From North Pole to Equator: Studies of Wild Life and Scenes in Many Lands

by Alfred Edmund Brehm

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.

Fig. 71.—Hunting the Wolf with the Golden Eagle.

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.

Fig. 72.—Kirghiz in pursuit of Wild Sheep.

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.

One good result of this love of talking, so unusual among men, is the command of language which they acquire. In this they seem all alike, rich and poor, high and low, educated and uneducated. Their rich, sonorous, but rather hard language, though only a dialect of the Tartar, is remarkably expressive. Even a foreigner who is unacquainted with it can feel that every word is distinctly pronounced, every syllable correctly accented, so that one can almost make out the sense from the sound. Their way of speaking is very sprightly, the cadence of each phrase corresponding to its meaning, and the pauses correctly observed, so that a conversation sounds somewhat broken, though the flow of speech is never arrested for a moment. An expression of face which speaks for itself, and very lively gestures, add to the effect of their speech. If the subject be particularly interesting, their vivacity is apt to increase to such a pitch of excitement that one begins to fear that from words they will go on to blows. But even the most heated wordy strife invariably ends in quietness and peace.

It will be readily understood that the bard holds a prominent place among such a people. Everyone who distinguishes himself above his fellows by his fluency of speech gains respect and honour. The presence of a singer who can improvise is indispensable to every festival. His creative power need not be of a very high order; but his words must flow without interruption and in a definite and familiar metre to gain him the reputation of a poet. But every Kirghiz bard has at his command a store of poetic ideas which is by no means scanty, and to clothe these ideas in words is easy enough to him. The nomadic pastoral life, though on the whole monotonous, has its charms, and certain chords only require to be struck to give keen pleasure to every hearer. Numerous sagas and legends, which live in the minds of all, yield abundant material for filling up blanks; and thus the bard’s narrative flows on like a calm stream whose springs never dry up: it is only necessary to keep it in the proper metre to make him a poet for ever. Even this is made easy to him; for every bard accompanies his recitative on the three-stringed Kirghiz zither, and as he links on each measure to the next by playing on this, he can make the interlude last until the next verse has taken shape in his mind. The speed and skill with which this is done determines his rank as a poet. But if a woman is inspired to poetry she is sure of universal admiration, and if she consents to sing in competition with a man, the enthusiastic listeners extol her above all others of her sex.

The vast steppe is much less favourable to regular instruction than it is to poetry. This explains why so few Kirghiz are able to write, and why there is so little written literature. Only the sons of the wealthiest and highest in rank among them are taught to read and write. In the two schools founded by the government in Ustkamenegorsk and Zaizan Kirghiz boys are taught,—indeed, they only are admitted to that in the first-named town,—but the influence of these institutions does not reach to the heart of the steppe. There a boy only learns if he happens to come in contact with a mollah who has as much desire to teach as the boy has to learn. But even then his instruction is confined to the simplest things, and consists chiefly in learning to read and form Arabic characters. The contents of the principal, if not the only text-book, the Koran, are not usually intelligible to the mollah himself; he reads the sentences without knowing their meaning. I have only known one Kirghiz who understood Arabic, and he was a sultan. Everyone else who was distinguished above his fellows by his knowledge of the sacred writings, and who, as a faithful adherent of Islam, performed the five prescribed prayers, understood at most the words of the call to prayer and of the first sentences of the Koran; the rest he repeated with the seriousness of all Mohammedans, but without understanding the meaning. And yet I was deeply impressed when, in the midst of the vast steppe, where no minaret towered up towards heaven, the voice of the mueddin uttered the call to prayer, and the faithful knelt in long rows behind the Iman or leader, and pressed their foreheads to the ground in prayer, as the law of the Prophet ordains.

The consciousness of strength and dexterity, of skill in riding and hunting, of poetic talent and general mental activity, and the feeling of independence and freedom caused by the vastness of the steppe gives confidence and dignity to the bearing of the Kirghiz. The impression he makes upon an unprejudiced observer is therefore a very favourable one, and it increases the more intimately one becomes acquainted with him. So it was in my case, and it is also the opinion of Russians who have associated with Kirghiz for years, in particular, of the government officials, and of other travellers who have lived among them. It is scarcely too much to say that the Kirghiz possesses very many good qualities and very few bad ones, or reveals very few to strangers. Mentally wide-awake, shrewd, vivacious, intelligent where things known to him are concerned, good-humoured, obliging, courteous, kindly, hospitable and compassionate, he is, of his kind, a most excellent man, whose bad qualities one can easily overlook if one studies him without prejudice. He is polite without being servile, treats those above him respectfully but without cringing, those beneath him affably but not contemptuously. He usually hesitates a little before replying to a question, but his answer is quiet and clear, and his sharply-accented way of speaking gives it an expression of definiteness. He is obliging towards everyone, but does more from ambition than from hope of gain, more to earn praise and approval than money or money’s worth. The District Governor, Tamar Bey Metikoff, who gave us his escort for almost a month, was the most obliging, polite, kindly man under the sun, always ready to fulfil a wish of ours, untiring in our service or for our benefit, and all this solely in the hope of gaining our approval and that of the Governor-general. He told us so in the clearest language when we tried to force presents upon him.

In harmony with such ambition is the pride of the higher-class Kirghiz in his descent and family. He boasts of distant ancestors, and occasionally traces back his pedigree to Chingis-Khan, only marries with those of equally good birth, suffers no spot on his honour, and forgives no insult to it. But in addition, he exhibits a personal vanity which one would scarcely expect of him. Not only authority and wealth, dignity and rank, but youth and beauty are, in his eyes, gifts to be highly esteemed. But he differs from many handsome young men among us in that he never descends to coxcombry. He boasts openly and without reserve of the gifts bestowed on him by nature or acquired by his own skill, but such boasting is quite natural to him, and is not distorted by any show of false modesty. As far as his means will permit he clothes himself richly, ornamenting his coat and trousers with braiding, his fur cap with the feathers of the horned owl; but he never becomes a mere dandy. The women, as may be imagined, are still more anxious to set their charms in the best possible light, and I was not at all surprised to learn that they prepare from the juice of a certain root a delicate, fragrant, and lasting colouring which they apply to their cheeks—in other words, that they paint their faces.

As a natural outcome of his desire to please, the Kirghiz gives a willing adherence to all the manners and customs of his people. His culture and good breeding manifest themselves chiefly in a strict observance of all those customs which have been handed down to him from the past, and have been materially influenced by Islam. This implies a certain formality and ceremoniousness in all mutual intercourse, but it also puts a check on undue arrogance, and banishes everything unseemly, almost everything awkward, from their social relations, for everyone knows exactly what he has to do to avoid giving offence or making himself disagreeable.

Even mutual greeting is attended with a certain amount of ceremony which is observed by everyone, and is therefore, of course, quite clearly defined. If two parties of Kirghiz meet, a considerable time is always taken up in the exchange of greetings. The members of both bands simultaneously lay their right hands over the region of the heart, and stretch the left hand towards the right of the other, whereupon each draws his right hand from his heart and joins it with the left, so that now for an instant all four hands are in contact. At the moment of embracing, both pronounce the Arabic word “Amán” (peace), while beforehand they exchanged the usual Mohammedan greeting, “Salám alëik” or “alëikum” (Peace be with thee, or with you), and the reply, “Alëikum el salám”. In this manner every member of one band greets every member of the other; both bands, therefore, when they meet, range themselves in rows, along which one after another runs hastily, so as to give the temporarily-restrained “red tongue” its full freedom as quickly as possible. The shorter method, which, however, is only used in the case of large gatherings, is to stretch out the hands towards each other and clasp them together.

If the Kirghiz visit each other in their auls, another form has to be gone through before the customary greeting takes place. Within sight of the yurt the approaching visitors rein in their horses, walk them for a little, and finally stand still. At this sign some one comes to meet them from the aul, greets them, and conducts them to the yurt, which the women have in the meantime decorated by spreading out their most valuable rugs. Strangers who are unknown in the aul must, before greeting, answer inquiries as to their name, station, and whence they have come; but they are received and hospitably treated in any case, for the Kirghiz shows hospitality towards everyone, irrespective of station and religion, though he always prefers distinguished guests. The guest enters the yurt with the customary greeting, pulls off his shoes at the door, but of course keeps on his soft riding-boots. If he is of equal standing with his host, he sits down in the place of honour; but if of humbler degree, he keeps modestly in the background, and lets himself down on the rug in a kneeling posture.

In honour of an esteemed guest the host orders a sheep to be killed, but has it first brought to the yurt to be blessed by the guest. At this sign all the neighbours assemble to take part in the sumptuous feast. The head and breast of the sheep are roasted on the spit, the rest of the flesh is cut into pieces and boiled in a cauldron, and loin, ribs, shoulders, and haunches, whenever they are cooked, are set before the guest in a vessel. The guest washes his hands, cuts the flesh from the bones, dips it in the salt broth, and says to the host, who has till then remained standing, “It is only through the host that the meat gains flavour; sit down”; but the host replies, “Thanks, thanks, but eat”, and does not at once accept the invitation of the guest. Thereupon the latter cuts a piece from the ribs, calls the host to him, and puts it into his mouth; then cutting a second piece, he lays it in a bowl and hands it to the housewife. The host then sits down, but it is still the guest who distributes the meat to the members of the company. He cuts it into pieces of a convenient size for the mouth, mixes them with fat, dips three of them at a time into the broth, and puts them into the mouth of one of his fellow-feasters after another. It would be an insult to the giver if the receiver did not at once swallow the pieces, even though, if they be large, he chokes so frightfully that he becomes blue in the face, and urgently requires the assistance, which his neighbours immediately give by striking him on the back with their fists, to render the process of swallowing easier. The guest, on the other hand, must never give more than three pieces, for if he exceeds this number, if he stuffs five at a time into the mouth of a man, and if the man is choked in the attempt to swallow the too generous gift at once, the giver must compensate the bereaved family to the value of one hundred horses, while if anyone chokes over the three pieces, he is not held responsible. After the meat has been consumed, the chief guest hands round the vessel containing the broth, and each drinks from it according to his necessities or desires. At the close of the meal, though not until all have washed their hands, every well-to-do host, whose mares are yielding milk at the time, hands round koumiss, and this much-loved beverage is received by everyone with obvious reverence. If anyone has not yet taken part in the meal, he comes now to refresh himself with this nectar. They drink to intoxication, for the Kirghiz has as great a capacity for drinking this highly-prized milk-wine as he has for eating, and in both respects he is anything but modest or moderate.

But the ceremony attending ordinary visiting is nothing compared with that observed in connection with all important family events, such as weddings or burials. In the case of the former, the joy finds vent in much practical joking; in the latter, mourning is accompanied by ceremonies indicative of respect to the dead. Wooing and weddings, burial and memorial celebrations give rise to a whole chain of festivals.

As among all Mohammedans, the father woos on behalf of his son, and pays the future father-in-law a varying, and often very considerable sum. A matrimonial agent, who is proclaimed as such by the fact that he wears one leg of his trousers over and the other under his boot, makes his appearance in the yurt in which a daughter is blossoming into womanhood, and prefers a request for her in the name of the father of a marriageable youth. If the bride’s father is agreeable, he demands that the sender of the message, with the elders of his aul, shall come to treat with him on the subject. These comply, and, according to custom, rein in their horses within sight of the aul. A messenger from the bride’s father rides to meet them, greets them formally, and conducts them to the festive yurt decorated in their honour. There they are at once regaled with koumiss, and a bard arrives to contribute to their entertainment. He is rewarded by loud applause, and incited to further effort by magnificent promises. They praise the depth of his thought, the finished style of his execution; they promise him a horse, an Iamba, or four pounds of uncoined silver as his reward. The master of the yurt protests against this, insisting that he alone has the right to reward the singer; but the guests promise so much the more, for they know that their host will not permit the fulfilment of their promises. When the song is ended a lively conversation takes place between the host and his neighbours and guests; they talk about everything imaginable except the object of the visit, and at length they disperse, and the guests ride to their homes again.

The next morning the father of the bride with his train return the visit, and after being greeted and feasted in the same manner, request to see the young man’s mother. They at once repair to the yurt of the housewife, and greet her with much ceremony and courtesy. Then the father produces the roasted brisket of a sheep, and distributes pieces of this much-prized meat to his guests with the words, “Let this sheep’s breast be a pledge that our plans will be successfully carried out”. Then begins a discussion over the amount of the “kalüm” or price to be paid for the bride. A mare of from three to five years of age is the unit of calculation; an ambler or a camel is considered equivalent to five mares, and six or seven sheep or goats make up the value of one.

The bride’s father demands 77 mares, but lets himself be beaten down to 57, 47, 37, 27, according to his means and those of the bridegroom’s father. If both are poor they come even farther down till they are agreed. As soon as the bargain is concluded, the bride’s father declares the betrothal fixed, and prepares to go, leaving a present in or before the yurt. But the bridegroom’s father, if it is possible at all, sends half the kalüm with him, and pays the remaining half as soon as may be.

A fortnight after payment of the kalüm, the bridegroom is at liberty to visit his bride for the first time. Accompanied by as many friends of his own age as possible, he sets out under the guidance of an older friend of the family, who is familiar with all the customs to be observed, but he dismounts in the neighbourhood of the bride’s aul, erects a small tent, and retires into it, or conceals himself in some other way. His followers go on to the aul, and, after having been ceremoniously welcomed, enter it and distribute, amid much jesting, all sorts of little presents, rings, necklaces, sweets, ribbons, and pieces of coloured cloth, among the crowd of women and children. Then they enter the festive yurt with all the young people of both sexes. The host provides meat and drink; first, the breast of a sheep, which he cuts with the words already mentioned, then “meibaur”—small pieces of the heart, liver, and kidneys smeared with fat. The dishes are placed before the elderly leader of the party, who, as chief guest, proceeds in the manner before described, but as he puts the pieces into the mouth of the first young man, he smears his face with the fat broth. This is the signal for the beginning of all manner of practical jokes, and the youths, maidens, and younger women indulge in them freely. A very common one among the girls is to sew the clothing of the young men with rapid stitches to the rugs on which they are sitting.

When the meal is over the youthful guests are allowed a short interval of repose, but only to give them time to collect their ideas. Then the girls and women challenge the young men to a singing competition, and giving them the place of honour, sit down opposite them; then one begins her song. It fares ill with the youth whom she addresses if he is not ready with his reply. The merry troop falls upon him, they nip him and pinch him, drive him from the yurt, and hand him over to the young men of the aul, who are congregated outside on the watch for such victims. A bucket of water is poured over the unfortunate blunderer, and thus bathed and humiliated, he is led back to the yurt to undergo another trial. If he fails in this also he is condemned to be dressed as a woman, and put in the pillory. Woe to him if he is thin-skinned, it will be a day of torture for him. Joking is the order of the day, and no surly person will be tolerated. Whoever can best enter into the spirit of it is the hero of the day; whoever is unable to take his share is the general sacrificial lamb.

During these amusements the bride sits concealed behind a curtain in the back of the yurt. The young people of the aul take advantage of her solitude to steal her away, while the bridegroom’s friends are occupied with the singing competition. They make an opening between the pieces of felt covering the yurt, drag her through it, put her on horseback, and carry her off unresisting to the yurt of one of her relatives, where she is given into the hands of the assembled older women. If the robbery succeeds, the robber challenges the youths to find the bride and to deliver her from the women. The company hastily breaks up, and they beg her guardians to restore the bride to them. But, however persuasive their words may be, their request is refused. The bride sits before their eyes in a yurt from which a portion of the felt cover has been removed, but violence is out of the question, so the youths begin to bargain. The women demand nine different dishes prepared by the young men’s own hands, but, after a time, they agree to accept nine gifts instead, and they give up the bride, stipulating that she shall be taken back to her father’s yurt.

Meanwhile the bridegroom sits waiting in his tent. He has not been quite alone, for some of the young married women had gone to seek him as soon as his companions arrived, and had been received by him with a respectful greeting called “taschim”. He had bowed so low before them that his finger-tips had touched the ground, and had then raised himself slowly, letting his hands glide up his shins until he had reached his full height; the women had accepted his homage, and had borne him company all day, giving him food and drink, and whiling away the time with talk and jesting, but not allowing him to leave the tent. Not before sundown, and only after much coaxing does he receive permission to sing a song within the aul and before the bride’s yurt. He mounts his horse, rides into the aul, sings his greeting to the inhabitants, and, stopping before the yurt of his bride-elect, expresses his lover’s plaint in a song, original or otherwise.

Sweetheart, my love brings me dule and pain,

For it’s thrice that I’ve tried to win thee;

Thou would’st not waken; my heart is fain;

For it’s thrice thou would’st not hear me.

But late in night, when the camels rest,

All fixed by their hairy tether,

My heart shall fly to its own warm nest,

Our hearts shall be one together.

Let me but see thy face, sweetheart,

And I shall be brave and strong;

Thou hast stolen away my peace, sweetheart,

And left me with only a song.

I pray for a draught of koumiss, love,

For dry and parched is my soul;

Thou wilt hearken and give me bliss, love,

And make my bleeding heart whole.

But should all my pleading tease thee,

And thine ear be deaf to my song,

The friends will help me to please thee,

And the wedding shall be ere long.

Without entering the yurt he returns to his tent. Soon an old woman comes to him and promises that she will take him to the bride if he will make her a present. He at once agrees, and they set out together. But they do not attain their object without having to overcome various obstacles. Another woman lays the fork which is used to lift the ring of the yurt to its place, across his path; to step over it would be unlucky, for the person who laid it down must take it away again. A gift overcomes this difficulty, but a second is met with very soon. A woman, apparently dead, lies on the path; but a second gift calls the dead to life again, and the way is clear to within a short distance of the yurt. But there stands a figure which snarls like a dog. Shall it be said that the dog snarled at the bridegroom? Never! A third gift closes the snarling mouth, and the much-tried youth reaches the yurt without further hindrances. Two women keep the door shut, but do not refuse to open it when a gift is offered; within, two others hold the curtain fast; on the bride’s couch lies her younger sister; but he succeeds in getting rid of them all; the yurt is almost empty; the old woman lays the bridegroom’s hands in those of the bride and leaves them. At last they are alone together.

Under the supervision of the old woman, who is called “dyenke”, the bridegroom visits the bride many times, without, however, presenting himself before her parents until what remains of the kalüm is paid. Then he sends a messenger to the bride’s father to ask if he may take his bride to his own yurt. Permission is given, and the bridegroom sets out for the aul, once more with a large following and many gifts, pitches his tent at a suitable distance, receives visits from the women as before, spends the night alone in the tent, and, next morning, sends from it to the aul all the necessary woodwork for the erection of a yurt, which he has to provide. Thereupon the women assemble and hastily finish the sewing together of the felt covering supplied by the bride, if it is not already done, and then they set to work to erect the new yurt. The favourite woman of the aul has the honour of lifting the roof-ring, and holding it in position until the spars are fitted into it; the others share the rest of the work of setting up and covering it. While this is going on the bridegroom makes his appearance; the bride, too, is brought upon the scene, and both are told to walk from their places to the yurt to decide the great question as to who shall be supreme within it. The mastery will fall to the lot of the one who reaches it first.

A sheep brought by the bridegroom has been slaughtered, and a meal prepared to be eaten within the new yurt. During the course of the meal, the young master wraps up a bone in a piece of white cloth, and throws it, without looking upwards, through the hole at the top of the yurt into the open air. If he succeeds in doing so, it is a sign that the smoke from this yurt will always rise straight to heaven, which betokens happiness and prosperity for the inhabitants.

After the preliminary repast in the new yurt, the guests repair to that of the bride’s father, where a second meal awaits them. The younger people remain in the new yurt, and for them the bride’s mother prepares food and drink; and she must provide it bountifully, lest the young people should break up the light structure over their heads, and, to punish her niggardliness, scatter its parts in all directions far away in the steppe. Not even the abundantly filled dish itself is safe from the boisterous spirits of these unruly wedding guests; one of them pulls it from the hostess, and rides away with it; others attempt to catch him and secure the spoil, and so the fun goes on till the dishes are in danger of becoming cold.

The following morning the bride’s father asks for the first time to see the bridegroom, invites him to his yurt, greets him warmly, praises his looks and talents, wishes him happiness in his married life, and gives him all sorts of presents as the bride’s dowry. This takes place in the presence of the whole company who had assembled in the yurt before the bridegroom’s entrance. Finally, the richly adorned bride enters it also. If there is a mollah in the aul, or if one can be procured, he pronounces a blessing over the young pain.

Then the farewell song, the “jar-jar”, is sung to the bride, and, with tearful eyes, she responds to every verse, every strophe, with the lament of departing brides.

When this is at an end, camels are brought up to be loaded with the yurt and the bridal presents, and gaily caparisoned horses to carry the bride and her mother to the bridegroom’s aul. The young man himself rides in advance of the procession, and, assisted by his companions, he urges the camels to their utmost speed, so as to have time to erect the yurt in his aul with the same ceremonies as had been previously observed. The bride, having taken tearful leave of her father, relatives, and companions, the yurt, and the herds and flocks, rides closely veiled by a curtain which completely envelopes her, and which is carried by her attendant riders, till she reaches the yurt in which she is henceforth to reign as mistress. Her father-in-law, who has meantime inspected the dowry, and praised or found fault with it, calls her soon after her arrival to his yurt, and she enters it with three such deep inclinations, that she is obliged to support herself by laying her hands on her knees; these are to signify that she will be as obedient to her father and mother-in-law as to her lord and master. During this greeting, her face remains veiled, as it does thenceforward before her father and brothers-in-law, and for a year before every stranger. Later, she veils herself in the presence of her husband’s eldest brother, but of no one else, for she must marry the brother if her husband dies, and she must not rouse or foster evil desires in his heart.

Fig. 73.—Frolics at a Kirghiz Wedding.

In the case of a second marriage, the Kirghiz woos for himself and without special formalities. If he marries a second wife during the life of his first, and lets her live in the same yurt, as usually happens where the man is not very well-to-do, her lot is a pitiable one. The first wife insists upon her rights, condemns the second to a certain part of the yurt, and only allows her lord himself to exercise his conjugal rights within strict limits. The wife is held in high esteem among the Kirghiz: “We value our wives as we do our ambling nags, both are priceless,” my Kirghiz friend Altibei said to me. The men seldom leave their wives, the women still more rarely run away from their husbands; but even in the steppe, love does sometimes break all the bonds of tradition and custom. Abductions also occur, and are not considered disgraceful. To carry off a maiden whose father’s claims are exorbitant is considered by many as praiseworthy rather than blameworthy on the part of both the abductor and abducted.

Among the Kirghiz, a new-born infant is washed in very salt water as soon as it opens its eyes on the world. The washing is repeated for forty days in succession, and then given up entirely. The suckling is laid at first in a cradle filled with warm, soft, down-like camel wool, so that it is completely covered, and does not suffer from cold in the severest winter; later, it is dressed in a little woollen shirt, which the mother holds over the fire about once in three days, to free it from the parasites abundant in every yurt, but she never changes it for another as long as it holds together. In winter, the careful mother adds a pair of stockings, and, as soon as the child can walk, it is dressed like a grown-up person.

Both parents are exceedingly fond of their children, treat them always with the greatest tenderness, and never beat them, but they take a pleasure in teaching them all kinds of ugly and unseemly words as soon as they begin to speak, and when these are repeated by the child’s innocent lips, they never fail to cause general amusement. The different ages of the child are described by the name of some animal; thus it may be “as old as a mouse, a marmot, a sheep, or a horse”. When a boy reaches the age of four years, he is placed for the first time on the back of a horse about the same age, richly adorned and saddled with one of the children’s saddles which are usually heirlooms in a family. The happy parents promise all sorts of pretty things to the independent little rider, who has, for the first time, escaped from the protecting arms of his mother. Then they call a servant or some willing friend, and give horse and rider into his charge to be led from one yurt to another, to announce the joyful event to all their relatives and friends. Wherever the little boy goes, he is warmly welcomed and overwhelmed with praises and dainties. A festival in the father’s yurt celebrates the important day.

The child’s instruction in all that he requires to know begins about his seventh year. The boy, who in the interval has become an accomplished rider, learns to tend the grazing herds, the girl learns to milk them, and to perform all the other work of a housewife; the son of rich parents is taught to read and write by a mollah or anyone able to impart such knowledge, and later he is instructed in the laws of his religion. Before he has completed his twelfth year his instruction is at an end, and he himself is ripe for life.

The Kirghiz honours his dead and their memory even more than he does the living. Every family is ready to make the greatest sacrifices to celebrate the funeral and memorial feast of a deceased member of the family with as much pomp as possible; everyone, even the poorest, strives to decorate as well as he can the grave of his departed loved ones; everyone would consider it a disgrace to fail in paying full respect to any dead person, whether relative or not. All this they have in common with other Mohammedans; but the ceremonies observed at the death and burial of a Kirghiz differ materially from those customary among others of the same faith, and they are, therefore, worthy of detailed description.

When a Kirghiz feels his last hour approaching, he summons all his friends, that they may make sure that his soul gets into Paradise. Pious Kirghiz, who are expecting death, have the Koran read to them long before the end comes, though the words sounding in their ear may be quite unintelligible. According to the custom among true believers, the friends of a dying man gather round his bed and repeat to him the first phrase of the confession of faith of all the Prophet’s followers, “There is but one God”, until he responds with the second, “And Mohammed is his prophet”. As soon as these words have passed his lips the angel Munkir opens the gates of Paradise, and therefore all who have heard the words exclaim, “El hamdu lillahi”,—Praise be to God!

As soon as the master of a yurt has closed his eyes in death, messengers are sent in all directions to bear the tidings to his relatives and friends, and, according to the rank and standing of the dead man, these messengers may ride from ten to fifty or sixty miles across the steppe from aul to aul. A relative in one aul may also carry on the news to those in another. While the messengers are on their way, the corpse is washed and enveloped in its “lailach”, which last every Kirghiz procures during his lifetime, and stores up with his valuables. When this duty has been fulfilled, the corpse is carried out of the yurt and laid upon a bier formed by a half-extended yurt-trellis. The mollah, who has been sent for, pronounces a blessing over the dead; then the trellis with its burden is lifted up and fastened to the saddle of a camel, and the train of assembled friends and kinsmen sets out on its way to the burial-place, which is often far distant.

Whenever the dying man has breathed his last, the women begin the lament for the dead. The one most nearly related to him begins the song and gives vent to her heart’s grief in more or less deeply-felt words; the others join in simultaneously at the end of every phrase or verse, and one after another does her best to clothe her ideas in fit words. The dirge becomes more and more mournful up till the moment when the camel rises with his burden, and not by sounds and words only, but by their whole conduct the women testify to their increasing grief. At length they tear their hair and scratch their faces till blood flows. Not till the funeral procession, in which the women take no part, has disappeared from sight, do the cries and tears gradually cease.

Some men on swift horses have been sent in advance of the funeral train to prepare the grave. This is an excavation, at most reaching only to a man’s breast; at the end which points towards Mecca, it is vaulted to receive the head and upper part of the body. When the corpse has been laid to rest, the grave is covered with logs, planks, bundles of reeds, or stones. It is not filled with earth, but a mound is heaped up on the top of the covering and decorated with flags or the like, unless when a dome-like structure of wood or bricks is built over the grave. When a child dies its cradle is laid upon its grave. After the burial the mollah pronounces a blessing over the corpse for the last time, and all take part in heaping up the mound of earth. But the ceremonies do not end here.

Whenever the head of a family dies, a white flag is planted beside the yurt and left for a whole year in the same place. Every day during the year the women assemble beside it to renew their lamentations. At the time the flag is planted the dead man’s favourite horse is led up, and half of its long tail is cut off. From that time forward no one mounts it; it is “widowed”. Seven days after the death, all the friends and relatives, even those from a distance, assemble in the yurt, hold a funeral banquet together, distribute some of the dead man’s clothing among the poor, and consult as to the future of those he has left behind and the guardianship of the property. Then the bereaved family is left alone with its sorrow.

When a woman dies almost the same ceremonies are observed, except that, of course, the body is washed and dressed by women. But even in this case the women remain within the aul to sing the mourning song. The departed woman’s riding-horse has its tail cut, but no flag is planted.

When the aul is taken down, a youth selected for the honourable service leads up the “widowed” riding-horse, puts the saddle of its former master reversed on its back, loads it with his clothing, and leads it by the bridle to its destination, carrying in his right hand the lance which bears the mourning-flag.

On the anniversary of the death all the friends and relatives are summoned once more to the bereaved yurt. After greeting and condoling with the women, who are still shrouded in mourning garments, they fetch the horse, saddle and load it in the same manner as when moving the aul, and lead it before the mollah to be blessed. This done, two men approach, seize its bridle, unsaddle it, throw it to the ground, and stab it through the heart. Its flesh serves as a meal for the poor of the company, its skin falls to the mollah. Immediately after the horse has been killed, the lance is handed to the most important man among the relatives; he takes it, pronounces a few words, breaks the shaft in pieces, and throws these into the fire.

Now the horses come snorting up, eager to prove their speed in the race; the young riders who guide and bridle them start off at a given signal and disappear in the steppe. The bard takes the mollah’s place, and commemorates the dead once more, but also extols the living and seeks to gladden their hearts. The women lay aside the singular head-dress, which serves as a sign of mourning, and don their gala attire. After the abundant repast, the vessel of intoxicating milk-wine circulates freely, and sounds of joy mingle with the tones of the zither.

Mourning for the dead is over; life asserts its rights once more.