MESHED THE HOLY.
Warning spits of snow accompany my early morning departure from the
wayside caravanserai, and it quickly develops into a blinding snow-storm
that effectually obscures the country around, although melting as it
touches the ground.
A mile from the caravanserai the trails fork, and, taking the wrong one,
I wander some miles up the mountains ere discovering my mistake.
Retracing my way, the right road is finally taken; but the gale increases
in violence, the cold is numbing to unprotected hands and ears, and the
wind and driving snow difficult to face. At one point the trail leads
through a morass, in which are two dead horses, swamped in attempting to
cross, and near by lies an abandoned camel, lying in the mud and wearily
munching at a heap of kali (cut barley-straw) placed before him by his
owners before leaving him to his kismet; perchance with a forlorn hope
that he might pull through and finally regain his feet.
I have a narrow escape from swamping in the treacherous morass myself,
sinking knee-deep in the slimy, oozing mud-mass, pulling off my geivehs
and having no end of trouble in recovering them.
Shurab is reached about noon, where the customary crowd and customary
rude accommodations await me. Quite an unaccustomed luxury, however, is
obtained at Shurab--a substance made from grapes, called sheerah,
which resembles thin molasses. A communal dish, which I see the
chapar-jee and his sliagirds prepare for themselves and eat this evening,
consists of one pint of sheerah, half that quantity of grease, a handful
of chopped onions and a quart of water. This awful mixture is stewed for
a few minutes and then poured over a bowl of broken bread; they then
gather around and eat it with their hands--that they also eat it with
great gusto goes without saying.
Opium smoking appears to be indulged in to a great extent here, two out
of the three chapar men putting in a good portion of their time "hitting"
the seductive pipe, and tinkering with their opium-smoking apparatus.
They only have one outfit between them; both of them are half blind with
ophthalmia, and the bane of their wretched existence seems to be a
Russian candle-lamp, with a broken globe, that persists in falling apart
whenever they attempt to use it--which, by the by, is well-nigh all
the time--in manipulating the opium needle and pipe. Observing them
from my rude shake-down, after supper, bending persistently over this
broken, or ever-breaking lamp, their sore eyes and shrunken features, the
suzzle-suzzle of the opium as they suck it into the primer and inhale the
fumes--the indescribable odor of the drug pervading the
room--all this would seem to be a picture of an ideal Chinese opium
den rather than of a chapar-khana in Persia.
A broken bridge and miles of deep mud not far ahead has been the burthen
of information gathered from the villagers during the afternoon, and the
chapar-jee urges upon me the necessity of employing men and horses to
carry me and the bicycle across these obstructions into Nishapoor.
Preferring to take my chances of getting through, however, I pay no heed
to these warnings, well aware that the chapar-jee's interest in the
matter begins and ends in the fact that he has horses to hire himself.
In imitation of my example yesterday, I wander off the proper road again
this morning, taking a road that leads to an abandoned ford instead of to
the bridge, a mistake that is probably a very good one to have made when
viewed from the stand-point of mud, as my road is at least the shorter
one of the two.
A wild-looking, busby-decked crowd of Khorassani goatherds from a
neighboring village follow behind me across the level mudflats leading to
the stream, vociferously clamoring for me to ride. They shout
persistently: "H-o-i! Sowar shuk; tomasha! tomasha!" even when they see
the difficult task I have of it getting the bicycle through the mud. I
have singled out a big, sturdy goat-herder to assist me across the
streams, of which I learn there are two, a mile or thereabout apart, and
his compatriots are accompanying us to see us cross, as well as being
impelled by prying curiosity to see how many kerans he gets for his
trouble. The first stream is found to be arm-pit deep, with a fairly
strong current. My sturdy Khorassani crosses over first, to try the
bottom, feeling his way with a long-handled spade; he then returns and
carries the bicycle across on his head, afterward carrying me across
astride his shoulders, landing me safely with nothing worse than wet
feet.
A mile of awful saline mud, and stream number two is reached and crossed
in a similar manner--although here I unfortunately cross part way
over fairly sitting on the water. The water and the weather are both
uncomfortably chilly, and my assistant emerges from the second stream
with chattering teeth and goose-pimply flesh. A liberal and well-deserved
present makes him forget personal discomforts, and, fervently kissing my
hand and pressing my palm to his forehead, he tells me there is no more
water ahead, and, recrossing the stream, he wends his way homeward again.
Fortunately the road improves rapidly, developing beyond the Nishapoor
Valley into smooth, upland camel-trails that afford quite excellent
wheeling. The Nishapoor Valley impresses me as about the finest area of
cultivation seen in Persia, except, perhaps, the Tabreez Plain; and
toward Gadamgah the country gets positively beautiful--at least, beautiful
in comparison. Crystal streamlets come purling and gurgling across the
road over pebbly beds; and, looking northward for their source, one finds
that the usually gray and uninteresting foot-hills have changed into
bright, green slopes, on whose cheerful brows are seen an occasional pine
or cedar. Overtopping these green, grassy slopes are dark, rugged rocks,
and higher still the grim white region of--winter. Somewhere behind
these emerald foot-hills, near Gadamgah, are the famous turquoise mines
alluded to in the "Veiled Prophet of Khorassan." The mines are worked at
the present time, but only in a desultory and unenterprising manner.
Favored with good roads, I succeed in reaching Gadamgah before dark,
where, besides a comfortable and commodious caravanserai, and the
pleasure of seeing around a number of fine-spreading cedars, one can
obtain the rare luxury of pine-wood to build a fire.
Immediately upon my arrival a knowing and respectable-looking old
pilgrim, who calls himself a hadji and a dervish from Mazan-deran,
rescues me from the annoying importunities of the people and invites me
to share the accommodation of his menzil. Augmenting his scanty stock of
firewood and obtaining eggs and bread, quite a comfortable evening is
spent in reclining beside the blazing pine-wood fire, which is itself no
trifling luxury in a country of scanty camel-thorn and tezek. Whenever
the prying curiosity of the occupants of neighboring menzils impels them
to visit our quarters, to stand and stare at me, my friend the hadji
waxes indignant, and, waving a stick of firewood threateningly toward
them, he pours forth a torrent of withering and sarcastic remarks. Once,
in his wrath, he hops lightly off the menzil floor, seizes an individual
twice his own size by the kammerbund, jerks him violently forward, bids
him stare until he gets ashamed of staring, and then, turning him round,
shoves him unceremoniously away again, pursuing him as he retreats to his
own quarters with vengeful shouts of "y-a-h!"
To a few eminently respectable travellers, however, the hadji graciously
accords the coveted privilege of squatting around our fire and chatting.
Being himself a person who dearly loves the music of his own voice, he
holds forth at great length on the subject of himself in particular,
dervishes in general, and the Province of Mazanderaii. Like a good many
other people conscious of their own garrulousness, the hadji evidently
suspects his auditors of receiving his statements with a good deal of
allowance; consequently, when impressing upon them the circumstance of
his hailing from Mazanderan--a fact that he seems to think creditable in
some way to himself--he produces from the depths of his capacious
saddlebags several dried fish of a variety for which that province is
celebrated, and exhibits them in confirmation of his statements.
It is genuine wintry weather, and with no bedclothes, save a narrow
horse-blanket borrowed from my impromptu friend, I spend a cold,
uncomfortable night, for a caravanserai menzil is but a mere place of
shelter after all. The hadji rises early and replenishes the fire, and
with his little brass teapot we make and drink a glass of tea together
before starting out.
At daybreak the hadji goes outside to take a preliminary peep at the
weather, and returns with the unwelcome intelligence that it is snowing.
"Better snow than rain," I conclude, as I prepare to start, little
thinking that I am entering upon the toughest day's experience of the
whole journey through Persia.
Before covering three miles, the snow-storm develops into a regular
blizzard; a furious, driving storm that would do credit to Dakota.
Without gloves, and in summer clothes throughout, I quickly find myself
in a most unenviable plight. It is no common snow-storm; every few
minutes a halt has to be made, hands buffeted and ears rubbed to prevent
these members from freezing; yet foot-gear has to be removed and streams
waded in the bitter cold.
The road leads up into a region of broken hills, and the climax of my
discomfort is reached, when the blizzard is raging with ever-increasing
fury, and the cold has already slightly nipped one finger. While
attempting to cross a deep, narrow stream without disrobing, it is my
unhappy fate to drop the bicycle into the water, and furthermore to front
the necessity of instantly plunging in, armpit deep, to its rescue. When
I emerge upon the opposite bank my situation is really quite critical; in
a few moments my garments are frozen stiff; everything I have with me is
wet; my leathern case, containing the small stock of medicines, matches,
writing material, and other small but necessary articles, is full of
water, and, with hands benumbed, I am unable to unstrap it.
My only salvation consists in vigorous exercise, and, conscious of this,
I splurge ahead through the blinding storm and the fast-deepening snow,
fording several other streams, often emerging dripping from the icy water
to struggle through waist-deep snow-drifts that are rapidly accumulating
under the influence of the driving blast and fast-falling snow. Uncertain
of the distance to the next caravanserai, I push determinedly forward in
this condition for several hours, making but slow progress. Everything
must come to an end, however, and twenty miles from Gadamgah the welcome
outlines of a road-side caravanserai become visible through the thickly
falling snow-flakes, and the din of many jangling camel-bells proclaims
it already occupied.
The caravanserai is found so densely crowded with people, horses, camels,
and their loads that it is impossible to at first carry the bicycle
inside. Confusion, and more than confusion, reigns supreme; every menzil
is occupied, and the whole interior space is a confused mass of
charvadars, stoutly vociferating at one another and at the pack-animals
lying down, wandering about, or being unloaded.
Leaving the bicycle outside in the snow, I clamber over the humpy forms
of kneeling camels, through an intricate maze of mules and over
barricades of miscellaneous merchandise, and, making a virtue of dire
necessity, invade the menzil of a well-to-do looking traveller. Here,
waiving all considerations of whether my presence is acceptable or the
reverse, I take a seat beside their fire and forthwith proceed to shed my
saturated foot-gear. Under ordinary conditions this proceeding would be
nothing less than a piece of sublime assurance; but necessity knows no
law, and my case is really very urgent. When I explain to the occupants
of the menzil that this nolens volens invasion of their premises is but a
temporary arrangement, in the flowery language of polite Persian they
tell me that the menzil, the fire, and everything they have is mine.
After the inevitable examination of my map, compass, and sundry effects,
I begin to fancy my presence something of an embarrassment, and
consequently am not a little gratified at hearing the authoritative voice
of my friend the hadji shouting loudly at the charvadars, telling them
that he is a hadji and a Mazanderan dervish, for whom they cannot clear
the way too quickly. Looking round, I see him appear at the caravanserai
entrance with a party of pilgrims, in whose company he has journeyed from
Gadamgah. The combined excellences that enter into the composition of a
person who is both a dervish and an ex-Mecca pilgrim are of great benefit
in securing the respect and consideration of the common herd in Persia;
and as, in addition to this, our hadji commands attention by the peculiar
tone and volume of his voice when delivering his commands, his tall,
angular steed is quickly tied up in a snug and sheltered corner and his
saddle-bags deposited on the floor of a fellow-pilgrim's menzil.
Hearing of my arrival, he straightway seeks me out and invites me to
share the accommodation of his new-found quarters, not forgetting to
explain to the people he finds me with, however, that he is a hadji, a
dervish, and that he hails from Mazanderan. I shouldn't be much surprised
to see him back up the latter assertion by producing a dried fish from
the ample folds of his kammerbund; but these finny witnesses are reserved
to perform their role later in the evening.
As the gloom of night envelopes the interior of the caravanserai, and the
scores of little brushwood fires smoke and glimmer and twinkle fitfully,
the scene appeals to an observant Occidental as being decidedly unique,
and totally unlike anything to be seen outside of Persia. Around each
little fire, from four to a dozen figures are squatting, each group
forming a most social gathering; some are singing, some chatting
pleasantly, some quarrelling and arguing violently; some are shouting
lustily at each other across the whole width of the serai; all are taking
turns at smoking the kalian or sipping tea, or preparing supper.
Occasionally a fiery wheel glows through the darkness, from which fly
myriads of sparks, looking very pretty as it describes rapid circles.
This is a. little wire cage, full of live charcoal, that is being swung
round and round like a sling to enliven the coals for priming the kalian.
In the middle space, crowded with animals and their loads, the horses,
being all stallions, are constantly squealing and fighting; camels, are
grunting dolefully, donkeys are braying and bells clanging, and grooms
and charvadars are shouting and quarrelling. Taken all in all, the
interior of a crowded caravanserai is a decidedly animated place.
The snow-storm subsides during the night, and a clear, frosty morning
breaks upon a wintry landscape, in which nothing is visible but snow. The
hadji announces his intention of "Inshallah Meshed, am roos" (please God,
we will reach Meshed to-day) as he covers up the obtrusive tail of a fish
emerging from one of the saddle-bags and prepares to mount. I give him my
packages to carry, by way of lightening my burden as much as possible for
the struggle through the snow, and promise him a bottle of arrack, upon
reaching Meshed, as a reward for thus assisting me through. Arrack is
forbidden fruit to a hadji above all things else, so that nothing I could
promise him would likely prove more tempting or acceptable, or be better
appreciated!
It proves slavish work trundling, tugging, and carrying the bicycle
through the deep snow along a half-broken trail made by a few horses, and
through deep drifts; but the cold, bracing air is favorable for exertion,
and by ten o'clock we reach Shahriffabad, where a halt is made to prepare
a cup of tea and to give the hadji's horse a feed of barley. At
Shahriffabad we are warned that on the hills between here and Meshed snow
will be found two feet deep, streams belly deep to the hadji's horse will
have to be forded, and, toward Meshed, mud knee-deep. Conscious that the
mud will be "knee-deep" the whole distance, after the disappearance of
the snow, this makes us only the more eager to push on while we may.
The sun has by this time become uncomfortably warm, and the narrow trail
is fast becoming a miry pathway of mud and slush under the trampling feet
of the animals gone ahead, and of villagers' donkeys returning from the
city. Mile after mile is devoted to the unhappy task of trundling the
bicycle ahead, rear wheel aloft, through mud and slush varying from
ankle-deep to worse, occasionally varying the programme by fording a
stream.
Late in the afternoon we arrive at the summit of the hills overlooking
the Meshed Plain, and the hadji points out enthusiastically the golden
dome of Imam Biza's sanctuary; the yellow, glistening goal whose famed
sanctity has attracted hosts of pilgrims from all quarters of Central
Asia for ages past. The hills hereabout are of a rocky character, and
pious pilgrims have gathered into little mounds every loose piece of
rock, it being customary for each pilgrim to find a stone and add it to
one of these piles upon first viewing the bright golden dome of the holy
city from this commanding spot.
Below the rocky paths of this declivity the snow disappears in favor of
slippery mud, and the hadji's wearied charger slips and slides about, to
the imminent danger of its rider's neck; and all the time the slim
Turkoman! steed trembles visibly in terror of the old Mazanderan
dervish's whip and his awful threats. Two miles down the bed of the
stream, crossing and recrossing it a dozen times, often thigh-deep, and
we emerge upon the gently sloping area of the Meshed Plain, with the
yellow beacon-light of Meshed glowing in the mellow light of the evening
sun six miles away.
The late storm has been chiefly rain in the lower altitude of the plain,
and the day's sunshine has partially dried the surface, but leaving it
slippery and treacherous here and there. After leaving the bed of the
stream the hadji becomes anxious about reaching Meshed before dark, and
advises me to mount and put on the speed.
"Inshallah, Meshed yek saat," he says, and so I mount and bid him follow
along behind. By vocal suasion and a liberal application of his cruel,
triple-thonged, raw-hide whip, he urges his well-nigh staggering animal
into a canter, lifting his forefeet clear of the ground seemingly by the
bridle at every jump. Suspicious as to his lank and angular steed's
sure-footedness under the strain, I take the very laudable precaution of
keeping as far from him as possible, not caring to get mixed up in a
catastrophe that seems inevitable every time the horse, goaded by the
stinging stimulus of the whip and the threats, makes another jump. Not
more than a mile of the six is covered when I have ample reason for
congratulating myself on taking this precaution, for the horse stumbles,
and, being too far gone to recover himself, comes down on his nose, and
the "hadji and Mazanderau dervish" is cutting a most ridiculous figure in
the mud. His tall lambskin hat flies off and lands in a pool of muddy
water some distance ahead; the ponderous saddle-bags, which are merely
laid on the saddle, shoot forward athwart the horse's neck, the horse's
nose roots quite a furrow in the road, and the horse's owner picks
himself up and takes a woeful survey of his own figure. It is needless to
say that the survey includes a good deal more real estate than the hadji
cares to claim, even though it be the semi-sacred soil of the Meshed
Plain.
The poor horse is altogether too tired to attempt to recover his legs of
his own inclination; but, regarding him as the author of his ignominious
misadventure, the hadji surveys him with a wrathful eye for a moment,
mutters a few awful imprecations--imported, no doubt, from Mazanderan--and
then attacks him savagely about the head with the whip. In his wrath and
determination to make a lasting impression of each blow given, the hadji
emphasizes each visitation with a very audible grunt; and, to speak
correctly, so does the horse. It goes without saying, however, that
master and animal grunt from widely different motives; although, so far
as the mere audible performance is concerned, one grunt might almost be
an echo of the other.
At length, by adopting a more circumspect pace, we reach the gate of the
holy city about sunset without further mishap. The hadji leads the way
through a bewildering labyrinth of narrow streets that consist of an open
sewage-ditch in the centre, at present full of filth, and a narrow
footway of rough, broken, and mud-bespattered cobble-stones on either
side. Of course we are followed through these fearful thoroughfares by a
surging and vociferous crowd of people such as a Central Asian city alone
can produce; but I can this time happily afford to smile at these usually
irritating accompaniments to my arrival in a populous city, for ten
minutes after entering the gate finds me shaking hands with Mr. Gray, the
genial telegraphist of the Afghan Boundary Commission. With a
well-guarded gate between our cosey quarters and the shouting mob
outside, the evening is spent very pleasantly and quietly, in striking
comparison with what it would have been had no one been here to afford me
a place of refuge.
Meshed is "the jumping off place" of telegraphy; the electric spider
spins his galvanized web no farther in this direction, and the dirge-like
music of civilization's--AEolian harp, that, like the roll of
England's drum, is heard around the world, approaches the barbarous
territory of Afghanistan from two directions, but recoils from entering
that fanatical and conservative domain. It approaches from Persia on the
one side, and from India on the other; but as yet it only approaches. The
drum has already been there; it is only a question of time when the
AEolian harp will follow.
It is with lively recollection of Khorassani March weather and the
experience of the last few days that, after a warm bath, I array myself
in a suit of Mr. Gray's clothing, elevate my slippered feet, "Yenghi
Donia fashion," on a pile of Turcoman! carpets, and, abetted by the
cheering presence of a bottle of Shiraz wine, exchange my recent
experiences on the road for telegraphic scraps of the latest news. How
utterly unsatisfactory and altogether wretched seems even the gilded
palace of a Persian provincial governor--the meaningless compliments, the
salaaming lackeys and empty show of courtesy, when compared with the
cosey quarters, the hearty welcome, the honest ring of an Englishman's
voice, and the genuineness of everything!
Shortly after my arrival, a gentleman with a coal-black complexion, a
retreating forehead, and an overshadowing wealth of lip appears at the
door bearing a tray of sweetmeats. Making a profound salaam, he steps out
of his slipper-like shoes, enters, and places the sweetmeats on the
table, smiling a broad expectant-of-backsheesh smile the while he
explains his mission.
"The Sartiep has sent you his salaams and a present of sweetmeats,
preparatory to calling round himself," explains mine host; "he is a
Persian gentleman, Ali Akbar Khan, at the head of the Meshed
telegraph-service, and has the rank of general or Sartiep." The Sartiep
himself arrives shortly afterward, accompanied by his favorite son, a
budding youth of some eight or ten summers, of whose beauty he feels very
justly proud. The Sartiep's son is one of those remarkably handsome boys
met with occasionally in modern Persia, and which so profusely adorn old
Persian paintings. With soft, girlish features, big, black, lustrous
eyes, and an abundance of long hair, they remind one of the beautiful
youths of Oriental romance; his fond parent takes him about on his visits
and finds much gratification in the admiring remarks bestowed upon the
son.
The Sartiep is an ideal Persian official, courteous and complimentary,
but never forgetful of Ali Akbar Khan; his full, round figure and sensual
Oriental face speak eloquently of mutton pillau and other fattening
dishes galore, sweetmeats, cucumbers, and melons; and deep draughts from
pleasure's intoxicating cup have not failed to leave their indelible
marks. In this particular the Sartiep is but a casually selected sample
of the well-to-do Persian official. Leaving out a few notable exceptions,
this brief description of him suffices to describe them all.
Following in the train of the Sartiep arrive more servants, bearing
dishes of kabobs, herb-seasoned pillau, and various other strange, savory
dishes, which, Mr. Gray explains, are considered great delicacies among
the upper-class Persians and are intended as a great compliment to me.
Although Mohammedans, and particularly Shiite Mohammedans, are forbidden
by their religion to indulge in alcoholic beverages, the average high
official in Persia is anything but a sanctimonious individual, and
partakes with a keen relish of the forbidden fruit in an open-secret
manner. The thin, transparent veil of abstemiousness that the Persian
noble wears in deference to the sanctimonious pretensions of the mollahs
and seyuds and the public eye at large, is cast aside altogether in the
presence of intimate friends, and particularly if that intimate friend is
a Ferenghi. Owing to their association in the telegraph-service, mine
host and the Sartiep are on the most intimate terms. The Sartiep soon
after his arrival intimates, with a humorous twinkle of the eye, that he
feels the need of a little medicine. Mr. Gray, as becomes a good
physician who knows well the constitutional requirements of his patient,
and who knows what to prescribe without even going through the
preliminary act of feeling the pulse, produces a pale-green bottle and a
tumbler and pours out a full dose of its contents for an adult.
The patient swallows it at a gulp, nibbles a piece of sweetmeat, and
strokes his stomach in token of approval.
"What was the medicine you prescribed, Gray?" "High wines," says the
physician, "95 proof alcohol; a bottle that the entomologist of the
Boundary Commission happened to leave here a year ago; it was the only
thing in the house except wine. The patient pronounces it the 'best
arrack' he ever tasted; the firier these fellows can get it the better
they like it."
"Why, it didn't even make him gasp!"
"Gasp--nonsense; you haven't been in Persia as long as I have yet, or you
wouldn't say 'gasp' even at 95% alcohol."
But how polite, how complimentary, these French of Asia are, and how
imaginative and fanciful their language! Not having shaved since leaving
Teheran, after surveying myself in the glass, I feel called upon, in the
interest of fellow-wheelmen elsewhere, to explain to our discerning
visitors that all bicyclers are not distinguished from their fellow men
by a bronzed and stubby phiz and an all-around vagrom appearance.
The Sartiep strokes his beard and stomach, casts a lingering glance at
the above-mentioned green-glass bottle, smiles, and replies: "Having
accomplished so wonderful a journey, you are now prettier with your
rough, unshaven face than you ever were before; you can now survey
yourself in the looking-glass of fame instead of in a common mirror that
reflects all the imperfections of ordinary mortals." Having delivered
himself of this compliment, the Sartiep's eye wanders in the direction of
the 95% alcohol again, and the next minute is again smacking his lips and
complacently stroking his stomach.
In the morning, before I am up, a servant arrives from a Mesh-edi notable
named Hadji Mahdi, bringing salaams from his master, and a letter clothed
in the fine "apparel diplomatique" of the Orient. The letter, although in
reality nothing more than a request to be allowed to come and see the
bicycle, reads in substance as follows: "Salaams from Hadji Mahdi--may he
be your sacrifice!-to Gray Sahib and the illustrious Sahib who has
arrived in Holy Meshed from Teheran, on the wonderful asp-i-awhan, the
fame of whose deeds reaches to the ends of the earth. Bismillah! May your
shadows never grow less! Your sacrifice's brother, Hadji Mollah Hassan,
whose eyes were gladdened by a sight of the asp-i-awhan Sahib at
Shahrood, and who now sends his salaams, telegraphs me--his unworthy
brother--that upon the Sahib's arrival in Meshed I should render him
any assistance he might need. Inshallah, with your permission--may
it not be withheld--your sacrifice will be pleased to call and
gladden his eyes with a sight of Gray Sahib and the illustrious Sahib his
guest."
As might have been expected, the advent of a Ferenghi on so strange a
vehicle as a bicycle, arriving in the sacred city of Imam Eiza's
sanctuary, arouses universal curiosity; and not only the Sartiep and
Hadji Mahdi, but hundreds of big-turbaned Meshedi notables, mollahs, and
seyuds are admitted during the day to enjoy the happy privilege of
feasting their eyes on the latest proof of the Ferenghis' wonderful
marifet,
Upon receipt of the telegram at Shahrood refusing me permission to go
through Turkestan, I telegraphed to Mr. Gray, requesting him to obtain
leave for me to go to the Boundary Commission Camp, and accompany them
back to India, or reach India from the camp alone. Mr. Gray kindly
forwarded my request to the camp, and now urges me to consider myself his
guest until the return courier arrives with the answer. This turns out to
mean a stop-over of seven days, and on the second day immense crowds of
people assemble in the street, shouting for me to come out and ride the
bicycle. The clamor on the streets renders it impossible for them to
transact business in the telegraph office, and several times requests are
sent in begging me to appease them and stop the uproar by riding to and
fro along the street. An outer door separates the compound in which the
house is built from the street, and to prevent the rabble from invading
the premises, and the possibility of unpleasant consequences, the
Governor-General stations a guard of four soldiers at the door. This
precaution works very well so far as the common herd are concerned, but
every hour through the day little knots of priestly men in the flowing
new garments and spotless turbans representing their Noo Roos purchases,
or the lamb's-wool cylinder and semi-European garb of the official,
bribe, coerce, or command the guard to let them in.
These persistent people generally stand in a respectful attitude just
inside the outer gate, and send word in by a servant that a Shahzedah
(relative of the Shah) wishes to see the bicycle. After the first
"Shahzedah" has been treated with courtesy and consideration in deference
to his royal relative at Teheran, fully two-thirds of those who come
after unblushingly proclaim themselves uncles, cousins, or nephews of
"His Majesty, the King of Kings and Ruler of the Universe!" The constant
worry and annoyance of these people compel us to adopt measures of
self-defence, and so, after admitting about a hundred uncles, twice that
number of nephews, and Heaven knows how many cousins, we conclude that
blood-relations of the Shah are altogether too numerous in Meshed to be
of much consequence. Soon after arriving at this conclusion, Mr. Gray's
farrash, an Armenian he brought with him from Ispahan, comes in with a
message that another Shahzedah has succeeded in getting past the guard
and sends in his salaams. "Shahzedah be d----d! Turn him out--put him
outside, and tell the guards to let nobody else in without our
permission!"
A moment later the farrash re-enters with the look of a man scarcely able
to control his risibilities, and says the man and his friends are still
inside the gate.
"Why the devil don't you put them out, as you are told, then?"
"He says he is the Padishah's step-father."
"Well, what if he is the Padishah's step-father? It's nothing to be the
Shah's step-father; the Shah probably has five hundred step-father's, to
say the least--turn him out. No; hold hard; let him stay."
We conclude that a step-father to the king, whether genuine or only a
counterfeit, is at least something of a relief after the swarms of
nephews, cousins, and uncles, and so order him to be shown in He proves
to be a corpulent little man about sixty, who advances up the bricked
walk toward us, making about three extra profound salaams to the rod and
smiling in a curious, apprehensive manner, as though not quite assured of
his reception. About a dozen long-robed mollahs and seyuds follow with
timid hesitancy in his wake. Strange to say, he makes no allusion to his
illustrious step-son, the King of Kings at Teheran; and plainly betrays
embarrassment when Gray mentions the fact of my having appeared before
him on the wheel. We conclude that the Shah's step-father and the little
group of holy men clubbed together and paid the Persian guard about a
keran to let them in, and perhaps another half-keran to the Armenian
farrash for not summarily turning them out. He tries very hard, however,
to make himself agreeable, and when told about the Russians refusing me
the road, exclaims artfully: "I was not an enemy of the Russians before I
heard this, but now I am their worst enemy! Suppose the Sahib's iron
horse was a wheel of fire, what harm would it do their country even
then?"
Our most distinguished caller to-day is Mirza Abbas Khan, C. I. E., a
Kandahari gentleman, who has been the British political agent at Meshed
for many years. He makes a formal call in all the glory of his official
garments, a magnificent Cashmere coat lined with Russian sable and
profusely trimmed with gold braid; a servant leads his gayly caparisoned
horse, and another brings up the rear with a richly mounted kalian.
Appearances count for something among the people of Northeastern Persia,
and Abbas Khan draws a sufficiently large salary to enable him to wear
gorgeous clothes, and thereby dim the lustre of his bitter rival, the
political agent of Russia.
Abbas Khan is perhaps the handsomest man in Meshed, is in the prime of
life, dyes his flowing beard an orthodox red, and possesses most charming
manners; in addition to his ample salary he owns the revenue of a village
near Meshed, and seems to be altogether the right man in the right place.
Abbas Khan and a friend of his from Herat both agree that the
difficulties and dangers of Afghanistan will be likely to prove
insurmountable; at the same time promising any assistance they can render
me in getting to India, consistent, of course, with Abbas Khan's duties
as British Agent. It seems to be a pretty general opinion that
Afghanistan will prove a stumbling-block in my path; friends at Teheran
telegraph again, advising me to go anywhere rather than risk the dangers
to be apprehended in that most lawless and fanatical territory. Nothing
can be decided on, however, until the arrival of an answer from the
Commission.
In the meantime, the days slowly pass away in Meshed; every day come
scores of visitors and invitations to go and ride for the delectation of
sundry high officials; ever-present are the crowds in the streets
shouting, "Tomasha! tomasha! Sowar shuk!" and the frequent squabbles at
the gate between the guard and the people wanting to come in.
Above the din and clamor of the crowd outside there sometimes arise the
chanting voices of a party of newly arrived pilgrims making their way
joyously through the thronged streets toward the gold-domed sanctuary of
Imam Riza, the tomb being situated a couple of hundred yards down the
street from our quarters. Sometimes we hear parties of men uttering
strange cries and sounding aloud the praises of Imam Riza, Houssein,
Hassan, and other worthies of the Mohammedan world, in response to which
are heard the swelling voices of a multitude of people shouting in
chorus, "Allah be praised! Allah be praised!!" These weird chanters are
dervishes, who, with tiger-skin mantles drawn carelessly about them,
clubs or battle-axes on shoulder, their long unkempt hair dangling down
their backs, look wildly grotesque as they parade the streets of the
Persian Mecca.
Meshed is a strange city for a Ferenghi to live in; every day are heard
the chanting and singing of newly arriving bands of pilgrims, the
strange, wild utterances of dervishes preaching on the streets, and the
shouting responses of their auditors. Conspicuous above everything else
in the city, as gold is conspicuous from dross, is the golden dome and
gold-tipped minarets of the holy edifice that imparts to the city its
sacred character. The gold is in thin plates covering the hemispherical
roof like sheets of tin; like most Eastern things, its appearance is more
impressive from a distance than at close quarters. Grains of barley
deposited on the roof by pigeons have sprouted and grown in rank bunches
between the thin gold plates, many of which are partially loose,
imparting to the place an air of neglect and decay. By resting their feet
on the dome of this sacred edifice, the pigeons of Meshed have themselves
become objects of veneration; shooting them is strictly prohibited, and a
mob would soon be about the ears of anyone venturing to do them harm.
The two most important persons in Meshed are the acting Governor-General
of Khorassan, and Mardan Khan, Ex-Governor of Sarakhs and Hereditary
Chief of the powerful tribe of Timurees. Of course, the Governor sends
his salaams, and invites me to come round to the government konak and
favor him with an exhibition. Since our refusal to entertain any more of
the "Shah's relations," we find that the worthy and long-suffering Abbas
Khan has been worried almost to the verge of despair by requests from all
over the city begging the privilege of seeing me ride.
"Knowing that you have been worried in the same way yourselves," says
Abbas Kahu, "I have replied to them, 'Is the Sahib a giraffe and I his
keeper? Why, then, do you come to me? The Sahib has travelled a long way,
and is stopping here to rest, not to make an exhibition of himself."
An exception is of course made in favor of the Governor-General and
Mardan Khan. The Government compound is a large enclosure, and to reach
the Governor-General's quarters one has to traverse numerous long
court-yards connected with one another by long, gloomy passage-ways of
brick, where the tramping of the sentinels and the march of retiring and
relieving guards resound through the vaults like an echo of mediaeval
times.
There is nothing particularly interesting about the Governor's
apartments, but Mardan Khan's palace is a revelation of barbaric splendor
entirely different from anything hitherto seen in the country. In
contradistinction to the dazzling, silvery glitter of the mirror-work and
stuccoed halls of the Teheran palaces, the home of the wealthy Timuree
Chieftain is distinguished by a striking and lavish display of colored
glass, gilt, and tinsel.
Mardan Khan is a valued friend of Mirza Abbas Khan and a man of powerful
influence; besides this, he is a pronounced admirer of the Ingilis as
against the Oroos, and my reception at his palace almost takes the
character of an ovation. News of the great tomasha has evidently been
widely spread, crowds of outsiders fill the streets leading to the
palace, and inside the large garden are scores of the elite of the city,
mollahs, seyuds, official and private gentlemen; the numerous niches of
the walls are occupied by groups of closely veiled females. Trundling
through this interesting and expectant crowd with Abbas Khan, Mardan Khan
issues forth in flowing gown of richest Cashmere-shawl material and gold
braid, to greet us and to take a preliminary peep at the bicycle, and to
lead the way into his gorgeously colored room of state.
The scene in this room is an ideal picture of the popular occidental
conception of the "gorgeous East." Abbas Khan and Mar-dan Khan sit
cross-legged side by side on a rich Turcoman rug, salaaming and
exchanging compliments after the customary flowery and extravagant
language of the Persian nobility. The marvellous pattern and costly
texture of Abbas Khan's coat, the gold braid, the Russian sable lining,
and the black Astrakhan cylinder he wears, are precisely matched by the
garments of Mardan Khan. Twenty or thirty of the most important
dignitaries and mollahs of the city are ranged according to their
respective rank or degree of holiness around the room; prominent among
them is the Chief Imam of Meshed, a very important and influential person
in the holy city.
The Chief Imam is a slim-built, sharp-looking individual of about forty
summers, with a face pale, refined, and intellectual; hands white and
slender as a lady's, and a foot equally shapely and feminine. He wears a
monster green turban, takes his turn regularly at the kalian, and passes
it on to the next with the easy gracefulness that comes of good breeding;
and by his manners and appearance he creates an impression of being a
person rather superior to his surroundings.
Liveried pages pass around little glasses of tea, kalians, cigarettes,
and sweetmeats, as well as tiny bottles of lemon-juice and rose-water, a
few drops of these two last-named articles being used by some of the
guests to impart a fanciful flavor to their tea. Now and then a new guest
arrives, steps out of his shoes in the hallway, salaams, and takes his
proper position among the people already here. Everybody sits on the
carpet except me, for whom a three-legged camp-stool has been
thoughtfully provided.
Finally, all the guests having arrived, I ride several times around the
brick-walks, the strange audience of turbaned priests and veiled women
showing their great approval in murmuring undertones of "kylie khoob" and
involuntary acclamations of "Mashallah! mash-all-ah!" as they witness
with bated breath the strange and incomprehensible scene of a Ferenghi
riding a vehicle, that will not stand alone.
Altogether, the great tomasha at Mardan Khan's is a decided success.
Scarcely can this be said, however, of the "little tomasha" given to the
members of Abbas Khan's own family on the way home. Abbas Khan's compound
is very small, and the brick-walks very rough and broken; therefore, it
is hardly surprising to me, though probably somewhat surprising to him,
when, in turning a corner I execute an undignified header into a bunch of
busbies.
The third day after my arrival in Meshed, I received a telegram from the
British Charge d'Affaires at Teheran saying: "You must not attempt to
cross the frontier of Afghanistan at any point." Two days later the
expected courier arrives from the Boundary Commission Camp with a letter
saying: "It is useless for you to raise the question of coming to the
Commission Camp. In the first place, the Afghans would never allow you to
come here; and if you should happen to reach here, you would never be
able to get away again."
These two very encouraging missives from our own people seem at first
thought more heartless than even the "permission refused" of the
Russians. It occurs to me that this "you must not attempt to cross the
Afghan frontier" might just as easily have been told me at the Legation
at Teheran as when I had travelled six hundred miles to get to it; but
the ways of diplomacy are past the comprehension of ordinary mortals.
What, after all, are the ambitions and enterprises of an individual,
compared to the will and policy of an empire? No matter whether the
empire be semi-civilized and despotic, or free and enlightened, the
obscure and struggling individual is usually rated 0000.
Russia--"permission refused." England--paternally--"must
not attempt;" cold, offish language this for a lone cycler to be
confronted with away up here in the northeast corner of Persia, from
representatives of the two greatest empires of the world. What is to be
done?
Mr. Gray, returning from the telegraph office later in the evening, finds
me endeavoring to unravel the Gordian knot of the situation through the
medium of a brown-study. My geographical ruminations have already
resulted in a conviction that there is no possible way to unravel it and
reach India with a bicycle; my only chance of doing so is to cut it and
abide by the consequences.
"I have just been communicating with Teheran," says Mr. Gray. "Everybody
wants to know what you propose doing."
"Tell them I am going down to Beerjand to consult with Heshmet-i-Molk,
the Ameer of Seistan, and see if it is possible to get through to Quetta
via Beerjand."
"Ever hear of Dadur?" queries Mr. Gray. "Ever hear of Dadur, the place of
which the Persians tritely say: 'Seeing that there is Dadur, why did
Allah, then, make the infernal regions?' That is somewhere in
Beloochistan. You'll find yourself slowly broiling to death on a
geographical gridiron if you attempt to reach India down that way."
"Never mind; tell them at Teheran I am going that way anyhow."
Having entered upon this decision, I bid my genial host farewell on April
7th, and mounting at the door, depart in the presence of a well-behaved
crowd of spectators. In my pocket is a general letter from the
Governor-General of Khorassan to subordinate officials of the province,
ordering them to render me any assistance I may require, and another from
a prominent person in Meshed to his friend Heshmet-i-Molk, the Ameer of
Kain and Governor of Seistan, a powerful and influential chief, with his
seat of government at Beerjand.
Couched in the sentimental language of the country, one of these letters
concludes with the touching remark: "The Sahib, of his own choice is
travelling like a dervish, with no protection but the protection of
Allah."
It is a fine bracing morning as I leave the Mecca of Khorassan behind,
and the paths leading round outside the walls and moat of the city from
gate to gate afford excellent wheeling. The Beerjand trail branches off
from the Teheran and Meshed road about a farsakh east of Shahriffabad;
for this distance I shall be retraversing the road by which I came, and
shall be confronted at every turn of my wheel by reminiscences of dried
fish, a Mazanderau dervish, and an angular steed.
The streams that under the influence of the storm ran thigh-deep have now
dwindled to mere rivulets, and the narrow, miry trail through the melting
snow has become dry and smooth enough to ride wherever the grade permits.
The hills are verdant with the green young life of early spring, and are
clothed in one of nature's prettiest costumes--a costume of seal-brown
rocks and green turf studded with a profusion of blue and yellow flowers.
Shahriffabad is reached early in the afternoon, and the threatening
aspect of the changed weather forbids going any farther today.
Shortly after taking up my quarters in the chapar-khana, a party of
Persian travellers appear upon the scene, and with them a fussy little
man in big round spectacles and semi-European clothes. Scarcely have they
had time to alight and seek out quarters than the little man makes his
appearance at my menzil door in all the glory of a crimson velvet
dressing-cap and blue slippers, and beaming gladsomely through his
moon-like spectacles, he comes forward and without further ceremony
shakes hands. "Some queer little French professor, geologist,
entomologist, or something, wandering about the country in search of
scientific knowledge," is the instinctive conclusion I arrive at the
moment he appears; and my greeting of "bonjour, monsieur," is quite as
involuntary as the conclusion.
"Paruski ni?" he replies, arching his eyebrows and smiling.
"Paruski ni; Ingilis."
"Parsee namifami?"
"Parsee kam-kam."
In this brief interchange of words in the vernacular of the country we
define at once each other's nationality and linguistic abilities. He is a
Russian and can speak a little Persian. It is difficult, however, to
believe him anything else than a little French professor, wise above his
generation and skin-full of occult wisdom in some particular branch of
science; but then the big round spectacles, the red dressing-cap, and the
cerulean leather slippers of themselves impart an air of owlish and
preternatural wisdom.
Six times during the afternoon he bounces into my quarters and shakes
hands, and six times shakes hands and bounces out again. Every time he
renews his visit he introduces one or more natives, who take as much
interest in the hand-shaking as they do in the bicycle. Evidently his
object in coming round so frequently is to exhibit for the gratification
of his own vanity and the curiosity of the Persians, this European mode
of greeting, and the profound depth of his own knowledge of the subject.
Later in the evening the women of the village come round in a body to see
the Ferenghi and his iron horse, and the wearer of the spectacles, the
red cap, and blue slippers, takes upon himself the office of showman for
the occasion; pointing out, with a good deal of superficial enthusiasm,
the peculiar points of both steed and rider.
Particularly is it impressed upon these woefully ignorant fail-ones, that
the bicycle is not a horse, but a machine--a thing of iron and not
of flesh and blood.
The fair ones nod their heads approvingly, but it is painfully apparent
that they don't comprehend in the least, how, since it is an asp-i-awhan,
it can be anything else but a horse, regardless of the material entering
into its composition.
When supper-time arrives the chapar-Jee announces his willingness to turn
cook and prepare anything I order. Knowing well enough that this
seemingly sweeping proposition embraces but two or three articles, I
order him to prepare scrambled eggs, bread, and sheerah. An hour later he
brings in the scrambled eggs, swimming in hot molasses and grease! He has
stirred the grease and molasses together, and in this outlandish mixture
cooked the eggs.
Off the main road the country assumes the character of low hills of red
clay, across which it would be extremely difficult to take the bicycle in
wet weather, but which is now fortunately dry. After three or four
farsakhs it develops into a curious region of heterogeneous parts; rocky,
precipitous mountains, barren, salt-streaked hills, saline streams, and
pretty little green valleys. Here, one feels the absence of any plain,
well-travelled road, the dim and ill-defined trail being at times very
difficult to distinguish from the branch trails leading to some isolated
village. The few people one meets already betray a simplicity and a lack
of "gumption" that distinguish them at once from the people frequenting
the main road.