." But he insisted and pressed,
and said, that if they wished to beat her, he would protect her.
At last the old woman consented. She took off the khalat (upper
garment) and the shirt, and proceeded to rub his shoulders. She
perceived the black spot large as a man's hand, threw herself on the
neck of the young man, and cried out, "Thou art Kugaul, thou art my
Kugaul;" and she wept for joy. "Did you not, then, recognise me,
mother?" said Kugaul. "Is it, then, so long a time that I have been?
And you, my poor dear mother, how altered you are! You have grown
old and grey, and your eyes are red with tears." And he embraced
her, weeping. "I knew not my child," replied his mother; "how long
you have been absent! But the Khan has attacked our aoul, carried
off thy wife and sister, and all our effects, and reduced thy
father and myself to be his slaves. I have been constantly expecting
thee; but I have lost all memory: I cannot tell how long a time has
passed. I know only that it is a long time, a very long time, that
thou hast left us." "Be tranquil, mother," said Kugaul; "the evil
days are terminating, and all begins anew to go right. God will aid
me. Return to the aoul; hasten to get in thy sheep, without paying
attention that it is yet early. If any one inquires about me, say
that I am not far off; but not a word more." He took leave of her,
and went his way. The old woman returned to the aoul, but she did
not walk as usual,--she ran; she, who could hardly before catch a
lamb, now chased three or four at once,--so much had her strength
improved. The Khan remarked it, and said to those around him: "That
old wife of Buruzgay must have received intelligence of her son." He
approached her, and questioned her about her son. "He is here,--he
is come," replied the old mother. "You will not be able henceforth
to make me suffer any more." She spoke boldly; for her interview
with her son had filled her heart with joy and hope. The Khan turned
pale with fright, and soon he perceived Kugaul, who, mounted on his
celebrated steed, advanced to him. Kugaul stopped at some distance,
then spoke, without descending from his horse. "You have deceived
me, you wished to get rid of me, to carry off my wife and sister. I
thought that you acted loyally with me, and went out at thy bidding
as a true man. But thou art only a hound, a perjured miscreant,
a robber. We must reckon. But what shall I gain by thy solitary
death. They would say, that Kugaul, the Batyr, has only killed the
Khan. Gather, then, thy army together." And the Khan begged of him
to grant him three days to assemble his people. Kugaul consented,
and departed. The Khan sent his orders into all the aouls of his
horde, and drew together a large armament of his people around him.
Kugaul prayed meanwhile to God. At the day appointed he came, and
said: "You are my Khan; I will not shoot first at you,--you begin."
The Khan shot: missed his aim. "I will not yet shoot at thee," said
Kugaul; "gather together thy best marksmen, and command them to
shoot against me; if they do not hit me, then I will shoot." The
best marksmen of the Khan stepped out of the ranks, and shot. Each
shot an arrow at Kugaul, but his horse transformed himself into an
eagle, then into a lark; protected him against all the shots, by
raising himself up in the clouds--and against all the arrows, by
crouching down in the grass of the steppe. They could not hit him.
Three days Kugaul permitted them thus to shoot against him. On the
fourth, he said to the Khan: "Well, since you are my master, you
have shot against me,--you and your servants, for three days. Now
comes my turn." "Do what you like," said the Khan. Kugaul placed the
best hunter, and then two archers, and the Khan himself in a line
behind them. He placed himself opposite to them, and, turning to
his horse, said: "My true steed, rest firm now, and change not thy
position, in order that I may, with a single arrow, kill all four."
The horse stayed still as a stone. Kugaul drew the string with all
his might: the arrow went through huntsman, archers, and the Khan
himself. When the people saw that the Khan was dead, they ran away
on all sides. Kugaul followed them. He reached, on horseback, now
this one, then that one, from the height of the clouds; and all that
he struck, died. At last he gave over his work of extermination.
He returned to his aoul, found there his parents, his wife, and
sister, and seized on the possessions of the Khan. Among the women
and children that the servants brought in, there was the daughter
of the Khan. Kugaul took her for his second wife. He married his
sister, Khanisbek, to a very rich Khan of a neighbouring tribe, and
he himself became also Khan.
So ends the story. The old people say (added Mourzakay) that all
this is the exact truth, and that all the events happened in the
steppes. I did not see them; but we must believe what the old people
tell us.