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

by Alfred Edmund Brehm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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