morning when I found the good doctor waiting for me. His curiosity did
not allow him to wait until I came. I continued the old game with him at
first, but finally I dropped the mask, and told him who I was. The
delight of the doctor was great, and we embraced as if we had been two
brothers. "I immediately thought you were a European," he said, "but
your Persian talk made me doubt of it." He inquired about Teheran and
his acquaintances there, and insisted, after we had been talking for
some time, upon my gathering up my things and following him to his
dwelling, in order to remain his guest as long as I desired it. To my
Persian friends I pretended that I made my stay with the doctor in order
to receive instructions in alchemy from him, a science which he was
known to have cultivated before, and, besides, my living with him seemed
less strange to them from the fact of Europeans in Shiraz living
entirely in Persian fashion. I passed six of the pleasantest weeks at
his hospitable house. I chiefly employed my time in studying the
customs, manners and modes of life of the interesting inhabitants of
Shiraz. The most striking feature about them is their extreme
excitability and irritability. Everybody, without exception, carries a
two-edged curved poniard in his girdle, and is ready to make use of it
on the slightest provocation or difference of opinion. Nor is there
another city in Persia where so many lives are taken in such a careless
manner. Once I was witnessing a richly dressed Persian walking
superciliously along the narrow side walk of the bazaar whilst another
Persian came from the opposite direction. The latter, in his hurry, did
not know exactly which side to take in order to pass the former, and,
as is usually the case on such an occasion, danced before the irate
Persian from right to left. The latter, who evidently belonged to the
better classes, drew his poniard without another word, and mortally
stabbed the innocent man. This happened in broad daylight, in the
presence of thousands of people; it may thus be easily imagined what
frightful things are occurring in the darkness and seclusion of night.
The dreadful cases one daily hears of make one's blood curdle; but the
punishment dealt out by the Government is not a whit behind these
atrocities in their extreme ferocity. To have the belly split open, the
limbs maimed, and to be torn to pieces by horses are, by no means,
unusual punishments, and once it happened that the governor caused four
culprits to be buried together in a pit and had burning lime poured over
them afterwards.
One day, in the company of my kind host, I visited the grave of _Saadi_,
the celebrated poet and moralist. It stands in a secluded gorge of the
valley, and over it is a very fine building erected by _Kerim Khan_ and
surrounded by a little garden kept in excellent order. Mounting several
steps, we first passed through sundry minor chambers, until we came to a
large open hall, in the centre of which rose a marble sarcophagus,
bearing masterly inscriptions in Arabic. In the water-basin of the
garden there used formerly to be fish, and it is said that the
enthusiastic visitors of Saadi's grave would hang golden rings on them,
to steal which was looked upon as the greatest sacrilege. There is a
small village in the neighbourhood of the grave called _Saadi_ in honour
of the great poet, and a gate in the city, looking towards the grave,
bearing the name of _Dervazi Saadi_ (Saadi's gate), as well as a bridge,
christened _Pul Saadi_; which are all evidence of the veneration in
which he is held to this day. But this great poet and scholar is an
object of veneration not only to the people of Persia but to every
Mohammedan in the Asiatic world. His _Gulistan_ (Grove of Roses, the
title of his book) is read with admiration and rapture in the middle of
China as well as on the extremest borders of Africa. Wherever schools
are attended by Mohammedan youths, there the Gulistan is sure to form
the basis of instruction. European scholars have long since appreciated
and admired the undying freshness of his style, his brilliant language
and his witty and telling similitudes. In one of the chambers of the
mausoleum I came across a respectable-looking grey-headed man, whose
clean garb and mild aspect formed a strange contrast to the dervish's
hat, denoting his calling. With engaging good humour he hastened to
address me, and I learned in the course of conversation that he was a
native of India, and that, prompted by his veneration for Saadi, he had
resigned his rank and given up his wealth at home, in order to pass the
remaining days of his life at the tomb of the great man. It is known
that Saadi was a dervish himself, but unlike the majority of that tribe
who assume the _Khirka_ (dervish's garb) in furtherance of their own
worldly aims, Saadi went roving about for thirty years meeting with
numerous adventures during his wanderings. He was, in turn, a servant, a
slave, a lord and celebrated scholar; and he even assumed the religion
of the worshippers of Vishnu, in order to extend and increase his
knowledge of all things. He despised wealth and the favour of princes,
and sought his only happiness in--as the Orientals metaphorically
express it--"perforating with the diamond of his soul the precious
stones of his experiences, and after gathering them on the string of
eloquence, hanging them for a talisman around the neck of posterity."
The grave of Hafiz, standing in a larger cemetery, may be seen not far
from Saadi's mausoleum. The site of his grave is marked by a monument of
white marble erected by Kerim Khan, and the inscription carved upon it
is a verse from his own book, the Divan. I frequently visited the grave,
and, to my astonishment, found at times a merry carousing company seated
about it, drinking their wine; at other times it was surrounded by
penitent pilgrims. The former look upon Hafiz as their great master in a
life of carelessness and jollity; the latter consider him a saint and
come here to beseech him to intercede for them. Some sing his songs
while the cheering cup is going the rounds, whilst others deem his book
as holy as the Koran itself. When any one wishes to read the fate in
store for him, he opens at random either Hafiz or the Koran, reciting
the following verses:
Ei Hafizi Shirazi,
Ber men nazr endazi,
Men talibi yek falem,
Tu Kashifi her razi.
(Oh Hafiz, of Shiraz, cast one look upon me; of thee I wish to learn my
future fate, for thou art the discoverer of all secrets); and having
done his invocation, he studies the page before him, construing its text
into a prophecy of good or bad fortune.
I had passed three months in Shiraz, and was so much pleased with the
city that I began to turn over in my mind the propriety of spending the
winter in the genial climate of Shiraz rather than in Teheran, and going
afterwards, when spring came, through Yezd and Tebbes to Khorassan. But
the arrival in Shiraz of two European travellers upset all my plans in
that direction. One of them was Count Rochechouart, a member of the
French Embassy in Teheran, who was travelling with a view to studying
the commercial condition of Persia, and the other the Marquis of Doria,
a distinguished member of the extraordinary Italian Embassy which came
to Persia at the same time that I did, travelling in pursuit of
zoological and botanical knowledge. Upon their arrival these
distinguished foreigners were received and feasted by the authorities.
After the official receptions were over, Dr. Fagergreen, my excellent
Swedish friend, invited them to his house, and the table spread before
his European guests literally groaned under everything that was good and
savoury produced beneath the southern skies of Persia. The doctor's face
beamed with inward satisfaction as he rose, glass in hand, to propose a
toast in honour of the three nations represented by the guests sitting
at his hospitable board. The good man was happiest if he could entertain
a European traveller in his house, and overwhelmed him on such occasions
with kindness. I had met such a friendly reception and generous
treatment at the hands of the kind-hearted doctor, he had proved such an
unselfish friend to me, that I became quite attached to him. I therefore
received with feelings of keen regret the invitation of Count
Rochechouart to accompany him to Teheran, where he was soon going,
leaving behind him his Italian fellow-traveller, the Marquis, who
intended to prolong his stay in Shiraz in order to enjoy its unrivalled
climate. Yet I was bound to accede to the French nobleman's proposal,
although it involved an immediate separation from my friend, as I was
nearly destitute of everything, and expected to derive some advantages
from making the journey back in his company. I had come here in the
guise of a begging dervish, and here was a chance to go back as a
European traveller, sharing in all the comforts at the disposal of a
gentleman travelling in an affair of state and representing His Majesty
the Emperor of France. I did not waver long; my mind was soon made up.
The Count remained in Shiraz three days longer in order to attend to
some matters, and at their expiration we were to return, in forced
marches, to Teheran.
On the day of my departure I went to take leave of my generous friend,
Dr. Fagergreen. I found him still in his bedroom in the upper storey of
his house. Our conversation frequently turned upon the probability of
our ever meeting again, and whenever I happened to touch upon my
Turkestan journey the tears would start to his eyes. I was deeply moved
by this heartfelt, genuine sympathy. I had to leave; I embraced him for
the last time; I seized his hand to give it a last hearty shake; but at
the very moment I received a shock as if the whole house were falling. I
glanced at my friend's face--it was pale as death. "Quick, for the love
of God," he cried; "let us call my wife and children, there will be an
earthquake. The earthquakes in Shiraz are awful, especially if the
shocks begin early in the morning."
We quickly collected his wife and children, and as we came down the
narrow staircase into the small yard, we heard an underground noise
approaching us with a hollow roar, as if the bowels of the earth were
about to open at our feet. The second shock was much more violent than
the first had been. The high walls and the surrounding edifices began to
totter from side to side with a loud creaking sound, and whilst I was
looking up to the sky, the cry of "Yah Allah! Yah Allah!" piercing to
the very marrow, was heard from every part of the town. The inhabitants
of Shiraz know but too well the frightful consequences of this elemental
catastrophe, and the stoutest heart may well quail at the deep roar in
the womb of the earth, at the cries of distress above, the very birds
fluttering about scared and helpless. For a few moments we stood still,
completely paralysed with fright. My host was the first to regain his
composure; he turned to me and said: "We are here in a very narrow
place. If this wall happens to come down we shall all be buried beneath
it. Take my wife and children to the nearest larger place. I shall
remain here for the mob is apt to take advantage of the general fright
to rob and plunder the house." I wished to reply, but the doctor
silenced me with a beseeching look, and taking hold of his trembling
wife and children, I left without saying another word. We passed through
a narrow alley crowded with pale and frightened people. The open space
which we reached in a few moments presented a harrowing picture of
distress and misery. Women and children were lying on the ground,
fainting, screaming and tearing their hair. Others were running to and
fro half clad or without any clothing on, as if they had just come out
of their baths. A few minutes had sufficed to deprive the whole city of
its senses. Amidst all this crying and screaming a couple of mollahs
(priests) went about continually repeating that the Frengis sojourning
in the city had brought on it this calamity. I began to entertain fears
for the safety of my friend, and retraced my steps as fast as I could.
As I reached the yard I observed the birds flying about and flapping
their wings in a restless and wild manner, which was a sure forerunner
of another shock. And indeed very soon we heard the deep roar which
usually precedes a violent thunderstorm. The earth shook beneath our
feet, and as the shocks came nearer and nearer to the place where we
were standing, the shock became so powerful that in spite of all our
efforts we lost our equilibrium, and, trying to steady one another,
sank together to the ground. I heard a frightful crash, and in another
second I had the sensation of water rolling over me, and thought my last
moment had come. This was the worst shock; a portion of the wall had
given way, and the water which had passed over our bodies came from a
neighbouring water-tank. Trembling and frightened, I looked round to see
if the building did not threaten to come down on our heads. In this
moment of despair the shout of the infuriated mob, "The Frengis are
unclean," reached our ears, followed by savage curses, and it seemed as
if the mob intended to take the house by storm. "To arms!" cried my
friend, but who would have had the courage to enter a house which
threatened to come down at any moment? We paused and looked at each
other, and then with one accord rushed into the house, returning
immediately armed with rifles and pistols. We had now to defend
ourselves both against the rage of the elements and the wickedness of
man.
These moments will remain for ever engraved in my memory. Suddenly we
heard a loud report, and soon after saw dense clouds of dust rising in
the air. Fortunately for us a building in the neighbourhood had fallen
down and scattered the savage mob. Before long the whole neighbourhood
became quiet. We did not feel another shock, but the whole city was
wrapped in a dense cloud of dust. The very mountains, lying to the
south, had been cleft in twain by these shocks which hurled down their
precipitous sides huge blocks of stone and rocks, with a noise like
thunder. Seeing that half an hour had passed without a renewal of the
shocks, I picked up courage enough to leave the house.
The destruction in the city had been much too cruel for any pen to be
able to present a picture of its terrible details. I met Count
Rochechouart in the street; with an anxious face he urged our immediate
departure. The leave-taking from my friend was short but affectionate.
Along the streets the huge cracks and fissures in the walls were yawning
at us, as we went on; to the right and to the left--everywhere--nothing
but desolation and misery were to be seen, whilst an expression of
indescribable discouragement and mute resignation was brooding over the
countenances of the people whom we met on our way. Our hearts yearned
towards these unfortunates in their present sad plight, but it was,
nevertheless, a feeling of relief to find ourselves, after passing
through the gates of the city, in the open air again, where our
fellow-travellers were awaiting our arrival. Outside there was an
immense crowd; those who had run to the open country for safety were
watching, with sinking hearts, for those members of their families who
had been left behind in the city, and in their unreasoning distress
inquired of us, who were perfect strangers to them, if we knew anything
about their whereabouts. Words cannot tell with what profound
satisfaction I descried at last Tenghi Allah Ekber, the spot from which
I had on my arrival admired the romantic situation of Shiraz. Ten years
before Shiraz had been visited by an earthquake far more calamitous than
the last. There is a legend amongst the people that years and years ago
the present site of Shiraz was covered by the waters of a lake, called
Deryai Nemek, _i.e._, the Salt Lake, lying to the east of it, and that
the city is doomed to final destruction by this very lake, which will
overwhelm it with its tide on the Day of Resurrection. We returned, in
forced marches, by the same way on which, three months ago, I had
wearily plodded on at the slow pace of caravan travelling. The journey
was enlivened by the fascinating conversation of the noble Count and,
now and then, by the chase of a herd of gazelles. The Persian horsemen,
riding in front, descried them with lynx-eyed quickness, and the
fast-running hounds were not long in overtaking them. At times, on our
coming to a city, solemn receptions were prepared for us, and, on such
occasions, there was no end of complimenting, sweetmeats, and feasting.
I came back to Teheran at last, in the middle of January, 1863.
XVI.
PREPARATIONS FOR MY JOURNEY TO CENTRAL ASIA.
I made it of course my first duty in Teheran to revisit the hospitable
circle of my patrons. Here I learned that the war in Herat was at an
end, and that, therefore, another obstacle to the carrying out of my
programme was cleared away. It has always been customary for the Turkish
Embassy to give some assistance to the hadjis (persons who have visited
the holy tomb of Mohammed) and to dervishes going every year from
Bokhara, Khiva and Khokand, through Persia, to the Turkish Empire. This
is a great boon to the poor Sunnite mendicants, who have no chance of
ever getting a farthing from the Persian Shi-ites. As a consequence the
palace of the Embassy had annually to entertain guests from far-off
Turkestan, and upon these occasions I took particular pleasure in having
the wild and ragged Tartars come to my room, where I contrived to learn
of them a good deal about their country that was interesting. They were
quite overwhelmed by my courtesy, and it soon became a familiar
saying at the caravansary where these people used to put up, that Haidar
Effendi, the Ambassador of the Sultan, was a man possessing a generous
heart, but that Reshid Effendi (your humble servant's assumed name) was
something more than that, for he treated the dervishes like brothers,
and most likely was, in secret, a dervish himself.
[Illustration: MAKING FRIENDS WITH THE TARTARS.]
It was nothing to be wondered at, therefore, since I enjoyed such a
reputation, that the dervishes should have called first upon me before
asking to be admitted to the presence of the Ambassador-in-chief who
frequently would not receive them. Many a time it was through my
intercession alone that they were able to obtain assistance in money, or
to have some other requests granted. In this way it happened that four
hadjis came to see me on the 20th of March, and asked me to introduce
them to the Turkish Embassy before whom they desired to lay their
complaints against the Persians for levying upon them, on their return
from Mecca, the Sunnite tax, the collection of which had been prohibited
long ago by the Sultan, a prohibition since ratified by the Shah of
Persia. "We do not come to ask money of the Sultan's great ambassador,"
said they, "we only wish to ensure that henceforth our Sunnite
countrymen shall not be compelled to pay a tax on visiting the holy
places." These unselfish words from the lips of an Oriental rather
puzzled me; I subjected my guests to a closer scrutiny and discovered in
them, in spite of the savage expression of their faces, their neglected
exterior and the shabbiness of their dress, a certain natural nobility
which did not fail to enlist my sympathies. Their spokesman, as a rule,
was a hadji from Chinese Tartary, or Eastern Turkestan, as it is
actually called; he wore over his tattered garments a new green _djubbe_
(an upper garment of cloth) and on his head a white turban of gigantic
size. His eyes sparkled with vivacity, and his superiority over the rest
of his companions became more and more apparent in the course of the
interview. He introduced himself as the Imam (court priest) of the
governor of Aksu, one of the provinces of Chinese Tartary, and as a
double hadji, having visited twice the holy tomb, and declared that he
and his three companions present were the avowed chiefs of a
hadji-caravan consisting of twenty-four men. "Our company," he added,
"is composed of the young and the old, of the rich and the poor, of the
lettered and the unlettered, yet we live in the utmost harmony with each
other, for we are all natives of Khokand and Kashgar (the names
frequently used to designate the whole of Chinese Tartary), and have no
Bokhariotes vipers of humanity amongst us."
The interview had lasted for about an hour, and the frank and open
manner of the men deepened the favourable impression they had made upon
me at the outset. Although the characteristic features of their race,
their careless and shabby attire, and the effects of the miseries of a
long and fatiguing journey, all combined to give them a wild, almost
repulsive appearance; yet throughout the whole interview my mind was
busy with the question of the feasibility of undertaking my travels in
Central Asia in the company of these very pilgrims. I was thinking that
being natives they would be the best guides I could possibly obtain, and
it was something to be known to them as Reshid Effendi, and to have been
seen by them as such at the Turkish Embassy. I did not hesitate long and
told them of my intention to join their caravan. Of course, I was
prepared for their putting questions to me about the purposes of my
journey, and I was equally clear in my mind that it would be both idle
and injurious to tell these men of the scientific researches I had in
view. They would have thought it ridiculous for an Effendi, a gentleman,
to expose himself to untold dangers for the sake of some ideal object,
and indeed might have entertained all sorts of suspicions against me had
I told them the truth. I had to resort to a subterfuge which both
flattered my guests and advanced my interests. I told them that my soul
had been harbouring for a long time the secret but most ardent wish to
visit Turkestan (the only country abounding in genuine Islamite virtues)
and the saints of Khiva, Samarkand and Bokhara. "This longing desire," I
continued, "had brought me from Roum (Turkey), and now after having
waited for a year in Persia for a favourable opportunity to gratify it,
I had reason to thank God for having sent me, at length, such men as
they were, in whose company I could continue my journey and attain the
most cherished object of my life."
It was an extraordinary struggle I had to overcome in inventing this
pretext, but I sought in vain for another means. My long experience with
Orientals of many countries and of various ranks had fully convinced me
of the utter uselessness of a straightforward confession of my purposes.
I knew that with these simple and ignorant men science and curiosity
must be discredited as the chief motors of my errand, and that all my
oratorical power would fail to convince them of the possibility that a
man living under the patronage of a high official of the Sultan was
ready to undergo all the hardships and perils of a distant journey, for
the sake of philological inquiries and for ethnographical discoveries.
Hard and reluctant as it was, I had to resort to subterfuge, and to
assume in their eyes a moral as well as a physical incognito.
The good Tartars looked at me and at each other in amazement after I
had done speaking. Finally they confessed that they had long ago thought
me to be a secret dervish, but that now they were convinced of the truth
of their surmises. They declared that they were highly pleased with the
distinction I was about to confer upon them by deeming them worthy of my
company. Their spokesman Hadji Bilal said: "We are all of us ready to be
not only thy friends, but thy servants, but I must call to thy mind that
the roads of Turkestan are not so safe as those of Persia and Turkey.
Often along our roads we do not see a house for weeks, nor can we get a
piece of bread, or even a drop of water. Besides this, we are kept in
constant fear of being killed, made prisoners and sold into slavery, or
buried by the sands in a hurricane. Therefore ponder this matter well, O
Effendi! Thou mightest repent the step later, and we should not like
thee to look upon us as the causers of thy misfortune. And, besides,
remember that our countrymen are far behind us in matters of experience
and knowledge of the world, and with all their hospitality are apt to
regard with suspicious eyes every comer from foreign lands. And how wilt
thou return, alone, without us?"