_Turkmantchay_, and passed the night there. This village is celebrated
for being the place where the Treaty of Peace, which put an end to the
Perso-Russian war of 1826-28, was concluded. Nothing particular happened
on my way from here to _Miane_, except a slight intermezzo, occurring
during my noon's rest at a solitary caravansary. I had been asked before
by Shi-ites, here and there, in my capacity of a Sunnite, to give them
some kind of _nuskha_ (talisman). A Shi-ite Seid came to me there on the
same errand, and I readily granted his request by writing one or two
passages of the Koran on a slip of paper. He was not satisfied with
this, but begged of me, in addition, tobacco for his pipe, some of the
strong kind my friends in Tebriz had presented me with. "Seid," I said,
"I give it to thee willingly, but thou art used to the mild tobacco of
Kurdistan, and I am afraid this will make thee sick." As he kept on
insisting, I was obliged to let him have some. He filled his pipe
lighted it, but hardly had he taken a few puffs at it when he was,
seized by a violent attack of dizziness, became dreadfully pale and had
a fit of vomiting. The Seid rushed, screaming, into the yard and
shouted: "Help, help, Shi-ites; the Sunnite has poisoned me." I ran
after him as fast as I could, and when I overtook him I found him lying
on his back surrounded by a small group of Persians. If my eloquence had
not been equal to the task of persuading the bystanders of my innocence,
I should have fared badly.
While yet at a distance of several hours from _Zendjan_ I was joined by
a Persian man, who, judging by his appearance, seemed to belong to the
learned class. He addressed me, to my surprise, at once as Effendi,
although I had never set my eyes on him before. He was very talkative,
like most Persians, and discoursed about a thousand things in the course
of half an hour. He introduced himself to me as a physician who was just
returning from his visits to his patients in the neighbourhood. Very
soon he was overtaken by his servant leading a mule so heavily laden
that it well-nigh sank beneath the weight of its load. The poor beast
was carrying the fees collected in kind by the physician, such as dried
fruit, corn and so forth. This loquacious disciple of Æsculap dwelt,
during the whole time, upon the miraculous cures he had accomplished,
and gave vent to his unbounded astonishment at the impudence of the
Frengis (Europeans) who dared to appear as physicians in the home of
_Ali Ben Sina_ (Avicenna). He unceasingly dilated upon the efficiency of
his amulets and talismans, and how he had driven devils out of his
patients, made the dumb speak, the blind see and the deaf hear. When we
reached the town my head fairly ached with the man's incessant flow of
speech.
Along the road leading to the caravansary I observed a great many black
flags hoisted upon tall poles. We were in the first ten days of the
month of Moharrem, during which period the Islamite world abstains from
every kind of merry-making. But the Shi-ites begin the doleful feast one
month sooner; everybody arrays himself in mourning, fasts, and employs
his time in the recital of elegies and in visiting the _Tazies_. The
black flags marked the places where the performances were to take place.
At that time, a celebrated singer was everywhere spoken of, who had won
great distinction in the part of _Ali Ekber_, and who was to perform on
that very day in the Tazie of the governor. I was burning with
impatience to witness a Tazie, and I had hardly arrived at the
caravansary when I determined to start at once. I joined the populace,
and was carried by the stream of people into the court of the governor.
There in the centre stood an elevated platform, a little above two yards
high, around which, upon poles of considerable height, were suspended
tiger and panther skins, black flags, shields of steel and skin, and
bare swords, interspersed with here and there a lamp, to light up the
evening performance. This was the stage. The women were seated on the
right side of the court, and the men were gathering on the opposite
side. The governor himself (who had the Tazie performed) and his family,
surrounded by the prominent men of the town, looked at the spectacle
from the second story. Everything was wrapped in deep mourning, every
face wore an expression of indescribable sadness and dejection.
The Tazie represents the tragic history of Hussein, of which a short
outline will be here in place. After the death of Mohammed, he having
designated no one as his successor, the faithful divided into two camps.
The larger portion thought Abubekr, the oldest companion and follower
of the Prophet, most worthy of the succession, whilst the minority
endeavoured to place Ali upon the throne, guided by the strength of
those words uttered by Mohammed: "Even as I am lord, so is Ali lord,
too." But Ali's party was vanquished. After Abubekr came Osman, and the
latter was succeeded by Omar. Ali's partisans, however, did not despair
of their cause; they made several attempts to seat him on the throne,
and after the death of Omar, Ali actually became Caliph. His reign was
of short duration; his enemies, at whose head the Prophet's widow
herself stood, had him assassinated. His sad vicissitudes, cruel
sufferings and tragic end only increased the number of his followers; he
was mourned as a martyr and almost deified. He had nine wives, but of
these mention is made only of Fatima, the Prophet's most beloved
daughter, who bore Ali two sons, Hassan and Hussein. The right of
succession was claimed by Hussein. The latter, upon one occasion, was
going from Mecca to the town of Kuffa, at the invitation of its
inhabitants, who were his partisans. He was accompanied by those of his
followers who expatriated themselves from Mecca. On the banks of the
Tigris, in the middle of the desert, they were suddenly attacked by
hostile bands, sent against them by Yezid, and every one of them cruelly
massacred. This catastrophe is commemorated, in Persia, by numberless
mournful and plaintive songs and theatrical exhibitions, called
_Tazies_.
Just before the Tazie commenced, a ragged and, from excessive indulgence
in opium, rather rickety-looking dervish stepped upon the platform,
crying: "Ya Muminin!" (Oh! you true believers), and in an instant the
utmost stillness prevailed. He now engaged in a long prayer, lauding the
perfections and brave deeds of the Shi-ite great, and then enumerating
in exaggerated language the sins and wickedness of the Sunnites, and in
mentioning the names of some distinguished Sunnite men, he exclaimed,
with a fury bordering on madness: "Brethren, ought we not to curse them,
ought we not to call down damnation upon their heads? I tell you, a
curse upon the three dogs, the three usurpers, Abubekr, Omar and Osman!"
There he paused, waiting for the effect of his words on the assembled
multitude. The whole multitude expressed their approval of his curses
and anathemas by loud cries of "Bishbad, bishbad!" (More even than that,
more even than that!) The dervish went on cursing Ayesha, the Prophet's
wife, Moavie, Yezid and all the distinguished foes to Shi-itism, pausing
at the name of each, and the audience roared out every time "Bishbad!" A
speech by the same person, glorifying the Shah, the present Ulemas of
Persia and the Governor, followed the cursing, at the end of which he
descended from the platform and hurried amongst the audience to gather
in a substantial reward for the zeal he had shown. This was the
prologue. Shortly afterwards several persons clad in ample flowing robes
made their appearance on the stage, singing elegies now in solos, now in
chorus, in order to move the hearts of the hearers and prepare their
minds for the coming play. Imam Hussein comes now upon the stage; he is
on his way to Kuffa, in the very heart of the desert, and accompanied by
his family and a small band of faithful followers. They are all horribly
suffering from want of water, and Hussein is endeavouring to assuage the
woes of his family, caused by their tantalizing thirst, by words of
comfort and encouragement. Meanwhile a throne is rising in the
background, the throne of Yezid, Hussein's enemy, seated upon which is
Yezid herself, in all the pride of pomp, distributing orders of the most
cruel nature against Hussein and his friends amongst her mailed and
warlike followers. Ali Ekber, the youngest child of Hussein, is so moved
at the sight of the sad plight in which his parents and sisters and
brothers are, that he determines to fetch them water from the Tigris,
although he well knows that the enemy is lurking everywhere. His parents
and their friends dissuade him from this enterprise, in the tenderest
language, their voices attuned to the emotions of love and anxiety for
his safety. There was something really affecting in the beseeching tones
of the weeping mother and in the prayers of the father, and the sobs of
Hussein and his little band could hardly be heard on account of the
sympathizing howling round about. The women, in particular, wept so
bitterly that I could catch, at rare intervals, only here and there a
word of the beautiful and deeply affecting dialogue.
But Ali Ekber remains firm in his resolve; his mother swoons away but
soon recovers; she wishes to see her son become a hero and utters
prayers for his safety. His own father girds on his sword, and he mounts
his steed on the spot, and rides around the stage a couple of times. He
is immediately pursued by one of Yezid's band, a powerful warrior, who,
in pursuit, is not sparing of the most violent outbreaks against the
persecuted youth. The struggle grows heated, the scene interesting, and
the interest more and more intense. The brave youth is at last
overtaken, blow falls after blow, and Ali Ekber's blood is flowing from
numerous wounds. Groans and shrieks of despair from Ali Ekber's family
and followers, who, watching the event of the fight with bated breath,
perceive the awful finale. He sinks to the ground and is carried, half
dead, to the front of the stage. At this moment, when father, mother,
sisters and brothers with loud wailings precipitate themselves upon the
yawning wounds of the unhappy youth, shedding into them their tears
instead of balm, the moaning, groaning and shrieks of spectators rise to
the highest pitch. Women beat their breasts, and everybody, as a mark of
sorrow, strews dust and chopped straw, instead of ashes, upon his head.
The spectators are indeed so carried away with the play, that I doubt if
there be anywhere in Europe a tragedian capable of producing a similar
effect upon his audience. At the sight of his dying son, Hussein's wrath
knows no bounds, and vowing vengeance, he, too, vaults into the saddle,
but is hotly pressed by Shamr, one of Yezid's knights, and killed. His
dead body is brought forward, and at the sight of it the multitude break
out afresh into never-ending lamentations and weeping. They place him
beside his son, and they are covered with black mourning shawls. At last
a general massacre ensues, and every member of Hussein's family is
killed. There they all lie stark dead, stretched out on the floor, and
the pious spectators are so filled with holy horror that they dare not
lift their eyes to look at the appalling spectacle on the stage--the
performers leave the stage, and there is an end to the tragedy.
The other piece which followed represented a biblical scene--Abraham
being about to sacrifice his son Isaac. This, too, was acted with
considerable fidelity. After the old patriarch has patiently listened to
God's command to the end, he seizes his child, kisses him, hugs him to
his breast and finally ties him and lays him upon the altar. He then
draws his sword, places the edge of his sword upon the child's bare
throat, and just as he is about to cut the boy's throat, an angel of the
Lord appears with two lambs. Isaac starts up from the altar and Abraham
kills, in his place, the two lambs, which afford afterwards a succulent
supper to the comedians. I was particularly struck with the grave
demeanour and cleverness of the child-performers. There were some
amongst them not above six years old, who knew their parts, amounting to
a couple of hundred lines, perfectly well by heart. Their mimic acting
and gestures were quite unexceptionable, too. The parts are always sung
by the performers, and there were some actors who sang, especially the
mournful parts, with such true expression and skill that the most
delicate ear and the severest artistic sensibility would be gratified in
hearing them.
Such and similar are the subjects of the Tazie. The performance and its
getting up, of course, vary very much, according to the person at whose
expense it takes place. The finest Tazies I saw were those performed at
the court of Teheran, to which, however, usually, no strangers, except
the members of the Turkish Embassy, are invited. As their guest I had an
opportunity to go and see it with them, and the splendour displayed
there is something not easily to be forgotten. All the actors were
wrapped in shawls of the most costly quality; their arms were studded
with genuine diamonds and precious stones, and the handles of their
swords were either gilded or made of solid silver. The acting and the
scenery were perfect; one could almost imagine Yezid, in person, to be
before one's eyes. There is one thing, however, which detracts a great
deal from the illusion of the representation; the female parts must be
assumed by men, as the law of Islam rigidly forbids women to appear in
public places.
IX.
FROM KAZVIN TO TEHERAN.
My next place of destination was _Kazvin_, once the capital of Iran.
There is not at present, however, a trace left of its ancient grandeur.
The finely cultivated and luxuriant gardens in the suburbs were objects
of great interest to me, and I lost so much time in their observation
that it was already late at night when I entered the caravansary. I set
down my luggage and immediately went off to purchase the necessary
articles of food, but found, to my great surprise, all the shops closed.
After half an hour's fruitless search I was compelled to retire to my
cell hungry and worn-out with the fatigues of a whole day's travelling.
In my vain attempts to procure some food I invariably received the same
answer: "To-morrow will be the anniversary day of Hussein's death; the
Shi-ites are good Mussulmans, and much too devout to carry on their
business on the day on which Hussein and the other saints suffered so
much." There was nothing left to me but to have recourse to begging;
but the scanty alms one can obtain from the close-fisted Persian are by
no means sufficient to satisfy the tremendous appetite of a traveller.
On the following morning I succeeded in buying, under the seal of the
profoundest secrecy, of a man who was not a shopkeeper, some bread and
boiled rice. I hastened back to the caravansary and persuaded my
travelling companion to leave at once. As we were advancing through the
bazaar, towards the gate of the town, we were met by a funeral and
atoning procession--such as on this day may be seen everywhere in
Persia, in pursuance of an ancient custom,--trying to excite the
devotion of Believers by their frightful yelling and barbarous
fanaticism. No imagination is equal to the task of picturing the wild
antics in which those who participate in these processions indulge. One
is taking a mad leap, another is striking his chest until blood issues
from his mouth, a third is cutting up his body with a sharp knife, in
order to make an impression upon the crowd by his flowing blood. I
withdrew into a corner of the bazaar, waiting until the maddened crowd,
with whose yells the whole neighbourhood resounded, had passed. My
companion informed me that Kazvin--devout Kazvin, as he called
it--distinguished itself on this day amongst all other towns in Persia
by the death of at least two persons, out of devotion for Hussein. I
readily believed him, for the scenes which transpire here on the tenth
day of Moharrem vividly recall the self-mutilations of the Indians,
inspired by religious fanaticism, or that scene in Egypt when on the day
of Bairam men lie down upon the ground, in front of the mosque, to be
trampled upon by the hoofs of the chief priest's well-fed horse.
The heat of the day compelled us to travel by night, and we were
favoured in having just then full moon. The only objection I had was
the extreme stillness of the night; I found it unsociable; for although
we met now and then with solitary travellers and smaller caravans,
returning from Teheran, yet we never had any one to join us, and were
obliged to jog on by ourselves. On the third night after our departure
from Kazvin, as we were riding in a flat country, I heard, about night,
voices in the distance, and soon after the steadily approaching clatter
of horses' hoofs. Placing my firearms before me on the saddle head, I
bent forward in order to be able to see and observe better. Three
horsemen brandishing aloft their arms came swooping down upon us.
Holding my pistols ready for firing, I called out to them: "Get out of
the way, or I will shoot you down." Either the strange sound of the
foreign dialect, or our costume, so unlike that of the Persians,
frightened them away and they took to their heels; but although my
companion looked upon the occurrence as a joke, I could not help feeling
uneasy, and had some comfort, on the evening of the following day, in
the certainty that Teheran would be our next station.
I had brought with me several letters of recommendation from prominent
Effendis and Pashas in Constantinople, introducing me to Haider Effendi,
the then Turkish Ambassador in Persia. I was spoken of in these, for the
most part, as an eccentric person who, tired of the idyllic repose of a
quiet life in Constantinople, had set out to look for distraction in the
wilds of Persia. Some laid special stress upon my being led to the East
by the queer idea of studying the Eastern Turkish language; in one word,
they did everything to satisfy Haider Effendi that I was in no way
connected with politics, but a mere dreamer, worthy of his patronage.
Haider Effendi had, besides, the reputation of being an affable, kind
and straightforward man, and I felt convinced of a friendly reception
at the Turkish Embassy, where I intended putting up.
I was thinking of this as I came up to the banks of a small brook called
_Keretch_. I found there a large crowd of travellers, some preparing for
their ablutions, others engaged in prayer on the banks. It was a cool
summer's morning, a sure indication of excessive heat during the day. My
curiosity to see the capital of Iran gave me no rest. I quickly washed
myself in the clear water of the brook, and, greatly to the disgust of
my companion, who wished to rest here for another half-hour, immediately
mounted my horse, and started in the direction of the capital. I
repeatedly asked, "Where is Teheran?" for I saw no indication of it. My
companion's stolid answer always remained the same: "There," he said,
pointing with his finger onward. In vain I exerted my sight, I could not
discover the city. At last the gray mass of fog which hovered over it
caught my eyes, and there was Teheran spread along the sloping base of a
mountain. We were but half an hour's distance from it. The fog soon gave
way to the rising sun. I got a glimpse first of roofs covered with green
glazed tiles, then of gilded cupolas, and at last the panorama of the
whole town unrolled before my eyes--I was at the gate of the seat of
government of the "King of Kings," as the Shah calls himself.
I had now been serving an apprenticeship of two months to the art of
travelling, and but for having got thinner, darker and considerably
speckled in the face, I had every reason to be satisfied with the state
of my health, which had successfully resisted so far the by no means
slight fatigues of Asiatic caravan travelling on miserable nags.
X.
IN TEHERAN.
The wall upon which Teheran and its inhabitants rely for their
protection is built of mud, but it is nevertheless talked about by the
Persians, with their usual exaggeration, as an impregnable wall of solid
rock. I rode into the capital of Iran through a narrow gate in this
wall, and had to push my way through the throng of pedestrians, horsemen
and laden mules that were crossing the narrow, irregular and crooked
streets. After protracted inquiry I succeeded in finding the palace of
the Turkish Embassy, but it was empty; its occupants were gone. The
soldiers mounting guard informed me that the entire _personnel_ of the
Embassy, following the fashion of the upper classes here, were living in
the country, in a village called _Djizer_, at the foot of the
neighbouring mountains, where the air was cooler and more bearable than
that of the capital.
I was rather pleased with this news, for one day's experience was
sufficient to convince me that Teheran was almost uninhabitable during
the summer months, owing to the intolerable heat and a stifled
atmosphere choked with noxious miasmas. The new-comer feels immediately
the effects of these miasmas for I could hardly eat anything on the day
of my arrival. Towards evening the air became somewhat cooler, and as I
had parted with my fellow-traveller from Tebriz, and consequently with
my nag, too, I was obliged to hire an ass, in order to accomplish my
trip to _Djizer_, which was about two hours' distance off. It was late
in the evening when I arrived. The members of the Embassy were just then
taking their supper beneath a tent of silk, in the garden. I was
received by them with a cordiality exceeding my most sanguine
expectations, and immediately invited to join them at their meal. Haider
Effendi and his secretaries, the latter of whom had known me slightly in
Constantinople, looked at me as if I had dropped from the sky; and if
everybody in Persia, even the Persians themselves, are pleased to listen
to accounts about Constantinople, one can easily imagine with what
eagerness I was listened to by Turks, and especially by people from
Constantinople. There was no end to all sorts of questions and
inquiries. I had to tell them about the government of the new Sultan,
and a thousand other things, and spoke, of course, as in duty bound, of
the heavenly beauties of the Bosphorus, until it was midnight. When I
told them of the journey I contemplated, the kind-hearted Osmanlis only
stared at me. They could not conceive how a sensible man should wish to
go to Central Asia, a region spoken of, even in Persia, as the dreadful
desert and the dwelling-place of all that is most savage and barbarous.
The ambassador in chief was foremost in condemning my plan as eccentric.
"First of all," he said, "stay with us for a couple of months, and then
we will talk about your travels in Central Asia. Take first a good look
at Persia, and it will be time enough afterwards to proceed on your
journey." He evidently thought that I should gladly renounce, in the
meantime, my adventurous schemes.
In order that I might fully recover from the fatigues of the journey,
the good Osmanlis surrounded me with every imaginable comfort. I was put
into a tent by myself and provided with a horse and a servant; in short,
I was transferred from a poor traveller into a great lord. I was thus
placed in a position to study at my leisure Teheran, the capital of
Iran.
The first thing the stranger is struck with is the utter want of
cleanliness in the streets, as well as in the interior of the houses.
The Persian covers the large unfurnished halls--what we should term
drawing-rooms--of his house with costly carpets, and decorates its walls
with rich ornaments, but the kitchen, the room he lives in, and the
pantry are most shamefully neglected by him. It is the same with his
dress. A person who will spend from fifty to a hundred gold pieces for
his outer garments is rarely the owner of more than two or three shirts.
Soap is looked upon as an article of luxury, being hardly ever used, and
I have met with Khans of high social standing and refinement who made
use of their servants' pocket-handkerchiefs. The henna-painting,
however, is that which renders every Persian grandee particularly
loathsome, in spite of his outward splendour and rich dress. Henna is a
yellow powder obtained from a plant called _Lawsonia inermis_, which, by
being dissolved in water, furnishes a red dye of brick-colour. With this
henna they dye their fine black beards and their very eyes red, the
colour of bricks. Persons of standing also dye with henna their
finger-nails and hands. The coat of paint hides the dirt; and a
gentleman or lady, having made use of it, can afford to do without
washing for several days.