As soon as I retired to my carriage, it was surrounded by five lamas who, prostrated before it, were chanting prayers, each of them turning all the time little portable prayer wheels. This comedy was irresistibly ludicrous: the sight of these grave priests, solemnly turning their prayers as a child winds round a toy windmill, was too much for my gravity, and I was obliged to hide my irreverent laughter in the far corner of my carriage. The grand priest, however, soon opened the door without ceremony, to gratify his curiosity with its contents. Not knowing what to do with my visitors, I took a bottle of scent and presented it to their noses, and they were so delighted with the odour that I sprinkled them with it just as the caravan began to march. Their gratitude at this favour was unbounded: they all bowed repeatedly in acknowledgment, and when they were disappearing from my sight, they were being mobbed apparently by the members of the community, who had come up to sniff at their shoulders, so wonderfully odoriferous. This incident was, perhaps—judging from the popular excitement—of sufficient importance to them to be handed down to posterity.
From this time we had beautiful weather, and it became warm also. Our days passed away much in the same way, it is true, but not without pleasure and even merriment at times. When the caravan halted in the mornings, we all came out of our carriages. As we were not in want of water during the first half of our journey, at least for drinking, a discussion usually took place every day, as they were pitching the tents, between my companions, on tea-making. Were they to have fine tea or brick tea? Should they mix with it sheep’s milk, wine, or lemon? Should it be prepared entirely in the Mongolian way, that is, with butter, flour, and salt? Many other suggestions, too long to mention here, were made by M. Kousnietzof and even Pablo who, having lived in many lands, had also his methods. When we had all refreshed ourselves, the tents were struck, the camels resumed their march, and, shouldering our guns, we wandered about till five or six in the evening, when we joined our carriages and fell in again with the march of the caravan. Some pursued winged game. M. Kousnietzof never finished the day without having bagged a duck, or a partridge; the latter of a kind common everywhere in Mongolia, but still little known in Europe, with feet covered with hair, not unlike rat’s feet.
For my part, I preferred hunting the white deer and bucks, which we sometimes saw in great numbers, but always at a long distance. How many leagues have I not gone out of my way in the hope of stalking one of these animals! On one occasion, in particular, being fully satisfied I had wounded one badly, I was led a pretty dance after it, and I do not know where I should have wandered, if twilight had not warned me that unless I turned back I might lose sight of the caravan, and then go astray in the middle of this desert—the greatest desert in the world.[27]
M. Marine, through caution or fear of fatigue, did not venture far from the caravan. Sometimes, even, he used to sit at the opening of his carriage, with his feet resting on the steps, and, from this advantageous position, pepper away at everything that came into view, whatever animal it might be, or at whatever distance it might be beyond gun-shot. One day, however, M. Schévélof and I succeeded in stimulating in him the ardour and enthusiasm of a hunter, under circumstances that amused us for a very long time afterwards.
I happened to be walking about half a mile in advance of the caravan, in conversation with its pleasant leader, when we perceived on the ground a dead ermine—unquestionably dead, as its putrid odour proved. We took it up and perched it in a tuft of grass, raising its head and pointing its ears to make it look as lively as possible; having done this we went to M. Marine to inform him that an excellent opportunity presented itself to have a good shot. Full of excitement at a chance such as he had long pined for on the steps of his carriage, he advances slowly and noiselessly, entreating us not to stir a peg, and to speak only in whispers. He shoulders his piece, aims carefully, fires, and sees nothing escape; clearly he had bagged something at last. “Bravo!” I exclaimed, with a movement as if I intended to secure the animal in a bound; and here the comic part of the incident began. M. Marine stretches out his arm and with a furious gesture stops me. I comply, and he again takes aim with the greatest precaution, whilst M. Schévélof is ready to split with laughing. “Ah! this time he is surely dead,” exclaimed M. Marine immediately after the second shot. “But why did you fire twice?” I asked. “I feared I might have missed the first time, and that it might not have heard the report.” After this reply we had no end of fun with poor Ivan Ivanovitch.
Shortly after this we came on the great sandy plain I have mentioned that forms the centre of the Gobi desert. The first day passed pretty well: a certain gloom pervaded us, it is true, though we did not pay much attention to it. The second day was more trying. M. Kousnietzof found that they had put a few grains of salt too many in the tea: every one seemed in the humour to complain. The third day was still worse. Wassili Michäelovitch did not even make his appearance in the tent during the morning halt: with the excuse that he had an interesting book to read, he breakfasted in his carriage. We could not have had more agreeable travelling companions, but we all felt the depressing influence of the bareness of nature—the emptiness of space around us.
In the immense solitudes of Siberia there are forests presenting diverse features that relieve the eye with the change of colour or form; on the open sea the waves are constantly in movement, movement that is suggestive of life and consequently engages our sympathy; but here in the desert there is a complete absence of change as well as movement. There is nothing but an endless solitude of silence and rest. Nowhere, perhaps, except in the presence of the dead, or alone among the tombs, of which the desert is strongly suggestive, do we feel so doleful and lonely, such an oppression on the spirits, encompassed as we are by this endless and changeless sandy waste.
As an illustration of the influence of surrounding nature on the mind, we could not resist the gloominess it inspired, and lounged along, moping in our joylessness, one far apart from the other.[28]