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

by Alfred Edmund Brehm

THE HEATHEN OSTIAKS.

The struggle for existence which man has to maintain in Siberia is easy and toilless now, and will probably remain so for centuries to come—easy and toilless especially among the lavishly endowed lands in the south of the country, and not too hard or laborious even in those regions which we are wont to picture as an icy waste, an inhospitable desert, which we still regard in this light if we only travel hastily and unwillingly through them. In the far north of West Siberia the climate is harsh and severe; the earth which, a little below the surface, is frozen and stiffened for ever, refuses to bring forth fruit; the sun will not ripen the bread-yielding grain; but even here Nature has bountifully shaken her horn of plenty, for what the land denies, is yielded by the water. The people who have dwelt for centuries in these latitudes, which we so carefully avoid, may appear poor and miserable in our eyes; in reality they are neither. They are able to procure all they need; they can even secure many luxuries, for their country yields them much more than is enough merely to sustain life. They do of course struggle, more or less consciously, for “an existence worthy of man”, but not with any grudge, outspoken or suppressed, against those whose lot is happier. Indeed they are happier than we think, for they are more modest, more easily satisfied than we are; they are utterly ignorant of what we call passion in the stricter sense; they accept the pleasures within their reach with a childlike joy, and the sorrows which visit them, with that deeply felt but quickly forgotten grief which is characteristic of childhood. Black care may stand beside their bed; but they banish it whenever they perceive a ray of joy, and they forget affliction whenever the sun of good fortune once more shines upon them. They rejoice in wealth and complain of poverty, but they see their riches disappear without giving way to despair, and their poverty turn to wealth without losing their equanimity. Even in mature age they remain children in thought, feeling, and behaviour; they are happier than we.

The Ostiaks with whom we came most frequently in contact on the lower Obi, whose society we preferred, and whom we learned to know best, belong to the Finnish family, and profess the same religion as another branch of the same family, the Samoyedes, while their manners, customs, and way of life generally, are approximately the same as those of all the Finns in a restricted sense, and therefore also of the Lapps. They are wandering herdsmen and fisher-folk, huntsmen and fowlers, like the Samoyedes and like the Lapps. Apart from their religion, and perhaps also their language, they resemble the Lapps more than the Samoyedes, for there are among them dwellers in fixed homes as well as nomadic herdsmen, while the Samoyedes, even when engaged in fishing, very rarely exchange their movable hut for a fixed log-house, at least in the parts of Siberia through which we travelled.

It may be that the Ostiak tribe was more numerous at one time than it is now, but it was probably never a people in our sense of the word. In some parts of the territory inhabited, or at least traversed by them, the population is said to be continually decreasing, while in others it is slightly on the increase; but the extent of increase or decrease seems inconsiderable. To reckon the whole number of these people at fifty thousand individuals is probably a high estimate. In the whole of the great district of Obdorsk, which extends from 65 degrees northern latitude to the northern end of the Samoyede peninsula, and from the Ural to the upper Chass river, there live at present, according to official statistics, not more than five thousand three hundred and eighty-two male Ostiaks, of whom not more than one thousand three hundred and seventy-six are able-bodied or assessable men. If we take for granted that there are as many women and girls, the whole number does not reach eleven thousand; and the above estimate is rather too high than too low, even though the tract inhabited by our people extends up the Obi to the district of Surgut, and up the Irtish to the neighbourhood of Tobolsk.

All the Ostiaks on the upper Irtish and middle Obi live in fixed log-houses, very simple, but resembling those of the Russians, and only here and there among these permanent dwellings, which indicate a higher degree of civilization, do we come upon a birch-bark tent or tshum. On the other hand, on the lower Obi, and especially between Obdorsk and the mouth of the stream, only birch-tents are to be seen, and they are, naturally, the only homes of the nomadic reindeer herdsman. Almost, if not exactly in agreement with this difference in dwelling, is the difference in religion, for the Ostiaks inhabiting settled villages belong to the Orthodox Greek Catholic Church, and are reckoned among its members, as they have been baptized, while those dwelling in the tshum are still true to their ancient faith, which, although regarded by the Russian priests and their followers as blind heathenism, is by no means devoid of poetic grandeur, still less of moral worth. The tent-dwellers certainly practise their religion with more ardour and conviction than the settled villagers do their so-called Christianity, which, as far as can be observed, seems to an unbiassed onlooker rather a superstitious idolatry than a nobler substitute for the religion which grew out of a childlike mood, and finds expression in childlike ways. With the adoption of log-houses and of Christianity, the Ostiaks of the central Obi and lower Irtish regions have, to a certain extent, given up their own dress in favour of that of the neighbouring Russian fisher-folk, and in their intercourse with these, have adopted many of their manners and customs. In part, too, they have lost their purity of race, and have retained only the inalienable characteristics, the language and all peculiarities preserved by it, perhaps also the skill, dexterity, and harmless good-nature common to all the Ostiaks. But one cannot venture to assert that their morals have improved with their civilization, or that their purity of life has increased with Christianity; and in any case it is more satisfactory to get to know the heathen Ostiaks, and to come into close contact with a still primitive people, than to concern ourselves with that portion of the tribe which gives us but a dim picture of what they once were, or others still are. I shall, therefore, limit my remarks to a consideration of those Ostiaks who worship the divinity Ohrt, who live in polygamy when their means permit, who bury their dead exactly as their fathers did. My sketch will lose nothing, and will gain in unity, if it takes account of these alone, and leaves the others out.

Fig. 61.—Huts and Winter Costume of the Christian Ostiaks.

It is difficult to speak of a common type among the Ostiaks, and still more difficult to describe it. I have repeatedly attempted to do this, but have always been forced to recognize the impossibility of adequately describing a face in words, or of satisfactorily delineating with the pen those tribal peculiarities which are evident enough to the eye. In shape of face, colour of skin, hair, and eyes, they vary greatly; their racial affinity, that is, their Mongol origin, is by no means always very apparent, in fact, it is often difficult to detect, and when at last one imagines one has formulated certain definite average characteristics, one learns from other members of the same stock that their applicability is only relative and by no means unconditional. In what follows I shall attempt to give a comprehensive idea of what I saw among the Ostiaks whom we observed.

The Ostiaks are of middle height, somewhat slender in general build, their hands, feet, and limbs generally well-proportioned, the hands perhaps rather large, the calves of the legs almost always thin; their features seem intermediate between those of the other Mongols and those of the North American Indians: for their brown eyes are small and always set obliquely, though by no means very strikingly so; the cheek-bones are not very prominent, but the lower portion of the face is so compressed towards the narrow pointed chin that the whole has an angular appearance, indeed, as the lips are also sharply cut, it is often really cat-like, especially among women and children, though the nose is, on the whole, slightly, and in many cases not at all flattened. The rich, smooth, but not stiff, hair is usually dark brown or black, rarely light brown, and still more rarely blonde; the beard is scanty, but this is chiefly in consequence of the habit young dandies have of pulling out the hairs; the eyebrows are thick, often bushy. The colour of the skin is not much less white than that of a European who is much in the open air and exposed to wind and weather, and the yellowish look which it usually has is sometimes entirely awanting.

Though the above holds good of most Ostiaks, I do not mean to imply that one can have any doubt about their racial affinities if one examines them closely. In a few individuals the Mongolian traits are apparent on the most cursory glance; these types are small in stature, the lively brown eyes are elongated and obliquely set, the cheek-bones are very prominent, the stiff hair is deep black, and all the exposed parts of the body have a decided copper-red or leather-brown colour.

I can offer no opinion as to the language of the Ostiaks; I can only say that it embraces two dialects which can be readily distinguished even by strangers. That in use on the middle Obi is euphonious, if somewhat drawling and sing-song, while that prevailing on the lower Obi, probably because of the general habit of preferring the softer Samoyede tongue, is much more rapid and flowing, though there is still distinct enunciation of the syllables.

The Christian Ostiaks, as has already been mentioned, imitate the dress of the Russians, and the clothing of their women only differs from that of the Russian fisher-women in being decorated in many places with glass beads, and in the addition of special sash-like ribbons, like the stole of a Catholic priest, embroidered all over with such beads. The heathen Ostiaks, on the other hand, use nothing but the skin of the reindeer for clothing, and only employ the furs of other animals for the occasional decoration of the reindeer, or, as the Russians call them, stag skins. Their dress consists of a close-fitting skin coat reaching to the knee; in the men it is slit down the breast, in the women it is open down the whole front, but held together with leather thongs; a hood of the same material is usually attached to or forms part of the dress; mittens also are sewn on; leather breeches reach below the knee; and leather stockings, which fasten over the knee, complete the attire. The fur garment worn by the women is edged down the sides of the opening with a carefully pieced border of variously-coloured little squares of short-haired fur, and has always a broad band of dog-skin round the foot; that worn by the men has at most a border of dog-skin, and has always a hood; the leather stockings, if they are decorated at all, are composed of many prettily-combined, diversely-coloured stripes of skin from the leg of a reindeer, with a stout shoe partly sewn on, partly laced over the foot. A broad leather belt, usually studded with metal buttons, confines the man’s garment at the waist and holds his knife; a gaily-coloured head-wrap, with long fringes, which replaces the hood in summer, falls down over the woman’s dress. Shirts are unknown; but, on the other hand, the woman wears a girdle, of a kind unknown among us. By way of ornament, the woman puts on her fingers as many brass, or, where circumstances permit, silver rings as the lower joint will wear, so that that portion of the hand is literally mailed; a more or less handsome string of glass beads is hung round the neck, and very heavy tassel-like ear-rings of glass beads, twisted wire, and metal buttons, are hung rather over than in the ear; finally, the hair is plaited into two rope-like braids reaching to the middle of the calf, and interwoven with woollen threads. The Ostiak dandy dresses his hair in the same way—a proof that fools are alike all the world over—while the ordinary man usually wears his hair long, but loose.

Fig. 62.—“Heathen” Ostiaks, Reindeer, and Tshums.

Still simpler than the dress, but equally well adapted to its purpose,—for their costume, though not beautiful, is suited alike for summer and winter use,—is the dwelling of the Ostiak, a cone-shaped, movable hut covered with birch-bark, the tshum of the fisher-folk and wandering herdsmen. The framework is formed of twenty or thirty thin, smooth poles, from four to six yards in length, and pointed at both ends. These are fixed in a circle, which is very exact though measured only by the eye, two of them bent towards each other are fastened near their tops with a short cord, and serve as a support for all the rest. The outer covering consists of from five to eight sheets cut to the convex curve of the cone, and composed of little pieces of birch-bark previously boiled and thus rendered pliant. On the least exposed side is an opening which serves as a door, and which can be closed at will with another sheet of bark; the pointed top of the tent is always left uncovered to admit of the free passage of smoke. From the door straight to the opposite side of the hut runs a passage, in the middle of which the fire is built; over this two horizontal poles, fastened to the supports of the hut, serve as a drying-stand, from which also the cooking-kettle hangs. To right and left of the passage, boards, or at least mats, are laid down, and serve as flooring and also to mark off the sleeping places, whose head-end is towards the wall. Mats, made of bundles of sedge, long-haired, soft reindeer skins, and cushions stuffed with reindeer hair or dried moss, form the bed, and its coverings are of fur. A mosquito tent, under which the whole family creeps in summer, protects the sleepers more effectually against the winged tormentors than the smoky fire of rotten willow wood which is kept constantly burning in the entrance of the tshum. Cooking vessels, tea and drinking kettles, bowls, leather bags for holding flour and hard-baked bread, little chests with locks for holding the most valuable possessions, especially the tea-set, an axe, a gimlet, leather scrapers, a bowl-like work-box, a bow, crossbow or gun, snow-shoes, and various implements of the chase, make up the domestic plenishings. A household god replaces the crucifix, which is rarely absent from the huts of the Christian Ostiaks.

The tshum is protected against the cold and storms of winter by a leather covering of worn-out skins sewn together, or, more effectually, by spreading a second layer of sheets of birch-bark over the first.

If the owner of the tshum be a fisherman, one may see in front of his dwelling drying-stands for hanging up the nets, and others for drying fish, all very carefully made; also exceedingly light, daintily-wrought fishing-baskets, several excellent little boats, and other fishing apparatus; if he be also a huntsman there are in addition all kinds of implements of the chase, such as bows and spring-crossbows; if he be a reindeer-herdsman there are several well-made sledges with their appropriate harness, and the boat which is also indispensable.

Every Ostiak is experienced in fishing, almost all hunt or set snares, but not all are herdsmen. To possess reindeer means, among them, to be well-to-do, to possess many is to be rich; to live by fishing alone is poverty. Horses and cows are to be seen in some of their settlements, though in very small numbers, and only in the district about the middle of the river-basin; sheep, and sometimes even a cat may be kept; but the real domestic animals are the reindeer and dog. Without these, especially without the reindeer, a well-to-do man would scarcely think life possible, and it is indeed to them he owes all that makes up what he looks on as the joy of existence. As the Bedouin, the wandering herdsman of Central Africa, deems himself superior to those of his race who till the fields; as the Kirghiz looks down almost contemptuously on those who strive to wrest subsistence from the soil, so the possessor, or even the herdsman of reindeer, only uses net and hook to supply his own necessities, while the fisherman casts his nets and sets his baskets not for himself alone, but in the service of others. The wealth of a man is calculated by the number of his reindeer; with them his prosperity and his happiness are alike bound up. And when the deadly murrain annihilates his herds, he loses not wealth and happiness alone, but much more: esteem and rank, self-respect and confidence, even, it may be, his religion, manners, and morals, in short—himself. “As long as the plague did not ravage our herds,” said the district governor, Mamru, the most intelligent Ostiak whom we met, “we lived joyously and were rich, but since we have begun to lose them, we are gradually becoming poor fishermen; without the reindeer we cannot hold out, we cannot live.” Poor Ostiaks! in these words your doom is pronounced. Even now the reindeer, which once were counted by hundreds of thousands, have dwindled to a total of fifty thousand, and still the Destroying Angel passes almost yearly through the antlered herds. What will be the end? The Russian priests will gain more and more Christians, the Russian fishermen more and more hirelings, but the Ostiaks will be Ostiaks only in name, and that at no far distant time.[82]

Fig. 63.—Ostiaks with Reindeer and Sledge.

The reindeer of Northern Asia is an essentially different creature from that of Lapland, for it is not only larger and more stately, but it is a domestic animal in the best sense of that term. We all imagined we knew the reindeer; for in Lapland we had examined it precisely and carefully with the eye of the naturalist; but in Siberia we were obliged to admit that till then we had gained a very imperfect idea of this most remarkable of domestic animals. In Lapland we had known the deer ceaselessly resisting, submitting with visible reluctance to the yoke of the little men, and always apparently bent on regaining its freedom; here in Siberia we found a docile, willing animal, attached to man, and trusting in him. Certainly the Ostiak knows well how to deal with it. Though he does not treat it with the tenderness he bestows on his dog, he is, on the whole, not unkind to it, and he is very rarely rough or brutal. Unlike the Laplander, he refrains from milking it, but he harnesses it more frequently; for, winter and summer, it must draw him and his family, the tshum with its appurtenances, and all the other requisites for the continual migrations. The Lapp, on the other hand, only harnesses the reindeer to his sledge in winter. Like the Lapp, the Ostiak makes use of every portion of the carcase of a slaughtered animal, with the sole exception of the stomach and intestines. The flesh serves him as food, the bones and horns make all sorts of implements, the tendons supply twine for sewing his clothing, that, and whatever else he requires in the way of leather, is furnished by the skin; even the hoofs are utilized. On a light sledge, drawn by the reindeer, the Ostiak travels, in summer and in winter, from place to place—to weddings, to festivals, to the chase, and to the burial of his friends; with it he draws his dead to their last resting-place; he slaughters the reindeer and eats it with his guests, or in honour of his dead, whom he wraps up in its skin, as he does himself. Truly, without the reindeer he cannot endure, cannot live.

Of scarcely less importance than his horned herds is the Ostiak’s second domestic animal, the dog. It is possessed and cared for not only by the wandering herdsman, but by every Ostiak—fisher as well as huntsman, settler as well as nomad. The Ostiak dog is represented by two different breeds, whose chief difference, however, is only in size. Whether our dog-fanciers would find it beautiful I cannot say. For my part, I must pronounce it beautiful, because, with the sole exception of the colour, it possesses all the characteristics of a wild dog. It most resembles the Pomeranian dog, but is usually larger; indeed, it is often so large as to approach the wolf in size; and its slender build also distinguishes it from the Pomeranian. The head is elongated, the muzzle moderately long, the neck short, the body long, the limbs slender, the tail moderately long, the brassy eyes obliquely set, the short pointed ears held erect, the hair extraordinarily long and thick, consisting of a mixture of decidedly woolly and bristly hairs. The colour varies, but is predominantly pure white, or white with deep black, usually regular markings on both sides of the head, including the ears, on the back and on the sides of the body; or it may be wolf or mouse gray, or dun-coloured, watered and waved, but never striped. The slightly bushy tail is always carried hanging, or extended, but never curled, and the resemblance to a wild dog is thereby greatly increased.

Constant and intimate association with man has transformed the Ostiak dog into an exceedingly good-natured animal. He is watchful but not given to biting, brave but not pugnacious, faithful and eager but not hostile to strangers nor violent. Though he hastens suspiciously, if not exactly with unfriendliness, towards a stranger, he becomes confiding as soon as he hears him speak with his master, or sees him step into the tshum. He is in no way pampered, for though he loves to share the dwelling of his master or mistress, he exposes himself without apparent discomfort to wind and weather, throws himself unhesitatingly into the cold water of the river and swims straight across a broad arm, or, when on a journey, trots on uncomplainingly under the sledge to which he is chained, whether the way lead over bog or morass, among dwarf-birch bushes or through water. Intelligent and cunning, ingenious and inventive, clever and active, he knows how to make his life comfortable, and to adapt himself to all situations. In the tshum he lies self-denyingly beside much-desired foods; outside of his master’s hut he is a bold and greedy thief; among the dwarf-birches of the tundra he trots indifferently under the sledge, but over smooth or other easy ground he places himself with all four legs together on the runners of the sledge and lets himself be carried. While hunting he is a faithful and useful assistant to his master, but he snaps away the game which he has scented and a stranger shot, and devours it with such an air of inoffensive enjoyment that one cannot be angry with him. In tending the herds he shows himself acquainted with all the peculiarities and tricks of the reindeer, and he is docile enough; but he is never quite so trustworthy as our sheep-dog, for he allows himself an opinion of his own, and only yields his services without resisting when it appears to him absolutely necessary.

The Ostiak dog is at once playmate, sentinel of the tshum, guardian of the herds, and draught animal, and he is made use of even after death. He is only harnessed to the sledge in winter, but the harness is so awkward that if he has to exert himself much he becomes in a few years weak in the loins or hip-shot. After death his splendid coat is much prized; indeed, many of the Ostiaks evidently keep a disproportionately large number of dogs solely to have skins at their disposal every winter.

It is probably for the same or some similar reason that the various mammals and birds, such as foxes, bears, owls, crows, cranes, swans, &c., which one sees chained in or before the tent of the fisherman or the herdsman, are taken from the nest and reared. As long as they are young they are tended carefully and kindly; whenever they are full-grown and in good fur or feather they are killed, the edible parts are eaten, and the skin or feathers made use of or sold, the former especially often fetching an astonishingly high price.

Here, as everywhere else, the dog submits to man’s will, but man must adapt himself to the requirements of the reindeer. These requirements, and not the will or humour of the herdsman, determine the wanderings of the nomad Ostiak, as the coming and going of the fishes influences the doings of his relatives in fixed abodes, to a considerable extent at least. The migrations of the reindeer herdsmen and their herds take place for almost the same reasons and in the same direction as those of the Kirghiz, and are distinguished from them chiefly by the fact that they do not cease in winter, but rather become more constant and varied. When the snow begins to melt, the Ostiak herdsman travels slowly towards the mountains; when the mosquito plague begins he ascends their sides, or at least betakes himself to the shoulders of the ranges; when it ceases again—and even the open heights are not entirely free from it—he gradually descends to the low tundra to pass the winter, if possible on his native river-bank. This is the course of his life one year after another, unless he is visited by that most terrible of disasters, the reindeer plague.

Before the short summer comes to the inhospitable land, before even the first breath of spring is stirring, when a thick sheet of ice lies still unbroken over the mighty river, its tributaries, and the innumerable lakes of the tundra, the reindeer bring forth their calves; it is therefore more than ever necessary to seek out a place which offers sufficient pasture for both mothers and young. Our herdsman migrates, therefore, not to the deepest valleys, but to the heights from whose crests the raging storms of winter have blown away much of the snow, and here, in the best available spot, he erects his tshum. For days, even weeks, he remains there until all the exposed reindeer moss has been eaten up, and the broad hoof of the reindeer itself, which has been used to clear away the snow, almost refuses duty. Then the herdsman breaks up his camp, and wends his way to some not far distant spot, which offers the same attractions as the first. Here, too, he remains until pasturage becomes too scarce, for this is still what he looks on as the good season. The herds feed in dense troops; among the stags, whose antlers have just begun to sprout, the deepest peace reigns; the calves are never lost sight of by their anxious parents; the herd neither scatters nor wanders out of hearing of the loud call which summons them to the tshum at sundown. At night, indeed, the greedy wolf, which has been driven by winter from the mountains, prowls around them, but the brave dogs keep sharp watch, and resist the cowardly robber; and our herdsman therefore is as little troubled about the wolves as he is about winter, which he, like all the peoples of the far north, looks on as the best season of the year. The days—still very short—are gradually lengthening, the nights becoming shorter, and the dangers threatening his defenceless herds are gradually diminishing. The river throws off its winter covering; and with the floods warmed in the steppes of the south, soft winds blow through the land; one hill-top after another is laid bare of snow, and here, as well as in the valleys, where the buds are sprouting luxuriantly, the weather-hardened animals find food in abundance. The low tundra has become a paradise in the eyes of our herdsman. But this comfortable life lasts only a short time. The quickly-rising sun, which shines longer and becomes hotter every day, soon melts the snow in the more level valleys and the ice in the broad lakes, thaws even the surface of the frozen earth, and calls into life, along with other harmless children of the spring, milliards of torturing gnats and persecuting gadflies, whose larvæ were snorted out of the reindeers’ nostrils only a few weeks before.[83] Now wandering begins in earnest; the herdsman travels, in short daily marches, but still hastily, towards the mountains.

As soon as the dew is dry on the moss, lichens, grasses, and the young leaves of the dwarf bushes, the women take to pieces the tshum they erected only the day before, and load the sledges which were only then unladen. In the meantime the herdsman himself, on his light sledge drawn by four strong stags, goes in search of the herd scattered about to find pasture, or resting contentedly in groups, collects them and drives them towards the camping ground, where the rest of the family are prepared to receive them. Holding in their hands a thin rope, over which the reindeer seldom venture to jump, they form a circle round the herd; the herdsman, with his lasso in his right hand, goes in among the reindeer, throws his noose almost unfailingly round the neck or antlers of the chosen stags, secures and harnesses them, orders that all the others be let loose, mounts his sledge again and drives away in the direction of the next camping-ground. All the other sledges, driven by different members of the family, follow him in a long train, the whole free herd follows them, lowing or grunting, their hoofs crackling at every step. The dogs run about the whole procession, barking continually and collecting the animals that are inclined to wander. They cannot, however, prevent a few from breaking off from the sides of the herd and remaining behind. The herd spreads out more and more, picturesquely adorning all the heights; now and again they pause in groups over some favourite food; importuned by the calves the mother deer perform their maternal duties, and then, to please their satisfied offspring, lie down beside them till the eagle eye of the herdsman spies them, and, taking a wide circuit round the laggards, he drives them by a word of command, or by the help of the dogs, to join their fellows trotting briskly on ahead. Amid renewed general grunting, and loud barking from the dogs, the reassembled herd surges onwards; a very forest of antlers presses forwards, and something akin to sportsman’s joy stirs the heart of the spectator who is unfamiliar with the sight.

The sun is declining; the draught animals groan heavily, their tongues hanging far out of their mouths; it is time to allow them rest. At a short distance, beside one of the innumerable lakes, there rises a low flat hill. Towards it the herdsman directs his course, and on its summit he brings his antlered team to a stand. One sledge after another arrives; the herd also soon comes up and immediately betakes itself to the best grazing-ground, quickly followed by the unharnessed draught animals.

The women select a suitable spot for erecting the tshum, place the poles upright in a circle, and cover them with the sheets of bark; the herdsman in the meantime takes his already prepared noose, and with experienced eye picks out a young, fat stag from the herd. Quickly he casts the lasso over its horns and neck. In vain the animal struggles for his freedom; the huntsman comes nearer and nearer, and the reindeer follows him unresisting towards the tshum, which has now been erected. An axe-stroke on the back of the head fells the victim to the ground, and a knife is plunged into his heart. In a couple of minutes the animal is skinned and dexterously cut up. A minute later all the members of the family, who have assembled hastily, are dipping strips of cut-up liver into the blood collected in the breast-cavity, and the “bloody meal” begins. Crouching in a circle round the still warm stag, each cuts himself a rib or a piece of the back or haunch; lips become red as if they had been badly painted; drops of blood flow down over chin and breast; the hands, too, are stained, and, dripping with blood, they smear the nose and cheeks; and blood-stained countenances meet the astonished stranger’s gaze. The baby leaves its mother’s breast to share in the meal, and after he has swallowed a piece of liver, and reddened face, hands, and whatever else he can reach, he crows with joy as his careful mother breaks a marrow-bone and gives it to him to suck. The dogs sit in a circle behind the feasting company, ready to snap up the bones which are thrown to them. One after another rises satisfied from the meal, wipes his blood-stained hands on the moss, cleans his knife in the same way, and retires into the tshum to rest. But the housewife fills the cooking-kettle with water, puts into it as much of the flesh of the half-eaten animal as it will hold, and lights the fire to prepare the evening meal.

Fig. 64.—Interior of an Ostiak Dwelling (Tshum).

Meantime the herdsman has thrown off his upper garment and looked through it hastily, yet not without result, and he has drawn near the fire so that the flames may play with full effect on the naked upper portion of his body. He feels comfortable, and begins to think of another enjoyment. A wonderful man who is travelling towards the mountains in his company, a German, perhaps even a member of the Bremen exploring expedition to West Siberia, has not only presented him with tobacco—horrible stuff, it is true, yet at any rate strong—but he has also given him a great sheet of paper, a whole Kölnische Zeitung. From this he carefully tears off a small square piece, twists it to a pointed cornet, fills this with tobacco, bends it in the middle, and the pipe is ready. A moment later it is alight, and it smells so pleasant that the wife distends her nostrils, and begs to share the enjoyment. Her wish is at once granted, and the little pipe wanders round so that every member of the family may enjoy it in turn.

But the contents of the pot begin to bubble, the supper is ready, and all “raise their hands to the daintily prepared meal”. Then the herdsman stands outside the door and utters a far-sounding call of long-drawn notes, to collect the restless herd once more. This done, he returns content into the tshum. Here his wife has spread the mosquito tent and is still busy stuffing its lower edge under the coverlets. While waiting for this work to be finished the man on his couch amuses himself by seizing one of the dogs and nursing it like a baby, the dog enduring it patiently in the consciousness that it is a high honour. Then the man creeps half-naked under the mosquito net, his fifteen-year-old son follows his example, the little thirteen-year-old wife of the latter does the same, the anxious mother sees to the safety of the little one in the cradle, the nursling already mentioned, lays more decayed wood on the smoky fire at the entrance to the tshum, shuts the door, and lies down like the rest. A few minutes later loud snoring announces that all are sleeping the sleep of the just.

The next morning the same daily round begins again, and so it goes on until the mountain heights permit of a longer sojourn in one place. The snow, which falls very early, warns them to return even in August, and again, this time more slowly and leisurely, herdsmen and herds journey back to the low grounds.

With the disappearance of the ice the activity of the fishermen on the river begins. Many of the Ostiak fishermen work in the pay of, or at least in partnership with the Russians, others only sell to them the superfluous portion of their catch, and fish on their own account. Immediately after the ice has broken up, the former class pitch their tshums beside the fisher huts of the Russians, and the others settle by the river banks in their summer dwellings—log-huts of the simplest construction. Where a tributary flows into the river, they raise across it, or across the mouth of an arm of the stream, a barricade which leaves only one channel, and in the deep water they place baskets and set bottom-lines; beyond that they use only drag- and seine-nets.

Bustling activity prevails about all the fishing-stations when the catch is good. On a shaky stand above the opening in the barricade the young men, more boys than men, are crouching, peering keenly into the dark flood beneath them to see whether the fish are going into the draw-net which they are holding so as to close the channel. From time to time they lift their burdened net, and empty its contents into their little boat. The men fish together on a sand-bank with the drag-net, or in shallower parts of the river with the seine. In the afternoon, or towards evening the fishermen return home, and the fish are distributed among the different households. Next morning the women’s work begins. Singly, or in groups, they sit beside a great fish heap, each provided with a board and a sharp knife, and scale, gut, split, and crimp the fish, afterwards stringing them on long thin sticks, which are hung up on the drying-stands to dry. With dexterous and certain strokes the abdominal cavity is opened and the side muscles separated from the backbone, a few touches more separate the liver and other viscera from the head, ribs, and more valuable side portions of the body. Liver after liver slips between the smacking lips; for the women have not yet broken their fast and they take the titbits as a preliminary snack. If they are still unsatisfied, a fish is scaled, gutted, and cut in long strips, the end of one of these is dipped into the trickling blood and, thus seasoned, is put into the mouth, divided into suitable mouthfuls with quick knife-strokes which seem to pass perilously near the point of the eater’s nose. The children playing about their busy mothers receive pieces of liver or strips of muscle according to their size; four-year-olds use the knife to cut the pieces almost as cleverly as their elders, who invariably divide their fish or strips of reindeer flesh in this manner. Soon the faces of mothers and children shine with fish blood and liver oil, and the hands glisten with adhering fish-scales. When all the fishes are scaled, split, and hung up to dry, the dogs which have been sitting, covetous but not importunate, beside the women, receive their portion also—the scales and debris, which are thrown into a heap amid which the black muzzles burrow eagerly.

The morning work is over, and a short period of rest has been earned. The mothers take their children on their laps, suckle the nurslings, and then proceed to a work which is absolutely necessary, not only to the little ones’ comfort but to their own—the hunt for parasites. One child after another lays its head in its mother’s lap, and finally she lays her own in that of her eldest daughter or of a friend who hopes for a similar service, and the hunt proves productive. That the booty secured is put between the lips, and if not actually eaten, at least bitten to death, is nothing new to a naturalist who has observed monkeys, and it confirms those who see more than a mere hypothesis in Darwin’s doctrine, or in the belief that men may exhibit atavism, or a reversion to the habits of a remote ancestor.

The sun is sinking, the men, youths, and boys come back with a new and rich harvest. They have eaten raw fish as they required, but now their souls long for warm food. A great steaming kettle of cooked fish, delicious salmonoids (genus Coregonus), the nearest relative of the salmon, is set before them; its accompaniment is bread dipped in and thoroughly saturated with fish fat. Brick-tea,[84] put on the fire with cold water and boiled for a long time, brings the meal to an end. “But when the desire for food and drink is appeased” the spirit also longs for satisfaction, and the musician with harp or zither of his own manufacture is eagerly welcomed, whether to play one of their strange, old, indescribable melodies, or an accompaniment to the quaint dance of the women, in which they raise themselves and sink again, throw one arm round the other, stretch both out, and drop them to their sides. These amusements last until the mosquito-curtain is prepared, then here, too, old and young disappear beneath its folds.

The summer is past, and winter follows the short autumn. A new activity comes into play with the migration of the birds; a new, indeed the full, true life of the Ostiaks begins with winter. For the departing summer guests the treacherous net is spread. Gaps are cut in the dense willow growth of the banks on the direct course between two large sheets of water, and in each space is spread a thin, easily-moved limed net, into which fly not only ducks, but geese, swans, and cranes. These are welcome booty, both on account of flesh and feathers, for birds of all kinds form a considerable portion of the food not only of the Ostiaks but of all the dwellers in the river-basin. At the time when the bird-catcher begins his work the nomad herdsman sets out on the chase, and sets his fall-traps in the tundra for the red and Arctic foxes, or in the forest, in company with his more settled relatives, he sets snares, spring-bows, and self-acting cross-bows for wolves and foxes, sables and ermines, gluttons and squirrels. If snow has fallen, the experienced huntsman buckles on his snow-shoes, puts on his snow-spectacles, and betakes himself with his fleet dog to the tundra or the forest to seek out the bear in his den, to follow the track of the lynx, to chase the elk and the wild reindeer, now impeded by the snow, which will not bear their weight though it bears the huntsman’s. He has never lied, never sworn falsely by the bear’s tooth, never done a wrong, and the bear is therefore powerless against him, the elk and the reindeer are not fleet enough to escape him! When a bear has been shot he returns triumphantly to the village, neighbours and friends gather round him in the tshum, rejoicing, and as the general jubilation infects him, he slips quietly away, disguises himself, puts on a mask, and begins the bear-dance, executing wonderful movements, which are meant to mimic and illustrate those of the bear in all the varied circumstances of his life.

The huts of the fisher-folk soon contain a rich treasure of skins, the tshum of the herdsman a still richer, for he has stored up the skins of all the reindeer slaughtered throughout the year. Now it is time to get rid of them. Everyone, far and near, prepares for the fair which is held every year, in the second half of January, in Obdorsk, the last Russian village, and the most important trading centre on the lower Obi. The fair is attended by natives and strangers, and during its progress the Russian government officials collect taxes from the Ostiaks and Samoyedes, settle disputes, and deal out justice generally; the Russian merchants are on the outlook for buyers and sellers, the dishonest ones among them, and the swindling Syryani, for thoughtless drunkards, and the clergy for heathen to be converted. Among the Ostiaks and Samoyedes all sorts of agreements are made, weddings arranged, enemies reconciled, friends gained, compacts with the Russians formed, debts paid and new ones contracted. From all sides appear long trains of sledges drawn by reindeer, and one tshum after another grows up beside the market-place, each tshum surrounded by heavily-laden sledges containing the saleable acquisitions of the year. Every morning the owner, with his favourite wife in gala attire, proceeds to the booths to sell his skins and buy other commodities. They bargain, haggle, and attempt to cheat, and Mercury, as powerful as of yore, shows his might not only as the god of merchants but of thieves. Alcohol, though its retail sale is forbidden by the government, is to be had not only at every merchant’s, but in almost every house in Obdorsk, and it blunts the senses and dulls the intelligence of Ostiak and Samoyede, and impoverishes them even more than the much-dreaded reindeer plague. Brandy rouses all the passions in the ordinarily calm, good-tempered, inoffensive Ostiak, and transforms the peaceable, friendly, honest fellows into raging, senseless animals. Man and wife alike long for brandy; the father pours it down his boy’s throat, the mother forces it on her daughter, should they begin by rebelling against the destructive poison. For brandy the Ostiak squanders his laboriously-gained treasures, his whole possessions; for it he binds himself as a slave, or at least as a servant; for it he sells his soul, and denies the faith of his fathers. Brandy is an indispensable accompaniment to the conclusion of every business, even to conversion to the orthodox church. With the help of brandy a dishonest merchant can get possession of all an Ostiak’s skins, and without these, with empty purse and confused head, the man who arrived in Obdorsk full of hope and pride, returns to his tshum cheated, not to say plundered. He repents his folly and weakness, makes the best of resolutions, becomes tranquil in doing so, and soon remembers nothing except that he enjoyed himself excellently with his fellow tribesmen. First they had drunk together; then men and women had kissed each other, then the men had beaten their wives, had tried their strength on each other, had even drawn their sharp knives, and, with flashing eyes, had threatened each other with death; but no blood had been shed; there had been a reconciliation; the women who had fallen on the ground, stupefied with blows and brandy, were lifted up tenderly, and were tended by other women; to celebrate the reconciliation an important compact had been made, a bridegroom was sought for the daughter, a little bride for the son; even a widow had been married, and they drank again to the occasion; in short, they had had a splendid time. That the government officials had shut up all those who were dead drunk, that all, all their money had gone the way of things perishable, had certainly been disagreeable, very disagreeable. However, the prison had opened again; after a time, the loss of the money had been got over, and only the golden recollection, over which they could gloat for a whole year, and the betrothal, so satisfactory to all parties, remained as permanent gain from the delightful festival.

The bridegroom and bride had also been at the fair, had drunk with the rest, and thus made each other’s acquaintance, and the bridegroom had agreed with his parents to choose the maiden as his wife, or rather had agreed to receive her. For it is the parents’ decision, not the consent of the couple themselves, that concludes a marriage among the Ostiaks. They may perhaps have some regard for the bridegroom’s wishes, may allow him to cast his affections on one or other of the daughters of his people, but they only send an agent to treat with the girl’s father if their own circumstances correspond with his. The maiden herself is not consulted, perhaps because, at the time of her betrothal, she is much too young to be able to decide upon her own future with discretion. Even the future husband has not reached his fifteenth year when the agent begins to treat for the twelve-year-old bride. In this case the general exhilaration of fair-time had considerably hastened the course of proceedings. The matrimonial agent had gained an immediate consent; the negotiations, often very protracted, had been at once begun, and thanks to brandy, which usually proves an evil demon, but in this case expedited matters, they were brought to a speedy conclusion. It had been agreed that Sandor, the young bridegroom, should pay for his little bride, Malla, sixty reindeer, twenty skins of the white and ten of the red fox, a piece of coloured cloth, and various trifles such as rings, buttons, glass beads, head-dresses, and the like. That was little, much less than the district governor, Mamru, who was scarcely better off, had to give for his wife; for his payment consisted of a hundred and fifty reindeer, sixty skins of the Arctic and twenty of the red fox, a large piece of stuff for clothes, several head-dresses, and the customary trifles. But times were better then, and Mamru might well pay what was equivalent to more than a thousand silver roubles for his wife, who was stately, rich, and of good family.

The amount agreed on is paid; the nuptials of the young couple are celebrated. The relatives of the bride’s family come to her father’s tent to bring presents and to receive others from the bridegroom’s gift, which is laid out for everyone to see. The bride is arrayed in festive garments, and she and her friends prepare for the drive to the tshum of the bridegroom or of his father. Beforehand they have eaten abundantly of the flesh of a reindeer, fresh killed, according to custom. Only a few fish caught under the ice have been cooked to-day; the flesh of the reindeer was eaten raw, and when one began to grow cold a second was slaughtered. The bride weeps, as becomes departing brides, and refuses to leave the tshum in which she was brought up, but she is consoled and coaxed by all, and at last she is ready. A prayer before the domestic idol solicits the blessing of the heavenly Ohrt, whose sign, the divine fire Sornidud—in our eyes only the flaming northern light—had shone blood-red in the sky the evening before. The daughter is accompanied by her mother, who keeps close by her side, and even remains near her during the night. Mother and daughter mount one sledge, the rest of the invited kinsfolk mount theirs, and, in festive pomp, to the sound of the bells which all the reindeer wear on their harness, the wedding procession sets forth.

In his father’s tent the bridegroom awaits the bride, who modestly veils her face with her head-dress in the presence of her future father and brothers-in-law. This she continues to do after the marriage is consummated. A new banquet begins, and the guests, who have been joined by the bridegroom’s relatives, do not disperse till late at night. But the next day the mother brings the young wife back to her father’s tent. A day later all the bridegroom’s relatives appear to demand her back again for him. Once more the low hut is filled with festive sounds; then the bride leaves it for ever, and is again conducted with pomp to the tshum which she is thenceforward to share with her husband, or with him and his father and brothers and sisters, or later on with another wife.

The sons of poor people pay at most ten reindeer for their brides; those of the fisher-folk only the most necessary furnishings of the tshum, and even these are often shared among several families; but their weddings, too, are made the occasion of a joyful festival, and there is as much banqueting as circumstances will allow.

The poorer Ostiaks marry only one wife, but the rich look upon it as one of the rights of their position to have two or more. But the first wife always retains her privileges, and the others appear to be rather her servants than her equals. It is otherwise, however, if she should have no children; for childlessness is a disgrace to the man, and a childless wife in the tshum, as elsewhere, is much to be pitied.

The parents are proud of their children, and treat them with great tenderness. It is with unmistakable happiness in look and gesture that the young mother lays her first-born in her bosom, or on the soft moss in the neat birch-bark cradle with its lining of mouldered willow-wood and shavings; carefully she fastens the cover to both sides of the cradle, and envelops the head-end of the little bed with the mosquito curtain; but her ideal of cleanliness leaves much to be desired. As long as the baby is small and helpless she washes and cleanses it when she thinks it absolutely necessary. But when it grows bigger she only washes its face and hands once a day, using a handful of fine willow fibres as sponge, and a dry handful as towel, and afterwards looks on quite complacently when the little creature, who finds many opportunities for soiling itself, goes about in a state of dirt, to us almost inconceivable. This state of things comes gradually to an end when the young Ostiak is able to take care of himself; but even then, hardly anyone considers it necessary to wash after every meal, even should it have left stains of blood. The children are as much attached, and as faithful to their parents as these are to them, and their obedience and submission is worthy of mention. To reverence parents is the first and chief commandment among the Ostiaks, to reverence their god is only the second. When we advised Mamru, the district governor already mentioned, to have his children taught the Russian language and writing, he replied that he saw the advantage of such knowledge, but feared that his children might forget the respect due to their father and mother, and thus break the most important commandment of their religion. This may be the reason why no Ostiak, who clings to the faith of his fathers, learns to do more than make his mark, a sort of scrawl binding on him and others, drawn upon paper, or cut in wood or reindeer-skin. Yet the Ostiak is capable and dexterous, able to learn whatever he is taught so quickly and easily that, at the early age at which he marries, he understands everything connected with the establishment and maintenance of his household. It is only in religious matters that he seems unwilling to trust to his own judgment, and on this account he, in most cases, shows unmerited respect for the shamans,[85] who profess to know more about religion than he does.

For our part, we regard the shaman, who claims the status of a priest among the Ostiaks as among the other Mongolian peoples of Siberia, as nothing short of an impostor. The sole member of the precious brotherhood with whom we came in contact, a baptized Samoyede, bore the sign of Christianity on his breast; according to report he had even been a deacon in the orthodox church, and yet he did duty as a shaman among the heathen Ostiaks. I learned later, on good authority, that he was no exception to the general rule; for all the shamans met with by my informant, Herr von Middendorf, during years of travel in Siberia, were Christians. I have already mentioned in the report of my travels that the shaman whom we met took us also for believers; but I have reserved my account of his performances and prophecies for to-day, as this description seems to me a fitting frame for such a picture.

To begin with, he demanded brandy as a fee, but was satisfied with the promise of a gift, and retired into a tent, saying that he would let us know when his preparations were finished. Among these preparations, apparently, was the muffled beating of a drum which we heard after a considerable time; of other arrangements we discovered nothing. On a given signal we entered the tshum.

The whole space within the birch-bark hut was filled with people, who sat round in a circle pressing closely against the walls. Among the Ostiaks and Samoyedes, who were there with wives and children, there were also Russians with their families. On a raised seat to the left of the entrance sat the shaman Vidli; at his right, crouching on the floor, was an Ostiak, the master’s disciple at the time. Vidli wore a brown upper garment, and over it a kind of robe, originally white, but soiled and shabbily trimmed with gold braid; in his left hand he held a little tambour-like drum, in such a way that it shaded his face; in his right hand was a drum-stick; his head was uncovered, his tonsured hair freshly oiled. In the middle of the tshum a fire was burning, and now and again it blazed up and shed bright light on the motley throng, in the midst of which we sat down in the places reserved for us. A thrice-repeated, long-drawn cry, like a song from many voices, preluded by beating of the drum, greeted our entrance, and marked the beginning of the proceedings.

“That you may see that I am a man of truth,” said the master’s voice, “I shall now adjure the messenger of the heavenly will, who is at my behest, to appear among us and communicate to me what the gods have determined concerning your future. Later, you yourselves will be able to determine whether I have told you the truth or not.”

After this introduction, which was translated to us by two interpreters, the favourite of the gods struck the calf-skin, or rather reindeer-skin of his drum, with quick strokes which followed one another at equal intervals, but were indefinitely grouped, and accompanied his drumming with a song which, in the usual Samoyede fashion, was half-spoken, or rather muttered, and half-sung, and was faithfully repeated by the youth, whom we may call the clerk. The master held the drum so as to keep his face in shadow, and he also shut his eyes that nothing might distract his inward vision; the clerk, on the other hand, smoked even while he sang, and spat from time to time, just as he had been doing before. Three slow, decided strokes brought the drumming and the song to an end.

“I have now,” said the master with dignity, “adjured Yamaul, the heavenly messenger, to appear among us, but I cannot say how much time must pass before he arrives, for he may be far off.”

And again he beat his drum and sang his incantation, concluding both song and accompaniment as before.

“I see two emperors before me; they will send you a writing,” spoke the messenger of the gods through his lips.

So Yamaul had been kind enough to appear in the tshum to oblige his favourite. Then the individual sentences of the heavenly message, with the invariable prelude of drumming and song, were uttered as follows:—

“Once again, next summer, you will traverse the same route as this year.”

“Then you will visit the summit of the Ural, where the rivers Ussa, Bodarata, and Shtchutshya begin their course.”

“On this journey something will befall you, whether good or evil I cannot tell.”

“Nothing is to be achieved at the Bodarata, for wood and pasture are lacking; here something might be accomplished.”

“You will have to render an account to your superiors; they will examine you and will be satisfied.”

“You will also have to answer to the three elders of your tribe; they also will examine your writings, and then come to a decision about the new journey.”

“The course of your journey will henceforward be happy and without accident; and you will find your loved ones at home in the best of health.”

“If the statements of the Russians who are still at Bodarata corroborate yours, two emperors will reward you.”

“I see no other face.”

The performance was at an end. On the Ural Mountains lay the last glow of midnight. Everyone left the tent, the faces of the Russians showing the same credulity as those of the Ostiaks and Samoyedes. But we invited the shaman to accompany us to our boat, loosened his tongue and that of his disciple with brandy, and plied him with all manner of cross-questions, some of them of the subtlest kind. He answered them all, without exception, without ever getting into a difficulty, without hesitation, without even reflection; he answered them full of conviction, and convincingly, clearly, definitely, tersely, and to the point, so that we recognized more clearly than before the extreme craftiness of the man with whom we had to deal.

He described to us how, even in his boyhood, the spirit had come upon him and had tortured him till he became the disciple of a shaman; how he had become more and more intimate with Yamaul, the messenger of the gods, who appears to him as a friendly man, riding on a swift horse, and carrying a staff in his hand; how Yamaul hastened to his help, and even, if need were, called down aid from heaven when he, the shaman, was struggling with evil spirits often for several days at a time; how the messenger of the gods must always communicate the message to him just as he received it, for that otherwise he felt every drum-beat as a painful stroke; how Yamaul, even to-day, though visible to him only, sat behind him in the tshum and whispered the words in his ear. He also informed us that, by his own art, or by the grace bestowed upon him, which even his conversion to Christianity could not weaken, he could reveal what was hidden, find what was stolen, recognize diseases, prophesy the death or recovery of the sick, see and banish the ghosts of the dead, work much evil, and prevent much evil, but that he did nothing but good, because he feared the gods; he gave us a clear and detailed, if not quite correct picture of the religion of the Ostiaks and Samoyedes; he assured us that all his people, as well as the Ostiaks, came to him in their troubles to ask advice, or to have the future unveiled, and that they did not doubt, but trusted in him and believed him.

The last statement is not correct. The great mass of the people may regard the shaman as a wise man, perhaps even as an intermediary between men and the gods, and possibly as the possessor of mysterious power; but many believe his words and works as little as other races do those of their priests. The real faith of the people is simpler and more child-like than the shaman approves of. It is here as elsewhere; the priest, or whoever acts as such, peoples heaven with gods, and councillors and servants of the gods, but the people know nothing of this celestial court.

According to the belief of the people there is enthroned in heaven Ohrt, whose name signifies “the end of the world”. He is an all-powerful spirit, who rules over everything but Death, and he is benevolently inclined towards men. He is the giver of all good, the bestower of reindeer, fish, and furred animals, the preventer of evil, and the avenger of lies, severe only when promises made to him are not fulfilled. Feasts are held in his honour, sacrifices and prayers are offered to him; the suppliant who prostrates himself before a sacred symbol thinks of him. The symbol, called a longch, may be of carved wood, a bundle of cloth, a stone, a skin, or anything else: it possesses no powers, affords no protection, it is in no sense a fetish! People assemble before a longch, place it in front of the tshum, lay dishes of fish, reindeer flesh, or other offering before it, place valuables before it, or even pack them inside it; but they always look up to heaven, and both their offerings and their prayers are intended for their god. Evil spirits dwell in heaven as on earth; but Ohrt is more powerful than they all; only Death is mightier than he. There is no everlasting life after death, and no resurrection; but the dead still wander as ghosts over the face of the earth, and have still power to do good or evil.

Fig. 65.—The Burial of an Ostiak.

When an Ostiak dies his spirit-life begins at once; so his friends proceed immediately to arrange for his burial. They had all assembled before his death, and as soon as life is extinct they kindle a fire in the tshum in which the body lies, and keep it burning until they set out for the burial-place. A shaman is called to ask the dead where he wishes to lie. This is done by naming a place, and attempting to raise the head of the corpse. If the dead man approves he lets his head be raised; if he does not, three men cannot move it. Then the question must be repeated until the man gives his consent. Skilled persons are despatched to the chosen spot to prepare the grave, for this work often requires several days.

The burial-places are always in the tundra, on elevated spots, usually on a long ridge; the coffins are more or less artistically wrought chests, which are placed above the ground. Failing solid planks to construct the coffin, a boat is cut up and the corpse is laid in that; only the very poor people dig in the ground a shallow hollow in which to bury their dead.

The corpse is not washed, but is arrayed in festive garments, the hair anointed, and the face covered with a cloth. All the rest of the deceased’s clothing is given to the poor. The Ostiaks never touch the dead body of a stranger with their hands, but they do not hesitate to touch a loved relative, and even to kiss his cold face with tears in their eyes. The corpse is brought to the burial-place on a sledge, or in a boat, and is accompanied by all the relatives and friends. A reindeer-skin, on which the dead is to rest, is laid in the chest or coffin. At the head and sides are placed tobacco, pipes, and all manner of implements which the dead man was wont to use in his lifetime. Then the corpse is lifted with cords, carried to the chest, and laid on the bed thus prepared; the face is covered for the last time, a piece of birch-bark is spread over the open top of the chest, which, if the family be a rich one, is perhaps first covered with costly skins and cloths, the lid of the chest is put on above the sheet of bark, or at least heavy branches are laid close together upon it. Around and under the chest are laid such implements as could not be placed within it, but they are first broken up and thus rendered useless for the living, or, according to Ostiak ideas, made the ghosts of what they were.

Meanwhile, a fire has been kindled in the neighbourhood of the grave, and one or more reindeer slaughtered, and now the flesh is eaten, raw or cooked, by the funeral company. After the meal, the skulls of the slaughtered reindeer are fixed upon a pole, their harness is hung on the pole or on a tree, the bells they have worn on this, as on all solemn occasions, are hung on the top of the coffin itself, the sledge is broken to pieces and thrown beside the grave as its last ornament. Then the company travels homewards. Mourning is now silenced, and the daily round of life begins again.

But in the shades of night the ghost of the dead, equipped with his ghostly tools, begins his mysterious spirit-life. What he did while he walked among the living, he continues to do. Invisible to all he leads his reindeer to pasture, guides his boat through the waves, buckles on his snow-shoes, draws his bow, spreads his net, shoots the ghosts of former game, catches the ghosts of former fishes. During night he visits the tshum of his wife and children, causing them joy or sorrow. His reward is to be able to show beneficence to his own flesh and blood; his punishment, to be obliged continually to do them injury.

Such in outline is the religion of the Ostiaks, whom the Greek Catholics despise as heathen. But a just estimate of these honest people, with their child-like nature, inclines us rather to wish that they may ever remain heathen, or at least may never be other than they are.

THE NOMAD HERDSMEN AND HERDS OF THE
STEPPES.

Though the steppe of Central Asia is really rich, and may even seem gay to one who visits it in spring, and though it contains much fruitful land, it is nevertheless only its most favoured portions which admit of a settled life, of a continued residence on any one particular spot. Constant wandering, coming and going, appearing and disappearing, is the lot of all the children of the steppe, men and animals alike. Certain portions submit to the labours of the husbandman; in others, towns and villages may be established, but the steppe as a whole must for ever remain the possession of the nomadic herdsman, who knows how to adapt himself to all its conditions of life.

Among these nomadic herdsmen the Kirghiz take the first rank, by virtue both of numbers and of civilization. Their domain extends from the Don and the Volga to the mountains of Thianshan, and from the middle Irtish to south of the Balkhash Lake, indeed, almost to Khiva and Bokhara; they are divided into tribes and hordes, into steppe and mountain herdsmen, but they are one in descent, in language and religion, in manners and customs, however much the various tribes may appear to differ. The smallest or youngest horde wanders throughout the steppe of Orenburg; a branch of the same, calling itself the Buka tribe, traverses the steppe between the Volga and Ural rivers, especially in the governments of Turgai and Ural; the middle or elder horde inhabits the steppes and mountains of the Irtish and Balkhash regions; and finally, extending from beyond the river Ili towards Khiva and Bokhara are to be found the ever-changing dwelling-places of the mountain Kirghiz, who describe themselves as the great, or eldest horde. No branch of these people applies the name Kirgis or Kirghiz to itself, for that is a term of infamy equivalent to “freebooters”. The proper designation of our people is Kaisak, Kasak, or, as we should read it, Cossack, although even the Russians apply the name Cossack to a people quite distinct from the inhabitants of the steppe.

The Kirghiz, as I shall call them nevertheless, are a Turkish people, about whose racial affinities different opinions are held. Many, if not most, travellers look upon them as true Mongolians, while others regard them, probably more correctly, as a mixed race, suggestive of the Mongolians in some particulars, but, on the whole, exhibiting the characteristics of Indo-Germans, and especially resembling the Turkomans. All the Kirghiz I saw belonged to the middle horde, and were well-built people, small, or of medium height, with faces, not beautiful indeed, but not of the caricature-like Mongolian type, neat hands and feet, clear or transparent light-brown or yellowish complexions, brown eyes, and black hair. The cheek-bones are seldom so prominent, or the chin so pointed, as to give an angular or cat-faced appearance; the eye, of medium size, is usually most arched centrally, and drawn out horizontally at the outer angle; it is thus almond-shaped, but not obliquely set; the nose is usually straight, more rarely hooked; the mouth moderate in size and sharply cut, the beard thin, without being actually scanty. True Mongolian features are certainly to be met with also, more especially among the women and children of the poorer class; but, though I have seen very few really beautiful Kirghiz women, I have met with quite as few of the grotesque faces so common among other undoubted Mongols. The characteristics are unmistakably more suggestive of a mixed race than of any one sharply defined stock. I have seen men whom I should unhesitatingly have pronounced to belong to the nobler Indo-Germans if I had known nothing of their kinship, and I have become acquainted with others about the Mongolian cut of whose faces there could be no possible doubt. The members of the older families usually possess all the essential marks of the Indo-Germans, while men of lower descent and meaner extraction often remind one of the Mongols in many details, and may sometimes resemble them completely. The power of Islam, which permits to slaves who have become converts all the rights of the tribe, may in the course of time have made Kirghiz out of many heathen Mongols, and thus not only have influenced, but actually destroyed the racial characteristics of the Kirghiz.

Although the chief features of the Kirghiz dress are Turkish, it is, as a whole, by no means suited for displaying their figure to advantage. In winter the fur cap, fur coat, and thick-legged boots hide all the details of the figure, and even in summer these do not come into prominence. The poorer Kirghiz, in addition to his fur coat and the inevitable fur cap, wears a shirt, kaftan, and wide trousers; the higher class rich man, on the other hand, wears a great many articles of dress one above the other, like the Oriental; but he stuffs all those which envelop the lower part of his body, with the exception of his fur coat, into his wide trousers, so that he may not be impeded in riding. Consequently, the more richly attired he is the more grotesque he looks. They prefer dark colours to light or bright ones, though they do not despise these, and they are fond of decorations of gay embroideries or braiding. Nearly every Kirghiz wears at his girdle a dainty little pocket, richly decorated with iron or silver mountings, and a similarly ornamented knife; beyond these, and the indispensable signet-ring, he wears no decoration unless the Emperor has bestowed one upon him, in the shape of a commemorative medal.

Of the dress of the women I can say little, first, because modesty forbade me to ask about more than I could see, and secondly, because I did not see the women of the upper class at all, and never saw the others in their gala attire. In addition to the fur coat, boots and shoes, which are exactly like those of the men, the women wear trousers which differ very slightly, a shift, and over it a robe-like upper garment, falling below the knee and clasped in the middle; on the head they wear either a cloth wound in turban-fashion, or a nun-like hood which covers head, neck, shoulders, and breast.

The clothing of both sexes is coarse, except the riding-boots and shoes, which are always well made. Very characteristic, and obviously adapted to the climatic conditions, are the extraordinarily long sleeves which both men and women wear on their upper garment; these fall far beyond the hands, and cover them almost completely.

Fig. 66.—The Home of a Wealthy Kirghiz.

The roving life to which the Kirghiz are compelled by the necessity of finding sufficient pasturage for their numerous herds, involves a style of dwelling which is easily constructed, can be taken down at one spot and erected again at another without special difficulty, and which must yet afford a sufficient protection against the hardness and inclemency of the climate. These requirements are fulfilled more thoroughly by the yurt than by any other movable dwelling, and it is not too much to say that this is the most perfect of all tents. Thousands of years of experience has made the yurt what it is—a home for the nomadic herdsman, or any other wanderer,—which, in its own way, cannot be surpassed. Light and easily moved, readily closed against storms, or thrown open to admit air and sunshine, comfortable and commodious, simple, yet admitting of rich decoration without and within, it unites in itself so many excellent qualities that one appreciates it ever more highly as time goes on, and finds it more and more habitable the longer one lives in it. It consists of a movable lattice-work which can be extended or contracted, and which forms the lower upright circular walls of the framework, a coupling ring which forms the arch at the top, spars inserted into both these, and a door in the lattice-work; light mats of tschi-grass, and large wads or sheets of felt, cut to shape, and most ingeniously laid on, compose the outer covering of the whole framework, and thick carpets of felt cover the floor. With the exception of the door-frames, which are mortised together, and of the spars, the upper ends of which are inserted into holes in the coupling-ring, the whole structure is held together simply by means of cords and bands; and it is thus easily taken to pieces, while its form—circular in cross section, and cupola-like longitudinally—renders it capable of great resistance to violent storms and bad weather of all sorts. The work of putting it up scarcely requires more than half an hour, that of taking it down even less; the strength of a single camel conveys it from place to place, but its construction and decoration take up much of the time and all the ingenuity of the housewife, to whose share falls the chief work of making it, and the whole labour of setting it up.

The yurt forms an important part of the movable property of a Kirghiz. A rich man owns six or eight, but he spends money rather on the decoration of a few than on the construction of many, for he is assessed and taxed not according to the size of his herds but the number of his yurts. The high-class Kirghiz certainly shows his wealth through his yurt, by fitting it up as richly as possible, making it out of the most valuable felt, and decorating it without and within with coloured pieces of cloth; but he sets store rather by the possession of costly rugs, and beautifully sewn and embroidered silken coverlets, with which he decorates the interior of the living-room on festive occasions. Such rugs are handed down from father to son, and the possession of them ranks scarcely below that of uncoined silver.

The real wealth of the nomadic herdsman cannot, however, be estimated by such secondary things; it must be calculated by his herds. Even the poorest owner of a yurt must possess numerous beasts to enable him to live, or survive in the struggle for existence; for the herds he tends form the one indispensable condition of life; they alone stand between him and ruin. The rich man’s herds may number thousands upon thousands, those of the poor man at least hundreds; but the richest may become poor, if disease breaks out among his herds, and the poor man may starve if death visits his beasts. Wide-spreading murrain reduces whole tribes to destitution, causes thousands of human beings literally to die of starvation. Little wonder, then, that every thought and aspiration of the Kirghiz is bound up with his herds, that his manners and customs correspond to this intimate connection between man and beast, that the man is, in short, dependent on the animal.

Not the most useful, but the noblest and the most highly prized of all the domesticated animals of the Kirghiz is the horse, which in the eyes of its owner represents the sum and essence of domestication, and the climax of all beauty; it is a standard by which to reckon, according to which wealth or poverty is determined. He does not call it a horse, but simply the domestic animal; instead of the words “left and right” he uses the expressions, “the side on which one mounts a horse”, and “the side on which one carries the knout”. The horse is the pride of youth and maiden, of man and woman, whether young or old; to praise or find fault with a horse is to praise or blame its rider, a blow given to a horse one is not riding is aimed not at the horse but at its owner.

A large number of the Kirghiz songs refer to the horse; it is used as a standard of comparison to give an estimate of the worth of men and women, or to describe human beauty.

“Little bride, little bride,

Dear foal of the dark brood-mare!”

the singer calls to the bride who is being led into the bridegroom’s yurt;

“Say where is the play of the white locks

And where the play of the foals,

For kind as is the new father,

He is not the old father to me,”

the bride answers to the youths who sing the “Jarjar”, the song of consolation to the departing bride, referring by the words “Foal-play” to the time of her first love.

The wealth of a man is expressed in the number of horses he possesses; payment for a bride is made in the value of so many horses; the maiden who is offered as a prize to the winner in a race is held as being worth a hundred mares; horses are given as mutual presents; with horses atonement is made for assassination or murder, limbs broken in a struggle, an eye knocked out, or for any crime or misdemeanour; one hundred horses release from ban and outlawry the assassin or murderer of a man, fifty, of a woman, thirty, of a child. The fine imposed by the tribe for injuring any one’s person or property is paid in horses; for the sake of a horse even a respectable man becomes a thief. The horse carries the lover to his loved one, the bridegroom to the bride, the hero to battle, the saddle and clothing of the dead from one camping-place to another; the horse carries man and woman from yurt to yurt, the aged man as well as the child firmly bound to his saddle, or the youthful rider who sits for the first time free. The rich man estimates his herds as equivalent to so many horses; without a horse a Kirghiz is what a man without a home is among us; without a horse he deems himself the poorest under the sun.

The Kirghiz has thoroughly studied the horse, he knows all its habits, its merits and defects, its virtues and vices, knows what benefits and what injures it; sometimes, indeed, he expects an incredible amount from it, but he never exacts it unless necessity compels him. He does not treat it with the affectionate care of the Arab, but neither does he ever show the want of consideration of many other peoples. One does not see anything of that careful and intelligent breeding of horses which is practised by Arabs and Persians, English and Germans, but he does constantly endeavour to secure the improvement of his favourite breeds by only placing the best stallions with the mares, and castrating the rest. Unfortunately his choice of breeding-horses is determined solely by form, and does not take colour into consideration at all, the consequence being that many of his horses are exceedingly ugly, because their colouring is so irregular and unequal. The training of the horse leaves much to be desired; our wandering herdsman is much too rich in horses for this to be otherwise.

We found the Kirghiz horse a pleasant and good-natured creature, although it by no means fulfilled our ideal of beauty in all respects. It is of medium size and slender build, with a head not ugly though rather large, decidedly ram-nosed, and noticeably thickened by the prominent lower jaw-bones, a moderately long and powerful neck, a long body, fine limbs, and soft hair. Its eyes are large and fiery, its ears somewhat large, but well-shaped. Mane and tail have fine, long hair, always abundant, the hair of the tail growing so luxuriantly that it sweeps the ground; the legs are well formed, but rather slim, the hoofs are upright, but often rather too high. Light colours prevail and very ugly piebalds often offend the eye. The commonest colours are brown, light-brown, fox-coloured, dun, and bay, more rare are dark-brown and black, and one only occasionally sees a gray. The mane and tail greatly increase the beauty of all the light-coloured horses, because they are either black or much lighter than the body hairs.

The temper of the animal is worthy of all praise. The Kirghiz horse is fiery, yet extremely good-natured, courageous in the presence of all known dangers, and only nervous, skittish, and timid when it is bewildered for a moment by something unusual; it is spirited and eager in its work, obedient, docile, willing, energetic, and very enduring, but it is chiefly valuable for riding, and requires long breaking-in to make it of use as a draught animal, in which capacity it is much less valuable than as a riding-horse.

Fig. 67.—Life among the Kirghiz—the Return from the Chase.

It has a particularly disagreeable habit, for which the Kirghiz is certainly more to blame than the animal, of constantly eating or at least nibbling on the way; it even attempts to satisfy its appetite in the most difficult situations, as in wading through rocky mountain torrents or climbing steep precipices. It is as insatiable as all other domesticated animals accustomed to roam freely over the steppe, but in its association with others of its species, except in the breeding season, it is as peaceable as it is obedient and submissive to its master.

The poorer Kirghiz possess only horses enough to provide a mount for each member of the family, and to ensure the continuance of their stock. The richer dwellers on the steppe, on the other hand, have four or five, indeed I have often been assured as many as ten or twelve thousand head, which feed in separate herds, and at different places, and therefore, naturally enough, thrive better than those of their poorer brethren. Each herd consists of at least fifteen, or at most fifty individuals; in the latter case it comprises one fully-grown stallion, nine brood-mares, and as many young foals, eight two-year-olds, six or eight three-year-olds, and five or six four-year-olds, besides some older animals or geldings. The stallion is absolute lord and master, guide, leader, and protector of the herd, and he never lets himself be deprived of a single foal by the wolf, but attacks that cowardly robber boldly and successfully, striking him to the ground with his hoofs if he shows fight. But he will not tolerate a rival, and drives out all other stallions from the herd as soon as they come to maturity; when he enters on his leadership he drives away his own mother, and later his own daughters. This proud wilfulness necessitates the greatest watchfulness on the part of the herdsman during the pairing time, lest he lose the expelled mares which are seeking a new sultan, or the stallions which are striving for their own independence. The young mare reaches maturity in her fifth year, and the following spring, usually in March, she brings forth her first foal. She is not at once separated from the rest of the herd, but in May she and her foal are brought into the neighbourhood of the yurt, and for four months she is regularly milked to provide the famous koumiss or milk-wine. In autumn, mother and young are allowed to rejoin the herd. Both are received without hesitation, and they enjoy their newly-recovered freedom to the full.

Apart from the horse, the most useful, and therefore the most important domestic animal of our nomadic herdsman, is the sheep. This animal is very large and well-built, but very much disfigured by the protuberances of fat on the rump. The massive body rests upon long but powerful legs; the head is small, the nose narrow and blunt, the ears pendulous or erect, the horns weak, the skin hard but thick, the udder very much developed, the fat rump often so enormous that the creature can no longer carry it, but bending its knees lets it drag on the ground, unless the herdsman comes to its aid by fixing a little two-wheeled cart under the tail, and placing the burdensome appendage on that. When the Kirghiz rams are crossed with sheep without this protuberance, their descendants acquire the singular appendage in two or three generations, while if smooth-tailed rams be paired continuously with fat-rumped sheep the reverse takes place.

Though the character of the Kirghiz sheep resembles that of our sheep in all important respects, it cannot be disputed that the free life on the steppes, the long journeys which have to be made, and the difficulties which have to be surmounted in the course of these have developed its physical and mental capacities to an incomparably higher degree than is attained by our domestic sheep. Nevertheless, even in the steppe the clever goat acts as leader and guide to the relatively stupid sheep, and it is therefore only right that I should describe the goat next.

The Kirghiz goat is of medium size, massive and well-built, the body powerful, the neck short, the head small, the limbs well-proportioned, the eye large and bright, the glance full of expression, the erect ear pointed, the horns comparatively weak, and either directed backwards and outwards or half turned on their axes, the hair abundant, especially on beard and tail, that on the forehead being long and curled; the prevailing colouring is beautiful pure white with black markings.

The Kirghiz always treat sheep and goats exactly alike, and they feed together in flocks. The poor Kirghiz of one aul make up a flock among them, the rich man, whose beasts are numbered by many thousands, has often several. The shepherd, usually a biggish boy, rides on an ox beside his flock, but he understands so well how to manage his steed and make it trot, that he can overtake the fleetest goat. Once as we were returning from a hunting expedition, we met a shepherd who, by way of amusement, rode along for quite a quarter of an hour beside our briskly-trotting horses, yet his singular steed showed no signs of fatigue. Only the shepherds belonging to the Tartar sheep-owners ride on horses. In hazardous parts of their journeys, such as crossing a rapid stream, or climbing among the mountains, the goats take the lead, and here, as everywhere else, the sheep follow them blindly.

As hay can only be gathered and stacked in the most favoured spots, the birth of lambs and kids in autumn is prevented; it therefore always takes place in spring, and the young ones have thus every chance to thrive well and grow rapidly. New-born lambs and kids are taken into the yurt at once, and they soon become so well accustomed to it that they only quit the comfortable tent with piteous bleatings when circumstances render it necessary. Later on they are put into a shelter near the winter-dwelling. In the open steppe this shelter is a simple hollow in the ground, over which the cold wind blows almost unfelt; finally they are secured to the rope called a kögön, which is stretched between strong poles in front of every yurt. As soon as they begin to graze they are driven out in flocks by themselves to the open steppe, and brought back to the yurt towards evening. Thus they become accustomed from their earliest youth to the free life of the steppes, to wind and tempest, storm and rain.

In comparison with horses, sheep, and goats, cattle play a very subordinate part. Herds of them are certainly to be seen in the neighbourhood of every aul, but they are quite out of proportion to the numbers of sheep and goats. The ox is larger and better built than that of the Russian and Siberian peasants, but it is far behind the Chinese ox, and cannot for a moment be compared with any noteworthy breed of Western Europe. It is of medium size and fleshy, its coat is short and smooth-haired, its horns long and curved, its prevailing colour a beautiful, warm red-brown. The cattle are sent out to graze in rather large herds, with no supervision of any kind, the milch cows being enticed back to the yurt solely by the calves which are tied up and tended there, while the bulls roam about as they please, and often remain away from the aul for several days at a time.

Though all the large auls possess camels, by no means every Kirghiz owns one, and even the richest among them seldom possess more than fifty head. For the camel is rightly considered the most perishable of all the stock owned by the nomadic herdsmen of this steppe; its real home lies farther to the south and east. In the part of the steppe through which we travelled only the two-humped camel is reared, but south of the Balkhash Lake and in Central Asia preference is given to the dromedary. The two species cross here and produce strange hybrids in which the two humps are almost fused into one.

The camel of the central steppe belongs to one of the lighter breeds, and is therefore not nearly so massive and awkward as those which are to be seen in most zoological gardens, but it is quite as thickly covered with hair. Nevertheless, it does not stand cold nearly so well as the other domestic animals of the Kirghiz, and requires a felt mat to kneel down or rest on, and even then it often takes cold and dies. While shedding its hair it has to be enveloped in a felt covering, and in summer it has to be protected from mosquitoes and gadflies else it will succumb; in short, it is the object of constant anxiety, and is therefore not suited to a poor man, who feels every loss with threefold force. It resembles the dromedary in being easily satisfied in the matter of food, and in displaying the blind rage characteristic of the pairing-time, when it menaces even its usually loved master, but, for the rest of the year, it differs from the dromedary, very much to its own advantage, in docility and gentleness. Having been accustomed to the dromedary for many years, I was particularly struck by these excellent qualities in the steppe camel; I hardly recognized the race. The camel allows itself to be caught without resisting, and kneels down to be laden, if not altogether without grumbling, at least without the horrible, nerve-shattering bellowing of the dromedary. Even at a trot it carries light burdens uncomplainingly, covering twenty miles or more in the course of a day; if its load slips, it stops of its own accord. With a rider it can cover about thirty miles a day; with a weight of eight cwts. on its back, compelling it to a slow but striding step, it should manage at least half that distance. It grazes almost always in the vicinity of the yurt, in company with all its fellows of the aul, and in the eyes of the Kirghiz it is to a certain extent a sacred animal.

Fig 68.—Kirghiz with Camels.

The dog, which is the least valued animal owned by the Kirghiz, is always large but not always beautiful, though the difference between it and the hideous curs to be met with elsewhere in Siberia and Turkestan is very marked and greatly in its favour. The head is long but rather heavy, the limbs more like those of a greyhound than a sheep-dog, the hair long and woolly, the colouring very varied.

Watchful and courageous in the highest degree, he is a worthy adversary of the wolf, an efficient and careful protector of the weaker herds, a suspicious sentinel towards strangers, the faithful slave of his master, an unsociable recluse as far as grown-up people are concerned, but the willing playmate of the children. He has many of the virtues of his race, and is therefore to be found in every yurt or at least in every aul.

The whole life of the Kirghiz centres in his herds,—making use of them and their products, and to that end tending them carefully. The former is the chief occupation of the women, the latter the most important work of the men. With the exception of the bones, which are thrown away unheeded, every portion of the body of every one of their animals is used, just as every female among the live stock is milked as long as possible. The quantity of vegetable food used by the Kirghiz is extremely small; milk and meat form his chief diet in all circumstances, and vegetable products are merely accessory. Bread, in the real sense of the word, he scarcely uses at all, and even the little lumps of dough which may be reckoned as such, are sodden in fat, not baked. Flour and rice,—the latter a frequent dish only among the rich,—also serve to give variety to the everlasting monotony of milk and meat dishes. Little wonder then that death from starvation threatens the Kirghiz, indeed too often overtakes him, when general murrain breaks out among his beasts in the midst of the steppe.

The wealthier people keep the milk of sheep and goats separate from that of cows, and of mares and camels; poor people mix all the milk in one vessel, and thus get only the effect of sheep’s milk, while the rich secure some differentiation of palatal pleasure. From the milk of sheep and goats, which is invariably milked into the same vessel and collected in the same leathern bottle, they prepare not only various dishes, which are eaten at once with or without flour, but also butter, small, sour or bitter, gritty cheeses, most distasteful to a European palate, and a yellow curd very agreeable even to our taste, which, like the cheese, is stored up for use in winter, when it is dissolved in water to make a sort of soup. Cow’s milk, on the other hand, they use chiefly as sour milk, and only rarely make into curds, cheese, or butter, while that of mares and camels is used for making the koumiss so often described. This is a milk-wine made by allowing milk to ferment for four days, and by constantly shaking and beating it. It is much appreciated, and indeed justly prized among the Kirghiz, and the well-to-do among them often drink it to intoxication on festive occasions.

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.

Fig. 69.—Kirghiz and their Herds on the March in the Mountains.

“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.

Fig. 70.—Kirghiz Aul, or Group of Tents.

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.