CHAPTER II
BEYOND THE TIAN SHAN TO KASHGAR
Farghana is a country of small extent, but abounding in grain and fruits; and it is surrounded with hills on all sides except on the west.... Andijan is the capital. The district abounds in birds and beasts of game. Its pheasants are so fat that the report goes that four persons may dine on the broth of one of them and not be able to finish it.—Memoirs of Baber.
After three days and nights in the train it was pleasant to make a halt at Tashkent, the capital of Russian Turkestan, though the sudden change of climate was somewhat exhausting. It was towards the end of March, and the whole town, famous for its fruit trees, was embowered in pink and white blossom, and the avenues of magnificent poplars, willows and beautiful Turkestan elms were shaking out their fresh green leaves.
The Russians, under General Kaufmann, took Tashkent about fifty years ago, and have laid out the new town with broad roads planted with fine trees that are watered by irrigation. There are churches, public parks, tram-lines and imposing-looking shops, the considerable Russian population appearing to mix freely with the Sarts, as the inhabitants are termed by the dominant race. In India a white woman of whatever class has a position with the natives, but here the ordinary Russian woman is seemingly on an equality with them, and not infrequently marries them. In the best confectioner’s shop, served by Russian girls, natives came in and bought and ate cakes and sweets on the premises, side by side with smart officers or elegant ladies evidently belonging to the upper circles of Tashkent society.
Even in this remote part of the Russian Empire the War was brought home to the inhabitants by the presence of fifteen thousand prisoners, Germans and Austrians. The latter, who were mostly Slavs, had the privilege of shopping in the town, and we heard that they were on excellent terms with their captors, whereas the Germans were permitted no such relaxation of their captivity.
A long narrow street led from the Russian city straight into the native town with its mud-built houses, its little stalls of food and clothing, its mosques and shrines, and above all its gaily clad populace. But for the people I could have imagined myself to be in a Persian city; but here, instead of men in dingily coloured frock-coats and tall astrakhan hats, and women shrouded in black from head to foot, the inhabitants of both sexes revelled in colour. All wore smart velvet or embroidered caps, round which the greybeards swathed snowy turbans. The men had striped coats of many colours, the brighter the better, the little girls rivalling them with bold contrasts, such as a short, gold-laced magenta velvet jacket worn above a flowered, scarlet cotton skirt, or a coat of emerald green with a vivid blue under-garment. For the most part they were pretty, rosy-cheeked, velvet-eyed maidens, with their hair hanging down their backs in a dozen plaits, and I felt sorry to think that all their charm would shortly have to disappear behind the long cloak, beautifully embroidered though it might be, and the hideous black horsehair veil affected by their mothers.
One fascinating little figure adorned with big earrings and bracelets came dancing down an alley into the street, holding out the ends of a scarlet veil which she had thrown over her head, her cotton dress and trousers being in two shades of rose. She pirouetted up to a tall man in a rainbow-coloured silk coat who was carrying a tin can, and had paused at the steps of the mosque to let the children gather round him. To my surprise he began to dole out ice-cream in little glasses, and boys and girls had delicious “licks” in exchange for small coins. I remembered how envious I had felt in early youth when I saw English street urchins partaking of what seemed to me to be food fit for the gods, although my nurse allowed me no chance of sampling it, and in a moment the East and the West seemed to come very near, the ice-cream man acting as the bridge across the gulf.
After leaving Tashkent we travelled through a rich alluvial country watered by the Sir Daria, the classical Jaxartes, and halted on our way to Andijan at the ancient city of Khokand. As at Tashkent, the Russian and native towns are separate, and we hired a moon-faced, beardless Sart, attired in a long red and blue striped coat and with an embroidered skull-cap perched on his shaven head, to drive us round.
He raced his wiry little ponies at a great pace along a wide tree-planted avenue ending in a church of preternatural ugliness set in a public garden. Near by were Russian houses and shops, while small victorias containing grey-uniformed officers or turbaned Sarts dashed past, and native carts laden with bales of cotton creaked slowly by. Many of these carts had big tilts, the wooden framework inside being gaudily painted, and the horses themselves were decked with handsome brass trappings.
The old town, with its high mud walls, flat-roofed squalid dwellings, a bazar closely resembling those to be found in any Asiatic city, and comparatively modern mosques, had little of interest, though a well-known traveller speaks of its thirty-five theological colleges: its roads, as usual, were bad and narrow, and must be rivers of mud in wet weather.
Many women were unveiled, others wore the ghoul-like horsehair face coverings, and some of their embroidered coats were so charming in design and colouring that I longed to do a “deal” with the wearers. Many of the people were squatting, eating melons which they store during the winter, or drinking tea, a Russian woman being evidently a member of one family group. We had one or two narrow shaves of colliding with other carriages, as our coachman threaded his way far too fast for safety and exchanged abusive epithets with his brother Jehus, among whom were Russians in black, sleeveless, cassock-like garments worn over scarlet cotton blouses. The harness of the little horses was adorned with many tufts of coloured wools, giving a pretty effect as these tassels nearly swept the ground or waved in the air. The life on the roads, the spring sunshine, the fresh green leaves, the white and pink of the blossom, and the orgy of colour furnished by the inhabitants, made the drive an unforgettable experience.
A few hours later we reached Andijan, where the railway ended, and here we had our last clean resting-place until we arrived at Kashgar. I noticed that the native women wore long grey burnouses with black borders ending in two tails that were always trailing in the dust, and all hid their faces in the mask-like horsehair veils. It was the day before Palm Sunday, and as we strolled in the evening up the cobbled street of the town a large congregation was issuing from the church, every one carrying a small branch and a little candle, which each had lit in the sanctuary. In the darkness the scores of tiny lights looked like fire-flies, and I observed how carefully the sacred flame was sheltered from any draught, as it is considered most important to convey it home unextinguished. Our hotel was fairly good, but I was not pleased on retiring to find that my door did not lock, and that my window, opening on to a public balcony, had no fastening. To supplement these casual arrangements I made various “booby-traps” by which I should be awakened if any robber entered my room, but luckily slept undisturbed.
It may give some idea of the vast extent of the plains of Russia which we had crossed by train, when I mention that there was not a single tunnel on the hundreds of miles of rail between Petrograd and Andijan.
It was the end of March when we set out to drive the thirty miles from Andijan to Osh. We packed ourselves, our suit-cases and the lunch-basket into a little victoria, while Achmet, the Russian Tartar cook we had engaged at Tashkent, accompanied our heavy baggage in the diligence. The sky was overcast with heavy clouds, so there was no glare from the sun, and the rain of the previous night had laid the dust on the broad road full of ruts and holes. Ploughing was in full swing, barley some inches high in the fields, fruit blossom everywhere, and the poplars and willows planted along the countless irrigation channels made a delicate veil of pale green. Beyond the cultivation lay bare rolling hills, behind which rose the lofty mountain ranges which we must cross before we could reach our destination.
The whole country seemed thickly populated, and we passed through village after village teeming with life, the source of which is the river, which ran at this time of year in a surprisingly narrow stream in its broad pebbled bed, and was so shallow that men on foot or on donkey-back were perpetually crossing it. Tortoises were emerging from their winter seclusion, the croak of the frog filled the land, hoopoes and the pretty doves which are semi-sacred and never molested flew about, and the ringing cry of quail and partridge sounded from cages in which the birds were kept as pets.
The men, if not busied with agriculture, were usually fast asleep or drinking tea on the mud platforms in front of their dwellings, and the gaily clad women slipped furtively from house to house, or, if riding, sat on a pillion behind the men. In fine contrast to her veiled sisters was a handsome Kirghiz lady following her husband on horseback through the Osh bazar, and making a striking figure in a long green coat, her head and chin wrapped in folds of white that left her massive earrings exposed to view. She rode astride every whit as well as the man did, exchanged remarks freely with him, and was moreover holding her child before her on the saddle. Other women were carrying cradles which must have made riding difficult, and often a child stood behind, clinging to its mother’s shoulders. On entering the native town of Osh, mentioned in Baber’s Memoirs as being unsurpassed for healthiness and beauty of situation, we passed a mosque with such a badly constructed mud dome that it looked like a turnip, and made our way along a broad tree-planted Russian road to the nomera. This was a house with “furnished apartments to let,” and the small rooms, by no means overclean, were supplied with beds, tables and chairs. We set to work to unpack our camp things, and sent Achmet out to buy bread, butter, meat, eggs, etc., for our two hundred and sixty mile ride to Kashgar.
Our host made no pretensions to supply food, but exactly opposite our lodgings was the officers’ mess; with true Russian hospitality its members invited us to take our meals there, and next day at lunch we met a dozen officers, with their jovial, long-haired chaplain in black cassock with a broad silver chain and crucifix round his neck. Luckily for me there were a couple of officers who spoke German, though the others threatened them with heavy fines for daring to converse in the language of the Huns. In spite of the Tsar’s edict, vodka and wine flowed freely (the doctor had evidently given medical certificates liberally to the mess) and numerous toasts were drunk, every one clinking his glass with my brother’s and mine as the health of King George, the Tsar, our journey, and so on were given. All were most kind, though I could have wished Russian entertainments were not so long—that luncheon lasted over three hours—and we left in a chorus of good wishes for our ride to Kashgar.
We were roused early next morning by the arrival of our caravan of small ponies, and with much quarrelling on the part of their drivers the loads were at last adjusted. We had our saddles put on a couple of ill-fed animals and started off beside the rushing river on our first stage of twenty miles. The ponies were very inferior to the fine mules with which we had travelled in Persia, and our particular steeds would certainly have broken down long before we reached Kashgar if we had not dismounted and walked at frequent intervals throughout the whole journey.
At first the road was excellent as we left pretty little Osh nestling under Baber’s “mountain of a beautiful figure,” and made our way up a highly cultivated valley towards the distant snowy peaks. We were escorted by a fine-looking Ming Bashi or “Commander of a Thousand,” who had a broad velvet belt set with bosses and clasps of handsome Bokhara silver-work. He wore the characteristic Kirghiz headgear, a conical white felt with a turned-up black brim, and four black stripes, from the back to the front and from side to side of the brim, meeting at the top and finishing off with a black tassel. We were to see this headgear constantly during the next eight months, as it is worn throughout Chinese Turkestan and the Pamirs. Owing to the presence of these Ming Bashis we met with extreme consideration, village Begs and their servants escorting us at every stage and securing the right of way for us with caravans. This was a privilege that for my part I keenly appreciated, as the track, when it skirted the flanks of the mountains, was hardly ever wide enough for one animal to pass another, and I had no wish to be pushed out of my saddle over the precipice by the great bales of cotton that formed the load of most of the ponies we met. These officials usually secured some garden or field, a place of trees and running water, where we could lunch and rest at mid-day, and often they brought a silken cushion which they offered to my brother. They were surprised when he handed it on to me, for in Mohamedan countries the woman is considered last—if at all.
In the Osh district horses, camels, donkeys, cows, goats and sheep were in abundance, the sheep having the dumba or big bunch of fat as a tail, which nourishes the animal when grass runs short during the winter months. They had long hair like goats and rabbit-like ears, were coloured black, white, brown, grey or buff, and looked far larger in proportion than the undersized cattle and ponies. On the road we saw many of the characteristic carts that had immensely high wheels with prominent hubs. The driver sat on a saddle on the horse’s back, supporting his feet on the shafts, thereby depriving the animal of half its strength for pulling the load and proving that this nation of born riders has not grasped the elementary principles of driving. These carts had no sides, but carried their loads in a curious receptacle of trellis-work, as shown in the illustration.
CART USED IN THE OSH DISTRICT.
Page 26.
We reached our first night’s lodging about four o’clock, and I was glad to dismount, as riding at a foot pace on an animal that is a slow walker is a tedious business. All these halting-places in Russian territory were much alike—a couple of small plastered rooms, often with bedsteads, table and stools, sometimes looking into a courtyard where the ponies were tied for the night, but often with no shelter for the animals and their drivers. Jafar Bai, the chuprassi from the Kashgar Consulate sent to escort us, was of the utmost service to us on the road. I noticed that many of the men we passed saluted him by throwing their whips from right to left across their chests, and their deference made me realize the high esteem in which he was held. He put up our camp beds, tables and chairs, and found water for our folding baths. It was usually cold at night, and besides warm underclothing I had a sleeping sack, rugs and my fur-lined coat. We always got up at 5.30 A.M., and I did a hasty toilette in the dark with the aid of my torchlight, Achmet producing coffee, eggs, bread, butter and jam for our early breakfast, while Jafar Bai packed our bedding.
Once or twice we were accommodated in the house of a village Beg, and found the floors covered with felts and carpets, and a table spread with bread, sweets, raisins, almonds and pistachios. One of our hosts kept his treasures in a wonderful gilt, red and black chest, from which he produced a handsome watch given him by the Russians. This chest emitted a loud musical note when opened or shut, in order, I presume, to warn the owner if thieves attempted to rifle it. At night his servants removed his bedding of Bokhara silken quilts, but with touching confidence left the box in our charge!
Our second day’s march found us approaching the mountains, and we rode to the top of a low pass where hills slashed with scarlet, crimson and yellow rose one behind another, to be dominated by the glorious snow-covered Tian Shan peaks clear cut against a superb blue sky. Walking down the passes was certainly preferable to sitting on a stumbling pony, but I found it rather hard work, as the track was usually very steep and littered with loose stones, on which one could easily twist an ankle or tumble headlong. Every now and again it looked as if we had reached the bottom, when lo, after turning a corner, the track zigzagged down beneath our feet seemingly longer and steeper than ever.
During this march we passed a party of Chinese bound for Kashgar, consisting of an official and a rich merchant with their retinues. The ladies of the party travelled in four mat-covered palanquins, each drawn by two ponies, one leading and one behind, and I pitied them having to descend these steep places in such swaying conveyances. They were attended by a crowd of servants in short black coats, tight trousers and black caps with hanging lappets lined with fur, the leaders being old men clad in brocades and wearing velvet shoes and quaint straw hats. As seems usual with upper-class Chinese, they were very indifferent horsemen, and sat on bundles of silk quilts, not attempting to guide their ponies in any way, but letting the burly Kirghiz lead them by the halters. In striking contrast to them was a fine-looking man in a long green and purple striped coat, from the handsome girdle of which hung a silver-sheathed knife. His boldly cut aquiline features were surmounted by a black fur cap, and as he rode down the pass on a beautiful Badakshani horse the pair made a delightful picture.
Caravans laden with bales of cotton toiled uphill towards us, and sometimes we met a string of camels; but ponies did most of the work here, their small heads peering out from between their bulky loads. They had bells hung round their necks, enabling the approach of a pack-train to be heard at a considerable distance, and specially favoured animals wore collars of blue beads to avert the evil eye.
Besides caravans we met gangs of Kashgaris going to work at Osh or Andijan during the summer, in order to earn the money on which they live throughout the winter. They were sturdy men, their white teeth flashing in faces tanned almost black by the sun, and they wore long padded cotton coats of all colours, the most usual being scarlet, faded to delicious tints. As these coats were turned back to enable them to walk more freely, we had the contrast of a bright turquoise blue, or an emerald green or a purple lining. Some walked barefoot, others in long leather riding-boots or felt leggings, and all had leather caps edged with fur. Each man carried a bundle of his belongings, out of which cooking-pots often peeped, and some one in the gang was certain to have a tar, a kind of mandoline, with which to amuse the party, or perhaps a bagpipe or a small native drum; it was pleasant to come across a group of these wayfarers beguiling their long march by listening to the music that has so strong a fascination for Orientals.
The farther we left Osh behind us the more barren became the country, until we marvelled how the flocks and herds could support life on the scanty vegetation. At one point the hills were a bright scarlet and it was strange to see a red mud-built village with sheep grazing in this brilliantly coloured setting. We crossed rivers and streams many times, but they were not deep, for the mountain snow had not yet melted, and we found the bridges formed of rough poplar stems, with big holes into which boulders were stuck, far more dangerous than the water. It was during this march that my pony nearly ended our joint careers by backing with me to the edge of a precipice. We were passing a donkey laden with brushwood, an ordinary sight, of which my brother’s horse on ahead had not taken the smallest notice, when my animal made a big shy, and if Jafar Bai had not seized the rein I held out to him and hauled at it manfully while I urged my mount with whip and voice, we should both have fallen into the river rushing far below.
The crux of our journey was the crossing of the Terek Dawan or Pass, 12,000 feet high, and the night before we lodged in akhois, at its foot, in place of the usual rest-house.
It was my first experience of the bee-hive like homes of the Kirghiz—“a dome of laths and o’er it felts were spread”—and, as we had ridden through heavy rain and hail the last part of the way, I was extremely thankful to pass behind a felt curtain and find myself in a snug circular room lined with felts and embroideries. A fire was lit on the ground in the centre, the smoke escaping from a large hole in the roof, and by squatting on the floor we could more or less avoid the acrid smoke that made our eyes water.
In the morning we started at seven o’clock, anxious to reach the top of the pass before the sun, now hot during the day, could melt the snow. To our intense relief it was a superb day, a few fleecy clouds sailing across a deep turquoise sky. I was clad in a mixture of arctic and tropical attire, wearing a leather coat under my thick tweed habit, woollen putties and fur-lined gloves, along with a pith hat, blue glasses and gauze veil. We soon came to the snow and zigzagged upwards on a narrow track moving in single file, any animal trying to pass another being liable to fall headlong in the soft deep snow on either side, a fate that befell two of our party early in the day. After a while, as we advanced, the great peaks towered on all sides, sharply silhouetted against their blue background—nothing but white as far as eye could reach; and here and there skeletons sticking out of the snow bore eloquent witness to the terrible annual toll paid by the hundreds of horses and donkeys that have to cross this cruel pass. I could hardly believe that it was possible to ride over these mountains, so steeply did they rise above us; and at the worst part of the ascent some sturdy Kashgaris coming down towards us had much ado to keep their feet, even though they carried long staves, one man falling headlong and rolling a considerable distance. The last pull to the crest is almost perpendicular, and is noted for accidents—here my brother’s pony nearly went over—but finally, caravan and all, we reached the summit of the pass in safety, and dismounted to enjoy the fine view. Before us lay the great Alai Range, peak towering above peak of boldly serrated mountains. Over us hovered a huge vulture, and as I looked down the track in front where the snow was partly melted, hideous heaps of bones were revealed, and I felt that the ill-omened bird knew that it would never lack food so long as Russia did nothing to improve this execrable road.
In books of travel the writer frequently “swings down” such places, but my experience was very different, as we crept down the worst parts on foot. The snow on the farther side was rotten, and our feet broke through it to water running underneath and big boulders. It was the kind of path on which one could easily break a leg, and for a loaded pony was a cruel ordeal, if not almost impossible. Even where the snow had entirely melted near the foot of the pass the way lay through a mass of boulders and slippery mud most trying to any baggage animal.
For ourselves we had nothing to complain of, and a march of seven hours found us at the little rest-house enjoying some lunch; but our caravan fared very differently. The distance was only twelve miles, but so bad was the going that the ponies, though lightly laden, were about thirteen hours on the road, and four poor animals stayed out all night. We had no evening meal till nine o’clock, and our hold-alls when they arrived were encrusted with ice that had made its way inside and soaked our bedding. We had no means of drying it in the serai, and so were obliged to sleep in our clothes. We were too thankful to be safely over the pass to heed such minor discomforts, and were indeed most fortunate; for the road was closed for some days after our journey in order that a fresh track might be trampled down by driving unloaded animals across it.
On the morrow our caravan had a much-needed rest till mid-day, while we unpacked our boxes and dried our wet belongings in the sun. I was concerned about my face, as in spite of all my precautions I found that my cheeks, nose and lips were terribly swollen, and besides being burnt a bright scarlet, all my skin was coming off in patches, making me most unsightly in appearance. On my mentioning this experience not long ago to an eminent geographer and traveller, he assured me that, if I had thickly powdered my unlucky visage before encountering sun and snow, it would have got off scot-free, and I insert the hint for the benefit of future travellers.
Our next stage was Irkeshtam, situated at the junction of the Osh-Kashgar and Alai routes. In the time of Ptolemy it was an important centre on the great trade route which ran from Rome across Asia to China, the “Stone Tower” mentioned by the Greek geographer being either here or in the vicinity. To-day it consists of a small fort garrisoned by Cossacks, with customs and telegraph offices all set down in hopelessly barren surroundings.
We were hospitably welcomed by the customs official’s wife and sister, but were sorry to find that our host was ill. After the nine o’clock supper we retired, my brother sleeping in some outhouse, and I in a little room which my hostess’s sister had kindly vacated for me, where I had a queer experience. As the window was hermetically sealed up for the winter, and the stove was lit, I had perforce to leave the door open in order to escape partial suffocation. A large carpet was suspended from the ceiling above the bedstead, across which it was carried, and hung down to the floor, and upon the bed were a sheet, a velvet bedspread and a couple of lace-covered pillows. Slipping into my rugs I put out the lamp, and as I was composing myself for slumber I became aware of a stirring under the bed, and a breathing. Thinking it must proceed from the dog or cat, with both of which I had made friends, I tapped the carpet and said “Ssh!” reflecting that if I troubled to drive the animal out it would be sure to return again by the open door, and as all was quiet I thought no more about the matter and went to sleep.
Some time in the middle of the night I was suddenly roused by feeling the bed violently jolted and to my horror heard loud and unmistakably human snores proceeding from under it. Considerably startled, I sat up in the pitch darkness and listened to heavy breathing while I summed up the situation. The intruder could not be a burglar, as there was nothing to steal, and of course I was in no danger, as I could rouse the house in a moment, my door being open. I felt it would be wrong to make a disturbance as our host was so ill; I could not communicate with my brother, for I had no idea where he was, and it would have been impossible to leave the house and search for him in the wind and darkness, with savage dogs roaming about. Another alternative would have been to light the lamp and turn out the intruder myself; but I feared that my lack of Russian and Turki would make this difficult, and it would certainly rouse the establishment. All things considered, I decided to lie and watch for daylight, my matches being to my hand. After the unknown had turned over again I heard the regular breathing of deep slumber, and soon, contrary to my intention, I dropped off to sleep myself.
When I woke about seven o’clock it was quite light. Examining my bed with some trepidation, I found a space between it and the wall at each end. Behind my pillows was a heavy red felt, and pulling this up I came upon a makeshift bed with pillow and bedding underneath mine. The occupant had gone, and I discovered the place at the end of the bed where “it” must have crept out noiselessly through the open door!
I said nothing to our hostesses, who came straight from their beds to give us bread and coffee before we started. They rode with us for a couple of miles to speed us on our way, and I was somewhat surprised to see that they merely pulled long coats over their night attire and muffled their heads in shawls before they mounted their horses. It was not until we had bade them farewell that I was able to relate my adventure to my brother and discuss this curious example of primitive Russian customs.
We parted from the ladies at the Kizil Su, the river that waters Kashgar, which we found very difficult to cross owing to the floes of half-melted ice in the middle of the stream and the broad ice shelves that protruded from either bank. We were now in Chinese Turkestan, and our halting-places changed considerably for the worse; indeed, the animals were relatively better housed than the human beings. Usually we rode into a small yard, two sides of which were given up to the ponies, while only dark rooms lit by a hole in the roof were reserved for travellers. The ceilings were unplastered, the interstices of the poplar beams being stuffed with hay, which as the weather grew warmer would be a haunt of scorpions and tarantulas. There was no furniture of any kind in these “hotels” with their crumbling mud walls and uneven floors, and I was always thankful when I slept in them that the “insect season” had not begun. It was not easy for me to sleep in these places, for the servants seemed to talk all night long; moreover, as my room was merely wattle-and-daub I could hear every movement of the animals on the other side of the thin walls, as they munched their fodder, fidgeted, and now and again screamed and tried to kick one another. I was also often roused from my slumbers by some cat that would leap down through the hole in the roof and would prowl about until my angry “Ssh!” frightened it into departing, though it would probably return later and disturb me again.
At the first of these unprepossessing stages we were greeted by a ya-yieh or “yamen runner,” who had been deputed by the Chinese authorities to escort us for the remainder of the journey. He was a striking figure, with a scarlet and yellow plastron on his chest denoting his official position.
Our onward route lay across many low passes, one I remember being crowned by a deserted fort, a memento of Yakub Beg, and clustered round this stronghold were many shrines—piles of stones adorned with wild sheeps’ horns and with poles on which fluttered countless rags, the idea being to remind the buried saint to intercede for the giver of the scrap of cloth or cotton. After this we traversed a district strewn with conglomerate rocks which assumed the most fantastic and weird shapes, and we wound through a long defile where the loess hills were crimped and frilled, looking much like rows of ballet skirts flung one upon another.
The ranges decreased in height as we proceeded, the sandy detritus moving down on barren valleys in which we saw very little sign of life. There were the pretty snow pigeons, the ubiquitous crows, and occasionally magpies standing on the backs of a few goats, pecking the ticks from their hair as the animals fed on almost invisible herbage or gnawed the bark from branches of willows that were cut down for the purpose.
Ever since we had crossed the Terek Dawan the weather had been cold and windy, with frequent dust-storms, the sand driving in great red clouds across the treeless wastes, and enveloping us and our caravan in grit that made the eyes smart.
Farther and farther the hills receded until we emerged on to the great Kashgar plain, where at Miniol, our last halting-place, the irrigated fields were green with crops, the trees in leaf, clumps of irises about to burst into flower, lizards darting among the stones, and frogs chanting loudly from the watercourses. To give some idea of the size of the Tian Shan Range it may be mentioned that nine out of the twelve stages of our journey lay through mountains.
On April 10, the thirty-sixth day after leaving England, we rode across the stony plain towards a long green line on the horizon that indicated the goal of our journey, passing on our way an old watch-tower erected in bygone days on the edge of the Oasis to give due warning of Kirghiz raiders. Some miles out of the city a fine saddle-horse and a rickety hooded victoria met us. My brother mounted the one and I got into the other, to be jolted over stones and in clouds of dust towards Kashgar. As we entered the Oasis with its avenues of willow, poplar and mulberry that surrounded the town for miles, Sir George Macartney and his children appeared to welcome us, and we also had a greeting from the Indians, when we entered a garden and sat down at a table on which a lavish meal had been spread. We halted farther on to exchange greetings with the Swedish missionaries, then drove in the red dust to where the Russian Consul-General and his staff hospitably entertained us, and afterwards to the Chinese reception, where more tea had to be sipped. This was the last stopping-place, and it was with joy that I heard the children who shared my carriage say, as we skirted the castellated city wall, that we were at last nearing the British Consulate.
We drove into a large garden planted with trees, where Lady Macartney came down the steps of a big, pleasing house and, giving us the kindest of greetings, led us into the dining-room. Here it was so delightful to be once more in an English atmosphere and to talk to a countrywoman that I could not resist partaking of afternoon tea, though it was for the fourth time since we had entered the Kashgar Oasis.