Part 35

During summer even the wealthier Kirghiz live almost entirely on milk in various forms, for they only kill a member of their herd for a festival or on some specially important occasion. When winter sets in, however, sheep and goats, horses and cattle, even camels are killed. The flesh of the horse, especially of the mare, is looked on as the noblest, that of cattle as the worst and poorest food. The flesh of sheep ranks next to horse flesh; camel flesh is good for the soul’s health; goat flesh is a mark of poverty, or is set before a guest in expression of contempt. Of the slaughtered horse the loins are most highly prized, and the breast of the sheep. A dainty of the first order is the belly fat of a young horse; this is therefore salted, made into smoked sausages, and set before the honoured guest with as much ceremony as the koumiss itself.

The Kirghiz turns to profit not only the edible portions but every usable part of the animals he rears. From the wool of the sheep he prepares the indispensable felt; he weaves and spins the hair of the camel, and the mother lays her new-born babe in its soft down-like under wool. The long hair of the goat is made into fringes for rugs and cloths, or into tassels or cords; the short woolly hair is spun and woven into bands for the yurt, and the hair of the horse’s mane and tail is plaited into much-prized leading-reins or cords for the yurt. Sheep-skin furnishes the ordinary winter fur coat; the skins of lambs and kids make valuable fur-trimmings; the flocks of wool rubbed off make good wadding for lining other garments, and the skins of all the animals supply leather of different kinds. The Kirghiz barters the superfluous or little-prized fat of his beasts, and some of his sheep, cattle, and horses for various other commodities of the general market; with the proceeds of the sale of his herds he pays his taxes and tributes, buys the uncoined silver with which he loves to make a display, the iron which he works, the rugs, garments, and silk stuffs with which he decks his person and his yurt. The herds are and must remain the sole support and source of wealth of the nomadic herdsman; the little land which he occasionally ploughs, sows, waters, and reaps is hardly worth taking into account.

It is not their own humour, but the necessity of satisfying the requirements of their stock, that regulates the roamings and sojournings of the Kirghiz, that compels them to wander this way to-day and that to-morrow, to rest for a little in one place, and shortly afterwards to leave it for another. The journeyings of these people are therefore by no means aimless wanderings about the vast steppe, but carefully-considered changes of residence determined by the season, and by the species of animal requiring fresh pasture. The steppe allows no planless roaming either in summer or winter, autumn or spring; aimless roving would expose the herds in winter to the most terrible storms, in summer to the danger of drought; in spring there would probably be an embarrassing superfluity of fodder, and by autumn the supply would have unpleasantly diminished. So the Kirghiz begins his journey from the low-lying plains, ascends slowly to the higher ground and even to the mountains, then moves slowly back to the low grounds again. But the various herds have different needs: sheep and goats like hard, fragrant plants such as are to be found on the salt steppe; horses prefer the mountain plants, especially those growing among masses of rock, while the favourite grazing-ground of cattle is soft meadow-land, and camels, besides eating the hard salt steppe plants, appear to look upon thorns and thistles as an indispensable part of their food. The well-to-do, who can group the different animals in separate herds, let each herd wander and feed by itself, and only the poorer people move from one place to another with all their stock together. Finally, the movements of one party are influenced by those of another. There are, indeed, no landmarks nor boundary stones, but even in the open steppe rights of possession and definite boundaries are recognized by ancient agreement; every horde, every branch of a horde, every community, the members of every aul, claim a right to the land traversed by their forefathers, and suffer no strange herd or herdsman to encroach on it, but take to arms and wage bloody warfare with every intruder, even with other members of the same tribe. This explains the fact that the nomad herdsman not only travels along definite routes, but restricts himself to a strictly limited range. His path may occasionally cross that of another herdsman, but it is never the same, for each respects the rights of the other, and is prevented by the rest of his tribe from encroaching upon them.

“Settled”, in our sense of the word, the Kirghiz never is, unless in the grave, but he is not without a home. In the wide sense, his home is the district through which he travels, in most cases the basin and valley of a small stream or brook, or, in a more restricted sense, his winter camping-ground from which he sets forth on his journeys, and to which he always returns. In the neighbourhood of this camping-ground rest nearly all, if not all his dead; here he may even have a fixed dwelling; hither the government sends its messengers to collect his taxes or appraise his possessions and count the members of his family and of his herds; here he spends, if not the happiest, at least the largest part of his life; here, gay and careless as he usually is, he passes through his severest and most serious trials. The exact locality of the winter dwelling may vary, but the camping-ground does not. Indispensable conditions are, that it be as much as possible protected from the cold, deadly, north and east winds, that the yurt can be erected on a sunny spot, that fixed houses may be built without much difficulty, that the necessary supply of water be certain, and that sufficient pasturage be available within easy distance. These conditions are best fulfilled by the valley of a river whose tributaries have cut deeply into the surrounding country, where the grass does not dry up in summer, so that hay can be cut at the proper season and yet enough food be left for the herds in winter, and where, in addition to the dung used for fire-lighting, fuel may be procured from the willow-bushes and black poplars on the river-bank. Other localities are only selected when it is a question of taking advantage of some place, such as the salt steppe, which has to be avoided in summer because it lacks water, that being supplied in sufficient abundance for man and beast as soon as snow has fallen. Though the winter dwelling may be a fixed one, it is always truly miserable, a musty, damp, dark hut, so lightly built that the inmates depend on the snow for thickening the walls and roof, and protecting them from storms. These walls are occasionally made of piled-up tree-trunks, oftener of rough stones, but most frequently of plaited willows or bundles of reeds. The roof and thatch are always of reeds. Close beside the dwelling-house is a similarly-constructed stable for the young animals, and at some distance there is a shelter for the rest of the herds.

In the beginning of winter the Kirghiz moves into such a winter dwelling, unless, as is perhaps usually the case, he prefers the much more comfortable yurt. The fuel for either has been long ago prepared, for in the preceding spring he, or rather his wife, upon whom falls all the heavier and more disagreeable work, mixed the dung of the herd animals with straw, and worked it into square cakes, which were then piled in heaps and dried in the sun. All the grass in the immediate neighbourhood has been carefully spared, so that the herds may graze as near the dwelling as possible; here, too, the hay which has been mown at a distance has been collected. If the winter be a good one, that is, if not much snow falls, the herds find food enough, but if it be severe, it often renders all precautions futile, and levies a toll on his herds heavier than is counterbalanced by the spring increase. Thus, in a good winter, cheerfulness prevails even in the dark hut of the wandering herdsman, but in a severe one, which reduces his beasts to walking skeletons, black care and grief visit even the pleasant yurt. In hut and yurt alike there is either comfort and plenty or bitter want during that much-dreaded season of the year.

It is not till towards the end of April, in many years not before the end of May, that the herdsman leaves his winter camp and begins to travel. The horses, tended by special herdsmen, move on in advance, so as not to annoy the smaller animals. It is not the lively foals, born, like the kids, a few weeks before, that cause so much anxiety; it is the young stallions and mares which are just reaching maturity. The foals spring about the whole herd in wanton playfulness, but they do not go far from the mother mares, who are quietly grazing, and only look up at them now and again. The young stallions and mares, on the other hand, cause continual uneasiness, and call for the greatest watchfulness on the part of the herdsmen, whose numbers are doubled for the time. Now the young males fight with the old, dignified, and domineering leader of the herd; now the young females throng about the sire till he is compelled to drive them away with bites; now one or another of them attempts to escape, and rushes, with head against the wind and dilated nostrils, out into the steppe. The herdsman at once urges the horse he is riding to a gallop, and pursues the fugitive in mad haste up hill and down dale; in his right hand he holds the long herdsman’s crook, with a noose attached to one end; nearer and nearer he presses on the young mare. The dreaded lasso is thrown, and is about to descend on her head, when she suddenly swerves to one side, and throwing her hind-legs into the air, as if teasing or mocking her pursuer, she is off again with renewed speed, and the wild chase begins anew, and goes on, until at length the herdsman succeeds in catching her, and leading her slowly back to the herd. Entertaining though this spectacle may be for the unconcerned spectator, perhaps even for the herdsman himself, such mad hunts would disturb the quiet and regular progress of the smaller animals, and therefore the owner does not let his different herds travel together, if it can be avoided. Nor could sheep and goats cover such distances as the horses do, for not only are they much enfeebled by the hardships of winter, but the lambs and kids are not yet strong enough. Separation of the herds is therefore doubly necessary.

The Kirghiz, when journeying with his smaller animals, at first only traverses a short distance, a so-called “sheep’s journey” each day, and he stops wherever there is good pasture, as long as his flocks graze with avidity. On the journey the flock of sheep, with its shepherd riding on an ox, leads the way. The sheep proceed at a tolerably quick pace, now crowding close together, now scattering widely, here and there stopping their march to enjoy to the full some specially dainty plant, but eating, or at least nibbling, all the time, and the herdsman’s steed also grazes uninterruptedly. The flock of ewes and mother-goats follows that of the lambs and kids, but at such a distance that they see and hear nothing of each other. The flock of wethers, if such still exists, or has just been formed, takes a different route. After all the flocks and herds have set out, the women take down the yurt, load camels or oxen with it and the few household requisites, mount their own horses with their children and other members of the family, and ride slowly after the milk-giving flocks. By mid-day they overtake them, milk them, and, carrying the milk in leathern bottles, continue their journey till sundown, when they set up the yurt again. One day passes like another. When the spring has brought fresh verdure, they remain for days, later on for weeks, in the same spot, until the pasturage around is growing scarce; then they move on again. When advancing spring calls to full life the slumbering insect larvæ, when swarms innumerable of gnats, flies, gadflies, and other pests fill the air, they direct their steps, if it be at all possible, towards the mountains, and climb gradually to the highest plateaus just below the snow-line. For the shepherd, who gets no assistance from the dogs, it is a hard enough task to guide the flocks over the plains; but in the mountains the difficulty of completing his daily “sheep’s journey” is immense, and it is impossible for him to get over some obstacles without the aid of other riders. As long as there is a beaten track the journey goes smoothly on, whether the path winds through flowery plains or over slopes and precipices. The leading goats survey such places for a little, as if deliberating, then choosing their path they go on their way, and the sheep follow them trustfully. But it is a different matter when, instead of a murmuring brook, a rushing torrent bars the way, and must be crossed. At sight of the decidedly hostile element even the bold goats hesitate, ready though they are to adapt themselves to all circumstances; but the sheep recoil from it in terror, and even climb the nearest rocks as if to save themselves. In vain the shepherd rides through the rushing flood; in vain he returns and collects his flock on the banks. The sheep express their anxiety in loud bleatings, even the goats bleat hesitatingly, till the shepherd’s patience is exhausted. For one moment the fateful sling hangs over the head of one of the sheep; the next, it feels itself caught by the neck, pulled up to the saddle, and hurled into the seething waters. Now it must shift for itself. Swimming spasmodically, or rather making a series of springs, it struggles on from one mass of rock to another, but before it can gain a footing, it is hurried on by the torrent, and kicks, flounders, leaps, and swims again, is every now and then carried away by the flood, but eventually reaches the opposite bank, exhausted more by terror than by exertion. Trembling in every limb, it satisfies itself that it is really on dry land again, shakes its dripping fleece, looks back timidly once more, and then begins to feed greedily to make up for the discomfort it has suffered. Meanwhile the rest of the flock have crossed the torrent one after another, either of their own accord or compulsorily, and when all have been collected again the march is resumed. In this manner the nomadic herdsman gradually reaches the mountains. When it begins to grow cold, when perhaps a slight fall of snow suggests the approach of winter, herdsman and herd turn downwards again, this time through the shadiest gorges, till the low-lying plain is reached, and the circle is completed at the winter camping-ground. This is the regular yearly routine.

All the Kirghiz domestic animals accustom themselves very quickly to the different districts in which they graze, wherever the place may be. After having gone to a pasture once or twice, all know the way thither again, they find it unfailingly without the herdsman, and return of their own accord to the yurt to be milked. There is certainly a strong inducement for them to do so, for from May onwards the young of all milk-yielding animals are kept from their mothers, and yet allowed to graze in the neighbourhood of the aul, so that longing for their young is kept alive in the maternal hearts. Thus milking can always take place at the same hour, and the mistress of the yurt can regulate her work and portion out her day.

With the exception of the mares, which are always milked by men, and often require the attention of at least two, and not rarely of three during the process, all the milking is done by the women. Early in the morning the calves, lambs, and kids are allowed to suck a little under strict supervision, and are then separated from the mothers, old and young being driven to their respective pastures. At mid-day the mothers, without the young, are brought to the yurt to be milked, and again in the evening the mothers are brought in before the young for the same purpose. With the help of the dogs, which render no other service, the whole flock is gathered into a limited space, and the work begins. The mistress and servants of a yurt, or those who live together as neighbours in an aul, appear with their milk vessels, and dexterously seizing one sheep after another, drag it to a rope stretched between poles, pass a sling formed by the rope itself round the neck of each, and thus force the animals to remain standing in rows with the heads turned inwards, the udders outwards. In this manner thirty or forty head of sheep and goats are fastened together in a few minutes, and the so-called “kögön” is formed. Taught by experience, the animals stand perfectly still as soon as they feel the string, and submit passively to all that follows. The women, sitting opposite each other, begin at one end, or if there are many sheep, at both ends of the double row, seize the short teats between forefinger and thumb, and exhaust the milk with rapid pulls. If it does not flow freely they shake the udder with a blow from the left hand, exactly as the sucking young ones do, and only when even by this means nothing more can be obtained do they proceed to the next sheep. The men of the yurt or aul, who may perhaps have helped to catch and fasten the sheep and goats, sit about in all sorts of positions, impossible and almost inconceivable to us, and allow their “red tongue” the fullest freedom. Some of the little boys make their first venture at riding on the sheep, unless they prefer the shoulders of their mothers for that purpose. The latter are as little distracted by these doings of their offspring as by any other little incidents. Whether they sit on the dry ground or in fresh sheep’s dung, whether some of that falls into their poplar-wood vessels, affects them little, for the vessel is in any case as dirty as the hand which milks; and though sheep’s dung may be unclean in our eyes it is not so in those of the Kirghiz, who believe in the Koran. At length the milking is at an end and the animals, which have been tethered all this time and have been ruminating for want of better employment, can be released; a quick pull at one end of the cord, all the slings are undone, and the sheep and goats are free.

A general, simultaneous bleating is the first expression of their delight in their newly-recovered freedom; a short, quickly-repeated shaking throws off the last recollections of their undignified servitude; and then they run off as quickly as possible, in the plains as far away from the yurt as the herdsman allows, in the mountainous districts towards the hills, as if they could only there breathe the air of freedom. In reality they are longing to meet their young ones as soon as possible. All day long they have been away from them, but now, according to all their experience, the little ones must appear. The sheep run about bleating continuously, and even the intelligent goats look longingly all around as if they wished to find out whether the expected flock is already on the way, or at least whether it is visible in the far distance. The bleating grows louder and louder, for every newly-released row excites all the sheep assembled in the neighbourhood of the aul; and the impatience of the mothers, which is increasing every minute, finds vent in piteous, almost moaning bleatings. The longer the suspense lasts the more restless do the mothers become. Aimlessly they wander hither and thither, sniff at every blade of grass on the way, but scarcely crop any, lift their heads expectantly and joyously, let them droop again in disappointed sadness, bleat, and bleat again. The restlessness increases almost to frenzy, the bleating becomes a perfect bellowing.

From the distance are heard weak, shrill, bleating sounds. They do not escape the attentive ears of the mothers. A loud and simultaneous call from every throat is the answer; all the maternal longing, increased to the utmost by the long waiting, is condensed in a single cry. And from the distance, down from the hills towards the yurt, the eager lambs and kids come rushing to find their mothers; the biggest and strongest in front, the youngest and weakest behind, but all hurrying, running and leaping, almost enveloped in a cloud of dust; and stretching out into a longer procession the nearer they approach their goal. An apparently inextricable confusion arises, old and young, united at last, run hither and thither, touching each other lightly as they pass, to find out, by touch as well as by smell, whether they have found their own or not; both run on if this is not the case, the lambs and kids, however, in most cases only after they have been made aware of their mistake by a push or tread from the mother animal. Gradually the dense crowd dissolves, for by degrees, in a much shorter time than one would imagine, every mother has found her child, every child its mother, and the young one now kneels down under its parent, eagerly drawing from the udder what milk remains. And if the bleating still continues, the sounds are now indicative only of the liveliest satisfaction.

But this state of mutual delight does not last long. The udders, already milked, are quickly exhausted, and, in spite of all the thrusts of the suckling, the fountain will flow no longer. But mother and young still enjoy the pleasure of being together. The mixed flock spreads out in all directions, the complaisant mother following the lively youngster as it climbs the nearest height after the manner of its kind, or looking contentedly on when a little kid tries its strength in playful combat with another of its own age. The whole space round the yurt is picturesquely decorated by the lively flocks, a most charming picture of peaceful and comfortable pastoral life lies before the eyes of those who have feeling and understanding to enjoy it.

The women now allow themselves a short rest, take their children in their laps, and fulfil their maternal duties or desires. But more work awaits them. A lowing announces the approach of the cows, also eager for their share of maternal joy, and the industrious women rise hastily, bring the calves which were tied up beforehand to the cows, let them suck for a little, wrench them from the udder again, and only after milking allow the calves full freedom. Meanwhile the shepherds and dogs have once more collected the sheep and goats, and now old and young, men and women, boys and girls, unite in the work of catching the lambs and fastening them in rows, with nooses which are firm without being too tight, to a cord in front of the yurt, so that the mothers cannot suckle. As may be supposed, this is not completed without much bleating and noise, and mingled with it are the cries and wailings of the children wearying for their mothers, the lowing of cows, and the barking of dogs. Only the lambs and kids just tied submit quietly to the inevitable. A few kids still try their sprouting horns in playful duels, but they soon tire, and lay themselves peaceably down opposite their quondam rivals. Before the long row is fastened most of the young ones have tucked in their legs and given themselves up to repose. One mother-sheep and goat after another sniffs at the little ones till she has found her own, but returns to the flock when she has satisfied herself that it is impossible to lie down beside her offspring.

The sun has long since disappeared from the horizon, and twilight has given place to darkness. It becomes quieter and quieter in the yurt. Men and animals have sought and found rest; only the dogs begin their rounds under the guidance of a watchful herdsman; but even they only bark when there is a real reason for it, when it is necessary to scare away some prowling wolf or other thief. A cool, but fragrant, dewy summer night descends upon the steppe, and the refreshing slumber of this richest and most beautiful season blots out the hardships of winter from the memory of man and beast alike.

FAMILY AND SOCIAL LIFE AMONG THE KIRGHIZ.

To escape the threatening hand of justice, four thieves fled from the homes of honest men, and sought refuge and concealment in the vast steppe. On their flight, they fell in with two beggar-women, driven out, like themselves, from among their industrious fellows. The beggar-women found favour in the eyes of the thieves, and they married them, two thieves taking one woman. A great many children resulted from these alliances, so contrary to the laws of God and man, and the children became the parents of a numerous people who spread over the hitherto uninhabited steppe. But they were faithful to their origin--thieves like their fathers, beggars like their mothers, and like both in being without religion or morals. This people is the Kirghiz, whose name signifies “Robber”.

Thus a religious Tartar poet pictures the origin, and describes the character of a people closely related to his own, who speak the same language, and worship the same God according to the precepts of the same prophet. He speaks thus, solely because the Kirghiz, in matters of religion, cling less slavishly to words, and think less narrowly than he does. His words simply illustrate the old and ever new story; the offence which the poet’s words express is constantly repeated among every people, the pious lie, which no sect has shrunk from uttering, to lower the credit of those who think differently from themselves.

But the traveller who sojourns among the Kirghiz, the stranger who seeks and receives hospitality under the light roof of their yurt, the scholar who endeavours to investigate their manners and customs, the official who lives among them as guardian of the law, or as representative of the State; in a word, everyone who has much intercourse with them, and is unprejudiced, gives an account of them widely different from that of the Tartar poet.

There was a time when the Kirghiz in general justified their name, but this time has long gone by, at least as far as most branches of the different hordes are concerned. The sentiments, the adventurous expeditions, and brigand exploits of their fathers may awaken an echo in the breast of every Kirghiz; but, on the whole, these horsemen of the steppe have submitted to the laws of their present rulers, live at peace among themselves, as well as with their neighbours, respect the rights of property, and do not rob and steal oftener or more than other people, but rather more rarely and less. Under Russian dominion the Kirghiz of to-day live in such satisfactory circumstances, that their fellow-tribesmen beyond the boundaries look with envy on the Russian subjects. Under the protection of their government they enjoy quietness and peace, security of property, and religious freedom; they are almost entirely exempt from military service, and are taxed in a manner which must be acknowledged as reasonable in every respect; they have the right of choosing their own district governors, and many other privileges to the enjoyment of which the Russians themselves have not as yet attained. Unfortunately, these governors are not so reasonable as the government, and they hamper, oppress, and overreach the Kirghiz whenever and in whatever way they can. But, happily, they have not been able in any way to influence the manners and customs of the people.

The Kirghiz are a race of true horsemen, and can scarcely be thought of apart from their horses; they grow up with the foal and live with the horse till death. It is not, indeed, on horseback only that the Kirghiz is at home, for he understands how to ride every kind of animal which can bear him at all: but the horse is always, and under all circumstances, his favourite bearer and most cherished companion. He transacts all his business on horseback, and the horse is looked upon as the only steed worthy of a man. Men and women ride in the same fashion, not a few of the women with the same skill as the men. The position of the rider is lazy and comfortable, not very pleasing to the eye of the spectator. The Kirghiz rides in short buckled stirrups, without a leg-guard, touching the front edge of the saddle with the knees only, and thus balancing himself freely; trotting, he raises himself in the stirrups, often standing upright in them, and bending his head so far forward that it almost touches the horse’s neck; when the horse walks or gallops, as it usually does, he holds himself erect. He holds the reins with the whole hand. The knout, which is held by the loop or knot, he uses with the thumb, index and middle fingers. Falling out of the saddle is by no means a rare occurrence, for he takes not the slightest heed of ways and paths, but leaves the horse to find these for itself. And even if he be of more careful mood, he will take any path which the beast can tread, with as little hesitation as he mounts the wildest, most intractable horse. Difficult paths do not exist for him; in fact, path simply means the distance across a given area; what may lie between the beginning and the end of the journey is to him a matter of the utmost indifference. As long as he is in the saddle he expects incredible things of his steed, and gallops uphill or downhill, over firm ground or through bog, morass, or water; without giddiness or any of the fear which seizes him when afoot, he climbs precipices which any other rider would deem impassable, and looks calmly down from the saddle into the abyss by the side of the goat-track, which he calls a road, where even the most expert mountaineer would be unable to repress a shudder. When he has dismounted, he acts upon all the rules deduced from long experience for the care of an over-strained horse, and is as careful of it as he had previously been inconsiderate. On festive occasions the Kirghiz performs feats of horsemanship for the amusement of the spectators, who are never awanting; he raises himself erect in the stirrups, which are crossed over the saddle, and springs from them without falling, he holds fast to the saddle or stirrups with his hands, and stretches his legs into the air, or hangs from one side of the saddle, and attempts to pick up some object from the ground, but he does not seem to practise the military sports of his Turkish relatives. Racing is to him the greatest of all pleasures, and every festival is celebrated by a race.

To the race, which is called “Baika”, only the finest horses, and of these only amblers are usually admitted. The distances to be traversed are always considerable,--never less than twenty, and frequently forty kilometres: the riders make for a certain point in the steppe, such as a hillock, or a burial-place, and then return as they went. Boys of seven, eight, or at most ten years of age, sit in the saddle, and guide the horses with remarkable skill. The spectators ride slowly to meet the returning horses, give help, called “guturma”, to the steed which seems to have most chance of winning, by taking off the little rider, seizing reins, stirrups, mane, and tail, and leading, or rather dragging it to the goal between fresh horses. The prizes raced for consist of various things, but are always reckoned as equivalent to so many horses. Two or three thousand silver roubles are frequently offered as the first prize: among the richer families the stakes are one hundred horses or their equivalent. Young girls, too, are sometimes offered as prizes, the winner of one being allowed to marry her without making the usual payment to her family.

While the race-horses are on their way, the men often pass the time by exercising their own physical powers. Two men divest themselves of their outer garments, baring the shoulders and upper parts of the body, and begin to wrestle. The mode of attack varies. The combatants seize one another, bend towards one another, turn about in a circle, each always watching the other carefully, and seeking to parry every effort, real or feigned, till suddenly one of them exerts his full strength, and the other, if he has not foreseen this, is thrown to the ground. Others begin the attack more impetuously, but meet with such strenuous resistance that the struggle lasts a long time before one succeeds in vanquishing his opponent. The spectators encourage them, praise and blame, cheer and scoff, betting among themselves the while, and becoming more and more excited as the balance inclines to one side or the other. At length, one lies on the ground, laughed at by the whole company, ashamed and humiliated, in his secret heart probably embittered. Cries from every throat fill the air, pieces of cloth, perhaps only rags of cotton, are torn up and distributed to balance accounts; reproaches mingle with shouts of applause, and the match is over, unless the vanquished one suddenly seeks his revenge, and attacks his Opponent once more. A wrestling match never comes to an end without noise, screaming, and wrangling, but actual fighting seldom takes place.

Hunting must be reckoned among the equestrian sports of the Kirghiz. When a sportsman gets on the track Of a wolf, he follows it with such eagerness and persistence that he takes little heed though the cold, doubly felt when riding quickly, should seriously imperil him, that is, if his face and hands should become frozen; for, if his horse holds out, he almost certainly succeeds at length in throwing his heavy club at his victim’s head. But his favourite mode of hunting is with eagles and greyhounds. Like his forefathers, he understands how to tame and carry the golden eagle, and with the bird sitting on his thickly-gloved hand, which is supported on a wooden rest fastened to the saddle, he ascends some hillock from which he can command a wide view. Meanwhile, his companions beat the surrounding steppe for game. The game may be wolf or fox, unless the eagle is not yet thoroughly trained, in which case it is either a marmot or a fox. No very special training of the eagle is required; it is only necessary that it be taken young from the nest, that it be always fed by the sportsman himself, and that it be taught to return to its master at his call: inherited habit does the rest. As soon as the beaters have started a fox, the huntsman unhoods and unchains his bird, and lets it fly. The eagle spreads its wings, begins to circle, and rises in a spiral higher and higher, spies the hard-pressed fox, flies after him, descends obliquely upon him with half-closed wings, and strikes its outspread talons into its victim’s body. The fox turns round in a fury, and attempts to seize his foe with his sharp teeth; if he succeeds, the eagle is lost. But almost all these birds of prey, which are as strong as they are bold, have an instinctive feeling of such danger, and the skill to avoid it. The very moment the fox turns, the eagle lets go its hold, and an instant later its talons are fixed in its quarry’s face. Triumphant acclamations from its much-loved master, who now draws near, encourage the eagle to hold fast, and a few minutes later the fox, felled by the huntsman, lies dying on the ground. Many an eagle has to pay for the boldness of its first venture with its life; but if the first attempt is successful, it soon becomes so skilful that it can be flown at a wolf. Though the attack on the wolf is made in precisely the same manner, the eagle’s bearing is, from the very beginning, perceptibly more cautious; the size of the wolf teaches it that it has to do with a much more dangerous foe. But it learns to vanquish even the wolf, and its fame, as well as its master’s, spreads abroad among the people, and as its renown becomes greater its value increases. An eagle which can kill a fox is worth thirty or forty silver roubles; one which can vanquish a wolf is valued at twice or three times as much, if, indeed, its master would sell it at all. It is not possible to hunt with two eagles, as one would disturb the other; but one alone often enters into the chase with so much ardour that it makes it very difficult for its master to help, especially if it will not willingly let go its hold of the quarry it has seized.

If the Kirghiz who is hunting with an eagle requires to bring all his powers of horsemanship into play, that is still more necessary when hunting antelopes with greyhounds. These rather long-haired dogs run like shot arrows when they have sighted the game, and the rider courses after them up hill and down dale until he and they have overtaken the fleet fugitive. If anyone falls on such a ride, he earns only a half-pitying, half-mocking smile, as the mad hunt rushes past him.

Even when driving game among the mountains, the Kirghiz do not dismount from their horses. It was a magnificent sight to see the horsemen who were driving wild sheep for our guns in the Arkat mountains begin their break-neck ride. Here and there on the highest points, as well as in the hollows, valleys, and ravines between them, one horseman after another showed up clearly against the clouds, and was lost to view again between masses of rock, to appear shortly afterwards upon the stony slopes. None dismounted, none hesitated an instant to choose his path. It was easier for them to ride among the mountains than to walk.

The sportsman’s endurance is on a par with his boldness. Not only on horseback, but while stalking and lying in wait for his game, he shows marvellous perseverance. That he follows a trail for several days is not remarkable, when we take his love of riding into account; but with the matchlock, which he still uses as often as the flintlock, in his hand, he will creep for five or six hundred yards along the ground like a stealthy cat, or lie in wait for hours in storm and rain until the game comes within range of his gun. He never shoots at long range, and never without resting the barrel of his gun on the fork attached to it, but he aims with certainty, and knows exactly where to send his bullet.

Though the Kirghiz is thus persistent and untiring as horseman, sportsman, and herdsman, he is very unwilling to do any other kind of work. He tills the fields, but in the most careless manner, and never more than is absolutely imperative. Tilling the soil appears to him as inglorious as every other employment not connected with his flocks and herds. He is remarkably skilful in turning water aside for purposes of irrigation, has a highly-developed sense of locality, and can mark out his drains without using a surveyor’s table or water-level. But it is only in his boyhood that he takes up such work with any willingness; after he has attained to possessions of his own he never touches pick or shovel again. Still less does he like to work at any trade. He knows how to prepare leather, to fashion it into all kinds of straps and saddlery, and to decorate these very tastefully with iron or silver work, and he can even make knives and weapons, but when he does such work, it is always unwillingly and without taking any pleasure in it. Yet he is by no means a lazy or careless workman, but is diligent and conscientious, and whoever has succeeded in gaining his skilful hand has seldom reason to be dissatisfied with it.

He rates mental work much more highly than physical. His eager, active mind demands occupation, and thus he likes not only light conversation, but serious discussions of all kinds, chiefly, perhaps, because of the variety they give to his monotonous life. So he amuses himself in converse with others of his tribe, and he can become a perfect bore to a stranger with his glibness of speech, which often degenerates to mere chatter. With this love of talking is closely connected a thirst for knowledge, which in the same way often degenerates into inquisitiveness, for the “red tongue” is never allowed a holiday. Whatever the wind blows over the steppe the listening ear of the Kirghiz picks up and the “red tongue” clothes in words. If anything is discussed which the Kirghiz understands or does not understand, if any conversation takes place in a language with which he is acquainted, he has no hesitation in making his way to the yurt and, invited or otherwise, pressing his ear to its walls, so as to lose no syllable. To keep to himself an occurrence which differs from the everyday routine by a hair’s-breadth, an event of any kind, a piece of information, or a secret, is to the Kirghiz an utter impossibility. Does the noble horse keep silence when he sees anything which excites his interest, or the sheep and the goat when they meet with their fellows? Does the lark soar up from its nest on the steppe in silence? And shall the lord of the steppe be more silent than they? Never! “Speak on, red tongue, while thou hast life, for after death thou shalt be still.” An uninterrupted stream of speech flows from the lips of every Kirghiz. Two men never ride silently together, even though their journey lasts for days. The whole time they find something to talk about, some communication to make to each other. Usually it does not nearly satisfy them to ride in pairs; three or four of them ride abreast wherever the path admits of it. This way of riding is so deeply rooted in them that the horses press close together of their own accord, and a European is obliged to rein them in to prevent their doing so. In a yurt filled with Kirghiz there is a buzzing like that about a bee-hive, for everyone wishes to speak, and does everything he can to gain a hearing.