SHIRÁZ--BUSHIRE.
"The gardens of pleasure where reddens the rose,
And the scent of the cedar is faint on the air."
OWEN MEREDITH.
Shiráz stands in a plain twenty-five miles long by twelve broad,
surrounded by steep and bare limestone mountains. The latter alone
recall the desert waste beyond; for the Plain of Shiráz is fertile,
well cultivated, and dotted over with prosperous-looking villages
and gardens. Scarcely a foot of ground is wasted by the industrious
inhabitants of this happy valley, save round the shores of the
Denia-el-Memek, a huge salt lake some miles distant, where the
sun-baked, briny soil renders cultivation of any kind impossible.
Were it not for its surroundings--the green and smiling plains
of wheat, barley, and Indian corn; the clusters of pretty sunlit
villages; the long cypress-avenues; and last, but not least, the quiet
shady gardens, with rose and jasmine bowers, and marble fountains
which have been famous from time immemorial--Shiráz would not be what
it now is, the most picturesque city in Persia.
Although over four miles in circumference, the city itself has a
squalid, shabby appearance, not improved by the dilapidated ramparts
of dried mud which surround it. Founded A.D. 695, Shiráz reached its
zenith under Kerim Khan in the middle of the eighteenth century, since
when it has slowly but steadily declined to its present condition. The
buildings themselves are evidence of the apathy reigning among the
Shirázis. Incessant earthquakes destroy whole streets of houses, but
no one takes the trouble to rebuild them, and the population was once
nearly double what it now is--40,000.
There are six gates, five of which are gradually crumbling away.
The sixth, or Ispahán Gate, is the only one with any attempt at
architecture, and is crenellated and ornamented with blue and yellow
tile-work. A mean, poor-looking bazaar, narrow tortuous streets,
knee-deep in dust or mud, as the case may be, and squalid, filthy
houses, form a striking contrast to the broad, well-kept avenues,
gilded domes, and beautiful gardens which encircle the city. Shiráz
has fifteen large mosques and several smaller ones, but the people are
as fanatical as those of Teherán are the reverse. Gerôme, who had a
singular capacity for getting into mischief, entered one of these
places of worship, and was caught red-handed by an old moullah in
charge. Half the little Russian's life having been spent among
Mohammedans, he quickly recited a few verses of the Korán in perfect
Arabic, which apparently satisfied the priest, for he let him depart
with his blessing. Had the trick been discovered, he would undoubtedly
have been roughly treated, if not killed, for the Shirázis have an
unmitigated contempt for Europeans. There are few places, too, in Asia
where Jews are more persecuted than in Shiráz, although they have
their own quarter, in the lowest, most poverty-stricken part of the
town, and other privileges are granted them by the Government. Shortly
before my visit, a whole family was tortured and put to death by a mob
of infuriated Mohammedans. The latter accused them of stealing young
Moslem children, and sacrificing them at their secret ceremonies. [A]
Guilty or innocent of the charge, the assassins were left unpunished.
The climate of Shiráz is delicious, but dangerous. Though to a
new-comer the air feels dry, pure, and exhilarating, the city is
a hot-bed of disease, and has been christened the "Fever Box."
Small-pox, typhus, and typhoid are never absent, and every two or
three years an epidemic of cholera breaks out and carries off a
fearful percentage of the inhabitants. In spring-time, during heavy
rains, the plains are frequently inundated to a depth of two or three
feet, and the water, stagnating and rotting under a blazing sun,
produces towards nightfall a thick white mist, pregnant with miasma
and the dreaded Shiráz fever which has proved fatal to so many
Europeans, to say nothing of natives. Medical science is at a very low
ebb in Persia; purging and bleeding are the two remedies most resorted
to by the native hakim. If these fail, a dervish is called in, and
writes out charms, or forms of prayer, on bits of paper, which are
rolled up and swallowed like pills. Inoculation is performed by
placing the patient in the same bed as another suffering from virulent
small-pox. Under these circumstances, it is scarcely to be wondered at
that the Shirázis die like sheep during an epidemic, and indeed at all
times. Persian surgery is not much better. In cases of amputation the
limb is hacked off by repeated blows of a heavy chopper. In the case
of fingers or toes a razor is used, the wound being dipped into
boiling oil or pitch immediately after the operation.
The office of the Indo-European Telegraph is in Shiráz, but the
private dwellings of the staff are some distance outside the city. A
high wall surrounds the grounds in which the latter are situated--half
a dozen comfortable brick buildings, bungalow style, each with its
fruit and flower garden. Looking out of my bedroom window the morning
following my arrival, on the shrubberies, well-kept lawns, bright
flower-beds, and lawn-tennis nets, I could scarcely realize that this
was Persia; that I was not at home again, in some secluded part of the
country in far-away England. Long residence in the East had evidently
not changed my host Mr. F---- 's ideas as to the necessity for European
comforts. The cheerful, sunlit, chintz-covered bedroom, with its white
furniture, blue-and-white wall-paper, and lattice windows almost
hidden by rose and jasmine bushes, was a pleasant _coup d'oeil_ after
the grimy, bug-infested post-houses; and the luxuries of a good
night's rest and subsequent shave, cold tub, and clean linen were that
morning appreciated as they only can be by one who has spent many
weary days in the saddle, uncombed, unshaven, and unwashed.
There is no regular post-road between Shiráz and Bushire, or rather
Sheif, the landing-place, eight miles from the latter city. The
journey is performed by mule-caravan, resting by night at the
caravanserais. Under the guidance of Mr. F----, I therefore set about
procuring animals and "chalvadars," or muleteers. The task was not an
easy one; for Captain T---- of the Indian Army was then in Shiráz,
buying on behalf of the Government; and everything in the shape of a
mule that could stand was first brought for his inspection. By good
luck, however, I managed to get together half a dozen sorry-looking
beasts; but they suited the purpose well enough. The price of these
animals varies very much in Persia. They can be bought for as little
as £4, while the best fetch as much as £60 to £80.
Those were pleasant days at Shiráz. One never tired of wandering about
the outskirts of the city and through the quiet, shady gardens and
"cities of the silent," as the Persians call their cemeteries;
for, when the solemn stillness of the latter threatened to become
depressing, there was always the green plain, alive from morning till
night with movement and colour, to go back to. Early one morning,
awoke by the sound of a cracked trumpet and drums, I braved the dust,
and followed a Persian regiment of the line to its drill-ground.
The Persian army numbers, on a peace footing, about 35,000 men, the
reserve bringing it up to perhaps twice that number.
Experienced military men have said that material for the smartest
soldiery in the world is to be found in Persia. If so, it would surely
be the work of years to bring the untrained rabble that at present
exists under discipline or order of any kind. The regiment whose
evolutions or antics I witnessed at Shiráz was not in the dress of
the Russian cossack or German uhlan, as at Teherán, but in the simple
uniform of the Persian line--dark-blue tunic, with red piping; loose
red-striped breeches of the same colour, stuffed into ragged leather
gaiters; and bonnets of black sheepskin or brown felt (according to
the taste of the wearer), with the brass badge of the lion and sun.
All were armed with rusty flint-locks.
As regards smartness, the officers were not much better than the
men, who did not appear to take the slightest notice of the words of
command, but straggled about as they pleased, like a flock of sheep.
Some peasants beside me were looking on. "Sons of dogs!" said one;
"they are good for nothing but drunkenness and frightening women and
children." There is no love lost between the army and the people in
Persia--none of the enthusiasm of other countries when a regiment
passes by; and no wonder. The pay of a Persian soldier is, at most, £3
a year, and he may think himself lucky if he gets a quarter of that
sum. _En revanche_, the men systematically plunder and rob the
wretched inhabitants of every village passed through on the march. The
passage of troops is sometimes so dreaded that commanders of regiments
are bribed with heavy sums by the villagers to encamp outside
their walls. Troops are not the only source of anxiety to the poor
fellaheen. Princes and Government officials also travel with an
enormous following, mainly composed of hangers-on and riff-raff, who
plunder and devastate as ruthlessly as a band of Kurd or Turkoman
robbers. They are even worse than the soldiery, for the latter usually
leave the women alone. Occasionally a whole village migrates to the
mountains on the approach of the unwelcome guests, leaving houses and
fields at their mercy.
There is probably no peasantry in the world so ground down and
oppressed as the Persian. The agricultural labourer never tries to
ameliorate his condition, or save up money for his old age, for the
simple reason that, on becoming known to the rulers of the land, it is
at once taken away from him. Though poor, however (so far as cash
and valuables are concerned), the general condition of the labouring
classes is not so bad as might be supposed. In a country so vast
(550,000 square miles) and so thinly populated (5,000,000 in all), a
small and sufficient supply of food is easily raised, especially with
such prolific soil at the command of the poorest. At Shiráz, for
instance, there are two harvests in the year. The seifi, sown in
summer and reaped in autumn, consists of rice, cotton, Indian corn,
and garden produce; the tchatvi, sown in October and November, and
reaped from May till July, is exclusively wheat and barley. A quantity
of fruit is also grown--grapes, oranges, and pomegranates. Shiráz is
famed for the latter. The heat and dust, to say nothing of smells,
prevented me from often entering the city; but I walked through the
bazaar once or twice, and succeeded in purchasing some old tapestries
and a prayer-carpet. The merchants here are not so reserved and
secretive as those of Teherán and other cities, and are, moreover,
civil enough to produce coffee and a kalyan at the conclusion of a
bargain, as at Stamboul. The best tobacco for kalyan-smoking is grown
round Shiráz. Some, the coarser kind, from Kazeroon and Zulfaicar,
is exported to Turkey and Egypt, but the most delicate Shiráz
never leaves the country. The pipe is on the same principle as the
narghileh, the smoke being drawn through a vessel of water. The tube,
a wooden stalk about two feet long, is changed when it becomes tainted
with use; for the people of the East (unlike some in the West) like
their tobacco clean.
Manufactories are trifling in comparison with what they were in former
days. Where, a century since, there stood five hundred factories owned
by weavers, there are now only ten, for the supply of a coarse white
cotton material called "kerbas," and carpets of a cheap and common
kind. Earthenware and glass is also made in small quantities, the
latter only for wine-bottles and kalyan water-bowls. All the best
glass is imported from Russia. A kind of mosaic work called "khatemi,"
much used in ornamenting boxes and pen-and-ink cases, is turned out in
large quantities at Shiráz. It is pretty and effective, though some of
the illustrations on the backs of mirrors, etc., are hardly fit for a
drawing-room table. Caligraphy, or the art of writing, is also carried
by the Shirázis to the highest degree of perfection, and they are said
to be the best penmen in the East. To write really well is considered
as great an accomplishment in Persia as to be a successful musician,
painter, or sculptor in Europe; and a famous writer of the last
century, living in Shiráz, was paid as much as five tomans for every
line transcribed.
My favourite walk, after the heat of the day, was to the little
cemetery where Hafiz, the Persian poet, lies at rest--a quiet,
secluded spot, on the side of a hill, in a clump of dark cypress trees
a gap cut through which shows the drab-coloured city, with its white
minarets and gilt domes shining in the sun half a mile away. The tomb,
a huge block of solid marble, brought across the desert from Yèzd, is
covered with inscriptions--the titles of the poet's most celebrated
works. Near it is a brick building containing chambers, where bodies
are put for a year or so previous to final interment at Kermansháh
or Koom. Each corpse was in a separate room--a plain whitewashed
compartment, with a square brick edifice in the centre containing the
body. Some of the catafalques were spread with white table-cloths,
flowers, candles, fruit, and biscuits, which the friends and relations
(mostly women and children) of the defunct were discussing in anything
but a mournful manner. A visit to a departed one's grave is generally
an excuse for a picnic in Persia.
Hard by the tomb of Hafiz is a garden, one of many of the kind around
Shiráz. It is called "The Garden of the Seven Sleepers," and is much
frequented in summer by Shirázis of both sexes. A small open kiosk, in
shape something like a theatre proscenium, stands in the centre, its
outside walls completely hidden by rose and jasmine bushes. Inside
all is gold moulding, light blue, green, and vermilion. A dome of
looking-glass reflects the tesselated floor. Strangely enough, this
garish mixture of colour does not offend the eye, toned down as it is
by the everlasting twilight shed over the mimic palace and garden by
overhanging branches of cypress and yew. An expanse of smooth-shaven
lawn, white beds of lily and narcissus, marble tanks bubbling over
with clear, cold water, and gravelled paths winding in and out of the
trees to where, a hundred yards or so distant, a sunk fence divides
the garden from a piece of ground two or three acres in extent,--a
perfect jungle of trees, shrubs, and flowers.
Here, from about 4 p.m. till long after sunset, you may see the
Shirázi taking his rest, undisturbed save for the ripple of running
water, the sighing of the breeze through the branches, and croon of
the pigeons overhead. Now and again the tinkle of caravan-bells breaks
in upon his meditations, or the click-click of the attendant's sandals
as he crosses the tiled floor with sherbet, coffee, or kalyan; but
the interruption is brief. A few moments, and silence again reigns
supreme--the perfection of rest, the acme of _Dolce far niente._ From
here my way usually lay homewards, through the dusky twilight, past
the city gates and along the now deserted plain. A limestone hill to
the south of Shiráz bears an extraordinary resemblance to the head of
a man in profile. Towards sunset the likeness was startling, and the
nose, chin, and mouth as delicately formed as if chiselled by the
tools of a sculptor. On fine, still evenings, parties of people would
sometimes sit out on the plain till long after dark, conversing,
eating sweetmeats, and tea-drinking, till the stars appeared, and the
white fever mist, gathering round the ramparts, hid the city from
view. Shiráz has been called the "Paris of Persia," from the cheerful,
sociable character of its people as compared with other Persian
cities; also, perhaps, partly from the beauty and coquetry (to use no
other term) of its women.
I was enabled, thanks to my host, to glean some interesting facts
concerning the latter, many European ladies having, from time to
time, resided in Shiráz, and, obtaining access to the "anderoon," had
afterwards given Mr. F---- the benefit of their observations.
Persian women are unquestionably allowed more freedom and liberty
than those of other Oriental countries. It is extremely rare, in the
bazaars of Stamboul or Cairo, to see a lady of the harem unattended,
but the sight is common enough in Shiráz and Ispahán. Infidelity in
Persia is therefore more common in proportion to the licence allowed;
though, when discovered, it is severely punished, in some cases by
death. Though a few are highly educated, the majority of Persian women
are ignorant, indolent, and sensual. _Mariages de convenance_ are as
common as in France, and have a good deal to do with the immorality
and intrigue that go on in the larger cities.
An eye-witness thus describes an "anderoon," or harem, of a prince in
Ispahán: "A large courtyard some thirty yards by ten in extent. All
down the centre is the 'hauz,' or tank--a raised piece of ornamental
water, the surface of which is about two feet above the ground. The
edges are formed of huge blocks of well-wrought stone, so accurately
levelled that the 'hauz' overflows all round its brink, making a
pleasant sound of running water. Goldfish of large size flash in
shoals in the clear tank. On either side of it are long rectangular
flower-beds, sunk six inches below the surface of the court. This
pavement, which consists of what we should call pantiles, is clean
and perfect, and freshly sprinkled; and the sprinkling and consequent
evaporation make a grateful coolness. In the flower-beds are irregular
clumps of marvel of Peru, some three feet high, of varied coloured
blossom, coming up irregularly in wild luxuriance. The moss-rose, too,
is conspicuous, with its heavy odour; while the edging, a foot wide,
is formed by thousands of bulbs of the _Narcissus poeticus_, massed
together like packed figs; these, too, give out a pleasant perfume.
But what strikes one most is the air of perfect repair and cleanliness
of everything. No grimy walls, no soiled curtains, here; all is clean
as a new pin, all is spick and span. The courtyard is shaded by orange
trees covered with bloom, and the heavy odour of neroli pervades the
place. Many of the last year's fruit have been left upon the trees for
ornament, and hang in bright yellow clusters out of reach. A couple of
widgeon sport upon the tank. All round the courtyard are rooms, the
doors and windows of which are jealously closed, but as we pass we
hear whispered conversations behind them, and titters of suppressed
merriment."
"The interior resembles the halls of the Alhambra. A priceless carpet,
surrounded by felt edgings, two inches thick and a yard wide, appears
like a lovely but subdued picture artfully set in a sombre frame. In
the recesses of the walls are many bouquets in vases. The one great
window--a miracle of intricate carpentry, some twenty feet by
twenty--blazes with a geometrical pattern of tiny pieces of glass,
forming one gorgeous mosaic. Three of the sashes of this window
are thrown up to admit air; the coloured glass of the top and four
remaining sashes effectually shuts out excess of light."
Such is the _coup d'oeil_ on entering an anderoon. With such
surroundings, one would expect to find refined, if not beautiful
women; but, though the latter are rare enough, the former are even
rarer in Persia. The Persian woman is a grown-up child, and a very
vicious one to boot. Her daily life, indeed, is not calculated to
improve the health of either mind or body. Most of the time is spent
in dressing and undressing, trying on clothes, painting her face,
sucking sweetmeats, and smoking cigarettes till her complexion is as
yellow as a guinea. Intellectual occupation or amusement of any kind
is unknown in the anderoon, and the obscene conversation and habits of
its inmates worse even than those of the harems of Constantinople and
Cairo, which, according to all accounts, is saying a good deal. A love
of cruelty, too, is shown in the Persian woman; when an execution or
brutal spectacle of any kind takes place, one-third at least of the
spectators is sure to consist of women. But this is, perhaps, not
peculiar to Persia; witness a recent criminal trial at the Old Bailey.
It will thus be seen that sensuality is the prevalent vice of the
female sex in Persia. An English-speaking Persian at Bushire told me
that, with the exception of the women of the wandering Eeliaut tribes,
there were few chaste wives in Persia. Although the nominal punishment
for adultery is death, the law, as it stands at present, is little
else than a dead letter, and, as in some more civilized countries,
husbands who are fond of intrigue, do not scruple to allow their wives
a similar liberty. Not half an hour's walk from the Tomb of Hafiz, at
the summit of the mountain, is a deep well, so deep that no one has
ever yet succeeded in sounding it. The origin of the chasm is unknown;
some say it is an extinct volcano. But the smallest child in Shiráz
knows the use to which it has been put from time immemorial. It is the
grave of adulterous women--the Well of Death.
An execution took place about fifteen years ago, but there have been
none since. Proved guilty of infidelity, the wretched woman, dressed
in a long white gown, was placed on a donkey, her face to the tail,
with shaven head and bared face. In front of the _cortége_ marched
the executioner, musicians, dancers, and abandoned women of the town.
Arrived at the summit of the mountain, the victim, half dead with
fright, was lifted off and carried to the edge of the yawning abyss
which had entombed so many faithless wives before her. "There is but
one God, and Mohammed is His Prophet," cried a moullah, while
the red-robed executioner, with one spurn of his foot, sent the
unconscious wretch toppling over the brink, the awe-stricken crowd
peering over, watching the white wisp disappear into eternity.
Although the last execution is still fresh in the minds of many, the
Well has no terrors for the gay, intrigue-loving ladies of Shiráz.
They make a jest of it, and their husbands jokingly threaten them with
it. Times are changed indeed in Persia!
I left Shiráz with sincere regret. Apart from the interest attached to
the place, I have never received a kinder or more hospitable welcome
than from the little band of Englishmen who watch over the safety, and
work the wires, of the Indo-European telegraph. They are under a dozen
in number. With cheap horseflesh, capital shooting, the latest books
and papers from India, a good billiard-room and lawn-tennis ground,
time never hangs very heavily. Living is absurdly cheap. A bachelor
can do well on £6 a month, including servants. He has, of course, no
house-rent to pay.
A number of square stone towers about thirty feet high, loopholed and
crenelated, are visible from the caravan-track between Shiráz and
Khaneh Zinián, where we rested the first night. The towers are
apparently of great antiquity, and must formerly have served for
purposes of defence. We lunched at the foot of one on a breezy upland,
with pink and white heather growing freely around, and a brawling,
tumbling mountain stream at our feet. It was like a bit of Scotland
or North Wales. The tower was in a state of decay and roofless, but a
wandering tribe of ragged Eeliauts had taken up their quarters
inside, and watched us suspiciously through the grey smoke of a damp,
spluttering peat fire. They are a queer race, these Eeliauts, [B] and
have little or nothing in common with the other natives. The sight of
a well-filled lunch-basket and flasks of wine (which our kind hosts
had insisted on our taking) would have brought ordinary gipsies out
like flies round a honey-pot, if recollections of Epsom or Henley go
for anything. Not so the Eeliauts, who, stranger still, never even
begged for a sheis--a self-control I rewarded by presenting the
chief, a swarthy handsome fellow, in picturesque rags of bright
colour, with a couple of keráns. But he never even thanked me!
It seemed, next morning, as if we had jumped, in a night, from early
spring into midsummer. Although at daybreak the ice was thick on a
pool outside the caravanserai, the sun by midday was so strong, and
the heat so excessive, that we could scarcely get the mules along.
The road lies through splendid scenery. Passing Dashti Arjin, or "The
Plain of Wild Almonds," a kind of plateau to which the ascent is
steep and difficult, one might have been in Switzerland or the Tyrol.
Undulating, densely wooded hills, with a background of steep limestone
cliffs, their sharp peaks, just tipped with snow, standing out crisp
and clear against the cloudless sky, formed a fitting frame to the
lovely picture before us; the pretty village, trees blossoming on all
sides, fresh green pastures overgrown in places by masses of fern and
wild flowers, and the white foaming waterfall dashing down the side of
the mountain, to lose itself in the blue waters of a huge lake just
visible in the plains below. The neighbourhood of the latter teems
with game of all kinds--leopard, gazelle, and wild boar, partridge,
duck, snipe, and quail, the latter in thousands.
A stiff climb of four hours over the Kotal Perizun brought us to the
caravanserai of Meyun Kotal. Over this pass, ten miles in length,
there is no path; one must find one's way as best one can through the
huge rocks and boulders. Some of the latter were two to three feet
in height. How the mules managed will ever be a mystery to me. We
dismounted, leaving, by the chalvadar's request, our animals to look
after themselves. The summit of the mountain is under two thousand
feet. We reached it at four o'clock, and saw, to our relief, our
resting-place for the night only three or four hundred feet below us.
But it took nearly an hour to do even this short distance. The passage
of the Kotal Perizun with a large caravan must be terrible work.
[Illustration: THE CARAVANSERAI, MEYUN KOTAL]
The caravanserai was crowded. Two large caravans had arrived that
morning, and a third was hourly expected from Bushire. There was
barely standing-room in the courtyard, which was crowded with
wild-looking men, armed to the teeth, gaily caparisoned mules, and
bales of merchandise.
The caravanserai at Meyun Kotal is one of the finest in Persia. It was
built by Shah Abbas, and is entirely of stone and marble. Surrounded
by walls of enormous thickness, the building is in the shape of a
square. Around the latter are seventy or eighty deep arches for the
use of travellers. At the back of each is a little doorway, about
three feet by three, leading into a dark, windowless stone chamber,
unfurnished, smoke-blackened, and dirty, but dry and weather-proof.
Any one may occupy these. Should the beggar arrive first, the prince
is left out in the cold, and _vice versâ_. Everybody, however, is
satisfied as a rule, for there is nearly as much accommodation for
guests as in a large London or Paris hotel. Behind the sleeping-rooms
is stabling for five or six hundred horses, and, in the centre of the
courtyard, a huge marble tank of pure running water for drinking and
washing purposes. This, and fodder for the horses, is all that there
was to be got in the way of refreshment. But Gerôme, with considerable
forethought, had purchased bread, a fowl, and some eggs on the road,
and, our room swept out and candles lit, we were soon sitting down
to a comfortable meal, with a hissing samovar, the property of the
caravanserai-keeper, between us.
One need sleep soundly to sleep well in a caravanserai. At sunset the
mules, with loud clashing of bells, are driven into the yard from
pasture, and tethered till one or two in the morning, when a start
is made, and sleep is out of the question. In the interim, singing,
talking, story-telling, occasionally quarrelling and fighting, go on
all round the yard till nearly midnight. Tired out with the stiff
climb, I fell into a delicious slumber, notwithstanding the noise,
about nine o'clock, to be awakened shortly after by a soft, cold
substance falling heavily, with a splash, upon my face. Striking a
match, I discovered a large bat which the smoke from our fire (there
was no chimney) had evidently detached from the rafters.
I purchased, the next morning before starting, a Persian dagger
belonging to one of the caravan-men. He was one of the Bakhtiari,
a wild and lawless tribe inhabiting a tract of country (as yet
unexplored by Europeans) on the borders of Persia and Asia Minor. The
blade of the dagger is purest Damascene work, the handle of fossilized
ivory. On the back of the blade is engraved, in letters of inlaid
gold, in Arabic characters--
"There is one God! He is Eternal!"
"Victory is nigh, O true believer!"
Connoisseurs say that the dagger is over a hundred years old. After
quite an hour's haggling (during which our departure was delayed, much
to Gerôme's disgust), I managed to secure it for £9 English money,
although the Bakhtiari assured me that he had already sworn "by his
two wives" never to part with it. I have since been offered four times
the amount by a good judge of Eastern weapons.
A second pass, the Kotal Doktar, lay between us and Bushire. Though
steep and slippery in places, the path is well protected, and there
are no boulders to bar the way. On leaving the caravanserai, we paused
to examine the second longest telegraph wire (without support) in the
world. It is laid from summit to summit of two hills, and spans a
valley over a mile in width. [C]
The country round Meyun Kotal is well cultivated, and we passed not
only men, but women, ploughing with the odd-shaped primitive wooden
ploughs peculiar to these parts. Near the foot of the pass some
children were gathering and collecting acorns, which are here eaten in
the form of a kind of bread by the peasantry. Seldom has Nature seemed
more beautiful than on that bright cloudless morning, as we rode
through sweet-scented uplands of beans and clover, meadows of deep
rich grass. By the track bloomed wild flowers, violets and narcissus,
shedding their fresh delicate perfume. The song of birds and hum of
insects filled the air, bright butterflies flashed across our path,
while the soft distant notes of a cuckoo recalled shady country lanes
and the sunlit hay-fields of an English summer. It was like coming
from the grave, after the sterile deserts and bleak desolate plains of
Northern Persia.
There is a small square building at the northern end of the Kotal
Doktar, a mud hut, in which are stationed a guard of soldiers to be
of assistance in the event of robbery of caravans or travellers. Such
cases are not infrequent. Upon our approach, three men armed with
flint-locks and long iron pikes accosted us. "We are the escort," said
one, apparently the leader, from the bar of rusty gold braid on his
sleeve. "You cannot go on alone. It is not safe." We then learnt that
a large lion had infested the caravan-track over the pass for some
days, and had but yesterday attacked the mail and carried off one of
the mules, the native in charge only just escaping by climbing a tree.
Persian travel is full of these little surprises or rather items of
news; for one must be of a very ingenuous disposition to be surprised
at anything after a journey of any length in that country. If the man
had said that an ichthyosaurus or dodo barred the way, I should have
believed him just as much. Gerôme sharing my opinion that the report
was got up for the sake of extorting a few keráns, we soon sent our
informants about their business, and calmly proceeded on our journey.
Nevertheless, the Kotal Doktar would not be a pleasant place to
encounter the "king of beasts," I thought. The pass consists simply of
a narrow pathway four feet wide, on the one side a perpendicular wall
of rock, on the other an equally sheer precipice.
"Did you come across the lion?" was Mr. J---- 's first question, as
we dismounted at the gate of his telegraph-station at Kazeroon. "I
suppose not," he added, seeing the surprise with which I greeted his
remark. "We have had three parties out from here this week, but with
no luck. I just managed to get a sight of him, and that's all. He is a
splendid beast."
Ignorance had indeed been bliss in our case, and I felt some
compunction when I remembered how disdainfully we had treated the
ragged sergeant and his men. They would have been of no use, except
in the way of stop-gaps, like the babies, in cheap prints, that the
Russian traveller in the sleigh throws to the wolves to occupy their
attention while he urges on his mad career, a pistol in each hand and
the reins in his mouth. Still, even for this purpose, they might have
been useful, and were certainly worth a few keráns. I was glad not to
learn the truth till we reached Kazeroon. The enjoyment of the meal of
which we partook at the summit of the pass would have been somewhat
damped by the feeling that at any moment a loud roar, bursting out of
the silent fastnesses of the Kotal Doktar, might announce the approach
of its grim tenant.
There was, after all, nothing very remarkable about the occurrence,
for the southern parts of Persia are infested with wild animals of
many kinds. Of this I was already aware, but not that lions were among
the number.
Kazeroon is, next to Shiráz, the most important place in the province
of Fars, and has a population of about 6000. Surrounded by fields of
tobacco and maize, it is neatly laid out, and presents a cheerful
appearance, the buildings being of white stone, instead of the
everlasting baked mud and clay. Many of the courtyards were
surrounded by date palms, and the people seemed more civilized and
prosperous-looking than those in the villages north of Shiráz.
"So you refused the escort over the Kotal?" said J--that evening, as
we sat over our coffee and cigars in his little stone courtyard, white
and cool in the moonlight, adding, with a laugh, "Well, I don't blame
you. A good story was told me the other day in Shiráz _àpropos_ of
escorts. It happened not long ago to an Englishman who was going to
Bagdad from Kermansháh through a nasty bit of country. A good many
robberies with violence had occurred, and the Governor of Kermansháh
insisted on providing him with an escort, at the same time arranging
for a Turkish escort to meet him on the frontier and take him on to
Bagdad."
"You have seen the ordinary cavalry soldier of this country. There
were twelve of them and a sergeant. V---- was the only European. All
went well till they reached a small hamlet near Zarna, about twenty
miles from the Turkish border. It was midday. V---- was quietly
breakfasting in his tent, the horses picketed, the men smoking or
asleep. Suddenly the sound of firing was heard about a mile off, not
sharp and loud, but slow and desultory, like the pop, pop, pop of a
rifle or revolver. V---- was not in the least alarmed, but, the firing
continuing for some time, he thought well at last to inquire into the
matter. What was his surprise, on emerging from his tent, to find
himself alone, not a trace of his companions to be seen. There were
the picket-ropes, a smouldering fire, a kalyan, and the remains of a
pilaff on the ground, but no men. The firing had done it. One and all
had turned tail and fled. The position was not pleasant, for V---- was
naturally absolutely ignorant of the road. 'They will come back,' he
thought, and patiently waited. But sunset came, then night, then the
stars, and still V---- was alone, utterly helpless and unable to move
backwards or forwards. At sunrise a head was shoved into his tent. But
it had a red fez on, not an astrakhan bonnet. It was one of the Bagdad
escort. The Turks laughed heartily when they heard the story. 'It must
have been us,' they said; 'we had nothing to do, and were practising
with our revolvers.' In the mean time the Persians returned post haste
to Kermansháh, and evinced great surprise that V---- was not with
them."
"'He was the first to fly,' said the sergeant. 'I am afraid he must
have lost his way, and fallen into the hands of the robbers. If so,
God help him. There were more than fifty of them.'"
"J---- 's anecdote was followed by many others, coffee was succeeded
by cognac and seltzer, Gerôme gave us some startling Central Asian
experiences, and we talked over men and things Persian far into the
night, or rather morning, for it was nearly 2 a.m. when I retired to
rest."
"I hope you'll sleep well," said J----, as he led the way to a
comfortable bedroom looking out on to the needle-like peaks of the
Kotal Doktar, gleaming white in the moonlight. "By the way, I forgot
to tell you we usually have an earthquake about sunrise, but don't let
it disturb you. The shocks have been very slight lately, and it's sure
not to last long," added my host, as he calmly closed the door, and
left me to my slumbers.
I am not particularly nervous, but to be suddenly aroused from sleep
by a loud crash, as if the house were falling about one's ears; to
see, in the grey dawn, brick walls bending to and fro like reeds,
floors heaving like the deck of a ship, windows rattling, doors
banging, with an accompaniment of women and children screaming as if
the end of the world had arrived, is calculated to give the boldest
man a little anxiety. I must at any rate own to feeling a good deal
when, about 6 a.m. the following morning, the above phenomena took
place. As prophesied, "it" did not last long--eight or ten seconds at
most, which seemed to me an hour. Not the least unpleasant sensation
was a low, rumbling noise, like distant thunder, that accompanied the
shock. It seemed to come from the very bowels of the earth.
"We have them every day," said J---- at breakfast, placidly, "but
one soon gets used to them." My host was obliged to acknowledge
reluctantly that this morning's shock was "a little sharper than
usual"! It was sharp enough, Gerôme afterwards told me, to send all
the people of Kazeroon running out of their houses into the street.
Common as the "Zil-Zillah" [D] is in these parts, the natives are
terrified whenever a shock occurs. The great Shiráz earthquake some
years ago, when over a thousand lost their lives, is still fresh in
their minds.
An easy ride, through a pretty and fertile country, brought us to
the telegraph-station of Konar Takta, where Mr. E----, the clerk in
charge, had prepared a sumptuous breakfast. But we were not destined
to enjoy it. They had, said Mr. E----, experienced no less than nine
severe shocks of earthquake the night before, one of which had rent
the wall of his house from top to bottom. His wife and children were
living in a tent in the garden, and most of the inhabitants of the
village had deserted their mud huts, and rigged up temporary shanties
of palm leaves in the road. "We will have breakfast, anyhow," continued
our host. "You must be hungry"--leading the way into the dining-room,
where a long, deep crack in the whitewashed wall showed traces of
last night's disaster.
The latter had, apparently, considerably upset my host, who,
throughout the meal, kept continually rising and walking to the open
window and back again, in an evidently uneasy state of mind; so much
so that I was about to propose an adjournment to the garden, when a
diversion was created by the entrance of a servant with a dish of
"Sklitch," which he had no sooner placed on the table, than he rapidly
withdrew. Sklitch is peculiar to this part of Persia. It is made of a
kind of moss gathered on the mountains, mixed with cream and dates,
and, iced, is delicious. But scarcely had I raised the first mouthful
to my lips when my host leapt out of his seat. "There it is again," he
cried. "Run!" and with a bound disappeared through the window. Before
I could reach it the floor was rocking so that I could scarcely keep
my feet, and I was scarcely prepared for the drop of nine feet that
landed me on to the flower-beds. The shock lasted quite ten seconds.
Every moment I expected to see the house fall bodily over. I left poor
E---- busily engaged in removing his instruments into the garden.
"Another night like the last would turn my hair grey," he said, as we
bade him good-bye. Truly the lot of a Persian telegraph official is
not always a bed of roses.
A gradual descent of over two thousand feet leads from Konar Takta
to the village of Dalaki, which is situated on a vast plain, partly
cultivated, the southern extremity of which is washed by the waters of
the Persian Gulf. There is a comfortable rest-house at this village,
the population of which is noted as being the most fierce and lawless
in Southern Persia. Rest, though undisturbed by earthquakes, was,
however, almost out of the question, on account of a most abominable
stench of drainage, which came on at sunset and lasted throughout the
night. So overpowering was it that towards 3 a.m. both Gerôme and
myself were attacked by severe vomiting, and recurrence was had to the
medicine-chest and large doses of brandy. One might have been sleeping
over an open drain. It was not till next day that I discovered the
cause--rotten naphtha, which springs in large quantities from the
ground all round the village. Curiously enough, the smell is not
observable in the daytime.
"We have done with the snow now, monsieur," said Gerôme, as we rode
next morning through a land of green barley and cotton plains, date
palms, and mimosa. On the other hand, we had come in for other
annoyances, in the shape of heat, dust, and swarms of flies and
mosquitoes. Nearing the sea, vegetation entirely ceases. Nothing is
visible around but hard calcined plain, brown and level, lost on the
horizon seaward in a series of mirages, ending northward in a chain
of rocky, precipitous mountains. The bright, clear atmosphere was
remarkable; objects thirty or forty miles off looking but a mile or
so away. About midday an unusual sight appeared on the horizon--two
Europeans, a lady and gentleman, mounted on donkeys, and attended by
a chalvadar on a third, who apparently carried all the baggage of
the party. Halting for a few moments, and waiving introduction,
we exchanged a few words. Mr. and Mrs. D---- were on their way to
Teherán, with the object of making scientific researches at Persepolis
and other parts of Persia. I could not help admiring the courage of
the lady, though regretting, at the same time, the task she had set
herself. To inquiries of "How is the road?" I replied, "Very good,"
May the lie be forgiven me! It was told for a humane purpose.
Save a large herd of gazelle on the far horizon, nothing occurred to
break the monotony of the journey through deep heavy sand till about 4
p.m., when a thin thread of dark blue, cutting the yellow desert and
lighter sky-line, appeared before us. It was the Persian Gulf. An hour
later, and Sheif, the landing-place for Bushire, was reached.
A trim steam-launch, with Union Jack floating over her stern, awaited
us. She was sent by Colonel Ross, British Resident at Bushire, who
kindly invited me to the Residence during my stay in the Persian port.
I was not sorry, after the hot, dusty ride, to throw myself at length
on the soft, luxurious cushion, and, after an excellent luncheon, to
peruse the latest English papers. Skimming swiftly through the bright
blue waters, we neared the white city, not sorry to have successfully
accomplished the voyage so far, yet aware that the hardest part of the
journey to India was yet to come.
At a distance, and seen from the harbour, Bushire is not unlike Cadiz.
Its Moorish buildings, the whiteness of its houses and blueness of
the sea, give it, on a fine day, a picturesque and taking appearance,
speedily dissipated, how ever, on closer acquaintance; for Bushire is
indescribably filthy. The streets are mere alleys seven or eight feet
broad, knee-deep in dust or mud, and as irregular and puzzling to a
stranger as the maze at Hampton Court.
The Persian port is cool and pleasant enough in winter-time, but in
summer the stench from open drains and cesspools becomes unbearable,
and Europeans (of whom there are thirty or forty) remove _en masse_ to
Sabsabad, a country place eight or ten miles off. The natives, in
the mean time, live as best they can, and epidemics of cholera and
diphtheria are of yearly occurrence. The water of Bushire producing
guinea-worms (an animal that, unless rolled out of the skin with great
care, breaks, rots, and forms a festering sore), supplies of it are
brought in barrels from Bussorah or Mahommerah; but this is not within
reach of the poorer class. Nearly every third person met in the street
suffers from ophthalmia in some shape or other--the effect of the dust
and glare, for there is no shade in or about the city.
The latter is built at the end of a peninsula ten miles in length and
three in breadth, the portion furthest away from the town being swampy
and overflowed by the sea. Most of the houses are of soft crumbling
stone full of shells; some, of brick and plastered mud; but all are
whitewashed, which gives the place the spurious look of cleanliness
to which I have referred. The inhabitants of this "whited sepulchre"
number from 25,000 to 30,000. There is a considerable trade in
tobacco, attar of roses, shawls, cotton wool, etc.; but vessels
drawing over ten feet cannot approach the town nearer than a distance
of three miles--a great drawback in rough or squally weather.
Were it five thousand miles away, Bushire could scarcely be less like
Persia than it is. It has but one characteristic in common with other
cities--its ruins. Although of no antiquity, Bushire is rich in these.
With this exception, it much more resembles a Moorish or Turkish city.
The native population, largely mixed with Arabs, carries out the
illusion, and bright-coloured garments, white "bournouses," and green
turbans throng the streets, in striking contrast to the sombre,
rook-like garments affected by the natives of Iran. A stranger, too,
is struck by the difference in the mode of life adopted by Europeans
as compared with those inhabiting other parts of the Shah's dominions.
The semi-French style of Teherán and Shiráz is here superseded by
the Anglo-Indian. _Déjeuner à la fourchette, vin ordinaire_, and
cigarettes are unknown in this land of tiffins, pegs, and cheroots.
My recollections of Bushire are pleasant ones. The Residency is a
large, rambling building, all verandahs, passages, and courtyards,
faces the sea on three sides, and catches the slightest breath of air
that may be stirring in hot weather. Two or three lawn-tennis courts,
and a broad stone walk almost overhanging the waves, form a favourite
rendezvous for Europeans in the cool of the evening. From here may be
seen the Persian Navy at anchor, represented by one small gunboat, the
_Persepolis_. This toy of the Shah's was built by a German firm in
1885, and cost the Government over £30,000 sterling.
She has never moved since her arrival. Her bottom is now covered with
coral and shells, her screw stuck hard and fast, while the four steel
Krupp guns which she mounts are rusty and useless.
My preparations for Baluchistán were soon completed. The escort
furnished me by the Indian Government had been awaiting me for some
days at Sonmiani, our starting-point on the coast. A telegram from
Karachi, saying that men, camels, tents, and stores were ready, was
the signal for our departure, and on March 7 I took leave of my host
to embark on the British India Company's steamer _Purulia_, for
Baluchistán. With genuine regret did I leave my pleasant quarters at
the Residency. Enjoyable as my visit was, it had not come upon me
quite as a surprise, for the hospitality of Colonel Ross, Resident of
Bushire, is well known to travellers in Persia.
[Footnote A: A similar case happened not long ago in Southern Russia.]
[Footnote B: The Eeliauts are said to be of Arab and Kurd descent.]
[Footnote C: The longest is in Cochin China, across the river Meikong,
the distance from post to post being 2560 feet.]
[Footnote D: Earthquake.]