As I have mentioned before (Chap. XII) a short cut from Karatagh to Samarkand leads across the Hissar or Hazrat-sultan mountains. This we did not take, wishing to save our pack animals, but with light baggage and horses lent by the Beg we made an excursion to the top of the Mura pass whence one may proceed to Saratagh by the valley on the left of Fig. 124. We followed the course of the Karataghdarya which amid magnificent scenery paws the rocks with claws of silver and frets unwillingly at the yoke of many bridges. Near the village of Labijai a great moraine descends from a westerly ravine. On the slopes massive and noble clusters of walnut trees are strewn about in great numbers. At Hakimi we stopped for the night, our quarters being the portico of the mosque, the only shelter available. Here the view was grand. In front, framed into a picture by the pillars of the temple, towered lofty peaks holding up to the moon a shield of gleaming silver, while below the river foamed and surged in its rocky channel. Needless to say our use of the mosque gave no offence to the villagers except in so far as it may have curtailed their opportunities for gossip. It is the social centre of the place where the cronies assemble to discuss their favourite topics, where the barber is wont to ply his skill, and where any functions of like importance take place.

A short way above Hakimi the Karatagh river is joined by a left tributary torrent poured out in frisky cascades from the morainedammed basin of the Timur-dera-kul.

We left Tupchek on the 16th of September, recrossing the Gardanikaftar to Liangar. A night was spent on the banks of the Zeriu-zamin torrent and a visit paid to the glacier snout. Judging from the size of the ice-stream and the volume of water discharged, the neve basins of this valley cannot be much inferior to those of Peter the Great. Branching off from the Khingob at the village of Minadu, we followed a southerly road leading over a set of low passes in a country of rounded and steppe-like hills. A thousand feet or so above Minadu one surveys nearly the whole of the western and snowless end of the chain of Peter the Great. Seen at a distance the landscape of its slopes appears like a plaster model carved with a sharp tracery of ribbed design. A ride of seven hours brought us to Safed-daron (Fig. 164) where we enter the zone of conglomerate rock claiming so large a surface of Eastern Bokhara. At the corner of the road near Pisteliak stands a fine old juniper, and under its shade I took the photograph of Fig. 163, showing how the rim of a scree fan draws a clear boundary line between shifting rubble and settled vegetation. To the right of this scene of tenacious struggle we can discover the lobate snout of an old mudspate whose surface is now completely overgrown with grass and scrubby weeds.

Next we came to Sagirdasht familiar to many travellers as a place of important cross-roads. It is a pass of passes, akin to a turn-table of converging rails. The kishlak lies in a shallow funnel like a pea in an oyster shell (Fig. 165).

Having described the lie of the land and recorded various observations in the preceding chapter, I shall devote this one to glacial phenomena.

Beginning with the easternmost glacier, the Borolmas, I draw the reader's attention to Fig. 137. On that more or less diagrammatic plan of Tupchek I have shown the left lateral moraines of the glacier with their sharp rectangular bend towards the west. Between the moraine and the soft northern ridge of Little Achik lies the small valley or dell of the Karashura, part of which stream subsequently descends into the Kosh plateau (cf. Chapter XIV and Fig. 143), afterwards joining the Borolmas river. A short and low ridge from Borolmas peak divides the present Borolmas and Kizilsu glaciers which in former times flowed together, leaving behind a mass of morainic undulations common to them both. For the sake of simplicity I shall apply the name of Borolmas moraines also to this joint product.

We now turn to Fig. 151, a view taken from a position just below the angle or knee mentioned above, in the midst of the morainic hills which in themselves form quite a mountain world with deep valleys and bowls, ridges and humps. The Borolmas peak is easily identified on the right. Our standpoint is in that portion of the moraine spreading out fan-like towards the Karashura and Kosh plateaus, while the main direction of the flow is almost due north. Immediately in front of us is a comparatively small moraine (with a large, square boulder on top), namely the one branching off at right angles from the great lateral moraine.

An architecture of stone dominates the high mountains of the Duab. Nowhere is there so much rock-hewn art overruling the vaults of ice and basins of snow; nowhere has so much been saved on the white lace and shining embroidery which drapes the Alps. The angular nakedness of stone lifts itself proudly to heights undreamt of. With the weight of Babylonian heaviness is mated the reckless daring of the Gothic style. Here we think again of the old problem of all masters, that ever stands before them as they build. How do I raise an unshakable fastness, and then, how do I lighten it by beauty, but finally, how can 1 endow the seeming flimsiness with a strength that convinces the eye? Necessity and joy, pressure and ease, how do I unite them? How can I combine the power of props and braces with the cowardice of vision? Men ask me to weld into beautiful symphonies of reality the two eternal elements of heaven and earth! Where is the golden mean that ever satisfies? Such may be the musings of one who lets his view sweep from the summits of Hazratsultan to Timur's avenues.

Where the mountains, whence issues the all-generating Zarafshan, overshadow the plain, there lies Samarkand, the queen of the world, like a lovely woman reclining on her couch; she who is mother and child, in whom are conception and birth. Beside her verdant bower the mountains stand with a paternity protecting and austere, while near her lies the untouched steppe. To them she is fulfilment and a promise, she the ever-youthful, beatific, and crowned with the glory of Tamerlane.

There is a great problem called the “desiccation of Inner Asia,” and it is intimately bound up with the riddle of mankind. It seems that great areas have become drier and drier even within historical times, and the Duab lies within the sphere of this influence. Thus the study of its deserts, mountains and glaciers and the questions relating to the great ice age are endowed with peculiar interest. Our exact knowledge being still very meagre we are obliged to do a little careful speculation now and again in trying to arrive at some idea. In the course of this book I shall not show undue hesitation in following the line of deductive reasoning, whenever interesting questions arise, which cannot as yet be surrounded and overpowered by a sufficient array of facts and figures. For this purpose I shall make a liberal use of the direct method consisting in the comparison of large features and striking phenomena with familiar European, and especially Alpine, conditions, for the Alps are the fundamental standard of comparison, whether openly avowed or unconsciously traditional, of all research concerned with mountains, valleys or glaciers.

In physical geography or physiography, which is the study of the life of the earth and of the expression of her features, a definite meaning has been attached to Central Asia by Richthofen. He defines it as the region hemmed in by the Altai, the Pamirs, Himalaya and the watershed towards the great Chinese rivers, or, in other words, Chinese Turkestan and Tibet. Western Turkestan and Iran he calls the peripheral districts.

When in the opinion of orthodox fanatics the Osmanli had linked Mecca with the West, Bokhara became the spiritual centre and mainstay of the Muhammadan world. From here the mollahs of Turkey, Egypt, Morocco drew fresh impulse to religious fervour.

Bokhara was a defiant stronghold of Islam, the last bulwark of the followers of the Prophet. Here they lived in strict seclusion inimical to all outside influence, displaying and maintaining to our day the pomp, the power and the haughtiness of olden times. This was the tower of Muhammadan learning, the Rome of the Moslem, whither students congregated from all parts of the world. Here, on hallowed sites never trodden by the foot of unbeliever, the suras of the Koran resounded from the lips of venerable men. Wrapt within the heart of a continent, belted with dread mountains and fearful deserts, fringed with the lairs of murderous tribes, Bokhara-al-sherif resisted contact with the hateful Occident. The rulers on her throne were the heirs of a proud history, but they divided into small states, the caricatures of past greatness, where vaingloriousness stood for fame, oppression for might, cruelty for statesmanship. Bokhara became a scourge, the pages of its heroic traditions clotted with gore and the name of the last independent Amir the worst blemish on the mirror of history.

Already in the past the Muscovite giant had extended his arms towards the eastern seas; another stretch of his mighty limbs and the walls of Khiva crumbled and the battlements of Bokhara fell. It was not an easy kick, but it was the kick of a titan against a rotten tree.

To begin with, some apology is needed for a name which the reader has probably not seen before. “The Duab” as applied to Turkestan is an innovation which I have chosen for practical reasons, the names in general use being either too sweepingly vague or too restricted. I wanted to circumscribe a field for systematic research which might at the same time serve as generally representative far beyond its narrower boundaries. What is known as “Turkestan” is an atmosphere, there is no better word for it, but I also wanted a locality and I defy any one to outline on the map a country called “Turkestan.” Nor would that be desirable, for a real atmosphere cannot be imprisoned within visible walls. My idea was to have a compact laboratory or natural park of definite shape but intensely saturated with an atmosphere extending far beyond the border and gradually losing its intensity as it merges into other climes.

The Duab of Turkestan is the land between the two rivers (du, two; ad, water; analogy, Panjab), between the Amu-darya and the Sir-darya or Oxus and Jaxartes. Its outline has the charm of simplicity. From the Wakhjir source of the Oxus we follow the river to the Sea of Aral; thence round the northern shore to the mouth of the Sir and up this river to where (under the name of the Narin) it breaks through the Ferghana mountains. The watershed connecting this point with the source of the Oxus completes the circuit.

With the decline of summer comes the bracing time in Samarkand. During October and November autumn has established itself. At breakfast time the thermometer will show between 32° and 41° F. (0° to 5° C.), rising to about 60 (15° C.) at two o'clock. The evenings are chilly again, being frequently followed by several degrees of frost at night. The trees are yellow, streaks of mist creep through the gardens in the morning and the air is crisp. That is the season for travelling and walking in comfort, for seeing the sights as a tourist.

Then, in December, comes winter with an occasional shower of rain or sudden rise of temperature, but on the whole clear and cold. Through the leafless branches distant views with snow-topped hills are revealed and hidden houses everywhere become visible among the recesses of the gardens. Now the bugle sounds for the gay chase after pheasant, duck and boar, across the crackling stubble-fields and through the rustling reeds. For us autumn and winter are favourable for roaming in the plains; now is the season for lusty deeds in the lowlands.

On the 1st of December 1907 two ladies, Carruthers and myself left Samarkand intent upon a shooting trip to Makhan-kul. According to the official calendar of the Russian railways it must already have been mid-winter, for our second class carnage was almost bursting with heat. The iron stove in the corner had been goaded to red wrath and was doing his level best to reduce to a sweltering stew the crowd packed into this boiler on wheels. Herein it succeeded with remarkable atmospheric effects.

Yunnan is situated in the S.W. corner of the Chinese Empire proper and is a mountain-covered plateau,—not a simple tableland or “Hochebene,” as is the Mongolian plateau in greater part. It averages 5,000 feet above the sea-level in the actual and dried-up lake basins that yield a limited level area between the mountains, and 8 to 10,000 feet in its innumerable mountain crests; whereby is indicated the general ancient level of the whole plateau. It may be classed as a S.E. peninsular extension of the high Tibetan plateau to which it is directly attached on its N.W. border. It is the third largest province of the empire and covers an area of 108,000 square miles. Compare Great Britain with 88,000 square miles and Tonking with 50,000. In situation and climate it bears a marked analogy to that of the high plateau of Mexico, the mean temperature of which likewise ranges from 60° to 70° (the extremes being 50° to 86°). The new French Railway from Haiphong to Yunnan-fu may be compared with that from Vera Cruz to Mexico, which rises 8,000 feet in 263 miles with gradients of 2.51 per 100. The population was estimated by Davenport in 1877 to have fallen, in consequence of the ruthless extermination of the Mahomedans and the mutual massacres of the contending parties, from the original estimate in 1850 of 6,000,000, to about 1,000,000.

Having found the province of Yunnan and the journey thither very different from my expectations, notwithstanding that I had read almost everything written on the subject, I think others may like to hear more about this unique region and to read the fresh impressions made upon an old traveller in visiting this sequestered corner of the empire. The province of Yunnan is farther of special interest at the moment, since its boundaries have become coterminous with those of the British Indian and of the French Indo-Chinese empires; and that a race has set in between the two Powers for the development of their respective interests in this land of great potentialities—a race in which undoubtedly so far our French friends are a good first.

From the capital of Szechuan to the capital of Yunnan, a distance of 700 miles by the nearest road, but of little more than five degrees of latitude, the time occupied by us in the journey was exactly forty days. The water in the branch of the Min river that washes the walls of the provincial capital being, at the time of our departure, the end of April, very low, in consequence of the irrigation requirements of the great Chêngtu plain; we started out from the city by the land route to Kia-ting, proceeding thence by boat to Sui-fu and thence again for the remainder of the journey by land, there being in Yunnan no alternative choice of water carriage such as we find in so many of, if not all, the other provinces of China, and notably in the well-watered province of Szechuan.

THERE are two routes open to the traveller desirous of escaping from the remote capital of Yunnan to the outside world and the civilisation of the West—both arduous and difficult, both leading over high mountain passes and by deep river valleys—the one due west to the valley of the Irrawaddy, across the defiles of the Mekong and the Salween, and so on to Rangoon—the other due south to the valley of the Red River and thence to the coast at Haiphong, the seaport of French Tonking. If bound to Europe, the road to Rangoon is the more direct, and by much the shorter: returning to China, we chose the way by the Red River rather than traverse once again the terrible pathways of Lao-wa-t‘an and northern Yunnan; notwithstanding that the latter leads across the healthy uplands of the northern plateau, while the southern route dips down to the low encased valley of the Red River, which has at this season a bad reputation for heat and malaria, and by which we found the discomforts of travel far greater than those on the land journey. On the other hand Haiphong could be reached from Yunnan-fu in about a fortnight, while the journey overland to Sui-fu—where the Yangtse is reached and the luxurious travel on the Great River is resumed—would occupy a full month's time.

AS is the case with all Chinese mountain cities, the capital of Yunnan enjoys a most picturesque situation. Emerging from the plain it stands on a limestone ridge, along which its north wall runs; the southern wall encloses much flat land, including a considerable extent of paddy-fields and lotus ponds, across which run stone causeways leading to temples and tea-houses; a bit of Japan with Chinese dirt and decay thrown in. The view over the city and the distant lake and the amphitheatre of surrounding mountains is very beautiful, as one takes a seat on one of the rugged limestone rocks, that cover the face of the slope of the ridge inside the north wall. Like Peking and Chẻngtu, the city is full of fine trees, amidst which glitter the variegated tiled roofs of the many temples and guildhalls. The eye reaches across the city, with its very elegant twin pagodas marking the spot where the Burmese tribute bearers used to assemble—the stable for their elephants was near the British Consulate, where a new school was being built—and across the wide lake to the mountains beyond: these distant mountains form the water-parting between the valley of the Yangtse, to which the drainage of the Yunnan Lake basin belongs, and the drainage of the lakes in the east of the province which goes to feed the West River of Canton.

Originally written as letters to the North China Herald, of which my husband's brother, R. W. Little, was then the Editor, and now for the first time published in England by the kind permission of the present Editor, this volume lacks the final corrections of the author; although in Shanghai he wrote the introduction here given. Before publishing it in book form he wished, I think, to add to it and somewhat to remodel it. But the time for that never came.

Now, however, that the French have so far completed their railway from Hanoi to Yunnan-fu, that it is to be officially opened on April 1st, 1910, I have done my very imperfect best to revise the volume, as I think my husband would have wished, and to bring it out also in April as a tribute to that French enterprise on which he touches so often with warm admiration in these pages. Had he lived, I know what valuable additions they would have gained from his richly-stored memory and original tone of thought; whereas I could but diminish the value of what he has written by additions. Regarded as his freshly-written impressions of our last travel together in China, the following pages will, I hope, convey to the reader something of his intense enjoyment at the time.