Samarkand is situated in the rich oasis watered by the Zarafchane in
the valley of Sogd. A small pamphlet I bought at the railway station
informs me that this great city is one of the four sites in which
geographers "agree" to place the terrestrial paradise. I leave this
discussion to the exegetists of the profession.
Burned by the armies of Cyrus in B.C. 329, Samarkand was in part
destroyed by Genghis Khan, about 1219. When it had become the capital
of Tamerlane, its position, which certainly could not be improved upon,
did not prevent its being ravaged by the nomads of the eighteenth
century. Such alternations of grandeur and ruin have been the fate of
all the important towns of Central Asia.
We had five hours to stop at Samarkand during the day, and that
promised something pleasant and several pages of copy. But there was no
time to lose. As usual, the town is double; one half, built by the
Russians, is quite modern, with its verdant parks, its avenues of
birches, its palaces, its cottages; the other is the old town, still
rich in magnificent remains of its splendor, and requiring many weeks
to be conscientiously studied.
This time I shall not be alone. Major Noltitz is free; he will
accompany me. We had already left the station when the Caternas
presented themselves.
"Are you going for a run round the town, Monsieur Claudius?" asked the
actor, with a comprehensive gesture to show the vast surroundings of
Samarkand.
"Such is our intention."
"Will Major Noltitz and you allow me to join you?"
"How so?"
"With Madame Caterna, for I do nothing without her."
"Our explorations will be so much the more agreeable," said the major,
with a bow to the charming actress.
"And," I added, with a view to save fatigue and gain time, "my dear
friends, allow me to offer you an arba."
"An arba!" exclaimed Caterna, with a swing of his hips. "What may that
be, an arba?"
"One of the local vehicles."
"Let us have an arba."
We entered one of the boxes on wheels which were on the rank in front
of the railway station. Under promise of a good "silao," that is to
say, something to drink, the yemtchik or coachman undertook to give
wings to his two doves, otherwise his two little horses, and we went
off at a good pace.
On the left we leave the Russian town, arranged like a fan, the
governor's house, surrounded by beautiful gardens, the public park and
its shady walks, then the house of the chief of the district which is
just on the boundary of the old town.
As we passed, the major showed us the fortress, round which our arba
turned. There are the graves of the Russian soldiers who died in the
attack in 1868, near the ancient palace of the Emir of Bokhara.
From this point, by a straight narrow road, our arba reached the
Righistan square, which, as my pamphlet says, "must not be confounded
with the square of the same name at Bokhara."
It is a fine quadrilateral, perhaps a little spoiled by the fact that
the Russians have paved it and ornamented it with lamps--which would
certainly, please Ephrinell, if he decides upon visiting Samarkand. On
three sides of the square are the well-preserved ruins of three
medresses, where the mollahs give children a good education. These
medresses--there are seventeen of these colleges at Samarkand, besides
eighty-five mosques--are called Tilla-Kari, Chir Dar and Oulong Beg.
In a general way they resemble each other; a portico in the middle
leading to interior courts, built of enameled brick, tinted pale blue
or pale yellow, arabesques designed in gold lines on a ground of
turquoise blue, the dominant color; leaning minarets threatening to
fall and never falling, luckily for their coating of enamel, which the
intrepid traveller Madame De Ujfalvy-Bourdon, declares to be much
superior to the finest of our crackle enamels--and these are not vases
to put on a mantelpiece or on a stand, but minarets of good height.
These marvels are still in the state described by Marco Polo, the
Venetian traveler of the thirteenth century.
"Well, Monsieur Bombarnac," asked the major, "do you not admire the
square?"
"It is superb," I say.
"Yes," says the actor, "what a splendid scene it would make for a
ballet, Caroline! That mosque, with a garden alongside, and that other
one with a court--"
"You are right, Adolphe," said his wife; "but we would have to put
those towers up straight and have a few luminous fountains."
"Excellent notion, Caroline! Write us a drama, Monsieur Claudius, a
spectacle piece, with a third act in this square. As for the title--"
"Tamerlane is at once suggested!" I reply. The actor made a significant
grimace. The conqueror of Asia seemed to him to be wanting in
actuality. And leaning toward his wife, Caterna hastened to say:
"As a scene, I have seen a better at the Porte-Saint Martin, in the
_Fils de la Nuit_--"
"And I have at the Châtelet in _Michael Strogoff_."
We cannot do better than leave our comedians alone. They look at
everything from the theatrical point of view. They prefer the air gauze
and the sky-blue foliage, the branches of the stage trees, the agitated
canvas of the ocean waves, the prospectives of the drop scene, to the
sites the curtain represents, a set scene by Cambon or Rubé or Jambon
to no matter what landscape; in short, they would rather have art than
nature. And I am not the man to try and change their opinions on the
subject.
As I have mentioned the name of Tamerlane, I asked Major Noltitz if we
were going to visit the tomb of the famous Tartar. The major replied
that we would see it as we returned; and our itinerary brought us in
front of the Samarkand bazaar.
The arba stopped at one of the entrances to this vast rotunda, after
taking us in and out through the old town, the houses of which consist
of only one story, and seem very comfortless.
Here is the bazaar in which are accumulated enormous quantities of
woollen stuffs, velvet-pile carpets in the brightest of colors, shawls
of graceful patterns, all thrown anyhow on the counters of the shops.
Before these samples the sellers and buyers stand, noisily arriving at
the lowest price. Among the fabrics is a silk tissue known as Kanaous,
which is held in high esteem by the Samarkand ladies, although they are
very far from appreciating the similar product of Lyons manufacture,
which it excels neither in quality nor appearance.
Madame Caterna appeared extraordinarily tempted, as if she were among
the counters of the _Bon Marché_ or the _Louvre_.
"That stuff would do well for my costume in the _Grande Duchesse_!" she
said.
"And those slippers would suit me down to the ground as Ali Bajou in
the _Caid_!" said Caterna.
And while the actress was investing in a remnant of Kanaous, the actor
paid for a pair of those green slippers which the Turkomans wear when
they enter a mosque. But this was not without recourse to the kindness
of the major, who acted as interpreter between the Caternas and the
merchant, whose "Yoks! Yoks!" sounded like a lot of crackers in his
large mouth.
The arba started again and went off toward the square of Ribi-Khanym,
where stands the mosque of that name which was that of one of
Tamerlane's wives. If the square is not as regular as that of
Righistan, it is in my opinion rather more picturesque. There are
strangely grouped ruins, the remains of arcades, half-unroofed cupolas,
columns without capitals, the shafts of which have retained all the
brightness of their enamelling; then a long row of elliptical porticoes
closing in one side of the vast quadrilateral. The effect is really
grand, for these old monuments of the splendor of Samarkand stand out
from a background of sky and verdure that you would seek in vain, even
at the Grand Opera, if our actor does not object. But I must confess we
experienced a deeper impression when, toward the northeast of the town,
our arba deposited us in front of the finest of the mosques of Central
Asia, which dates from the year 795 of the Hegira (1392 of our era).
I cannot, writing straight away, give you an idea of this marvel. If I
were to thread the words, mosaics, pediments, spandrels, bas-reliefs,
niches, enamels, corbels, all on a string in a sentence, the picture
would still be incomplete. It is strokes of the brush that are wanted,
not strokes of the pen. Imagination remains abashed at the remains of
the most splendid architecture left us by Asiatic genius.
It is in the farthest depths of this mosque that the faithful go to
worship at the tomb of Kassimben-Abbas, a venerated Mussulman saint,
and we are told that if we open the tomb a living man will come forth
from it in all his glory. But the experiment has not been made as yet,
and we prefer to believe in the legend.
We had to make an effort to throw off our contemplative mood; and
fortunately the Caternas did not trouble our ecstasy by evoking any of
their recollections of the theater. Doubtless they had shared in our
impressions.
We resumed our seats in the arba, and the yemtchik took us at the
gallop of his doves along shady roads which the Russian administration
keeps up with care.
Along these roads we met and passed many figures worthy of notice.
Their costumes were varied enough, "Khalats," in startling colors, and
their heads enturbaned most coquettishly. In a population of forty
thousand there was, of course, a great mingling of races. Most of them
seemed to be Tadjiks of Iranian origin. They are fine strong fellows,
whose white skin has disappeared beneath the tan of the open air and
the unclouded sun. Here is what Madame de Ujfalvy-Bourdon says of them
in her interesting book: "Their hair is generally black, as is also
their beard, which is very abundant. Their eyes are never turned up at
the corners, and are almost always brown. The nose is very handsome,
the lips are not thick, the teeth are small. The forehead is high,
broad, and the general shape of the face is oval."
And I cannot refrain from mentioning a note of approval from Caterna
when he saw one of these Tadjiks superbly draped in his many-colored
Khalat.
"What a splendid lead! What an admirable Melingue! You can see him in
Richepins's _Nana Sahib_ or Meurice's _Schamyl_."
"He would make a lot of money! replied Madame Caterna.
"He just would--I believe you, Caroline!" replied the enthusiastic
actor.
And for him, as for all other theatrical folks, is not the money the
most serious and the least disputable manifestation of the dramatic art?
It was already five o clock, and in this incomparable city of Samarkand
scene succeeded scene. There! I am getting into that way of looking at
it now. Certainly the spectacle should finish before midnight. But as
we start at eight o'clock, we shall have to lose the end of the piece.
But as I considered that, for the honor of special correspondents in
general, it would never do to have been at Samarkand without seeing
Tamerlane's tomb, our arba returned to the southwest, and drew up near
the mosque of Gour Emir, close to the Russian town. What a sordid
neighborhood, what a heap of mud huts and straw huts, what an
agglomeration of miserable hovels we have just been through!
The mosque has a grand appearance. It is crowned with its dome, in
which the raw blue of the turquoise is the chief color, and which looks
like a Persian cap; and on its only minaret, which has now lost its
head, there glitter the enamelled arabesques which have retained their
ancient purity.
We visited the central hall beneath the cupola. There stands the tomb
of the lame Timour the Conqueror. Surrounded by the four tombs of his
sons and his patron saint, beneath a stone of black jade covered with
inscriptions, whiten the bones of Tamerlane, in whose name is gathered
the whole fourteenth century of Asiatic history. The walls of the hall
are covered with slabs of jade, on which are engraven innumerable
scrolls of foliage, and in the southwest stands a little column marking
the direction of Mecca. Madame De Ujfalvy-Bourdon has justly compared
this part of the mosque of Gour Emir to a sanctuary, and we had the
same impression. This impression took a still more religious tone when,
by a dark and narrow stairway, we descended to the crypt in which are
the tombs of Tamerlane's wives and daughters.
"But who was this Tamerlane?" asked Caterna. "This Tamerlane everybody
is talking about."
"Tamerlane," replied Major Noltitz, "was one of the greatest conquerors
of the world, perhaps the greatest, if you measure greatness by the
extent of the conquests. Asia to the east of the Caspian Sea, Persia
and the provinces to the north of it, Russia to the Sea of Azof, India,
Syria, Asia Minor, China, on which he threw two hundred thousand
men--he had a whole continent as the theater of his wars."
"And he was lame!" said Madame Caterna.
"Yes, madame, like Genseric, like Shakespeare, like Byron, like Walter
Scott, like Talleyrand, but that did not hinder his getting along in
the world. But how fanatic and bloodthirsty he was! History affirms
that at Delhi he massacred a hundred thousand captives, and at Bagdad
he erected an obelisk of eighty thousand heads."
"I like the one in the Place de la Concorde better," said Caterna, "and
that is only in one piece."
At this observation we left the mosque of Gour Emir, and as it was time
to "hurry up," as our actor said, the arba was driven briskly toward
the station.
For my part, in spite of the observations of the Caternas, I was fully
in tone with the local color due to the marvels of Samarkand, when I
was roughly shaken back into modern reality.
In the streets--yes--in the streets near the railway station, in the
very center of Tamerlane's capital, I passed two bicyclists.
"Ah!" exclaimed Caterna. "Messrs. Wheeler!"
And they were Turkomans!
After that nothing more could be done than leave a town so dishonored
by the masterpiece of mechanical locomotion, and that was what we did
at eight o'clock.