Köhne Urgendj is considered the fourth station, although the journey thither does not occupy above three hours. This ancient metropolis of far-famed Kharezm, in Central Asia, is the poorest of all those cities in Asia which have shared the same fate, and however much its former splendour is extolled in word and writing, I could not help feeling at the sight of its still existing ruins, that it had been the centre of no higher than Tartar civilisation. The town of the present day is small, dirty and insignificant, although it must have been much larger in former times, to judge from the ruins that lie scattered outside the wall. These ruins are not older than the Islamitic era, and date from the reign of Shahi Kharezmian, an epoch of a higher culture. The most remarkable object here is the mosque of Törebeg Khanim (not Khan), of which I have already made mention in my "Travels," and which is larger and more splendid than Hazreti Pehlivan. The latter, nevertheless, has been considered hitherto the finest monument in Khiva, and it must be admitted that with its works in Kashi (glazed tiles), in which throughout the yellow colour predominates, it is not inferior to any architectural monument of the same kind in Turkestan. Further is seen the mausoleums of Sheikh Sheref with a high azure dome, of Piriyar, the father of the very celebrated Pehlivan, and of Sheikh Nedshm ed-din Kübera. The latter has of late been restored from decay by the liberality of Mehemmed Emin Khan. I was told that there are in the neighbourhood several towers and walls built of stone, such as Puldshoydu (money destroyed) which is distant three hours' journey. Whenever a storm ploughs up the sand-hills there, coins and vessels of gold and silver are discovered, and people who take the trouble of sifting the sand, find frequently their labour amply requited. There is also the Aysanem, or double kiosk of Aysanem and Shahsanem, the famous pair of lovers, whose romantic fate forms the subject of a collection of songs frequently sung by the native minstrels. The name appears to be a stereotyped name for any two isolated ruins, since there are Shahsanems to be found in other parts of Khiva and Bokhara, as well as in the neighbourhood of Herat, and everywhere the same legends are recorded of them with few variations.
At Köhne Urgendj the road divides, both branches running at a small distance from each other. The one less frequented runs by Porsu and Yilali, and is taken by people who travel in large parties; the proximity of the marauding tribes of the Tshaudors and Yomut Turkomans, rendering the road, at least as far as Tashhauz, very insecure. The second road, nearer the Oxus, runs with few interruptions along its banks, a tract of country strewn with farmsteads (Havlis), villages and hamlets. This road is generally taken in summer, although it is the longer of the two, and also more troublesome on account of the many ditches and canals for irrigation. Whereas, a caravan must keep together as far as Tashhauz on the former road, travellers on the latter may part company as early as at Kiptchak, and each continue his way separately.
CHAPTER X.
MY TARTAR.
I cannot conceive it possible to imagine a greater contrast than an Asiatic, and more particularly a Central Asiatic, who, as late as two years ago, wrapt in his national garb of ample width, hanging about him in loose folds, was feeding on the simple and primitive fare of a nomadic people, and who, at the present moment, booted and spurred, moves about in the closely-fitting costume of the Hungarians, and is already accustomed to the food and manners of the West; one, who, destined to lead the life of a Mollah, once spent his time in the lonely cell of the Medresse Mehemmed Emin at Khiva, absorbed either in prayer or in the doctrines of Islamism, and who is now seen turning over the large folios in the library of a European academy, acquainted with books on philosophy, or the history of the world and religion, Greek and Latin literature, and numberless authors besides; who scarcely ever had heard the name of Europe, or had heard it mentioned only in terms of the utmost abhorrence; who knew no other institutions, no other phases or aspects of men and things, but those in his own wild Eastern world, and recognised these alone as true and reasonable;—and who now is reading the leading articles of European newspapers, discussing the different politics of Western countries, and unhesitatingly making the boldest comparisons between the Eastern and Western hemispheres.
These are certainly clear and sharply-defined contrasts, and such contrasts my friend the Mollah exhibits "in propriâ personâ,"—the Hadji whom I brought with me from Central Asia, whom I met with whilst on his way to Mekka, who became my companion and associate, and who, instead of the holiest of holy cities, now lives with me in the metropolis of Hungary. How I succeeded in inducing him to form this resolution has been to many a matter of the liveliest curiosity to know; nor were their enquiries less eager as to the impression made upon him by my metamorphosis from the pious dervish into the European traveller. One fundamental error ran through all these enquiries,—namely, the strange belief that my change had been as sudden as that of the chrysalis to the butterfly. It was, on the contrary, extremely gradual, and its various phases are the more interesting, since they illustrate in a striking manner the difference between Eastern and Western life. The history of my transformation, in fact, deserves to be given in detail.
I first met my Tartar, as I mentioned before, in Khiva. A Mollah, young and animated with a desire for travelling, he was in search of a companion on his journey to Mekka, and in the full belief to find in me a Turk and a Mohamedan, the most suitable fellow-traveller, he at once attached himself to me with the utmost ardour and devotion. During the early part of our acquaintance he saw in me merely the learned Mollah, the wild zealot, whom he approached with the greatest veneration, listening most attentively to every word that fell from my lips. Such was the relation that existed between us throughout our journey to Bokhara, Samarkand, and Karshi, as far as the banks of the Oxus. Here I became more confidential towards him: occasionally I put off somewhat the disguise of my affected sanctity; we grew more and more intimate by degrees; our slender store of provisions was put into one common bag, and as he was thoroughly honest and true-hearted, his sincere and loyal friendship became a great support and comfort to me on my solitary and perilous journey. Only slowly, and with difficulty, could he accustom himself to a real and mutual intimacy; and on our begging expeditions he would take upon himself, as his own undisputed task, to collect the heavy contributions, such as wood, flour, &c., whilst he left to me the less onerous business of collecting the pence. In the evening he made it his duty to prepare the supper, and, after having served the rice on a piece of rag or a board, it was always a matter of conscience with him not to touch it until I had twice helped myself with my hands. I do not know whether veneration or conscience inspired him with this excessive respect, but, be the cause what it may, he invariably shrank from placing himself in a position of equality. Not wishing to spoil his pleasure, I therefore let him do exactly as he pleased.
On our journey from the Oxus to Herat, my feigned devoutness visibly decreased in exact proportion as the distance between me and fanatic Bokhara kept increasing. Prayers, ablutions, pious meditations—all became less frequent. My Tartar, no doubt, observed this, but it did not seem to trouble him, and he accommodated himself ungrudgingly to his master. His questions on religion were fewer, but he listened instead with more eager attention to my descriptions and narratives of the foreign land of the 'Frengi,' and the pictures I drew of those marvellous countries of the West. Such lectures as these were usually delivered during our night marches, when we were riding alone in intimate converse, and at some distance from the caravan. The pleasure I felt in being able to talk of my beloved West in a barbarous country, surrounded as I was with dangers in so doing, was not greater than my Tartar's astonishment when he heard that there were towns more beautiful than Bokhara, and countries where it was possible to travel without fear of robbers or of dying with thirst. He was especially struck when I assured him that the 'Frengis,' so far from being the savage, pitiless cannibals, such as they had been represented to him, possessed heart and feeling, and that they were infinitely superior to their reputed character in the East. Under different circumstances he might have doubted the truth of my assertions; but as I, the Efendi, his teacher and master, assured him of these facts, he placed implicit belief in all I told him. No wonder that I was pleased with his thirst for knowledge and his loyalty, and that I in return became greatly attached to my young Tartar. Moreover, he kept as much as possible aloof from the other Central Asiatics, his countrymen, uniting himself more closely to my society. As soon as I perceived—which I could not fail to do before long—that something could be made of the young man, I resolved not to let him leave me, but, if possible, to take him with me to Europe. If such was my determination long before we came to Herat, it was still further strengthened by the brilliant proofs of his attachment and fidelity which he showed to me during our residence in this town. Here, as is already known, my sufferings and privations reached their climax. Totally without means, I had not unfrequently to bear all the torments of hunger; and whenever, at this advanced season of the year, the cold prevented my sleeping during the night, it was my young Tartar who honestly shared with me his poor thin rags, in order to procure for me a warmer covering and a quiet sleep. During these six weeks that we spent in Herat we suffered, indeed, greatly; but I tried to strengthen the courage of my companion by assuring him that we should meet with certain help in Persia. The idea that a pious Sunnite should fare well in the heretical country of the Shiites, appeared to him sufficiently droll; but the child-like innocence of his heart, and his unaffected confidence in me, prevented his making any further conjectures. He looked, like myself, with intense longing to the frontiers of Iran, and the capital of Khorassan.