MOUNT ARARAT AND KOORDISTAN.
The shades of evening are beginning to settle down over the wild mountainous
country round about. It is growing uncomfortably chilly for this early
in the evening, and the prospects look favorable for a supperless and
most disagreeable night, when I descry a village perched in an opening
among the mountains a mile or thereabouts off to the right. Repairing
thither, I find it to be a Koordish village, where the hovels are more
excavations than buildings; buffaloes, horses, goats, chickens, and human
beings all find shelter under the same roof; their respective quarters
are nothing but a mere railing of rough poles, and as the question of
ventilation is never even thought of, the effect upon one's olfactory
nerves upon entering is anything but reassuring. The filth and rags of
these people is something abominable; on account of the chilliness of
the evening they have donned their heavier raiment; these have evidently
had rags patched on. top of other rags for years past until they have
gradually developed into thick-quilted garments, in the innumerable
seams of which the most disgusting entomological specimens, bred and
engendered by their wretched mode of existence, live and perpetuate their
kind. However, repulsive as the outlook most assuredly is, I have no
alternative but to cast my lot among them till morning. I am conducted
into the Sheikh's apartment, a small room partitioned off with a pole
from a stable-full of horses and buffaloes, and where darkness is made
visible by the sickly glimmer of a grease lamp. The Sheikh, a thin,
sallow-faced man of about forty years, is reclining on a mattress in one
corner smoking cigarettes; a dozen ill-conditioned ragamuffins are
squatting about in various attitudes, while the rag, tag, and bobtail
of the population crowd into the buffalo-stable and survey me and the
bicycle from outside the partition-pole.
A circular wooden tray containing an abundance of bread, a bowl of yaort,
and a small quantity of peculiar stringy cheese that resembles chunks
of dried codfish, warped and twisted in the drying, is brought in and
placed in the middle of the floor. Everybody in the room at once gather
round it and begin eating with as little formality as so many wild
animals; the Sheikh silently motions for me to do the same. The yaort
bowl contains one solitary wooden spoon, with which they take turns at
eating mouthfuls. One is compelled to draw the line somewhere, even under
the most uncompromising circumstances, and I naturally draw it against
eating yaort with this same wooden spoon; making small scoops with pieces
of bread, I dip up yaort and eat scoop and all together. These particular
Koords seem absolutely ignorant of anything in the shape of mannerliness,
or of consideration for each other at the table. When the yaort has been
dipped into twice or thrice all round, the Sheikh coolly confiscates the
bowl, eats part of what is left, pours water into the remainder, stirs
it up with his hand, and deliberately drinks it all up; one or two others
seize all the cheese, utterly regardless of the fact that nothing remains
for myself and their companions, who, by the by, seem to regard it as a
perfectly natural proceeding.
After supper they return to their squatting attitudes around the room,
and to a resumption of their never-ceasing occupation of scratching
themselves. The eminent economist who lamented the wasted energy represented
in the wagging of all the dogs' tails in the world, ought to have travelled
through Asia on a bicycle and have been compelled to hob-nob with the
villagers; he would undoubtedly have wept with sorrow at beholding the
amount of this same wasted energy, represented by the above-mentioned
occupation of the people. The most loathsome member of this interesting
company is a wretched old hypocrite who rolls his eyes about and heaves
a deep-drawn sigh of Allah! every few minutes, and then looks furtively
at myself and the Sheikh to observe its effects; his sole garment is a
round-about mantle that reaches to his knees, and which seems to have
been manufactured out of the tattered remnants of other tattered remnants
tacked carelessly together without regard to shape, size, color, or
previous condition of cleanliness; his thin, scrawny legs are bare, his
long black hair is matted and unkempt, his beard is stubby and unlovely
to look upon, his small black eyes twinkle in the semi-darkness like
ferret's eyes, while soap and water have to all appearances been altogether
stricken from the category of his personal requirements. Probably it is
nothing but the lively workings of my own imagination, but this wretch
appears to me to entertain a decided preference for my society, constantly
insinuating himself as near me as possible, necessitating constant
watchfulness on my part to avoid actual contact with him; eternal
vigilance is in this case the price of what it is unnecessary to expatiate
upon, further than to say that self-preservation becomes, under such
conditions, preeminently the first law of Occidental nature. Soon the
sallow-faced Sheikh suddenly bethinks himself that he is in the august
presence of a hakim, and beckoning me to his side, displays an ugly wound
on his knee which has degenerated into a running sore, and which he says
was done with a sword; of course he wants me to perform a cure. While
examining the Sheikh's knee, another old party comes forward and unbares
his arm, also wounded with a sword. This not unnaturally sets me to
wondering what sort of company I have gotten into, and how they came by
sword wounds in these peaceful times; but my inquisitivencss is compelled
to remain in abeyance to my limited linguistic powers. Having nothing
to give them for the wounds, I recommend an application of warm salt
water twice a day; feeling pretty certain, however, that they will be
too lazy and trifling to follow the advice. Before dispersing to their
respective quarters, the occupants of the room range themselves in a row
and go through a religious performance lasting fully half an hour; they
make almost as much noise as howling dervishes, meanwhile exercising
themselves quite violently. Having made themselves holier than ever by
these exercises, some take their departure, others make up couches on
the floor with sheepskins and quilts. Thin ice covers the still pools
of water when I resume my toilsome route over the mountains at daybreak,
a raw wind coines whistling from the east, and until the sun begins to
warm things up a little, it is necessary to stop and buffet occasionally
to prevent benumbed hands. Obtaining some small lumps of wheaten dough
cooked crisp in hot grease, like unsweetened doughnuts, from a horseman
on the road, I push ahead toward the summit and then down the eastern
slope of the mountains; rounding an abutting hill about 9.30, the glorious
snow-crowned peak of Ararat suddenly bursts upon my vision; it is a good
forty leagues away, but even at this distance it dwarfs everything else
in sight. Although surrounded by giant mountain chains that traverse the
country at every conceivable angle, Ararat stands alone in its solitary
grandeur, a glistening white cone rearing its giant height proudly and
conspicuously above surrounding eminences; about mountains that are
insignificant only in comparison with the white-robed monarch that has
been a beacon-light of sacred history since sacred history has been in
existence.
Descending now toward the Alashgird Plain, a prominent theatre of action
during the war, I encounter splendid wheeling for some miles; but once
fairly down on the level, cultivated plain, the road becomes heavy with
dust. Villages dot the broad, expansive plain in every direction; conical
stacks of tezek are observable among the houses, piled high up above the
roofs, speaking of commendable forethought for the approaching cold
weather. In one of the Armenian villages I am not a little surprised at
finding a lone German; he says he prefers an agricultural life in this
country with all its disadvantages, to the hard, grinding struggle for
existence, and the compulsory military service of the Fatherland. "Here,"
he goes on to explain, "there is no foamy lager, no money, no comfort,
no amusement of any kind, but there is individual liberty, and it is
very easy making a living; therefore it is for me a better country than
Deutschland." " Everybody to their liking," I think, as I continue on
across the plain; but for a European to be living in one of these little
agricultural villages comes the nearest to being buried alive of anything
I know of. The road improves in hardness as I proceed eastward, but the
peculiar disadvantages of being a conspicuous and incomprehensible object
on a populous level plain soon becomes manifest. Seeing the bicycle
glistening in the sunlight as I ride along, horsemen come wildly galloping
from villages miles away. Some of these wonderstricken people endeavor
to pilot me along branch trails leading to their villages, but the main
caravan trail is now too easily distinguishable for any little deceptiona
of this kind to succeed. Here, on the Alashgird Plain, I first hear
myself addressed as "Hamsherri," a term which now takes the place of
Effendi for the next five hundred miles. Owing to the disgust engendered
by my unsavory quarters in the wretched Dele Baba village last night, I
have determined upon seeking the friendly shelter of a wheat-shock again
to-night, preferring the chances of being frozen out at midnight to the
entomological possibilities of village hovels. Accordingly, near sunset,
I repair to a village not far from the road, for the purpose of obtaining
something to eat before seeking out a rendezvous for the night. It turns
out to be the Koordish village of Malosman, and the people are found to
be so immeasurably superior in every particular to their kinsfolk of
Dele Baba that I forthwith cancel my determination and accept their
proffered hospitality. The Malosmanlis are comparatively clean and
comfortable; are reasonably well-dressed, seem well-to-do, and both men
and women are, on the average, handsomer than the people of any village
I have seen for days past. Almost all possess a conspicuously beautiful
set of teeth, pleasant, smiling countenances and good physique; they
also seem to have, somehow, acquired easy, agreeable manners. The secret
of the whole difference, I opine, is that, instead of being located among
the inhospitable soil of barren hills they are cultivating the productive
soil of the Alashgird Plain, and, being situated on the great Persian
caravan trail, they find a ready market for their grain in supplying the
caravans in winter. Their Sheikh is a handsome and good-natured young
fellow, sporting white clothes trimmed profusely with red braid; he
spends the evening in my company, examining the bicycle, revolver,
telescopic pencil-case, L.A.W. badge, etc., and hands me his carved
ivory case to select cigarettes from. It would have required considerable
inducements to have trusted either my L.A.W. badge or the Smith &
Wesson in the custody of any of our unsavory acquaintances of last night,
notwithstanding their great outward show of piety. There are no deep-drawn
sighs of Allah, nor ostentatious praying among the Malosmanlis, but they
bear the stamp of superior trustworthiness plainly on their faces and
their bearing. There appears to be far more jocularity than religion
among these prosperous villagers, a trait that probably owes its development
to their apparent security from want; it is no newly discovered trait
of human character to cease all prayers and supplications whenever the
granary is overflowing with plenty, and to commence devotional exercises
again whenever the supply runs short. This rule would hold good among
the childlike natives here, even more so than it does among our more
enlightened selves. I sally forth into the chilly atmosphere of early
morning from Maloaman, and wheel eastward over an excellent road for
some miles; an obliging native, en route to the harvest field, turns his
buffalo araba around and carts me over a bridgeless stream, but several
others have to be forded ere reaching Kirakhan, where I obtain breakfast.
Here I am required to show my teskeri to the mudir, and the zaptieh
escorting me thither becomes greatly mystified over the circumstance
that I am a Frank and yet am wearing a Mussulman head-band around my
helmet (a new one I picked up on the road); this little fact appeals to
him as something savoring of an attempt to disguise myself, and he grows
amusingly mysterious while whisperingly bringing it to the mudir's
notice. The habitual serenity and complacency of the corpulent mudir's
mind, however, is not to be unduly disturbed by trifles, and the untutored
zaptieh's disposition to attach some significant meaning to it, meets
with nothing from his more enlightened superior but the silence of
unconcern. More streams have to be forded ere I finally emerge on to
higher ground; all along the Alashgird Plain, Ararat's glistening peak
has been peeping over the mountain framework of the plain like a white
beacon-light showing above a dark rocky shore; but approaching toward
the eastern extremity of the plain, my road hugs the base of the intervening
hills and it temporarily disappears from view. In this portion of the
country, camels are frequently employed in bringing the harvest from
field to village threshing-floor; it is a curious sight to see these
awkwardly moving animals walking along beneath tremendous loads of straw,
nothing visible but their heads and legs. Sometimes the meandering course
of the Euphrates - now the eastern fork, and called the Moorad-Chai - brings
it near the mountains, and my road leads over bluffs immediately above
it; the historic river seems well supplied with trout hereabouts, I can
look down from the bluffs and observe speckled beauties sporting about
in its pellucid waters by the score. Toward noon I fool away fifteen
minutes trying to beguile one of them into swallowing a grasshopper and
a bent pin, but they are not the guileless creatures they seem to be
when surveyed from an elevated bluff, so they steadily refuse whatever
blandishments I offer. An hour later I reach the village of Daslische,
inhabited by a mixed population of Turks and Persians. At a shop kept
by one of the latter I obtain some bread and ghee (clarified butter),
some tea, and a handful of wormy raisins for dessert; for these articles,
besides building a fire especially to prepare the tea, the unconscionable
Persian charges the awful sum of two piastres (ten cents); whereupon the
Turks, who have been interested spectators of the whole nefarious
proceeding, commence to abuse him roundly for overcharging a stranger
unacquainted with the prices of the locality calling him the son of a
burnt father, and other names that tino-je unpleasantly in the Persian
ear, as though it was a matter of pounds sterling. Beyond Daslische,
Ararat again becomes visible; the country immediately around is a ravine-
riven plateau, covered with bowlders. An hour after leaving Daslische,
while climbing the eastern slope of a ravine, four rough-looking footmen
appear on the opposite side of the slope; they are following after me,
and shouting "Kardash!" These people with their old swords and pistols
conspicuously about them, always raise suspicions of brigands and evil
characters under such circumstances as these, so I continue on up the
slope without heeding their shouting until I observe two of them turn
back; I then wait, out of curiosity, to see what they really want. They
approach with broad grins of satisfaction at having overtaken me: they
have run all the way from Daslische in order to overtake me and see the
bicycle, having heard of it after I had left. I am now but a short
distance from the Russian frontier on the north, and the first Turkish
patrol is this afternoon patrolling the road; he takes a wondering
interest in my wheel, but doesn't ask the oft-repeated question, "Russ
or Ingiliz?" It is presumed that he is too familiar with the Muscovite
"phiz" to make any such question necessary.
About four o'clock I overtake a jack-booted horseman, who straightway
proceeds to try and make himself agreeable; as his flowing remarks are
mostly unintelligible, to spare him from wasting the sweetness of his
eloquence on the desert air around me, I reply, "Turkchi binmus." Instead
of checking the impetuous torrent of his remarks at hearing this, he
canters companionably alongside, and chatters more persistently than
ever. "T-u-r-k-chi b-i-n-m-u-s!" I repeat, becoming rather annoyed at
his persistent garrulousness and his refusal to understand. This has
the desired effect of reducing him to silence; but he canters doggedly
behind, and, after a space creeps up alongside again, and, pointing to
a large stone building which has now become visible at the base of a
mountain on the other side of the Euphrates, timidly ventures upon the
explanation that it is the Armenian Gregorian Monastery of Sup Ogwanis
(St. John). Finding me more favorably disposed to listen than before,
he explains that he himself is an Armenian, is acquainted with the priests
of the monastery, and is going to remain there over night; he then
proposes that I accompany him thither, and do likewise. I am, of course,
only too pleased at the prospect of experiencing something out of the
common, and gladly avail myself of the opportunity; moreover, monasteries
and religious institutions in general, have somehow always been pleasantly
associated in my thoughts as inseparable accompaniments of orderliness
and cleanliness, and I smile serenely to myself at the happy prospect
of snowy sheets, and scrupulously clean cooking.
Crossing the Euphrates on a once substantial stone bridge, now in a sadly
dilapidated condition, that was doubtless built when Armenian monasteries
enjoyed palmier days than the present, we skirt the base of a compact
mountain and in a few minutes alight at the monastery village. Exit
immediately all visions of cleanliness; the village is in no wise different
from any other cluster of mud hovels round about, and the rag-bedecked,
flea-bitten objects that come outside to gaze at us, if such a thing
were possible, compare unfavorably even with the Dele Baba Koords. There
is apparent at once, however, a difference between the respective
dispositions of the two peoples: the Koords are inclined to be pig-headed
and obtrusive, as though possessed of their full share of the spirit of
self-assertion; the Sup Ogwanis people, on the contrary, act like beings
utterly destitute of anything of the kind, cowering beneath one's look
and shunning immediate contact as though habitually overcome with a sense
of their own inferiority. The two priests come out to see the bicycle
ridden; they are stout, bushy-whiskered, greasy-looking old jokers, with
small twinkling black eyes, whose expression would seem to betoken
anything rather than saintliness, and, although the Euphrates flows hard
by, they are evidently united in their enmity against soap and water,
if in nothing else; in fact, judging from outward appearances, water is
about the only thing concerning which they practise abstemiousness. The
monastery itself is a massive structure of hewn stone, surrounded by a
high wall loop-holed for defence; attached to the wall inside is a long
row of small rooms or cells, the habitations of the monks in more
prosperous days; a few of them are occupied at present by the older men.;
At 5.30 P.M., the bell tolls for evening service, and I accompany my
guide into the monastery; it is a large, empty-looking edifice of simple,
massive architecture, and appears to have been built with a secondary
purpose of withstanding a siege or an assault, and as a place of refuge
for the people in troublous times; containing among other secular
appliances a large brick oven for baking bread. During the last war, the
place was actually bombarded by the Russiaus in an effort to dislodge a
body of Koords who had taken possession of the monastery, and from behind
its solid walls, harassed the Russian troops advancing toward Erzeroum.
The patched up holes made by the Russians' shots are pointed out, as
also some light earthworks thrown up on the Russian position across the
river. In these degenerate days one portion of the building is utilized
as a storehouse for grain; hundreds of pigeons are cooing and roosting
on the crossbeams, making the place their permanent abode, passing in
and out of narrow openings near the roof; and the whole interior is in
a disgustingly filthy condition. Rude fresco representations of the
different saints in the Gregorian calendar formerly adorned the walls,
and bright colored tiles embellished the approach to the altar. Nothing
is distinguishable these days but the crumbling and half-obliterated
evidences of past glories; both priests and people seem hopelessly sunk
in the quagmire of avariciousness and low cunning on the one hand, and
of blind ignorance and superstition on the other. Clad in greasy and
seedy-looking cowls, the priests go through a few nonsensical manosuvres,
consisting chiefly of an ostentatious affectation of reverence toward
an altar covered with tattered drapery, by never turning their backs
toward it while they walk about, Bible in hand, mumbling and sighing.
My self-constituted guide and myself comprise the whole congregation
during the "services." Whenever the priests heave a particularly deep-
fetched sigh or fall to mumbling their prayers on the double quick, they
invariably cast a furtive glance toward me, to ascertain whether I am
noticing the impenetrable depth of their holiness. They needn't be uneasy
on that score, however; the most casual observer cannot fail to perceive
that it is really and truly impenetrable - so impenetrable, in fact, that
it will never be unearthed, not even at the day of judgment. In about
ten minutes the priests quit mumbling, bestow a Pharisaical kiss on the
tattered coverlet of their Bibles, graciously suffer my jack-booted
companion to do likewise, as also two or three ragamuffins who have come
sneaking in seemingly for that special purpose, and then retreat hastily
behind a patch-work curtain; the next minute they reappear in a cowlless
condition, their countenances wearing an expression of intense relief,
as though happy at having gotten through with a disagreeable task that
had been weighing heavily on their minds all day.
We are invited to take supper with their Reverences in their cell beneath
the walls, which they occupy in common. The repast consists of yaort and
pillau, to which is added, by way of compliment to visitors, five salt
fishes about the size of sardines. The most greasy-looking of the divines
thoughtfully helps himself to a couple of the fishes as though they were
a delicacy quite irresistible, leaving one apiece for us others. Having
created a thirst with the salty fish, he then seizes what remains of the
yaort, pours water into it, mixes it thoroughly together with his unwashed
hand, and gulps down a full quart of the swill with far greater gusto
than mannerliness. Soon the priests commence eructating aloud, which
appears to be a well-understood signal that the limit of their respective
absorptive capacities are reached, for three hungry-eyed laymen, who
have been watching our repast with seemingly begrudging countenances,
now carry the wooden tray bodily off into a corner and ravenously devour
the remnants. Everything about the cell is abnormally filthy, and I am
glad when the inevitable cigarettes are ended and we retire to the
quarters assigned us in the village. Here my companion produces from
some mysterious corner of his clothing a pinch of tea and a few lumps
of sugar. A villager quickly kindles a fire and cooks the tea, performing
the services eagerly, in anticipation of coming in for a modest share
of what to him is an unwonted luxury. Being rewarded with a tiny glassful
of tea and a lump of sugar, he places the sweet morsel in his mouth and
sucks the tea through it with noisy satisfaction, prolonging the presumably
delightful sensation thereby produced to fully a couple of minutes.
During this brief indulgence of his palate, a score of his ragged co-
religionists stand around and regard him with mingled envy and covetousness;
but for two whole minutes he occupies his proud eminence in the lap of
comparative luxury, and between slow, lingering sucks at the tea, regards
their envious attention with studied indifference. One can scarcely
conceive of a more utterly wretched people than the monastic community
of Sup Ogwanis; one would not be surprised to find them envying even the
pariah curs of the country. The wind blows raw and chilly from off the
snowy slopes of Ararat next morning, and the shivering, half-clad-wretches
shuffle off toward the fields and pastures, - with blue noses and unwilling
faces, humping their backs and shrinking within themselves and wearing
most lugubrious countenances; one naturally falls to wondering what they
do in the winter. The independent villagers of the surrounding country
have a tough enough time of it, worrying through the cheerless winters
of a treeless and mountainous country; but they at least have no domestic
authority to obey but their own personal and family necessities, and
they consume the days huddled together in their unventilated hovels over
a smouldering tezek fire; but these people seem but helpless dolts under
the vassalage of a couple of crafty-looking, coarse-grained priests, who
regard them with less consideration than they do the monastery buffaloes.
Eleven miles over a mostly ridable trail brings me to the large village
of Dyadin. Dyadin is marked on my map as quite an important place,
consequently I approach it with every assurance of obtaining a good
breakfast. My inquiries for refreshments are met with importunities of
bin bacalem, from five hundred of the rag-tag and bobtail of the frontier,
the rowdiest and most inconsiderate mob imaginable. In their eagerness
and impatience to see me ride, and their exasperating indifference to
my own pressing wants, some of them tell me bluntly there is no bread;
others, more considerate, hurry away and bring enough bread to feed a
dozen people, and one fellow contributes a couple of onions. Pocketing
the onions and some of the bread, I mount and ride away from the madding
crowd with whatever despatch is possible, and retire into a secluded
dell near the road, a mile from town, to eat my frugal breakfast in peace
and quietness. While thus engaged, it is with veritable savage delight
that I hear a company of horsemen go furiously galloping past; they are
Dyadin people endeavoring to overtake me for the kindly purpose of
worrying me out of my senses, and to prevent me even eating a bite of
bread unseasoned with their everlasting gabble. Although the road from
Dyadin eastward leads steadily upward, they fancy that nothing less than
a wild, sweeping gallop will enable them to accomplish their fell purpose;
I listen to their clattering hoof-beats dying away in the dreamy distance,
with a grin of positively malicious satisfaction, hoping sincerely that
they will keep galloping onward for the next twenty miles. No such happy
consummation of my wishes occurs, however; a couple of miles up the
ascent I find them hobnobbing with some Persian caravan men and patiently
awaiting my appearance, having learned from the Persians that I had not
yet gone past. Mingled with the keen disappointment of overtaking them
so quickly, is the pleasure of witnessing the Persians' camels regaling
themselves on a patch of juicy thistles of most luxuriant growth; the
avidity with which they attack the great prickly vegetation, and the
expression of satisfaction, utter and peculiar, that characterizes a
camel while munching a giant thistle stalk that protrudes two feet out
of his mouth, is simply indescribable.
>From this pass I descend into the Aras Plain, and, behold the gigantic
form of Ararat rises up before me, seemingly but a few miles away; as a
matter of fact it is about twenty miles distant, but with nothing
intervening between myself and its tremendous proportions but the level
plain, the distance is deceptive. No human habitations are visible save
the now familiar black tents of Koordish tribesmen away off to the north,
and as I ride along I am overtaken by a sensation of being all alone in
the company of an overshadowing and awe-inspiring presence. One's attention
seems irresistibly attracted toward the mighty snow-crowrned monarch,
as though,the immutable law of attraction were sensibly exerting itself
to draw lesser bodies to it, and all other objects around seemed dwarfed
into insignificant proportions. One obtains a most comprehensive idea
of Ararat's 17,325 feet when viewing it from the Aras Plain, as it rises
sheer from the plain, and not from the shoulders of a range that constitutes
of itself the greater part of the height, as do many mountain peaks. A
few miles to the eastward is Little Ararat, an independent conical peak
of 12,800 feet, without snow, but conspicuous and distinct from surrounding
mountains; its proportions are completely dwarfed and overshadowed by
the nearness and bulkiness of its big brother. The Aras Plain is lava-strewn
and uncultivated for a number of miles; the spongy, spreading feet of
innumerable camels have worn paths in the hard lava deposit that makes
the wheeling equal to English roads, except for occasional stationary
blocks of lava that the animals have systematically stepped over for
centuries, and which not infrequently block the narrow trail and compel
a dismount. Evidently Ararat was once a volcano; the lofty peak which
now presents a wintry appearance even in the hottest summer weather,
formerly belched forth lurid flames that lit up the surrounding country,
and poured out fiery torrents of molten lava that stratified the abutting
hills, and spread like an overwhelming flood over the Aras Plain. Abutting
Ararat on the west are stratiform hills, the strata of which are plainly
distinguishable from the Persian trail and which, were their inclination
continued, would strike Ararat at or near the summit. This would seem
to indicate the layers to be representations of the mountain's former
volcanic overflowings. I am sitting on a block of lava making an outline
sketch of Ararat, when a peasant happens along with a bullock-load of
cucumbers which he is taking to the Koordish camps; he is pretty badly
scared at finding himself all alone on the Aras Plain with such a
nondescript and dangerous-looking object as a helmeted wheelman, and
when I halt him with inquiries concerning the nature of his wares he
turns pale and becomes almost speechless with fright. He would empty his
sacks as a peace-offering at my feet without venturing upon a remonstrance,
were he ordered to do so; and when I relieve him of but one solitary
cucumber, and pay him more than he would obtain for it among the Koords,
he becomes stupefied with astonishment; when he continues on his way he
hardly knows whether he is on his head or his feet. An hour later I
arrive at Kizil Dizah, the last village in Turkish territory, and an
official station of considerable importance, where passports, caravan
permits, etc., of everybody passing to or from Persia have to be examined.
An officer here provides me with refreshments, and while generously
permitting the population to come in and enjoy the extraordinary spectacle
of seeing me fed, he thoughtfully stations a man with a stick to keep
them at a respectful distance. A later hour in the afternoon finds me
trundling up a long acclivity leading to the summit of a low mountain
ridge; arriving at the summit I stand on the boundary-line between the
dominions of the Sultan and the Shah, and I pause a minute to take a
brief, retrospective glance. The cyclometer, affixed to the bicycle at
Constantinople, now registers within a fraction of one thousand miles;
it has been on the whole an arduous thousand miles, but those who in the
foregoing pages have followed me through the strange and varied experiences
of the journey will agree with me when I say that it has proved more
interesting than arduous after all. I need not here express any blunt
opinions of the different people encountered; it is enough that my
observations concerning them have been jotted down as I have mingled
with them and their characteristics from day to day; almost without
exception, they have treated me the best they knew how; it is only natural
that some should know how better than others. Bidding farewell, then,
to the land of the Crescent and the home of the unspeakable Osmanli, I
wheel down a gentle slope into a mountain-environed area of cultivated
fields, where Persian peasants are busy gathering their harvest. The
strange apparition observed descending from the summit of the boundary
attracts universal attention; I can hear them calling out to each other,
and can see horsemen come wildly galloping from every direction. In a
few minutes the road in my immediate vicinity is alive with twenty
prancing steeds; some are bestrode by men who, from the superior quality
of their clothes and the gaudy trappings of their horses, are evidently
in good circumstances; others by wild-looking, barelegged bipeds, whose
horses' trappings consist of nothing but a bridle. The transformation
brought about by crossing the mountain ridge is novel and complete; the
fez, so omnipresent throughout the Ottoman dominions, has disappeared,
as if by magic; the better class Persians wear tall, brimless black hats
of Astrakan lamb's wool; some of the peasantry wear an unlovely, close-
fitting skullcap of thick gray felt, that looks wonderfully like a bowl
clapped on top of their heads, others sport a huge woolly head-dress
like the Roumanians; this latter imparts to them a fierce, war-like
appearance, that the meek-eyed Persian ryot (tiller of the soil) is far
from feeling. The national garment is a sort of frock-coat gathered at
the waist, and with a skirt of ample fulness, reaching nearly to the
knees; among the wealthier class the material of this garment is usually
cloth of a solid, dark color, and among the ryots or peasantry, of calico
or any cheap fabric they can obtain. Loose-fitting pantaloons of European
pattern, and sometimes top-boots, with tops ridiculously ample in their
looseness, characterize the nether garments of the better classes; the
ryots go mostly bare-legged in summer, and wear loose, slipper-like foot-
gear; the soles of both boots and shoes are frequently pointed, and made
to turn up and inwards, after the fashion in England centuries ago.
Nightfall overtakes me as, after travelling several miles of variable
road, I commence following a winding trail down into the valley of a
tributary of the Arasces toward Ovahjik, where resides the Pasha Khan,
to whom I have a letter; but the crescent-shaped moon sheds abroad a
silvery glimmer that exerts a softening influence upon the mountains
outlined against the ever-arching dome, from whence here and there a
star begins to twinkle. It is one of those. beautiful, calm autumn
evenings when all nature seems hushed in peaceful slumbers; when the
stars seem to first peep cautiously from the impenetrable depths of their
hiding-place, and then to commence blinking benignantly and approvingly
upon the world; and when the moon looks almost as though fair Luna has
been especially decorating herself to embellish a scene that without her
lovely presence would be incomplete. Such is my first autumn evening
beneath the cloudless skies of Persia.
Soon the village of Ovahjik is reached, and some peasants guide me to
the residence of the Pasha Khan. The servant who presents my letter of
introduction fills the untutored mind of his master with wonderment
concerning what the peasants have told him about the bicycle. The Pasha
Khan makes his appearance without having taken the trouble to open the
envelope. He is a dull-faced, unintellectual-lookiug personage, and
without any preliminary palaver he says: "Bin bacalem," in a dictatorial
tone of voice. "Bacalem yole lazim, bacalem saba," I reply, for it is
too dark to ride on unknown ground this evening. " Bin bacalem, " repeats
the Pasha Khan, even more dictatorial than before, ordering a servant
to bring a tallow candle, so that I can have no excuse. There appears
to be such a total absence of all consideration for myself that I am not
disposed to regard very favorably or patiently the obtrusive meddlesomeness
of two younger men-whom I afterward discover to be sons of the Pasha
Khan - who seem almost inclined to take the bicycle out of my charge
altogether, in their excessive impatience and inordinate inquisitiveness
to examine everything about it. One of them, thinking the cyclometer to
be a watch, puts his ear down to see if he can hear it tick, and then
persists in fingering it about, to the imminent danger of the tally-pin.
After telling him several times not to meddle with it, and receiving
overbearing gestures in reply, I deliberately throw him backward into
an irrigating ditch. A gleam of intelligence overspreads the stolid
countenance of the Pasha Khan at seeing his offspring floundering about
on his back in the mud and water, and he gives utterance to a chuckle
of delight. The discomfited young man betrays nothing of the spirit of
resentment upon recovering himself from the ditch, and the other son
involuntarily retreats as though afraid his turn was coming next. The
servant now arrives with the lighted candle, and the Pasha Kahn leads
the way into his garden, where there is a wide brick-paved walk; the
house occupies one side of the garden, the other three sides are inclosed
by a high mud wall. After riding a few times along the brick-paved walk,
and promising to do better in the morning. I naturally expect to be taken
into the house, instead of which the Pasha Khan orders the people to
show me the way to the caravanserai. Arriving at the caravanserai, and
finding myself thus thrown unexpectedly upon my own resources, I inquire
of some bystanders where I can obtain elcmek; some of them want to know
how many liras I will give for ekmek. When it is reflected that a lira
is nearly five dollars, one realizes from this something of the
unconscionable possibilities of the Persian commercial mind.
While this question is being mooted, a figure appears in the doorway,
toward which the people one and all respectfully salaam and give way.
It is the great Pasha Khan; he has bethought himself to open my letter
of introduction, and having perused it and discovered who it was from
and all about me, he now comes and squats down in the most friendly
manner by my side for a minute, as though to remove any unfavorable
impressions his inhospitable action in sending me here might have made,
and then bids me accompany him back to his residence. After permitting
him to eat a sufficiency of humble pie in the shape of coaxing, to atone
for his former incivility, I agree to his proposal and accompany him
back. Tea is at once provided, the now very friendly Pasha Khan putting
extra lumps of sugar into my glass with his own hands and stirring it
up; bread and cheese comes in with the tea, and under the mistaken
impression that this constitutes the Persian evening meal I eat sufficient
to satisfy my hunger. While thus partaking freely of the bread and cheese,
I do not fail to notice that the others partake very sparingly, and that
they seem to be rather astonished because I am not following their
example. Being chiefly interested in satisfying my appetite, however,
their silent observations have no effect save to further mystify my
understanding of the Persian character. The secret of all this soon
reveals itself in the form of an ample repast of savory chicken pillau,
brought in immediately afterward; and while the Pasha Khan and his two
sons proceed to do full justice to this highly acceptable dish, I have
to content myself with nibbling at a piece of chicken, and ruminating
on the unhappy and ludicrous mistake of having satisfied my hunger with
dry bread and cheese. Thus does one pay the penalty of being unacquainted
with the domestic customs of a country when first entering upon its
experiences. There seems to be no material difference between the social
position of the women here and in Turkey; they eat their meals by
themselves, and occupy entirely separate apartments, which are unapproachable
to members of the opposite sex save their husbands. The Pasha Khan of
Ovahjik, however, seems to be a kind, indulgent husband and father,
requesting me next morning to ride up and down the brick-paved walk for
the benefit of his wives and daughters. In the seclusion of their own
walled premises the Persian females are evidently not so particular about
concealing their features, and I obtained a glimpse of some very pretty
faces; oval faces with large dreamy black eyes, and a flush of warm
sunset on brownish cheeks. The indoor costume of Persian women is but
an inconsiderable improvement upon the costume of our ancestress in the
garden of Eden, and over this they hastily don a flimsy shawl-like garment
to come out and see me ride. They are always much less concerned about
concealing their nether extremities than about their faces, and as they
seem but little concerned about anything on this occasion save the
bicycle, after riding for them I have to congratulate myself that, so
far as sight-seeing is concerned, the ladies leave me rather under
obligations than otherwise.
After supper the Pasha Khan's falconer brings in several fine falcons
for my inspection, and in reply to questions concerning one with his
eyelids tied up in what appears to be a cruel manner, I am told that
this is the customary way of breaking the spirits of the young falcons
and rendering them tractable and submissive the eyelids are pierced
with a hole, a silk thread is then fastened to each eyelid and the ends
tied together over the head, sufficiently tight to prevent them opening
their eyes. Falconing is considered the chief out-door sport of the
Persian nobility, but the average Persian is altogether too indolent for
out-door sport, and the keeping of falcons is fashionable, because
regarded as a sign of rank and nobility rather than for sport. In the
morning the Pasha Khan is wonderfully agreeable, and appears anxious to
atone as far as possible for the little incivility of yesterday evening,
and to remove any unfavorable impressions I may perchance entertain of
him on that account before I leave. His two sons and a couple of soldiers
accompany me on horseback some distance up the valley. The valley is
studded with villages, and at the second one we halt at the residence
of a gentleman named Abbas Koola Khan, and partake of tea and light
refreshments in his garden. Here I learn that the Pasha Khan has carried
his good intentions to the extent of having made arrangements to provide
me armed escort from point to point; how far ahead this well-meaning
arrangement is to extend I am unable to understand; neither do I care
to find out, being already pretty well convinced that the escort will
prove an insufferable nuisance to be gotten rid of at the first favorable
opportunity. Abbas Koola Khan now joins the company until we arrive at
the summit of a knoll commanding an extensive view of my road ahead so
they can stand and watch me when they all bid me farewell save the soldier
who is to accompany me further on. As we shake hands, the young man whom
I pushed into the irrigating ditch, points to a similar receptacle near
by and shakes his head with amusing solemnity; whether this is expressive
of his sorrow that I should have pushed him in, or that he should have
annoyed me to the extent of having deserved it, I cannot say; probably
the latter. My escort, though a soldier, is dressed but little different
from the better-class villagers; he is an almond-eyed individual, with
more of the Tartar cast of countenance than the Persian. Besides the
short Persian sword, he is armed with a Martini Henry rifle of the 1862
pattern; numbers of these rifles having found their way into the hands
of Turks, Koords and Persians, since the RussoTurkish war. My predictions
concerning his turning out an insupportable nuisance are not suffered
to remain long unverified, for he appears to consider it his chief duty
to gallop ahead and notify the villagers of my approach, and to work
them up to the highest expectations concerning my marvellous appearance.
The result of all this is a swelling of his own importance at having so
wonderful a person under his protection, and my own transformation from
an unostentatious traveller to something akin to a free circus for crowds
of barelegged ryots. I soon discover that, with characteristic Persian
truthfulness, he has likewise been spreading the interesting report that
I am journeying in this extraordinary manner to carry a message from the
"Ingilis Shah " to the "Shah in Shah of Iran " (the Persians know their
own country as Iran) thereby increasing his own importance and the
wonderment of the people concerning myself. The Persian villages, so
far, are little different from the Turkish, but such valuable property
as melon-gardens, vineyards, etc., instead of being presided over by a
watchman, are usually surrounded by substantial mud walls ten or twelve
feet high. The villagers themselves, being less improvident and altogether
more thoughtful of number one than the Turks, are on the whole, a trifle
less ragged; but that is saying very little indeed, and their condition
is anything but enviable. During the summer they fare comparatively well,
needing but little clothing, and they are happy and contented in the
absence of actual suffering; they are perfectly satisfied with a diet
of bread and fruit and cucumbers, rarely tasting meat of any kind. But
fuel is as scarce as in Asia Minor, and like the Turks and Armenians,
in winter they have resource to a peculiar and economical arrangement
to keep themselves warm; placing a pan of burning tezek beneath a low
table, the whole family huddle around it, covering the table and themselves
-save of course their heads-up with quilts; facing each other in this
ridiculous manner, they chat and while away the dreary days of winter.
At the third village after leaving the sons of the Pasha Khan, my Tartar-
eyed escort, with much garrulous injunction to his successor, delivers
me over to another soldier, himself returning back; this is my favorable
opportunity, and soon after leaving the village I bid my valiant protector
return. The man seems totally unable to comprehend why I should order
him to leave me, and makes an elaborate display of his pantomimic abilities
to impress upon me the information that the country ahead is full of
very bad Koords, who will kill and rob me if I venture among them
unprotected by a soldier. The expressive action of drawing the finger
across the throat appears to be the favorite method of signifying personal
danger among all these people; but I already understand that the Persians
live in deadly fear of the nomad Koords. Consequently his warnings,
although evidently sincere, fall on biased ears, and I peremptorily order
him to depart. The Tabreez trail is now easily followed without a guide,
and with a sense of perfect freedom and unrestraint, that is destroyed
by having a horseman cantering alongside one, I push ahead, finding the
roads variable, and passing through several villages during the day. The
chief concern of the ryots is to detain me until they can bring the
resident Khan to see me ride, evidently from a servile desire to cater
to his pleasure. They gather around me and prevent my departure until
he arrives. An appeal to the revolver will invariably secure my release,
but one naturally gets ashamed of threatening people's lives even under
the exasperating circumstances of a forcible detention. Once to-day I
managed to outwit them beautifully. Pretending acquiescence in their
proposition of waiting till the arrival of their Khan, I propose mounting
and riding a few yards for their own edification while waiting; in their
eagerness to see they readily fall into the trap, and the next minute
sees me flying down the road with a swarm of bare-legged ryots in full
chase after me, yelling for me to stop. Fortunately, they have no horses
handy, but some of these lanky fellows can run like deer almost, and
nothing but an excellent piece of road enables me to outdistance my
pursuers. Wily as the Persians are, compared to the Osmanlis, one could
play this game on them quite frequently, owing to their eagerness to see
the bicycle ridden; but it is seldom that the road is sufficiently smooth
to justify the attempt. I was gratified to learn from the Persian consul
at Erzeroum that my stock of Turkish would answer me as far as Teheran,
the people west of the capital speaking a dialect known as Tabreez
Turkish; still, I find quite a difference. Almost every Persian points
to the bicycle and says: "Boo; ndmi ndder. " ("This; what is it?") and
it is several days ere I have an opportunity of finding out exactly what
they mean. They are also exceedingly prolific in using the endearing
term of kardash when accosting me. The distance is now reckoned by
farsakhs (roughly, four miles) instead of hours; but, although the farsakh
is a more tangible and comprehensive measurement than the Turkish hour,
in reality it is almost as unreliable to go by. Towards evening I ascend
into a more mountainous region, inhabited exclusively by nomad Koords;
from points of vantage their tents are observable clustered here and
there at the bases of the mountains. Descending into a grassy valley or
depression, I find myself in close proximity to several different camps,
and eagerly avail myself of the opportunity to pass a night among them.
I am now in the heart of Northern Koordistan, which embraces both Persian
and Turkish territory, and the occasion is most opportune for seeing
something of these wild nomads in their own mountain pastures. The
greensward is ridable, and I dismount before the Sheikh's tent in the
presence of a highly interested and interesting audience. The half-wild
dogs make themselves equally interesting in another and a less desirable
sense as I approach, but the men pelt them with stones, and when I
dismount they conduct me and the bicycle at once into the tent of their
chieftain. The Sheikh's tent is capacious enough to shelter a regiment
almost, and it is divided into compartments similar to a previous
description; the Sheikh is a big, burly fellow, of about forty-five,
wearing a turban the size of a half-bushel measure, and dressed pretty
much like a well-to-do Turk; as a matter of fact, the Koords admire the
Osmanlis and despise the Persians. The bicycle is reclined against a
carpet partition, and after the customary interchange of questions, a
splendid fellow, who must be six feet six inches tall, and broad-shouldered
in proportion, squats himself cross-legged beside me, and proceeds to
make himself agreeable, rolling me cigarettes, asking questions, and
curiously investigating anything about me that strikes him as peculiar.
I show them, among other things, a cabinet photograph of myself in all
the glory of needle-pointed mustache and dress-parade apparel; after a
critical examination and a brief conference among themselves they pronounce
me an "English Pasha." I then hand the Sheikh a set of sketches, but
they are not sufficiently civilized to appreciate the sketches; they
hold them upside down and sidewise; and not being able to make anything
out of them, the Sheikh holds them in his hand and looks quite embarrassed,
like a person in possession of something he doesn't know what to do with.
Noticing that the women are regarding these proceedings with much interest
from behind a low partition, and not having yet become reconciled to the
Mohammedan idea of women being habitually ignored and overlooked, I
venture upon taking the photograph to them; they seem much confused at
finding themselves the object of direct attention, and they appear several
degrees wilder than the men, so far as comprehending such a product of
civilization as a photograph is an indication. It requires more material
objects than sketches and photos to meet the appreciation of these semi-
civilized children of the desert. They bring me their guns and spears
to look at and pronounce upon, and then my stalwart entertainer grows
inquisitive about my revolver. First extracting the cartridges to prevent
accident, I hand it to him, and he takes it for the Sheikh's inspection.
The Sheikh examines the handsome little Smith & Wesson long and wistfully,
and then toys with it several minutes, apparently reluctant about having
to return it; finally he asks me to give him a cartridge and let him go
out and test its accuracy. I am getting a trifle uneasy at his evident
covetousness of the revolver, and in this request I see my opportunity
of giving him to understand that it would be a useless weapon for him
to possess, by telling him I have but a few cartridges and that others
are not procurable in Koordistan or neighboring countries. Recognizing
immediately its uselessness to him under such circumstances, he then
returns it without remark; whether he would have confiscated it without
this timely explanation, it is difficult to say.
Shortly after the evening meal, an incident occurs which causes considerable
amusement. Everything being unusually quiet, one sharp-eared youth happens
to hear the obtrusive ticking of my Waterbury, and strikes a listening
attitude, at which everybody else likewise begins listening; the tick,
tick is plainly discernible to everybody in the compartment and they
become highly interested and amused, and commence looking at me for an
explanation. With a view to humoring the spirit of amusement thus awakened,
I likewise smile, but affect ignorance and innocence concerning the
origin of the mysterious ticking, and strike a listening attitude as
well as the others. Presuming upon our interchange of familiarity, our
six-foot-sixer then commences searching about my clothing for the watch,
but being hidden away in a pantaloon fob, and minus a chain, it proves
beyond his power of discovery. Nevertheless, by bending his head down
and listening, he ascertains and announces it to be somewhere about my
person; the Waterbury is then produced, and the loudness of its ticking
awakes the wonder and admiration of the Koords, even to a greater extent
than the Turks. During the evening, the inevitable question of Euss,
Osmanli, and English crops up, and I win unanimous murmurs of approval
by laying my forefingers together and stating that the English and the
Osmanlis are kardash. I show them my Turkish teskeri, upon which several
of them bestow fervent kisses, and when, by means of placing several
stones here and there I explained to them how in 1877, the hated Muscov
occupied different Mussulman cities one after the other, and was prevented
by the English from occupying their dearly beloved Stamboul itself, their
admiration knows no bounds. Along the trail, not over a mile from camp,
a large Persian caravan has been halting during the day; late in the
evening loud shouting and firing of guns announces them as prepared to
start on their night's journey. It is customary when going through this
part of Koordistan for the caravan men to fire guns and make as much
noise as possible, in order to impress the Koords with exaggerated
ideas concerning their strength and number; everybody in the Sheikh's
tent thoroughly understands the meaning of the noisy demonstration, and
the men exchange significant smiles. The firing and the shouting produce
a truly magical effect upon a blood-thirsty youngster of ten or twelve
summers; he becomes wildly hilarious, gamboling about the tent, and
rolling over and kicking up his heels. He then goes to the Sheikh, points
to me, and draws his finger across his throat, intimating that he would
like the privilege of cutting somebody's throat, and why not let him cut
mine. The Sheikh and others laugh at this, but instead of chiding him
for his tragical demonstration, they favor him with the same admiring
glances that grown people bestow upon precocious youngsters the world
over. Under these circumstances of abject fear on the one hand, and
inbred propensity for violence and plunder on the other, it is really
surprising to find the Koords in Persian territory behaving themselves
as well as they do. Quilts are provided for me, and I occupy this same
compartment of the tent, in common with several of the younger men. In
the morning, before departing, I am regaled with bread and rich, new
cream, and when leaving the tent I pause a minute to watch the busy scene
in the female department. Some are churning butter in sheep-skin churns
which are suspended from poles and jerked back and forth; others are
weaving carpets, preparing curds for cheese, baking bread, and otherwise
industriously employed. I depart from the Koordish camp thoroughly
satisfied with my experience of their hospitality, but the cerulean
waist-scarf bestowed upon me by our Hungarian friend Igali, at Belgrade,
no longer adds its embellishments to my personal adornments. Whenever a
favorable opportunity presents, certain young men belonging to the noble
army of hangers-on about the Sheikh's apartments invariably glide inside,
and importune the guest from Frangistan for any article of his clothing
that excites the admiration of their semi-civilized minds. This scarf,
they were doubtless penetrating enough to observe, formed no necessary
part of my wardrobe, and a dozen times in the evening, and again in the
morning, I was worried to part with it, so I finally presented it to one
of them. He hastily hid it away among his clothes and disappeared, as
though fearful, either that the Sheikh might see it and make him return
it, or that one of the chieftain's favorites might take a fancy to it
and summarily appropriate it to his own use.
Not more than five miles eastward from the camp, while trundling over a
stretch of stony ground, I am accosted by a couple of Koordiah shepherds;
but as the country immediately around is wild and unfrequented, save by
Koords, and knowing something of their little weaknesses toward travellers
under tempting, one-sided conditions, I deem it advisable to pay as
little heed to them as possible. Seeing that I have no intention of
halting, they come running up, and undertake to forcibly detain me by
seizing hold of the bicycle, at the same time making no pretence of
concealing their eager curiosity concerning the probable contents of my
luggage. Naturally disapproving of this arbitrary conduct, I push them
roughly away. With a growl more like the voice of a wild animal than of
human beings, one draws his sword and the other picks up a thick knobbed
stick that he had dropped in order to the better pinch and sound my
packages. Without giving them time to reveal whether they seriously
intend attacking me, or only to try intimidation, I have them nicely
covered with the Smith & Wesson. They seem to comprehend in a moment
that I have them at a disadvantage, and they hurriedly retreat a short
distance, executing a series of gyral antics, as though expecting me to
fire at their legs. They are accompanied by two dogs, tawny-coated
monsters, larger than the largest mastiffs, who now proceed to make
things lively and interesting around myself and the bicycle. Keeping the
revolver in my hand, and threatening to shoot their dogs if they don't
call them away, I continue my progress toward where the stony ground
terminates in favor of smooth camel-paths, about' a hundred yards farther
on. At this juncture I notice several other "gentle shepherds " coming
racing down from the adjacent knolls; but whether to assist their comrades
in catching and robbing me, or to prevent a conflict between us, will
always remain an uncertainty. I am afraid, however, that with the advantage
on their side, the Koordish herdsmen rarely trouble themselves about any
such uncongenial task as peace-making. Reaching the smooth ground before
any of the new-comers overtake me, I mount and speed away, followed by
wild yells from a dozen Koordish throats, and chased by a dozen of their
dogs. Upon sober second thought, when well away from the vicinity, I
conclude this to have been a rather ticklish incident; had they attacked
me in the absence of anything else to defend myself with, I should have
been compelled to shoot them; the nearest Persian village is about ten
miles distant; the absence of anything like continuously ridable road
would have made it impossible to out-distance their horsemen, and a
Persian village would have afforded small security against a party of
enraged Koords, after all. The first village I arrive at to-day, I again
attempt the "skedaddling" dodge on them that proved so successful on
one occasion yesterday; but I am foiled by a rocky "jump-off" in the
road to-day. The road is not so favorable for spurting as yesterday,
and the racing ryots grab me amid much boisterous merriment ere * I
overcome the obstruction; they take particular care not to give me another
chance until the arrival of the Khan. The country hereabouts consists
of gravelly, undulating plateaus between the mountains, and well-worn
camel-paths afford some excellent wheeling. Near mid-day, while laboriously
ascending a long but not altogether unridable ascent, I meet a couple
of mounted soldiers; they obstruct my road, and proceed to deliver
themselves of voluble Tabreez Turkish, by which I understand that they
are the advance guard of a party in which there is a Ferenghi (the Persian
term for an Occidental). While talking with them I am somewhat taken by
surprise at seeing a lady on horseback and two children in a kajaveh
(mule panier) appear over the slope, accompanied by about a dozen Persians.
If I am surprised, the lady herself not unnaturally evinces even greater
astonishment at the apparition of a lone wheelman here on the caravan
roads of Persia; of course we are mutually delighted. With the assistance
of her servant, the lady alights from the saddle and introduces herself
as Mrs. E--, the wife of one of the Persian missionaries; her husband
has lately returned home, and she is on the way to join him. The Persians
accompanying her comprise her own servants, some soldiers procured of
the Governor of Tabreez by the English consul to escort her as far as
the Turkish frontier, and a couple of unattached travellers keeping with
the party for company and society. A mule driver has charge of pack-mules
carrying boxes containing, among other things, her husband's library.
During the course of ten minutes' conversation the lady informs me that
she is compelled to travel in this manner the whole distance to Trebizond,
owing to the practical impossibility of passing through Bussian territory
with the library. Were it not for this a comparatively short and easy
journey would take them to Tiflis, from which point there would be steam
communication with Europe. Ere the poor lady gets to Trebizond she will
be likely to reflect that a government so civilized as the Czar's might
relax its gloomy laws sufficiently to allow the affixing of official
seals to a box of books, and permit its transportation through the
country, on condition-if they will-that it should not be opened in
transit; surely there would be no danger of the people's minds being
enlightened -not even a little bit-by coming in contact with a library
tightly boxed and sealed. At the frontier an escort of Turkish zaptiehs
will take the place of the Persian soldiers, and at Erzeroum the
missionaries will, of course, render her every assistance to Trebizond;
but it is not without feelings of anxiety for the health of a lady
travelling in this rough manner unaccompanied by her natural protector,
that I reflect on the discomforts she must necessarily put up with
between here and Erzeroum. She seems in good spirits, however, and says
that meeting me here in this extraordinary manner is the "most romantic"
incident in her whole experiences of missionary life in Persia. Like
many another, she says, she can I scarcely conceive it possible that I
am travelling without attendants and without being able to speak the
languages. One of the unattached travellers gives me a note of
introduction to Mohammed. Ali Khan, the Governor of Peri, a suburban
village of Khoi, which I expect to reach some time this afternoon.