By this time Soloviev, having given up his railway work, had moved over to stay with me. He began to help me make the flowers, and sometimes took them to the market to sell.
When he had thus become my assistant and we had grown accustomed to living together like two good brothers, my friend, the dervish Bogga-Eddin, of whom I had had no news for two or three months, finally returned to Old Bukhara. Learning that I was in New Bukhara, he came to see me the next day.
When I asked him why he had been away so long, Bogga-Eddin answered as follows: ‘I was away all this time because in one of the towns of Upper Bukhara I chanced to meet an extremely interesting man, and in order to see him more often and converse with him as much as possible about questions which profoundly disturbed me, I arranged to serve as his guide for a journey through Upper Bukhara and along the banks of the Amu Darya, and it is with him that I have come here now.’
‘This old man,’ continued Bogga-Eddin, ‘is a member of a brotherhood, known among the dervishes by the name of Sarmoung, of which the chief monastery is somewhere in the heart of Asia.’
Bogga-Eddin further told me: ‘During one of my conversations with this extraordinary being, it turned out that he somehow knew a great deal about you. I therefore asked him whether he would have anything against it if you should wish to see him.
‘To this question he answered that he would be glad to see you, a man who—though by origin a kaphir—has succeeded, thanks to his impartial attitude towards all people, in acquiring a soul similar to ours.’
Kaphir is the name given to all foreigners of other faiths—and this includes all Europeans in general—who, according to the notions there, live like animals, without principles and without anything holy in them.
Everything that Bogga-Eddin told me about this man set my brain in a whirl, and I begged him to arrange a meeting for me as soon as possible. He readily agreed to do so, as at that moment the old man was not far away, staying with some acquaintances in Kishlak, near New Bukhara. We arranged to go there the next day.
I had several very long conversations with this old man. In the last one he advised me to go to his monastery and stay there for a time.
‘Perhaps,’ he explained, ‘you will succeed in talking with someone or other there about the questions which interest you, and maybe in this way you will make clear to yourself what it is you seek.’ He added that if I wished to go there, he would be willing to help me, and would find the necessary guides, on condition that I would take a solemn oath never to tell anyone where the monastery was situated.
I, of course, instantly agreed to everything. My only regret was to part from Soloviev, to whom I had become greatly attached; so, just on the chance, I asked the old man whether I could take a good friend of mine with me on this journey. After thinking a little, he replied: ‘I think you may, if, of course, you can vouch for his honour and for his keeping the oath, which will be required of him also.’
I could fully vouch for Soloviev, as during our friendship he had already proved his ability to keep his word.
When we had talked everything over, it was agreed that a month later, to the day, we would be met near the ruins of Yeni-Hissar on the banks of the Amu Darya, by people whom we would recognize by a password, and who would serve as our guides to the monastery.
On the appointed date, Soloviev and I arrived at the ancient ruins of the fortress of Yeni-Hissar, and that same day met the four Kara-Kirghiz who had been sent for us. After the customary ceremony, we all ate together, and when it began to grow dark we repeated the oath they required of us, and after they had pulled bashliks12over our eyes, we mounted our horses and rode off.
Throughout the whole of our journey, we strictly and conscientiously kept our oath not to look and not to try to find out where we were going and through what places we were passing. When we halted for the night, and occasionally by day when we ate in some secluded place, our bashliks were removed. But while on the way we were only twice permitted to uncover our eyes. The first time was on the eighth day, when we were about to cross a swinging bridge which one could neither cross on horse-back nor walk over two abreast, but only in single file, and this it was impossible to do with eyes covered.
From the character of the surroundings then revealed to us we deduced that we were either in the valley of the Pyandzh River or of the Zeravshan, as there was a broad stream flowing beneath us, and the bridge itself with the mountains surrounding it was very similar to the bridges in the gorges of these two rivers.
It must be said that, had it been possible to cross this bridge blindfold, it would have been much better for us. Whether it was because we had gone for a long time before that with our eyes covered or for some other reason, I shall never forget the nervousness and terror we experienced in crossing this bridge. For a long time we could not bring ourselves even to set foot on it.
Such bridges are very often met with in Turkestan, wherever there is no other possible route, or in places where to advance one mile would otherwise require a twenty-day detour.
The sensation one has when one stands on one of these bridges and looks down to the bottom of the gorge, where there is usually a river flowing, can be compared to that of looking down from the top of the Eiffel Tower, only many times more intense; and when one looks up, the tops of the mountains are out of sight —they can only be seen from a distance of several miles.
Moreover, these bridges hardly ever have a handrail, and they are so narrow that only one mountain pack-horse can cross at a time; furthermore, they rock up and down as if one were walking on a good spring mattress—and I will not even speak about the feeling of uncertainty as to their strength.
For the most part they are held in place by ropes, made from the fibre of the bark of a certain tree, one end attached to the bridge and the other fastened to some near-by tree on the mountain side or to a projection of rock. In any case, these bridges are not to be recommended even to those who in Europe are called thrill-chasers. The heart of any European crossing these bridges would sink, not into his boots, but somewhere still lower.
The second time our eyes were uncovered was when we were about to pass a caravan. Evidently not wishing the peculiar cowls over our eyes to attract attention or excite suspicion, our guides considered it advisable that we remove them for this encounter. We did so just as we were going by a monument typical of Turkestan, standing right at the top of a mountain pass. In Turkestan there are many of these monuments, which are very cleverly placed; without them, we travellers would have no possibility of orienting ourselves in this chaotic, roadless region. They are usually erected on some elevated spot so that, if one knows the general plan of their placement, they can be seen a long way off, sometimes even from a score of miles. They are nothing more than single high blocks of stone or simply long poles driven into the ground.
Among the mountain folk there exist various beliefs concerning these monuments, such as the following: that at this spot some saint was either buried or was taken up alive to heaven, that he killed the ‘seven-headed dragon’ there, or that something else extraordinary happened to him at that place. Usually the saint in whose name the monument was erected is considered the protector of the entire surrounding countryside, and when a traveller has successfully overcome any difficulty natural to the region—that is, has escaped an attack by brigands or wild beasts, or has safely crossed a mountain or river, or surmounted any other danger—it is all attributed to the protection of this saint. And so any merchant, pilgrim or other traveller who has passed through these dangers brings to the monument some kind of offering in gratitude.
It became an established custom to bring as an offering something which, as is believed there, would mechanically remind the saint of the prayers of the person who brought the offering. Accordingly, they bring gifts such as a piece of cloth, the tail of an animal or something else of the kind, so that, with one end tied or fastened to the monument, the other end can flutter freely in the wind.
These things, moving in the wind, make the spot where the monument is placed visible to us travellers from a great distance. Whoever knows approximately the arrangement of these monuments can locate one of them from some elevated spot and make his way in its direction, and from it to the next, and so on. Without knowing the general pattern of their arrangement it is almost impossible to travel through these regions. There are no well-defined roads or footpaths and, if some paths do form of themselves, then, owing to the sudden changes of weather and the ensuing snowstorms, they very quickly change or are totally effaced. So if these landmarks were not there, a traveller trying to find suitable paths would become so confused that even the most delicate compass would be of no help to him. It is possible to pass through these regions only by establishing the direction from monument to monument.
On the way we changed horses and asses several times, and sometimes went on foot. More than once we had to swim rivers and cross mountains, and by our sensations of heat and cold it was evident that we sometimes descended into deep valleys or climbed very high. At last, when at the end of the twelfth day our eyes were uncovered, we found ourselves in a narrow gorge through which flowed a small stream whose banks were covered with a rich vegetation.
As it turned out, this was our last halt. After eating, we set off again, but this time not blindfold. We rode on asses up the stream, and after we had ridden half an hour through the gorge, a small valley opened up in front of us surrounded by high mountains. On our right, and in front of us, but a little to the left, we could see snow-capped peaks. While crossing the valley, after a bend in the road, we saw somé buildings in the distance on the slope to our left. As we came nearer we were able to make out something like a fortress such as one finds on a smaller scale on the banks of the Amu Darya or the Pyandzh. The buildings were encircled by a high unbroken wall.
Finally we rode in at the first gate, where we were met by an old woman to whom our guides said something; they then immediately rode out again through the same gate. We were left alone with the old woman and, without haste, she led us to one of a number of small rooms, like cells, which were built round a small court, and, pointing to two beds that stood there, went away.
Soon a very venerable old man came and without questioning us about anything began conversing with us very amiably in Turkoman, as though we were old acquaintances of his. He showed us where everything was, and said that for the first few days our meals would be brought to us there. He advised us to rest after our journey, but added that if we were not tired we could go out and walk around. In short, he gave us to understand that we could live as we pleased.
As we were indeed very tired from our journey, we decided to rest a little and lay down. I slept like a log and was only awakened by a boy bringing tea-things and a samovar with green tea and our morning meal of hot maize-cakes, goat’s cheese and honey. I wanted to question the boy as to where we could bathe, but unfortunately it turned out that he spoke no language but Pshenzis, and I knew nothing of that peculiar language except a few swear words.
Soloviev was already up and out; he returned about ten minutes later. He too had fallen sound asleep in the evening, but had waked late at night and, fearing to disturb someone, had at first lain quietly in bed memorizing Tibetan words. At sunrise he went out to look around but, as he was about to go out through the gate, an old woman had called to him and beckoned him to a small house in the corner of the court. He followed her, thinking that it was doubtless forbidden to go out, but when he entered her house it turned out that the good woman had simply wanted to give him some fresh, warm milk to drink, after which she even helped him herself to open the gate.
As no one else came to us, we decided, after drinking tea, to go for a walk and explore the neighbourhood. First of all we walked all round the high wall enclosing the buildings. Besides the gate through which we had entered, there was one other, smaller, on the north-west side.
Everywhere reigned an almost awesome quiet, broken only by the monotonous sound of a distant waterfall and the occasional twitter of birds. It was a hot summer day, the air was heavy; we were listless and not at all interested in the grandeur of the scenery round us; only the sound of the waterfall, as if bewitching us, drew us towards it. Without exchanging a word, Soloviev and I automatically went to this waterfall, which later became our favourite place.
Neither on that day nor on the following did anyone come to see us, but regularly three times a day we were brought food, consisting of milk products, dried fruit, and fish—black—spotted trout—and almost every hour our samovar was refilled. We either lay on our beds or went to the waterfall, where, to its monotonous sound, we memorized Tibetan words.
During all this time, neither at the waterfall nor on our way to it, did we meet a single person; except once, while we were sitting there, four young girls came by, but when they saw us they quickly turned aside and, passing through a little grove, entered the gate we had noticed on the north-west side.
On the morning of the third day, I was sitting in a shady spot by the waterfall and Soloviev, out of boredom, was wiseacring, in some way known only to himself, to determine by means of little sticks the altitude of the snow-capped peaks which rose before us, when suddenly we saw the boy who had brought us our first meal come running towards us. He gave Soloviev a note —a folded sheet of paper without an envelope.
Soloviev took the note and seeing the name ‘Aga Georgi’ written on it in Sart, he handed it to me in perplexity. When I opened the note and recognized the handwriting, everything went black before my eyes, so unexpected was it. It was the handwriting which I knew so well, of the man dearest to me in life, Prince Lubovedsky.
The note was written in Russian, and its contents were as follows:
‘My dear child: I thought that I would have a stroke when I learned that you were here! I am distressed that I cannot rush at once to embrace you, and that I must wait till you yourself come to me. I am in bed; all these days I have not been out and have spoken to no one, and only just this moment have I learned that you are here. Ah, how glad I am that I shall soon see you! I am doubly glad of it, glad that you got here yourself, without my help or the help of our mutual friends (in which case I should have known), for it proves to me that during this time you have not been asleep. Come to me soon, and we will talk about everything! I also hear that you are with a comrade. Though I do not know him, I shall be happy to greet him as your friend.’
Without having read half the note, I had already begun to run, finishing the note as I ran, and waving to Soloviev to come quickly. Where I was running to I did not know. After me ran Soloviev and the boy. When we reached the first court, where we had been living, the boy took us to a second court and showed us the cell where the prince lay.
After a joyful greeting and embraces I asked the prince how he had fallen ill.
‘Before this,’ he said, ‘I had been feeling very well. Two weeks ago, after bathing, I was cutting my toe-nails, and without noticing it I probably cut one too short, as afterwards, walking barefoot as usual, I must have got a splinter in this toe and it began to hurt. At first I paid no attention to it, thinking it would pass; but it became worse and finally began to fester. A week ago fever set in which continued to rise, and I was compelled to take to my bed. I even became delirious. The brethren tell me that I had blood-poisoning, but now the danger is over and I feel well. But enough about me. It is nothing.... I shall soon recover. But tell me quickly, how did you get here, by what miracle?’
I told him briefly of my life during the two years in which we had not seen each other; of chance meetings during that time, of my friendship with the dervish Bogga-Eddin, the incidents which resulted from it, and how I finally found myself there. I then asked him why he had disappeared from sight so suddenly, why I had had no news from him all this time, and why he had let me worry over the uncertainty about him until finally, with grief in my heart, I had resigned myself to the thought of having lost him for ever. And I told hi
m how, in case by any chance they might be useful to him, I had had requiems held for him, regardless of expense and even though I did not fully believe in their efficacy.
Then I asked how he himself had got there and the prince answered as follows:
‘When we last met in Constantinople, there had already begun in me a kind of inner lassitude, something like apathy. On the way to Ceylon and for the next year and a half, this apathy gradually took the form of what one might call a dreary disillusionment, and consequently there grew in me a sort of inner emptiness and all interests connected with life faded.
‘When I arrived in Ceylon, I made the acquaintance of the famous Buddhist monk A. We spoke together often with great sincerity and as a result of our conversations we organized an expedition up the river Ganges, with a programme planned in advance and a route mapped out in detail, in the hope of finally clearing up the questions which evidently had been perturbing him just as they had me.
‘This venture was for me personally as the last remaining straw at which I clutched and therefore when this journey turned out to have been just another chase after a mirage, everything finally died in me and I had no wish to undertake anything further.
‘After this expedition I happened to go to Kabul again, where I gave myself up entirely to oriental idleness, living without any aims or interests whatsoever, automatically meeting old acquaintances and new. I often went to the house of my old friend, the Aga Khan. In the company of a host so rich in adventures as he, one could somehow pass one’s time in the boring life of Kabul.
‘One day I saw there among his guests, sitting in the place of honour, an old Tamil in a costume not at all suitable for the house of the Aga Khan. After greeting me, the Khan, seeing my perplexity, hurriedly whispered to me that this venerable old man was a great friend of his, a queer fellow to whom he was under great obligations, even for having once saved his life. The old man lived somewhere in the north, but occasionally came to Kabul either to see relatives or on some other business, and whenever he was there he came to see him, which always made the Aga Khan inexpressibly glad, as he had never in his life met a better man. He advised me to talk with him and added that, if I did, I should speak loudly as he was hard of hearing.
Meetings With Remarkable Men Page 17