entering which I was struck with the sight of the furniture, which
vividly recalled European comfort and civilization. The furniture was
quite plain, merely a table and chairs, but to my unaccustomed eye they
looked like an epitome of all the things towards which my orphaned heart
was warming. Yes, these lifeless, homely objects of daily use seemed
sanctified to me, and I stood gazing at them as if they were things of
life. A newspaper on the table, the _Levant Herald_, caught my eyes
next, and to seize it and devour its contents was the work of a moment.
How many things had happened since I had a newspaper in my hands! Every
item of news, the humblest and that of the highest political importance,
possessed an equally intense interest for me, and immersed in the
perusal of its columns I even forgot Colonel Dolmage, who had softly
entered and was now standing before me. Dressed in a European uniform, a
fine specimen of British manhood, he looked at me silently, searchingly,
but I vainly watched for a look of recognition. Thus standing face to
face for a few moments, the situation became almost painful. To be sure
the ravages which hunger, thirst, cold, anxiety, and the thousand trials
of the journey had made in my appearance, sadly altered my looks, and no
wonder the young colonel failed to recall in the ragged hadji before him
his former acquaintance. I broke in upon the silence by exclaiming in
English, "What, Colonel, do you not recognize me?" The familiar voice
dispelled like a charm his uncertainty as to who I was, and in an
instant we were locked in a close embrace. He now remembered everything,
knew even something by hearsay of the perilous journey I had ventured
upon, and, seeing the pitiful condition I was in, tears of manly
compassion rose to the young officer's eyes.
Distinctions of class, profession, or nationality, entering so largely
into European life, separating man from man, lose their hold upon
Europeans meeting in the distant East. The great West, seen at that
distance, becomes their common country; they are drawn together by the
bond of common views, feelings and modes of thought which obliterate the
artificial lines of nationality--nay, they feel for, and treat each
other as only blood relations and brothers would in Europe. Colonel
Dolmage's conduct towards me illustrated this in a conspicuous manner.
His very first question, accompanied by a look of almost tender
sympathy, "For God's sake, what have you been doing? what has happened
to you?" made me feel like a long-lost brother who had found his way
home again. I saw the terrible alterations and the sad havoc which
hardships had made in my appearance reflected in his questions and
accompanying looks. He was a most sympathizing listener to the story of
my late experiences, and it was rather late in the evening when I rose
to leave him.
Colonel Dolmage proved my staunch friend during the four weeks I stayed
in Meshed, and although I dare say I occasioned him no little trouble, I
found him unflagging in his zeal for my welfare. Not only did his kind
offices largely contribute to making my stay in Meshed an exceedingly
pleasant one but to his generosity and active friendship I was chiefly
indebted for the means which enabled me to proceed on my journey with
renewed vigour and a cheerful mind. And no matter what unpleasantnesses
the interest he bore me drew upon him, his invariable good humour and
friendly conduct to me remained unaltered.
Upon my arrival in Meshed, after having visited Colonel Dolmage, I felt,
above all, the necessity of recuperating somewhat before turning my
attention to the remarkable sights of the city. The first few days,
therefore, I entirely devoted to rest, a species of _dolce far niente_
which did infinite good to both body and mind, invigorating the one and
brightening the other. After my few days' rest I returned with redoubled
interest to the main duty of a traveller, to see, observe, inquire, and
remember. Nor is there any other city in Eastern Persia abounding in
such a variety of curiosities as may be seen here. Indeed I was sorely
puzzled which way first to turn my attention. Rich in monuments
appealing alike to the student of history, the curious in holy things,
and the literary man--it is hard to know where to begin.
Probably led by the dervish instinct, developed in me by months of
devout pilgrimage, I found myself entering the Sahni Sherif, looking
about me with unfeigned admiration. The quick eyes of several loitering
Seids did not fail to discover the stranger and the Sunnite pilgrim in
me; and I was soon surrounded by them, each anxious to acquaint me with
the notable features and wonders of the holy tomb. That the sanctuary at
which Conolly, Fraser, Burnes, Chanikoff, nay, the official Eastwick
himself, endeavoured from a safe distance to steal a hasty glance, was
thrown open to me, and I was almost forced to enter it by the hungry
descendants of the Prophet, involuntarily recurred to my mind as I
declined the services proffered by them. For, truth to tell, the months
of compulsory pilgrimage I had gone through had strangely palled my
appetite for holy sights appertaining to Islamism, and I felt relieved
when I was left to myself to continue my observations. My attention was
next engaged by the monument lying to the left of the Sahn, and the
splendid mosque of Gowher Shah. The former of these two buildings
surpasses in magnificence and richness the most renowned tombs to which
the Mohammedan world perform their devout pilgrimages, not even
excepting those of Medina, Nedjef, Kerbela and Kum. It is inlaid with
gold inside and outside. Much of its former glory is gone, and many of
its richest ornaments have been carried away at different periods of
time by Uzbegs, Afghans and others. Since the monument was first erected
it has been several times plundered. Meshed suffered most at the hands
of Abdul Mumin, Khan of Bokhara, in 1587, when entering it at the head
of the Uzbegs, the city was sacked and its inhabitants carried into
slavery. It was laid waste again by the Afghans, and at different times
civil wars spread desolation within its very walls. The golden ball on
the top of the dome of the tomb, weighing four hundred pounds, is said
to have been removed by the impious hands of the sons of Nadir, and
several jewels of great price passed, in later times, into the
unhallowed possession of the rebel leader Salar. But in spite of the
ruthless conduct of foreign enemies and the violence of intestine war,
the tomb still harbours an immense amount of treasure. The walls of the
monument are fairly resplendent with jewels and trinkets of the rarest
kinds offered up to their favourite saint by the devout Shi-ites. The
eye is dazzled by the splendour of the pious gifts, consisting of
precious ornaments of every imaginable shape, a headgear shaped like a
plumed crest (_djikka_) of diamonds, a shield and sabre studded with
rubies and emeralds, massive candelabra of great weight, costly
bracelets, and necklaces of incalculable value.
The sight without and the sights within court a like amount of
admiration, and the balance is constantly preponderating, now in one,
now in the other direction. Without the cupola and the towers with their
rich incrustations of gold, within the massive fretted work and grating
of silver, the artistically stained windows, the construction of the
dome denoting a fine perception of refinement and elegance in form, and
rich Oriental carpet stuffs with diamonds and precious stones woven
into them, continually challenged and divided my wondering interest.
This cold and glittering accumulation of wealth was not wanting in the
touch of humanity which warmed it into a scene of life and bustle. The
groups within were not mere sight-seers, come to gratify their
curiosity. They were pious visitors at a holy shrine, with silent
devotion stamped upon their features, denoting ecstasy, enthusiasm, deep
contrition, humble self-abasement, and every shade of religious joy and
sadness, which none so well as the faces of Islamite devotees know how
to express or simulate; whilst to their lips rose muttered prayers,
interrupted by guttural yells, their chests were heaving with wild sobs.
Those who did not know their prayers by heart, or could not read from
the tablets inscribed with them, which were suspended from the grating,
had them repeated by the leader of the group they belonged to. All seem
anxious to propitiate the divinity by acts and prayers of praise or
humiliation in order to secure a place in the dwellings of the blessed
and happy. One all-absorbing feeling seems to inspire at such a moment
men of all races and classes alike, whether they be lords, merchants, or
servants--the cautious dwellers in Central Asia, the shrewd men from
Isfahan and Shiraz, the guileless Turks, or the ferocious Bakhtiaris and
Kurds. None are too high or too low for the performance of acts of pious
tenderness; the sons of Khans, the Mirzas and the poor peasants mingle
freely together; and it is a touching and sublime spectacle, indeed, to
see these sons of Asia, both rude and refined, pressing forward to kiss,
with unfeigned humility, the silver trellis, the padlock hanging from
the door of the grating and the hallowed ground itself.
Of the mosque of Gowher Shah, which I visited next, the Persians say
with great justice, that whilst the monument of Imam Riza is more
gorgeous, the mosque far surpasses it architecturally. The mosque is
situated in the same court, opposite to the monument. The _kashi_ work
(glazed tiles) enters largely into the structure inside and outside, and
there is an artistic beauty about it which more than compensates for the
comparative absence of richer materials such as gold and silver. The
lofty portal is admirable, both for the elegance of its design, and the
rich colouring it derives from the many-hued and brilliant kashi work,
especially when lit up by the rays of the sun. The gate is of the same
style as those I saw in Herat and Samarkand.
Shaping my course after that of the numerous pilgrims and beggars, who
all went in the same direction on leaving this splendid building, I went
to the refectory of Imam Riza, or as the natives call it, _Ashbaz Khanei
Hazret_ (the kitchen of his Highness). The Hazret, so his Holiness is
entitled, _par excellence_, enjoys the reputation of being immensely
rich. He is very hospitable, and every new-comer has the choice of
becoming his guest; but this hospitality is limited in point of time to
seven days only. The wealthier pilgrims rarely take advantage of this
liberal arrangement, but the poorer classes eagerly avail themselves of
the privilege of boarding and lodging at his Highness's expense. The
convenience of the guest is cared for on a very large scale, and the
vast machinery of baths and caravansaries, boarding-houses and
soap-boiling houses, of which his Highness is the owner, is put in
motion in order to satisfy the various wants of the strangers flocking
to the Hazret. I could not resist the temptation of adding one more
experience to those for which I was indebted to my Oriental disguise. I
squatted down, unheeded in the midst of the crowd of hungry Shi-ite and
Sunnite pilgrims. Very soon large dishes of smoking rice were brought in
by a troop of servants. Rancid fat and damaged rice, of the kind of
which I had already collected reminiscences enough to last me for a
lifetime, made up the delicious dish, which gave me but a mean opinion
of the boasted riches of his Highness. I pretended to be as eager about
fishing out my share of it as any other, splashing about with my fist in
the plate, but thought it best to save my appetite for a more favourable
occasion.
The avarice and greediness, so characteristic of the Persians, induce me
to believe that their admiration for Imam Riza is owing, not so much to
the renown of his sanctity and the inviolable right of asylum belonging
to him, as to the vast and fabulous wealth of which he is supposed to be
the owner.
An accident led me to discover the precarious condition in which the
Jews were living in Meshed. I met one day in the streets of Meshed a
former fellow-traveller of mine, on my journey from Bokhara. As he was
about to pass on without heeding me, I called out after him, knowing him
to be a Jew, "Yehudi, Yehudi." He hurriedly came up to me and said
confidentially in a low voice: "For God's sake, Hadji, do not call me a
Jew here. Beyond these walls I belong to my nation, but here I must play
the Moslem." It was the old story over again of persecution fanned by
bigotry and fanaticism, and taken advantage of by murderers and robbers.
The cause of their present distress and their fear of being recognized
as Jews dates from an occurrence which had happened several years ago in
Meshed. A Persian doctor, who was consulted by a Jewess about an
eruption on her hand, advised her to plunge her hands into the entrails
of a newly-slaughtered dog. She took his advice, and had one of those
unhappy street scavengers of the East killed in order to try the cure
prescribed to her. Unfortunately she had this done on the very day on
which the Mohammedans celebrated the Eidi Kurban (Feast of Sacrifice).
The rumour of it soon spread amongst the people; and the slaughtering of
the dog was interpreted as an impious mockery of the religious rites of
the true believers. The rapacity and murderous instincts of the mob
gladly seized this frivolous pretext wherewith to cloak their thirst for
the blood of the detested Jew, and their love of pillage. In an instant
the Jewish quarter of the city was overrun with a savage rabble,
rioting, robbing and murdering. Those that survived the fatal day had
their lives spared on condition of abjuring the faith of their fathers
and embracing that of their oppressors and persecutors. They yielded to
dire necessity, but in their hearts they remained Jews, conforming only
in outward appearance, as long as they had to stay in Meshed. Years had
passed since, and although the tolerant spirit, which began to prevail
under the benign influence of European interference, made the
Mohammedans relax somewhat their former rigour, the Jews still deemed it
more prudent to pass themselves off in Meshed for Mohammedans.
Among the ruins of Tus to the north of Meshed lies, according to the
belief of modern Persians, the tomb of one of the greatest of Iran's
bards, the tomb of Firdusi. Before leaving the city I made an excursion
to it. It was with feelings of sincere piety and admiration that I
approached the modest monument which commemorates the resting-place of
one of the greatest national poets in the world. In sixty thousand
verses he sang the history of his people, without admitting more than a
few foreign, that is Arabic, words into his narration. This wonderful
feat will be especially appreciated, if the fact is borne in mind that
Persian--which he wrote as well as the modern Persian does--contains
four words of Arabic origin to every six words purely Iranian. His
generous patriotism rebelled against the thought of employing the
language of the oppressors of his country. Not only as a poet, not only
as a passionate lover of his country, will Firdusi's memory live for
ever, but his exalted private character will always excite the
admiration of mankind. He was fearless and independent. As an instance
of his high-mindedness, it is told that Sultan Mahmud, the Ghazvenite,
sent him on one occasion the remuneration of thirty thousand drachms.
This was much less than the sum the Sultan had promised. He happened to
be in the bath when the gift was brought, and immediately scornfully
directed that the entire sum should be divided among the servants of the
bathing establishment. The Sultan, probably repenting of his parsimony,
subsequently sent the poet camels laden with treasure, but they came in
time only to meet his funeral procession. The gift was sent back to the
ungrateful monarch, the poet's proud daughter declining to accept of it.
The poet had left a sting in the memory of the Sultan, in a satire which
is remembered by the people to this day, which begins with the following
verse:
"Oh! Sultan Mahmud, if thou fearest none, yet fear
God!"
What an abyss is there between the modern Persians and their great
poet![5]
[Footnote 5: Amongst the various great poetical
compositions of Mohammedan Asia, we may boldly call the
poems of Hafiz, Saadi, and Firdusi the household works
of every enlightened or rather of every educated
Mohammedan. As to the latter one, I have scarcely met
with any Persian who was not conversant with the heroes
of the great epic called the "Shah-Nameh;" and there is
rarely a bath, a caravansary or any other public
building, excepting mosques and colleges, which would
not be adorned with primitive pictures, representing
the heroic feats of Rustem, Zal and Kai Khosrau. The
"Shah-Nameh" is the only popular history of the Iranian
world, it is the mirror in the resplendent radiance of
which the Persian and the Central Asian delight to find
the glory of by-gone ages; and really, without having
read the "Shah-Nameh," we shall never be able to
realize the wonderful spirit of that Asiatic world
which was superseded by Islam. A popularization of this
masterly epic is therefore a great service done to the
knowledge of the East. In Germany Rückert and Schack
have tried this task; but owing to the form which they
selected, their success was only a partial one, and the
large public of the said country possesses but a
fragmentary notion of the "Book of Kings."
Quite recently there has come out in England "The Epic
of Kings" (since re-published under the title of
"Heroic Tales"), stories retold from Firdusi, by _Helen
Zimmern_ (London: T. Fisher Unwin), which relates in
delightfully written prose the chief and most moving
stories referring to the great heroes of Iranian
antiquity from the Shahs of old to the death of Rustem.
Although she has written a paraphrase and not a
translation, the author, by uniting a rare poetical
gift with a true understanding of the East, has
succeeded in rendering the great epic accessible to the
large reading public, which can now taste this justly
famous poetical production of the East, and which will
certainly be thankful to Miss Zimmern for the rare
enjoyment.]
Meanwhile I had been preparing at my leisure for the winter journey to
Teheran. The means for doing so had been furnished by the governor of
the place, who received me most affably, loaded me with presents and
overwhelmed me with marks of distinction. Teheran was still thirty days'
journey from Meshed, and so long a ride in winter was by no means a
pleasant prospect, yet my heart burned with delight as I rode out of the
city gates.
XXVIII.
FROM MESHED TO TEHERAN.
The impress of the character of the reigning sovereign leaves its mark
on everything in the kingdom of Persia; and so, in a certain limited
way, does the character of the governors for the time being of the
several provinces of that kingdom determine the comparative safety and
comfort of the highways. To travel from Meshed to Teheran is looked upon
as an enterprise demanding a staunch spirit, and the bravest man may
recoil from the dangers threatening him on that first portion of the
road through Khorassan, where Turkomans, Beloochees and Kurds are an
object of terror to all men, but more particularly to the cowardly
native of Persia. Sultan Murad Mirza, surnamed "The Sword of the
Empire," was governor of the province at the time I set out for Teheran.
In the flowery language of the country the praise was bestowed on him
that a child might with perfect security carry a plateful of ducats upon
the highways, without being molested. And, indeed, he was fully
deserving of the compliment implied in this high-flown saying, for there
was not in the whole kingdom a governor devoting a greater amount of
energy and talent than he did to render the public highways safe, and to
advance and encourage commerce and safe travelling.
My spirits rose high as I set out on my journey in the company of my
Tartar. Two routes from Meshed to Nishapur were open to me--one leading
over a mountainous tract, the other through a lower hilly country. I
chose the latter. As I passed out of the city, mounted on an active nag,
the horse of my Tartar being loaded with everything requisite for the
journey, I felt in an exceptionally cheerful humour. It was not merely
the pleasurable feeling of returning home which produced this effect.
The contrast between the journey now before me, furnished with all the
proper equipments, and that which I had made, suffering from all sorts
of privations amid the deserts of Turkestan, without doubt greatly added
to this feeling. We were continually meeting with caravans either of
pilgrims or of merchandise, proceeding towards or returning from the
holy city. On such occasions words of greeting are always exchanged. My
surprise at recognizing an old acquaintance in the leader of one of
these caravans may be easily imagined. He was a Shirazer, in whose
society I had two years before visited the ruins of Persepolis, Nakshi
Rustam, and that fair city which was the birthplace of the poet Hafiz.
To have travelled a long time with a man is in Asia looked upon as a
sort of relationship. The gossiping Shirazer was delighted to see me.
The caravan was obliged, whether or no, to submit to a quarter of an
hour's halt, while we seated ourselves on the sand to enjoy together the
friendly _kalian_ (Persian pipe). As its fragrant smoke rose before my
eyes, vivid pictures of the past, of the majestic monuments of bygone
civilizations, arose before my memory. How those recollections animated
me! Valerius in his chains, the majestic figure of the proud Shapur,
above him floating the form of the beneficent Ormuzd,--all those
magnificent bas-reliefs whirled kaleidoscope-like past my mind's eye;
but their charms were multiplied as I reflected that since I saw them, I
had seen, and left behind me, the classical realms of Bactria and
Sogdiana, which had inspired with terror the stout hearts of the
Macedonians of Alexander.
I was obliged to assure my Shiraz friend that I would speedily revisit
his native country, for it was not until I had soothed him with this
sort of promise that he would allow me to part from him. So cheerily did
I then go on my way that the first day's journey was not in the least
fatiguing to me, and by night we reached the station of _Sherif Abad_.
This was the first evening I spent as a well-equipped traveller. In my
previous travels in Turkestan I had first of all to gather firewood and
collect flour; I had to pronounce prayers and blessings as payment for
my night quarters; and I was always liable to be turned out tired and
hungry. Now, on the contrary, I was a great man. I rode proudly into the
_tchaparkhane_ (post-house), and with a loud voice called for lodgings;
for although I was still completely Oriental, so far as outward
appearances went, the postmaster could easily observe that he had to do
with one who had at his command a sufficiency of the sinews of war. And
what will not a Persian do for money? My Tartar prepared me an excellent
supper; rice, sugar, fat, meat--in a word, everything in abundance. The
eyes of my simple Uzbeg sparkled with joy as he thought of his former
poverty and looked on the abundance which surrounded him. If the supper
which he could prepare was not exactly fit to appear on the table of a
Lucullus, it was a very good one for a Persian wayside station.