Timur Bey is our new caravaneer. Wherever you look, there are some historical names; all are Shahs, Sultans, Beys. Even the most insignificant one appropriates to himself the title Akhun. He comes to weigh our things. The arrangement of the scale transports one into the Neolithic Age. On a beam hangs a stick with some “magic” circles and signs. A massive green piece of jade on a little string slides along as a counterbalance for the trunk and “the magi” in a round little cap proclaims the number seen by him alone. Truly we found such stones with holes from the Neolithic Age and we called themgrusily, plumb-lines; but more correctly, these are weights.

We must go eastward and that is why tomorrow we go toward the west! The stops on the way to Kashgar are: 1. Zawa; 2. Pialma; 3. Zangu Chuda; 4. Guma bazaar; 5. Cholak; 6. Ak-kim; 7. Karghalik; 8. Posgam; 9. Yarkand; 10. Kokrabat; 11. Kizil; 12. Yangi Hissar; 13. Yaberchat; 14. Kashgar.

Our friends, the Kalmucks, passed us yesterday on the shortest way to Aksu and Karashahr. In the darkness of dawn, past our gates, rang the low-toned bells of their camels. They carried rugs from Khotan to Toin Lama. With them they also carried many valuable messages which can be appreciated by the Buddhist consciousness.

Again in our caravan there will be three currents: Buddhist, Moslem, Chinese. The last one is the weakest. The last invention of Ts’ai Han Chen—the banner of the expedition with the big inscription “Lo” (Roerich) which also means “Alarm,” is put on a vivid red staff. Ts’ai Hang Chen took our cards to the officials and, as we expected, the rogues, Taotai and Amban, assured us that they had greatly helped us.

The mafas came for the lama and Ts’ai Han Chen. It is evident that these carriages have not changed since the fifteenth century. They would be good for any museum. Kudai-Berdi-Bai brought a dastarkhan in the shape of roasted mutton and pastry. Incidentally, the Chinese colonel also realized that something unfortunate had happened. Again loads; again woolly caps; again the ferocious roar of Tumbal. In the morning we started on the road. For the last time the little birds of Khotan came flying to us. And sheep came. Tumbal, like a black statue, became seemingly transfixed on the pile of baggage.

From seven o’clock in the morning we collected the caravan. We saw the type of work of Ladakis—swift, energetic. Worse is that of the Dardistans and Kashmiris. Good is the work of Nepalese, but worst of all, that of Khotanese. Such laziness and incapacity is hard to imagine. From seven to twelve they loaded forty horses with effort. We went through Khotan; again we were convinced that whatever bears the marks of old Khotan is not so bad and shows remnants of carving, of some ornamentation and proportion. But everything new has become a senseless heap of clay and pitiful stakes. At the bazaar you sometimes see faces, not wicked, but depressed and void of any expression.

It is clear that places like Khotan have exhausted their old sap and can be rejuvenated only by a radical reconstruction. The Chinese sit behind the clay walls of the Chinese city. They show no desire to cooperate with the population. They remain accidental newcomers, and do not think of making any improvements to help. Life has become dusty and brains have become dusty. A flash of vigorous lightning is needed.

From afar appears the silhouette of light gray Kunlun. It grieves one to depart from this remarkable range—it grieves one to realize that the Himalayas are again receding.

Again we have a guard of five soldiers. It is not known whether we are guarding them or whether they are guarding us. Karakash darya is frozen and the horses break through the thin ice. The morning is cold but by midday the sun is already burning. Buds are on the branches. Beside the road perch gray-crested larks. We passed nine wayside towers. Again Zawa, Ts’ai Han Chen says smiling, with a toothless mouth, “The Taotai of Khotan thinks that we will return again to Khotan. Such a stupid official!”

But now all thoughts of stupid officials are far from us because we are again in the desert. Again the purple of the evening sands; again bonfires. The caravan with our belongings is much delayed, and we wait quite at ease as though these things which so much complicate life do not exist. On the sands are many-colored feltings. The gay tongues of flame, fiery and courageous, whirl out toward the endless long evening clouds. In the evening, in Zawa, it was apparent that the bek and officer who were stationed with us smoked opium. George asked Ts’ai Han Chen to reprimand them. He said, “Of course, it is very bad, but to the chief protector of opium a statue is erected.” And the light of the moon and the silence of the night were again permeated with human poison. . . .

Before dawn we ourselves had again to arouse the whole caravan. Timur Bey went away somewhere and proved himself a sluggard. I began to call alongside the tents in Tibetan, “Long, long, long”—as the Tibetans cry early in the morning, rousing the people. On the hillock, a man with a big horn came out and began to blow a sustained note in all directions. It seems that it is the miller notifying the peasants that he is ready to grind grain. Again the desert. Again a mazar with doves. But now the traces of light snow are everywhere. The silvery tones have become more severe. The snowy mountains toward the left become more ethereal and more varied. But the sands are as wearisome as before. We have seldom become so tired. In the twilight—the message from the desert from the back of an unknown camel: “In Pialma the water has dried up.” Well, we shall go somehow. At eight o’clock, in the darkness, under a dull moon, we enter Pialma. Here, awaiting us is the Swedish missionary, Nystrom (in Chinese, Liseti). According to his tales, he had many such cases as ours with the Chinese officials. The same hypocritical instability and insolent changing of decisions.

The fog descends. Around us is the bluish-white fog and the circular plateau of the sands. Sometimes the sands assume a sculptural character or resemble the shell of a pearl. But still today we are going along a very flat plateau with rare low burkhans, thin abrupt little bushes. Half-covered, lies the skeleton of a donkey. Here, half-ruined towers—potais—stick out. Each one of them ten li apart. One can easily cross a potai in forty minutes. The waves of the sand merge into an even line on the horizon. What could disturb the monotony of this plateau?

In the desert of Khotan, a rumor reached us about the well-known traveler, Kosloff. They say that when Kosloff was in Karashahr, there was a “horrible dragon” living there, but the courageous Russian bogatyr conquered the dangerous dragon, conjured him, and sealed him in a glass jar. By this act the whole district was saved. They speak of the buried cities and they point with their hands toward Takla-Makan. A sort of reverence and superstitious fear resound as they pronounce the name of the great desert. In this direction are spread two narrow files of caravans. They go from Pialma for fuel. And here is nothing else. And no sounds. And no colors. And the pearly dust winds into a blue curtain. Like ancient catafalques the mafas proceed rhythmically and the purple wheels slowly turn. The red cloak of the Chinese officer shows flame-colored. As protection from the wind he has donned the most amazing yellow cape with the longest red cloak. Whence this invention? In it are buried some thousands of years.

To the left the file of a caravan departs. Where to? This is the direction straight to Tibet, to Chang-thang. Yes, so it is, they go to the Tibetan lakes for salt. And here is another memorable meeting! From afar, is silhouetted a small man. He walks boldly. His gait is not that of a Sart; and a Chinese does not go solitary through the desert. A cap with ear-laps. A gray cloak. Yes, it is a Ladaki. They will go anywhere, all alone in the desert. We meet. He shows all his teeth, and they start to gleam, and he stretches out his hand. “Djuli, Djuli,” he greets. And he is attracted toward us. We find mutual acquaintances. We tell him whither each one went. One to Chang-thang; another through Kokyar; another was freezing in Sanju. And what is it that brings us so close to the Ladakis? Wherefore this common tongue? Wherefrom, this united valiant step? Wherefrom the courage of lonely marches? We wanted to keep this passing friend with us.

After the wind and fog the vivid morning glows radiantly. We go as far as Chuda; the people ask us to defer the pass to Guma for two days. We shall do this. The Chinese department of the caravan disintegrated first. On the fourth day Ts’ai Han Chen already had the appearance of a corpse. Tang-ke-chang collapsed and even remained somewhere on the road. Sung lost his gloves and became irritated. The Chinese soldier lost his horse. Altogether it was again apparent to us, that, for a march, the Chinese are absolutely unfit. Ts’ai Han Chen excellently mounted butterflies. Chang was carefully preoccupied beside his bed because a proper Chinese bed has to look like a mountain. Sung boldly attacked the Sarts. The soldiers and officers in caps resembled anything except warriors. And the guns with their muzzles hermetically stuffed-up and with the triggers bound up are transformed from an active apparatus into a symbol. It is true there are no robbers here, but in any case this entire troop would run at sight of the first organized column.

Again we find the bluish-white spots of snow. From the north side of each barkhan is hidden some such light, fragrant spot. Assuredly the snow gives to the ground an especial fragrance. One cannot believe that today is the last day of January—it is spring. The Turkis are working better today, and for this they receive a sheep. Poor ones—they appreciate every token. Apparently the proprietor of the caravan is pressing them. And what kind of a “ladder of octopi” is this? Gegen is again angry at the Chinese.

It is pleasant to come to the encampment before dark. Yes, yes, verily, it is spring. I have been painting.

Guma Bazaar. We marched through some fantastic sand formations. At times it seemed as though these were remains of stupas or towers. There is more snow. The white slopes give the impression of shores and between them it seems as though there were a sea. So convincing is the impression of the sea that one has to remind one’s self that in the desert there are no such water surfaces.

Again a dusty garden is “prepared” for us; again beks and soldiers. We had hardly succeeded in spreading our tents before the Amban came. Our impression of him is better than that of the one in Khotan. The Amban knows about our Khotan troubles. He is indignant at the Khotan officials. He wonders how one can prohibit a painter from working and confirms the fact that the road to Tun-huang through the desert is very difficult. And for the “T’ai-T’ai” it would be impossible to go on such a road for two months. The conversation turns to childish themes. In Guma it is very hot in summer; it is hotter than in Kansu. In Urumchi it is now very cold; it is impossible to sit outdoors as we do here. In Guma the horses are not good but in Kashgar there are tall horses and the best pacing horses are in Karashahr. All this we also knew without him. With the Amban is his nine-year-old son. Afterward they put father and son into a vividly-colored two-wheeled conveyance— mafa —and all go away. And George has again to go on horseback to pay his return visit. There is a crowd at the gates. Above the clay walls a mass of heads in woolly caps peer out. The soldiers are noisily whipping the uninvited spectators, tomorrow we shall stop in Selyak instead of Cholak. In Cholak all the water has dried up.

The evening ends with Chinese dances. A procession with paper lanterns arrives. Before the gates of the garden, a close circle is formed and they begin to dance. First, an old man, a young woman and a camel. The young woman runs away from the old man; he catches her and the camel decoratively shakes his woolly neck.

Then the dance of the ship accompanied by a song. In a red paper boat swings “the beauty,” and the boatman, in a role like Charon, is rowing at the bow of the boat. Afterwards dragons and horsemen on paper horses. They sing: “As in the heaven are being born the stars, so from the earth, are emerging the waters.” It is not subtle but there is nothing common or insolent about it. Voices of grown-ups mingle with clear young voices. The darkness of the night is filled with the movements of a simple and not unruly crowd.

A wintry white desert. The torrents are frozen. A flat plain abruptly commences after Guma Bazaar. On the horizon are low snowy hills. On account of the water we had to stop in Selyak at one o’clock in the afternoon. We have not yet had such short crossings as these. Selyak is a simple clay serai for caravans, with a few gnarled trees amidst the silent desert. A gray sky. An eastern wind. Some camels, half a dozen dogs and the frightened children of the proprietor. Nothing else. And here strange information reaches us about Khotan. Karken Bey—alias Moldavak—who looked so remarkably like a European, proclaimed himself a Persian citizen, but proved to be a director of the Ottoman bank and a Catholic. This is, verily, a strange combination. In his workshop they are imitating carpets, following the ones found in the editions of the British Museum. With what firm in London or Paris is he connected? And in what antique shops does one encounter his imitations?

At the bazaar in Guma the women lifted back their veils from their faces in order to see us better. The veil, thrown back, is put together like a kokoshnik (Slavonic headgear). Probably the form of some kokoshniks developed from the raised veil. The bek in Guma is an absolute “Sadko” and he does not even have to use make-up. There are characters ready-made for all the operas of Rimsky-Korsakoff.

In the road the soldiers are telling our T’sai Han Chen the reason why their horses are so poor. “The officials bill the government twenty-five or thirty scars, but they themselves pay fifteen or ten.” They all are speaking about the murder of the Kashgar Titai by the Taotai of Khotan. Somehow the murderer hastened to put an end to the arrested one, without the trial of the Governor-General. Everywhere are mercenary motives of some kind.

We had to leave Chang in Guma. He collapsed completely—an example of the destructive effect of opium. As soon as the smoker, from out his smoky den, comes into vigorous conditions of nature, he falls apart like a card house.

The water in Selyak is like weak coffee. The tea turns out to be ugly looking and unsavory. Again we are setting up the tents. Not far off is a lonely tomb with two animal tails on the bent stakes. I have been painting.

We are reading Vladimirtzeff’s description of the life of Jenghis Khan. A fine, vital savant is Vladimirtzeff. Recently he has published several books and all of such virile content! And so needed for the time! It is a pity that Rudnief is silent. One ought to translate the description of the life of Jenghis Khan for America. This enterprising fundamental spirit will be valued there.

During the night the caravans pass by—the bells of the camels ring out as a complete orchestra. Finally one caravan walks against our tent and almost crushes it. From morning on there is a wind. The desert is completely white. The winter has started and through the entire long crossing we go as in the far north. We pass an old langar with the ruins of towers. The low trees stand out in silhouette and we can see Ak-kem—a small village with a few little huts. Our caravan is very much delayed and we sit and wait once more.

Again endless tales about the cowardice of the Chinese colonel T’ung-ling); about the treachery of Taotai; about the stupidity of the Amban. Never and nowhere before have we heard such unanimous condemnation of the officials. It is even boring to set it down; it cannot continue like this; new China will have completely to change the character of its officials. Sung fell twice from the horse. The Chinese department of the caravan is completely without luck. E.I. has been trotting on her horse from eight to four. This is astonishing. In some former time she must have been a rider.

From somewhere they are bringing very beautiful feltings, as coverings for the floor. In Khotan we saw none like these. A complicated mosaic design. Better than the carpets. Truly, koshmas and chintzes are the best of the local industries. The designs of the chintzes are the same as in Russia in the seventeenth century or earlier. I have been painting.

From Ak-kem to Karghalik is a short but a cold crossing along the snowy desert. They say that in a day the snow will again disappear. Somehow the strip from Selyak to Karghalik is always exceptionally snowy. Maybe it is the influence of some range of mountains—other reasons are not apparent. The other peculiarity of the local places is that silver and even gold become absolutely black; probably the consistency of the soil contributes to this. Gradually along the extended outskirts we enter the Karghalik Bazaar. Alas! By its severe smell it recalls ill-smelling Srinagar. We ask why it is so dirty here, worse than in Guma. The customary reply: “Amban pu hao.” That means a “mean Amban.”

We receive quarters in the very bazaar itself amidst unbelievable dirt. We had to resign ourselves to our operetta escort, the beks, and look for a garden outside the city. We found a solitary house with a garden, Tomorrow, the gloomy possessions of the Khotan Taotai end. Will it be better? One thing this criminal could not spoil: he could not contaminate the air of the desert. A wonderful prelude to spring. The air is brisk.

The day ends again with dances. The dragon and the boat are seen again. But best of all is the dance on stilts. The natural artists reveal themselves. The same Russian dance concerning a young man’s courtship of a maiden is accompanied by strings resembling the balalaika. Diaghileff and Bolm could find suggestions for their compositions. And the servants in red with paper lanterns are not bad. This little fragment of creation for a minute lit up the deadness of the desert.

Here are less goiters. Give to this people at least a small window of light and the vehement fire of the hearts will flare up.

Karghalik said farewell poorly. The beks, stationed with us, appeared to be idiots. We could not get any horses; finally one bek appeared on a wild colt which kicked Olla—the horse of E.I. The blow fell just on the leg of E.I. But happily it was softened by the Gilgit soft boots. And, truly, why should they force upon us these beks and soldiers? Besides discomfort and expense they do not contribute anything. Yesterday a Chinese came to be hired as a servant. As it happened, he remained in Karghalik after the murder of the Amban by the soldiers—many murders. We ask our Tsung why even the beks in Karghalik are bad. The stereotyped answer: “Amban is mean.” (They pronounce it here not Amban but Ambal.)

The snow stopped at once beyond Karghalik. Apparently the snowy expanse ended; but then the white salt marshes started. We passed two bazaars. We passed wretched mosques and cemeteries and we entered the long Posgam bazaar. We do not stay in the tents but in the house of the elder, a big house with dark little rooms. Again many-colored feltings are on the floor; the table and armchairs are even upholstered with leather. Of course this house was pointed out to us by an incidental Punjabian from the bazaar because all the beks only hindered us from moving. When will these hopelessly monotonous habitations end, deprived of color and deteriorating in filth and wilderness? We have just passed a forge. Of course it would be wonderful for the details of a setting of the Nieblungen, but as an agricultural instrument it cannot be of any worth. In the little holes are half-naked men and children blowing into toy-like bellows. Take away the excitement of the caravan and everything will sink into a complete paralysis.

Almost the entire crossing to Yarkand is amidst the peaceful borders of oases. For a moment the rumbling surface of Yarkand darya glimmered. For a moment the colorful crossing on rafts amidst the icy shores flashed out, amidst the gathering of horses, camels, mules and mafas; and afterward the mazars and clay huts. And the heavy-topped trunks of the willows beside the road. Thus up to Yarkand itself, up to the clay walls. Again a house is prepared for us, in the bazaar itself; but there appears a deliverer in the shape of a Ladaki Aksakal. They lead us out of town and in a quiet garden we find a white house with quarters for our men, with red carpets and, most important, with the Lhasa language of the Aksakal himself. From Posgam our farewell was the salutation of the Punjabi—“Urus Kharosh.” And here is the familiar Tibetan language. We visit the Swedish missionaries. We cure our old man, the Chinese; we listen again to different tales of the local customs; how Chinese officials are driving the population toward complete ruin, after which they easily govern the pauperized pariahs. A letter came from the English Consul. He invites us to stop with him. The local Asiatic bank also offers three rooms in Kashgar.

A day in Yarkand. Our people are eating mutton. Silence. A strange thing; absolutely all beg to continue with us. Even the Chinese soldiers of the escort say they would joyfully go further with us. A Chinese captain entered our service as a sweeper; also an officer, an Armenian, the major-domo of the former Amban; they all beg us; so that until we reach Urumchi we shall go in a strange international combination. We paid a visit to the local Amban. He makes a better impression than the Khotan “rulers.”

When our Ts’ai Han Chen began to relate the circumstances of our Khotan captivity, the Amban became sincerely indignant. But the most remarkable thing is that, according to the words of the Amban, letters from Peking about our passage were received everywhere with requests to help us along. The Amban is indignant. How did the Khotan people dare to disregard the order from Peking?

Again we pass through bazaars as in Khotan. A slight variation. On the doorways of the yamen, instead of a catlike dragon, there are pictures of a series of warriors with swords. At three o’clock the soldiers and the beks come to us and, preceded by a red umbrella, arrives the Amban himself. Then follows a peaceful tea-party. The Amban apologizes that he could not arrange a good lunch because of our hasty departure. After many agreeable compliments, we part. A Chinese doctor comes for Ts’ai Han Chen. The sentries stand in black turbans.

Chinese theater follows. They are trying out the horses. A peaceful medieval nonsense as in the paintings of Vinckboons.

From somewhere rumors creep into Yarkand about some events in China; about the movements of Feng, about the closing of banks in Peking; about the actions of the old dynasty! But no one knows anything and one cannot understand a thing.

Buddha was opposed to prisons. He demanded labor and intensive work. In Darjeeling not long ago there was an interesting case. In a crowd an old lama was arrested. He did not try to vindicate himself and was put into prison. Then came the time to liberate him but the prisoner would not come out. He said that never and nowhere did he have such a quiet place, where there was no noise, where they fed one and did not disturb his meditation. With difficulty they persuaded the old man to leave the prison.

The lama says: “Do not beat people but let them justly work out their penalty.” This remark is provoked on seeing that the beks are striking people and are planting furrows of hatred, protests and humiliation.

At the time of our departure we do not escape a fray. Yarkand itself makes a much better impression than Khotan; it is bigger in size and more varied in its trade; and even the clay towers and walls give a certain decorative impression. And there, beyond the tops of the trees, appear the mountains—the ridge of Kashgar, which does not leave our left the whole way. And everything becomes beautified; and tiny ice-covered lakes and blue rivers and brown hillocks appear against a blue background of rocky mountains. We love the mountains so much! Our own planet would be very mountainous!

Again trouble with the Chinese. It appeared that Ts’ai Han Chen has started to smoke opium and has begun to demoralize the rest of the caravan. We shall have to use severe measures. We are standing behind the boundary of a little village, Kokrabat. It will be announced that everyone who smokes opium will be discharged immediately.

Again the mazars, the graves with banners. Little mosques for the Namaz. How much more touching is the Namaz in the desert on a little rug before the face of heaven, than the Namaz before a barren clay wall. Very humble, these by-way clay mosques, with crooked walls and toy-like turrets. Where did the creativeness of this country disappear to? For the whole time we have seen only one filigree earring, not bad, and a couple of silver buttons. In the sun, women on donkeys with bright green and scarlet chekmens, are gracefully riding by. It seems as though there are fewer goiters here than in Khotan. It is an interesting problem to investigate the cause of that monstrous growth of the thyroid gland. Aside from the quality of the water there must be other reasons.

A man rides past us with a falcon in his hands. The falcon hunt is still the favorite sport here. We are followed by flocks of meddling crows and ravens. We remember how in Mongolia you sometimes have to shoot them to rid yourself of the innumerable flocks of crows that attack the horses. We are going along the Kara-kum sands—meaning the black sands. A layer of chipped stones and pebbles gives a grayish pearly surface to the desert. At the left the masses of mountains continue. It is strange to think that beyond these mountains is already Russian Turkestan, and that these ranges end in the heights of Pamir. It is the first day, after three months, when the desert is really beautiful, colorful and varied. And the blue sky adorns itself with an especially subtle design of feathery white cloudlets. Upon the crests of the mountains the snow glitters. The pink foothills disappear into a blue mist out of which emerges the outline of the ridges. A bright day.

The men are anticipating the visit to Kashgar. Everything that is good in Kashgar is called foreign. The good houses are foreign. The good boots are foreign. The good horses are foreign. The good carts are foreign. We are passing two or three abandoned langars—inns. And in clouds of darkening dust we enter Kizil where we will camp. The crossing is considered a long one but we already have arrived at two-thirty. Kizil is a strange, half-abandoned place with silent clay squares of huts. A big old Moslem cemetery. From afar it looks like a whole big city of red clay. The holes of the old graves are black. The people complain about Ts’ai Han Chen. The old man smoked opium the whole night. We decided to let him go as soon as possible. We cannot retain in the caravan such an unpleasant example; Sung holds out better than the rest of the Chinese. He does not smoke and shows resourcefulness. We asked him why the little finger on his left hand was amputated. It appears he was a terrible gambler who lost everything, became poor, and in order to pay his debts, he himself cut off his little finger, and thus we have one gambler, one officer of the murdered Amban, one from the caravan of the murdered American, Langdon; one a confirmed smoker of opium—quite a variety.

Our Ladaki, Ramsana, adorned himself to such an extent that he even pinned to his chest two buckles from a garter. But the greatest desire of Ramsana is to carry a gun, and ride a good horse. He is eighteen years old and a useful man can be made out of him. His father is a Moslem and his mother a Buddhist. By some kind of marks the lamas recognized in him the reincarnated dead abbot of the monastery, but his father, a confirmed Moslem, interfered with his monastic career.

Mist; the north wind and dense clouds of mist. For long we journeyed through sandy corridors and deep creeks. For a long time we have not seen such an amount of all-pervading sand. Then gray salt marshes appeared and low hillocks of a bluish-brown tone. It became more beautiful, and when we approached Kingul darya with high shores, with a frozen high hanging bridge, with dams and with a cluster of houses and walls, it became quite lovely. Such landscapes one finds on old Chinese drawings. We entered into the long bazaar of Yangi Hissar. A house was prepared in the bazaar and as usual it was not good. We stopped in the Swedish Mission. The conversation was about Stockholm, about the curing of goiter with iodine and the movement of Feng toward Sinkiang.

They say that behind the grave of Mohammed there is an empty grave prepared for Jesus, in the time of his second coming. In Ispahan, in Persia, they keep a saddled white horse ready for the coming of the Messiah. Everyone in his own way.

Just now the Hindu merchants came to give us their “salaam” and to greet us upon our arrival. They show us photographs of the crucified Titai and of his murdered son. They recount the medieval details of this murder, without trial. In general the stories of Khotan coincide except for the details of the beheading. Here they say that the crucified ruler remained on the cross for two days, and that then his body was thrown out somewhere. And now the mazar (the grave) built by the ruler stands empty. In the papers little was described of this tragedy of crucifixion. Here continue crucifixions and treachery, the sale of people and generous remuneration for murderers. The hastening of evolution is necessary.

They say that near Kashgar are the ruins of a Buddhist temple. So it must be, because in these regions Buddhism existed; but it is interesting that we did not happen to hear previously about these ruins. That means that in Kashgar there are mosques and the mazar of Miriam and the ruins of Buddhism!

The evening is spent with the Swedish folk. A quiet supper. We hear tales about the richness of this country where not more than three per cent of the area is cultivated. In the near-by mountains, iron, copper, silver and coal are found. The murdered Titai intended to start certain developments, but now these possibilities have again been sunken into darkness.

We bid farewell to the hospitable family of Anderson. The seven-month-old Sven stared with his blue eyes at E.I., caught her finger tightly and did not want to let her go. We spoke about the fertility of the district where, besides varied vegetables, many curative herbs: ricinus, licorice, digitalis and others, are growing wild. One can imagine how the plain would develop under the tractors of Ford. They speak about the absence of forests in these localities; but two days’ march away (and the crossings are short) there is a wonderful store of coal. We take with us a piece of this product which does not fall below the best samples. And may it not be that here in the neighborhood there is oil? Or that there is radium in the mountains? At that, how easy it is to plant whole spaces with trees. While excavating, great stumps have often been found in these places as well as the trunks of former forests. It is only necessary to apply the least diligence and resourcefulness and the district will become unrecognizable. There is plenty of water during the summer; one has only to collect it in reservoirs. Now in February the days are just like spring. Only December and January are cold. The cold air of the night is of a refreshing nature. If the Chinese would only not fear everything new and if their officials were chosen according to merit and not according to their capacity for robbing! Otherwise, whence this incomprehensibly speedy enrichment of the Ambans and Taotais? By such means every manifestation of assiduity is only for the ends of the most speedy enrichment of the officials, immersed in opium and gambling. We stopped in Yaberchat, a small place four hours from Kashgar. We could easily have made the route to Kashgar in one day, but on account of the pack horses we had to stay in the outskirts, among heavy-topped willows and clay walls.

Mist, low brush, naked willows and a bumpy road, with crossings over ice-covered streams. First we pass the new city of Kashgar. The walls are more imposing than the Yarkand walls. There is more verve and motion in the bazaar. Prisoners in chains are begging alms for their food. Between the new and the old city is a distance of about two p’o-t’ai. Toward us ride two “vividly red Chaprassi” from the English Consul. The Consul awaits us for breakfast while the house of the local bank is being made ready. The British Consul and his wife inquire sympathetically about the affairs at Khotan. In the bank they speak “about the character” of the Chinese administration. It seems that the Khotan Taotai is known in the whole province and nobody is astonished at his action. The caravan arrives. The things are brought in.

The Chinese New Year! At four o’clock in the morning we are awakened by the noise of firecrackers and rockets. Behind the wall is a pillar of flame and shots are heard. We thought it was a fire.

Major Gillan, the British Consul, and his wife came. It appears that they are both Scotch. Among the Scotch we long ago found sympathetic people, and these belong to a fine type of Scotch clans. The Ladaki Aksakal comes. He is a Moslem who lived for a long time in Lhasa and Shigatse. The translator of the consulate comes. He complains of the increase of smoking of opium and hemp hashish. The rich permit themselves the luxury of using expensive opium, and the poor ones dope themselves with homemade hashish. The possibility of earning a livelihood is very poor here. Formerly about thirty thousand people went each year to other countries for their living.

And again endless tales about the enrichment of Chinese officials by pillage. When you are seated in a peaceful Chinese restaurant in America, remember about the robbers—the Taotais and Ambans—who are keeping the people in complete torpor. Let the sight-seeing motors to Chinatown remind you how millions of people are perishing in the darkness of ignorance.

The director of the branch of the local bank, A., comes. A new wave of information. Each part of the province has its own money, which is accepted with reluctance in the neighboring provinces. In Kashgar are sars; in Urumchi, lans, which have the value of one-third of a sar; in Kuldja, they have their own lans, which the population calls roubles. At that, half or a quarter of a lan is obtained by tearing the bill into corresponding parts. As a result of such operations the monetary symbols are turned into tatters, deprived of any designation. But when it is necessary to give the symbol its former value, one pastes under it some pieces of any kind of paper. One may receive lans of which one-half consists of an advertisement of a sale of soap or something as unexpected.

We see the Swedish missionary, Palmberg. In spite of the medical activity of the Swedish Missions, they are periodically subject to persecution on the part of the officials. Recently they even had to temporarily discontinue the work, and yet they are the only doctors in the whole large district. Not even at the garrison is there a doctor. The local inhabitants tell us that nowhere in the world do people know what is occurring in abandoned Chinese Turkestan, left as it is to the plunder of a handful of ignoramuses. They beseech us: “Write and tell to the world about the deterioration of an entire country into a savage state.” Again prisoners in chains are passing, begging alms. This custom was common in the fifteenth century, but to see it in usage now astonishes one.

We are sitting in semi-inactivity because the Chinese New Year is being celebrated for several days. I remember how the American Consul in Calcutta, dear Mr. Jenkins, figured out all the days of the year which were not affected by the holidays of the different local nationalities. There remained only fifty-two working days. And here they celebrated the European New Year and now the Chinese. The various explanations hinder greatly the calculations of the months. Moslem, Chinese, Tibetan—all these calculate different dates.

A Sart comes and says that near Kucha the inhabitants are destroying the remains of the Buddhist temples. . . . The reason is that many travelers and Chinese are interested in these ruins and frescoes, and it is difficult for the people to accommodate all these guests. They built a great fire within the ruins, and the frescoes were destroyed. One may suspect also another cause—the ancient iconoclasm of the Moslems. Whether by this or some other means, soon these small remnants of Tokhars and Uigurs will also disappear.

In the morning we visit the Taotai. The impression is one of good-nature. The yamen has a more livable aspect. One does not see the tattered soldiers. There is no crowd of beks. Mr. Tao, the manager of the foreign department, is also present. Of course, our passports appear to be absolutely correct. The letters of recommendation are found excellent. And they express astonishment at the actions of Khotan. They will immediately send a telegram to the Governor-General about the return of our arms. During the day we saw the Swedish missionary, Torquist, and many inhabitants of the local colony. It is curious to notice that for a long time now, the Governor-General has attempted to leave Urumchi with his pillaged goods. But the neighboring province does not permit him to pass without the payment of a tribute of many millions. Thus, one of his caravans, comprising several wagons with silver, has already been confiscated. Now the “dignitary” is trying to transfer his capital to foreign banks. One also should note that after the murder of the Titai and his son, in Kashgar, their families suffered complete robbery. The earrings were ripped out of the ears of the son’s wife. They brought a photo of the crucified Titai. Friends, look upon this brutality committed without trial and without thought of responsibility! Incidentally, they say that the Taotai from Aksu is already collecting soldiers to proceed to Khotan. The pillaged goods do not lie in the same place for long.

The Taotai arrived. Boring conversations about the cult of ancestors, about astrology, about the weather. He looked at the photographs of my paintings. He said that he had already telegraphed to Urumchi about permission for us to proceed. These permissions for each step recall the most brutal times and we are bored by it, to the last degree. Even to complain about the rudeness of the officials, one needs permission. Passing through the city we again observed the local types. These are very cruel faces. Many more beggars and cripples than in Yarkand. We must exchange the remaining rupees. We are advised to take some gold. The Kirghiz are bringing it from the mountains. Hindus and Turki accept it gladly.

The day for the exchange of money. The selection of a tarantas. A new driver—a Cossack refugee from Orenburg. An instructive scene in the bazaar. A mullah with a whip is chasing the people to the mosque. The lashes of the whip strike the backs, the shoulders, the faces. The enthusiasm for prayer is evoked with difficulty and many are hurrying to hide themselves in the side-streets. They say that Medresse—the schools at the mosques—are visited rarely. Even in the wilderness, the people expect more refined and more profound forms of knowledge.

Not far from the village Artish, one can see, high in the rock, three windows. Of course, these are the Buddhist caves, explored by LeCoq and Stein. From below one can distinguish remnants of frescoes. No objects of especial note have been found there. The people adorn these caves with a legend. The old king had a daughter. Death from a scorpion’s sting was predicted for her. In order to save her the king constructed a dwelling place for her in the rock, but her destiny was fulfilled. The princess wanted to taste some grapes. She drew up a basket on a rope and in it a venomous scorpion was hiding.

Fifteen miles eastward, in the middle of the cemetery, the tomb of Mary the mother of Issa is pointed out. The details of the legend are slipping away. Why, just Mary in Kashgar, nobody can tell. It is the same concerning Issa in Srinagar. Are there not some traces of Nestorianism and Manicheism here?

Along the bazaar, Kadi, the judge, passes pompously, with a whip in his hand. He is going to catch gamblers. Of course, the groups of gamblers quickly disperse and after the passing of the “guard” they at once collect again. Like opium, gambling is despoiling the population.

We enter a Chinese dwelling. Opposite the entrance is an altar with New Year’s offerings and sweets. On the wall is a vividly colored picture of the “ruler” of the gods. Who is it? It is the same Gessar; it is the same one who is awaited. Each in his own way. The New Year is welcomed precisely with his image. Even in Kashgar which is almost Moslem, is hidden the Far Eastern belief. There, also, we see Kuan Yin, the Mother of the World, and Man-long-life (the synthesis of all ages). And one more image the “Ruler of Gods.” This image is less intricate. There are only two figures—The “Ruler” and his guardian. The “Ruler,” sitting at the table, is watching the flame of a red candle. In the forehead of the “Ruler,” is a precious stone like a red star. The picture is of new and simple work, but very decorative. We went into the yard of a small temple. The temple itself is closed. The service is not performed. Opposite the entrance is a stage for the Chinese theater.

The setting sun is flooding the banks of Tumen daria. Alongside a narrow ridge you go toward the sandy slopes. Like a dead city, immovable and breathless, stand the clay walls above these slopes. The trees are naked. One can see very far. This is the first sight of what one may call a Central Asiatic city. And not under ill-smelling sheds of the narrow bazaars; not by the faces of lepers; but in the golden rays of the sun and in the immovability of the walls you realize that Kashgar is verily an old place.

Many subterranean waters are in Kashgar. The flooding of the rivers and the rice fields gives a special kind of fever somewhat like malaria. There are widely varying symptoms: aching of joints; sleepiness, pain in the extremities.

It is not easy to receive money on checks from China. Taels were awaiting us since November, but now it is already the end of February and the post office delays handing over the money. The money may, of course, have been given out on percentage. They tell us that one of the local ambans refused, for a long time, to transfer the collected taxes to the Governor-General, because they were loaned out on percentage for the enrichment of the Amban. They brought photographs of the victims “of justice”: rows of people with chopped off fingers or soles of the feet with cut tendons. The majority of them were unable or could not pay on time “to whom was necessary.” Here are also photographs of the murdered Titai in his full “glory” with two ribbons crossed, with stars and with widespread legs. Here are also photographs of the developments of oil-wells, started by the Titai; group of the wives of Titai and other local officials. Old letters came from America from October 30th through Peking. It took three months and a half to reach us this way.

Apparently to find horses here is still more difficult than in Yarkand. At Dr. Yalovenko’s, we found all drugs necessary for us. His little hospital is better equipped than the one of the Swedish Mission.

We drink tea at the Gillans’; we go with them to inspect a stupa. Near the river the road starts to become muddy. We cross a narrow bridge and ascend amidst the fantastic sand formations created by water and earthquake.

Of course, here was the most ancient part of Kashgar; here may be found Buddhist traces. The stupa itself has become a formless mass and only the remnants of the bricks lying at the bottom, reveal the construction. Its size is great; not smaller than the great stupa in Sarnath. In reality there remains only the base, and the whole top cupola has disappeared. It is difficult among sand slopes to distinguish ruins. How many of such masked ruins are buried underneath the currents of rivers and under the sloping Kurgans, under the typical Asiatic cover. . . .

It becomes cold toward evening. And, purple-silhouetted, stands Kashgar with a Chinese temple on the wall of the city. The silhouette is not devoid of calmness and grandeur but this is, as it were, a false grandeur, because the mass of the silhouette is transformed into the fragility of clay and sand buildings. Late in the evening, George Chu, the Chinese secretary of the British Consul, arrives with the good news that a telegram from the Tu-t’u of Urumchi has come, and that we are permitted to leave. But in spite of the request of the Kashgar Taotai and the British Consul, our two guns and three revolvers are left sealed and the permission to paint is not even mentioned, although the Consul and Taotai distinctly asked about it in the telegrams. Mr. George Chu smilingly says: “I learned English from an American teacher in Peking and I have been glad to help and to bring a good message to an American Expedition.”

We prepare the caravan in a hurry, in order to leave more quickly before the beginning of the spring thaw and before the flooding of the river. The journey to Urumchi is a good one thousand eight hundred miles. It is difficult to get horses. All the best horses are sent to Fergan where there is a big demand for horses from Russia.

We have to discharge Ts’ai Han Chen; he became completely mad yesterday and beat the Ladaki Musu; he is a victim to opium smoking. We go to express our gratitude to Mr. Gillan for his help in sending telegrams. I tell him how agreeable it is to find such cultural regard for the tasks of our Expedition. I regret that in spite of his representation neither the arms nor the permission to sketch have been given. I ask him to give us the text of the telegrams that he sent, for inclusion in our diary. Then some talk about the exchange of rupees which rose in value to the sars: There are rumors about the exchange of the current sars for a new currency. Nobody knows anything. Just as the missionary Torquist says: “The Chinese are born Confucians. They live as Taoists and die Buddhists.” We should like to see real Chinese. So much is being spoken about the intensive work in Canton. Is it possible that there they do not know about the dark life of Chinese Turkestan? Is it possible that they do not know how one robber usurps the place of another robber and crucifies him—not for the people’s welfare, not for justice, but for personal motives and personal enrichment? And the helpers of the “power”—the rich beks—are treading with whips on the bent backs of the poor.

It is impossible to find horses. All the good horses have been dispatched to Andijan to transport goods from abroad. Now they are demanding one sar a day for horses. The price is unprecedented. We will have to take arbas, and this means that to Urumchi we will have to go fifty-five days instead of forty. It is one thousand eight hundred miles. We must hurry because the thaw will soon begin. Outside the city, near the horse-market, is an interesting mazar, Gissarlik—a mazar which is said to belong to some Mongolian count. There is a belief that if one throws a piece of clay at the cupola of a mazar, one’s moles fall off.

It is not easy to receive money through the Chinese post office. Since November, the post office has not been able to collect one thousand six hundred Mexican dollars. It is really ridiculous when one knows that the local general, by commission of the Governor-General is transferring ten thousand pounds of “personal savings” through here.

We went to the Taotai to talk about our arms and the permission to sketch. The Taotai came to a resolution, “Try to paint and if the police prohibit it, then stop.” Our arms became rusted from dampness. When we pointed it out, we were told by the interpreter of the Consulate, “Do not make too much fuss about it.” Again we felt ourselves in a country not of justice, but in a country of personal license. We were also told that if Tu T’u (the Governor-General) will find us worthy then he will permit us our arms and the possibility of work. Colossal indifference is needed to accept seriously all these sentences. It is interesting to know by what means and with what apparatus the Governor-General will investigate our “worthiness,” for the work and for the arms. . . . But the “worthiness” of similar officials is evident to us without any special apparatus. Whence come these depths of ignorance? To cap the climax it was stipulated that we should not remove from the case containing the arms, any more than were permitted. That means, we should not take out the revolvers. As usual, the visit ended with assurances that they had helped us very much. Such hypocrisy!

The tales about the movements of the Chinese army of Sinkiang are interesting. A cannon is drawn by two horses. On each one of them sits a soldier. On the muzzle of the cannon also sits a warrior. When the horses stop, they add one more nag from a village. “An army” which went forth twenty thousand strong, at an expense of six million sars, reached the battleground about two thousand in number. They count the size of the army by the number of caps. Therefore, if there are not enough “warriors” in the carts, they put out caps on sticks. The calculation of cavalry is by men and horses, or doubly. Nowhere is this forgotten province written about as it actually is. Unknowingly some of the travelers don a dress suit, when they visit the Taotai, but it is time to tell what really exists. It is time to speak simply, in the name of human dignity. One may consider “seriously” the surviving customs of the inhabitants of the Solomon Islands, but a kingdom with four hundred million people cannot be looked upon in our times from the point of view of ethnographical curiosities. One ought in every way to help the true workers of China to bring the country out of its tragi-comical situation. We do not know what and how will be our further path, but the observations of the unembellished life of Sinkiang appall us. Sinkiang was conquered in its time by Mongols, Arabs, Chinese, Tibetans. The backs of the Sarts endured everything and they brought their salaams.

If you have a Chinese postal money-order, it does not mean that as yet you have the money. China cannot even redeem a check for one thousand six hundred Mexican dollars. Whereas the local bank through Tashkent pays you immediately. Friends do not use the Chinese mail. The letters are opened, many things do not reach you, and money is not delivered to you. Again, one has to transport one’s consciousness to the Solomon Islands and then one can understand better the actions of the Sinkiang company.

And here again the British Consul and his secretary, Chu, must take steps for us. Thanks to their personal influence, as a special favor, we finally receive that which is one’s common right. We express to Mr. Chu our hope that we will meet him in the Washington or Paris Embassies. We exchange greetings with Major and Mrs. Gillan. Truly, they have helped us to leave Khotan. We ask each other where we shall meet again.

We left. In the morning the Consul with his wife came to say good-by; the Secretary of the Consulate, Chu, the Director of the Bank, Anokhin; Dr. Yalovenko; the family of Krijhoffs. We said good-by. We sat for a while. Where shall we meet again? We pass through the Kashgar bazaars. We go through the sandy gray road. At the left, the Kashgar River glows blue; pools, rice fields, fever-beds. At the right are villages, and muddy lakes. A milky spring mist is overhanging. The crossing is not long. Toward three o’clock we stopped in a small village, Yamdom.

We have parted with Ts’ai Han Chen. He smoked opium and led women away from the bazaars and beat the servants. I remember his two stories. The horse under him was frightened and he fell down. For that he broke the horse’s leg with a stone. Another story. An eagle came down and scratched his hand. Here the vengeance was subtle; a piece of meat stuffed with gunpowder was put out on a long wick. The eagle seized the meat and exploded.

The man who goes ahead as the scout is called Dorogha here.

Toward evening it gets cold. There is no snow. The mountains are not seen.

Salt marshes, bushes, willows, small villages. A short crossing to Faizabad. By half-past one, we are already at the site. Nevertheless, in the book of routes, the way from Kashgar to Faizabad is divided into three days. Even at a slow walking pace one can reach it sooner. How thoroughly all the books with information about the “facts” must be inspected. Too many untrue “facts” are lying on the shelves of libraries and there is too much reverence attached to the printed word, without any revaluation.

Anew, anew, anew—through new consciousness and new containment.

And some people respect money as such! Just now wooden chips were brought to us with inscribed signs, and the people assure us that this is real money: And the best money, because it is issued by the gamblers. This authority apparently stands in high esteem. Everywhere in the bazaars are groups of men actively occupied in gambling. I remember hearing in some bank a furious exclamation: “I do not pay you with wooden chips.” According to the local customs this remark was not exaggerated. The chip is brown, three-and-a-half inches long, and on it, inscribed by hand, are Chinese signs. People love this money because it does not tear. The redemption of these signs is very simple here. After the sign is worn out the government refuses to redeem it at the treasury, and the last owner of such a symbol liquidated the State debt. We investigated the sites of our further encampments and we found that these are not correctly given in the book of routes. We sometimes have to combine two stretches, otherwise we will not reach Urumchi even in fifty days. They sent us two soldiers as escorts—true bandits. We had to send them back.

The whole night, till four o’clock, under the full green moon, they were singing all around in the different kishlaks probably in honor of the month of Barat. They sang wildly, but mellowed by distance, the notes sometimes resounded beautifully. The singing was not by Sarts, but by Torguts. How strange! How did Torguts come to Moslem Faizabad? Of course these are prisoners of former wars. Until now, they have retained their customs of singing their resonant songs under the full moon. Analyzing the nationalities, you can sometimes distinguish them by the remnants of their garments, sometimes by the language and sometimes by the ancient sacred chants. During the nights the melodies of their native land ring out. And somehow the heart readily responds to this call. It is instructive to follow the combinations of peoples covered by the sands of the deserts.

We rose early, at five o’clock, because the road is long—fifteen p’o-t’ai. It means a hundred and fifty Chinese lee, which means about sixty miles. First, salt marshes, greenish-gray; then dead sand, barkhans. The dust is opaque; the thin brush has been uprooted for fuel and because of this the entire desert is being completely devastated, while two stops away from Kashgar are wonderful coal and oil deposits. People themselves through their ignorance deplete their soil. Near the small rivers ice is still lying; and under the sun, it is already burning hot and it is difficult to move in furs. The site of the encampment is called Kara julgun, a small gray village. The caravan is late. We drink tea out of the local kungan. There is not enough black paint to depict this teapot. The sketches are multiplying.

It seems to be the most desolate crossing. Almost the entire time we went along the sites of old destroyed forests. All the barkhans are filled with gigantic old stumps and roots. Apparently there was a big forest here but now people have carried away the wood. The sands have scattered it and one proceeds as though along a gnarled cemetery. The scanty brush cannot withstand the sand burans. Everything is gray. Gray also are the pools and the spring floods which have begun. On account of these floods we are making twelve p’o-t’ai, instead of eight. Ditches, stumps, sand slopes; the biggest Chinese road is comparable to a small trail. During the day we meet a few sparse caravans, but they, of course, cannot comprise the nerve of true commerce. Everything is dead.

The gray village Urdaklik. On the flat roofs silent figures linger, though they cannot see anything from their roof but the dusty horizon. And these people have no outlook or hope. Occasional travelers pass by them. During the night the fire of a caravan will suddenly flare up. And again the same oppressive silence. Geese and ducks are flying toward the spring floods but here only the crows and rooks are keeping house. Instead of a plow, some wooden implement of the stone age. Is it possible that the beks and Chinese ambans succeed in enriching themselves at the expense of these people also?

Our Chinese escort has no luck. In three days, three “warriors” managed to fall down from their horses. What if there were a whole regiment of such tseriks, as they are called here? It is related that in certain Chinese armies the cannons are carried on the backs of people, and the enemies in the daytime shoot in the air and at night sit together at their gambling.

Chinese Turkestan has been described from the archaeological standpoint; the ancient conquest and the change of rulership have been recounted. But nothing has been related of the present consciousness of the country. Yet, in the progress of the world’s evolution we cannot cover with silence this vast country forgotten by destiny. It is very instructive to follow the remnants of the Tokhar, Uigur and Mongol constructions, but it is also very instructive and astonishing to see into what the consciousness of the country has turned: Again the same sandy gray hopelessness.

The buran lasts the entire day. We go beside “the forest”—to speak more correctly, the forest-cemetery. The surviving kargach—trees—are sticking out, crooked, brushy and horny. Instead of the sun there is a silvery circle. How clearly one sees the reason which impelled the great migrators and conquerors toward the west and south. Imagining a great migration, do not picture feet, shoes or hoofs—everything up to the waistline is drowned in a thick dusty cloud.

We overtake an old man. He is complaining about something. We understand that somebody has broken his shoulder and that they have driven away sixteen of his horses. Of course on the Karakorum heights, they are more ethical. During the day we meet three caravans of donkeys and half a dozen carts. We stop in Chuga. We covered fourteen-and-a-half p’o-t’ai. Is it possible that this is the greatest Chinese road? And can a government be called a power which keeps its chief artery in such condition? One has to cry out about this, as about every ignorant deed impeding culture.

E.I. caught cold.

It is especially absurd to realize that a whole day of exhausting travel is equal to two hours’ ride by automobile or to an hour by aeroplane. The roads here could be utilized easily for automobiles and one would not even have to build aerodromes. Perhaps nothing would so awaken the people’s consciousness as a steel bird with a message of good cheer and with necessary supplies. Through these aisles, with their files of dusty and overloaded donkeys, would be opened a crevice of reason. Sir Aurel Stein expresses in his books the fear lest the primitiveness of this country be disturbed by the building of railroads and other evidences of civilization. I always have been against uncultural evidences of civilization, but there are moments of such paralysis of a country that one needs every supermeasure of enlightenment.

But the Buddhist knows the reason of the apathy of the country: In the Books of Kanjur it is said that if the country should reject the teaching of Buddha, the trees would wither and the grass would droop and welfare would disappear.

We make our way first along the so-called “forest,” then salt marshes. We get into the flood of Yarkand darya; finally, we reach the clay walls and towers of Maral-bashi. Do not shoot at these walls with a cannon—-too much dust will remain! The long bazaar of Maral-bashi is dirtier and darker than the other bazaars, or equal to all others. We halt in a garden far behind the city. The Amban has sent to inquire our names. It appears that in the order of the Kashgar Taotai regarding our passage our name is omitted. No, with Chinese conduct of affairs you will not go far!

Among the sars which were given to us with such difficulty in Kashgar, many are valueless. There should be ten letters on them, but often the tenth, the middle letter, is torn out and then the money is no longer accepted. Carefully examine all money which you receive whether from the bazaar or from the governor’s yamen.

George remembers that Prjevalsky was the first to speak about Tun-huang, but afterwards the honor of this discovery was claimed by other scientists. As early as the Seventies, Prjevalsky spoke about these remarkable cave temples.

Near Maral-bashi are a few lakes. Fish abound. But sometimes one finds poisonous fish.

A new insolence from the Amban. He informs us that he will send us soldiers if we will ask him. But we do not need soldiers and, according to the command of the Governor-General they are guarding our confiscated and sealed arms. How can we question the Amban about the fulfillment of the command of the Governor-General? It is insolent and absurd. Again the people say: “The Amban does not know any customs.” Sung had to go in spite of fatigue and the late hour to bring the Amban to reason, to tell him that we do not need the soldiers but they are needed by the order of the Governor-General.

They send new soldiers. They do not even look like people, simply like insects. We remembered the stories of M.; how he himself turned to flight thirty tseriks and how a whole regiment of tseriks surrendered to two gunners. Yes, apparently all this is not exaggerated.

We first went by a dismal plain. Soon, at the right, against the yellow sky, appeared the opal silhouette of the mountains. Welcome, beloved mountains!

Suleiman relates, “A giant was living here. He saw that the lake was too big and with his sword he chopped the slopes from the neighboring mountains and threw them here. Behind this mountain is a beautiful garden and holy people live there but nobody can enter without their permission. Sarts have tried to go there but nobody has ever come back.” And Suleiman pointed to the southeast.

Soon an unpleasant experience is in store for us. Some people gallop to meet us and warn us that water has begun to overflow the road. We had to make a detour of twenty miles. One also has to place this against the account of our arrest and detention in Khotan. We lost the best time for travel. Now we will be delayed everywhere by floods.

Another tale: “Under Urumchi is a steep mountain and there also live holy people. Once a Kalmuck wounded a mountain ram and the ram led the Kalmuck to a holy man. The man asked the Kalmuck to remain with them but the Kalmuck asked to return home, and the holy man gave the Kalmuck a lapful of wooden chips. The Kalmuck took them and thought, ‘Where shall I carry these rarities?’ He took them and threw them out into the woods. Only two chips remained caught, and when he came home, lo! gold hung to his garments. And so the Kalmuck lost.”

We are going further, near gray sandy mountains with vigorous strata. We pass an old tomb. Then we pass a mazar of a giant holy man. They say that even the trails of the hoofs of his horses have remained on the mountain The mountains become more beautiful and merge into the romantic silhouette of Bible lore. Not far from here is an ancient site, Haivar. Near the road are the remains of the Chinese fortress, Angelik. Then, again, sands and floods.

Another tale: “Not far from Angelik is an old house. Whoever enters it is lost in wonder at the rich adornments and the heaps of gold. If one takes a heap of gold the door closes by itself, and he cannot leave. And until he returns the gold, to the very last grain, so long the door will remain unopened. A similar place is near Uch-Turfan. There stands a structure like a city, one can even see the smoke but one can enter only on Fridays. But one cannot carry out gold from this site either. And in Kucha they found an underground opening like a whole subterranean passage. They brought thousands of wagons with stones to fill it in—but they could not. The stones are to be seen even now. The tomb of a saint was also found there. Thirty-nine doors were open into it but they could not open the fortieth. And so they covered it again.” The people remember also about the predicted beautiful gardens and about foreign gold.

It becomes dark. We come to the village Tumshuk. Bonfires and stars, and dreams of the people. And for a long, long time, someone was praying, by the light of a bonfire. For what? Is it not for enlightenment? High stands the chalice of Orion. Around the bonfire barefooted youths are lying—this is our guard.

If you want to give a gift to these barefooted night guards your desire is in vain. All that you give will be taken away by the Elder. . . .

One of the tedious crossings is to Yaka Khuduk. Again unbearable dust; hidden ditches. A burnt forest. Boar-weed and shallow river banks. There are many boar. Often we travel under a single telegraph wire. This is the same line which transmits telegrams in an absolutely unintelligible shape. In the last telegram from New York, there was a series of unintelligible letters and only the one last word “Advise” was legible. To whom and about what? One may think that it is a very sly code or a mischievous joke, where only the last provocative word is comprehensible.

Another tale: “In Kashgar recently lived a holy man. He heard when people in the holy place were praying, although it took six months to reach that place. There is such a holy place behind the mountains. In the district of Orenburg also there lived such a man. He heard about the present and the future, and about the war and about famine. In two hundred years the Sarts expect a great saint, and perhaps earlier.”

We stop on the dusty bank of Yarkand darya. Sometimes a wind rises and whirls tall cruel pillars of sand. Here are small clay huts, naked bushes and sandy river banks.

It is very simple to give an idea of our passage of today! On a round dish place a good bit of gray dust; throw in a few gray pieces of wool and stick in fragments of matches. Let ants crawl over this bumpy plain, and for realism, blow it in order to create pillars of dust.

And so we creep along. We expected to stay in Chulan, but there the water is bitter so we had to make a detour in order to spend the night in a kishlak in New Chulan. At the approach to its gray clay huts a light silhouette of mountains is seen unexpectedly—the thresholds of T’ian Shan. E.I. ’s cold is still torturing her.

Suleiman relates how now in this country two firms are dealing in sausage casings; one German (Faust) and one American (Brenner). The prices of casings have risen so unprecedentedly that the works have become unprofitable. It is very strange to know that the casings of the sausages in American markets come from Khotan and Aksu. The same obstacles occur in the cotton trade. In order to raise the prices they mix different unmatched varieties and in this way are ruining the value of the entire product. With silk, similar difficulties occur. It is impossible to obtain the delivery of an entire order of a quality equal to a chosen sample. It is impossible to obtain material of a chosen shade. All this reduces the industry to medieval conditions. The melons and the raisins are of good quality.

The amber sun melts into the dusk of the horizon. In the distances the eyes of the bonfires light up. Somewhere someone is sitting and weaving the design of rumors. In the dusk the songs thunder out. The noisy Tamasha is held.

It appears that the water in old Chulan is very good, even better than in New Chulan. But the inhabitants of New Chulan decided to lure the passers-by and threw dead mules and dogs into the lake of old Chulan. The caravan is the nerve of the country and this case of luring the passers-by is quite typical. We went thirteen p’o-t’ai, as far as the small habitation of Chutu Khuduk, a battered-down little village. It seems incredible that this little station is on the greatest road of China. All along are sands, but on the left stretches a mass of mountains and the pearly foothills adorn the horizon.

Another tale: “Near the city Osch there is still a Mountain of Solomon. There even remain the little impressions where Solomon prayed on his knees.”

We recall how the British Consul in Kashgar notified us that George’s friend Allen Priest was in Urumchi as late as November. After Boston we met Priest on the threshold of the Vatican in Rome. And now we find him on the Asiatic roads—an active sensitive man. The British Consul says that he received the permission to go from Siberia to Peking. Will we still find him in Urumchi? There are people with whom it is agreeable to meet anywhere—where shall we meet our dear Americans?

It is long since we have seen so noble a sunset with such broad gradations of opal purple hues. The golden sun, somewhat dulled, lingered long on the crags of the far-off mountains. And it went leaving a soft fiery pillar. These mountains mark the limits of this country. Today there are no songs. The village is silent. In the outskirts on the plain are our tents. From above, Orion peers down.

E.I. has almost recovered.

We approach Ujkul, first by sands; afterward two p’o-t’ai of habitations; fields; altogether ten p’o-t’ai. They start to sow. They are plowing. The plow is of the stone age. Two oxen drag one horny wooden device. Can one plow deeply with such utensil? The day is spring-like. A fresh wind and the warmth of the sun. Ujkul is a long dusty village. For a day there are a few occurrences in the caravan! A horse fell; his head swelled all the morning, and at three, he died. In the mafa of the Gegen, the middle horse fell on a bad ridge. We feared we could not raise him. Thereupon it was discovered that yesterday a cart fell down and the entire load fell out. And the guarding tserik had hidden this occurrence. When we reprimanded him he idiotically smiled.

The cool evening approaches; we speak about the decline of the Chinese language. There are forty thousand signs collected, but not one of them expresses the letter R. In olden times there was a sign which approximately expressed this letter, but afterward it disappeared out of the eight thousand signs used in daily life. One asks oneself why dictionaries preserve thirty-two thousand unnecessary signs? In these unnecessary tatters is seen the complete decline of Chinese evolution. And as a result the local people whisper: “Do not go into this yard; there are Chinese!” or “Can one expect justice from Chinese?”

And how many young people are innocently dragging after them the results of the ignorance and cruelty of their fathers and grandfathers. How they must hasten to get rid of such an inheritance! If all these many thousands of signs have led them toward ignorance, one should quickly liberate oneself from these skeletons of conventions. Valiantly and severely one has to cut out the decay of survivals. Otherwise, why have entire nations vanished so often from the history of the earth? “Great Matter is weaving its design and mercilessly casts out each useless thread from its cosmic web.” Why did Confucius have to keep his traveling cart always at hand? When the criminal power departs one will have to provide railroads and the possibility of growth and exchange for the people immediately. And how easy it would be to lay railroad lines along the plains here!

Today the water is especially bad. During the whole week the water was yellowish brown, and today it is soapy gray and ill-smelling—one cannot drink it. You may expect someone to draw the head of a Dungan from out the well in a pail. This has already happened!

From Ujkul we go to Aksu, the capital of the unsuccessful Yakub-bek, who half a century ago tried to liberate Turkestan from Chinese rule, but could not find allies. The road is dank with many ditches. The river Aksu—it means white water—has already started to overflow. The bridges, as everywhere, are dancing as though alive. And this is the chief road of China! Gray sky and a yellow plowed field. We remember America; we remember the beauties of Santa Fe, the Grand Canyon, Colorado and Arizona. Again we mentally urge our friends—the Americans—to know better the beauties of their superb country. We recall how all types of ungifted Jean Cocteaux in Europe offer Americans a special dish of nonsense. . . . But America is full of its own possibilities.

Imperceptibly we approach the borders of Aksu. The same little clay houses and stalls. As always, two cities. The old one on the muddy place. The new, a little drier, where the Chinese officials, Taotai, Amban and the Colonel live. Five days from here is the Muzart Pass toward the Iliisk district of the Kalmucks. We stop in the new city, in the garden of the Andijan Aksakal. It is dusty.

Today the first bloodshed occurred. Two tramps beat our mafakesh until he bled and almost took out his eye. Screaming. Noise. The tramps were caught. They bound them and took them to the Amban. And our revolvers are sealed, because the Governor-General (that is the Tu-t’u) does not trust our American papers of recommendation. The Governor of course does not know his province: he is busy transferring his riches to different banks through various fantastic ways, to get it more quickly out of this territory! The Lama begs us not to remain in Aksu a long time. The local bazaar is notorious for its thievery and perversion. It is getting dark. The Amban comes to visit us. An agreeable exception; he speaks English, a little bit of other languages: he was employed in the Russian Asiatic Bank and knows Allan Priest (now Priest is in Peking) personally. We converse a long time. The Amban begs us to remain for a day, otherwise he cannot arrange for two horses until Kucha. We tell him about the Khotan ignoramuses. He shrugs his shoulders and says: “Probably you are in China for the first time.” A sympathetic type of young official, who is watching events and who knows the significance of many things. He will come for luncheon tomorrow. He is the first cultured Chinese we encountered here. He does not seem to have the aggressiveness of Chu in Kashgar. The Amban of Aksu is somewhat on the type of earnest Chinese students, whom one may meet in American and Parisian universities. We rejoice to meet this type because we had molded our understanding of contemporary China according to his type and not according to the buffalos. Let us see what will happen further.

Early in the morning we heard familiar singing. Thus at dawn on the passes did the Ladaki sing their prayers; and so it is here. Our two Ladaki caravaneers are sitting under a tree and are singing harmonious hymns to Tara and the Lord Maitreya.

Pan Tsi-lu, the Amban, comes. We speak about Chinese problems, about religion, about the teachings of life. He complains very much about the life in Aksu. He dreams of leaving because he cannot do anything there. Being alone and a subordinate, he cannot start anything constructive. We wished him success in his intentions. The Amban brought two issues of Chinese papers of the ninth and sixteenth of January. We read how Chang Tso Lin has declared himself independent of the central government. We read also of the resignation of Feng.

The last Chinese in the caravan has exploded! It came out that Sung has spent each night in the bazaar playing cards. The amputated finger did not teach him a lesson. Of our Chinese, two turned out to be opium smokers, and two gamblers. And here the best of the Chinese whom we met—the Amban in Aksu—is anxious to leave this country and feels that he cannot do anything. And who will be the one to undertake, courageously and self-sacrificingly, to turn this dusty cemetery into a flourishing garden? Silver and copper and coal and oil—all are there; but there is no solicitous hand.

We go by a long path to Karakhuduk (eighteen p’o-t’ai). First the clay walls of the new city. Then the pearly desert. Then burkhans and reeds. We march until midnight. We stop at a Chinese inn. Another worry: the backs of the pack horses are rotting because the caravaneers never remove the saddles; and the luggage is permeated with a repulsive odor. In the future it will be necessary to regulate this caravan evil; horses, mules and camels are so burdened here that one cannot permit them to be devoured alive by worms. Tibetans pity the horses. But Kashmiri and Sarts consign them to the worms. It is difficult to believe.

The Sinkiang anecdote continues. Today our famous escort wanted to attach an arrested criminal to our caravan. With great noise we had to eject the uninvited recruit.

And the entire day has been such a beautiful one. We have been going through fantastic, ancient sand formations. The sun is already burning but in the shade there is still ice. There are no trees nor habitations—far around us is the desert, ending in blue cragged hills. The lines are simple and powerful. In such places one may expect old monuments. At sunset we approach a lonely langar, Toghrak-dang. Very high up on the sandy rocks, something is silhouetted. We have no doubt that these are openings of old Buddhist caves. And so it is. Some of them are outlined very high and the entrances to them are crumbled. But three caves are on a low slope. The ceilings and the walls are pretty well gone. Of course it is the Moslems who have destroyed the images they hate. Near the ground a little below are still seen the remnants of ornaments, covered over with Turki inscriptions. But the most enticing thing is the hollow sound beneath the floor. It means that below, in the buried part of the rock, are also caves, not even filled in. We do not remember any mention of this place in Stein. It recalls to us the Tokhar antiquities of the fifth to the eighth centuries. The caves face the East. Before the eyes of the hermits spread the broad mountain view—a good and beautiful place. Under the cave a mountain spring murmurs—not a waterfall but just a light little stream. The thin spring runs through a wooden trough into the wooden pail of the Sart woman. So, also, did the hermits draw their water here. Among the crumbled fragments many pieces of basalt glow darkly. Of course, beside the caves there were stupas and separate structures, which were covered by the avalanche of rocks.

Little bells are ringing; the postman is hurrying to pass us with two sealed bags of mail. From Kashgar to Urumchi the mail takes thirteen days.

The children from the langar hasten to gather the papers left by the caravan. One little girl finds a colorful label from a match box. The exultation of the possessor is unbounded. We regret not having colored postal cards to distribute. If you want to find a place in a child’s heart in the quickest way, do it through vividly colored little pictures. The children will take them with joy and will remember.

We bid farewell to the caves. We pass rich sand formations, like high waves with congealed crests, or like threatening outstretched fingers, or like towers with bridges, or like tents. After the mountains we descend again to the sands. Probably a buran from Takla Makan has swept past here. Everything is drowned in clouds of thick dust. We shall stop in Kushtami in a dusty langar. Again some people are quarreling noisily. On our way we meet several droves of horses. They go to the Russian border toward Andijan. The breed of horses is not fine. We are nearing the horse country and the breed becomes inferior: the values and reputations have to be carefully examined. This was apparent already in the jade, silk, horses; in the quality of singing, in ceramics, and many other things. And one should not be afraid to examine traditions because it is time to transport one’s self from the past to the future. One can know the past but one has to direct one’s consciousness toward the future.

In the yard of the langar is a band of professional gamblers. Near the place are two tents of Karakirghiz—notorious thieves. Exactly in this place an escort given by the Amban once robbed a traveler. One has to take special precautions. The village did not send any guards. If we had our rifles everything would be well, but the ceremony of the sealing of the arms was made openly in order that the servants and all the knaves along the road would know. One cannot rely upon the Chinese escort. The only guard is our Tibetan Tumbal.

As one might have expected, during the night an outrageous thing occurred. It appeared that in spite of our refusal, the prisoner went along with our caravan. During the night there was frenzied gambling. The prisoner lost much money. They bound him. ... In a word, the Chinese have arranged for us an “honorary” escort. Quicker, quicker out of this region!

After the buran, everything merges into mist. The mountains disappear. Yellow fields and occasional black oxen at the plow. They are sowing. On the poplars the buds swell. But here and there, near the rivers, lies late snow. We should stop in the city of Bai. But we are terrified at the dirt of the bazaar and decide to go five p’o-t’ai farther to the small langar. We are standing in a field among old tombs—mazars. In the darkness we set up the tents. It is interesting to note that the Amban in Bai is a nephew of the Tu-t’u. Apparently he has a collection of nephews and to all are given positions of Ambans and Consuls. The Sinkiang Company! Today important decisions are made. There is a communication.

A dull day. Purple-gray sky. Yellow fields. The mountains at the right are of a pale opal silhouette. In these mountains are caves. Three p’o-t’ai from Kizil, where we shall stop, the caves have been explored by Stein. The remnants of the paintings have been burned by the local iconoclasts. On the way we find huge herds of sheep and goats. Where are they being driven? The answer is the same: to Andijan; the sheep, and the goats and the horses and the bulls and the wool, everything is going for sale. The common dream is trade and communications with foreigners. At the same time, hordes of Sarts are going away to find work, because one cannot find any work here. To Andijan, to Kuldje, to Chuguchak—these are three arteries which attract the travel of the entire country. We go through a bazaar and again they are calling to us, “You go well, Urus.” Where from is this? Tomorrow to Kucha we have a long way—eighteen p’o-t’ai. We have to leave at five o’clock.

One of the most beautiful days. Up to seven o’clock it is freezing and then there is a hot sun. First a valiant desert, in pearly tones. Afterwards a crossing brings the most unusual sand formations, like congealed ocean waves, like hundred-towered castles, like cathedrals, like yurtas —and all in an endless variety. In the Toghrak-dang langar we feed the horses. Not far from there are two caves with traces of colored decoration. Two p’o-t’ai from Kucha on a slope rises a tower, Kizil karga—meaning the red raven. On looking back we notice that not far away are the dark entrances of caves. We dismount and hurry there over the sandy mounds. These are the same celebrated caves, it seems to me, some of which LeCoq reproduced. But, as always, reproductions do not give even a fraction of the real impression. One must come to this amphitheater of former temples toward evening, when the impression is intensified by the quietude of nature. One has to imagine all these cavern-shrines, not with darkened walls and vaults, but vividly and brilliantly frescoed. In the niches one has to imagine the figures of the Blessed One and of Bodhisattvas, which are now carried away. In one cave remain the traces of images of thousands of Buddhas. In another cave remains the place of repose of Buddha and a part of the ceiling. The bottoms of the walls are covered with Moslem inscriptions. Under the floor one feels hollow spaces. Apparently there is a row of unopened subterranean structures. One cannot consider these excavations completed if the hollowness of the hidden parts resounds so apparently. Not Lamaism, but traces of true Buddhism are apparent in the silence of these caves. Of course it is wonderful that examples of the frescoes have been scattered into the museums of Europe. But the walls of the caves remain denuded and the true image of the shrines has disappeared—only the skeletons have remained.

We are going to Kucha, passing a row of gardens. The city seems cleaner than the others. Why is this? The Elder, the old Mullah, forces them to clean the streets. Of course it is again impossible to halt in the bazaar. They mention a garden behind the city but how can one reach it in the complete darkness which has fallen? A savior appears; out of this same darkness emerges a white turban, and an unexpected friend, a Sart, leads us out of town. There is a garden and a house and stables. The hostlers beg that they may sleep in the kitchen. Why? In the house for the servants lives “a man deprived of a soul.” They mean an insane man. And the whole group of healthy peasants is afraid of him. The cook calls the chicken-coop the little chickens’ carriage. Here we are in the capital of Tokhars. Here it is that the Tokhar King, Pochan, was persecuted by the Chinese and flew out of the city on a dragon, taking with him all his treasure! Much is rumored about the gold in the Buddhist caves.

The whole morning is spent in negotiations with arbakeshs, mafakeshs and korakeshs; at first everything seems impossible. Then after an avalanche of unnecessary discussion everything becomes possible. At first, as far as Karashahr, the road is estimated as twelve long days. Whereas, as everybody knows, eight days is the customary period. We peer into all these faces. And where are the traces of the Tokhars? They are not visible. Perhaps something of a more Mongoloid type appears in the features, but in general, these are the same Turk Sarts. And thus, the Tokhars disappeared leaving no traces and no one knows even the true pronunciation of the symbols of their writings.

So, before the eyes of history has come a nation, from whence is unknown; nor is it known how it scattered and disappeared without a trace. And not a savage people but one with a written language, with culture. Just so is it with their Tzar Pochan: whither he flew on the dragon is known. And it is strange to sit in this same country—in this pear-garden—and not know anything about the inhabitants who were here not long ago.

One cannot obtain objects of antiquity here either—“Somewhere, someone knows about them in Takla Makan.”

At one o’clock at night, drums, trumpets and singing began. Loud and shrill and persistent were the screams of “Allah.” These are the Moslems preparing for the fast of Ramazan. During the day they have to fast, but at night they can partake of food aplenty. In order not to outsleep the period of eating, the good Moslems play and dance on the eve of the day’s fast. The dogs barked a great deal and were running wild during the night. Ramsana got up in order to inspect the camp and he noticed that the government guards, the tseriks, slept heavily. Ramsana took away the rifle from one of them, went around the camp and fell asleep with the rifle. The tserik was startled when he awoke in the morning without his gun. Oh, these unhappy tseriks!

In the morning a Swedish woman missionary came. She has been in this country for fifteen years and not one convert! However, the missionary busies herself with doctoring and midwifery and here it is absolutely necessary because all these “cities” are without a single doctor.

Then the American day begins. We go to see the American firm, Brenner Brothers of New York. They are in the gut and wool business. An entire community of vigorous working people. A unique community with children and with a joyous realization of the growing work. The business is developing. With all the primitiveness of the apparatus one has to admire the fine results. Here they are assorting and washing the wool. Here, on a hand-made press they are pressing it. Here a line of camels are waiting to lift the white heaps of wool and to carry them abroad, to Tientsin and to the ports for Europe and America. In the whole artel there are no books; for the entire community there is one New Testament and an accidental volume of Korolenko. It is a joy to be able to give them old newspapers and two books. There are tales about the affairs of the Sarts. They praise the murdered Titai. They ask what happens in the world. D. is skillfully interpreting the local customs by way of religious discussions. In this way the intolerance and superstition which are spread by the Mullahs find resistance. And there is much intolerance. And many of the local Beys have planned to strangle the new foreign enterprise. D. and P. show themselves as pioneers for America in this country. They listen to our tales about America. D. tells about the mineral riches of the Torgut and Iliisk district.

The Kalmucks are excellent marksmen. The Kalmuck administration does not hesitate to make innovations. The people praise the Sarts for their work. They have initiative, ability and adaptability.

In the country are many narrators of legends and fairy tales which touch the questions of the Koran and religion. Often the listeners enter into a dialogue with the narrator. Often keen questions upset the routine of superstition. In Turfan there exists a curious custom of sending young men with an experienced guide in the guise of a story-teller through the whole country, even to Mecca. Thus a unique experimental university is evolving. Through this, one may explain the adaptability of Turfanians.

The gatherings and festivities usually end with a song about Issa (Jesus):

“As Issa went on his wanderings, he saw a great head. On the road lay a dead human head. Issa thought that the great head belonged to a great man. And Issa decided to do good and to resurrect this great head. And the head covered itself with skin. And the eyes filled themselves. And there grew a great body and the blood flowed. And the heart was filled. And the mighty giant rose and thanked Issa that he resurrected him for usefulness to humankind.”

There are many legends about the flights of Solomon, and among the Kalmucks is very widely spread a legend about Jesus which is nothing else than one of the manuscripts already known to us, “Issa, the Best of Human Sons.” Of course it has penetrated here not from Hemis but from another original source. Everywhere are spread the signs of beauty. It is time to gather them fearlessly without superstition.

Again information is given to us about ancient places. About many caves and stupas along Kizil darya. Part of them have been excavated and part of them are still hidden. Not long ago on the bazaar they sold “a trunk with antiquities” brought from Lob (near Lob-nor). There are tales about old cities along the stream of Tarim or Yarkand darya. There are people who know these cities. The fossilized bodies in the burial grounds indicate a very great stature, taller of course than Mongolians. The expeditions which were there, completed the easier and most apparent part of the work. Now there yet remains the more concealed work demanding greater construction and preparation.

In Kucha it is already warm. The young grass is getting green and is two inches high. We learn that from Karashahr to Urumchi one can go by the mountain road. It will be five days shorter. In this way, one can avoid the hot site at Tukson, where there is a descent into the Turfan Oasis (960 feet below sea level). In the summer in Turfan people bury themselves in the earth and cannot walk more than one p’o-t’ai. Besides the approaching heat, there is mud by now, on the great road. It is better to go through the Kalmuck territory, along the mountain passes.

Ramsana again took the gun away from the sleeping tserik and strolled around the camp. And again the tserik bowed to his feet and asked him to return the gun as otherwise the Amban would beat him.

They ask on what the comparatively high exchange of the Chinese currency is based. But all know that it is not guaranteed by anything and circulates like dry leaves by command of the Governor. Of course, this is one of the successive misunderstandings and justice will soon clarify it.

Until now in Tibet there exists a custom of specially prosecuting gambling houses and brothels. A certain lama called Gekö Lama, upon learning of the existence of such houses, takes a dozen lamas with whips and at the very peak of the orgy presents himself at the house. And then, there on the spot, all present are whipped.

Interesting is the Kalmuck song, “Of him who came earlier”: “One man pondered long and forgot to come to the elections of a Noyon (prince). Another man did not sleep that night and came first. And he was selected Noyon, because he entered first. And so the former who pondered, sits and broods that for him no place was found in the yurta of the Noyon.”

As in other countries, so here are many marks of treasures. Often on the rocks one can see tiny projecting piles of stones. These are the signs of treasures. In the monastery records one can find directions as to how at certain times of the day, according to the indications of the shadows, one may go from one pile to another to the site of the treasure. D. is called Ishan here, meaning the holy one, for his knowledge of religious subjects. B. has seen an ancient tomb recently. The tibial bone found there reached six quarters in length. The spot is in the direction of Lob-nor. B. has marked it. So there are interesting indications for the future.

We bid farewell to the workers’ group at Brenner’s. We again noticed that wherever there is labor there is joy. P. went on a troyka; D. and M. went on horseback to accompany us out of town. Again questions. Where shall we meet? They will discuss the newspapers and books we left for a long time. For our farewell they demonstrated to us the wonderful pace of their Karashahr horses. “Now you shall encircle a part of the Gobi,” calls D. We are sinking into the milky desert. A shamal begins. It fills our eyes. We turn into a yellow mass.

Every day new significant information comes. “The Mongolian army has reached the river Urungu and threatens Sin-kiang.” Nobody in Europe and America knows about the affairs of the local countries.

We are stopping in the village Yaka-arik.

Underground creeks are often used here. This corresponds fully to the tradition of underground passages, so prevalent in Asia. Precisely in Central Asia, are interwoven fairy tales and reality. European measures are not applicable here.

From Peking it was proposed to the Tu-t’u of Sinkiang that an aeroplane communication between Peking and Urumchi be established. The Tu-t’u answered that in this province this would not be practicable, because his people were wild and would flee to the mountains. Of course the people would not flee; but rumors of the various ignorant activities of the Governor-General would spread more quickly. The people would very quickly welcome these air messengers. The dream of the Orient about the flying carpets, which the people attribute to Solomon, would be reborn in their expectation of the iron birds. For in Tibet also the most ancient prophecies have envisaged iron birds and iron serpents. There are also, as in traces of the fundamental teaching of Buddha, references to the cosmogonic problems of planetary evolution and of the development of life. As soon as we began to speak about Buddhism, as of a realistic teaching, the woman missionary in Kucha hastened to leave us, saying, “The scriptures of Buddhism are taken from Christianity.” But the Pillars of Asoka were standing before Christianity and in the first century before Christ the recording of the covenants of Gautama was already begun. One has to regard things more simply and without prejudice.

Not long ago the travels of Sven Hedin appeared as an unprecedented heroism; and now E.I. is crossing the same deserts and heights with no thought that it is anything extraordinary. Now the representatives of Brenner are traversing the same expanses where Sven Hedin, according to his books, almost perished from lack of water. And soon iron birds will swiftly fly above these same places. And the fairy tale of the past will be replaced by the new fairy tale of the cosmos.

Since evening the cicadas have been singing. High stands the shining moon. There is the fragrance of grass. But at two o’clock at night the buran struck. Verily struck. It came flying like a dragon and roared threateningly until morning. The tent was all aflutter. We had to prepare ourselves in case the tent should fly away. And in the morning again the pearly Gobi desert. Mother of pearl and opal, and above, dull sapphire. On the road, in order, is spread out a big caravan. This is Brenner’s, or, as they call it here, Belyan-khan which goes to Tientsin.

Approaching us, tinkling, is a kazan troyka. Two women and three Tartar girls from Chuguchak are going to Karaul. We passed fourteen p’o-t’ai. And we shall stop in the garden of Yangiabad. The last p’o-t’ai suffocated us again with their deep sands. Tommy is limping. He has malanders. He will be out of service for five days. In the evening everything becomes quiet. The silvery sun sets.

Here we are called Rerengi-Bey. It is our fifth name thus far.

We are trying to find out whether we can avoid Karashahr and go from Kurat through a Kalmuck encampment, by way of the monastery Sharasüme on the mountain road to Urumchi. The Kalmucks, as a nation, have slipped out of attention. It is instructive to go through their ulus for a week.

The Dungans, or Chinese Moslems, occupy a strange position in the country. They are frankly disliked by Moslem, Chinese and Kalmucks. The word “Dungan” itself is pronounced with a certain contempt. The faces of the Dungans are scarcely attractive. There is much cruelty in them.

We proceed as far as Bogar, a dusty bazaar site. It is divided into nine p’o-t’ai, but apparently it is more, judging by the time. Here the p’o-t’ai are counted peculiarly. There are short p’o-t’ai and long p’o-t’ai. Down a mountain is a long p’o-t’ai, uphill is a short p’o-t’ai. A strange measure of distance.

First we go by the opal desert. To the left are hills. Three p’o-t’ai before Bogar one comes upon a swampy oasis. On the road is mud. Big flocks of ducks and geese are on the wing. The hoopoes are strutting about in a most pompous way. They say of them: “These are former men.” The end of the road is enveloped in clouds of dust.

A dusty garden. On the fence is sitting the son of the Amban. Politely Sung persuades him “It is not good to sit on a fence.” But nothing helps, and Sung applies the customary means here and throws a stone. The boy disappears.

From all sides you hear the same remarks about the inaccuracy of existing maps. In some important sites and details are omitted. It is necessary to examine the transcription of the name. In some, non-existing names are introduced. Some are taken from the Turki, others from the Chinese, and still others, from some kind of local jargon which is not recognized anywhere. Even in the staff maps there are a great many errors which promise one much trouble on the route.

Was not Tamerlane a great disinfector? He destroyed many cities. We know what it means to destroy little clay cities full of all sorts of contagion. Here we have passed twelve cities. What can be done with them? For the people’s welfare, one ought to burn them and plan new villages beside them. While the old is in its final decay—it is difficult to force the natives to turn toward new places. Here the Tung-ling of Kucha constructed a new city alongside the old city. Broad streets, underground canals. But the people are afraid of the new place.

We follow a broad plain. We pass Yangizar. We go further through a dusty forest. We shall stop behind Chader. It is dark. We have passed sixteen p’o-t’ai. The caravan is delayed. Sabsa’s back is swollen. Mastan and Olla are keeping up remarkably. Nobody knows distances. The caravan arrives at one at night.

A tiring day. It is hot. We are passing by a dusty forest and low shrubs. Up to Chirchi it is twelve p’o-t’ai. We pass a big caravan of Belyankhan. Another caravan of the same firm stands in Chirchi. The pioneers of America are working.

Today is the day of our institutions in America! The day of the founders. We are sending our thoughts to America, to the house of the Museum and the school, where the day is being observed. Our dear friends, it is as if we were present at your annual meeting. The distance does not exist. Traversing these spaces we recall the plains of the Mississippi and Missouri and the immeasurable steppes of Russia. We are even rejoicing at the caravan of Belyankhan. This is already cooperation with Asia. As though both continents, divided by a cosmic catastrophe, remembered their former unity. How much of Mongolian there is in the types of the later Mayans and the red-skinned Indians! How much equal breadth there is in America and in Asia. And now in its moment of regeneration, Asia remembers its distant ties. Greetings to America!

They show us another species of monetary symbols—some sort of greasy little rag and a dirty little bone. This is the situation of the local currency: Lans (or sar or teza) are equal to four hundred dekhans. But a Kashgar lan is equal to three Urumchi lans and an Urumchi lan is equal to three Kuldja lans. A Khotan lan is considered eight hundred dekhans. You will say it is nonsense. I agree with you. But because of this nonsense, millions of people are suffering. Can such differences in standards of money existing in one province be further complicated by wooden and rag signs? This is the reason that people ask why the value of Chinese currency has stood so high until now.

Nowhere are objects of antiquity to be found. Apparently the accessible upper layer of discoveries has already been exported to Europe and as for the hidden layers, let them remain for Asia itself. The dignity of the countries demand that they should wisely dispose of their true resources. But so far the Ambans are disposing of the people’s treasures for their own benefit. The Amban of Yangi Hissar (designated as Consul to Andijan) lost many thousands of lans at cards. Now he has especially increased the taxes without limit and will not leave for his new position until he regains his loss.

Twelve more p’o-t’ai through the desert with small brush. We reach Tim. In the morning it is still cool, but by midday the sun is already burning. The caravans begin to travel by night as during the summer. Again tales about the heat of Turfan where, in summer, they bake little cakes on the stones under the sun. It is said, “There are many underground springs here, and also many underground passages.” In the past they once tortured a holy man and he hid himself in a subterranean passage and came out after six months of wandering.

And another thing happened long ago: “Some people went in search of God in Barkul. They came to a king who considered himself a god. He sat and read a book and his cat held a candle before him. The pilgrims decided to test whether the king really was a god. They argued, ‘If we let loose a mouse, will the king’s shrewd cat run after it? If the king is a god then his power should stop the cat.’ Thereupon they let a mouse loose, and the king’s cat ran away and threw down the candle. The people now saw that the king was not a god.

“They went further. They met a shepherd who gave them bread and asked if he could be their comrade. They took him, but the shepherd did not wish to take his dog. He said that because of the animal, people would find them more easily. But the dog ran after him. The shepherd did not even have pity on him and killed the dog. Only to seek God!

“They approached a chasm-like crevice in the mountain. And as they entered, the stone door closed after them. What passed where the holy people dwell, no one knows. Some time afterward the shepherd who had been sent for something came out; he came to the city to buy bread at the bazaar. He offered them money, but the people were astonished at the coming of the giant and they refused to take his money, saying that for two thousand years such money had not been current. The shepherd quickly returned to the mountain and the king of the place hurried after him in order to investigate this wonder. But apparently the holy people have no need for kings, for the mountain closed. Nor could it be opened either by tempest or by prayer. The king brought his entire army but much as they labored at this mountain, and though they all perished in the attempt, the mountain did not open. And near this mountain is the tomb of the king. Such deeds there were and such underground passages there are.”

A young Baksha overtakes us on horseback. He sings fairy tales and tells legends, and he “conjures devils”—“Baksha, sing the tale of Shabistan!” He takes out from behind his back a long-stringed gejack. He sings as he rides. He plays. The strings sound well. And somehow one forgets the dry sands and the hot sun. Two melodies resound. Now the higher one dominates, as if in supplication or command; again the lower thunders out its victorious affirmation.

Then the Baksha takes the tambourine and fills the desert with widely varied rhythms. We rejoice that on the last day in the country of the Sarts, we are accompanied by the song and melodies of the Baksha Sart. Tomorrow we shall reach the ulus of the Kalmucks.

At the left, to the north, out of the fog looms the ridge of T’ian Shan. Behind it are the Kalmucks and beyond it Semirechye. At the entrance to Tim is a great ancient stupa and ruins of old structures, banners of Buddhism. It is said that the mountain where Buddha was initiated was all aflame. But after the prayer of the Blessed One, snow fell and extinguished the fire. Ice and snow now encircle this mountain and it is difficult to find it until the predestined date.

A quiet warm evening, a milky spring sky. If one only could reach an encampment of the Kalmuck Khan without entering Karashahr and go there, by monasteries and mountains, to Urumchi! We are awaiting the Kalmucks. This is significant.

A fair, beautiful day. First from the north, rose the range of T’ian Shan. All sapphire and amethyst. Then we crossed a row of fine sand formations. From below the hill flashed a blue mountain river. A powerful and overflowing one. We followed the river. In front of us, closed gates—the custom house. The boundary of Kalmuck soil. The first Kalmucks appear. George tries his Mongolian on them. They understand each other. We stop in a langar, not far from Mingoi Saur (thousand ruins). The ruins are enveloped in a legend that a lama saw a light at a certain place. The people dug. They reached water and there appeared a water-serpent.

There is a belief that on these sites stood a large monastery containing the chalice of Buddha, which disappeared from Peshawar, and which is mentioned by Fa-hsien in Karashahr.

Now we are stopping by the river, near strata of coal. This is the first day without dust—again mountain air. The first tree is in blossom. The Kalmuck soil smiles. It is as though we were now walking around its borders. At night a full moon shines. Behind the river glow the shepherds’ bonfires.

We recall the hopes of the Kalmucks. We recall how Chuntse, the first one, told us about Toin Lama. Later there came full information as to what this Torgut leader can achieve if he is able to accept what is sent to him. And should he fail to accept it—then a long farewell to Dzungaria! Of what avail to speak if one’s palm is full of holes. ...

The crossing to Karashahr (or Karachahr, or Karachar). Soon the mountains recede and the river disappears toward the south. Again a dusty and famished desert. Again a village road, instead of a broad Chinese highway. On the surface is a great deal of inflammable clay slate. There is coal in the mountains. In a whirl of dust we reach the river opposite Karashahr. The crossing is on primitive rafts. There were such crossings on the small tributaries of the Volga. A multi-colored crowd; piles of balls; carts, mules, camels and horses. And again, in the city itself, there is nothing Buddhist. Still Sarts and Chinese. One seldom sees the faces of Kalmucks, marked as they are by greater keenness and alertness.

S., a representative of Belyankhan, meets us. He praises the Kalmucks.

We have to change servants. Our terrorizing Gorban, of whom everybody is afraid, happens to be very timorous himself. He is afraid of Chinese and of Kalmucks and trembles for his miserable rupees. Sarts are apparently afraid of Kalmucks and Mongols. They fear their keenness. We shall have to fill in the loss of Sarts in the caravan by Kalmucks. How illuminating it is to observe this nation which may now enter the pages of history. How refreshing it is to penetrate again into the mountains and to leave the sands and the dust. Even the horses shake themselves when they approach fresh water and mountains. At the sight of mountains our Tibetans, Tsering and Ramsana, fairly leap with joy.

Smile, Kalmuck soil. The Series “Asurgina” and “Orovani” is conceived.