PATCHINAR--TEHERÁN.
Our troubles commenced in real earnest at Patchinar, a
desolate-looking place and filthy post-house, which was reached at
sunset. The post from Teherán had just arrived, in charge of a
tall strapping fellow armed to the teeth, in dark blue uniform and
astrachan cap, bearing the Imperial badge, the lion and sun, in brass.
The mail was ten days late, and had met with terrible weather on the
Kharzán. They had passed, only that morning, two men lying by the
roadway, frozen to death. The poor fellows were on their way to
Teherán from Menjil, and had lain where they fell for two or three
days. "You had far better have remained at Résht," added our
informant, unpleasantly recalling to my mind the colonel's prophecy,
"You will be sorry for this to-morrow!"
Notwithstanding hunger and vermin, we managed to enjoy a tolerable
night's rest. The post-house was warm at any rate, being windowless.
Patchinar was evidently a favourite halting-place, for the dingy walls
of the guest-room were covered with writing and pencil sketches, the
work of travellers trying to kill time, from the Frenchman who
warned one (in rhyme) to beware of the thieving propensities of the
postmaster, to the more practical Englishman, who, in a bold hand,
had scrawled across the wall, "_Big bugs here!_" I may add that my
countryman was not exaggerating.
There was no difficulty in getting horses the next morning. The post,
which left for Résht before we were stirring, had left us seven
sorry-looking steeds, worn out with their previous day's journey
through the deep snow-drifts of the Kharzán. By nine o'clock we were
ready to start, notwithstanding the entreaties of the postmaster,
whose anxiety, however, was not on our account, but on that of the
horses.
"I don't believe I shall ever see them again!" he mumbled mournfully,
as we rode out of the yard. "And who is to repay me for their loss?
You will be dead, too, before sundown, if the snow catches you in the
mountains!"
But there seemed no probability of such a contingency. The sky was
blue and cloudless, the sun so bright that the glare off the snow soon
became unbearable without smoked goggles. The promise of an extra
kerán or two if we reached the end of the stage by daylight had a
wonderful effect on the Shagird. Though it was terribly heavy going,
and the snow in places up to our girths, we covered the five miles
lying between Patchinar and the foot of the Kharzán in a little over
three hours--good going considering the state of the road. We were as
often off the former as on it, for there was nothing to guide one;
nothing but telegraph poles and wires were visible, and these are
occasionally laid straight across country away from the track.
Our destination for the night was the village of Kharzán, which is
situated near the summit of the mountain, about six thousand feet
high. The ascent is continuous and precipitous. An idea may be gained
of the steepness by the fact that we now left the valley of the Shah
Roud, barely one thousand feet above sea-level, to ascend, in a
distance of about twelve miles, over six thousand feet.
The Kharzán Pass is at all times dreaded by travellers, native and
European, even in summer, when there are no avalanches to fear,
snow-drifts to bar the way, or ice to render the narrow, tortuous
pathway even more insecure. A serious inconvenience, not to say
danger, is the meeting of two camel caravans travelling in opposite
directions on the narrow track, which, in many places, is barely ten
feet broad, and barely sufficient to allow two horses to pass each
other, to say nothing of heavily laden camels. But to-day we were safe
so far as this was concerned. Not a soul was to be seen in the clefts
and ravines around, or on the great white expanse stretched out
beneath our feet, as we crept cautiously up the side of the mountain,
our guide halting every ten or fifteen yards to probe the snow with a
long pole and make sure that we had not got off the path.
A stiff and tedious climb of nearly seven hours brought us to within a
mile of the summit. Halting for a short time, we refreshed ourselves
with a couple of biscuits and a nip of brandy, and proceeded on our
journey. We had now arrived at the most dangerous part of the pass.
The pathway, hewn out of the solid rock, and about ten feet wide, was
covered with a solid layer of ice eight or ten inches thick, over
which our horses skated about in a most uncomfortable manner. There
was no guard-rail or protection of any sort on the precipice side. All
went well for a time, and I was beginning to congratulate myself on
having reached the summit without-accident, when Gerdme's horse, just
in front of me, blundered and nearly lit on his head. "Ah, son of a
pig's mother!" yelled the little Russian in true Cossack vernacular,
as the poor old screw, thoroughly done up, made a desperate peck,
ending in a slither that brought him to within a foot of the brink.
"That was a close shave, monsieur!" he continued, as his pony
struggled back into safety, "I shall get off and walk. Wet feet are
better than a broken neck any day!"
The words were scarcely out of his mouth, when a loud cry from
the Shagird, and a snort and struggle from the pack-horse behind,
attracted my attention. This time the beast had slipped with a
vengeance, and was half-way over the edge, making, with his fore
feet, frantic efforts to regain _terra firma_ while his hind legs and
quarters dangled in mid-air. There was no time to dismount and render
assistance. The whole thing was over in less than ten seconds. The
Shagird might, indeed, have saved the fall had he kept his head
instead of losing it. All he could do was, with a loud voice and
outstretched arms, to invoke the assistance of "Allah!" We were not
long in suspense. Slowly, inch by inch, the poor brute lost his hold
of the slippery ground, and disappeared, with a shrill neigh of
terror, from sight. For two or three seconds we heard him striking
here and there against a jutting rock or shrub, till, with a final
thud, he landed on a small plateau of deep snow-drifts at least
three hundred feet below. Here he lay motionless and apparently
dead, while we could see through our glasses a thin stream of
crimson flow from under him, gradually staining the white snow
around.
[Illustration: CROSSING THE KHADZÁN]
A cat is popularly supposed to have nine lives. After my experience
of the Persian post-horse, I shall never believe that that rough and
ill-shaped but useful animal has less than a dozen. The fall I
have described would assuredly have killed a horse of any other
nationality, if I may use the word. It seemed, on the contrary, to
have a tonic and exhilarating effect on this Patchinar pony. Before we
could reach him (a work of considerable difficulty and some risk) he
had risen to his feet, given himself a good shake, and was nibbling
away at a bit of gorse that peeped through the snow on which he had
fallen. A deep cut on the shoulder was his only injury, and, curiously
enough, our portmanteaus, with the exception of a broken strap, were
unharmed. There was, luckily, nothing breakable in either.
Kharzán, a miserable village under snow for six months of the year,
was reached without further mishap. There is no post-house, and the
caravanserai was crowded with caravans. Before sundown, however, we
were comfortably installed in the house of the head-man of the place,
who spread carpets of soft texture and quaint design in our honour,
regaled us with an excellent "pilaff," and produced a flask of Persian
wine. The latter would hardly have passed muster in Europe. The cork
consisted of a plug of cotton-wool plastered with clay; the contents
were of a muddy-brown colour. "It is pure Hamadán," said our host with
pride, as he placed the bottle before us. "Perhaps the sahib did not
know that our country is famous for its wines." It was not altogether
unpalatable, something like light but rather sweet hock; very
different, however, in its effects to that innocent beverage, and one
could not drink much with impunity. Its cheapness surprised me:
one shilling a quart bottle. That, at least, is the price our host
charged--probably more than half again its real value.
The winegrowers of Hamadán have many difficulties to contend with;
among others, the severe cold. In winter the wine is kept in huge
jars, containing six or seven hundred bottles. These are buried in
the ground, their necks being surrounded by hot beds of fermenting
horse-dung, to keep the wine from freezing. But even this plan
sometimes fails, and it has to be chopped out in solid blocks and
melted for drinking.
Kharzán has a population of about a thousand inhabitants. It was here
that Baker Pasha was brought some years ago in a dying condition,
after being caught in a wind-storm on the Kharzán Pass, and lay for
three days in the house we were lodging at. Our old friend showed us a
clasp-knife presented him by the colonel, who on that occasion nearly
lost both his feet from frost-bite. Captains Gill and Clayton, [A] of
the Royal Engineers and Ninth Lancers, were with him, but escaped
unharmed.
Stiff and worn out with the events of the day, we soon stretched
ourselves in front of the blazing fire in anticipation of a good
night's rest; but sleep was not for us. In the next room were a party
of Persian merchants from Astrakhan on their way to Bagdad _viâ_
Teherán, who had been prisoners here for five days, and were now
carousing on the strength of getting away on the morrow. A woman was
with them--a brazen-faced, shrill-voiced Armenian, who made more noise
than all the rest put together. Singing, dancing, quarrelling, and
drinking went on without intermission till long past midnight, our
neighbours raising such a din that the good people of Kharzán, a
quarter of a mile away, must have turned uneasily in their slumbers,
and wondered whether an army of fiends had not broken loose. Towards 1
a.m. the noise ceased, and we were just dropping to sleep, when, at
about half-past two in the morning, our drunken friends, headed by the
lady, burst into our apartment, with the information, in bad Russian,
that a gang of fifty men sent that morning to clear a path through
the deep snow had just returned, and the road to Mazreh was now
practicable. The caravans would be starting in an hour, they
added. "And you'd better travel with them," joined in the lady,
contemptuously, "or you will be sure to get into trouble by
yourselves." A reply more forcible than polite from Gerôme then
cleared the apartment; and, rekindling the now expiring embers, we
prepared for the road.
We set out at dawn for the gate of the village, where the caravans
were to assemble. It was still freezing hard, and the narrow streets
like sheets of solid ice, so that our horses kept their legs with
difficulty. We must have numbered fifty or sixty camels, and as many
mules and horses, all heavily laden.
Daybreak disclosed a weird, beautiful scene: a sea of snow, over which
the rising sun threw countless effects of light and colour, from the
cold slate grey immediately around us, gradually lightening to the
faintest tints of rose and gold on the eastern horizon, where stars
were paling in a cloudless sky. Portrayed on canvas, the picture would
have looked unnatural, so brilliant were the hues thrown by the rising
sun over the land-, or rather snow-scape. The cold, though intense,
was not unbearable, for there was fortunately no wind, and the spirits
rose with the crisp, bracing air, brilliant sunshine, and jangle of
caravan bells, as one realized that Teherán was now well within reach,
and the dreaded Kharzán a thing of the past. Gerôme gave vent to his
feelings with a succession of roulades and operatic airs; for my
little friend had a very good opinion of his vocal powers, which I,
unfortunately, did not share. But he was a cheery, indefatigable
creature, and of indomitable pluck, and one gladly forgave him this,
his only failing.
It was terribly hard work all that morning, and Gerôme had four, I
three, falls, on one occasion wrenching my right ankle badly. Some
of the drifts through which we rode must have been at least ten or
fifteen feet deep. Some tough faggots thrown over these afforded a
footing, or we should never have got over. Towards midday Mazreh
was sighted; and we pushed on ahead, leaving the caravan to its own
devices. The going was now better, and it was soon far behind us, the
only object visible from the low hills which we now ascended, the
camels and mules looking, from this distance, like flies crawling over
a huge white sheet.
Lunch at Mazreh consisted of damp, mouldy bread, and some sweet,
sickly liquid the postmaster called tea. Procuring fresh horses
without difficulty, we set out about 3 p.m. for Kazvin. It was not
till 10 p.m. that we were riding through the great gate of that city,
which the soldier on guard consented, with some demur, to open.
Kazvin boasts a hotel and a boulevard! The latter is lit by a dozen
oil-lamps; the former, though a palatial building of brick, with
verandahs and good rooms, is left to darkness and the rats in the
absence of travellers. Having groped our way for half an hour or so
about a labyrinth of dark, narrow streets, we presently emerged on the
dimly lit boulevard (three of the oil-lamps had gone out), and rode
up to the melancholy looking hostelry at the end. Failing to obtain
admission, we burst open the door, and made ourselves as comfortable
as circumstances would allow. Food was out of the question; drink,
saving some villainous raki of Gerôme's, also; but there was plenty
of firewood, and we soon had a good fire in the grate. This hotel
was originally built by the Shah for the convenience of himself
and ministers when on his way to Europe. It is only on these rare
occasions that the barn-like building is put in order. Visions of
former luxury were still visible in our bedroom in the shape of a
bedstead, toilet-table, and looking-glass. "But we can't eat _them_!"
said Gerôme, mournfully.
Kazvin, which now has a population of 30,000, has seen better days. It
was once capital of Persia, with 120,000 inhabitants. Strolling out in
the morning before breakfast, I found it well and regularly built, and
surrounded by a mud wall, with several gates of beautiful mosaic, now
much chipped and defaced.
Being the junction of the roads from Tabriz on the west, and Résht on
the north to the capital, is now Kazvin's sole importance. The road to
Teherán was made some years ago at enormous expense by the Shah; but
it has now, in true Persian style, been left to fall into decay. It is
only in the finest and driest weather that the journey can be made on
wheels, and this was naturally out of the question for us. A
railway was mooted some time since along this, the only respectable
carriage-road in Persia--but the project was soon abandoned.
The post-houses, however, are a great improvement on any in other
parts of the country. At Kishlak, for instance, we found a substantial
brick building with a large guest-room, down the centre of which ran
a long table with spotless table-cloth, spread out with plates
of biscuits, apples, nuts, pears, dried fruits, and sweetmeats,
beautifully decorated with gold and silver paper, and at intervals
decanters of water--rather cold fare with the thermometer at a few
degrees above zero. The fruits and biscuits were shrivelled and
tasteless, having evidently been there some months. It reminded me of
a children's doll dinner-party. With the exception of these Barmecide
feasts and some straw-flavoured eggs, there was nothing substantial to
be got in any of the post-houses till we reached our destination.
About four o'clock on the 27th we first sighted the white peak of
Mount Demavend, and by three o'clock next day were within sight of the
dingy brown walls, mud houses, and white minarets of the city of the
Shah--Teherán.
[Footnote A: Both have since met violent deaths. Captain Gill was
murdered by natives with Professor Palmer near Suez, and Captain
Clayton killed while playing polo in India.]