The roof has fallen in, the door has been carried off—for fuel no doubt—the walls are all cracked, and there are patches of barley growing at the extremity of the hearthstone. The Tarantshi was overcome with grief at the sight of the place all in ruins, and recalled how happily he had lived there with his parents, what fine crops they grew, and how cheap the food was.
I asked him why he had not remained there.
"We killed too many Chinese, Solons, and Sibos," he replied, "and upon the Chinese returning we fled."
"Now that you have crossed the frontier, will you return to Djarkent?"
"Heaven preserve me, no! The soil is not good, and water is scarce. I shall go to Kashgar, where the family of one of my wives lives."
"Were you not married at Djarkent?"
"Yes, and I had a child as well. He died the day before I came to offer you my services, and I gave my wife back to her father. I am quite free."
The facility with which this Mussulman abandoned his wife surprised me, but in this country it appears to be quite common.
What this Tarantshi told me about Ili was repeated to me by many others. Most of those who live in Russian territory are on the look-out for a chance of slipping across the frontier. The Chinese mandarins have the wit to entice them; they do not ask them for papers. They let them settle on the uncultivated lands, and do not bother them about the past.
In the province of Ili, beyond Mazar, we meet a great many Siberian Kirghis, whom the excellence of the pasturages along the affluents of the Ili has attracted. They have kept the chiefs whom they had elected being Russian subjects. By order of the Chinese mandarin, and with the assent of the tribes, these chiefs will transmit their powers to their descendants.
Side by side with these very wealthy Kirghis we see some
