TEHERÁN--ISPAHÁN.
We are already some farsakhs [A] from Teherán when day breaks on the
4th of February, 1889. The start is not a propitious one. Hardly have
we cleared the Ispahán gate than down comes the Shagird's horse as
if he were shot, breaking his girths and rider's thumb at the same
moment. Luckily, we are provided with rope, and Persian saddles are
not complicated. In ten minutes we are off again; but it is terribly
hard going, and all one can do to keep the horses on their legs.
Towards midday the sun slightly thaws the surface of the frozen snow,
and makes matters still worse. Up till now the pace has not been
exhilarating. Two or three miles an hour at most. It will take some
time to reach India at this rate!
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. Gerôme 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 Teherán. 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 Gerôme 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
Gerôme 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!"
Ispahán is about seventy farsakhs distant from Teherán. 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 Ispahán, 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 Pitché, the midday station, no horses were to be had; so,
notwithstanding that deep snow-drifts lay between us and Kushku Baïra,
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 Baïra 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 Gerôme. "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 Ispahán. 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 Shiráz, 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 Meshéd 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, Imám 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, Teherán--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 Pasingán, 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
Ispahán 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 Pasingán 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 Gerôme'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 Pasingán. 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 Pasingán. 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 Kashán, I might have marvelled even more at this sudden
and welcome change of climate.
The guest-chamber at Pasingán 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 kerán
at Sin-Sin, however, soon consoled our guide. He probably never
returned to Pasingán at all, but sought his fortunes elsewhere.
Persian post-boys are not particular.
Kashán is distant about fifty-two English miles from Pasingán, 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.
Kashán was reached on the 7th of February. At Nasirabád, 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 keráns among
them, in return for which they brought us large water-melons (for
which Nasirabád is celebrated), deliciously flavoured, and as cold as
ice.
Kashán, 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.
Kashán 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 Kashán, 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 Kashán is closely allied to that of Ispahán. 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 Gerôme'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 Kharzán, anyhow," said Gerôme, cheerfully, as
we rode out of Kashán 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 Ispahán; but, once past
the Khurood Pass (which lies about seven farsakhs from Kashán), 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 Kashán 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 Kashán. 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 Kashán, 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 Kashán--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
Ispahán. Notwithstanding Gerôme'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 Gerôme 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. Gerôme 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 Ispahán, and cost,
the Persian told us, about sixpence a quart bottle, and was, in my
opinion, dear at that. Shiráz 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 Gerôme.
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. Gerôme 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 Gerôme'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 Ispahán.
It was dusk, and we had just secured the only horses available, when
two Armenians, bound for Teherán, 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 Gerôme, 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 Teherán and Ispahán. 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
Ispahán), 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 Shiráz) consisted simply of a glass of
cold water with a lump of sugar in it--_eau sucré_, 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 Ispahán nearly ten days. Yesterday the prince's party had been
exceptionally lucky, and had had splendid sport. We passed, on the
road to Géz, 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 Teherán. His Imperial Majesty is
very tetchy on this point.
We galloped nearly the whole of the short stage from Géz to Ispahán.
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
bebés--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 Ispahán, 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 Korán. 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: Kashán 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_.]