kervanbashi and more prominent merchants of our caravan put off their
departure on account of their own private affairs. They wished to attend
two or three horse fairs at least, the prices of these animals being
very low here. The horses are brought to the fair by the Uzbegs and
Turkomans of the environs, and are carried from here to Herat, Kandahar,
Kabul, and often to India. Horses which I saw sold in Persia for thirty
to forty gold pieces apiece, could be bought here at one hundred to one
hundred and sixty tenghis (a tenghi being about ninepence).
Our road now lay continuously through mountainous regions. Upon reaching
the border of Maimene, we were confronted again by a Yuzbashi,
performing the office of frontier's guard, who levied upon us an
additional toll under the title of whip money, this being the third toll
we had to pay within the Khanate of Maimene. A merchant from Herat to
whom I complained about this extortion, observed to me: "Thank God we
are called upon to pay toll only. In former days travelling in these
parts was most dangerous, for the Khan himself was plundering the
caravans."
A troop of _Djemshidis_ who were sent by the Khan from _Bala Murgab_,
for our protection against predatory tribes through whose territories we
were to pass, joined us at the frontier, forming our escort. I was
informed that our caravan had not been exposed to such imminent danger
as awaited them here during the whole journey from Bokhara. We kept our
eyes open, carefully glancing to the right and left, and cautiously
surveying every little hill we passed. Thus we journeyed on in the
greatest suspense, but it was in all probability owing to the size of
the caravan and its watchfulness that we escaped being attacked.
At the time the caravan left Herat for Bokhara it was spring, and Herat
was then besieged by the Afghans under Dost Mohammed. Six months had
passed since the news of the capture of the city; its pillage and
destruction had reached us long ago, and the intense longing of those of
our caravan who were from Herat to see again their families, friends,
and houses may therefore be easily imagined. We were, nevertheless, made
to wait a whole day at Kerrukh, one of the border villages of Herat,
until the officer of the Customs, who had come already upon us in the
morning, had, in the overbearing and supercilious manner peculiar to the
Afghans, finished making up, with a great deal of ado, an extensive list
of every traveller, animal, and each piece of goods we had with us. I
had imagined Afghanistan to be a country with somewhat of a regular
administration; nay, I had fondly hoped that my sufferings would
terminate here, and that I might dispense henceforth with the
assumption of the character of a dervish. Alas! I was sadly mistaken.
Nowhere had we been treated in such a brutal manner as we were treated
here by the Afghan Customs collectors. We had to pay duty on the very
clothes we wore, with the exception of the shirt. On my ass I had to pay
a duty of six krans, and he who was not able to pay had simply all his
things confiscated.
Towards evening, when the plundering was over, the governor of Kerrukh,
who has the rank of a major, made his appearance in order that he might
examine us. At me he took a good long look, evidently being struck by my
foreign features, and immediately summoned the kervanbashi to make some
whispered inquiries about me. He then called me to come near him, made
me sit down, and treated me with marked politeness. Whilst talking with
me he studiously turned the conversation on Bokhara, smiling always in a
mysterious way as he did so. But I remained faithful to the part I had
assumed. On taking leave he wanted to shake hands with me in the English
fashion, but I anticipated the motion of his hand by raising mine as if
in the act of bestowing a _fatiha_ upon him, whereupon he left me with a
laugh. We were finally allowed to leave Kerrukh, and entered Herat on
the following morning after a toilsome journey of six weeks.
XXVI.
IN HERAT AND BEYOND IT.
The large, flourishing valley, intersected by canals, in the centre of
which the city of Herat is situated, is called _Djolghei-Herat_ (the
Plain of Herat). I saw with surprise how rapidly the wounds inflicted by
war had healed. But two months ago savage Afghan hordes had been camping
in the neighbourhood, trampling down and laying waste everything, and
behold! to-day the fields and vineyards are boasting of their intensest
verdure, and the meadows are covered with a luxuriant sward dotted all
over with field-flowers, making them look like embroidered work.
We entered by the gate of _Dervaze-Irak_ (viz., the Gate of Irak). The
gate itself and the houses surrounding it were one mass of ruins. Not
far from the gate, in the interior of the city, was a lofty
fortification, which, owing to its phenomena, was more particularly
exposed to the hostile missiles, and now there was nothing left of it
but a heap of stones. The wooden framework from door and window was
gone, it having been used up as fuel, of which there was great scarcity
in the city during the siege. In the deserted openings of the houses
were seen naked Afghans and Hindoos squatting, worthy keepers of a city
in ruins. At every step I advanced the desolation became more appalling;
entire quarters of the town were empty and deserted. The bazaar alone,
or rather that part of it covered with the cupola, which has withstood
many a siege, presented an interesting picture of life characteristic of
the confluence of Persia, India, and Central Asia at this place. It was
a wonderful sight to see the astonishing variety of types, complexions,
and costumes amongst Afghans, Hindoos, Turkomans, Persians, and Jews.
The Afghan, whose national costume consists of a shirt, drawers, and a
dirty blanket, assumes sometimes the English red coat, but on his head
he wears the never-failing picturesque Hindoo-Afghan turban. The more
civilized affect in part the Persian dress. Arms are the universal
fashion; private citizens as well as soldiers seldom come to the bazaar
without sword and shield, and persons wishing to look distinguished
carry with them a whole arsenal. The Afghan is both in appearance and
demeanour the rudest and most savage, every one passing him with a great
show of humility, but never did people hate a conqueror more intensely
than those of Herat the Afghan. The surging, variegated crowd before me
was pleasant to look at. There were moments when, seeing Afghan soldiers
in English uniforms and with shakos on their heads, I thought that after
all I was now in a country where I had nothing to fear from Islamite
fanaticism, and that I might drop the mask which had become intolerable
to me. But only for a moment, for upon reflection I could not help
remembering that I was in the East, where appearances are most
deceptive.
As I mentioned before, my purse was quite empty. I tried everything in
my power to procure myself the necessary travelling expenses. I waited
upon the reigning prince, Serdar Mehemmed Yakub Khan, a youth sixteen
years old, and the son of the then king of Afghanistan. The king had
entrusted this youth with the government of the conquered province, he
having had to hasten to Kabul where his own brothers were plotting to
deprive him of his throne. The young prince was residing in a palace
very much battered by the siege. He was dressed in a uniform with a
high-standing collar, and would sit, most of the time, in an arm-chair
at the window: and when wearied with the great number of petitioners
which it was his official duty to receive, he would order military
drills and manœuvres to be executed on the place below his window and
inspect them from there.
As I was stepping into the courtyard of the palace in the company of
Mollah Ishak, the military drill was just at its height. Near the door
of the reception hall a crowd of servants, military men and petitioners
were lounging. Thanks to my huge turban and pilgrim-like appearance
every one made way for me, and I could reach the hall without
interference from anybody. When I stepped into the hall I found the
prince seated as usual in his arm-chair, with the Vizier on his right
side, whilst ranged along the wall were standing other officers,
mollahs, and people from Herat. In front of the prince were the keeper
of the seal and four or five servants. As became my position as a
dervish I entered with the customary salutation, and exciting no sort of
comment by it, I went up straight to the prince, seating myself between
him and the Vizier, after having pushed aside the latter, a stout
Afghan, to make room for me. There was a general laugh at this
intermezzo, but I kept my countenance and immediately raised my hand to
recite my customary prayer. The prince looked at me fixedly during the
prayer. I observed an expression of surprise and hesitation stealing
over his face, and after I had said "Amen," and the whole company
smoothing their beards responded to it, he jumped up from his chair, and
pointing at me with his finger, he exclaimed, laughing and yet half
astonished, "I swear by God, thou art an Englishman!"
A loud burst of laughter followed the original remark of the young
prince, but he, in no wise disconcerted, approached, stood up in front
of me, and then clapping his hands like a child who had guessed right at
something he added, "Let me be thy victim! confess thou art an Ingiliz
in disguise." But I now pretended to act as if the joke had been carried
too far for my forbearance, and said: "_Sahib mekum_ (stop this); dost
thou know the proverb--'he who even in fun takes a true believer to be
an unbeliever, becomes one himself?' Give me rather something for my
_fatiha_ that I may continue my journey." My grave looks and the
citation made by me somewhat perplexed the young prince, and sitting
down again, half ashamed of himself, he excused himself by saying that
he had never seen a dervish from Bokhara with such features. I answered
him that I was not from Bokhara but from Constantinople; and having
shown him as a proof my passport and spoken to him about his cousin
Djelaleddin Khan, who had visited Mecca and Constantinople in 1860 and
met with a most distinguished reception on the part of the Sultan, he
seemed to be perfectly satisfied. My passport passed from hand to hand,
everybody approved of its contents, and the prince giving me a couple
of krans called upon me to visit him again whilst I remained in Herat,
an invitation of which I did not fail to avail myself.[4]
[Footnote 4: It was the same prince who afterwards
succeeded his father Shir Ali Khan upon the throne of
Kabul. In spite of having proved himself at the
beginning of his career to be a valiant soldier, he
nevertheless turned afterwards a cowardly man by
participating in the murder of Sir Louis Cavagnari and
the rest of the English officers who took part in the
British Mission to Kabul.]
Time dragged on heavily while I was waiting for a caravan at Herat, and
I grew very impatient at the delay. There was a sad and depressing air
about the city, terror of the savage conqueror could be read in every
face, and the recent siege and devastation continued to form the
ever-recurring topics of conversation. At length, on the 10th of
November, 1863, I left this entrance-gate to Central Asia, joining a
larger caravan going to Meshed, with which I was to accomplish the
remaining portion of my journey. The caravan consisted of two thousand
persons, half of whom were Hezares from Kabul who, for the most part
poor and miserable, were proceeding with their kith and kin on a
pilgrimage to the shrines of Shi-ite saints. The caravan forming thus a
large body of men, its members were subdivided again into smaller bands.
I was assigned to a troop of Afghans from Kandahar, who were dealing in
furs and indigo, and were conveying these articles of merchandise to
Persia.
I thought that I had emptied the cup of bitter sufferings to the very
dregs during my wandering through Central Asia, but it was reserved for
the journey from Herat to Meshed to convince me that there may be
miseries greater still than those I had already endured. I was utterly
destitute of money, of everything, and to satisfy my daily wants I was
thrown upon the charity of the Afghans and Tadjiks. The Tadjiks were
poor pilgrims, themselves but scantily supplied with the bare
necessaries of life. And as to the Afghans, their known avarice and
meanness of character might give me a dispensation from telling how hard
it was to excite their pity. I fared best when we happened to pitch our
tents near some inhabited village. In such a case my Tartar and I
divided the village between us; I would go in one direction and beg for
wood and fuel, whilst he would go in another begging for bread and
flour, and on meeting again we would exchange parts.
The inhabitants of this region, though very poor themselves, did not
turn a deaf ear to our appeals for charity. With food we were tolerably
supplied, poor and mean as it was in quality; but what caused us the
most terrible suffering was the bitter cold prevailing towards autumn in
this part of the world. Such was the effect of the cold cutting blasts
coming from the north-eastern plains that the intense cold would pierce
through the thickest cloak in which a person might wrap himself; and the
animals themselves came very near being benumbed by it. All the way from
Shebesh until we were two stations from Meshed, I had to pass the night
in the open air, lying on the hard frozen ground, in the ragged dervish
dress which I had on me, and which served the purposes of both pillow
and coverlet. Many a time I would not dare to close my eyes for fear of
freezing to death. I besought the hard-hearted Afghans to let me have
one of their spare horse blankets; with chattering teeth and in a most
piteous voice I vainly appealed for hours together to the cruel
barbarians bundled up in their warm fur skin cloaks. They only jeered at
me, saying, "Dance, hadji, and thou wilt get warm." The high plateaus of
Eastern Persia will for ever rank in my memory with the sand of the
deserts of Central Asia.
Near Kafir-Kale we met with a caravan coming from Meshed. From a member
of this caravan I learned that Colonel Dolmage, an English officer in
the Persian service, an old acquaintance of mine, was still residing in
Meshed, a piece of news which was very welcome to me. Ferimon was the
first village inhabited by Persians, and a warm stable made me forget
the sufferings of many a day past. At length, on the twelfth day after
our departure from Herat, the gilded cupolas of Imam Riza loomed up
before our eyes. We had reached the city of Meshed, for the sight of
which I had been longing.
Besides, in approaching Meshed, there were other motives--motives of
humanity--at play, which quickened my pulse and made my heart beat with
something of the regained dignity of a man who escapes from moral
slavery. In Meshed I was at length to be restored to myself; I was to
fling off, to some extent, the artful disguises with which, in fear of
life, limb and liberty, I had had to surround myself, to discard the
shameful rags which lowered me in my own estimation, to put an end to
the pitiful anxieties to which I had been continually exposed, and last
not least to exchange a life of hardship, discomforts and privations for
one of comparative ease and comfort. Nor did I entertain the usual
fears, which haunted me elsewhere, as to the reception I might meet at
the hands of the authorities; the governor of the province was an
enlightened prince, an uncle of the king of Persia, and under his
auspices the government was conducted, in appearance at least, more in
accordance with European ideas. To all these cheering reflections was
added the hope of meeting and embracing again, after all these weary
wanderings, an old friend of mine--perhaps the solitary European who had
pitched his tent so far east and was now living in Meshed. Under all
these combined impressions the very cupola, under which the mortal
remains of Imam Riza repose, blazing with its resplendent light far into
the outlying country, seemed to me a beacon which was to guide me to a
harbour of safety. I even caught the enthusiasm of the thousands of
people who were flocking to the tomb of the saint, and could almost
imagine myself one of the pilgrims who hail with emotions of unutterable
thankfulness and pious joy the sight of the holy place, after having
wearily wandered over the immense distances from their several homes.
It may not be uninteresting to know who this Imam Riza is, the renown of
whose sanctity has made such a lasting and deep impression upon the
minds of a large portion of the Eastern world. Of the twelve Imams he is
the eighth. He was a contemporary of the Caliph Maamun, a son of the
famous Harun el Rashid. This Caliph's envy and jealousy of Imam Riza was
roused by the general esteem in which he was held, and the unbounded
devotion which was shown to him by the sect of Shi-ites, then already
very numerous, but not daring yet to enter publicly into the area of
religious sectarianism. He was banished by the Caliph to Tus, a town in
the vicinity of the present site of Meshed. The banishment had not the
desired effect; in his abode of humiliation he became again the object
of general veneration, so the Caliph had poison administered to him in a
cup of wine, thus ridding himself of a dangerous and hated rival. The
memory of his name did not die with him; from a beloved leader of a sect
he rose to be a martyred saint. His death in exile seems to have
especially commended him to the imagination of the travelling public as
their patron saint; and he was honoured, in this, his quality, with the
title of Sultan al Gureba (Prince of Strangers).
XXVII.
IN MESHED.
Nature seemed to have put on her holiday garb as we were approaching the
city. The weather was splendid; it was one of those fine autumnal
mornings which are so common in the Eastern part of Persia. The road
leading to the city passes through a bare, almost, level, tract, its
monotony being relieved only here and there by a few hills. The contrast
which the city presented to the unromantic aspect of the environs was
all the more striking. With its bright and flashing cupolas, and
surrounded by gardens, it lay there like a rich and glittering gem
embedded in a rare setting of leafy verdure. My gaze was fixed upon the
buildings that seemed to detach themselves as we approached from the
confused mass presented at a distance. For the time being I was utterly
lost in thought, careless of the movements of the caravan, and even my
looking at the city was more in a dreamy vacant way than for the purpose
of gratifying my curiosity. The traveller had for once merged in the
human being; casting aside all interest in historical reminiscences, not
even caring to recall the names of the great saints whose splendid tombs
formed the attraction of the place, I fairly rioted in the consciousness
of being able now to turn my back upon the black and ugly experiences of
the past, and looked forward to the attractive vista of a bright future.
I was roused from these pleasant reveries by our entrance through the
Dervaze Herat (Herat Gate). We passed along the wide and long street of
Pajin Khiaban (Lower Alley), and proceeded towards the Sahni Sherif (the
Holy Vestibule). A very pleasing sight is offered by the broad canal,
winding through the city, its banks studded with trees which spread a
pleasant shade; indeed this is a feature rendering Meshed one of the
most attractive cities in Iran. The concourse of people, representing
all the nations of Asia who are adherents of the Shi-ite faith, gives a
most striking character to the streets, which are pulsating with
stirring life. Every variety of costume prevalent in Persia and the
whole of Eastern Asia meet the eye wherever you look. It does not take
long to realize the fact that Meshed is one of the strongholds of
Shi-itism. The proud Sunnites, the Turkoman and Uzbeg, walk about with
an humble and apologetic air as if to beg pardon of those whom he
oppressed in his own home; whilst the men of Bokhara, Hezare, India and
Herat are treading proudly and lightly on a ground which seems to
inspire them with a consciousness of their superiority--their forms
erect, their carriage haughty and independent and their looks scornful
and defiant. The Sunnite is by no means, however, exposed to any danger
of retaliation on the part of those whose compatriots have often been
the victims of his ferocity. In Iran he is safe, but he cannot shake
off a guilty sense of the merited retribution his cruelty amply
deserves, and the impress of this unpleasant consciousness betrays
itself in his movements and demeanour.
Especially during the bright days of autumn the streets are crowded with
a dense mass of humanity, rolling in an endless stream along the
thoroughfares, and in vain does the eye attempt to find a resting-place
amid the varied confusion of the spectacle, nor is it possible in the
throng of conflicting sights to treasure up some distinct recollection
which might shape itself into a reminiscence at some future day. The
neighbourhood of the magnificent building of the Imam for several
hundred paces forms the centre of most bewildering sights and sounds.
Standing beside their booths or stands, or in front of their shops, on
both sides of the street, on the banks of the canal, and moving through
the streets, are to be seen and heard a multitude of men, active,
scrambling, energetic, carrying their wares on their heads, shoulders,
or in their hands, pushing through the crowd, offering them vociferously
for sale, and producing a strange din and noise whilst they recommend
them to buyers with their sing-song cries. It seems utterly impossible
to elbow your way through this compact mass of humanity, and yet there
is a sort of order in this wild confusion, for an actual block but
seldom occurs. This scene of confusion is only an apparent one,
especially to the unfamiliar eye of the European, who cannot separate
order from quiet, for an attempt to push your way through the throng is
attended with no evil consequences or harm; every one is sure to reach
safely the place he is bound for. This bustling life, however, was quite
agreeable to me after the experience of the dull and stolid constraint
so characteristic of the cities of Turkestan which I had lately seen.
I now wished to meet as soon as possible my English friend, Colonel
Dolmage, of whom I spoke before. First of all I entered a caravansary in
order to wash myself, and to put in some kind of decent order my
tattered toilet. This done, the next thing was to find the house where
my friend lived. It is always a ticklish thing to go about in Meshed
inquiring after the whereabouts of a Frengi, but it becomes immeasurably
so in the case of a person like me--who bore about him the unmistakable
garb, gait and mien of a hadji--undertaking to do it. By dint of
perseverance, and much ingenious cross-questioning I stood at last in
front of his house. Almost overcome with emotion I knocked at the door.
I heard footsteps approaching, and a moment later a servant opened the
door. The portal was as quickly re-shut in my face, for the servant just
deigning to glance at me, overwhelmed me with a volley of oaths, and
slammed the door. My emotion disappeared in the twinkling of an eye, and
angry and impatient at this unexpected rebuff, I vigorously set to
rapping at the door again. The servant reappeared, and this time I gave
him no opportunity for parley or remark, but went past him into the
court without vouchsafing a solitary word of explanation to him. The man
was quite dumbfounded with what seemed to him my impertinence, but
recovering himself soon, he asked me roughly what I, a hadji, wanted
with his master, who, as I knew, was an unbeliever. I very emphatically
told him that this did not concern him, but that he should without delay
advise his master that a stranger from Bokhara wished to see him.