Adventures in Tibet E-Book

Dr. Sven Hedin

• Herausgeber: Jazzybee Verlag
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 527

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

The halo of romance and the magic of the unknown which have for so long drawn the adventurous as by a magnet to the mysterious land of Tibet have now been in great part dissipated. Dr. Hedin was among the last travelers who penetrated into the Land of Snow trusting to their own resources alone. When the traveler of today enters Tibet, it will be under the protecting aegis of the modern civilization; but no reflection of the romantic will envelop him as he treads in all security the last hermit " kingdom " of the world, the revered Holy Land of Lamaism and the Sacred Books. This book has, however, nothing whatever to do with politics. It is simply the narrative of Hedin's journeys in that lofty region where the wild yak and the kulan browse amid the hailstorms and the driving sleets of summer. And if it teaches no other lesson, it will perhaps serve to remind the reader of the difference that exists between the life of activity spent among the powers of Nature and the sedentary and stationary life of the great city.

Leseprobe

Adventures in Tibet

SVEN HEDIN

Adventures in Tibet, S. Hedin

Jazzybee Verlag Jürgen Beck

86450 Altenmünster, Loschberg 9

Deutschland

Printed by Bookwire, Voltastraße 1, 60486 Frankfurt/M.

ISBN: 9783988680280

www.jazzybee-verlag.de

[email protected]

CONTENTS:

PREFACE.1

CHAPTER I. EASTWARD BOUND.2

CHAPTER II. THROUGH THE MOUNTAINS AND DESERTS TO THE YARKAND-DARIA.7

CHAPTER III. BOAT-BUILDING.12

CHAPTER IV. A GLORIOUS FOREST.19

CHAPTER V. THROUGH AN UNKNOWN COUNTRY.26

CHAPTER VI. AT RACING SPEED DOWN THE GREAT AND LONELY TARIM.31

CHAPTER VII. FROZEN FAST.37

CHAPTER VIII. A PERILOUS DESERT JOURNEY.43

CHAPTER IX. IN THE HEART OF THE DESERT-OCEAN.50

CHAPTER X. IN THE COUNTRY OF THE WILD CAMEL.56

CHAPTER XI. ACROSS THE DESERT OF LOP.62

CHAPTER XII. BOAT EXCURSIONS ON THE STORMY LAKES.70

CHAPTER XIII. UP INTO DESOLATE TIBET.77

CHAPTER XIV. EXPLORING THE LAKES OF TIBET.85

CHAPTER XV. SEVENTEEN THOUSAND FEET ABOVE THE SEA.94

CHAPTER XVI. ADVENTURES IN NORTHERN TIBET.106

CHAPTER XVII. WATER! WATER!114

CHAPTER XVIII. A CRITICAL SITUATION.122

CHAPTER XIX. THE GREAT START—SHEREB LAMA.133

CHAPTER XX. ON THE WAY TO THE ARKA-TAGH.138

CHAPTER XXI. A KILLING JOURNEY OVER THE ARKA-TAGH.146

CHAPTER XXII. FIRST CONTACT WITH THE TIBETANS.154

CHAPTER XXIII. STARTING FOR LHASA— TIBETAN ROBBERS.161

CHAPTER XXIV. TIBETAN NOMADS— A DANGEROUS RIVER-CROSSING.169

CHAPTER XXV. PRISONERS!178

CHAPTER XXVI. KAMBA BOMBO.186

CHAPTER XXVII. ESCORTED BACK.— A FRESH ATTEMPT.192

CHAPTER XXVIII. STOPPED BY TIBETAN CAVALRY.200

CHAPTER XXIX. PULLING FOR LIFE ON THE CHARGUT-TSO.208

CHAPTER XXX. WESTWARDS TO LEH.214

CHAPTER XXXI. A TRIP TO INDIA.— HOME.221

PREFACE.

The favourable reception accorded to my book, Central Asia and Tibet , has emboldened me to prepare a cheaper and more popular edition. This, although of course based upon the longer work, has been entirely re-written from beginning to end specially for the present issue.

The halo of romance and the magic of the unknown which have for so long drawn the adventurous as by a magnet to the mysterious land of Tibet have now been in great part dissipated. I am the last traveler who penetrated into the Land of Snow trusting to my own resources alone. When the future traveler enters Tibet, and especially if he is an Englishman, it will be under the protecting aegis of the cannon and the stern safeguard of treaty; but no reflection of the romantic will envelop him as he treads in all security the last hermit " kingdom " of the world, the revered Holy Land of Lamaism and the Sacred Books. I will confess that, in the events which have happened in that country during the present summer, my sympathies have, been entirely on the side of the Tibetans— not, I hasten to add, for any political reason, but because I am a lover of freedom. And, in saying this, I trust I shall not offend any, for I have experienced too many and too great proofs of friendship and hospitality in both England and India for me to contemplate such a contingency with anything like equanimity. But I am bound to admit, that with me freedom goes before friendship, and I should be untrue to myself were I not to testify thus publicly my sympathy with the Tibetans.

This book has, however, nothing whatever to do with politics. It is simply the narrative of my own journeys in that lofty region where the wild yak and the kulan browse amid the hailstorms and the driving sleets of summer. And if it teaches no other lesson, it will perhaps serve to remind the reader of the difference that exists between the life of activity spent among the powers of Nature and the sedentary and stationary life of the great city.

SVEN HEDIN.

Stockholm,

20th September, 1904.

CHAPTER I. EASTWARD BOUND.

Far away to the East, on the other side of the mountains and the deserts, there lies, hidden in the heart of the earth's greatest continent, a region which even at this late period of time has been visited by only a few travelers. And yet there are associated with that distant region a greater number of puzzling and unsolved problems than are to be found in perhaps any other part of the earth. Forty years ago, the inquirer who sought information with regard to the heart of Asia had to have recourse to Marco Polo, the adventurous merchant of Venice, who, more than six hundred years ago, traveled across the continent, and left a description of his journey, which, meagre though it is, nevertheless constitutes an enduring monument of human enterprise. When, towards the end of the 70's, a new era dawned in the history of geographical discovery, the centre of Asia could no longer escape the attention of Europeans. The great Russian traveler, Przhevalsky, was the first who, in modern times, seriously attempted .to lift the veil behind which hitherto so many secrets of the region beyond the deserts had lain hidden.

Whilst still a schoolboy I was fascinated by the travels of Adolf Nordenskjold, and later of Przhevalsky, and dreamed of some day following in their footsteps, and in those of Marco Polo. It is now nearly twenty years since I first traveled in Persia and stretched myself to rest under the date-palms of Basra and Bagdad. Nine of the winters which have passed since then I have spent on Asiatic soil, and during the same period have had to strike out of my life nine of the bright summers we enjoy in my native home.

With respect to the broad features of its geography, Asia is now pretty well known, but in the matter of details there is an endless amount of work to be done before we learn all there is to be known about it. I was always drawn by an irresistible attraction towards that continent of lofty mountains and vast arid wastes. You may imagine the delight which attends geographical discovery whereby human knowledge is increased; you may imagine the fascination of the endless desert, engulfing the traveler amid its giant waves of sand! Conceive, too, the peculiar joy and pride of being the first to stand 16,000—17,000 feet above the cares and anxieties of life, to be the first to behold the stupendous mountains of Tibet, and to know that their fields of everlasting snow have never before been seen by human eyes, but have only been shone upon by the sun and been bathed by the softer glow of the luminaries of the night. And when you return home to houses and streets, to steam-boats and railway trains, to newspapers and telephones, and think back upon the free untrammeled life in the saddle and the tent, and recall the solemn processions of the camels, silent save for the tinkle, tinkle of their bells, a thousand pictures of the past flit before you as in a dream; you see them again like memories of the time when you sat entranced in Cooper's romances, Robinson Crusoe , or Jules Verne, and you long to get away from the prosaic life of Europe, and to return to the poetry and glamour of Asia. There creeps over you a longing for the stillness of the desert and its great loneliness, where you are free to meditate upon the chances and changes of human life. Do not, however, imagine that the explorer is the first visitant in every region he visits. If fortune is with him—and fortune was with the explorer whose wanderings are described in this book—he may happen to discover traces of a civilization which disappeared 1,000 years or more ago, and light upon evidences of races whose destiny is unknown, except that they were swept away from off the earth as the dust haze is blown off the face of the desert. And do not imagine that the rewards which fall to the successful traveler are reaped by a summer-day dance upon the soft petals of roses. No; the traveler has to take many a heavy and weary step before he reaches the goal of his desires, and many is the gloomy and dreary hour he spends in his smoke-reeking tent whilst resting at the end of an arduous day.

It was a bright and beautiful midsummer day when I said good-bye to those at home and set out for Finland and St. Petersburg. All who have ever left their home, and those dear to them, having no prospect of seeing them or hearing from them again for a long time—nay, in actual uncertainty as to whether they will ever see them again— such will readily understand what my feelings were as the last lingering handshake was exchanged. Many and many a time since then have I seen that last glimpse of Stockholm and those I loved standing on the quay, waving their final farewells to me, their hearts too full for utterance.

Shrill whistles the engine and at a giddy pace I fly across Holy Russia, through Moscow, and over the majestic Don, rolling its muddy waters down to the Black Sea. Like shooting stars, the towns disappear one after the other. The bulb-shaped spires of the churches peep up above the horizon, grow bigger on the view, and disappear again, while the engine-crank thud-thuds unceasingly along the gleaming metals. We turn our backs upon Vladikavkaz, the little town up and down whose dusty streets I sauntered, a newly-fledged student, in 1885. It was a dark, warm night when we sped down to the greatest inland lake of the earth, the Caspian Sea. The only sounds that broke upon the stillness of the-steppe were the groaning of the engine and occasionally the shrill chirping of the crickets. Meanwhile lightning was playing round the summits of the Caucasus as though a host of volcanoes were hidden in the range, which the seas on either hand had not yet availed to quench.

At Petrovsk we stepped on board a smart little paddle- steamer, lying within the double piers, which clasp the harbour like the claws of a Brobdingnagian crab. We were not long in getting across the bright salt water to Krasnovodsk, the terminus of the Trans-Caspian railway. The blue- green waters of the Caspian are, however, very treacherous. Storms burst upon the lake from the deserts of Asia, or swoop down from the summits of the Caucasus, even when _ the sky is calm and bright; and with incredible fury churn it into wildly-tossing waves. Not long ago a steamboat started from the one side but was never seen on the other. Of its fate nothing is known with certainty; it disappeared, leaving not the slightest trace behind it.

Do not imagine, however, that it was with any feeling of pleasure, after a boisterous voyage across the sea, that I set foot on land at Krasnovodsk, or the Red Water. Anything but that. Krasnovodsk is the very opposite of an earthly paradise. It is a little hole of a place; with white one-storied flat-roofed houses, and a couple of unpretentious churches, girdled round by a ring of barren, crumbling mountains and yellow sand-dunes—not a tree, not a blade of grass, not even a drop of fresh water! All the water to drink is brought in in huge barrels laden on creaking carts. To have to live in a wretched place like that, baking as it was in the hot sun, would be sheer transportation.

General Kuropatkin, Minister of War, the same who is now fighting in the Far East, the eyes of both the white and the yellow races fastened upon him, had kindly telegraphed to Krasnovodsk, ordering the railway authorities there to place at my disposal a special railway carriage right through to Andijan, the terminus of the line. It was a delightful way of traveling. The conductor provided me with cold water for douches—most refreshing with the thermometer at 106°.5 Fahr. in the shade. My salon was furnished with couches, chairs, and a writing-table. My carriage was the last on the train, so that it might be readily uncoupled should I wish to stop anywhere. I used to sit under the sheltering roof of the back platform and study the scenery and watch the metals converging to a pin's-point in the far distance.

On we sped eastward bound. The hot air flickered on the tops of the burning hot dunes, and when I put my head outside it was like thrusting it into a baker's oven. Never a glimpse of an oasis, never a whiff of flowers, nor the crisp murmuring of a brook. It was only at the stations that I got glimpses of plant-life, all burnt up by the sun.

With a hollow rumble the train, slowing down, rolled across the long pile-bridge of the Amu-daria, though the wooden bridge has since been replaced by one of iron. How I longed to fling myself into the fresh, though turbid, waters of the big river. High is their ancestry, for they descend from the " roof of the world," and are the offspring of the blue blood of glaciers, which carry down with them into those stifling deserts a little of the coolness of their ancestral home.

How I longed, to see the sun sinking below the horizon! and with what a sigh of relief did I wish god-speed to the last golden ray that it suffered to linger for a moment upon the crests of the dunes. In those regions the twilight is short; the deserts are soon clasped in the shades of night, and it gets very dark. Although the temperature dropped but a few degrees, the air seemed to be decidedly cooler, I woke up as from a swoon, unlocked my carriage door, and walked to the dining-saloon at the other end of the train for a late dinner. Upon returning to my salon, I used to take off every stitch of clothing, and stretching myself on one of the couches, read The Three Musketeers; not that I was preparing for an adventurous robber's life, but simply because this book happened to have fallen into my hands.

At length we arrived at Samarkand, classic ground in the history of the world. Whilst we are feasting our eyes for a few minutes upon the magnificent mosques of the time of Tamerlane, amongst which I spent a couple of weeks, sketchbook in hand, 14 years ago, let me recall in a few words some of the claims which Samarkand has to be Called the queen amongst the cities of Central Asia. According to the local tradition, this city was founded by. the hero Afrasiab, but it is first known to history under the name of Maracanda (Strabo, XI. ii.), and as such was the capital of Sogdiana when Alexander the Great conquered that country. Leaving a part of his army in Bactria, to keep that country in check, Alexander (Arrian, IV. 16) crossed the Oxus and invaded Sogdiana. Then, dividing his forces into five divisions, he " put himself at the head of the fifth and so marched across the country to Maracanda." Alexander's fame still lives indelibly in the traditions of Central Asia, and many of the chieftains along the banks of the Amu-daria trace their lineage back to one or other of the great warriors who stood about his throne. There is a little lake in the vicinity of Samarkand which for 2,200 years has borne his name—Iskander-kul. How strange that a man who died so young should thus powerfully impress his memory upon the consciousness of all ages! The only great ones who can, in point of renown, compete with Alexander are the great teachers of religion, all of whom sprang from Asia.

In the year 711 Samarkand was conquered by the Arabs, and in 1219 was plundered by the great Mongol conqueror, Genghis Khan. But a fresh era of greatness came to the city under Tamerlane—that is, Timur the Lame—who wrote in his famous memoirs: " It is the duty of a victorious king to subject to his power every kingdom that is oppressed by its rulers; it is for that reason I have freed Khorasan and purged the kingdoms of Fars, Irak, and Shaum "—the same warrior who, after having crushed the army of the Seljuk Bayazid I., is said to have shut up the Turkish Sultan in an iron cage and exhibited him where- ever he went as though he were a wild animal. Tamerlane was on the point of invading China when he died, 17th February, 1405, at the age of 69, leaving behind him an empire of immense extent and an imperishable name. Embalmed with musk and rose-water, and swathed in fine linen, the body of the world-conqueror was placed in a coffin of ebony, and deposited under a monolith of nephrite, underneath the dome of the burial-mosque which he himself had built. Its magnificent green cupola is visible from the station. Amongst pious texts of the Koran, and his many royal titles and boastful deeds are to be read in alabaster relief these words: " If I were still alive men would tremble."

After the stifling heat of the desert the fresh and luxuriant greenery around Samarkand is perfectly delightful. Seven hundred years ago Sadi, the flower-loving poet of Shiraz, wrote to his beloved: " If the maiden in Shiraz held my heart in her hand, I would give her Samarkand and Bukhara in exchange for the mole on her cheek "; meaning that these two cities were the most precious possessions a man could give to his mistress.

But there goes the station bell! Good-bye, dreams! It is time to return to colourless prose. Behind us in the west we leave Samarkand buried amid its thick orchards, the greenness of which vies in vividness and purity with the inlaid tiles of the cupolas; and behind us, too, we leave the proud memories of the past.

At length we reach Andijan, the terminus of the railway, the furthest point to which steam will carry us. There on the platform awaiting me stands my old faithful servant, Islam Bai, tall, confident, calm, wearing a blue khalat ("long Turkestan coat"), and with King Oscar's medal on his breast. Our mutual pleasure upon meeting again found expression in a hearty handshake, and we very soon found plenty to talk about; nor was it long before my Turkish, which had rusted for two years, was flowing as fluently as ever. Poor Islam Bai! Little did I foresee in that glad hour the unhappy destiny which was to overtake him before we parted for good and all.

CHAPTER II. THROUGH THE MOUNTAINS AND DESERTS TO THE YARKAND-DARIA.

The distance between Osh, the most eastern town of Fergana, and Kashgar, the most western town of China, amounts to 270 miles. An easy and picturesque road, which can easily be traversed in a fortnight on horse-back, connects the two over the Alai Pass of Tong-burun. After the heat of the deserts, the cool mountain air was doubly welcome. I had with me seven men and 26 horses. Islam Bai was karavan-bashi, or " leader of the caravan."

I also took from Osh two active little pups. One was called Dovlet, or the Happy; the other, with the blood of Asiatic wild animals in his veins, rejoiced in the name of Yoldash, or the Traveling Companion. They lived and ate in my tent and were my acknowledged favourites; and when I lost them- I missed them as much as if they had been human beings. Yoldash, who held out for 2 ½ years, was one of the most important members of our caravan.

We crossed the frontier between Russia and China at the little fort of Irkeshtam, and then rode down into the beautiful glen of Nagara-chaldi, with its forest of poplars, willows and smaller bushes. In' this beautiful oasis, with the cooling tinkle of its waters echoing against the perpendicular cliffs, we rested more than a day. It was delightful to be in the forest during the day, and the night breathed deep solemnity, especially when the big camel caravans, carrying wool from Kashgar, tramped silently past. I used to lie and listen with indescribable pleasure to the hollow ding-dong of the leader's bell in the distance. The sound grew more and more distinct, the solemn echo keeping time with the calm, majestic stalk of the camels. Peeping out of my tent; I saw the huge black forms flitting past like spectres. Their soft padded feet made no sound, though the rocky walls flung back again and again the harsh echoes of the caravan bells. Then, creeping back into my bed, I heard the sound slowly did away amongst the mountains. Perhaps it may seem strange that such a simple thing as the sound of bells should exercise such a hypnotic power upon the nerves, and that the recollection of them should awaken such bright and happy associations in my memory. But it is 20 years since I heard them for the first time, and since then they have echoed like an undertone through my life. It was to the sound of bells that I rode away from Bagdad up through the mountains of Kurdistan, when the march of the Arabs was too slow for my impatience, and I ran away from them, but was received with hospitality by Aga Muhamed Hassan, and was given unlimited credit on the strength of my being a countryman of Charles XII. The sound of bells was in my ears when I traveled through Khorasan and Turkestan, and again when I made my dash across the Desert of Takla-makan; though on this last occasion their echoes were funereal, for the whole of the caravan perished of thirst except myself and two of my men. I have also traveled through the land of the Mongols, and through Northern China, always with the cling-clang of the camels' bells in my ears. The various vicissitudes of joy and sorrow which inevitably attend a long journey have always in my case been accompanied by the same penetrating music. No wonder, then, that these bells of the desert have such a weird fascination for me.

At length we reached the bank of the river Kizil-su, or the Red Water, and down its bed immense volumes of water were pouring as red and thick as tomato soup. After several of the other men had in vain attempted to find a ford, it was Kader's turn to try his luck. Resolutely digging his spurs into the flanks of his shaggy little Kirghiz horse, he rode straight down into the sullen stream. Down, down, sank the horse; the water came up to the pommel of the saddle; in a moment horse and rider disappeared in the muddy waters, their heads alone being visible. Kader flung his arms around the horse's neck, and away they both went swirling downstream, and disappeared like corks behind the next bend. Somehow or other Kader managed to get through all right, for, after a good long interval, he made his appearance wet and dripping like a drowned cat, leading his horse by the bridle. Strange to say, having found a passable ford, we managed to cross the river tolerably dry-shod.

The caravan with which on the 5th September, 1899, I left Kashgar consisted of 15 magnificent camels, 12 horses, and a whole retinue of servants. Of the horses, none survived the journey, of the camels only two. I must now introduce two of my Mussulman attendants, Turdu Bai and Faisullah, a couple of white-bearded, old men from - Russian Turkestan, who during the whole of the time they were with me served me with exemplary fidelity. On the other hand Nias Hadji, notwithstanding his pilgrimage to the Prophet's grave, turned out a thorough-paced rascal.

A word or two to explain how the two West Siberian Cossacks, Sirkin and Chernoff, came to take part in this journey. In an audience which I had with the Emperor Nicholas II., in April, 1899, His Majesty told me that he wished to send with me an escort of Cossacks, " that I might have all the protection and security that human power could give me." When I ventured to express some hesitation on the ground that I was only accustomed to Mohammedan servants, and had never had Cossacks under my command, and at the same time pointed out that the presence of Cossacks in my retinue might give rise to difficulties when I approached the frontier of India, the Czar laughed, and said that I should never regret having followed his advice, " for," he added, "in my journey through India, Japan, and Siberia I was accompanied by Cossacks, and I know from experience what useful fellows they are." I expressed my thanks for this signal mark of imperial favour. That same day about two o'clock the Imperial Horse Guards were celebrating the memory of their patron saint, and the Emperor and all the Grand Dukes were present. An hour later I received a letter from General Kuropatkin, asking me to call upon him if possible at once. At the banquet, His Majesty the Czar had ordered the General to make arrangements for my Cossack escort. The Czar proposed to send ten Cossacks, but I thought that two would be enough, and begged General Kuropatkin to let them meet me in the vicinity of Lop-nor on the 1st December (O . S.). They were to be requisitioned from the Cossack army of Transbaikalia. By the Czar's express order they were to be Buriats, of the Lamaist faith, " for they will be Useful to you in Tibet." When I was leaving Kashgar, intending after a few days to separate from my caravan, and make my way by a different and unusual route to the country of Lop-nor, how convenient it would have been had I then had my Cossacks to act as a guard to the caravan, with which I was sending the greater part of my baggage, including between 600 and 700 lbs, weight of Chinese silver money. It was eventually arranged that two of the Cossacks of the Consular guard should be at my disposal until we met the Buriat Cossacks.

It was a piece of rare good fortune for me that I was able to secure these men. Seldom or never have I been served with such fidelity and such ready obedience as during the years they were in my employ. Like their Buriat comrades, who joined us later on, these two Orthodox Russians were distinguished for their military discipline; and their courage and capability exceeded my most sanguine wishes. Next after Divine Providence, which has never deserted me during my journeyings, I owe it to these Cossacks that everything passed off so successfully; in the hour of danger the knowledge that I had them at my back always made me feel confident and safe. Moreover, they did not cost me a penny—such was the order of their supreme commander. They were to receive their pay when they got home, and each man brought with him his own horse and accoutrements, and his own new magazine rifle of the Russian army pattern, together with a sufficient supply of ammunition.

It was a close hot day when our long caravan defiled through the Sand Gate of the town-wall of Kashgar. Heavy black clouds, with hanging draperies, began to close in upon us from the mountains. A violent gust of wind, and a second following it, drove the dust along the road in trailing clouds. Then the tempest burst upon us with incredible fury. The inky black sky was slashed with zig-zag lines of glittering blue-white fire, the thunder crashed deafeningly, the rain came down like a shower of slanting arrows, and within a few minutes the road and its surroundings were converted into a splashing puddle of clay. The horses and their riders, the camels and their loads, were all alike drenched; the rain ran down us in torrents, dripping from every projecting angle. At every step our boots went squelch, squelch, and every bend of the arm was like wringing out a dishcloth. The road became slippery and treacherous; the camels, with their flat soft padded feet, slipped and slid in every direction. First one and then another of the huge brutes lost its footing, out flew all four legs side-ways, and down the poor beast thumped with its heavy load on the sloping hillside, making the sloppy mud fly for yards. This caused great confusion; the men ran and shouted and set to work to lift the camel up again. When at length the beast stood upright on his own legs, he was plastered all along one side with a thick coating of. yellow clay, and scarcely had the rain got it all washed off, when down the camel would go again. Fortunately, my photographic plates were all securely stowed away in metal cases, hermetically sealed, and all my instruments were well packed; as for the rest of the baggage, it was of less consequence.

Perhaps I ought to say a word or two about the contents of my cases which were being thus drenched with rain and flung about so unceremoniously in the mud. They included sketchbooks and drawing-materials for a good three years, clothes and felts, a bed, a canvas skiff, preserved foods, cooking utensils, all sorts of implements, provisions (consisting of flour, vegetables, bread, rice), sufficient for the entire caravan, a quantity of khalats, of cotton goods, of caps, and of various other small articles intended as gifts for the natives. My photographic equipment formed a heavy load for one camel.

I had sufficient tobacco to last, not only myself, but my Cossacks, for the whole of the journey. On the other hand, though you had searched from the one end of the caravan to the other, you would not have found a single drop of either wine or spirits. To make yourself dependent upon alcohol is under all circumstances a serious mistake; but to do so during a journey, which is in itself sufficiently exacting, is absolutely reprehensible. Those who abstain from them, both in civilised countries and in uncivilised, are the best; while those who are slaves to them are bodily and mentally pitiful creatures. In my caravan there was nobody who missed these things; I never heard the Cossacks even hint at them. In this respect they were,

I am glad to say, characterized by the self-restraint and discipline which are absolutely necessary if any great undertaking is to be carried through to a successful issue.

As we were to be for so long a time cut off from the outer world, and to be thrown entirely upon ourselves, we naturally had to take a great variety of things with us. I cannot enumerate everything; but just think of such things as ropes, buckets, spades, axes, poles, and all the implements and appliances we required for mending anything that got broken. Tents, the men's sleeping-carpets, sporting rifles and the ammunition for them—all these made up a considerable weight. Nor must I forget my medicine-chest. Fortunately, I never wanted it myself, but the Mussulmans always had the blindest confidence in it, and when any of the men of the caravan died, the rest fully believed, at the least, that every remedy had not been tried that might have been tried to save him.

My traveling library was not very extensive; I should so seldom have time to read. Beyond a few scientific works, dealing with physical geography, and some on Buddhism, it consisted only of a few novels, two or three of our great Swedish poets, a history of Sweden, and the same Bible and Psalm-book which have accompanied me in all my journeys, though they are now getting a good deal worn.

The Chinese paper lanterns were already lighted in the bazaars when we tramped along the wet road round the northern town-wall of Yanghi-shahr, or New Town of Kashgar, and shortly afterwards we encamped in a caravanserai by the road-side.

A few days more sufficed to take us across the desert that stretches between Kashgar and the Yarkand-daria. There we made our camp on the left bank of the river, near the little village of Lailik.

CHAPTER IV. A GLORIOUS FOREST.

However, we had not been many days on the journey when it became evident that the summer was over. At home in Sweden the lilac blossoms had long since wilted, and now the plentiful vegetation on the banks of the Tarim had begun to follow their example. When we rose at sunrise on 20th September the sky was threatening. The night had been cool, and the air was full of the premonitory indications of autumn that cause the leaves to yellow. A light haze hung over the landscape, and through the thick fine dust, which had been whirled up by an easterly storm, the tamarisks and reed-thickets on the banks adjacent were only faintly discernible. The wind was too violent to allow us to continue our drift; accordingly, we lay up by the bank and waited patiently. When we at length resumed our journey, the waves broke in melodious music against the prow of our ferryboat—where Palta sat with his long pole, singing a melancholy ballad about the adventures of some king and his faithful followers. When Islam Bai began to find the time wearisome, he used to have himself put ashore in the skiff, and then, rifle in hand, he roamed through the forest; and when he came back in the evening, he often brought wild-duck and pheasants in his hands. As he had no need to follow all the endless windings of the river, he generally got ahead of us. Sometimes we used to see him sitting on a headland, patiently waiting for us, until I sent the skiff to fetch him off.

Day and night, it being now autumn, great flocks of wild-geese flew on overhead, making their way vid Yarkand to their warmer winter quarters in India. They generally kept at an altitude of between 600 and 700 feet and filled the air with their anxious screaming; but when they intended to stop for the night, we would see them gradually droop downwards, until they almost seemed to brush against the crowns of the poplars, and soon after they would disappear amongst the trees. They find their way—do these wonderful, hurrying pilgrims of the air—with the same unerring certainty that the brooks from the melting glaciers find theirs to the terminal basin of the Tarim. They are a striking sight, as, in strictly-ordered phalanx, and on unwearied wing, they drive on, on over the earth towards their distant goal. In October these flocks were so numerous and so frequent that we no longer paid any attention to them.

We were now approaching a part of the river known as the Kotaklik-daria, in which, according to rumour, there was an alarming waterfall eight fathoms high. But the nearer we came to the critical point the less grew the height of the cataract, until, by the time we got quite close to it, it had dwindled to about only three feet. However, the velocity of the stream was increased to such an extent that our ferryboat was sucked at a tremendous pace into a narrow, irregular passage, beset with stranded drift-wood and islets. Very often her prow would run against a sunken poplar-trunk, and she would be swung completely round by the current. I used to feel a slight jerk, and in a minute or two the scenery before me became entirely changed. These whirligig movements used to make me quite giddy. In a trice all the men would be overboard in the river, pushing add hauling to get the vessel free, and then off we went again, racing between the islands. I confess my heart was in my mouth; I began to wonder whether we should have time to pull up or should plunge headlong over the cataract.

At length I heard a distant roar. Louder and louder it grew as we advanced. Before we knew where we were, we were in the middle of the first of the rapids, with the water foaming and thundering about us in an alarming way. Stopping was out of the question. I ran to the bow and surveyed the situation. If there was no treacherous whirlpool boiling at the foot of the " threshold," we should get through all right. " Let her go, straight over the fall! " I cried; and bringing her head straight with the current, the men let her go, and over the boiling water she glided at dizzying speed.

Hardly had we passed this " dangerous " place when a score or so of men on horseback and on foot appeared on the bank. They were countrymen sent from two or three of the neighbouring homesteads to help us over the rapids. But they were more amazed, at the sight of our floating monster than at the information that we had already navigated the falls without mishap. And yet these men appeared very opportunely for us; because a little bit further down, where the river widened out and became exceptionally shallow, we got stuck helplessly fast in the blue clay at the bottom. I and all the men dropped into the water and floundered about barefoot for an unconscionable time, trying to find a navigable channel; nine inches of water were quite sufficient to float us.

"There!" thought I to myself. ""Is my proud river- journey to come to an abrupt termination here? No, it shall not; we must, we will go further." All our baggage, down to the very smallest case and package, was transferred to the bank. Then, uniting all our forces, we began to push the ferryboat like a sledge over the blue clay; but the only result was, that she bit deeper and deeper into it, until at last she looked as though she were cased in plaster of Paris. Despite our utmost efforts, she refused to budge. What was to be done? We were only about ten or twelve yards from deep water. Luckily the old ferryboat turned a few points in her muddy bed, softening the clay; and after floundering about her again, we managed by the most desperate efforts to get her once more afloat.

After drifting for about another hour we came to the lowest cataract. It was considerably higher than the first, and it really looked as if we must unfailingly capsize. All the men voted unanimously for putting the baggage on shore again. We did so, and all the Mussulmans without exception begged to be excused from participating in the shipwreck. For my own part I could not resist the temptation of such a magnificent " tobogganing hill." By means of a rope fastened to the ferryboat's stern, some of the men, wading out into the river, let her glide down gently and bravely to the edge of the fall. I took my stand on the foredeck with the boiling, thundering water immediately in front of me. " Let go! " I shouted, and like an eel the vessel glided over the " threshold." " Bang! " down went the prow crash upon the water below, and immediately afterwards it was followed by the stern; and so that danger was safely passed.

Karaul-dung, a solitary hill by the riverside, affords from its top an extensive view of this grey winding stream, which bores itself so deeply into the silent woods of Turkestan. Looking south-east, we saw beyond the greenery a sort of yellow gleam. The telescope showed it to consist of immense yellow waves—the drift-sand of the desert " ocean," the terrible, suffocating Desert of Takla-makan.

Below that point the river contracts until it resembles a narrow canal, sometimes only about 20 feet wide; but then it has before that lost the greater part of its water, it having been drawn off north to irrigate the cultivated lands of Maral-bashi. Here the men with the punting- poles had to keep a very sharp look-out, for the current was swift and our vessel was constantly threatening to come into collision with the bank. One day she did drive so swiftly upon the low bank that, upon being struck by the full force of the current, she came within an ace of capsizing,

But the river soon widened out again. In rounding a curve, where the current is always most powerful, our ferryboat was drawn close in to the right-bank, at a spot where a decaying poplar, rooted in the very bed of the river, was leaning a long way across the water. The men did not perceive the obstacle in time to avoid it. Its strong branches brushed along the side of our craft and did their best to sweep my tent from the deck. I succeeded just in the nick of time in saving my precious instruments by flinging them on the cabin-roof, so that after all we lost nothing more than a very small piece of the tent-canvas.

Towards the end of September, we reached a region in which the river, after picking, up some tributaries from the north, again assumed noble proportions. But the current was slow, its surface being ruffled by nothing more than gently circling eddies. In the otherwise smooth surface the veterans of the forest were mirroring their russet crowns. It was a beautiful, a magnificent scene! Not a breath moved. Nature was in a Sabbath mood, an invisible organ that could not be heard, only felt, was pouring a solemn flood of music through the woods in praise of the Eternal. There was no trace of human beings, no sign of human dwellings. Not a dry stick crackled under the foot of the solitary wanderer. At intervals in the dense thickets, which form the forest undergrowth, appeared the dark mouth of a tunnel, marking the tracks by which the wild boar came down to the river to drink, and so dark are those leafy tunnels that never a ray of sunshine penetrates into them. The sun was baking hot, and we kept an eager look-out for the deep river-bends through which we floated as it were through a park-avenue, a leafy vault above and cool, delicious shade below.

Thus, hour after hour we drifted down the broad bosom of the stream, clasped in the arms of the sleeping woods.