Four or five hours of this work, and there is no longer a sign of life to be seen on the white waste, saving, about a mile ahead of us, a thin wreath of grey smoke and half a dozen blackened tents–an encampment of gypsies. Far behind us the tallest minarets of the capital are dipping below the horizon, while to the left the white and glittering cone of Demavend stands boldly out from a background of deep cloudless blue. Though the sun is powerful–so much so, indeed, that face and hands are already swollen and blistered–the cold in the shade is intense. A keen, cutting north-easter sweeps across the white waste, and, riding for a time under the shadow of a low ridge of snow, I find my cigar frozen to my lips–nor can I remove it without painfully tearing the skin. Gerome is in his element, and, as a natural consequence, my spirits fall as his rise. The slowness of our progress, and constant stumbling of my pony, do not improve the temper, and I am forced at last to beg my faithful follower to desist, for a time at least, from a vocal rendering of “La Mascotte” which has been going on unceasingly since we left Teheran. He obeys, but (unabashed) proceeds to carry on a long conversation with himself in the Tartar language, with which I am, perhaps happily, unacquainted. Truly he is a man of unfailing resource!
But even his angelic temper is tried when, shortly afterwards, we ride past the gipsy encampment As he dismounts to light a cigarette out of the wind, one of the sirens in a tent catches sight of the little Russian, and in less than half a minute he is surrounded by a mob of dishevelled, half-naked females, who throw their arms about him, pull his hair and ears, and try, but in vain, to secure his horse and drag him into a tent. These gipsies are the terror of travellers in Persia, the men, most of them, gaining a precarious living as tinkers and leather-workers, with an occasional highway robbery to keep their hand in, the women living entirely by thieving and prostitution. The gentlemen of the tribe were, perhaps luckily for us, away from home on this occasion. One of the women, a good-looking, black-eyed girl, was the most persistent among this band of maenads, and, bolder than the rest, utterly refused to let Gerome get on his pony, till, white with passion, the Russian raised his whip. This was a signal for a general howl of rage. “Strike me if you dare!” said the girl, her eyes ablaze. “If you do you will never reach the next station.” But in the confusion Gerome had vaulted into his saddle, and, setting spurs to our horses, we galloped or scrambled off as quick as the deep snow would allow us. “Crapule va!” shouted the little man, whose cheek and hair still bore traces of the struggle. “Il n’y a qu’en Perse qu’on fait des chameaus comme cela!”
Ispahan is about seventy farsakhs distant from Teheran. The journey has, under favourable conditions, been ridden in under two days, but this is very unusual, and has seldom been done except for a wager by Europeans. In our case speed was, of course, out of the question, with the road in the state it was. The ordinary pace is, on an average, six to eight miles an hour, unless the horses are very bad. It was nearly a week, however, before we rode through the gates of Ispahan, and even this was accounted a fair performance considering the difficulties we had to contend with.
Towards sunset the wind rose–a sharp north-easter that made face and ears feel as if they were being flogged with stinging-nettles. It was not until dusk that we reached Rabat Kerim, a small mud village, with a filthy windowless post-house. But a pigstye would have been welcome after such a ride, and the vermin which a flickering oil-lamp revealed in hundreds, on walls and flooring, did not prevent our sleeping soundly till morning. My thermometer marked only one degree above zero when we retired to rest, and the wood was too damp to light a fire. But we are in Persia!
It is only fair, however, to say that the road we were now travelling is not the regular post-road, which lies some distance to the eastward of Rabat Kerim, but was now impassable on account of the snow. The smaller track joins the main road at Koom. By taking the less frequented track, we were unable to go through the “Malak al Niote,” or “Valley of the Angel of Death,” which lies about half-way between the capital and Koom. The valley is so called from its desolate and sterile appearance, though, if this be so, the greater part of Persia might with reason bear the same name. Be this as it may, the Shagirds and natives have the greatest objection to passing through it after dark. A legend avers that it is haunted by monsters having the bodies of men and heads of beasts and birds. Surrounded by these apparitions, who lick his face and hands till he is unconscious, the traveller is carried away–where, history does not state–never to return.
If the first day’s work had been hard, it was child’s play compared to the second. The track, leading over a vast plain, had recently been traversed by a number of camel caravans, which had transformed it into a kind of Jacob’s ladder formed by holes a couple of feet deep in the snow. As long as the horses trod into them all went well, but a few inches to the right or left generally brought them blundering on to their noses. The reader may imagine what a day of this work means. The strain on mind and muscle was almost unbearable, to say nothing of the blinding glare. Yet one could not but admire, during our brief pauses for rest, the picture before us. The boundless expanse of sapphire blue and dazzling white, with not a speck to mar it, save where, occasionally, the warm sun-rays had, here and there, laid bare chains of dark rocks, giving them the appearance of islands in this ocean of snow.
At Pitche, the midday station, no horses were to be had; so, notwithstanding that deep snow-drifts lay between us and Kushku Baira, the halt for the night, we were compelled, after a couple of hours’ rest, to set out on the ponies that had brought us from Rabat Kerim. More perhaps by good luck than anything else, we reached the latter towards 9 p.m. A bright starlit night favoured us, and, with the exception of a couple of falls apiece, we were none the worse. We found, too, to our great delight, a blazing fire burning in the post-house, kindled by some caravan-men. But there is always a saving clause in Persia. No water was to be had for love or money till the morning, and, knowing the raging thirst produced by melted snow, we had to forget our thirst till next day.
[Illustration: POST-HOUSE AT KUSHKU BAIRA]
A pleasant surprise also was in store for us. Two or three miles beyond Kushku Baira we were clear of snow altogether. Not a vestige of white was visible upon the bare stony plain. Nothing but dull drab desert, stretching away on every side to a horizon of snow-capt hills, recalling, by their very whiteness, the miseries of the past two days. “Berik Allah!” [B] cried Gerome. “We have done with the snow now.” “Inshallah!” [C] I replied, though with an inward conviction that we should see it again further on, and suffer accordingly.
The sacred city of Koom [D] is one of the pleasantest recollections I retain of the ride between the capital and Ispahan. It was about two o’clock on the afternoon of the 6th of February that, breasting a chain of low sandy hills, the huge golden dome of the Tomb of Fatima became visible. We were then still four miles off; but, even with our jaded steeds, the ride became what it had not yet been–a pleasure. The green sunlit plains of wheat and barley, interspersed with bars of white and red poppies, the picturesque, happy-looking peasantry, the strings of mule and camel caravans, with their gaudy trappings and clashing bells,–all this life, colour, and movement helped to give one new hope and energy, and drown the dreary remembrance of past troubles, bodily and mental. Even the caravans of corpses sent to Koom for interment, which we passed every now and again, failed to depress us, though at times the effluvia was somewhat overpowering, many of the bodies being brought to the sacred city from the most remote parts of Persia. Each mule bore two dead bodies, slung on either side, like saddle-bags, and one could clearly trace the outline of the figure wrapped in blue or grey cloth. A few of the friends and relatives of some of the deceased accompanied this weird procession, but the greater number of the dead had been consigned to the care of the muleteers. The latter, in true chalvadar [E] fashion, were stretched out flat on their stomachs fast asleep, their heads lolling over their animals, arms and legs dangling helplessly, while the caravan roamed about the track unchecked, banging their loads against each other, to the silent discomfiture of the unfortunate mourners.
[Illustration: A CORPSE CARAVAN]
Koom is said to cover nearly twice as much ground as Shiraz, but more than half the city is in ruins, the Afghans having destroyed it in 1722. The principal buildings are mainly composed of mosques and sepulchres (for Koom is second only to Meshed in sanctity), but most of them are in a state of decay and dilapidation. The mosque containing the Tomb of Fatima is the finest, its dome being covered with plates of silver-gilt–the natives say of pure gold. The sacred character of this city is mainly derived from the fact that Fatima, surnamed “El Masouna” (“Free from sin”), died here many years ago. The tradition is that Fatima was on her way to the city of Tus, whither she was going to visit her brother, Imam Riza. On arrival at Koom, she heard of his death, which caused her to delay her journey and take up her residence here for a time, but she shortly afterwards sickened, and died of a broken heart. A mausoleum was originally built of a very humble nature, but, by order of Shah Abbas, it was enlarged and richly ornamented inside and out. Fatti-Ali-Shah and Abbas the Second are both buried here; also the wife of Mahomet Shah, who died in 1873, having had the dome of the mosque covered with gold. There is a legend among natives that Fatima’s body no longer lies in the mosque, but was carried bodily to heaven shortly after death.
The population of Koom, which now amounts to little more than between ten and twelve thousand, was formerly much larger. Like many other Persian cities–saving, perhaps, Teheran–it retains but little of its greatness, either as regards art or commerce. The bazaar is, notwithstanding, extensive and well supplied. Koom is noted for the manufacture of a white porous earthenware, which is made into flasks and bottles, some of beautiful design and workmanship.
The city is entered from the north by a substantial stone bridge, spanning a swift but shallow river. It presents, at first sight, much more the appearance of a Spanish or Moorish town than a Persian one. The dirty brown mud huts are replaced by picturesque white houses, with coloured domes, gaily striped awnings, and carved wooden balconies overhanging the stream. Riding through the city gate, we plunge from dazzling sunshine into the cool semi-darkness of the bazaar, through which we ride for at least a quarter of an hour, when a sudden turning brings us once more into daylight in the yard of a huge caravanserai, crowded with mule and camel caravans.
The apartment or cell allotted to us was, however, so filthy that we decided to push on at once to Pasingan, the next stage, four farsakhs distant. Koom is noted for the size and venom of its scorpions; and the dim recesses of the dark, cobwebby chamber, with its greasy walls and smoke-blackened ceiling, looked just the place for these undesirable bedfellows.
So we rode on again into the open country, past crowds of beggars and dervishes at the eastern gate, as usual, busily engaged, as soon as they saw us coming, at their devotions. Clear of the city walls, one sees nothing on every side but huge storks. They are held sacred by the natives, being supposed to migrate to Mecca every year. I heard at Ispahan that, notwithstanding the outward austerity and piety of the people of Koom, there is no town in Persia where so much secret depravity and licentiousness are carried on as in the “Holy City.”
The stage from Koom to Pasingan was accomplished in an incredibly short time; and I may here mention that this was the only occasion upon which, in Persia, I was ever given a fairly good horse. The word _chapar_ signifies in Persian to “gallop,” but it is extremely rare to find “chapar post” pony which has any notion of going out of his own pace–something between a walk and a canter, like the old grey horse that carries round the lady in pink and spangles in a travelling circus. But to-day I got hold of a wiry, game little chestnut, who was evidently new to the job, and reached and tore away at his bridle as if he enjoyed the fun. Seeing, about half-way, that he was bleeding at the mouth, I called Gerome’s attention to the fact, and found that his horse was in the same plight–as, indeed, was every animal we passed on the road between Koom and Pasingan. This is on account of the water at and between the two places, which is full of small leeches, invisible except through a microscope. Horses, mules, and cattle suffer much in consequence, for nothing can be done to remedy the evil.
A pleasant gallop of under an hour brought us to Pasingan. It was hardly possible to realize, riding through the warm evening air, for all the world like a June evening in England, that but two days before we had well-nigh been frozen to death. Had I known what was in store for us beyond Kashan, I might have marvelled even more at this sudden and welcome change of climate.
The guest-chamber at Pasingan was already taken by a Persian khan, a rude, blustering fellow, who refused us even a corner; so we had, perforce, to make the best of it downstairs among the rats and vermin. Devoured by the latter, and unable to sleep, we rose at the first streak of dawn, saddled two of the khan’s horses, and rode away to Sin-Sin before any one was astir. The poor Shagird, whom we had to threaten with a severe chastisement if he did not accompany us, was in a terrible state. The bow-string was the least he could expect when the khan came to know of the trick we had played him. An extra keran at Sin-Sin, however, soon consoled our guide. He probably never returned to Pasingan at all, but sought his fortunes elsewhere. Persian post-boys are not particular.
Kashan is distant about fifty-two English miles from Pasingan, and lies south-east of the latter. The caravan track passes a level tract of country, sparsely cultivated by means of irrigation. Persian soil is evidently of the kind that, “tickled with a hoe, laughs with a harvest.” Even in this sterile desert, covered for the most part with white salt deposits, the little oases of grain and garden looked as fresh and green as though they had been on the banks of a lake or river. But the green patches were very few and far between, and, half-way between the post-stations, ceased altogether. Nothing was then visible but a waste of brown mud and yellow sand, cut clear and distinct against the blue sky-line on the horizon. It is strange, when crossing such tracts of country, to note how near to one everything seems. Objects six or eight miles off, looked to-day as if you could gallop up to them in five minutes; and the peak of Demavend, on which we were now looking our last, seemed about twenty miles off, instead of over one hundred and fifty.
Kashan was reached on the 7th of February. At Nasirabad, a village a few miles out of the city, there had been an earthquake that morning. Many of the mud houses were in ruins, and their late owners sitting dejectedly on the remains. Earthquakes are common enough in Persia, and this was by no means our last experience in that line. Commiserating with the homeless ones, we divided a few kerans among them, in return for which they brought us large water-melons (for which Nasirabad is celebrated), deliciously flavoured, and as cold as ice.
Kashan, which stands on a vast plain about two thousand feet above sea-level, is picturesque and unusually clean for an Eastern town. The bazaar is a long one, and its numerous caravanserais finer even than those of the capital. The manufacture of silk [F] and copperware is extensive; but, as usual, one saw little in the shops, _en evidence _, but shoddy cloth and Manchester goods, and looked in vain for real Oriental stuffs and carpets. I often wondered where on earth they _were_ to be got, for the most persistent efforts failed to produce the real thing. I often passed, on the road, camel and mule-cloths that made my mouth water, so old were their texture and delicate their pattern and colouring, but the owners invariably declined, under any circumstances, to part with them.
Kashan will ever be associated in my mind with the fact that I there saw the prettiest woman it was my luck to meet in Persia. The glimpse was but a momentary one, but amply sufficed to convince me that those who say that _all_ Persian women are ugly (as many do) know nothing-whatever about it.
It was towards sunset, in one of the caravanserais, to which, hot and tired with the long dusty ride, I came for a quiet smoke and a cup of coffee. The sensation of absolute repose was delicious after the heat and glare, the stillness of the place unbroken save for the plash of a marble fountain, and, outside, the far-off voices of the “muezzims,” calling the faithful to evening prayer. From the blue dome, with its golden stars and white tracery, the setting sun, streaming in through coloured glass, threw the softest shades of violet and ruby, emerald and amber, upon the marble pavement. The stalls around were closed for the night; all save one, a “manna” [G] shop. Its owner, a white-turbaned old Turk, and myself were the sole inmates of the caravanserai. Even my “kafedji” [H] had disappeared, though probably not without leaving instructions to his neighbour to see that I did not make off with the quaint little silver coffee-cup and nargileh.
It was here that I saw the “belle” of Kashan, and of Persia, for aught I know–a tall slim girl, dressed, not in the hideous bag-like garments usually affected by the Persian female, but soft white draperies, from beneath which peeped a pair of loose baggy trousers and tiny feet encased in gold-embroidered slippers. Invisible to her, I made every effort, from my hiding-place behind a projecting stall, to catch a glimpse of her face, but, alas! a yashmak was in the way–not the thin gauzy wisp affected by the smart ladies of Cairo and Constantinople, but a thick, impenetrable barrier of white linen, such as the peasant women of Mohammedan countries wear. Who could she be? What was she doing-out unattended at this late hour?
I had almost given up all hope of seeing her features, when Fortune favoured me. As the old Turk dived into the recesses of his shop to attend to the wants of his fair customer, the latter removed her veil, revealing, as she did so, one of the sweetest and fairest faces it has ever been my good fortune to look upon. A perfectly oval face, soft delicate complexion, large dark eyes full of expression, a small aquiline nose, but somewhat large mouth, and the whitest and smallest of teeth. Such was the apparition before me. She could not have been more than sixteen.
I could scarcely restrain from giving vent to my admiration in speech, when the old Turk returned. In an instant the yashmak was in its place, and, with a hasty glance around, my vision of beauty was scuttling away as fast as her legs could carry her. A low musical laugh like a chime of silver bells came back to me from the dark deserted alleys of the bazaar, and I saw her no more.
The manna-seller was evidently irritated, and intimated, in dumb show, that I must leave the caravanserai at once, as he was shutting up for the night. I bought a pound or so of the sweetmeat to pacify him, and, if possible, glean some information about the fair one, but my advances were of no avail.
The history of Kashan is closely allied to that of Ispahan. The former city was founded by Sultana Zobeide, wife of the celebrated Haroun-al-Raschid. Ransacked and destroyed by the Afghans in the eighteenth century, it was again restored, or rather rebuilt, by Haji Husein Khan. Perhaps the most interesting thing the city contains is a leaning minaret which dates from the thirteenth century. It is ascended by a rickety spiral staircase. From here, not so many years ago, it was the custom to execute adulterous wives. The husband, accompanied by his relations, forced his unfaithful spouse to the top of the tower and pushed her over the side (there is no balustrade), to be dashed to pieces on stone flags about a hundred and thirty feet below.
“Pas de chance, monsieur,” was Gerome’s greeting as I entered the caravanserai. “The Koudoum Pass is blocked with snow, and almost impassable. What is to be done?” Mature deliberation brought but one solution to the question: Start in the morning, and risk it. “It cannot be worse than the Kharzan, anyhow,” said Gerome, cheerfully, as we rode out of Kashan next day, past the moated mud walls, forty feet high, that at one time made this city almost impregnable. I more than once during the morning, however, doubted whether we had done right in leaving our comfortable quarters at the caravanserai to embark on this uncertain, not to say dangerous, journey.
Twenty-nine farsakhs still lay between us and Ispahan; but, once past the Khurood Pass (which lies about seven farsakhs from Kashan), all would be plain sailing. The summit of the pass is about seven thousand feet above sea-level. Its valleys are, in summer, green and fertile, but during the winter are frequently rendered impassable by the deep snow, as was now the case. Khurood itself is a village of some size and importance, built on the slope of the mountain, and here, by advice of the villagers, we rested for the night. “It will take you at least a day to get to Bideshk,” said the postmaster–“that is, if you are going to attempt it.”
The ride from Kashan had been pleasant enough. No snow was yet visible, save in the ravines, and the extreme summits of a chain of low rocky hills, of which we commenced the ascent a couple of hours or so after leaving Kashan. Half-way up, however, it became more difficult, the path being covered in places with a thick coating of ice–a foretaste of the pleasures before us. Towards the summit of the mountain is an artificial lake, formed by a strong dyke, or bank of stonework, which intercepts and collects the mountain-streams and melted snows–a huge reservoir, whence the water is let off to irrigate the distant low plains of Kashan, and, indeed, to supply the city itself. The waters of this lake, about fifteen feet deep, were clear as crystal, the bottom and sides being cemented.
This reservoir was constructed by order of Shah Abbas, who seems to have been one of the wisest and best rulers this unfortunate country has ever had, for he has certainly done more for his country than Nasr-oo-din or any of his stock are likely to. Pass a finer caravanserai than usual, travel a better road, cross a finer bridge, and interrogate your Shagird as to its history, and you will invariably receive the answer, “Shah Abbas.” At the village of Khurood, a huge caravanserai (his work) lies in ruins, having been destroyed seven or eight years ago by an earthquake. Several persons were killed, the shock occurring at night-time, when the inmates were asleep.
The post-house at Khurood was cold, filthy, and swarmed with rats–an animal for which I have always had an especial aversion. Towards midnight a Persian gentleman arrived from Kashan–a mild, benign-looking individual, with a grey moustache and large blue spectacles. The new-comer, who spoke a little French, begged to be allowed to join us on the morrow, as he was in a hurry to get to Ispahan. Notwithstanding Gerome’s protestations, I had not the heart to refuse. He looked so miserable and helpless, and indeed was, as I discovered too late next day. Our new acquaintance then suggested sending for wine, to drink to the success of our journey. At this suggestion Gerome woke up; and seeing that, in my case, the rats had successfully murdered sleep, I gladly agreed to anything that would make the time pass till daylight. A couple of bottles were then produced by the postmaster; but it was mawkish stuff, as sweet as syrup, and quite flavourless. Gerome and the Persian, however, did not leave a drop, and before they had finished the second bottle were sworn friends. Although wine is forbidden by the Mohammedan faith, it is largely indulged in, in secret, by Persians of the upper class. I never met, however, a follower of the Prophet so open about it as our friend at Khurood. The wine here was from Ispahan, and cost, the Persian told us, about sixpence a quart bottle, and was, in my opinion, dear at that. Shiraz wine is perhaps the best in Persia. It is white, and, though very sweet when new, develops, if kept for three or four years, a dry nutty flavour like sherry. This, however, does not last long, but gives place in a few months to a taste unpleasantly like sweet spirits of nitre, which renders the wine undrinkable. With proper appliances the country would no doubt produce excellent vintages, but at present the production of wine in Persia is a distinct failure.
Leaving at 8 a.m., we managed to reach the summit of the Koudoum by two o’clock next day, when we halted to give the horses a rest, and get a mouthful of food. Our Persian friend had returned to Koudoum after the first half-mile, during which he managed to get three falls, for the poor man had no notion of riding or keeping a horse on its legs. He reminded one of the cockney who sat his horse with consummate ease, grace, and daring, until it moved, when he generally fell off. I was sorry for him. He was so meek and unresentful, even when mercilessly chaffed by Gerome.
Our greatest difficulty up till now had arisen from ice, which completely covered the steep narrow pathway up the side of the mountain, and made the ascent slippery and insecure. The snow had as yet been a couple of feet deep at most, and we had come across no drifts of any consequence. Arrived at the summit, however, we saw what we had to expect. Below us lay a narrow valley or gorge, about a mile broad, separating us from the low range of hills on the far side of which lay Bideshk. The depth of the snow we were about to make a way through was easily calculated by the telegraph-posts, which in places were covered to within two or three feet of the top. “You see, sahib,” said the Shagird, pointing with his whip to a huge drift some distance to the left of the wires; “two men lying under that.” The intelligence did not interest me in the least. Could we or not get over this “Valley of Death”? was the only question my mind was at that moment capable of considering.
[Illustration: A DAY IN THE SNOW]
In less than a quarter of an hour we were in the thick of it, up to our waists in the snow, and pulling, rather than leading, our horses after us. It reminded me of a bad channel passage from Folkestone to Boulogne, and took about the same time–two hours, although the actual distance was under a mile and a half. Gerome led the way as long as he was able, but, about half-way across, repeated and violent falls had so exhausted his horse that we were obliged to halt while I took his place, by no means an easy one. During this stage of the proceedings we could scarcely see one another for the steam and vapour arising from the poor brutes, whose neighs of terror, as they blundered into a deeper drift than usual, were pitiful to hear. More than once Gerome’s pony fell utterly exhausted and helpless, and it took our united efforts to get him on his legs again; while the Shagird and I left our ponies prone on their sides, only too glad of a temporary respite from their labours. If there is anything in the Mohammedan religion, the Shagird was undoubtedly useful. He never ceased calling upon “Allah!” for help for more than ten consecutive seconds the whole way across. At four o’clock we rode into the post-house at Bideshk, thoroughly done up, and wet through with snow and perspiration, but safe, and determined, if horses were procurable, to push on at once to Murchakhar, from whence two easy stages of six and three farsakhs would land us next day at Ispahan.
It was dusk, and we had just secured the only horses available, when two Armenians, bound for Teheran, rode into the yard. When told they were just too late for a relay, the rage of one of them–a short, apoplectic-looking little man–was awful to behold. As I mounted, his companion came up and politely advised us not to attempt to ride to Murchakhar by night. “The road swarms with footpads,” he said, in a mysterious undertone; “you run a very great risk of being robbed and murdered if you go on to-night.” “You would have run a far greater of being frozen to death, if we had not saved you by taking these horses,” cried Gerome, as we rode coolly out of the gateway.
Bideshk is noted for a great battle fought in its vicinity between the army of Nadir Shah and Ashraf the Afghan. Its post-house is also noted, as I can vouch for, for the largest and most venomous bugs between Teheran and Ispahan. We only remained there three hours, and felt the effects for days afterwards.
All trace of ice and snow disappeared a few farsakhs from here, and we galloped gaily across a hard and level plain to our destination for the night. The post-house was a blaze of light. A couple of armed sentries stood in front of the doorway, and a motley crowd of soldiers, Shagird-chapars, and peasants outside.
“You cannot come in,” said the postmaster, full of importance. “The Zil-i-Sultan is here on a hunting expedition. He will start away early in the morning, and then you can have the guest-room, but not before.” Too tired to mind much–indeed, half asleep already–we groped our way to the stables, where, on the cleanest bundle of straw I have ever seen–or smelt, for it was pitch dark–in a Persian post-stable (probably the property of his Highness the Governor of Ispahan), we were soon in the land of dreams. Had we known that we were calmly reposing within a couple of feet of the royal charger’s heels, our slumbers might not have been so refreshing. Daylight disclosed the fact.
The governor and his suite had apparently made a night of it. Although it was past eight o’clock when we made a start, the prince, his suite, soldiers, and grooms were none of them stirring, although his _chef_ was busily engaged, with his staff of assistants, preparing a sumptuous breakfast of kababs, roast meat and poultry, pastry, and confectionery of various kinds. I could not help envying the man whose appetite and digestion would enable him to sit down to such a meal at such an hour. Sherbet, the Shagird from Murchakhar informed us in confidence, is the favourite drink of the Zil-i-Sultan. I only once tasted sherbet in Persia, and was somewhat surprised–so lasting are one’s youthful associations–to find it utterly different to the refreshing but somewhat depressing beverage of my school-days, sold, if I remember rightly, at twopence a packet. The real sherbet I was given (in a native house at Shiraz) consisted simply of a glass of cold water with a lump of sugar in it–_eau sucre_, in fact. But Persian sherbets are of endless varieties and flavours. Preserved syrups of raspberry and pineapple, the juice of the fresh fruit of lemon, orange, and pomegranate, are all used in the manufacture of sherbet, which is, however, never effervescing. The water in which it is mixed should be icy cold, and has, when served in Persia, blocks of frozen snow floating on the surface. The “sherbet-i-bidmishk,” or “willow-flower sherbet,” made from flowers of a particular kind of willow distilled in water, is perhaps the most popular of all among the higher classes, and is the most expensive.
The hunting-expedition (the Shagird, who was of a communicative disposition, informed us) consisted of three parties located at villages each within a couple of farsakhs of Murchakhar. Numbering altogether over six hundred men (all mounted), they had been out from Ispahan nearly ten days. Yesterday the prince’s party had been exceptionally lucky, and had had splendid sport. We passed, on the road to Gez, a caravan of fifteen mules laden with the spoil–ibex, deer, wild sheep, and even a wild ass among the slain. The latter had fallen to the governor’s own rifle. There is plenty of sport to be had in Persia, if you only take the trouble to look for it, and in comparative comfort too, with tents, stores, cooking apparatus, etc., if time is no object. The country swarms with wild animals–tiger, bear, and leopard in the forests by the Caspian Sea; wild asses, jackals, and wolves in the desert regions; deer and wild goats in the mountainous districts; and, as we afterwards had uncomfortable proof, lions in the southern provinces. There is no permission needed. A European may shoot over any country he pleases, with the exception of the Shah’s private preserves around Teheran. His Imperial Majesty is very tetchy on this point.
We galloped nearly the whole of the short stage from Gez to Ispahan. A couple of miles out of the city we overtook a donkey ridden by two peasants, heavy men, who challenged us to a trial of speed. We only just beat them by a couple of lengths at the gates, although our horses were fresh and by no means slow. The Persian donkey is unquestionably the best in the East, and is not only speedy, but as strong as a horse. We frequently passed one of these useful beasts carrying a whole family–monsieur, madame, and an unlimited number of bebes–to say nothing of heavy baggage, in one of the queer-looking arrangements (oblong boxes with a canvas covering stretched over a wooden framework) depicted on the next page. An ordinary animal costs from two to three pounds (English), but a white one, the favourite mount of women and priests, will often fetch as much as ten or fifteen.
To reach Djulfa, the Armenian and European quarter of Ispahan, the latter city must be crossed, also the great stone bridge spanning the “Zandarood,” or “Living River,” so called from the supposed excellence of its water for drinking purposes, and its powers of prolonging life. Nearing the bridge, we met a large funeral, evidently that of a person of high position, from the costly shawls which covered the bier.
[Illustration: A FAMILY PARTY]
As in many Eastern countries, a man is never allowed to die in peace in Persia. It is a ceremony like marriage or burial, and as soon as the doctors have pronounced a case hopeless, the friends and relations of the sick man crowd into his chamber and make themselves thoroughly at home, drinking tea and sherbet, and watching, through the smoke of many hubble-bubbles, the dying agonies of their friend. The wife of the dying man sits at his side, occasionally holding to the nostrils the Persian substitute for smelling-salts, i. e. a piece of mud torn from the wall of the dwelling and moistened with cold water. As a last resource, a fowl is often killed and placed, warm and bleeding, on the patient’s feet. This being of no avail, and death having taken place, the wife is led from the apartment, and the preparations for interment are commenced. Wet cotton-wool is stuffed into the mouth, nose, and ears of the corpse, while all present witness aloud that the dead man was a good and true Mohammedan. The body is laid out, a cup of water is placed at its head, and a moollah, ascending to the roof of the house, reads in a shrill nasal tone verses from the Koran. The professional mourners then arrive, and night or day is made hideous with their cries, while the “washers of the dead” proceed with their work. The coffin, [I] in Persia, is made of very thin wood; in the case of a poor man it is often dispensed with altogether, the corpse being buried in a shroud. Interment in most cases takes place forty-eight hours at most after death.
We found the house of Mr. P–, the Telegraph Superintendent of the Indo-European Company, with some difficulty, for the roads or rather lanes of Djulfa are tortuous and confusing. Mr. P–was out, but had left ample directions for our entertainment. A refreshing tub, followed by a delicious curry, washed down with iced pale ale, prepared one for the good cigar and siesta that followed, though an unlimited supply of English newspapers, the _Times, Truth_, and _Punch_, kept me well awake till the return of my host at sunset.
[Footnote A: A farsakh is about four miles.]
[Footnote B: “Hurrah!”]
[Footnote C: “Please God!”]
[Footnote D: _Koom_ signifies “sand.”]
[Footnote E: Muleteer.]
[Footnote F: Kashan silk, noted throughout Persia, is of two kinds: the one thin and light for lining garments, the other thick and heavy for divans, etc. The patterns are generally white, yellow, and green on a red ground.]
[Footnote G: A natural sweetmeat like nougat, found and manufactured in Persia.]
[Footnote H: Attendant.]
[Footnote I: In the north of Persia the dead are buried in a shroud of dark-blue cloth, which is, oddly enough, called in the Persian language, a _kaffin_.]
CHAPTER VII.
ISPAHAN–SHIRAZ.
The seven telegraph-stations, in charge of Europeans, between Teheran and Bushire, may be called the oases of Persia to the weary traveller from Resht to the Persian Gulf. He is sure, at any of these, of a hearty welcome, a comfortable bedroom, and a well-cooked dinner from the good Samaritan in charge. The latter is generally the best of company, full of anecdote and information about the country, and, necessarily, well posted in the latest news from Europe, from the last Parliamentary debate to the winner of the Derby. These officials are usually _ci-devant_ non-commissioned officers of Royal Engineers. Some are married, for the life is a lonely one, and three or four months often elapse without personal communication with the outer world, except on the wires. By this means, when the latter are not in public use, the telegraphist can lighten his weary hours by animated conversation with his colleague two or three hundred miles away on congenial topics–the state of the weather, rate of exchange, chances of promotion, and so on. Living, moreover, at most of the stations is good and cheap; there is plenty of sport; and if a young unmarried man only keeps clear of the attractions of the fair sex, he soon makes friends among the natives. Love intrigues are dangerous in Persia. They once led to the massacre of the whole of the Russian Legation at Teheran.
Ispahan is a city of ruins. A Persian will tell you, with pride, that it is nearly fifteen miles in circumference, but a third of this consists of heaps of stones, with merely the foundation-lines around to show that they were once palaces or more modest habitations. Chardin the traveller, writing in A.D. 1667, gives the population of Ispahan at considerably over a million, but it does not now exceed fifty thousand, including the suburb of Djulfa. The Madrassa, or College, the governor’s palace, and “Chil Situn,” or “Palace of the Forty Pillars,” are the only buildings that still retain some traces of their former glory. Pertaining to the former is a dome of the most exquisite tile-work, which, partly broken away, discloses the mud underneath; a pair of massive gates of solid silver, beautifully carved and embossed; a large shady and well-kept garden in the centre of the Madrassa, with huge marble tanks of water, surrounded by an oblong arcade of students’ rooms–sixty queer little boxes about ten feet by six, their walls covered with arabesques of great beauty. These are still to be seen–and remembered. With the exception of the “Maidan Shah,” or “Square of the King”–a large open space in the centre of the city, surrounded by modern two-storied houses–the streets of Ispahan are narrow, dirty, and ill-paved, and its bazaar, which adjoins the Maidan Shah, very inferior in every way to those of Teheran or Shiraz.
The palace of “Chil Situn,” or “The Forty Pillars,” is like most Persian palaces–the same walled gardens with straight walks, the usual avenues of cypress trees, and the inevitable tank of stone or marble in the centre of the grounds. It is owing to the reflection of the _facade_ of the palace in one of the latter that it has gained its name. There are in reality but twenty pillars, the forty being (with a stretch of imagination) made up by reflection in the dull and somewhat dirty pool of water at their feet. The palace itself is a tawdry, gimcrack-looking edifice, all looking-glass and vermilion and green paint in the worst possible taste. From the entrance-hall an arched doorway leads into the principal apartment, a lofty chamber about ninety feet long by fifty broad, its walls covered with large paintings representing the acts of the various Persian kings. Shah Abbas is portrayed under several conditions. In one scene he is surrounded by a band of drunken companions and dancing-girls, in costumes and positions that would hardly pass muster before our Lord Chamberlain. This room once contained the most beautiful and costly carpet in all Persia, but it has lately been sold “for the good of the State,” and a dirty green drugget laid down in its place. In one of the side chambers are pictures representing ladies and gentlemen in the costume of Queen Elizabeth’s time. How they got to Ispahan I was unable to discover. They are very old, and evidently by good masters.
The way back to our comfortable quarters at Djulfa lay over the Zandarood river. There are five bridges, the principal one being that of Allaverdi Khan, named after one of the generals of Shah Abbas, who superintended its construction. It is of solid stonework, and built in thirty-three arches, over which are ninety-nine smaller arches above the roadway on both sides, enclosing a covered-in pathway for foot-passengers. The roadway in the centre, thirty feet wide, is well paved with stone, and perfectly level. Every thirty yards or so are stalls for the sale of kababs, fruit, sweetmeats, and the kalyan, for a whiff from which passers-by pay a small sum. Ispahan is noted for its fruit; apricots, peaches, nectarines, cherries, mulberries, and particularly fine melons, are abundant in their season.
There is a saying in Persia, “Shiraz for wine, Yezd for women, but Ispahan for melons.”
Since it has ceased to be the capital of Persia, the trade of Ispahan has sadly deteriorated. There is still, however, a brisk trade in opium and tobacco. Silks and satins are also made, as well as quantities of a coarser kind of cotton stuff for wearing-apparel, much used by the natives. The sword-blades manufactured here are, in comparison with those of Khorassan or Damascus, of little value. Genuine old blades from the latter city fetch enormous prices everywhere; but a large quantity of worthless imitations is in the market, and unless a stranger is thoroughly experienced in the art of weapon-buying, he had better leave it alone in Persia. Modern firearms are rarely seen in the bazaars, except cheap German and French muzzle-loaders, more dangerous to the shooter than to the object aimed at.
If the streets of Ispahan are narrow, those of Djulfa, the Armenian settlement, can only be described as almost impassable, for, although the widest are barely ten feet across, quite a third of this space is taken up by the deep ditch, or drain, lined with trees, by which all are divided. But the town, or settlement, is as clean and well-kept as Ispahan itself is the reverse, which is saying a great deal.
Djulfa is called after the Armenian town of that name in Georgia, the population of which, for commercial reasons, was removed to this place by Shah Abbas in A.D. 1603. Djulfa, near Ispahan, was once a large and flourishing city, with as many as twenty district parishes, and a population of sixty thousand souls, now dwindled down to a little over two thousand, the greater part of whom live in great want and poverty. The city once possessed as many as twenty churches, but most of these are now in ruins. The cathedral, however, is still standing, and in fair preservation. It dates from A.D. 1655. There is also a Roman Catholic colony and church. The latter stands in a large garden, celebrated for its quinces and apricots. Lastly, the English Church Missionary Society have an establishment here under the direction of the Rev. Dr. Bruce, whose good deeds during the famine are not likely to be forgotten by the people of Ispahan and Djulfa, whatever their creed or religion. The trade of Djulfa is insignificant, although there is a large amount of wine and arak manufactured there, and sold “under the rose” to the Ispahanis. The production of the juice of the grape is somewhat primitive. During the season (September and October) the grapes are trodden out in a large earthenware pan, and the whole crushed mass, juice and all, is stowed away in a jar holding from twenty to thirty gallons, a small quantity of water being added to it. In a few days fermentation commences. The mass is then stirred up every morning and evening with sticks for ten or twenty days. About this period the refuse sinks to the bottom of the jar, and the wine is drawn off and bottled. In forty days, at most, it is fit to drink.
My time at Ispahan was limited, so much so that I was not able to pay a visit to the “Shaking minarets,” about six miles off. These mud towers, of from twenty to thirty feet high, are so constructed that a person, standing on the roof of the building between the two, can, by a slight movement of his feet, cause them to vibrate.
I spent most of my time, as usual, strolling about the least-frequented parts of the city, or in the cool, picturesque gardens of the Madrassa. The people of Teheran, and other Persian cities, are generally civil to strangers; but at Ispahan the prejudice against Europeans is very strong, and I more than once had to make a somewhat hasty exit from some of the lower quarters of the city.
Mrs. S—-, the wife of a telegraph official, was stabbed by some miscreants while walking in broad daylight on the outskirts of the town, a few months before my visit. The offenders were never caught; probably, as Ispahan is under the jurisdiction of the Zil-i-Sultan, were never meant to be.
The Zil-i-Sultan returned to Ispahan before I left. He is rightly named “Shadow of the King,” for, saving his somewhat more youthful appearance, he is as like Nasr-oo-din as two peas. Like his father in most of his tastes, his favourite occupations are riding, the chase, and shooting at a mark; but he is, perhaps, more susceptible to the charms of the fair sex than his august parent.
The prince is now nearly forty years of age. His wife, daughter of a former Prime Minister of Persia, who was strangled by order of the present Shah, died a few years ago, having borne him a son, the “Jelal-u-dowleh,” a bright, clever boy, now about eighteen years old, and three daughters. The Zil-i-Sultan is adored by his people, and has, unquestionably, very great influence over the districts of which he is governor. Within the last two years, however, at least two-thirds of his possessions have been taken from him–a proceeding that caused him considerable annoyance, and drew forth the remark that the Valliad would one day regret it. There can be little doubt that, at the death of Nasr-oo-din, the Governor of Ispahan will make a bold bid for the throne; in fact, the latter makes no secret of his intentions. Drink and debauch having already rendered his younger brother half-witted, the task should not be a difficult one, especially as half the people and the whole army side with the illegitimate, though more popular, prince. It is, perhaps, under the circumstances, to be regretted that the latter is an ardent Russophile, ever since his Majesty the Czar sent a special mission to Ispahan to confer upon him the Order of the Black Eagle. Should the Zil-i-Sultan succeed Nasr-oo-din, British influence in Persia may become even less powerful than it is now, if that is possible.
The Zil-i-Sultan is far more civilized in his habits and mode of life than the Shah. A fair French scholar, he regularly peruses his _Temps, Gil Blas_, and the latest works of the best French authors. It is strange that, with all his common sense and sterling qualities, this prince should, in some matters, be a perfect child. One of his whims is dress. Suits of clothes, shirts, socks, hats, and uniforms are continually pouring in from all parts of Europe, many of the latter anything but becoming to the fat, podgy figure of the “King’s Shadow.” A photograph of his Royal Highness the Duke of Connaught in Rifle Brigade uniform was shown him a couple of years since. The Court tailor was at once sent for. “I must have this; make it at once,” was the command, the humble request to be allowed to take the measure being met by, “Son of a hell-burnt father! What do you mean? Make it for a well-made man–a man with a better figure than that, and it will fit me!”
Popular as he is with the lower orders, the Zil-i-Sultan does not, when offenders are brought before him, err on the side of mercy. Persian justice is short, sharp, and severe, and a man who commits a crime in the morning, may be minus his head before sunset. Although a Persian would indignantly deny it, some of their punishments are nearly as cruel as the Chinese. For instance, not so very long ago a man in Southern Persia was convicted of incest, for which crime his eyes were first torn out with pincers, and his teeth then extracted, one by one, sharpened to a point, and hammered, like nails, through the top of his skull. It should be said in justice that the present Shah has done all he can to stop the torture system, and confine the death-sentence to one of two methods–painless and instantaneous–throat-cutting and blowing from a gun. Notwithstanding, executions such as the one I have mentioned are common enough in remote districts, and crucifixion, walling up, or burying and burning alive are, although less common than formerly, by no means out of date. Women are usually put to death by being strangled, thrown from a precipice or well, or wrapped up in a carpet and jumped upon; but the execution of a woman is now, fortunately, rare in Persia.
A dreary desert surrounds Ispahan on every side save to the southward, where dark masses of rock, a thousand feet high, break the sky-line. The environs of the city are well populated, and, as we rode out, _en route_ for Shiraz, we passed through a good deal of cultivated land. This is irrigated by the Zandarood, whose blue waters are visible for a long distance winding through the emerald-green plain, with its gay patchwork of white and scarlet poppy-gardens. The cultivation of this plant is yearly increasing in Persia, for there is an enormous demand for the drug in the country itself, to say nothing of the export market, the value of which, in 1871, was 696,000 rupees. In 1881 it had progressed to 8,470,000 rupees, and is steadily increasing every year. Opium is not smoked in Persia, but is taken in the form of pills. Many among the upper classes take it daily, the dose being a grain to a grain and a half.
We covered, the first day out from Ispahan, nearly a hundred miles between sunrise and 10 p.m.–not bad work for Persia. A little after dark, and before the moon had risen, I was cantering easily along in front of Gerome, when a violent blow on the chest, followed by another between the eyes, sent me reeling off my horse on to the sand. My first thought, on collecting myself, was “Robbers!”–this part of the road bearing an unpleasant reputation. Cocking my revolver, I called to Gerome, and was answered by a volley of oaths, while another riderless horse galloped past me and disappeared in the darkness. Our foe was a harmless one. The wind had blown down one of the telegraph-posts, and the wires had done the mischief. By good luck and the aid of lucifer matches, we managed to trace our ponies to a piece of cultivated ground hard by, where we found them calmly feeding in a field of standing corn.
The moon had risen by nine o’clock. Before half-past we were in sight of the rock on which stands the town of Yezdi-Ghazt, towering, shadowy and indistinct, over the moonlit plain. This is unquestionably the most curious and interesting village between Resht and Bushire. The post-house stands at the foot. As we rode to the latter through the semi-darkness caused by the shadow of the huge mass of boulders and mud on which the town is situated, the effect was extraordinary. It was like a picture by Gustave Dore; and, looking up the dark perpendicular side of the rock at the weird city with its white houses, queer-shaped balconies, and striped awnings, standing out clear and distinct against the starlit sky, gave one an uncomfortable, uncanny feeling, hard to shake off, and heightened by the fact that, although the hour was yet early, not a light was visible, not a sound to be heard. It was like a city of the dead.
[Illustration: YEZDI-GHAZT]
Daylight does not improve the appearance of Yezdi-Ghazt. The city, which looks so weird and romantic by moonlight, loses much of its beauty, though not its interest, when seen by the broad light of day. The system of drainage in Yezdi-Ghazt is simple, the sewage being thrown over, to fall, haphazard, on the ground immediately below. I nearly had a practical illustration during my examination, which, however, did not last long, for the side of the rock glistened with the filth of years, and the stench and flies were unbearable.
Early next morning I set out alone to explore the strange place, and with much difficulty and some apprehension–for I did not know how the natives were disposed–ascended a steep rocky path, at the summit of which a wooden drawbridge leads over a deep abyss to the gate of the city. This bridge is the only access to Yezdi-Ghazt, which is, so to speak, a regular fortress-town.
The rock, about half a mile long, is intersected by one narrow street, which, covered from end to end with awnings and wooden beams, was almost in obscurity. The sudden change from the glare outside almost blinded one. The appearance of a Farangi is evidently rare in Yezdi-Ghazt, for I was immediately surrounded by a crowd, who, however, were evidently inclined to be friendly, and escorted me to the house of the head-man, under whose guidance I visited the city.
The houses are of stone, two-storied, and mortised into the rock, which gives them the appearance, from below, as if a touch would send them toppling over, while a curious feature is that none of their windows looks inwards to the street–all are in the outside wall facing the desert. I took coffee with the head-man on his balcony–a wooden construction, projecting over a dizzy height, and supported by a couple of rickety-looking beams. It was nervous work, for the flooring, which was rotten and broken into great holes, creaked ominously. I could see Gerome (who had evidently missed me) bustling about the post-house, and reduced, from this height, to the size of a fly. Making this my excuse, I quickly finished my coffee, and bade my host farewell, nor was I sorry to be once more safe on _terra firma_.
Yezdi-Ghazt, which has a population of about five hundred, is very old, and is said to have existed long previous to the Mohammedan conquest. The present population are a continual source of dread to the neighbouring towns and villages, on account of their lawlessness and thieving proclivities, and mix very little with any of their neighbours, who have given the unsavoury city the Turkish nickname of “Pokloo Kalla,” or “Filth Castle.” Yezdi-Ghazt would not be a desirable residence during an earthquake. The latter are of frequent occurrence round here. Many of the villages have been laid in ruins, but, curiously enough, the rock-city has, up till now, never even felt a shock.
A ride of under fifty miles through level and fertile country brought us to Abadeh, a pretty village standing in the midst of gardens and vineyards, enclosed by high mud walls. A European telegraph official, Mr. G—-, resides here. As we passed his house–a neat white stone building easily distinguishable among the brown mud huts–a native servant stopped us. His master would not be back till sunset, but had left directions that we were to be well cared for till his return. The temptation of a bed and dinner were too much, and, as time was no object, and snowy passes things of the past, we halted for the night.
An hour later, comfortably settled on Mr. G—- ‘s sofa, and dozing over a cigar and a volume of _Punch_, my rest was suddenly disturbed by a loud bang at the sitting-room door, which, flying open, admitted two enormous animals, which I at first took for dogs. Both made at once for my sofa, and, while the larger one curled comfortably round my feet and quietly composed itself for sleep, the smaller, evidently of a more affectionate disposition, seated itself on the floor, and commenced licking my face and hands–an operation which, had I dared, I should strongly have resented. But the white gleaming teeth and cruel-looking green eyes inspired me with respect, to use no stronger term; for I had by now discovered that these domestic pets were–panthers! To my great relief, Mr. G—- entered at this juncture. “Making friends with the panthers, I see,” he said pleasantly. “They are nice companionable beasts.” They may have been at the time. The fact remains that, three months after my visit, the “affectionate one” half devoured a native child! The neighbourhood of Abadeh, Mr. G—- informed me, swarms with these animals. Bears, wolves, and hyenas are also common, to say nothing of jackals, which, judging from the row they made that night, must have been patrolling the streets of the village in hundreds.
A traveller starting from Teheran for Bushire is expected at every European station on the telegraph-line. “I thought you would have got here sooner,” said Mr. G—-. “P—- (at Ispahan) told me you were coming through quick.”
The dining-room of my host at Abadeh adjoined the little instrument-chamber. Suddenly, while we were at dinner, a bell was heard, and the half-caste clerk entered. “So-and-so of Shiraz,” naming an official, “wants to speak to you.” “All right,” replied G—-. “Just tell him to wait till I’ve finished my cheese!”
“It’s from F—-,” he said, a few moments later, “to say he expects you to make his house your head-quarters at Shiraz.” So the stranger is passed on through this desert, but hospitable land. Persian travel would be hard indeed were it not for the ever-open doors and hospitality of the telegraph officials.
We continue our journey next day in summer weather–almost too hot, in the middle of the day, to be pleasant. Sheepskin and bourka are dispensed with, as we ride lazily along under a blazing sun through pleasant green plains of maize and barley, irrigated by babbling brooks of crystal-clear water. A few miles from Abadeh is a cave-village built into the side of a hill. From this issue a number of repulsive-looking, half-naked wretches, men and women, with dark scowling faces, and dirty masses of coarse black hair. Most are covered with skin-disease, so we push on ahead, but are caught up, for the loathsome creatures get over the ground with extraordinary speed. A handful of “sheis” [A] stops them, and we leave them swearing, struggling, and fighting for the coins in a cloud of dust. Then on again past villages nestling in groves of mulberry trees, past more vineyards, maize, and barley, and peasants in picturesque blue dress (save white, no other colour is worn in summer by the country-people) working in the fields. Their implements are rude and primitive enough. The plough is simply a sharpened stick covered with iron. The sickle is used for reaping. Threshing is done by means of an axle with thin iron wheels. If such primitive means can attain such satisfactory results, what could not modern agricultural science be made to do for Persia?
Sunset brings a cool breeze, which before nightfall develops into a cutting north-easter, and we shiver again under a bourka and heavy fur pelisse. Crossing a ridge of rock, we descend upon a white plain, dim and indistinct in the twilight. The ground crackles under our horses’ feet. It is frozen snow! A light shines out before us, however, and by ten o’clock we are snug and safe for the night in the telegraph-station of Deybid.
These sudden changes of temperature make the Persian climate very trying. At this time of year, however balmy the air and bright the sunshine at midday, one must always be prepared for a sudden and extreme change after sunset. The Plain of Deybid was covered with snow at least two feet deep, the temperature must have stood at very few degrees above zero, and yet, not five hours before, we were perspiring in our shirt-sleeves.
“Mashallah!” exclaims Gerome next morning, shading his eyes and looking across the dazzling white expanse. “Are we, then, never to finish with this accursed snow?” By midday, however, we are out of it, and, as we subsequently discover, for the last time.
We had up till now been singularly fortunate as regards accidents, or rather evil results from them. To-day, however, luck deserted us, for a few miles out of Deybid my right leg became so swollen that I could scarcely sit on my horse. The pain was acute, the sensation that of having been bitten by some poisonous insect. Gerome, ever the Job’s comforter, suggested a centipede, adding, “If so, you will probably have to lie up for four or five days.” The look-out was not cheerful, certainly, for at Mourghab, the first stage, I had to be lifted off my horse and carried into the post-house.
With some difficulty my boot was cut off, and revealed the whole leg, below the knee, discoloured and swollen to double its size, but no sign of a wound or bite. “Blood-poisoning,” says Gerome, decidedly. “I have seen hundreds of cases in Central Asia. It generally proves fatal there,” he adds consolingly; “but the Russian soldier is so badly fed.” The little man seems rather disappointed at my diagnosis of my case–the effect due to a new and tight boot which I had not been able to change since leaving Ispahan. Notwithstanding, I cannot put foot to ground without excruciating pain. Spreading the rugs out on the dirty earthen floor, I make up my mind to twenty-four hours here at least. It is, perhaps, the dirtiest post-house we have seen since leaving Teheran; but moving under the present circumstances is out of the question.
The long summer day wears slowly away. Gerome, like a true Russian, hunts up a samovar in the village, and consoles himself with innumerable glasses of tea and cigarettes, while the medicine-chest is brought into requisition, and I bathe the swollen limb unceasingly for three or four hours with Goulard’s extract and water, surrounded by a ring of admiring and very dirty natives. But my efforts are in vain, for the following morning the pain is as severe, the leg as swollen as ever. Gerome is all for applying a blister, which he says will “bring the poison out”! Another miserable day breaks, and finds me still helpless. I do not think I ever realized before how slowly time can pass, for I had not a single book, with the exception of “Propos d’Exil,” by Pierre Loti, and even that delightful work is apt to pall after three complete perusals in the space of as many weeks. From sunrise to sunset I lay, prone on my back, staring up at the cobwebby, smoke-blackened rafters, while the shadows shortened and lengthened in the bright sunlit yard, the monotonous silence broken only by the deep regular snores of my companion, whose capacity for sleep was something marvellous, the clucking of poultry, and the occasional stamp or snort of a horse in the stable below. Now and again a rat would crawl out, and, emboldened by the stillness, creep close up to me, darting back into its hole with a jump and a squeal as I waved it off with hand or foot. My visitors from the village did not return to-day, which was something to be thankful for, although towards evening I should have hailed even them with delight–dirt, vermin, and all. Patience was rewarded, for next day I was able to stand, and towards evening set out for Kawamabad, twenty-four miles distant. Though still painful and almost black, all inflammation had subsided, and three days later I was able to get on a boot “You’d have been well in half the time,” insisted Gerome, “if you had only let me apply a blister.”
The road from Mourghab to Kawamabad is wild and picturesque, leading through a narrow gorge, on either side of which are precipitous cliffs of rock and forest, three or four hundred feet high. A broad, swift torrent dashes through the valley, which is about a quarter of a mile broad. In places the pathway, hewn out of the solid rock, is barely three feet wide, without guard or handrail of any kind. This part of the journey was reached at sunset, and we did not emerge on the plain beyond till after dark. Our horses were, fortunately, as active as cats, and knew their way well, for to guide them was impossible. In places one’s foot actually swung over the precipice, and a false step must have sent one crashing over the side and into the roaring torrent below, which, perhaps luckily, we could only hear, not see.
The ruins of Persepolis are situated about fifty miles north-east of Shiraz, two or three miles from the main road. Signs that we were approaching the famous city were visible for some distance before we actually reached them. Not fifty yards from the post-house of Poozeh, a picturesque spot surrounded by a chain of rocky, snow-capped hills, we came upon a kind of cave, with carvings in bas-relief on its granite walls, representing figures of men and horses from eight to ten feet high, evidently of great antiquity. The desecrating hand of the British tourist had, however, left its mark in the shape of the name “J. Isaacson” cut deep into one of the slabs, considerably marring its beauty.
It is not my intention to write a description of the ruins that now mark the spot where once stood the capital of the Persian Empire. To say nothing of its having been so graphically portrayed by far more competent hands, my visit was of such short duration that I carried away but faint recollections of the famous city. The fact that it had been persistently crammed down my throat, upon every available occasion, ever since I landed in Persia, may have had something to do with the feeling of disappointment which I experienced on first sight of the ruins. It may be that, like many other things, they grow upon one. If so, the loss was mine. I cannot, however, help thinking that to any but a student of archaeology, Persepolis lacks interest. The Pyramids, Pompeii, the ancient buildings of Rome and Greece, are picturesque; Persepolis is not. I noticed, however, that here, as at Poozeh, the British tourist had been busy with chisel and hammer, and, I am ashamed to add, some of the names I read are as well known in England as that of the Prince of Wales.
On the 18th of February, just before midnight, we rode into Shiraz. The approach to the city lying before us, white and still in the moonlight, through cypress-groves and sweet-smelling gardens, gave me a favourable impression, which a daylight inspection only served to increase. Shiraz is the pleasantest reminiscence I retain of the ride through Persia.
[Footnote A: Small copper money.]
CHAPTER VIII.
SHIRAZ–BUSHIRE.
“The gardens of pleasure where reddens the rose, And the scent of the cedar is faint on the air.” OWEN MEREDITH.
Shiraz stands in a plain twenty-five miles long by twelve broad, surrounded by steep and bare limestone mountains. The latter alone recall the desert waste beyond; for the Plain of Shiraz is fertile, well cultivated, and dotted over with prosperous-looking villages and gardens. Scarcely a foot of ground is wasted by the industrious inhabitants of this happy valley, save round the shores of the Denia-el-Memek, a huge salt lake some miles distant, where the sun-baked, briny soil renders cultivation of any kind impossible.
Were it not for its surroundings–the green and smiling plains of wheat, barley, and Indian corn; the clusters of pretty sunlit villages; the long cypress-avenues; and last, but not least, the quiet shady gardens, with rose and jasmine bowers, and marble fountains which have been famous from time immemorial–Shiraz would not be what it now is, the most picturesque city in Persia.
Although over four miles in circumference, the city itself has a squalid, shabby appearance, not improved by the dilapidated ramparts of dried mud which surround it. Founded A.D. 695, Shiraz reached its zenith under Kerim Khan in the middle of the eighteenth century, since when it has slowly but steadily declined to its present condition. The buildings themselves are evidence of the apathy reigning among the Shirazis. Incessant earthquakes destroy whole streets of houses, but no one takes the trouble to rebuild them, and the population was once nearly double what it now is–40,000.
There are six gates, five of which are gradually crumbling away. The sixth, or Ispahan Gate, is the only one with any attempt at architecture, and is crenellated and ornamented with blue and yellow tile-work. A mean, poor-looking bazaar, narrow tortuous streets, knee-deep in dust or mud, as the case may be, and squalid, filthy houses, form a striking contrast to the broad, well-kept avenues, gilded domes, and beautiful gardens which encircle the city. Shiraz has fifteen large mosques and several smaller ones, but the people are as fanatical as those of Teheran are the reverse. Gerome, who had a singular capacity for getting into mischief, entered one of these places of worship, and was caught red-handed by an old moullah in charge. Half the little Russian’s life having been spent among Mohammedans, he quickly recited a few verses of the Koran in perfect Arabic, which apparently satisfied the priest, for he let him depart with his blessing. Had the trick been discovered, he would undoubtedly have been roughly treated, if not killed, for the Shirazis have an unmitigated contempt for Europeans. There are few places, too, in Asia where Jews are more persecuted than in Shiraz, although they have their own quarter, in the lowest, most poverty-stricken part of the town, and other privileges are granted them by the Government. Shortly before my visit, a whole family was tortured and put to death by a mob of infuriated Mohammedans. The latter accused them of stealing young Moslem children, and sacrificing them at their secret ceremonies. [A] Guilty or innocent of the charge, the assassins were left unpunished.
The climate of Shiraz is delicious, but dangerous. Though to a new-comer the air feels dry, pure, and exhilarating, the city is a hot-bed of disease, and has been christened the “Fever Box.” Small-pox, typhus, and typhoid are never absent, and every two or three years an epidemic of cholera breaks out and carries off a fearful percentage of the inhabitants. In spring-time, during heavy rains, the plains are frequently inundated to a depth of two or three feet, and the water, stagnating and rotting under a blazing sun, produces towards nightfall a thick white mist, pregnant with miasma and the dreaded Shiraz fever which has proved fatal to so many Europeans, to say nothing of natives. Medical science is at a very low ebb in Persia; purging and bleeding are the two remedies most resorted to by the native hakim. If these fail, a dervish is called in, and writes out charms, or forms of prayer, on bits of paper, which are rolled up and swallowed like pills. Inoculation is performed by placing the patient in the same bed as another suffering from virulent small-pox. Under these circumstances, it is scarcely to be wondered at that the Shirazis die like sheep during an epidemic, and indeed at all times. Persian surgery is not much better. In cases of amputation the limb is hacked off by repeated blows of a heavy chopper. In the case of fingers or toes a razor is used, the wound being dipped into boiling oil or pitch immediately after the operation.
The office of the Indo-European Telegraph is in Shiraz, but the private dwellings of the staff are some distance outside the city. A high wall surrounds the grounds in which the latter are situated–half a dozen comfortable brick buildings, bungalow style, each with its fruit and flower garden. Looking out of my bedroom window the morning following my arrival, on the shrubberies, well-kept lawns, bright flower-beds, and lawn-tennis nets, I could scarcely realize that this was Persia; that I was not at home again, in some secluded part of the country in far-away England. Long residence in the East had evidently not changed my host Mr. F—- ‘s ideas as to the necessity for European comforts. The cheerful, sunlit, chintz-covered bedroom, with its white furniture, blue-and-white wall-paper, and lattice windows almost hidden by rose and jasmine bushes, was a pleasant _coup d’oeil_ after the grimy, bug-infested post-houses; and the luxuries of a good night’s rest and subsequent shave, cold tub, and clean linen were that morning appreciated as they only can be by one who has spent many weary days in the saddle, uncombed, unshaven, and unwashed.
There is no regular post-road between Shiraz and Bushire, or rather Sheif, the landing-place, eight miles from the latter city. The journey is performed by mule-caravan, resting by night at the caravanserais. Under the guidance of Mr. F—-, I therefore set about procuring animals and “chalvadars,” or muleteers. The task was not an easy one; for Captain T—- of the Indian Army was then in Shiraz, buying on behalf of the Government; and everything in the shape of a mule that could stand was first brought for his inspection. By good luck, however, I managed to get together half a dozen sorry-looking beasts; but they suited the purpose well enough. The price of these animals varies very much in Persia. They can be bought for as little as L4, while the best fetch as much as L60 to L80.
Those were pleasant days at Shiraz. One never tired of wandering about the outskirts of the city and through the quiet, shady gardens and “cities of the silent,” as the Persians call their cemeteries; for, when the solemn stillness of the latter threatened to become depressing, there was always the green plain, alive from morning till night with movement and colour, to go back to. Early one morning, awoke by the sound of a cracked trumpet and drums, I braved the dust, and followed a Persian regiment of the line to its drill-ground. The Persian army numbers, on a peace footing, about 35,000 men, the reserve bringing it up to perhaps twice that number.
Experienced military men have said that material for the smartest soldiery in the world is to be found in Persia. If so, it would surely be the work of years to bring the untrained rabble that at present exists under discipline or order of any kind. The regiment whose evolutions or antics I witnessed at Shiraz was not in the dress of the Russian cossack or German uhlan, as at Teheran, but in the simple uniform of the Persian line–dark-blue tunic, with red piping; loose red-striped breeches of the same colour, stuffed into ragged leather gaiters; and bonnets of black sheepskin or brown felt (according to the taste of the wearer), with the brass badge of the lion and sun. All were armed with rusty flint-locks.
As regards smartness, the officers were not much better than the men, who did not appear to take the slightest notice of the words of command, but straggled about as they pleased, like a flock of sheep. Some peasants beside me were looking on. “Sons of dogs!” said one; “they are good for nothing but drunkenness and frightening women and children.” There is no love lost between the army and the people in Persia–none of the enthusiasm of other countries when a regiment passes by; and no wonder. The pay of a Persian soldier is, at most, L3 a year, and he may think himself lucky if he gets a quarter of that sum. _En revanche_, the men systematically plunder and rob the wretched inhabitants of every village passed through on the march. The passage of troops is sometimes so dreaded that commanders of regiments are bribed with heavy sums by the villagers to encamp outside their walls. Troops are not the only source of anxiety to the poor fellaheen. Princes and Government officials also travel with an enormous following, mainly composed of hangers-on and riff-raff, who plunder and devastate as ruthlessly as a band of Kurd or Turkoman robbers. They are even worse than the soldiery, for the latter usually leave the women alone. Occasionally a whole village migrates to the mountains on the approach of the unwelcome guests, leaving houses and fields at their mercy.
There is probably no peasantry in the world so ground down and oppressed as the Persian. The agricultural labourer never tries to ameliorate his condition, or save up money for his old age, for the simple reason that, on becoming known to the rulers of the land, it is at once taken away from him. Though poor, however (so far as cash and valuables are concerned), the general condition of the labouring classes is not so bad as might be supposed. In a country so vast (550,000 square miles) and so thinly populated (5,000,000 in all), a small and sufficient supply of food is easily raised, especially with such prolific soil at the command of the poorest. At Shiraz, for instance, there are two harvests in the year. The seifi, sown in summer and reaped in autumn, consists of rice, cotton, Indian corn, and garden produce; the tchatvi, sown in October and November, and reaped from May till July, is exclusively wheat and barley. A quantity of fruit is also grown–grapes, oranges, and pomegranates. Shiraz is famed for the latter. The heat and dust, to say nothing of smells, prevented me from often entering the city; but I walked through the bazaar once or twice, and succeeded in purchasing some old tapestries and a prayer-carpet. The merchants here are not so reserved and secretive as those of Teheran and other cities, and are, moreover, civil enough to produce coffee and a kalyan at the conclusion of a bargain, as at Stamboul. The best tobacco for kalyan-smoking is grown round Shiraz. Some, the coarser kind, from Kazeroon and Zulfaicar, is exported to Turkey and Egypt, but the most delicate Shiraz never leaves the country. The pipe is on the same principle as the narghileh, the smoke being drawn through a vessel of water. The tube, a wooden stalk about two feet long, is changed when it becomes tainted with use; for the people of the East (unlike some in the West) like their tobacco clean.
Manufactories are trifling in comparison with what they were in former days. Where, a century since, there stood five hundred factories owned by weavers, there are now only ten, for the supply of a coarse white cotton material called “kerbas,” and carpets of a cheap and common kind. Earthenware and glass is also made in small quantities, the latter only for wine-bottles and kalyan water-bowls. All the best glass is imported from Russia. A kind of mosaic work called “khatemi,” much used in ornamenting boxes and pen-and-ink cases, is turned out in large quantities at Shiraz. It is pretty and effective, though some of the illustrations on the backs of mirrors, etc., are hardly fit for a drawing-room table. Caligraphy, or the art of writing, is also carried by the Shirazis to the highest degree of perfection, and they are said to be the best penmen in the East. To write really well is considered as great an accomplishment in Persia as to be a successful musician, painter, or sculptor in Europe; and a famous writer of the last century, living in Shiraz, was paid as much as five tomans for every line transcribed.
My favourite walk, after the heat of the day, was to the little cemetery where Hafiz, the Persian poet, lies at rest–a quiet, secluded spot, on the side of a hill, in a clump of dark cypress trees a gap cut through which shows the drab-coloured city, with its white minarets and gilt domes shining in the sun half a mile away. The tomb, a huge block of solid marble, brought across the desert from Yezd, is covered with inscriptions–the titles of the poet’s most celebrated works. Near it is a brick building containing chambers, where bodies are put for a year or so previous to final interment at Kermanshah or Koom. Each corpse was in a separate room–a plain whitewashed compartment, with a square brick edifice in the centre containing the body. Some of the catafalques were spread with white table-cloths, flowers, candles, fruit, and biscuits, which the friends and relations (mostly women and children) of the defunct were discussing in anything but a mournful manner. A visit to a departed one’s grave is generally an excuse for a picnic in Persia.
Hard by the tomb of Hafiz is a garden, one of many of the kind around Shiraz. It is called “The Garden of the Seven Sleepers,” and is much frequented in summer by Shirazis of both sexes. A small open kiosk, in shape something like a theatre proscenium, stands in the centre, its outside walls completely hidden by rose and jasmine bushes. Inside all is gold moulding, light blue, green, and vermilion. A dome of looking-glass reflects the tesselated floor. Strangely enough, this garish mixture of colour does not offend the eye, toned down as it is by the everlasting twilight shed over the mimic palace and garden by overhanging branches of cypress and yew. An expanse of smooth-shaven lawn, white beds of lily and narcissus, marble tanks bubbling over with clear, cold water, and gravelled paths winding in and out of the trees to where, a hundred yards or so distant, a sunk fence divides the garden from a piece of ground two or three acres in extent,–a perfect jungle of trees, shrubs, and flowers.
Here, from about 4 p.m. till long after sunset, you may see the Shirazi taking his rest, undisturbed save for the ripple of running water, the sighing of the breeze through the branches, and croon of the pigeons overhead. Now and again the tinkle of caravan-bells breaks in upon his meditations, or the click-click of the attendant’s sandals as he crosses the tiled floor with sherbet, coffee, or kalyan; but the interruption is brief. A few moments, and silence again reigns supreme–the perfection of rest, the acme of _Dolce far niente._ From here my way usually lay homewards, through the dusky twilight, past the city gates and along the now deserted plain. A limestone hill to the south of Shiraz bears an extraordinary resemblance to the head of a man in profile. Towards sunset the likeness was startling, and the nose, chin, and mouth as delicately formed as if chiselled by the tools of a sculptor. On fine, still evenings, parties of people would sometimes sit out on the plain till long after dark, conversing, eating sweetmeats, and tea-drinking, till the stars appeared, and the white fever mist, gathering round the ramparts, hid the city from view. Shiraz has been called the “Paris of Persia,” from the cheerful, sociable character of its people as compared with other Persian cities; also, perhaps, partly from the beauty and coquetry (to use no other term) of its women.
I was enabled, thanks to my host, to glean some interesting facts concerning the latter, many European ladies having, from time to time, resided in Shiraz, and, obtaining access to the “anderoon,” had afterwards given Mr. F—- the benefit of their observations.
Persian women are unquestionably allowed more freedom and liberty than those of other Oriental countries. It is extremely rare, in the bazaars of Stamboul or Cairo, to see a lady of the harem unattended, but the sight is common enough in Shiraz and Ispahan. Infidelity in Persia is therefore more common in proportion to the licence allowed; though, when discovered, it is severely punished, in some cases by death. Though a few are highly educated, the majority of Persian women are ignorant, indolent, and sensual. _Mariages de convenance_ are as common as in France, and have a good deal to do with the immorality and intrigue that go on in the larger cities.
An eye-witness thus describes an “anderoon,” or harem, of a prince in Ispahan: “A large courtyard some thirty yards by ten in extent. All down the centre is the ‘hauz,’ or tank–a raised piece of ornamental water, the surface of which is about two feet above the ground. The edges are formed of huge blocks of well-wrought stone, so accurately levelled that the ‘hauz’ overflows all round its brink, making a pleasant sound of running water. Goldfish of large size flash in shoals in the clear tank. On either side of it are long rectangular flower-beds, sunk six inches below the surface of the court. This pavement, which consists of what we should call pantiles, is clean and perfect, and freshly sprinkled; and the sprinkling and consequent evaporation make a grateful coolness. In the flower-beds are irregular clumps of marvel of Peru, some three feet high, of varied coloured blossom, coming up irregularly in wild luxuriance. The moss-rose, too, is conspicuous, with its heavy odour; while the edging, a foot wide, is formed by thousands of bulbs of the _Narcissus poeticus_, massed together like packed figs; these, too, give out a pleasant perfume. But what strikes one most is the air of perfect repair and cleanliness of everything. No grimy walls, no soiled curtains, here; all is clean as a new pin, all is spick and span. The courtyard is shaded by orange trees covered with bloom, and the heavy odour of neroli pervades the place. Many of the last year’s fruit have been left upon the trees for ornament, and hang in bright yellow clusters out of reach. A couple of widgeon sport upon the tank. All round the courtyard are rooms, the doors and windows of which are jealously closed, but as we pass we hear whispered conversations behind them, and titters of suppressed merriment.”
“The interior resembles the halls of the Alhambra. A priceless carpet, surrounded by felt edgings, two inches thick and a yard wide, appears like a lovely but subdued picture artfully set in a sombre frame. In the recesses of the walls are many bouquets in vases. The one great window–a miracle of intricate carpentry, some twenty feet by twenty–blazes with a geometrical pattern of tiny pieces of glass, forming one gorgeous mosaic. Three of the sashes of this window are thrown up to admit air; the coloured glass of the top and four remaining sashes effectually shuts out excess of light.”
Such is the _coup d’oeil_ on entering an anderoon. With such surroundings, one would expect to find refined, if not beautiful women; but, though the latter are rare enough, the former are even rarer in Persia. The Persian woman is a grown-up child, and a very vicious one to boot. Her daily life, indeed, is not calculated to improve the health of either mind or body. Most of the time is spent in dressing and undressing, trying on clothes, painting her face, sucking sweetmeats, and smoking cigarettes till her complexion is as yellow as a guinea. Intellectual occupation or amusement of any kind is unknown in the anderoon, and the obscene conversation and habits of its inmates worse even than those of the harems of Constantinople and Cairo, which, according to all accounts, is saying a good deal. A love of cruelty, too, is shown in the Persian woman; when an execution or brutal spectacle of any kind takes place, one-third at least of the spectators is sure to consist of women. But this is, perhaps, not peculiar to Persia; witness a recent criminal trial at the Old Bailey.
It will thus be seen that sensuality is the prevalent vice of the female sex in Persia. An English-speaking Persian at Bushire told me that, with the exception of the women of the wandering Eeliaut tribes, there were few chaste wives in Persia. Although the nominal punishment for adultery is death, the law, as it stands at present, is little else than a dead letter, and, as in some more civilized countries, husbands who are fond of intrigue, do not scruple to allow their wives a similar liberty. Not half an hour’s walk from the Tomb of Hafiz, at the summit of the mountain, is a deep well, so deep that no one has ever yet succeeded in sounding it. The origin of the chasm is unknown; some say it is an extinct volcano. But the smallest child in Shiraz knows the use to which it has been put from time immemorial. It is the grave of adulterous women–the Well of Death.
An execution took place about fifteen years ago, but there have been none since. Proved guilty of infidelity, the wretched woman, dressed in a long white gown, was placed on a donkey, her face to the tail, with shaven head and bared face. In front of the _cortege_ marched the executioner, musicians, dancers, and abandoned women of the town. Arrived at the summit of the mountain, the victim, half dead with fright, was lifted off and carried to the edge of the yawning abyss which had entombed so many faithless wives before her. “There is but one God, and Mohammed is His Prophet,” cried a moullah, while the red-robed executioner, with one spurn of his foot, sent the unconscious wretch toppling over the brink, the awe-stricken crowd peering over, watching the white wisp disappear into eternity. Although the last execution is still fresh in the minds of many, the Well has no terrors for the gay, intrigue-loving ladies of Shiraz. They make a jest of it, and their husbands jokingly threaten them with it. Times are changed indeed in Persia!
I left Shiraz with sincere regret. Apart from the interest attached to the place, I have never received a kinder or more hospitable welcome than from the little band of Englishmen who watch over the safety, and work the wires, of the Indo-European telegraph. They are under a dozen in number. With cheap horseflesh, capital shooting, the latest books and papers from India, a good billiard-room and lawn-tennis ground, time never hangs very heavily. Living is absurdly cheap. A bachelor can do well on L6 a month, including servants. He has, of course, no house-rent to pay.
A number of square stone towers about thirty feet high, loopholed and crenelated, are visible from the caravan-track between Shiraz and Khaneh Zinian, where we rested the first night. The towers are apparently of great antiquity, and must formerly have served for purposes of defence. We lunched at the foot of one on a breezy upland, with pink and white heather growing freely around, and a brawling, tumbling mountain stream at our feet. It was like a bit of Scotland or North Wales. The tower was in a state of decay and roofless, but a wandering tribe of ragged Eeliauts had taken up their quarters inside, and watched us suspiciously through the grey smoke of a damp, spluttering peat fire. They are a queer race, these Eeliauts, [B] and have little or nothing in common with the other natives. The sight of a well-filled lunch-basket and flasks of wine (which our kind hosts had insisted on our taking) would have brought ordinary gipsies out like flies round a honey-pot, if recollections of Epsom or Henley go for anything. Not so the Eeliauts, who, stranger still, never even begged for a sheis–a self-control I rewarded by presenting the chief, a swarthy handsome fellow, in picturesque rags of bright colour, with a couple of kerans. But he never even thanked me!
It seemed, next morning, as if we had jumped, in a night, from early spring into midsummer. Although at daybreak the ice was thick on a pool outside the caravanserai, the sun by midday was so strong, and the heat so excessive, that we could scarcely get the mules along. The road lies through splendid scenery. Passing Dashti Arjin, or “The Plain of Wild Almonds,” a kind of plateau to which the ascent is steep and difficult, one might have been in Switzerland or the Tyrol. Undulating, densely wooded hills, with a background of steep limestone cliffs, their sharp peaks, just tipped with snow, standing out crisp and clear against the cloudless sky, formed a fitting frame to the lovely picture before us; the pretty village, trees blossoming on all sides, fresh green pastures overgrown in places by masses of fern and wild flowers, and the white foaming waterfall dashing down the side of the mountain, to lose itself in the blue waters of a huge lake just visible in the plains below. The neighbourhood of the latter teems with game of all kinds–leopard, gazelle, and wild boar, partridge, duck, snipe, and quail, the latter in thousands.
A stiff climb of four hours over the Kotal Perizun brought us to the caravanserai of Meyun Kotal. Over this pass, ten miles in length, there is no path; one must find one’s way as best one can through the huge rocks and boulders. Some of the latter were two to three feet in height. How the mules managed will ever be a mystery to me. We dismounted, leaving, by the chalvadar’s request, our animals to look after themselves. The summit of the mountain is under two thousand feet. We reached it at four o’clock, and saw, to our relief, our resting-place for the night only three or four hundred feet below us. But it took nearly an hour to do even this short distance. The passage of the Kotal Perizun with a large caravan must be terrible work.
[Illustration: THE CARAVANSERAI, MEYUN KOTAL]
The caravanserai was crowded. Two large caravans had arrived that morning, and a third was hourly expected from Bushire. There was barely standing-room in the courtyard, which was crowded with wild-looking men, armed to the teeth, gaily caparisoned mules, and bales of merchandise.
The caravanserai at Meyun Kotal is one of the finest in Persia. It was built by Shah Abbas, and is entirely of stone and marble. Surrounded by walls of enormous thickness, the building is in the shape of a square. Around the latter are seventy or eighty deep arches for the use of travellers. At the back of each is a little doorway, about three feet by three, leading into a dark, windowless stone chamber, unfurnished, smoke-blackened, and dirty, but dry and weather-proof. Any one may occupy these. Should the beggar arrive first, the prince is left out in the cold, and _vice versa_. Everybody, however, is satisfied as a rule, for there is nearly as much accommodation for guests as in a large London or Paris hotel. Behind the sleeping-rooms is stabling for five or six hundred horses, and, in the centre of the courtyard, a huge marble tank of pure running water for drinking and washing purposes. This, and fodder for the horses, is all that there was to be got in the way of refreshment. But Gerome, with considerable forethought, had purchased bread, a fowl, and some eggs on the road, and, our room swept out and candles lit, we were soon sitting down to a comfortable meal, with a hissing samovar, the property of the caravanserai-keeper, between us.
One need sleep soundly to sleep well in a caravanserai. At sunset the mules, with loud clashing of bells, are driven into the yard from pasture, and tethered till one or two in the morning, when a start is made, and sleep is out of the question. In the interim, singing, talking, story-telling, occasionally quarrelling and fighting, go on all round the yard till nearly midnight. Tired out with the stiff climb, I fell into a delicious slumber, notwithstanding the noise, about nine o’clock, to be awakened shortly after by a soft, cold substance falling heavily, with a splash, upon my face. Striking a match, I discovered a large bat which the smoke from our fire (there was no chimney) had evidently detached from the rafters.
I purchased, the next morning before starting, a Persian dagger belonging to one of the caravan-men. He was one of the Bakhtiari, a wild and lawless tribe inhabiting a tract of country (as yet unexplored by Europeans) on the borders of Persia and Asia Minor. The blade of the dagger is purest Damascene work, the handle of fossilized ivory. On the back of the blade is engraved, in letters of inlaid gold, in Arabic characters–
“There is one God! He is Eternal!”
“Victory is nigh, O true believer!”
Connoisseurs say that the dagger is over a hundred years old. After quite an hour’s haggling (during which our departure was delayed, much to Gerome’s disgust), I managed to secure it for L9 English money, although the Bakhtiari assured me that he had already sworn “by his two wives” never to part with it. I have since been offered four times the amount by a good judge of Eastern weapons.
A second pass, the Kotal Doktar, lay between us and Bushire. Though steep and slippery in places, the path is well protected, and there are no boulders to bar the way. On leaving the caravanserai, we paused to examine the second longest telegraph wire (without support) in the world. It is laid from summit to summit of two hills, and spans a valley over a mile in width. [C]
The country round Meyun Kotal is well cultivated, and we passed not only men, but women, ploughing with the odd-shaped primitive wooden ploughs peculiar to these parts. Near the foot of the pass some children were gathering and collecting acorns, which are here eaten in the form of a kind of bread by the peasantry. Seldom has Nature seemed more beautiful than on that bright cloudless morning, as we rode through sweet-scented uplands of beans and clover, meadows of deep rich grass. By the track bloomed wild flowers, violets and narcissus, shedding their fresh delicate perfume. The song of birds and hum of insects filled the air, bright butterflies flashed across our path, while the soft distant notes of a cuckoo recalled shady country lanes and the sunlit hay-fields of an English summer. It was like coming from the grave, after the sterile deserts and bleak desolate plains of Northern Persia.
There is a small square building at the northern end of the Kotal Doktar, a mud hut, in which are stationed a guard of soldiers to be of assistance in the event of robbery of caravans or travellers. Such cases are not infrequent. Upon our approach, three men armed with flint-locks and long iron pikes accosted us. “We are the escort,” said one, apparently the leader, from the bar of rusty gold braid on his sleeve. “You cannot go on alone. It is not safe.” We then learnt that a large lion had infested the caravan-track over the pass for some days, and had but yesterday attacked the mail and carried off one of the mules, the native in charge only just escaping by climbing a tree.
Persian travel is full of these little surprises or rather items of news; for one must be of a very ingenuous disposition to be surprised at anything after a journey of any length in that country. If the man had said that an ichthyosaurus or dodo barred the way, I should have believed him just as much. Gerome sharing my opinion that the report was got up for the sake of extorting a few kerans, we soon sent our informants about their business, and calmly proceeded on our journey. Nevertheless, the Kotal Doktar would not be a pleasant place to encounter the “king of beasts,” I thought. The pass consists simply of a narrow pathway four feet wide, on the one side a perpendicular wall of rock, on the other an equally sheer precipice.
“Did you come across the lion?” was Mr. J—- ‘s first question, as we dismounted at the gate of his telegraph-station at Kazeroon. “I suppose not,” he added, seeing the surprise with which I greeted his remark. “We have had three parties out from here this week, but with no luck. I just managed to get a sight of him, and that’s all. He is a splendid beast.”
Ignorance had indeed been bliss in our case, and I felt some compunction when I remembered how disdainfully we had treated the ragged sergeant and his men. They would have been of no use, except in the way of stop-gaps, like the babies, in cheap prints, that the Russian traveller in the sleigh throws to the wolves to occupy their attention while he urges on his mad career, a pistol in each hand and the reins in his mouth. Still, even for this purpose, they might have been useful, and were certainly worth a few kerans. I was glad not to learn the truth till we reached Kazeroon. The enjoyment of the meal of which we partook at the summit of the pass would have been somewhat damped by the feeling that at any moment a loud roar, bursting out of the silent fastnesses of the Kotal Doktar, might announce the approach of its grim tenant.
There was, after all, nothing very remarkable about the occurrence, for the southern parts of Persia are infested with wild animals of many kinds. Of this I was already aware, but not that lions were among the number.
Kazeroon is, next to Shiraz, the most important place in the province of Fars, and has a population of about 6000. Surrounded by fields of tobacco and maize, it is neatly laid out, and presents a cheerful appearance, the buildings being of white stone, instead of the everlasting baked mud and clay. Many of the courtyards were surrounded by date palms, and the people seemed more civilized and prosperous-looking than those in the villages north of Shiraz.
“So you refused the escort over the Kotal?” said J–that evening, as we sat over our coffee and cigars in his little stone courtyard, white and cool in the moonlight, adding, with a laugh, “Well, I don’t blame you. A good story was told me the other day in Shiraz _apropos_ of escorts. It happened not long ago to an Englishman who was going to Bagdad from Kermanshah through a nasty bit of country. A good many robberies with violence had occurred, and the Governor of Kermanshah insisted on providing him with an escort, at the same time arranging for a Turkish escort to meet him on the frontier and take him on to Bagdad.”
“You have seen the ordinary cavalry soldier of this country. There were twelve of them and a sergeant. V—- was the only European. All went well till they reached a small hamlet near Zarna, about twenty miles from the Turkish border. It was midday. V—- was quietly breakfasting in his tent, the horses picketed, the men smoking or asleep. Suddenly the sound of firing was heard about a mile off, not sharp and loud, but slow and desultory, like the pop, pop, pop of a rifle or revolver. V—- was not in the least alarmed, but, the firing continuing for some time, he thought well at last to inquire into the matter. What was his surprise, on emerging from his tent, to find himself alone, not a trace of his companions to be seen. There were the picket-ropes, a smouldering fire, a kalyan, and the remains of a pilaff on the ground, but no men. The firing had done it. One and all had turned tail and fled. The position was not pleasant, for V—- was naturally absolutely ignorant of the road. ‘They will come back,’ he thought, and patiently waited. But sunset came, then night, then the stars, and still V—- was alone, utterly helpless and unable to move backwards or forwards. At sunrise a head was shoved into his tent. But it had a red fez on, not an astrakhan bonnet. It was one of the Bagdad escort. The Turks laughed heartily when they heard the story. ‘It must have been us,’ they said; ‘we had nothing to do, and were practising with our revolvers.’ In the mean time the Persians returned post haste to Kermanshah, and evinced great surprise that V—- was not with them.”
“‘He was the first to fly,’ said the sergeant. ‘I am afraid he must have lost his way, and fallen into the hands of the robbers. If so, God help him. There were more than fifty of them.'”
“J—- ‘s anecdote was followed by many others, coffee was succeeded by cognac and seltzer, Gerome gave us some startling Central Asian experiences, and we talked over men and things Persian far into the night, or rather morning, for it was nearly 2 a.m. when I retired to rest.”
“I hope you’ll sleep well,” said J—-, as he led the way to a comfortable bedroom looking out on to the needle-like peaks of the Kotal Doktar, gleaming white in the moonlight. “By the way, I forgot to tell you we usually have an earthquake about sunrise, but don’t let it disturb you. The shocks have been very slight lately, and it’s sure not to last long,” added my host, as he calmly closed the door, and left me to my slumbers.
I am not particularly nervous, but to be suddenly aroused from sleep by a loud crash, as if the house were falling about one’s ears; to see, in the grey dawn, brick walls bending to and fro like reeds, floors heaving like the deck of a ship, windows rattling, doors banging, with an accompaniment of women and children screaming as if the end of the world had arrived, is calculated to give the boldest man a little anxiety. I must at any rate own to feeling a good deal when, about 6 a.m. the following morning, the above phenomena took place. As prophesied, “it” did not last long–eight or ten seconds at most, which seemed to me an hour. Not the least unpleasant sensation was a low, rumbling noise, like distant thunder, that accompanied the shock. It seemed to come from the very bowels of the earth.
“We have them every day,” said J—- at breakfast, placidly, “but one soon gets used to them.” My host was obliged to acknowledge reluctantly that this morning’s shock was “a little sharper than usual”! It was sharp enough, Gerome afterwards told me, to send all the people of Kazeroon running out of their houses into the street. Common as the “Zil-Zillah” [D] is in these parts, the natives are terrified whenever a shock occurs. The great Shiraz earthquake some years ago, when over a thousand lost their lives, is still fresh in their minds.
An easy ride, through a pretty and fertile country, brought us to the telegraph-station of Konar Takta, where Mr. E—-, the clerk in charge, had prepared a sumptuous breakfast. But we were not destined to enjoy it. They had, said Mr. E—-, experienced no less than nine severe shocks of earthquake the night before, one of which had rent the wall of his house from top to bottom. His wife and children were living in a tent in the garden, and most of the inhabitants of the village had deserted their mud huts, and rigged up temporary shanties of palm leaves in the road. “We will have breakfast, anyhow,” continued our host. “You must be hungry”–leading the way into the dining-room, where a long, deep crack in the whitewashed wall showed traces of last night’s disaster.
The latter had, apparently, considerably upset my host, who, throughout the meal, kept continually rising and walking to the open window and back again, in an evidently uneasy state of mind; so much so that I was about to propose an adjournment to the garden, when a diversion was created by the entrance of a servant with a dish of “Sklitch,” which he had no sooner placed on the table, than he rapidly withdrew. Sklitch is peculiar to this part of Persia. It is made of a kind of moss gathered on the mountains, mixed with cream and dates, and, iced, is delicious. But scarcely had I raised the first mouthful to my lips when my host leapt out of his seat. “There it is again,” he cried. “Run!” and with a bound disappeared through the window. Before I could reach it the floor was rocking so that I could scarcely keep my feet, and I was scarcely prepared for the drop of nine feet that landed me on to the flower-beds. The shock lasted quite ten seconds. Every moment I expected to see the house fall bodily over. I left poor E—- busily engaged in removing his instruments into the garden. “Another night like the last would turn my hair grey,” he said, as we bade him good-bye. Truly the lot of a Persian telegraph official is not always a bed of roses.
A gradual descent of over two thousand feet leads from Konar Takta to the village of Dalaki, which is situated on a vast plain, partly cultivated, the southern extremity of which is washed by the waters of the Persian Gulf. There is a comfortable rest-house at this village, the population of which is noted as being the most fierce and lawless in Southern Persia. Rest, though undisturbed by earthquakes, was, however, almost out of the question, on account of a most abominable stench of drainage, which came on at sunset and lasted throughout the night. So overpowering was it that towards 3 a.m. both Gerome and myself were attacked by severe vomiting, and recurrence was had to the medicine-chest and large doses of brandy. One might have been sleeping over an open drain. It was not till next day that I discovered the cause–rotten naphtha, which springs in large quantities from the ground all round the village. Curiously enough, the smell is not observable in the daytime.
“We have done with the snow now, monsieur,” said Gerome, as we rode next morning through a land of green barley and cotton plains, date palms, and mimosa. On the other hand, we had come in for other annoyances, in the shape of heat, dust, and swarms of flies and mosquitoes. Nearing the sea, vegetation entirely ceases. Nothing is visible around but hard calcined plain, brown and level, lost on the horizon seaward in a series of mirages, ending northward in a chain of rocky, precipitous mountains. The bright, clear atmosphere was remarkable; objects thirty or forty miles off looking but a mile or so away. About midday an unusual sight appeared on the horizon–two Europeans, a lady and gentleman, mounted on donkeys, and attended by a chalvadar on a third, who apparently carried all the baggage of the party. Halting for a few moments, and waiving introduction, we exchanged a few words. Mr. and Mrs. D—- were on their way to Teheran, with the object of making scientific researches at Persepolis and other parts of Persia. I could not help admiring the courage of the lady, though regretting, at the same time, the task she had set herself. To inquiries of “How is the road?” I replied, “Very good,” May the lie be forgiven me! It was told for a humane purpose.
Save a large herd of gazelle on the far horizon, nothing occurred to break the monotony of the journey through deep heavy sand till about 4 p.m., when a thin thread of dark blue, cutting the yellow desert and lighter sky-line, appeared before us. It was the Persian Gulf. An hour later, and Sheif, the landing-place for Bushire, was reached.
A trim steam-launch, with Union Jack floating over her stern, awaited us. She was sent by Colonel Ross, British Resident at Bushire, who kindly invited me to the Residence during my stay in the Persian port. I was not sorry, after the hot, dusty ride, to throw myself at length on the soft, luxurious cushion, and, after an excellent luncheon, to peruse the latest English papers. Skimming swiftly through the bright blue waters, we neared the white city, not sorry to have successfully accomplished the voyage so far, yet aware that the hardest part of the journey to India was yet to come.
At a distance, and seen from the harbour, Bushire is not unlike Cadiz. Its Moorish buildings, the whiteness of its houses and blueness of the sea, give it, on a fine day, a picturesque and taking appearance, speedily dissipated, how ever, on closer acquaintance; for Bushire is indescribably filthy. The streets are mere alleys seven or eight feet broad, knee-deep in dust or mud, and as irregular and puzzling to a stranger as the maze at Hampton Court.
The Persian port is cool and pleasant enough in winter-time, but in summer the stench from open drains and cesspools becomes unbearable, and Europeans (of whom there are thirty or forty) remove _en masse_ to Sabsabad, a country place eight or ten miles off. The natives, in the mean time, live as best they can, and epidemics of cholera and diphtheria are of yearly occurrence. The water of Bushire producing guinea-worms (an animal that, unless rolled out of the skin with great care, breaks, rots, and forms a festering sore), supplies of it are brought in barrels from Bussorah or Mahommerah; but this is not within reach of the poorer class. Nearly every third person met in the street suffers from ophthalmia in some shape or other–the effect of the dust and glare, for there is no shade in or about the city.
The latter is built at the end of a peninsula ten miles in length and three in breadth, the portion furthest away from the town being swampy and overflowed by the sea. Most of the houses are of soft crumbling stone full of shells; some, of brick and plastered mud; but all are whitewashed, which gives the place the spurious look of cleanliness to which I have referred. The inhabitants of this “whited sepulchre” number from 25,000 to 30,000. There is a considerable trade in tobacco, attar of roses, shawls, cotton wool, etc.; but vessels drawing over ten feet cannot approach the town nearer than a distance of three miles–a great drawback in rough or squally weather.
Were it five thousand miles away, Bushire could scarcely be less like Persia than it is. It has but one characteristic in common with other cities–its ruins. Although of no antiquity, Bushire is rich in these. With this exception, it much more resembles a Moorish or Turkish city. The native population, largely mixed with Arabs, carries out the illusion, and bright-coloured garments, white “bournouses,” and green turbans throng the streets, in striking contrast to the sombre, rook-like garments affected by the natives of Iran. A stranger, too, is struck by the difference in the mode of life adopted by Europeans as compared with those inhabiting other parts of the Shah’s dominions. The semi-French style of Teheran and Shiraz is here superseded by the Anglo-Indian. _Dejeuner a la fourchette, vin ordinaire_, and cigarettes are unknown in this land of tiffins, pegs, and cheroots.
My recollections of Bushire are pleasant ones. The Residency is a large, rambling building, all verandahs, passages, and courtyards, faces the sea on three sides, and catches the slightest breath of air that may be stirring in hot weather. Two or three lawn-tennis courts, and a broad stone walk almost overhanging the waves, form a favourite rendezvous for Europeans in the cool of the evening. From here may be seen the Persian Navy at anchor, represented by one small gunboat, the _Persepolis_. This toy of the Shah’s was built by a German firm in 1885, and cost the Government over L30,000 sterling.
She has never moved since her arrival. Her bottom is now covered with coral and shells, her screw stuck hard and fast, while the four steel Krupp guns which she mounts are rusty and useless.
My preparations for Baluchistan were soon completed. The escort furnished me by the Indian Government had been awaiting me for some days at Sonmiani, our starting-point on the coast. A telegram from Karachi, saying that men, camels, tents, and stores were ready, was the signal for our departure, and on March 7 I took leave of my host to embark on the British India Company’s steamer _Purulia_, for Baluchistan. With genuine regret did I leave my pleasant quarters at the Residency. Enjoyable as my visit was, it had not come upon me quite as a surprise, for the hospitality of Colonel Ross, Resident of Bushire, is well known to travellers in Persia.
[Footnote A: A similar case happened not long ago in Southern Russia.]
[Footnote B: The Eeliauts are said to be of Arab and Kurd descent.]
[Footnote C: The longest is in Cochin China, across the river Meikong, the distance from post to post being 2560 feet.]
[Footnote D: Earthquake.]
CHAPTER IX.
BALUCHISTAN–BEILA.
The coast-line of Baluchistan is six hundred miles long. On it there is one tree, a sickly, stunted-looking thing, near the telegraph station of Gwadar, which serves as a landmark to native craft and a standing joke to the English sailor. Planted some years since by a European, it has lived doggedly on, to the surprise of all, in this arid soil. The Tree of Baluchistan is as well known to the manner in the Persian Gulf as Regent Circus or the Marble Arch to the London cabman.
With this solitary exception, not a trace of vegetation exists along the sea-board from Persian to Indian frontier. Occasionally, at long intervals, a mud hut is seen, just showing that the country is inhabited, and that is all. The steep, rocky cliffs, with their sharp, spire-like summits rising almost perpendicularly out of the blue sea, are typical of the desert wastes inland.
“And this is the India they talk so much about!” says Gerome, contemptuously, as we watch the desolate shores from the deck of the steamer. I do not correct the little man’s geography. It is too hot for argument, for the heat is stifling. There is not a breath of air stirring, not a ripple on the smooth oily sea, and the sides of the ship are cracking and blistering in the fierce, blinding sunshine. Under the awning the temperature is that of a furnace, and one almost regrets the cold and snow of three weeks ago, so perverse is human nature.
Mark Tapley himself would scarcely have taken a cheerful view of things on landing at Sonmiani. Imagine a howling wilderness of rock