Karashahr, in translation, means Black City. The Chinese call Urumchi the Red Temple (Hung-Miao-Tzi).

On this expanse are the countries of the Torguts and Khoshuts. Strange is the destiny of the Kalmucks. The nation is dispersed in an inexplicable manner. In Chinese Sinkiang, the Olets occupy the Iliisk district; the Torguts, Karashahr; the Khoshuts, Dzungaria; the Oirots, Mongolia; the Damsok are in Tibet. Besides these there are Kalmuck ulus, scattered in Caucasia, Altai, Semirechye, Astrakhan, along the Don, and near Orenburg. Near the holy mountain Sabur stand the remains of the city of the Kalmuck King, Aisha. In the scattered yurtas the signs of self-consciousness begin to appear. The prophecies of the forefathers tell of the coming dates.

A dispute between a Sart Bey and the Kalmuck. The Sart says provokingly: “You have no god.” The Kalmuck answers, calmly: “If a Sart comes among us we feed him and give him drink, and we feed his horse and give him provisions on his journey. But if a Kalmuck comes to the Sart, he is not given food and his horse remains hungry. Judge for yourself, who possesses the essential. The Sarts defile the Buddhist teaching and mock the Buddhist images but the Kalmucks say, ‘We revere your inscriptions.’ But you have no images because when the first images were bestowed, you were far distant and could not perceive them.”

It is difficult to dispute with Buddhists. Those who know the teaching can tell so much of the evolution of life; they speak about the messengers from Shambhala who go forth on earth, in various guises, for the help of mankind. Unprejudiced, they speak of the new social movements, recalling the commands of Gautama himself. But if we eliminate from these tales the stylization of language and images we encounter a teaching based on the true knowledge of evolution far ahead of its epoch.

S. praises the Kalmucks for the steadfastness of their word: “One does not need written agreements. It is not as with the Sarts, especially the beks and beys.”

We encounter a few beautiful Karashahr horses. This is the identical breed which one sees on ancient miniatures and on the statuettes of old China. Some scientists considered this breed extinct. But here it is before us, vigorous, dark-bay, firm in gait. It would be good for other countries to examine this breed.

Tomorrow we will go to the encampment of the Kalmuck Khan.

Hardly has evening fallen before a new Sinkiang villainy occurs. S. arrives in great excitement and says that the Amban will not permit us to go by the short road and orders us to continue our route through the sands and heat of Toksun, the long and wearisome highway. An added insult, an added imposition, an added derision of the artist and the man. Is it possible that we cannot see the monasteries? Is it possible that an artist must go only by way of the dry sands We hurry to the Taotai. The old man pretends to be indisposed and cannot receive us. His secretary shouts from the balcony that we can go, that the Amban will arrange all that is necessary. We go to the Amban. He is not at home. His secretary says that the Amban “fears for us on account of the great snows on the mountain pass.” We explain that there is now no longer any snow, that we do not have to go by way of high Teke-davan, that we will go through Sumun-davan, which is lower.

At seven o’clock they promise to bring us the answer. Of course the snow of the Amban is by no means of a white color. These Chinese are capable of ruining each day. These Chinese are capable of transforming each day into a prison and a torture. We await the evening and nevertheless prepare to depart. There come Torguts, returning from Kobdo.

A Khoshut lama comes. He asks us to heal his eyes. He brings us valuable tales. Not fairy tales but facts. Facts are needed. The lama from Uliasutai has written a book about the approach of the time of Shambhala.

In the evening the answer comes. The nephew of the Taotai and the postmaster bring it. Of course the answer is negative. In spite of the heat, of the humidity and dust, we must go by the long way, through hot Toksun. E.I. says she will die from the heat, but the Chinese smile and notify us that their Governor has a very small heart. We compose this telegram to the Governor-General:

Please wire instructions to the Magistrate at Karashahr to allow Roerich Expedition to proceed to Urumchi by mountain way. Health of Mrs. Roerich does not allow her to continue journey through the hot sandy desert of the long road. The mountain road permits to reach Urumchi much sooner.

Until the arrival of an answer we shall go to the encampment of the Torgut Khan and the monastery Sharasüme.

The sense of surveillance and compulsion is abominable. What work can be accomplished when behind one’s back stands the order of the Amban and when the Governor-General has a “very small heart”? One’s whole mood is spoiled and we are waiting again as though in some medieval Chinese dungeon.

We arise with the dawn. All our men hasten to leave earlier in order that the Chinese may not have time to invent new difficulties. S. accompanies us for a long distance. In a broad-brimmed hat and in a. yellow, old military coat, he sits well-poised on his ambling horse as if he came from a New Mexican ranch. We go by the yellow steppe; high grass. The sun is burning hot. To the north is again a vague silhouette of mountains; separate great yurtas; herds of camels. The riders wear round caps of Tibetan cut. After nine p’o-t’ai we arrive at the encampment. The bazaar is cleaner than the cities of the Sarts. The white buildings of the post shine in the sun. The walls, the yards, the walks, are broadly constructed. They lead us through a broad yard into a big room. White walls, black Chinese furniture, bearskins. We drink tea. They bring a card from the Gegen-regent (the Khan being a minor). This is the same reincarnated Sengchen Lama whom we mentioned in the Sikhim notes. Tomorrow we shall see him. We shall stop in the field behind the encampment opposite the mountains.

A wonderful sensation. Kalmucks come and are speaking to our lama. The Kalmucks ask whether we have pieces of magnet. They ask about Tibet, about Mongolia, all this very carefully, until they know with certainty who we are. The women are in very beautiful, well-fitting attire. Behind the wall a military trumpet resounds—these are the Cossacks of Toin-Lama, the Gegan ruler. He has two hundred Kalmuck riders, who are taught the Cossack formation.

A clear morning. Purple mountains. It will be hot. The distinctness of the mountains and buildings reminds me somewhat of Ladak. One might have rejoiced had there not occurred a Chinese villainy in the guise of a guard, who came with the insolent announcement that we must not remain here too long, and that it would be better to await the command of the Tu-t’u in Karashahr—in the middle of manured fields, dust and suffocating heat. Verily, one may choke from all the proposals of the Chinese. Now even the escorting soldiers have begun to reprimand us. They ought rather to guard our seized arms, which were thrown on the field without any watch. At ten o’clock we go to Toin-Lama, a friendly man, small in stature. Although according to custom the face of Toin-Lama is impenetrable, nevertheless, upon hearing the tales about temples in Sikhim and Little Tibet he becomes animated and wishes us all success. He stands as he listens to the message, but fear of the Chinese congeals the tongue of Toin-Lama. He mumbles: “When the time comes.” But the time has come! Every one measures for himself. . . .

The house of the prince is white and clean and spacious. In the yards stand yurtas with golden cupolas. Dented walls. Banners. Some faces smiling, and some gloomy. One can understand how strong is Sinkiang oppression. The Sinkiang dragon coils around the semi-independence of the Kalmucks. But the mountains and the white walls are so joyous! Not even three hours pass without Chinese treachery. A whole crowd of “ministers” and elders arrives from the Gegen-regent with two Chinese soldiers. Do we not see that the Amban of Karashahr commands us to return to Karashahr immediately? All this is told to us at length and firmly, but there is no letter with it. We say that we intend to leave Sinkiang as quickly as possible, but that we await the answer from the Tu-t’u. And here we sit again in inactivity and await a telegram from Urumchi, without any assurance that our telegram was sent at all. It is impossible to work because even without moving we call forth persecution. Meanwhile the soldier goes to the bazaar and entrusts his gun to Suleiman. And so the soldier’s gun is being entrusted to our groom and our arms are left sealed in the fields. In fine, where is logic, where is reason?

After three hours a buran starts. The mountains disappear.

Friends, you will think that I am exaggerating somewhat. If anything, I should be glad to understate, but the occurrences are monstrous. Again a crowd of Kalmucks come with Chinese soldiers and transmit to us the demand that we immediately depart from the post by command of the Karashahr Taotai. They are noisy and threaten. It means that one cannot work; nor can one visit Sharasüme. The whole purpose of the Expedition vanishes. One can only determine to leave Chinese soil as quickly as possible. Within two hours we go to demand back our passport and a letter stating the reasons of our expulsion. They give us the passports with an official letter that the expulsion is by command of the Karashahr Taotai, who accuses us of having made maps. They give us carts in order to send us away more quickly. I tell them that I am fifty-two years old; that I was honorably received by twenty-two countries, and that for the first time in my life I am subjected to expulsion and this from the territory of the semi-independent Torguts. What kind of independence? This is nothing but slavery: humiliating slavery, against all the customs of the East—to cast out a guest! And where shall we go? To the heat of Toksun? And can E.I. endure it? Her heart is absolutely unable to bear the heat. And where is the nearest border in order to hide from the Chinese torturers?

A tempest threatens in the mountains.

We slept badly. We arose before dawn. I walk out in the morning twilight. I meet our lama. He is very upset: “I must depart at once. They want to arrest us.”—“Who said it?”—“During the night a lama came whom I know from Tibet; he says that yesterday the Kalmuck Elders wanted to bind us all; but they were afraid of the revolvers.”—“Take Olla and the Kirghiz with you. Gallop through the steppe to Karashahr. There we shall find you.”

In five minutes the lama and the Kirghiz are already galloping through the steppe. The carts have come in the meantime. We start in a hurry to load. Threatened by the Chinese, the Gegen-regent does not even come to say good-by. More than once was he held back in Urumchi and now he is even more afraid. Even for the religious festivals, the Chinese only permitted him to leave Urumchi for four days. Although he is not courageous, still one cannot simply expel guests in order to please the Chinese. Some riders are encircling us and spying. Again we go by the same steppe but Karashahr has become for us truly a black city. In Karashahr we were prohibited from visiting the Buddhist temple. They doom us to creep along the hot sands for twelve days and stupidly prohibit us from touching the beloved mountains. From Karashahr, by reason of the order of the Tu-t’u, we were again made convicts under surveillance. But on the other hand we know that the poor Gegen is surrounded by Chinese spies and that often under a Kalmuck’s kaftan is hidden Chinese identity. We come into the manured garden where we were before. From the gates they scream at us “Kapr” (meaning impure, a Moslem greeting). Sung rushes at the offender with a whip. The usual fight. The Sart runs away. We go at once to the Amban and on our way take along the postmaster, who speaks English. The Amban says that according to the telegram of Tu-t’u, we must go by the long way through the sands, in spite of the danger to the health of E.I. Of course we already heard that the Tu-t’u has a “very small heart.” But, nevertheless, this cruelty astonishes me. The Amban does not deny that he ordered us to return from the encampment and that we were prohibited from visiting the Buddhist temple. We say that in that case we have nothing to do in China and we ask for a written statement of these prohibitions for communication to America. The Amban is confused and refers to the necessity of conferring with the Taotai. Once more it is confirmed that we are prohibited from visiting the temples and painting the mountains and that in order to expedite our journey we are sent on a long road. Where art thou, Confucius? Where is thy justice and sagacity?

Tiresome bargaining over the arbas begins. They demand, as far as Urumchi, 180 lans, while the usual price is not more than ninety or a hundred lans. So we finish the day among different “friendly greetings.”

Kalmuck soil had smiled to us from afar, but on approach this was turned into the Sinkiang grimace. We recall the deeply penetrating Sikhim moods; we recall the grandeur of the Himalayas. It was not without cause that our hearts ached when we began to descend from the Karakorum heights toward Takla Makan. The Kirghiz related how the Torgut Elders held council after the receipt of the letter from the Amban: “Should we bind them? We are many and they are only three.” The Kirghiz, Salim, is indignant at the Gegan: “This is not a prince; if he changes his word in an hour, he shall never be a Burkhan.” And again we see the sympathy of the people and the rancor of the Elders and beks. The Lama is indignant because of the conduct of the Kalmucks. All this is illuminating! The former Kalmuck Khan was poisoned. A wiser counselor was killed. The Torgut Elders are far from awakening.

Different tales about the Kalmucks. The late Kalmuck Khan, under pressure or under influence, gave an important mission to a Chinese. The Chinese hurriedly went to Urumchi in order to legalize and to ratify the mission. The Kalmucks overtook him in the mountains and put an end to him together with his escort, so that not even any traces were found. Because their Khan was susceptible to such influence, the Kalmucks poisoned him. As the heir was a minor, the brother of the Khan, Toin-Lama, became regent. In June of this year, the Toin-Lama will give over the state seal (tamgha) to the young Khan, and he himself is going away as an ecclesiastic to the monastery in Sharasűme. Shall the twelve-year-old Khan reign for long? Toin-Lama fell into disgrace with the Tu-t’u after he refused to give his soldiers for the expedition that was sent to kill the Kashgar Titai. A complete medieval darkness!

The prosperity of the Kalmucks is being crippled because the taxes are high. Besides the Chinese taxes, they pay the local Noyon taxes. It is hard for the people. The herds of the simple people are getting meager; and the Elders, taking their bearing from Sinkiang, have reached a point where they try to bind an American Expedition. In Khotan they threatened to expel us, and in Karashahr they brought the threats into action. We shall hope that the weather will be less bloodthirsty than the Tu-t’u of Urumchi, and that it will not suffocate E.I. This official sends a compilation of his orders to the British Consul, also to the British Museum; but it is not the dead pages of his orders but his actions, which give the image of the man. Only at first hand is it possible to see the true image of the government of Sinkiang. It is not for nothing that the best Chinese are calling the Sinkiang government, “Sinkiang Company.” And until you see it on this site, you will not be able to believe in such human deterioration. Of course the Tu-t’u is old and will die soon and he cannot take with him to his grave the pilfered goods. But who will be the one to clean these Augean stables?

Verily I should much rather paint than depict these harmful, malevolent evils. But apparently it has to be so. Probably for some this will be useful. America awaits my paintings of the Buddhist heights, but let the Chinese government explain why we were not permitted to go to the monasteries. In Sikhim they met us with trumpets and banners; but on Chinese soil, with ropes. Of course, the Amban of Karashahr did not give me any letter. Well, it is not necessary. We have a letter with the seal of the Kalmuck Khan which clearly indicates the order of the Chinese officials. Quicker, away from the Chinese threat! Before us are the islands of Japan: before us the dreams, long-existing, to see the Easter Islands with their mysterious stone giants.

Soldiers were not sent today at all and so our confiscated arms have to guard themselves. The evening is ended with the tedious procedure of granting leave to three hostlers who are going away to Ladak. The young Tibetan, Tsering, wants to go with us. He does not love his stepmother, and he says that his father has become a stranger to him and he wants to go far away with us. The young soul is knocking at the window of new possibilities. How can one not take him?

The morning begins with the drama of Tsering. His Ladaki father, misinformed by the malicious grooms, forbids Tsering to go with us. If he does, he says, he will break his legs and arms. You should have seen the tears of Tsering. All trembling and swallowing his tears, he bids us farewell. What right do people have to deprive one of his happiness? In his desire was so much striving toward light. And now Tsering again will have senselessly to march with donkeys along the dry sands, serving ignorance. Poor boy! Sometimes we wonder if he is not going to run away. Of course this is difficult because the malicious old man and the no less malicious hostler will watch him.

Since seven o’clock we have been busy with the arbas and caravan. We are writing contracts. We are protesting on account of the unfitness of the horses and the soldiers who were sent. The delay makes us indignant. An American would be driven distracted by such a tempo. When will these people awaken?

At the same time comes interesting information. The Chinese are taking vaccine against smallpox, not from calves but from people, and so they are contaminating people with syphilis and other diseases.

The Mongols have occupied the frontier from Sharasűme and are within a hundred miles from Ku-ch’eng or, about three hundred miles from Urumchi—from the residence of the Governor-General. If one draws a line from Kuldja to Ku-ch’eng, the Tu-t’u will find himself in a sack. Incidentally, the illustrious Tu-t’u has erected for himself a monument in Urumchi. Will not the Mongols remove it?

We are marching only four p’o-t’ai. Instead of mountains, instead of monasteries, instead of Maitreya—again yellow steppes around us. What right do the Chinese have to deprive us of seeing beauty? The departure of the three hostlers somehow refreshed the caravan. For some reason the people are joyous. Ramsana expects Tsering and assures us that he will come running to us today or tomorrow.

It is very cold during the night and hot at midday. Yellow steppe. A dusty stony road. Northward is a range of foggy mountains. We reach the dirty little village of Ushaktal. Again we have to stop near cattle yards. Indiscriminating are all Taotais, Titais, Ambans, T’ung-lings, who for centuries have been stopping overnight at the same miserable inns. From this little village goes the Koshut road to Urumchi. Along the Khoshut road it is only four days to Urumchi but by order of the Governor-General, we have to go by the long dusty, hot and ugly road for eight whole days. This is Chinese cruelty, to force travelers to go in the dust and suffocating heat and to know that alongside this there goes a short road full of mountain beauty. It is significant that not one of the Taotais and Ambans whom we saw could mention to us any celebrated contemporary Chinese artist or scientist.

You may imagine our feeling when we saw the canyon through which the short road passes, and we ourselves had to crawl in clouds of hot dust!

Again a variation of the legend about Turfan: “From a cave came out a tall man and went to the bazaar to buy something. He offered to pay for his purchases with gold coins which were a thousand years old. Then the man went back into the same cave and disappeared. And at the entrance was standing a stone dog. The dog wanted to jump into the cave after the man but he became petrified.”

Ushaktal is the center for Khoshut horses. They are larger than those of the Torguts. At a distance of one p’o-t’ai from Ushaktal are traces of an old fortress of the times of the conquest of Andijan and Fergana. Many mosquitoes. Wild geese.

“The old Khan decided to hand over to his sons the tamgas (seals) that they should rule the Khoshuns. There were tamgas of gold, silver, copper and one of wood. The Khan’s wife told her favorite son: ‘My boy, take the wooden tamga. Don’t take the gold ones!’ The Khans began to choose the tamgas and the old Khan said, ‘The sky has created water. Let us test the tamgas with water. The one tamga which shall be higher shall remain higher.’ And the wooden tamga remained on the surface of the water, but the gold and silver sank underneath the water.”

On the Black Irtysh are many gold prospectors, tens of thousands of them. The gold is only slightly under the soil. The Tu-t’u sent soldiers to detain the seekers, but on reaching the gold the entire troop disappeared.

Today is a beautiful day. From all sides appear mountains—blue, sapphire, purple, yellow and reddish brown. Gray sky and pearly vistas. Alongside the bed of a broad current we reach Kara-Kizil. It means black-red. The name is correctly given because the mountains are of coarse granite, black and red. The silence of the desert. How much more agreeable are these isolated langars than the cities and dirty bazaars!

And only to think that we could have gone for four days through solitary mountains, amidst far-off snows! Today the first small pine appeared. The whole day, for seventy-four miles, there was only one small langar, with a bad well, a hundred feet in depth. For the whole day only two small caravans of emaciated mules. It is as if one did not go by a big Chinese road but through a new undiscovered country. From the mountains protrude layers of black slate and coal formations. And the whole desert holds its breath awaiting the steps of the future.

It is simply a torture with the tserik. He goes to sleep in an arba and he fails to guard not only our arms but even his own gun. During the night the servants of some passing Amban wanted to put our horses out of the langar.

And the mountains are so beautiful! They stand, dark bronze, with greenish and carmine spots. Behind the mountains again lies the desert, with dark shingled slopes strewn with light-yellow bushes. A whole carpet of Asia.

During the day it is hot. An eastern wind brings some relief. We passed nine p’o-t’ai to the poor village Kumash. A pilfered and disrupted village. Two tumble-down and uninhabited langars. At one time there was something here. E.I. asks, “But Ambans and Taotais are traveling here. Is it possible that they are stopping in such dirt?” Suleiman laughs, “What does it matter to these Ambans? If they only have an opium pipe and a woman! They roll in any dirt!” Apparently, respect to the officials is not very great. Through travelers from Khotan a vague report penetrates about the replacing of Taotai Ma.

The Barkhans are silent. The mountains are hidden in blue mist. We are reminded of a characteristic case. The travelers from China to Tibet relate how a nurse with a child was left on the border as customs inspector. It happened that the border official smoked much opium and his wife was so busy in the household, that the nurse had to fulfill the duties of a customs official. This was printed in the Shanghai papers. .

Last year Kalmuck pilgrims were prohibited from going to Tibet to worship in the sanctuaries. Such prohibition is very significant.

Already today the Chinese torture begins. The heat which we would have avoided on the Koshut mountain path has begun. It is now very early spring. They say the snow in Urumchi has already melted. In the evening we reprimanded Suleiman for his habit of letting his whips pass over human backs. He is astonished: “How shall I deal otherwise with a Dungan or Chinese? Does he understand reason? Either he takes you or you take him. Why do you think that the Dungan mafakesh went so quickly yesterday? Because from early morning we gave him a good kick. But today he probably will come late.” And in such manner are they living here—a whole chain of evil.

A hot day. First the desert with many mounds and rocks surrounding it. After passing eight p’o-t’ai we entered a beautiful gorge. We went through it for several p’o-t’ai. Bluish-black bronze rocks, all-creviced. Complete lack of water. Destroyed langars on the way. Probably the water disappeared and the people were forced to migrate. During the entire day we saw only one caravan of mules and two riders. The greatest road is truly nothing but a stony desert. From seven in the morning until half past four, no life is seen on the road. If we had gone by the mountain path, we would be in Urumchi tomorrow. We stay overnight in Argai Bulak. An isolated langar amid bronze mountains. They say that here was also war with Andijan. A cave is seen high in the sandy rock. The trails to it are entirely crumbled.

On account of the inhuman Governor-General we are compelled to proceed through the hot gorge. Varied sand formations; all is much more beautiful in Ladak. Amidst the sands a vivid green strip of grass is suddenly seen. It means that from the rock, unsuspected, a spring of ringing water is flowing which spreads over the sand. To be sure, one could easily gather the precious fluid into a constructed canal; one could easily repair the stony road; but of course the improvement of the country does not enter into the schedule of occupations of the Chinese administration. After a small crossing we enter the burning plain. E.I. , stifling from the heat, says, “This is not a governor but an old monster!” Really to compel foreigners to take four extra days of burning road—it is stupid and inhuman. It is just the same as to say to an American: “You can go from New York to Chicago but only via New Orleans.” Amidst sands, amidst the milky mists, glows azure Toksun. Only one day’s distance is Turfan and out of its nine-hundred-foot pit rises the heat. One can imagine how easily in summer even the natives die from heat in Turfan.

In Toksun the trees are already vividly green. A thick verdure springs up from the furrows. We are standing on the shore of a river dividing into many tributaries. ... If only there would not be dissension again! Today the dawn started with an ugly fight. Suleiman battered up Sung and the latter came running to us all covered with blood. It is necessary for us to get rid of Suleiman quickly. This brute does not understand reason. And his persecution is chiefly directed against Sung only because he does not steal. But at the base of all this, the Tu-t’u himself is responsible for all the fighting—he who has confiscated our arms and who has ordered them carried sealed as a demonstration to the whole province. If we had the revolvers the men would conduct themselves differently. It is hot; even at five o’clock the heat does not diminish and the night brings no coolness into the tents.

Toward evening they bring the horses to the river. They walk them up and down before us. Will we not buy? The price is from three hundred to one thousand lans. A beautiful light-bay horse. On the back is a black stripe. The posture of the head reminds us of a zebra of kulan. Is there not in the species of Karashahr horses, a cross with, the kulan?

At twilight the Dungan Chinese doctor comes. He speaks Russian. How is that? It appears that his wife is a Russian Cossack woman from Semirechye. And here she herself is coming, in pink trousers and a blouse; and with her is a dark little girl. And under the stars of Toksun rings out the soft complaint of her life. From her thirteenth year her family sold her to Dungans. She ran away. There came the revolution. Her relatives disappeared. Came famine. And now the Cossack woman appears in a Chinese attire. “I am weary; I have nothing to speak about with them. They are dirty. And now we are anxious again to go to my country. My husband wants to be there. I bought for myself a little girl, a Sart. I paid twelve lans for her. I made for myself a kind of tent out of linen and put it in the room in order to cover their dirt. In Urumchi many of our Cossack women, because of need, have married Chinese. The educated ones and good dressmakers married Dungans.

Here are many scorpions. Beware at night. Turfan and Toksun are notorious for their scorpions. A little one bit me—I screamed with pain for three hours. Then they tightly tied a string around my finger and applied opium. Be careful.”

The Cossack-Dungan woman goes into the dusk with the husband foreign-to-her and with the purchased little girl, whom she calls Eudoxia. And so the Tu-t’u sent us not only into a furnace but also into the city of scorpions.

It is hot at night. The grasshoppers chirp ceaselessly. George is astonished that until now human beings are sold. And this goes on openly and businesslike. Maybe in the list of the commands of the Tu-t’u, presented by him to the British Museum, there is a flowery command about the sale of human beings.

Because of the cruelty of the Governor-General we spent a horrible day. We dragged ourselves through the burning stony desert. On the horizon the hot air is all a-quiver. The far-off inexistent lakes become dense and the mirages melt and are transformed into a gray pitiless plain. The far-off mountains merge into the heat. Only to think that we might, by now, have been in Urumchi. We would have already read news from America. But because of the despotism of a monster we have to tramp needlessly over the foothills for three more days. We shall stop in the langar of Pasha Tsaigan.

On our way, we have been thinking. The Europeans are not justified in destroying the monumental conceptions of the Near and Far East. Here we have seen caves pilfered and stripped. But when the time of the regeneration of Asia shall come, will she not ask, “Where are our best treasures, which were constructed by the creative spirit of our ancestors?” Would it not have been better, in the name of knowledge, to study all these monuments, carefully retain them and create conditions fostering preservation? Instead of this, fragments of frescoes were taken away, only to perish because of change of climate. In Berlin, whole cases of frescoes were destroyed by rats. In some countries parts of the monumental constructions are piled up in the museums with no indication as to their original purpose and meaning. Our friend Pelliot is right not to destroy these monumental constructions, but to study them and publish his researches about them. Let individual works of art move freely on our planet, but the deeply conceived composition of construction must not be destroyed. The result is that the head of a Bodhisattva is in Europe and its painted boots are in Asia. Where then is the disinterested knowledge which first of all purifies and preserves and restores? What would the world of learning say if fragments of the frescoes of Gozzoli or Mantegna were to be scattered in different countries? Soon over the whole world speedy steel birds will fly. All distances will be within reach, and not ragged skeletons but evidences of a high creation must meet these winged guests.

During the whole of today we saw only one small caravan of mules and only one rider. The dead silence of the great road is comparable only to the lethargy of contemporary China. Youth will come and the deserts will flourish.

In the yakhtans the candles have melted; the yellow sun hides behind the amber mountains. Tomorrow should be cooler—we shall go beyond the mountains into the first zone of the Altai climate.

We are passing the last ridges of the Heavenly Mountains of T’ian Shan. We pass beside the route to Turfan. On the crossroad is an old Chinese stela with half-erased inscriptions and ornaments. There, long since, in the depths of the centuries, someone sought to preserve with care the signs and milestones. Farther on, our road branches—one road goes through the mountain passes and the other along a river with fifteen fordings. Our people debate a long time, as if the direction of our road were a state affair. The council has decided to go through the passes. All this is being discussed so seriously in order that we should realize the seriousness of the crossing. But the anticipations are in vain. Both crossings are very easy and bear no comparison with Ladak and Karakorum. We descend from the mountains to a small river. The ruins of an old fort are visible. Against the dark blue background of the mountains, a light golden sand peak shines out unexpectedly. We are told: “There lives a holy man. Formerly he used to show himself to people. Now no one sees him, but we know he lives there. A kind of little chapel stands there. But the doors are not seen.” Thus a legend is being created.

Again we go by a narrow, bumpy village road and no one can believe that this is the biggest or rather the only artery of a whole district, which contains the metropolis. It is strange and even monstrous to see such deterioration of an entire country. One thing is beautiful—the soft bells of a long row of camels. These are the true ships of the desert.

We stop in Tapan ch’eng (the city of the Pass). We have marched eleven hours. E.I. even kissed her horse. To Urumchi it is now only twenty-two p’o’t’ai. It is very hot during the day. The stars twinkle with unusual brightness. For the first time we heard the gongs of the little Chinese temple.

In the evening a buran sprang up. We fastened the tents down with all our spikes. We heaped the yakhtans around for weights and we spent the wretched night in the trembling little house. At two o’clock during the night the gongs sounded in the temple. But we could not find out what kind of night service it could be. By morning the shamal became even stronger. Everything was obscured in a gray-yellow dust. The mountains disappeared. During the entire crossing we proceeded against the whistling waves of the whirlwind. On the approach to the capital of the Tu-t’u, the villages became still more bedraggled. The road is still worse and the types of Dungans still more murderous and savage. The difference of prices for products is incomprehensible. Here ten eggs cost one sar, and in the next village they are half the price. The same with fuel and forage.

A gray desert with white layers of salt. The waves of dust are moving about and the tails of the horses are curling. It is easy to imagine that the whirlwinds of Asia can overturn a loaded arba with fifty puds (two thousand pounds) or can stop a troyka. There were special difficulties in pitching the tents in the dirty little village of Ts’ai-o-pu. The tents fluttered in the wind, everything was atremor and a layer of dust instantly covered everything. And so we sit, amidst the muffled knocks of the storm, amidst the layers of sand and dirt. Why did we have to go through this furious shamal when by now we could have been in Urumchi for three days? Apparently the Tu-t’u wanted to show us his country in its complete dejection. Our eyes fill with dust and the sand grits against the teeth. The noise and the blows of the wind remind us of the tremendous seas vividly chronicled in the newspapers during our last crossing of the Atlantic.

Sometimes the formations of the mountains particularly suggest the fusion of multi-colored fluids, and often the desert thunders with the chords of the ocean. The shamal does not stop by evening as our caravaneers hoped.

This story is told in explanation of the gales: “The Chinese army was pursuing a Kalmuck giant. The giant was strong. He evoked the gale to his aid from the mountains and he himself galloped away. And the gale scattered the Chinese forces. But as there was no one to conjure the gale, so it has remained.”

Today part of the horizon has cleared. The faint outlines of mountains glimmer with their snowy crests. Steely lakes gleam below, surrounded by white borders of salt. The gale continues. It has become freezing during the night. Instead of the shamal it is now a freezing Siberian siverko, which pinches the cheeks and makes the eyes water. We take out our fur coats. Apparently we have to experience all the peculiarities of the local climate. The desert has changed into naked, grayish-yellow, silent mounds. The mountains in the distance are azure. The road is not a short one. Judging by the time it will take, there are fourteen p’o-t’ai. Far away, between two hills they point out Urumchi to us.

Before we reach the Chinese city we pass through a former Russian concession. There is a broad street with low houses of Russian type. We read the names: “Conditerskaya” (Pastry Shop); “Yuveleer” (Jeweler); Bardigine Company. . . . The messenger from the firm of Belyankhan arrives and takes us to the living quarters which are prepared—a low white house with two rooms and a foyer. But a difficulty arises: In order to let us in they would have to dispossess two foreigners—and this is so distasteful to all. We go to G., the representative of Belyankhan, to take counsel with him. It appears that everything is completely filled in Urumchi. There are no houses. We shall have to stay in yurtas outside the city. It is better. George gallops away with G. to find a site for our camp. Some curious people walk around us and they all insistently want to know who we are, where we come from, for what purpose and for how long, how many people are with us, and what is in the cases.

We have dinner with the G’s. The conversation is about our America, about the life there, about the intensity of work; about the signs “Keep smiling.” Yes, yes, this sign is also needed.

For dinner at the G’s, there is an entire table filled with foreigners. It appears that today is an important day. The Tu-t’u called the Dungans to him and announced to them that he had no complaint against them. At the beginning of March mobilization took place and it was announced that every one was called out, but that the Dungans were not needed. The Dungans were troubled, especially since the Dungan officials had been discharged from some posts. In the city itself a dangerous band of Dungans had been operating. Following the mobilization, about ten thousand soldiers were sent toward Hami.

Since morning our people have refused to move beyond the town to the yurtas. They are afraid of being attacked by robbers. With George we went to C., to Chu-ta-hen, to Fan (who is in charge of the foreign section) and to the Tu-t’u himself. For a long time we passed through the Chinese city. Triple walls; long rows of shops. The products are more varied than in Kashgar. C. is a sympathetic Italian who is in charge of the post office. He was astonished at all our experiences, and advised us to go via Chuguchak, through Siberia, to Japan—the same way that our friend, Allen Priest, went. Chu-ta-hen is a young Chinese who speaks several languages. He smiles, and becomes indignant about the events in Khotan and Karashahr, and assures us he is ready to help. He takes us to Fan and the Tu-t’u. We go through all sorts of gates and alleys; we have tea with both dignitaries, and both offer us much sugar and assure us that in Khotan and Karashahr mistakes were committed by the officials; that we are great people and that is why we must pardon small people. They assure us that a thing of this sort will never recur, and that we can be absolutely calm, in Urumchi. But as to any investigation—not a word. We go back through all these long bazaars. Entire alleys filled with ginghams, hosiery, cheap crockery and popular pictures. At home E.I. meets us with a surprise. At the very moment when the Tu-t’u was assuring us of his friendship and help and good will, our house was being searched in great detail by the Chief of Police, accompanied by a Tartar translator. Again E.I. was questioned about our art works; again the same absurdity was committed from beginning to the end. How can one believe the assurances of the Tu-t’u?

After dinner I go to arrange a passage through Altai through Siberia, just as for Priest. The answer may not arrive before two weeks. To find better quarters is impossible—all the houses are crowded. They say that in five days someone is leaving the city and so we may succeed in moving at least for a short time into more comfortable lodgings. Keep smiling! Keep smiling!

Today I spoke to three Chinese higher officials, thus: “I am fifty-two years old; I have been honorably received in twenty-three countries. No one in my life ever prohibited me from working freely on my peaceful art-work. No one in my life has ever arrested me; no one in my life has ever taken away my revolver as a means of defense. No one in my life has ever sent me forcibly in a direction which I did not desire. No one in my life has convoyed prisoners together with me. No one has ever treated me as a robber. No one has ever refused to take into consideration the request of a middle-aged lady based on a matter of health. But the Chinese officials have done all this. Now our only desire is to leave as speedily as possible the borders of China where they insult so flagrantly the peaceful cultural expedition of America.”

All this was said. The Governor-General and the Vice-Governor do not comment. They give assurances that in Urumchi no one will touch me. But behind our backs at the same moment they are making a search and E.I. has, without reason, to open all cases and trunks. Keep smiling!

We search for some sort of suitable house. In Urumchi it is most difficult. This night they have stolen a horse from G. During the night a high wall was broken and the horse was taken out of the stable. The dogs barked. The hostlers slept. The thieves worked and the horse disappeared. Of course the police will not find it. But maybe one can buy it back from the local Kirghiz.

The drums thunder. With red banners, the newly formed regiment marches. Real ragamuffins. But F. (the director of the Russo-Asiatic Bank), calms us: “This is nothing. Look at the soldiers near Hami. Wonderful bands they are!” Keep smiling!

Smilingly the Chinese tell us: “How interesting it will be for you to relate in America all your adventures.” A very strange attitude toward themselves. Also they did not permit Priest to take photos in Tun-huang. However, in the six volumes of Pelliot these caves have long ago been reproduced.

F. arrives. He does not know how to return to Shanghai. It is interesting to hear the tales of those who were trapped in this way. On the so-called imperial road, it is impossible. While on his way here, he was arrested, detained, and afterward he was under the fire of the Hunghutze who are sometimes better organized than the state troops. He tells of past events in Siberia. He relates many horrors. G. arrives. New tales about the atrocities of the regiment of Anenkoff: How the officer, V., hacked to pieces the families of sixteen officers in his regiment, having first attacked all the women. Where is the image of humanity?

A vivid day, full of sunshine. The snow on the mountains of Bogdo-ula is glistening. These are the same mountains beyond which “live holy people.” One may wonder; has not a site been reserved for them in Altai? Today the holiday of Ramazan begins. Drums, calls from the mosques and crowds of people.

It would be interesting to examine more closely the psychology of the local officials. Here are the so-called generals and ministers of finance, of commerce and education. One hopes that there is no minister of transportation; if so, how could one account for the exasperating condition of the roads? How does the Minister of Education enlighten the people? And where is this mysterious system of industry? When the Minister of Industry asked one sick man about the condition of his health, the latter said: “The same as your industry.” And the Tu-t’u “modestly” said that the grateful population had erected a monument to him for the prosperity of the district!

The system of taxation is remarkable. For example, at the gold mines, taxes are being assessed according to the number of workmen, quite irrespective of the results of the works. Now on the Black Irtysh there are thirty thousand people excavating. Of course, all this leads to the depletion of the gold-bearing soil. We move into the little house near the Russo-Asiatic Bank. Probably we shall have to stay there two weeks.

Tales about the Tu-t’u. The Peking government has tried many times to replace him but the shrewd Tu-t’u has gathered signatures from the local beys and sent to Peking the “petition of the population” made up by him saying that only the presence of Yan the Tu-t’u had guaranteed the peace of the country. But the peace of the province of the Tu-t’u is the peace of Death. This administrator affirms that the construction of factories and the development of manufacture creates a workers’ class and that is why one must not develop industry and build factories.

In 1913 this administrator suspected his eight relatives of treachery. He therefore arranged a banquet, invited all officials and during that dinner, with his own hands, shot the chief suspect; and the guards at the same table made an end to the seven others. In 1918 the Tu-t’u had a grievance against one of the Ambans. He sent the disfavored one to Hami and on the way the Amban was “pasted with paper” and by this unique method he was strangled. In the “Garden of Tortures” of Mirbeau this invention of evil was omitted.

Of course the collection of funds for the erection of the monument for the Tu-t’u was conducted throughout the whole district by forced subscriptions. And as a gift “from the grateful population” appeared an ugly copper figure with gilded epaulettes and stars. For the improvement of the morale of his officials, the Tu-t’u prohibits them from subscribing to the foreign as well as the best Chinese newspapers. It is monstrous to see all these medieval measures in the days of the evolution of the world. For a few sensitive young officials, it is very difficult. I remember the sad smile of the Amban Pan in Aksu. I understand why his only newspapers were from the postmaster Cavalieri. There is one hope: the Tu-t’u is very old, and his “benevolent” strangulation of the huge country cannot continue for long. One should not forget that the population remembers well those few Chinese officials who did not pillage and did not manifest their hatred for humanity. They speak highly of a certain Taotai of Chugutchak. They remember Pan-Tajen, the father of our acquaintance from Aksu well and warmly. When the old Pan-Tajen was buried, the whole city accompanied the funeral procession. Unlike the usual custom, the old official did not leave any money because he did not take any bribes.

Today is the holiday of Ramazan. The city is attired in vividly colored dress. The people pay visits to each other. In the morning about two thousand people listen to the sermon of a Mullah in the open field. Two Chinese visits—Chu-ta-hen and Fan, with translators. The young Chu-ta-hen openly sympathizes with us and his keen eyes can look straight at us. Fan more often averts his eyes. Now he has the new excuse that all our difficulties have come from the Peking government which did not notify Sinkiang about our coming. But from October 12th until today Fan had enough time to get in touch with Peking and there is no need to blame the fault of Sinkiang on Peking.

Strange information reached us about the pillage of the frescoes of Tun-huang. If this report is true, then such vandalism has to be investigated as an entirely unlicensed destruction of a uniquely preserved monument. They say, “Some American” merchants came, cut out pieces of the frescoes and succeeded in carrying away “many cases.” It seems that Chinese pursued the robbers but, as usual, were unsuccessful; and as a result the monument is defaced. The world of learning should not fail to investigate the destruction of this unique shrine. Of course, Allen Priest, who probably was in Tun-huang during the fall may give authentic and detailed information. We can only set down this fact for information. How indignant Pelliot would be should he learn about the destruction of the monument which he studied and wrote about. Here the whole foreign colony knows about what happened.

Just now a regiment is passing in the street. Is it possible that this collection of ragamuffins can show resistance to any one? The shrewd Tu-t’u is playing on these torn strings. Sometimes he calls into life the Dungans; now the Moslems; again the Kalmucks and then the Kirghiz. Or he may bring out varicolored roosters and announce that he whose roosters will conquer, shall be first. And the rooster of a certain color is already prepared to conquer his rivals, thus accomplishing the desire of the administrator. Or, also, the administrator may invent a non-existing plot or a revolt. The slavemaster has much ingenuity. . . .

We are indignant about the plundering of Tun-huang. The looting of the mosques of the Trans-Caspian district is also mentioned. And in Merv, the Oasis of Anou, valuable mural tiles are cut out and looted. Damascus is also destroyed. What does this mean? Is it possible that certain cosmic laws are being fulfilled. “Those, going toward the abyss, continue the path of their destiny, in tremor.” So it is said in the teachings of the wise concerning the fulfillment of dates.

During the long travels events are slipping by; only lately we dreamed of a trip to the Easter Islands, and now they tell us of the submersion of these islands three years ago. Is it possible that the giants of Atlantis have forever been merged in the abysses, and the flow of the cosmos—this Santana of Buddhism—is fulfilling its unalterable course? During the period of our marches through mountains and deserts, some of the smaller stars became of first magnitude. And a new island with a population of ten thousand sank into the sea. Lakes have dried up and new unexpected currents gushed forth. The cosmic energy confirms the steps of the evolution of humanity. Yesterday’s “inadmissible” fairy tale is already being investigated by science. The refuse is being burned and the ashes are fertilizing the seedlings of new conquests.

In the silence of the suburb of Urumchi, one speaks in a comprehensive way about the tasks of the evolution of humanity, about the movement of nations, about knowledge, about the significance of color and sound. ... It is gratifying to listen to this broad reasoning. . . . Some islands have merged into the depths and out of the depths have arisen new ones, powerful ones.

A journey out of town arranged by Yan Chang Lu and Chu-ta-hen. We visited the temple “of the god-devil,” with a portrayal of hell. A poor temple. The images are ugly. Chu assures us that this is Buddhism but afterwards he himself confesses that such “popular primitive religion” has nothing in common with Buddhism. Hell is represented very undecoratively. In an oblong space on the floor a group of shoddy figures, recently completed, is arranged. A unique garden of tortures. They are grinding the sinners with millstones. They are crushing them with a press covered with nails. They are ripping their abdomens; they are boiling them in tar; they are tearing them apart with hooks and are injuring the extremities of the sinners by all the possible measures within the compass of Chinese fantasy. Especially revolting is the conduct of the righteous ones, who, self-satisfied and arrogant, watch the tortures from little bridges and balconies of Paradise. It is not indicated to what section of hell the Tu-t’u himself will be assigned. All this curio-museum makes a pitiful and meaningless impression.

Afterward we visit the statue of the Tu-t’u with all its lifeless copper “grandeur”; then the pavilions and the pond which the Tu-t’u has constructed. Later we ascend a mountain behind the river, to the Tao temple in which is the god-of-all-gods. On one side of him is a six-armed god of horses and animals; on the other side is the god of insects. The impression of the temple is somewhat better and finer. Probably this is due to its more solitary location on the mountain. From the nearby rock the whole city is seen and all the surrounding mountains and hills. This is the most satisfying spot that we have seen in Chinese Turkestan. After this the temple of the god of thunder remains to be seen; it is unattractive and of little interest; and then tea and a dinner with the tiresome sitting on the floor. The old Yan Chang Lu very soon becomes intoxicated and his son sends him home. A satisfying conversation with B.; the broadness of his views may well astonish one. From Bogdo-ula, clouds are rising. It becomes cold toward evening. We shall have to find time to go to old Urumchi which is ten versts away. The red temple, after which the new city is named, is there. Toward evening again a game of pegs. In the yard is a crowd of people. Swings, exercises, May-poles; all nationalities; many children. There is also a project to organize a club. It is simple, human. It is joyous to behold.

It has become cold. This does not save the god of water from much discomfort. On account of the drought the Governor-General gave orders that the god of water be taken from the temple, and that his hands and feet be chopped off. We have read about savages who whip the gods because of their lack of zeal, but it appears that these savages live in Urumchi and that their leader is the Governor-General who considers himself a master of Chinese science. But who knows whether the god was simply a lazy one? Did he not have the hostile intention of stirring up the people against the Governor-General? With such a number of gods one may expect all sorts of alliances of those hostile to the “government.” The local inhabitants are so accustomed to such an administrator that the strangest things begin to seem to them quite natural. One cannot build factories—this is natural. One cannot prospect for oil—this is natural. One cannot receive newspapers—this is natural. One cannot have a doctor—this is natural. Everything becomes natural.

From the mountain crevices curl clouds of smoke—the underground fire of coal is creeping out and the most precious resources of the country are vanishing.

Toward Ku-ch’eng, in the Valley of Death, lie heaps of bones—traces of a butchery of many thousands. Most of these dead ruins stand as witnesses of butchery and treason. But the province is “calm.” And only the cemetery vies with this great calmness. How will this calmness of death explode? Who will come? Whence will he come? Who will begin the internal revolt? In the silence of the cemetery it is difficult to understand which tomb will be the first.

During the night in the direction of Hami pass bands of ragamuffins, called soldiers. They say that the Tu-t’u believes that forcibly gathering the ragamuffins from the bazaars into the barracks frees the city from a dangerous element. But what will be the fate of these armed gangs and upon whom will they turn their rusty arms? A Shanghai newspaper arrives with a description of an assault by Chinese armies on an American mission and the killing of the missionary. Formerly, this information would have upset one, but now no one is even astonished. And how else? They ask us whether we are sure that the Chinese will give us permission to go to Chuguchak? We answer, “And where else will the Chinese put us?” They tell us that everything is possible. They relate cases of absurd prohibitions and violence. When we are astonished at the “local affairs” the natives ask us “Is it possible that in America and Europe they do not know about Sinkiang?” If we had known one-half of the reality we would never have continued our way through China.

On Bogdo-ula snow fell; one has to light the stoves.

During the night everything became white. It has been a long time since we have seen snow mountains with all their fine crystalline lines. Mountains, mountains! What magnetic forces are concealed within you! What a symbol of quietude is revealed in every sparkling peak! The legends of the greatest valor are conceived near mountains. The most human words find outlet on snowy heights. Toward evening, snow fell also in the valleys, and the whole district took on a wintry character. Tsenkevich comes. We speak about all the subjects near to us—his wanderings and adventures; they comprise a complete epic. An inexpressible charm lies in the fact that people leave their native places and on invisible wings make the earth small and accessible. And this accessibility is the beginning of the attainment of far-off worlds.

There is snow since morning. Bogdo-ula appeared all snowy and blue. It is strange. F. does not believe in the horror of some quarters in Bombay. He cannot believe that these shameful cages with women exist. But every chauffeur knows it, and without any desire on your part takes you to see this hell—is it for the existence of this, that the earth has endured so many thousands of years?

M. says, “The Chinese desire to be left in peace.” I agree and I always stand for the inviolability of freedom—but then it has to be fundamental and not hypocritical. The most unpardonable things on earth are hypocrisy, ignorance and treason.

By six in the morning all is covered with snow. Along Bogdo-ula creep billows of milky clouds. . . .

“The old lama went forth to look for Manjushri, the ruler of wisdom. He walked a long distance and finally he saw a man who was wringing out skins. Before him stood a little pail with the water from the skins! Complete dirt. The lama inquired from the man as to whether he had heard of the path to Manjushri. But the man only offered him a drink from the dirty pail. The lama was dismayed and hastened quickly away. But he met a clairvoyant lama who reproved him saying, “Stupid lama; you met Manjushri himself and the very dirt would have become a beverage of wisdom if you had had the courage to taste it.” So do they speak of the courage of contact with Matter. Very significant are the conversations of these days.

The Olets know of the legend about Issa as do the Torguts. The slander against this legend becomes still more incomprehensible. Every enlightened lama speaks confidently about Issa as about any other historical fact.

Highly interesting are the words of At-Tabari about the prophetic mission of Mohammed (“History of Prophets and Kings”): “The revelation of the divine messenger began with impartations of truth, which came to him as the morning glow. Then he was filled with the desire for solitude and remained in the cave on Mount Hira. And so to him came the eternal True One and said, ‘Mohammed, thou art god’s messenger.’

“ ‘I knelt,’ God’s messenger says, ‘and I waited. Then I slowly left. My heart was trembling. I came to Hadija and said to enwrap me, enwrap me, and my fear left. And He came again and said to me: «Mohammed, I am Gabriel, and thou art the Messenger of God»’ . . .”

The exclamation “Enwrap me” gives authentic occult character to the narrative.

“Varaka the son of Naufal said to Mohammed, ‘This is the divine revelation which was sent to Moses, the son of Umran. Would that I might live until the time when thy people shall expel thee!’—‘Shall I be expelled by them?’ Mohammed asked. ‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘Verily never has a man appeared with that which thou hast appeared, without having aroused hostility against himself. In truth they shall consider thee a blasphemer. They shall harass thee, shall exile thee and fight against thee.’ The words of Varaka increased Mohammed’s firmness and dispelled his unrest.”

Again the sun is here. Information comes that the road to China is absolutely impassable. Every one without exception speaks of war, speaks of pillage, and of course of the approaching heat. This path is closed. It is also strange that outside of F. no one has heard about the exporting of the frescoes from Tun-huang. Of course Priest must know all about that affair.

What an old hypocrite is the Tu-t’u! It appears that this hypocrite even has a school of law in Urumchi. You can imagine what “law” is being taught there. And by what statutes of this law, are judged all the robberies and briberies ordered by the officials. Some say, “One has to study China from the front entrance—from the ocean.” But it is more enlightening to know the hidden recesses where nothing is “aired,” for otherwise one could not see the thousand-year-old atrophy. Of course, the Tu-t’u thinks that no one will reach him through the desert.

A letter has come unexpectedly from Sikhim, from Colonel Bailey. They write about the books that were sent to us. But the majority of them have never reached us. No news from America. Probably the letters also disappeared or are being held back.

What pure air we have today!

We received an invitation from the Commissioner of Foreign affairs, Fan, to come for dinner tomorrow. Is this not hypocrisy? With one hand to prohibit everything and with the other to invite us for dinner! If this is “skillful” diplomacy then it is not at all skillful, because a clever action is judged by results. And of course a hypocritical dinner cannot improve our relations. It would be better to give us permission to visit the Buddhist monasteries. Incidentally, our arms have been taken away and have not been returned.

The list of guests is a most absurd one: the Catholic missionary is Dutch; Kalin, a German; Cavalieri, an Italian; Channishef, a Moslem; and some Chinese. We shall see.

G. tells us about the villages of “Kerjaks” in Mongolian Altai. These “Kerjaks”—Old Believers—have preserved their own customs. Their chapels, their readers of the scriptures, their food, and their complete isolation from “worldly men.” They use neither vodka nor tobacco. They deal in apiaries and furs, fish and cattle. In the midst of the Dungans and the Kirghiz stand their three villages of fifty or sixty houses; and nothing new penetrates behind their fences. Probably they keep up relations with their fellow-believers in the Russian Altai.

And it is strange and wondrous—in the whole district everywhere they are praising Altai. There, the mountains are beautiful, the cedars are powerful, the rivers are swift and there are hitherto-unseen flowers. And on the river Katun, it is said, will occur the last war in the world and afterward peaceful labor.

A year ago an embassy went to Tibet from Mongolia comprising thirty Mongols and three Russians. On the Tibetan border twenty Mongols and two Russians died. According to the report they died of some kind of gases. Of course, something may have happened in the districts of geysers and old volcanos or because of winter gales. But the fact is meaningful, especially because it is difficult to invent such a thing.

The fins of sharks, fungi, red and white seaweeds, bamboo shoots, lotus seeds, pigeon eggs, trepangs, and many other slimy and slippery dishes. They flavor them with sweet rice and roses. We finish. In the pavilion of the Governor-General’s garden are three tables; one entirely of Chinese, the second, entirely Moslem, where no pork is served. The third is an international one; there are represented China, Russia, America, Germany, Holland and Italy. Fan, the host, does not eat anything himself. He explains it on the ground of his strict vegetarianism. His seaweedy face is smiling, probably because he hates all foreigners deeply and is full of the subtlest hypocrisy. Is it possible that Fan thinks that this absurd dinner washes away every affront of the Khotan and Karashahr officials? Not one word is mentioned by Fan about an investigation of what has happened. And where are politics and diplomacy? On his face is only hypocrisy—so clear, so apparent. After dinner, we stroll around the pond, on the bank of which stand two junkas. Then the low bows of Fan.

We pass the statue of the Governor and we pay a visit to the hospitable C. The day ends well. C. takes us by motor through the encircling road. A fresh wind, and very clear—truly heavenly—mountains. The evaporation from the newly fallen snow makes the far-off chains of mountains and peaks ethereal and transparently sapphire. Nearer are purple hills, and dented clay walls flooded by the sun. It is so vivid, so fresh and beautiful! And even “the vegetarian” hypocrite Fan begins to be transformed into a jellied seaweed.

The Kirghiz are galloping on small white horses. On their heads are many-colored, quilted helmets. Just like the ancient kuyak of Russian warriors. On the crown is a tuft of feathers of the horned owl. On the hand sometimes is a falcon with a tiny hood above the eyes. They appear like a group which might have come out of the twelfth or fifteenth centuries. And here in the street stands the motor of C., a powerful Packard which, without damage, went all the way through from Peking to Urumchi. The motor belonged to the Russo-Asiatic Bank, but the Governor-General forbade them to use the machine and they had to sell it at practically nothing. Merely by its appearance the Packard reminds us that the way from Urumchi to Peking can unquestionably be traversed by motor. And only human ignorance and hypocrisy repeat the same paralyzing “No!”

Again a cold wind. Again the heavenly Bogdo-ula is a translucent blue.

Here again is a truly favorable sign. A Tibetan lama to whom we gave a hundred lans in Karashahr (at an encampment) arrived today. He brought back the money, excusing himself because he could not accompany us. He did not succeed in selling his horses and sheep. And now the horses are thin and there is no food. There is no one to whom to sell the animals, and the herd of horses cannot be left, so he cannot go with us. He will remain here until our departure and then will return. This is typical of a fine type of Tibetan. He walked ten days in order to return the money and to explain the affair. Up to now we have seen nothing objectionable in the Tibetan-Buddhists. It is a pity that he could not go with us. He is very well read and speaks with an excellent accent. He drank tea and dried the cup. He ate pot-cheese and washed his plate and put the chair in its place.

We went out of town toward the lakes.

Note the character of the negotiations with Fan. He is told that a certain river flows eastward, but he insists it flows westward. They call his attention to the maps, but he repeats what he has said. They point out personal evidence but he persists in his declaration. And so it is against evidence, against maps, against facts. How can one conduct transactions under such conditions!

The border between Mongolia and China is not clearly defined at many points. Sharasüme up to the present remains in an undefined zone. Of course the Chinese delay the final division in every way.

Pilgrims are not permitted to enter Tibet. Some Khoshuts gathered together secretly and set out for Tibet in February. Will they succeed in crossing the border? Here they know about the black stone—they await the stone. The Buddhists also know about the legend of “Issa, the Best of Human Sons.”

A series of details is communicated to us regarding the hypocrisy of the Tu-t’u and how he freed himself from undesirable officials. This is no longer old lacquered Chinese work, but the grimace of a ruined mask. And the dark idol of the Tu-t’u stands here, and on the dark body glow the gold epaulettes and the ribbons and stars. Broadly spread are the copper legs of the idol; and Fan, with the grin of a skull, bows low. One hypocrite commands, another hypocrite secretly grins, and the third hypocrite in Khotan cleans his rifle for treason. From where comes this custom in Sinkiang of making an end of “disagreeable” people after dinner, behind their backs? From what depths of hatred for humanity, from what centuries of darkness, came this technique of treason? And this darkness is being overlaid with “scientific” degrees. Tu-t’u is a master of arts. Fan is a doctor of sciences, a lawyer and a writer. And where are their writings against the fetishism to which they are prey? Where are their condemnations of the sale of human beings and of treason and lies which they slavishly serve?

Throughout the entire day there is the noise of a dry and burning buran.

After a hot buran—a dry windy day. There is no rain. The Moslems, Tartars and Sarts are ridiculing the command of the Tu-t’u not to kill animals for ten days; to sell no meat, and to whip the god of water for the drought. The Buddhists, Kalmucks and Tibetans are simply deriding such fetishism. The Dungans and Kirghiz, as well as Moslems, also mock and scorn it. I inquire for whose benefit this absurd act of savage fetishism is conceived? It seems that this entire comedy is invented expressly for the Sinkiang Chinese. It means that the Chinese alone are still a prey to the primitive form of fetishism. We did not know this, believing that the Chinese were committed to “the justice” of Confucius. And is it not the Tu-t’u himself, in the depths of his soul, who is going to whip the god of water? Because “the god of water” belongs only to the Chinese; hence the whipping of the god is needed for the benefit of the Chinese only. And the Chinese “doctors” and “magisters” are seriously encouraging this vicious absurdity. And they occupy themselves with absurdity very strenuously.

As before, each night troops of ragamuffins are being dispatched in the direction of Hami. Against whom is this unique “mobilization” directed? Perhaps against some detachment of the people’s army of Feng? Of course, all these ragamuffins dispatched by night are not soldiers but simply fetishes unfit for anything. Out of twenty-four cannon, which were given by Anenkoff, only two usually work. But probably the cannon are also looked upon only as fetishes. Today a big parade of “armies” has been ordered.

We ask ourselves, “Why did Fan arrange a dinner for us?” Is not this the beginning of some difficulties? In Khotan all the Taotai’s persecutions also started with the forty-course dinner and an honorary escort and with the assurance, “We are your friends.” All in all, here among the Sinkiang Chinese the word friend has a peculiar meaning and we cannot approach the local psychology with our own measures.

The compilation of the ordinances of the Tu-t’u is preserved in a museum; people delude themselves into accepting these moribund evil remnants as the fragments of former civilizations. People are led into error by the “scientific degree” of Tu-t’u and the vegetarianism of Fan. People are led into error, thinking that the remains of fetishism are hidden in far-off marshes and in solitary islands of remote oceans. No, here in the capital of Sinkiang, under the wise rule of the Tu-t’u, fetishism is set up as the state religion and is sustained by the commands of the “ruler.”

Our letters and telegrams do not arrive. We do not doubt that they are held back. The policemen asked E.I. whether I keep a diary. E.I. said that the diary had been sent from Kashgar to America. If only our books would not disappear! Where shall one hide them in this kingdom of fetishism?

In Kam, to develop the fierceness and liveliness of the horses, they feed them with dry leopard meat and pounded tea. They tell of leopard spots which appear on the rumps of the horses.

Luncheon at Cavallieri’s. With the Europeans is one Chinese. The conversation is about our ill-fated adventures in Sinkiang. Chu says, “Do not judge China by Sinkiang. Good Chinese do not come here.” I tell him frankly that I am still hoping to see better Chinese. I would be happy to speak of China in terms of praise, but the entire Sinkiang province, with the exception of three men, did not permit any avenue for favorable conclusions.

We compare the joyous mood we experienced in Sikhim, in the Himalayas, in India, in Ladak, with the prisonlike feelings in Sinkiang. . . .

Last summer nearly seventy Buddhist monasteries were destroyed in the Amdoss district. “The Dungan armies of the Amban of Sining used machine guns. Many Tanguts perished. The Gegen of Amdoss asked the Goloks for help. The Goloks responded to his call. During the course of the coming summer it is possible there will be clashes. The Dungans have destroyed the celebrated image of Maitreya.”

A lama from Kobdo is collecting a fund for the construction of a new image. The Goloks have made a rule to draft for service three men from each house. In Labrang, barracks are erected for Dungan armies. And the anti-Buddhist movement is being supported. All of this has not been printed anywhere and it is very important for the future. In addition to the movements which are apparent to the world, an inner agitation goes on which one can appreciate only on the site itself. F. repeats, “Chu spoke correctly yesterday when he declared that respectable Chinese do not go to Sinkiang.” F. doubts that anything will result from our protests. He says: “Here you get accustomed to this and to everything just as you do to the sand in the desert.” He is not correct! Even in Khotan we were able to deal with the robber Kerim-bek. It is impossible to “listen with equal indifference to the good and to the evil.” Now the chief task is to leave Sinkiang. E.I. has no illusions, she knows that we will have to face all kinds of difficulties. It is rightly said by the Hindus: “Bring one rupee and every one will believe; bring a million and they will doubt.”

The Orenburg horse became sick. We bled him. We were told that we must lead him twice around the Kirghiz tombs, then he would recover. So the local “experienced” people tell us.

In Lhasa is a temple of Gessar-Khan. On either side of the entrance are the images of two horses—one red and one white. According to the legend, when Gessar-Khan approaches Lhasa these horses neigh. Will not the call of these horses be heard soon?

We are discussing news from Sining. “The long ear” of Asia works better than the radio. From Kashgar there is no reply to six wireless messages. The only thing that one may believe is that the messages are being detained and, instead of their intended destination, reach some entirely different place.

At twelve-thirty, luncheon with the Chinese. The court is very effectively and colorfully decorated. Under a big canopy hung with many vivid rugs, tables are set for a hundred people. Three yurtas are standing alongside for the Moslems where all the food is prepared without pork under the special supervision of a Moslem. The entire foreign colony is present. There are Italians, Germans, English, Sarts, Kirghiz and Tartars. The Chinese officials are all present except the Tu-t’u himself. Opposite us sits Fan. He does not eat anything except bread. It is either his diet, or hatred, or the acme of suspicion. Here the brother of the Tu-t’u also sits—an old man who fell into disgrace with his ruling brother for his liberal views. During the dinner the first one to get drunk is the commander of the fortress. He begins to be offensive; he breaks a few wine glasses; he pushes a lady and finally kicks over the tray with ice-cream. This incident of the ice-cream forces the Chinese to take measures and the commander of the fortress is removed by the aid of the Chief of Police and his own soldiers. Of all the Chinese, the most indignant at the conduct of the commandant, is the nine-year-old son of the Tu-t’u. He even has tears in his eyes for true indignation.

A youthful chorus sings a few songs. Mrs. E. P. P. tells me, “We used to come to look at you through a crack in the door when you came to Kuindjy.” It appears that she knew Kuindjy and his wife, V. L., and so in Urumchi we speak about Kuindjy! We recall how he fed the birds; we recall his fearless liberal speeches, his anonymous aid to students in all courses. The memory of Kuindjy does not rust.

After luncheon they play pegs and tennis. In a week they will open the club. On a small stage of the club, they are planning to give Moslem and Chinese plays.

In the evening new reports reach us concerning the events in the Amdoss district about the oppression of the monasteries by Chinese soldiers; about the entrance of Chinese armies into Labrang; about the destruction of the image of Maitreya. The dates are approaching.

Late in the evening Tumbal becomes furious; the people are bringing a big Easter cake and eggs from G. and M.

Tomorrow is Easter.

It is curious for us, passers-by, to hear what the Chinese and Sarts say about the movements in Central China. They whisper to each other and wink: “How will the Tu-t’u now get out of this? Because this time, by whipping the gods, one will not escape. And the cock fight will not help. . . . They dream about the unseen Cantonese who must clear away the pillaging ambans; who must control the merchants and give the district freedom of industrial and cultural development. About Feng, or as he is sometimes called, Fyn, one speaks with greater reserve. But Canton draws the people’s attention. To the armies of Canton are attributed qualities, existing and non-existing.

They come and ask: “Have you forceps?”—“Why?”—“Well, to extract a tooth.” On our travels, amid the bonfires, the scenes recalled pictures of Bosch or the Elder Breughel; and now it is like Ostade. Nevertheless, the tooth is extracted and the forceps are returned.

A Chinese comes: “Kumashka-yashka.” “What is that?” we are laughing. Is not this a Sogdi dialect, or are the Yafe-tides here? It proves to be a “box of papers.” You can imagine how combinations of idioms are created. One may recall the anecdote of two eminent archaeologists who found a stone slab on which the curious expression, Rázmo-crópo-godilós or Razmó-cropó-godílos, was discovered. A lengthy discussion occurred as to how to read the inscription, when suddenly the driver of their cart, listening to the argument, smiled and said, “All that it means in our language is ‘The weather has been rainy.’ ”

Improved combinations of different languages have a strange effect.

As a result we have seen people who do not know even one language. A little bit of Kalmuck, a smattering of Tibetan, two or three Russian, Chinese and Sart words. And when such a linguist becomes excited, he begins to talk in all five languages, quickly, unintelligibly, but in his own opinion very convincingly. Also he is very uncertain about his nationality; with unusual ease he appears a Russian, a Chinese, a Torgut. That is to say “kumashka-yashka!”

A clear morning. Lamas are coming to congratulate us upon the holiday. They are saying: “Christ is risen.” Well, western clergymen, would you rejoice with the Buddhists on their holidays? We open our trunk filled with Buddhist pictures—we hang them on the walls and, together with the lamas, admire the resonant colors combined with the deep scientific symbols of these figures. Only knowledge without prejudice opens up new possibilities. The “incidental” of yesterday aligns itself with the moving files of evolution, and today’s “imperative” seems often to become simply an incidental experience.

Yesterday, at dinner, someone told us it was improbable that we should be able to leave Urumchi soon. Can this be possible? So much of the undelayable, so much of immediacy before us; and here is complete inertia. Sitting on the trunks! The suspense of each day! Nothing from America! Why are our friends not acting there? Even the date of the departure of M. and S. is not known. However, maybe something is lost either in the telegraph or in the mail. Or the telegrams will reach us in half a year from now. This also happens here. The telegram of April reached us in October.

Tsampa-lama came from Kobdo; he left his caravan of thirty camels in Ku-ch’eng. He himself was immediately summoned to the Tu-t’u, had a long conference and was given a yamen to stay in, an honor reserved for an official not lower than the Taotai. They are awaiting the arrival of two officials from Kobdo. Two Mongolian lamas remain under arrest as before. The rumors which reached us in Karashahr are being confirmed. A telegram is received about the transit vise. It means that we can move about May 15th.

Here we can no longer receive the information from Sining about the Goloks. Now we must attend to our carriages to Chuguchak and look over the baggage. A telegram, dated April 2nd, arrived only on May 2nd. To Bakhty (the border) the telegram takes only one day. It means that for about a month the telegram was lying in Chuguchak. One could have delivered a message from Chuguchak much more quickly by foot. If only there may not be Chinese persecutions!

Nevertheless, they chopped off the feet and hands of the poor god of water for his lack of zeal. They had hardly finished chopping them off, when it began to rain. Is it possible that the Sinkiang god needs such severe measures? Rain and snow began to fall and the streets of Urumchi changed into black, slimy mud. One can imagine the condition here two weeks before our arrival. It is not without cause that they tell us that donkeys and horses often drown here. It would cost nothing to have the merchants pave the bazaar, laying a pavement before each tiny shop. But here the all-powerful Tu-t’u does not exercise his power. The “magister” of sciences is on good terms with the reservoirs of mud. It is another matter when he finds it necessary to shoot a suspected opponent in the back. It is related that about twenty years ago a nobleman was honored by the Chinese Emperor with an unusually high title. For the bestowal of the title, a dinner was arranged by a local Amban. After the ceremony and a dinner of the choicest, a soldier came from out the curtain, behind the back of the guest, and with a single swing of a saber cut off the head of the one honored by the Emperor’s favor.

In Turkestan one Mullah, because of the absence of an “unfaithful” one from the mosque, gave orders to pour forty pails of water over his crown. After the seventeenth pail the unruly “faithful” one died. What is there to do about such logic?

Everything has started to move more quickly. Already the drivers are found. Now we have to decide the route. Three alternative combinations are offered. First—Kuldja; from there by motor to Tashkent, and by a direct train to the East; the second—Chuguchak, Semipalatinsk, Novosibirsk; third—Topolev mys, Zaisan, Irtysh, Semipalatinsk, Novosibirsk. The third combination is enticing, where we go by boat along the Irtysh, through mountainous and hilly spaces. But are not the Chinese again going to hinder us? Opinions are divided. Some think that some sort of mischief will follow. Others think that this time the Chinese will feel a sense of shame. Personally I am not optimistic. Because in Kashgar also they assured us that there would be no further insolence, whereas, one of the greatest affronts was committed in Karashahr, beyond Kashgar.

We went with B. out of town in the direction of Bogdo-ula. Endless Dungan cemeteries. Rows of small kurgans: On the top always stands a pot, a vessel or chips of a pot; it is a sort of ancient kurgan rite for the dead. In spite of their Mohammedanism, the Dungans have kept some of their own inherent customs. The Chinese folk-religion and Shamanism have left their traces.

Filchner came. It seems that they permitted him all surveys.

Packing. Arrangements with the drivers. Three troykas to Topolev mys cost 660 lans.

The morning at Fan’s. All are ostensibly amiable. It seems that he promises not to hinder us from going to Topolev mys along the Zaisan. Much news about Tsampa. As in Karashahr, we hear that the situation is serious. Ten million lans were given in payment to attract thirty Mongolian koshuns (Mongolian district) to the side of the Tu-t’u.

Toward evening we walked with B. on the hills surrounding the city. Again a cemetery. In the middle of the barren field are a dozen crosses and two monuments. The history surrounding one of them is tragic. A young man, K., returned to his father after the civil war. His relatives and his good friends attacked him, and in every way denounced him. Finally, they bound him and locked him in a closet where he hanged himself. And so, above the young man stands a high monument with a big black cross and with a tearful text. . . .

Today is as sultry as in July. The snow on Bogdo-ula has melted considerably. In eight days we shall go again on a far-off journey.

Rumors are current: “The Amban of Sining fled with an army of twenty thousand under the pressure of the Tanguts.” Is it possible that the Goloks are approaching? This is even now the beginning of something prolonged.

How strange it is to think that here there is fetishism, primitive spiritualism, superstition, the shrieks of Mullahs, the name of Confucius—and everything is bound together as with an unbreakable vise.

Soon our Geshe will go to his mountains. Today he tells us that the head of the medical school in Lhasa spoke to him about “Azaras,” which is their name for the Mahatmas living in the mountains and using their profound knowledge for the aid of humanity. We have not previously come upon the word “Azaras.” This is not Sanskrit. But how difficult it is to force the Geshe to tell us details! Soon he will leave. He will tell Toin-Lama all that the latter has lost. Fear is a poor counselor.

Again heat, unseasonable for the beginning of May. Some say this will mean rain. Some “console” us by saying that the heat has really begun. The Chinese seemingly are trying to persecute E.I. with their procrastination. Everything is so complicated; there are so many questions and so many unusual conditions. One must hasten departure.

The head of the medical school told our Geshe that he himself met such an “Azara” in the mountains of Sikhim. It is difficult to ascertain more than the fact that there was a small house and that the “Azara” was unusually tall. Then the “Azara” departed from the place. The very same news is creeping through all Asia.

We went out of town. The cuckoo was calling. The hoopoes were on the wing and the crickets chirped. Toward evening, thunder. E.I. read notes about the foundations of Buddhism. How beautiful is the unfoldment when the shell of the last layer falls away; when labor and knowledge occupy their fitting place.

The soldiers have stopped their drilling. It is a holiday. They say it is because the Amban of Sining is routed. The last Peking newspaper announces that Kansu and Sinkiang remain in the sphere of influence of the national army. For Sinkiang it is significant.

Suddenly everything has so developed that it is necessary to leave as quickly as possible.

Up to the present time there has existed a saga about Gessar-Khan: “To Gessar-Bogdo-Khan were sent seven heads, cut off from seven black blacksmiths. And he boiled the seven heads in seven copper kettles. He fashioned out of them chalices, and inlaid these chalices with silver. And so out of seven heads came seven chalices; and Gessar-Khan filled these with a strong wine. Thereupon he ascended to the wise Manzalgormo and bestowed upon her the chalices. But she took the seven chalices fashioned from the seven heads of the blacksmiths and scattered them into the heavens and the seven chalices formed the constellation Dolan-Obogod (The Great Bear). And she is preserving the dates.”

How remarkably the symbols are fused into these unclear and apparently meaningless words which bind Gessar-Khan with the seven-starred constellation of the north. The Mongolian “Gabala” and the special chalices of the Bhutanese temples recall the very same strivings and hopes. Again the prophecy from the Tripitaka is repeated that Buddha “indicated that his chalice would become an object of search at the time of the new achievements of the world, but that only pure bearers of the Order would be able to find it.”

“Ribhavas are rushing to Savitri-Sun after Soma,” according to the wisdom of the Rig-Veda. In the center of the plate of Khyil-Khor, is enchased Mount Sumeru, and on its sides are the four countries of the world, like great islands around it—a point at equal distance from four oceans. . . .

The Lama proclaims, “Let life be firm as adamant, victorious as the banner of the teacher, strong as the eagle, and continue eternally.”

We are invited for luncheon. Filchner and the Catholic missionary are also present. Filchner, sunburned, in a leather jacket, seems full of vigor. His task is a curious one. He connects the magnetic researches between Tashkent and Central China. The measurements were made in Russia, but the Carnegie Institute carries out the work in China at great expense. And now Filchner is combining these two fields of investigation as he told us.

We recalled his experiences with the Goloks. He did not reveal his exact route.

The conversation with the missionary is interesting. He speaks of the new understanding of Buddhism, as well as the present need of understanding Nirvana. He speaks of the desire for an immediate coordination of Buddhism and Catholicism. He mentions his knowledge of occult miracles. He is conversant with the literature. It is significant.

On the table lies a petition signed with a fingerprint. An impoverished Kirghiz makes the following complaint. Three years ago, near Manass, he and his nine-year-old daughter stopped overnight in the house of a Dungan. For their night’s lodging, the Dungan demanded the daughter of the Kirghiz. The Kirghiz refused. The Dungan beat him and drove him out, but he kept the girl and has held her for three years.

It is the usual occurrence here, to abduct and sell children with the idea of work and more often, for the purposes of depravity. Why call hypocritical conferences about the slaves in Africa, when in Central Asia and everywhere in China the sale of human beings is a common practice? All business organizations of the country know of this institution of slavery, yet none demands its cessation. Where are, then, the protests and demands?

We received an invitation from the Governor General to come for lunch tomorrow. Again the same people—Fan, Filchner, the missionary and Cavalieri. . . .

In the bazaar, the rumor has spread about a march toward Kobdo. And the last visit of the Governor General to the Consul is connected with this rumor. The Taotai, the Altaian commander of the local armies, left hurriedly for Sharasüme. This circumstance confirms still further the rumors of possible military movements.

It is a clear and fresh day. If we could only leave! But this is not possible before Saturday.

The stone-like metallic mass which remains after cremation from the lower lobes of the brain is called Ring-se, meaning treasure. According to the size of this mass, the psychic development of the dead is judged. What a proof of materialism! On the border of Tibet, we saw such a “mass” after the cremation of one Mongolian lama. It looks like the precipitant of amber.

In the morning the Mongolian lama arrives. What joy! What we have gathered in spiritual teaching from the south, he likewise knows from the north. He relates exactly what fills the consciousness of the peoples and what they await; and in thought of this his eyes become filled with genuine tears. Our friend T. L. was near Lan-chow for six months, and each day he spoke of the significance of the future of Maitreya. “We knew it a long time ago,” says the lama, “but we did not know how it would come about. And now the time has come. But not to every Mongol and Kalmuck can we tell it but only to those who can comprehend.” The lama speaks about different proofs and no one would have suspected such knowledge in this modest man. He speaks about the spiritual meaning of Altai.

After these sincere and serious conversations, a hypocritical luncheon with the Governor-General. Again we pass endless corridors of the yamen. Again questions as to our health, again toasts. Again the fins of shark, bamboo and fungi. This host assures us that the local Sarts are better than all peoples of the earth. Several years ago he declared the same about the Dungans and even willed that he be buried in a Dungan cemetery. But now the “current” is toward the Sarts and his will is already changed. And the Sarts are proclaimed to be the best nation. E.I. whispers, “What a horrible old man.” In the manner of a funeral procession we go back through the corridors, little yards, and the Governor-General pays us “the highest honors” by accompanying us to the carriage. Not a word about the investigation of the affairs at Khotan and Karashahr, as if everything were over and all the prohibitions against the work swallowed during the luncheon.

One can insult, in every possible way, and afterward plaster it over with the fins of shark. Today they will seal our trunks in order that we may not be disturbed on the border. For three hours the absurd, dragging procedure of opening the trunks and the useless inspection of our things, continued. And when will this nonsense cease?

Toward evening, a provocation now familiar to us occurs. A repulsive Dungan attacked and beat Ramsana. When he was caught he claimed that he mistook Ramsana for a Chinese and that was why he beat him. A strange explanation! It is queer that this provocation occurs just on the day of the luncheon at the Governor’s. During the evening they warn us of two dangerous places on the road to Topolev mys. There are robberies of Kirghiz. Of course, here the Governor gives us no escort! The escort is necessary only where it is safe!

They tell us how the Dervishes sometimes kill the “unbelievers.” In the crowd, or while dancing, the Dervish scratches the giaour, with a poisoned nail and death sometimes follows the same day. Medievalism!

They gave us a passport to Peking as long as my own height. Such stupidity—to write in a passport the number and description of all objects! How many changes may take place on the road! Chinese of Sinkiang, why do you reveal yourselves to us in such a way?

It appears that our drivers are not Chinese subjects at all, but from Bokhara. Now there are many such chameleons. An utter absurdity with the passports!

The volcanic traces in the district of Chuguchak, Kuldja, Vernyi and Tashkent are interesting. The soil seems to be breaking like a gigantic dynamo; it continues for months at a time.

Today is the farewell dinner at G.’s. Oh, how many difficulties with the packing! Possessions—enemies of man! Will we really leave tomorrow?

And after all we did not leave today! The driver refused to load. All pressure and persuasions were applied, but the old man remained as if wooden. The chief reason is that Saturday is considered by Moslems an unfavorable day. How ridiculous! And the whole day is lost.

We heard tales about Karakirghiz—how in the sixties, the Kirghiz boiled three thousand Russian Cossacks in kettles. The same information that the Kirghiz recently boiled and burned people in ovens is reported. We are accompanied by a whole series of tales of robberies. The Kirghiz robbed thirty arbas. The Kirghiz rob travelers. The Kirghiz are holding a cliff, seven days’ travel away. The Kirghiz have bombs. It is like a Karakirghiz-Thousand-and-One-Nights.

We left just the same. After all sorts of arguments with the drivers, somehow we loaded. Of course the Chinese remained true to type. The last night Sung cried and told the lama that the police and the yamen prohibited him from going with us as far as the border. Who knows what is the meaning of this new intrusion in our life? Or Sung perhaps has given too good a report about us. Sung is completely upset.

All the good people of Urumchi are bidding us farewell. They are indeed cordial people.

At the left, the snow ridges of T’ian Shan glowed purple and blue. Behind them remained the Kalmuck ultus. In back, Bogdo-ula appeared in all its beauty. Amid the snows shone three peaks—and it was joyous and full of light. And the air was filled with the scent of wild mint and wormwood. It was so luminous that the Chinese dusk paled at once.

Just as usual we were stopped at the custom house. In spite of the six-foot passport, they senselessly inspected our arms. Farther. . . . Farther. . . .

We camped in Sanji, a village thirty-nine versts away. To stay beyond the village is impossible—it is dangerous at night, and besides this, our faithful guard, Tumbal, was left at the Consulate. We stop in a courtyard. An old Sart woman in white walks with dignity through the yard. Little girls with many little black braids scurry out of the hut. It is already six o’clock and the heat has not yet begun to abate. How will it be with E.I. when even today was so difficult for her. And what right did the Khotan scoundrel have to arrest us and detain us longer? We might have passed here more than a month ago when there was no heat. And instead of investigating the wretched insolence with which they treated us, they gave us hypocritical dinners and false toasts. Where is the justice of Sinkiang? Decadence!

In the evening, some strange types come again to inspect our things. Understand, Chinese of Turkestan! While travelers remain as nothing but suspected prisoners in your country, so long you, yourselves, will remain at the level of prison-wardens. It is time for you not to affirm that the westward flowing river flows to the east, as the “learned” commissar of Foreign Affairs insists on doing. They say, “China was formerly a great nation.” There are enough of all sorts of “former” peoples, now is the time for living peoples. Some are so used to the local license, that they phlegmatically say, “Even if you sue them for a hundred years, they will make no investigation, and the decision of their court will depend on the number of thousands of dollars paid to the judges.” So those who have lived a long time in the large cities of Sinkiang declare.

By five o’clock in the morning it is already warm. The day is going to be hot. In the bazaar a man is tied to a pole. A criminal? Or one too clever? A dangerous one? A disfavored one? A slandered one? Bogdo-ula drowned in the mist, but to the left, during the whole day, stretched the chain of T’ian Shan. Truly celestial mountains. After the purple borders there are ringing blue crests and the snow is sparkling. Dear mountain snows! When shall we see you again?

It is sandy and dusty. By twelve o’clock, we have covered nine p’o-t’ai, or thirty-six miles. We shall stop in the Dungan village, Hutubi. The water yesterday was bad and today no better. On account of the heat we decided to leave by night in order to reach Manass at noon.

On the willow near the road, the nightingales are singing. Sadig, the driver, volunteers to cover five more p’o-t’ai this evening and thus to shorten tomorrow’s journey. The loaded troykas remain behind again. The old driver informs me that he will go, not according to conditions, but as God desires. I ask them to translate this to him: that he will return also as God wills. The passage between Olunbulak and Kuldinen is considered dangerous on account of robbers. Everybody advises us that the carriages should go together and that the arms be held loaded. The shooting usually starts from both sides of the canyon.

Toward evening the heat becomes still more intense. By seven o’clock there is no relief whatsoever. Because of our arrest and detention, we have lost two months and a half and by now we would have been long since beyond the boundaries of the Chinese Dance of Death. And is it possible that none of you, Chinese of Sinkiang, who consider yourselves civilized, will be indignant at the license of the Khotan official? Is it possible that I will have to leave the boundaries of Chinese Turkestan, with the firm conviction that this country is not fit for cultural intercourse? We would so sincerely wish to say a word of full sympathy for China! We would like so much to justify her! Instead of that we proceed with the feeling of prisoners who have escaped from the nest of a robber-band.

It is hot and stuffy.

We arise at 2:30 at night. By all measures we urge on the ill-tempered driver and at half-past four we leave. The morning becomes cloudy. The clouds were changed into opalescent fissures. A cool rain is starting. The heat abates only after one o’clock. The mountains of T’ian Shan reflect many colors. The irises glow purple. The fresh grass is richly green and fragrant after the rain. Our mood was somewhat disturbed by another custom house and a third inspection of our passports. What for? Why go by the highways, if turning toward the mountains, one may cross without any inspections whatsoever! These inspections are for the arbas and for inexperienced travelers but an experienced horseman can always avoid these tinsel barriers.

The ruins of old Manass remind us of the massacre during the uprising of the Dungans. There are heaps of clay walls. Remnants of a temple. Empty casements of windows and doors. Manass is one p’o-t’ai farther. And altogether we shall make sixteen-and-a-half p’o-t’ai today. The same bazaars as at Manass. The same Dungans. Sometimes one sees a Kalmuck. Here are no Torguts or Khoshuts, but Olets, who occupy the Iliisk district and Kuldja. There is no difference in their appearance. Along the entire road are stretched caravans of camels, carrying a hundred thousand puds of wool, bought for export. The bells ring impressively. Sadik, the driver, says with special emphasis: “Wool toward Chuguchak!” The dream of the district to establish communication is being fulfilled.

We are stopping at the house of the Elder of the village. Here the courtyards are somewhat cleaner than in the Kashgar and Karashahr districts. They say that here also they will inspect the passport. If only they do not tear up this ancient curiosity! We should like to bring it back in safety and reproduce it.

During the day it seemed to us as though we were going, a quarter century back, along the plain of Central Russia. And now we sit in a dirty little white room. E.I. remembers that thus, twenty years ago, we sat in little huts in Meretchi or Veluni on the Neman, or under the walls of the monastery of Susdal. Or later, in the cells of Siena and San Gemignano. We have seen, we have seen, we have seen!

The day ended with the third inspection of the arms and the deciphering of our passports. An illiterate opium smoker came from the Amban. He read, syllable by syllable, our three-arshin - long passport. He asked us to take out the guns from their cases, and timidly touched a revolver. A long time he paced about the same place and mumbled something and then he left us under the responsibility of the inn-keeper. Can one include such officials in the evolution of humanity? Simply dregs. But these stupidly annoying dregs are capable of obscuring the shining mountains; are capable of transforming every peaceful mood into the feeling of a prison. Away with ignorance!

What a good sign! So we are told. What is the matter? We hear some unintelligible music, a shrill clarinet like a bag-pipe, cymbals and a drum. This shrill noise continues the whole evening. What is the matter? It appears that nearby a man has died, and they are getting ready to bury him. Not without cause in Manass, in a whole row of little shops, there is a multitude of vari-colored, gaily painted coffins. They say it is a very good sign for travelers, if a man dies nearby. It is uncertain whether it was according to the sign or not, but at a point halfway on our road, a wheel broke down. We shall have to repair it at the nearest village.

Today the road is a short one—only forty miles. We arrived as early as half-past one. It is clear that we could do two-and-a-half p’o-t’ai more, but the whole matter rests with the impossible driver. We sit in Ulan Usun awaiting the carriage.

It is a vivid day. On the far-off mountains, it looks as though snow has been added. The receding ridges are enticing. The desert is covered with sappy verdure and purple iris. The grazing herds are clearly silhouetted. The Lama goes aside and turns eastward to pray. We catch the rhythm of his hymn of praise. He probably invokes the new era, the time of Maitreya, the approach of which all Buddhists know. Under the line of snow on the mountains are hidden several large Kalmuck monasteries. In each one are a few hundred lamas. The monasteries are mostly nomadic—in yurtas. But there are also temples, although we cannot see them. If you want, you can see an absurd temple of the devil in Urumchi, but it is forbidden to see the Buddhist monasteries. It is ridiculous and stupid.

The grass is so green and starlings and jays are calling in the foliage of Karagach. The cuckoo hastily counts the years. In the steppe stand pillars of smoke—they are burning reeds. These clouds of smoke from the “Polovetsky Camp” are characteristic of the horizons of the steppes. We recall the dreams—the paintings of the year 1912, “The Serpent Awoke” and “The Sword of Valor,” when the fiery angel brought the sword of valor to the guards.

We are told that on Altai some special red lilies bloom in spring. Whence this general reverence for Altai?

It is hot. They warn us that here are many thefts. The Governor-General did not send the promised order about the passage. It is better so! At least we do not have to have the faintest feeling that the Chinese did anything for us except to offer affronts, violence and obstacles. From Ulan Usun is four days’ ride to the Torgut summering place. It is equally distant from Kucha, Urumchi, and from Ulan Usun.

Up at four. How beautiful! The mountains become pink. A purplish mist is rising. The grass becomes luxuriant. We left at half-past five, before the heat. We made nine p’o-t’ai (thirty-six miles) until Yan-zi-hai. A wonderful road. Fresh and sweet is the scent of the silver jilda. The birds are singing; we have not heard so many of them for a long time. We cross the plain strewn with the mounds of graves—traces of skirmishes and the Dungan uprising. Like a forbidding wall stand the silvery blue mountains. We come speedily at half-past nine to Yan-zi-hai, just on time. The sun is already scorching; everything is searing. Jubilant, we enter a small clay hut. We shall be here until twelve o’clock at night, and then by moonlight, in the coolness, proceed further to Shiho. The nearness of Russia is already felt, in something almost intangible. Either the streets of the villages are broader, or there are more plowed fields. The inns are cleaner! We sit again in a little clay hut. In the room swallows are busy under the beams; they have built their nest.

It feels as if the ground were shaken. In the district of Chuguchak are extinct craters. Not long ago the underground activity was so intense that they expected an eruption.

We arose at one o’clock at night. In the darkness, in the beginning of a buran, we left at half-past three. The mountains hid themselves in clouds of dust. We thundered through a plain of coarse pebbles. At one o’clock in the afternoon we came to Shiho, making sixteen p’o-t’ai.

Halfway we stopped to feed the horses. A crowd of Dungans and Chinese gathered. They walked around, examined our carriage, tried to touch us. Veritable little animals. We recalled how, fifteen years ago, in Sharasüme, there was an Amban. From Urumchi, ten thousand Dungans were sent against him, but from Zaisan a battalion succeeded in approaching and the ten thousand Urumchi soldiers immediately dispersed. Now the son of this Amban, an Olet prince, lives a day’s journey from Shiho. He completed his education abroad. In the direction of Shiho is also a big Kalmuck monastery. Shiho is the crossroad between Urumchi (six days), Chuguchak (six days), Kuldja (nine days) and Sharasüme (twelve days).

On our way we met three arbas with precious loads—marral horns. Probably they are coming from Russian or Mongolian Altai. They are going through Urumchi toward Ku-ch’eng—to China to be used for valuable medicines. In Shiho we were not admitted to the courtyard of a former Russian citizen. The quality of the road is much better here than in Kashgar-Aksu-Toksun. From the great expanse of pebbles, it would be easy to make an excellent road. But for the Chinese, the fewer the roads of communication, the more quiet. The less enlightenment there is, the more convenient it is for the “rulers.”

The “ruling power” came for the passports. And it was a very poor power indeed, so ragged, so ill-smelling! And with what torture it tried to read, syllable by syllable, the innumerable hieroglyphics of the six-foot passports. We gave the passports to the official, not without fear; even without this, the corners of this “valuable” document are already worn from the endless inspections.

E.I. says, “If the Chinese would have received us well, much would have been changed thereby.” Verily, much!

No news from America. Where and whence are we going to receive it? Up to May 16th we have received no answer to our telegram sent April 12th. The condition of the telegraph post, of the wires, of the insulators, spell, “Resign all hope.” One has to tell H. they should not send telegrams by Bently. Here, even without the code, the words are distorted beyond recognition.

The sands, up to Tcha-pe-dzi itself, cover sixteen p’o-t’ai. Light clouds have hidden the sun. Otherwise there would be an unbearable heat, and Sadik says that it would kill the horses. We have never seen so much wild game. Gold pheasants and partridges; geese, ducks, gulls and hares. The pheasants perch on the road before the very carriage. We left at five o’clock; we arrived at half-past two. They suggest it will be better to travel at night. Tcha-pe-dzi is an unattractive place. The houses are squalid. We stop just behind the village, near the river. Beyond, the crest of T’ian Shan disappeared and far ahead, toward the north, appeared the light line of the Tarbagatai mountains. In the steppe the Chinese tombs are crumbling like little kurgans. Again the ill-smelling ragamuffin comes and takes away our passports somewhere. Amusingly he compares our faces with the photographs. Endless police-quarters!

We learned who Tsagan-Khutukhta is. It appears that he is an Olet. He is now in Labrang. How instructive it is to compare the face of Maitreya from behind the Himalayas with that from the North. Only thus a true representation of personalities, events and faiths is constructed. Each country, not deviating from the truth, adds its own details and its own observations. The reports about Tsagan-Khutukhta coincide.

Jilda is blooming. The early honeysuckle is becoming pink. Toward evening all is fragrant with the new spring. There will again be a drama with the drivers. We will have to persuade them to move at night. We decided not to sleep, but to leave at eleven at night.

The pulse of the evening is one of unrest. Some wholly strange Chinese came with ten soldiers. They are fulfilling some mysterious mission of the Governor-General. They are going to Peking and Moscow. A net is being woven.

Advice has come: to leave at once; to muffle the bells on the harnesses and to extinguish the lights. All is unrest. We follow the advice and we leave under rain and wind with arms loaded. We march through deep sands, difficult for the horses. Eighteen p’o-t’ai to Ulan Bulak. It took twelve hours with two hours for feeding the horses. Ulan Bulak is a poor langar. There is no food. Seven p’o-t’ai from the langar, the sands change into the dark-pebbled hills of the Djair mountains. Everything becomes clear. Blinding, threatening clouds whirl. And in the direction of Chuguchak it begins to thunder. We stop on a little hill near a wretched Chinese temple. In front of us, for the last time, stretches the ridge of the Heavenly Mountains merging in mist. They are so heavenly in tone, so rich with their white crests.

So little is known of Kalmuck ulus. When and who will succeed in threading all the labyrinths of buried treasures? The whole distance quivers in the rainbow of evaporation. The sapphire desert and ethereal mountains merge with the sky. The hills are adorned in gold. Verily thou art beautiful, Asia! Accept the chalice.

A couple of Dungans and Kalmucks are traveling with us. And the tone in which the Kalmuch speaks to us rings confidently and intimately. Naively he tells us how he wanted to hunt in the mountains but the local prince forbade him. Across the road ran six gray gazelles. One can imagine how much game there is in the mountains.

The carriages do not arrive again. For the third night we shall go without sleep.

Only Ladakis and some of the Mongolian Khoshuns are fit for distant trips. All others weaken and lose their vitality and fall prey to melancholy.

We bid farewell to T’ian Shan. Ahead of us are snowless, small cupolas of Djair. Today is one of those unbearable days of which all the caravaneers tell. It is in the canyons of Djair that robberies and murders occur. The hills of Djair confront us very severely. An icy gale, rain, hail, and during the night, ice and snow. Our driver succeeds in making seventeen p’o-t’ai to Kuldinen in twenty-two hours. We arrive at half-past two at night. We are completely exhausted from dragging ourselves after the arbas , with loaded guns. Ottu is a miserable station in the middle of the road, sunken in mud. After us, come the Chinese. Their arrogance begins. They walk all over us. They spit. Here they have also built a bonfire out of manure which smarts the eyes. They pour oil on it and spill tea. We are glad to get away from Kuldinen in the evening. We have not seen any robbers. Now they say that the chief spot for robberies is not on today’s road but tomorrow’s, between Kuldinen and Yadmantu. In the snow we reach Kuldinen. We crowd ourselves into an ill-smelling little hut, and we sleep four hours without waking. And then, again, we load, and we again quarrel with the wretched driver.

The entire day is a beautiful one. It is true that in the narrow canyons of the red mountains we may be attacked. We learn that somewhere near here, during the civil war, many hundreds of Russians were slaughtered by the Kirghiz. One senses a tension among our men. Seemingly, as though in spite, in the most narrow crevice, the axle of the second arba breaks, and the other four carriages remain interlocked. It is a most advantageous moment for robbers, but they do not appear. For two hours the men are busy with the carriage. On the road through the hills, three carriages overturn.

After passing red and copper mountains we descend to a green steppe which is surrounded by blue crests; again the purity of the colors is like a fairy rainbow. Map’an (thirteen p’o-t’ai from Kuldinen) is a joyous resting place on the steppe. On the outskirts of the village stand yurtas. Herds are huddled together. Kirghiz, in malachais, are galloping about like warriors of the fifteenth century. The Kalmucks have honest faces. We have not yet had time to find a camp-site in Map’an before a Kalmuck comes with information of extreme importance: “In the second month (which means March) the Urumchi Governor-General spread the rumor through the ulus, the camps of the nomads and monasteries that the Tashi Lama had been elected Chinese Emperor. He has not yet ascended the throne but he has already accepted the tamgha (the seal).” Only those who have been in Asia will appreciate the significance of this invention. Yet, of this invention the newspapers do not write and Reuter’s does not telegraph; but just these invisible knots are creating the future reality.

A vast amount of news about the Tashi Lama will float across the Kalmuck and Mongolian spaces. For many years!

All the riches of this country, all its beauty, all its significance, await new ways, a new culture and self-consciousness. Appreciate the nature of this rumor about the new Chinese Emperor!

Today our road is long; about ninety miles. We hasten through a verdant steppe. Everywhere are yurtas and herds. Above the distant Tarbagatai mountains are the signs of bad weather again approaching and the wind becomes cool. To the right are the four hills of Altai. We rush through the village Kurte where the road branches into the larger road toward Chuguchak, and the small, clay road toward Durbuljin. In Durbuljin are the same clay huts and a still greater mixture of nationalities. The predominance of Sarts or Dungans has disappeared.

We have many annoyances with the drivers; we must induce them to reach the Post across the boundary in one march. We are advised not to remain overnight in the Chinese Post, or in the zone between Posts (thirty miles). Thefts and robberies occur there. We shall strive to make all seventy-five miles to Kozeun in one stretch. If only the Chinese customs will not detain us! Even Sadik (the driver) is nervous and advises us not to remain at the Chinese Post.

Another anecdote: “In Urumchi lies the unburied body of the Chuguchak Taotai. Beside the corpse is a white rooster, which they have carried with the coffin from Chuguchak.” Grievous are the affairs of the dead one; from Peking a command has been received to institute a posthumous trial against the former Taotai for his crimes, and until the trial is ended not to bury him and not to send the body back to his native land. These are veritable “dead souls”! And for the comic relief, the white rooster is also crowing. If one has not been in China, it is impossible to believe there are such Dances of Death. How little of China is known, especially in America. I remember Dr. Laufer asked me in Chicago, “And why do they fuss over the Chinese, when they do not know them?” At that time we also knew only the “Museum” China, but not the reality of Sinkiang.

The albums of sketches are accumulating.

The day with all its colors is a beautiful one. Blue mountains; a silky steppe. At our left, are the snows of Tarbagatai, and straight northward are the foothills of Altai itself—Altai, the center of Asia. There are herds in the steppe. Great droves of horses; and blackish gray and milky white yurtas. Sun and wind and an unprecedented translucence of tones. It is even more resonant than Ladak.

From morning on we have been tormented by the wretched driver. Nothing is in order and the carriages are falling apart. We have not encountered a worse fellow. After the performance of the driver, a sequence of Chinese interludes. The Amban had appointed a soldier to accompany us to the border of Kozeun. The soldier arrived, turned around at the gate, and said that he was going to drink tea, and we did not see him again.

After we had passed five p’o-t’ai, up to the border-line, the comedy began; but one could have cried from it. The seven-foot-long passport and the seals of the Governor-General helped very little. The half-literate customs official wanted to break the seals of the Governor-General. Then he wanted to count all our things. And finally he tried to take away entirely the Chinese passport which was given to us to go on to Peking and to which the visa was attached. With the greatest difficulty we induced him to abandon this scheme; nevertheless, the torture and inventions of the customs idiot took about four hours. Only by six o’clock could we make a move to pass, or rather crawl, the twenty-five miles to the next Post. We had not completed a mile before the wheel on the driver’s carriage broke. Before us was the possibility of a night in the mountains, in the heart of the most dangerous locality. We had to return to the Chinese Post. And here we sit again in our tents. Perhaps it is for the last time, before a long intermission. The beloved mountains and tent bring back so many recollections. And the full golden moon looks unflinchingly into the flap of the tent. Today we passed a few nomadic monasteries where Maitreya is reverenced. Avoiding complications with the Chinese, we did not turn from our way toward the yurtas of the monastery. It was a pity, it is a pity!

How solemn is this night. The end and the beginning! Farewell, Dzungaria! As a farewell she revealed herself not only with her blue snow mountains, not only with the chrysoprase of the hills, but also with abundant grass and flowers not seen for a long time: wild peonies, crimson red, yellow lilies, golden-heads of a fiery orange color, irises, briar-roses. And the air is pervaded with the breath of spring. We descended and ascended green hills. We righted the fallen carriages.

Near us rode the Kirghiz escort. The same Scythians, the same caps, leather trousers and half-kaftans, as on the vase of Kuleb. The Kirghiz pursued the wolves which crossed the road. One of the Kirghiz picked a big bunch of red peonies for E.I. There is one more crossing. And on the peak is a heap of small stones. This is the end of China.

Welcome, spring soil, in thy new attire! Continuous grass and little goldenheads, and the white walls of the border Post of Kuzeun. Soldiers approach and question us. They are generally anxious to do as is best for us. Where is the crudeness and ignorance which one might expect in this isolated little post unmarked on the map. A long and attentive inspection of the things follows. Everything is examined. They apologize for taking our time and for the bother to us. Here is the head of the Post, and here is the family of his assistant, an old officer. We remain overnight at the Post.

This morning we rode as far as the village Pokrovsky (seventy miles) on a wonderfully smooth road. The mountains recede. They are getting lower. Kirghiz yurtas. Curious riders. The sleek, raven-black horse of the soldier trots vigorously. A green frontier cap. The first village is called Rurikowsky after the first ruler of Russia. A low clay hut. The white walls and meager gardens are already seen. The climate here is very severe. Vegetables do not thrive—the frost kills them. But now the summer heat has already begun. If only we could reach Topolev mys; probably our driver will not make it. And so it proves. On a straight slope the wheel of the wagon breaks to pieces. One must send to the commandant’s post to Pokrovskoye to get another wagon. We stand for a long time near a private mill. The proprietor is unfriendly and does not give his wagon.

Here is Pokrovskoye. More white houses. The commandant is coming out. Here is the head of the guard, and here is the assistant of the commandant. Striving to surpass one another they establish us in their modest apartment. They ask more questions, ever more insistently. They expect enlightening answers. They want to compare their information with ours. Ramsana, not knowing the language, remarks: “They have good souls.” We ask him how he came to this conclusion: “It is seen in their eyes.”

It appears that our boat on the Irtysh leaves to-night, and the next one only after three days. The driver is responsible for this difficulty. But at the Post they rejoice and ask us to remain with them at least one day. They come to us in the evening and we converse until midnight.

С утра смотрели картины. Люблю этих зрителей без предрассудков. Свежий глаз и смотрит свежее. Толковали о разнице понятий культуры и цивилизации. Замечательно, что на Востоке так легко понимают это различие. И еще замечательно: это сознание долга и дисциплины. В этой жажде знания – все реальное будущее и весь свет труда. Е. И. читала письмо об индусской философии. И мы сказали спасибо этим новым знакомым за все от них услышанное. Надо сказать, что эти пограничники красноармейцы мыслят гораздо шире многих интеллигентов. Где же та узость и грубость, о которой говорили подложные отзывы?

J. accompanied us on horseback to the steppe. We bade him a heartfelt farewell. We made forty-five miles to Topolev mys to Blue Zaisan. Mountains and hills. Flat kurgans. Gray grass and vivid red slopes. Auls of Kirghiz yurtas. Not without reason do they call Kirghiz “Kara-kirghiz” black ones. The escort, a soldier, relates many instances of Kirghiz robberies. The Kirghiz, Kurbanof, keeps a band of fifty armed riders. We rush through a gorge where twenty-two Kirghiz recently attacked and tried to strangle seven frontier officials with lassos. But the latter at once, at the point of the saber, captured and slaughtered sixteen people. Farther, near a hill, four Kirghiz attacked one soldier. He had a hard time getting away. Lately, Kirghiz have driven 150 horses away from the ranch of Feodoroff. In Chuguchak, the seriously wounded chief of the Post even now lies, struck down by the bullets of Kirghiz thieves. The peasants complain about the perpetual robberies. Four cows of our hostess were driven away. It is so difficult to subdue these robbers and the soldiers of the frontier are straining all their forces.

Our driver lost his senses completely. During forty-five miles we had nine stops and breakdowns. Finally, one carriage overturned, the wheels upside down. It is remarkable that the horses and driver were not killed. Blue Zaisan glows on the horizon. Behind it is the white crest of the Altai Chain. Is it not Beluha herself?

Here is Topolev mys, a squatting village with white mud huts. A reliable boat left yesterday and we will probably have to go by the Altai. We shall stop with old Feodorova.

We drink tea. We eat pot-cheese with sour cream. On the wall hangs an image of Saint Nicolas and the supplement of the magazine, “Neva”: “Lomonosoff Shows an Electric Machine to Catherine the Great.” The nephews of F. are coming—former soldiers. They speak intelligently about China, Korea, and about Chang Tso Lin. They want to get some perch and carp for us from Zaisan. On the windows are red and purple primroses, and the omnipresent geranium. Our Gegen was taken for a Chinese general. How many legends will travel about our passage?

Old Feodorova also complains about the Kirghiz. They steal everything. Every night one has to guard the herds. But, in general, life is well ordered. The driver, Sadik says: “They all lie in Urumchi about life. They live as they lived before.” The soldiers say of the Kirghiz: “When you come to him—he shouts out, ‘Friend, friend.’ But he himself at the same time is scheming how to take away your gun and to shoot you with it.” So the whole night one has to keep the gun in hand.

Instead of the Altai came the worst boat, the Lobkov. Well, it is not destined that we shall go on a good boat—the driver prevented it. The lake lies like a pearl net. Today the sanctuary is seen, the Kalmuck Mountain Sabur, or rather Saw-ur.

The Lobkov proved to be not as bad as reputed. We arranged for the lama and Ramsana on the top deck. We all found accommodations.

Again a miracle; while we are still on the gangplank, the stevedores gather around us and beg us to “tell” them. On the top deck we are surrounded by a circle of all ages. And all of them are burning equally with one desire. To know. Each one has his angle of approach; each one his information, but all have one fervent desire—to know more. And how they discriminate in what is told! What remarks they make! One wants to know the economic situation of the countries; another wants to know about politics; still another searches information about Hindu Yogis, saying, “That’s where truth is.” People who so desire to know will receive what they desire. A boy is coming. He wants to travel with us. Four are crowded in George’s small cabin, and they speak in a friendly manner. The atmosphere of profanity is no longer hanging over the pier. The people’s work is thriving.

“How I should love to study for thirty years without stopping, but the job interferes,” says a workman on the boat. And his eyes burn with a genuine thirst for knowledge.

For the last time, I turn toward China. On my painting which is in Peking there is an inscription: “The Friend of China.” Did my friendship lessen after seeing the whole Dance of Death of Sinkiang? Not in the least. It is my friendship to real China that has given me the right to record so many horrors. A hypocritical enemy would close his eyes at this horror of reality but a friend must point out whatever assails an unprejudiced eye. In the lancing of these ulcers lies the assurance of the success of future China. Out of the past, out of the ancient civilization of China, one can construct a bridge only to the future new consciousness, with understanding of the true evolution. But the present will sink into the darkness as a stained page of history. The governors and ambans of contemporary China will become horrible masks in the curio-museum, as little needed for humanity as the amputation of the hands and feet of the god of water. I sincerely hope that China may soon cast off all degradation and wash away the dirt which has accumulated under the silk of the outer garment. I wish success to all who understand the terror of hypocrisy and ignorance.

Quite impartially, I am looking into the eyes of those who try to ascend. What thirst for knowledge! This thirst moves mountains; it gives an unwavering courage to new constructions.

While it is yet night, we leave Lake Zaisan and go between the flat banks of the still narrow Irtysh. The water is shallow now, and the boat more than once touches the sand bank. On the prow they are measuring the depth. You hear the same exclamations as on the upper Volga. Villages of a Kirghiz type. Here and there are herds. Many geese and all sorts of other wild waterfowl.

Green hills appear. We shall reach the mountains by evening. Toward six o’clock we reach the village Bati. Little village houses already predominate. And there are the mountains, and tempests over the mountains. An astounding effect of the light steppe under the blue mountains and cloudy billows. This wealth of cloud we have not seen for a long time.

In the evening, in the dining room, a boy comes in: “And won’t I be scolded for coming in?” He goes to his mother. He talks a great deal. He defends the Kirghiz. He insists the Kirghiz would not steal. He tells about the unknown Kirghiz mountain road discovered by him—“like a highway through the very crest.” . . . He speaks about catching fish: “We caught pike. Two puds’ weight—like a crocodile.” He remembers meeting a bear: “I was afraid of him but perhaps he was still more afraid of me.”

The late evening until midnight is occupied in conversation with a village school teacher, about Yoga, about secrets of India, about reincarnation. All these questions are as daily bread here and the people live by them. They correspond with one another. They ask involved and profound questions. Such village school teachers are many. They keep in touch with each other and are genuinely interested in scientific discovery and psychic research. Toward midnight we reach Novyi Krasnoyarsk. A crowd comes to the boat.

Since morning we have been passing tall cliffs. Gray masses are blocked up to the very edge of the water. The Irtysh has become narrower and flows still more rapidly. There is the little wooden city, Ust Kamenogorsk, and beyond, the mountains end. The Irtysh spreads into a broad, smooth, flowing river and on the horizon the separate crests and pyramids of vanished mountains are still visible. Farewell, mountains!

We have decided to go from Semipalatinsk to Omsk by boat, along the Irtysh. It entails a change of route. But it is no better by train. Twenty hours to Novosibirsk; we would arrive there late at night. On the boat, there is more intercourse with people and more air. There are cool days now and cold nights. They say that for three years now changes of climate have been noticeable. There is no heat during the summer, but the winters are also less cold.

Late at night there is again a conversation and on the same themes. It is really remarkable, personally to be convinced of the direction of the people’s consciousness.

Semipalatinsk. Three o’clock in the morning. The cargo is transferred to another boat, the February Eighth, as far as to Omsk. We decided to go by boat because the Altaian line is slow and it takes twenty hours to Novosibirsk. Again we meet courtesy and the desire to help in all ways. They give us letters to S. in Omsk, where they will arrange reservations for us in the international sleeping car. We visit a bookshop.

A boat was dragged under the steamer. It was capsized by the current. In a friendly way they rush to help the poor fellows. On the steamer curious children roam about. There is respectfulness in them, no rudeness—there is the same eagerness for learning. The Irtysh has spread itself into a powerful, broad river, on which rafts float. They are manned by the Kerjaks, Old Believers: “If you tell them that you have eaten with Kirghiz, they will never permit you at the table. And they all command that one should cross oneself,” explains the little boy. A proverb of the steppe: “If thy comrade is one-eyed, try to close one eye to be a pair with him.”

The auls of the nomads disappear. The horseback riders are seen more rarely and the Siberians, seemingly hewn out of stone, begin to appear. Below Beluha, snow still lingers. Lately snow fell again. Meat is sold at eight kopecks a pound, and a good horse is worth eighty rubles. And to everything is added the firm, stubborn, Siberian: “However.” The Siberians are not afraid of the Kirghis—it is, as they say, only some prank of the steppes, thievery, bravado. A Comanche or a Zuni in Arizona will also lead away a horse. And did the Scythians really hobble their own horses on the vase of Kuleb? So much is being created. And the soil—the soil of Buddha—is being transported. Again, many dates will be forgotten and one may not record them.

The tales about the cruelty of the Chinese are penetrating even here, on the Irtysh. The traveling frontiersmen remember the Chinese tortures witnessed by them. The convicted person is put into a hollow pole filled with sharp thorns. The body is thrust with all its weight upon the thorns. Through the nose and the nasal tube and mouth is drawn a horsehair and they begin to saw. Or they draw a horsehair through the eyeball. All this, the frontiersmen see and carry the news to the cities. And the Kirghiz’s pranks also are related everywhere. When a rich bey robber was recently caught and sentenced to be exiled to Kamchatka, two hundred of his tribe came and offered all their wealth as ransom for the elder robber. Only by firm measures, these robberies can be stopped, especially if the Chinese will cease to favor contraband, for which they receive big bribes.

The yurtas almost ended. Low pine trees and shrubs. Behind the window, two young workmen are conversing. They speak about the organization of their local theater, about difficulties with costumes and lighting. They speak as one seldom hears in a capital. The frontiersmen speak of Buddhism; they understand it is not a religion but a teaching. They appreciate that Buddha the man, is a real historical personality. They are interested in the manuscript about Issa; they discuss the vastness of matter. What accounts for this vital, clear thinking? Because it is the nature of the spirit to strive toward beauty.

A bearded peasant from Nijni-Novgorod passes. He grieves that people do not understand the value of practical unity: “And they tend only to separativeness in the village: but how much more useful it would be to work as a unit. If we only could have Ford himself among us.”

Some people are afraid of mountains and they insist that mountains stifle them. Are not these people also afraid of great works?

The Irtysh grows still broader. What a current! The water has become yellow and the white caps rise. Now we can well believe that Yermak might have drowned here.

On the piers, the crowd becomes more and more dense, as though the entire town had poured out on the steamer. One little fellow asks another, quite a small one: “Are you a Boy Scout?” It is interesting to see the ease of migration so characteristic of the peasant. Listen to their speech—this one from Kamchatka is now in Semipalatinsk; this one, from Kronstadt, is in Paveodar; this one was in Seul and in Bokhara; this one is from the borders of Poland; this one from Nijni-Novgorod, is now in Altai. Tomorrow is the last day of the Irtysh—Omsk. A train and again that beauty above which is the Sign of the Rose.

The wind and the whitecaps changed into a cold downpour. The crowds on the piers hid themselves. E.I. is pleased—there is no heat, which she so feared. We ask ourselves: Have the Lichtmanns already started? The last letters from America were from the beginning of January and the telegrams from the beginning of March.

The charm of Asia! Not the contagion—but the enchantment, and it was always within us. Even before the “Polovetsky Camp” or the “Guests from beyond the Sea” was painted. And how shall we be without thee, Asia? But we have not left thee. And when shall we leave thee? And where is thy border, Asia? Who said thy border is along the Ural? What tasks can be accomplished without Asia? What structure can be made without the stones, without the covenants of Asia? The “Long Ear” of Asia hearkens to the music of the spheres. The “Great Hand” of Asia is raising the chalice. About the Long Ear of Asia are woven many tales. About the Great Hand of Asia, the epic is only being written. All great Teachers came from Asia. E.I. reads the letter of the Mahatma. This morning we passed the village Yermak and the place where the conqueror of Siberia was drowned. The workman explained: “He would have swum out but his heavy armor dragged him down.” So the workman remembers the hero of these wintry lands.

Omsk. A bridge across the Irtysh. Some “historical” buildings; a private house where Kolchak lived; the building of the Kolchak Senate; the house of the soldiers; the cathedral where the worn banner of Yermak is guarded; the half-destroyed prison where Dostoyevsky was confined; the top of an old prison of the seventeenth century. It appears that both trains which we needed have just left and we shall have to remain three days—until Thursday evening. We hear about my paintings and the high prices that they bring. There are more questions about Yoga, about India, about Buddhism and about the teachings of life; of the study of will and cosmic matter.

Newspapers write that we have “found” the legend about Christ. Whence comes this legend? How could we find what has been known so long ago? But we found something greater. We could establish that the story of the life of Issa, the Teacher, is accepted and lives throughout the entire East, on the borders of Bhutan and in Tibet, on the walls of Sikhim, on the peaks of Ladak and in the Mongolian Khoshuns. And in the Kalmuck ulus lives this legend—lives, not in the sensationalism of the Sunday papers, but as a firm, calm realization. That which for the West is a sensation, is for the East an age-old knowledge.

The cold sun penetrates through the ornamented leaves of the Philodendron in the rooms of the Hotel Europe. Not to a hothouse, not to a botanical garden, but to Sikhim shall these leaves carry our remembrances—there, where from the river Tishta we ascended to Chakong, the very same leaves wound around the green mossy trunk, interwoven with the brilliant colors of orchids; and to a small temple in Chakong with the solitary temple guard, tall and stately, in a simple linen shirt; and to the evening legends of Lama Mingyur. And so this ornamented leaf shall lead now into the far-off country and near this leaf shall flourish the images close and dear to us.

We are going to the District Museum. It has an art and ethnographical department. From the big cities they have sent a series of paintings. There is not only Levitsky but also Musatoff and Levitan. To our surprise, we find also two of my paintings. Both are from the unfinished group which stood near the walls of the studio. One, “Boats” (1903) from the Suite, “They are Building the City.” The other one, “Benevolent Tree” (a sketch). One should note that both are unfinished.

The local school teacher comes up and asks, in astonishment: “You are Roerich?”—“Yes”—“But you were killed in Siberia, in 1918?” Again the same fairy tale, which reached us in London and America. And how could we not be killed if there were “funeral services” and obituaries? But the one who was chanted away at the “funeral services” has since worked very joyously, has traversed oceans and easily ascended heights. Probably the “funeral services” helped; and the obituaries were very heartfelt ones.

We are departing: the trains leave at midnight. Friends, I shall rejoice, upon the completion of the journey, to transfer to you the complete drawings along with these brief notes. But for this, it is necessary to settle down somewhere for a time, and to arrange the notes and albums. But where and when?

Kosloff writes about Khangai. Two statues are interesting—the black and the white—the good and the evil. But why are they in Scythian attire? Are these Taras? Or adapted stone figures? It is significant as is everything from the old district of Orkhon.

Today is Saban Tui, a Tartar holiday of the sowing. Races on horses and camels. The Tartars with loud bells gallop into the grove outside the town. They are celebrating the new sowing.

At midnight the train arrives. We are passing under the Sign of the Rose; under the sign of the holiday of the sowing. Greetings to Friends!