or thirty-six English miles to the next station, _Kademgiah_. Nine
fersakhs in Khorassan is a good deal, for there is a saying that in that
province the miles are as interminable as the chatter of women, and that
he who measured them must have done so with a broken chain. European
travellers, without exception, complain of the monotony and wearisome
character of the road. But what was that to me who had escaped from the
torments of Turkestan? Quite alone with my Tartar, and well armed and
well mounted, I now for the first time felt the charms of true
travelling. Little know they who coop themselves up amidst the heat of
July in close railway carriages, and find, perforce, delight in the
dusty, grimy countenance of the guard, what travelling really means. A
good saddle is better than all your stuffed cushions. Thereon a man
feels himself free and unconstrained. His bridle is his Bradshaw, his
sword is his law, his gun is the policeman who protects him, and though
he is an outlaw and fair game for all who meet him, so all are fair game
for him. When in addition to this, he is familiar with the languages,
laws, and customs of the land through which he proceeds, and is
independent of dragomans, firmans, and guards, then his journey is truly
delightful. Travelling the whole day in the open air, he finds the hour
of midday halt both a pleasure and a necessity. And then the enjoyments
of the evening, when having arrived at the spot where he means to rest
for the night, his steed pasturing near him, and he himself surrounded
by the saddles and baggage, gazing at the crackling fire which is to
cook his savoury supper! The rays of the setting sun are not then so
bright and cheerful as the glances of the traveller's eyes. No meal is
so savoury as his supper, and his slumber under the starry canopy of
heaven is a hundred times more refreshing than that of those who sleep
on luxurious down in princely chambers.
Kademgiah, the name of my second station, means "footprint," and is a
place of religious pilgrimage, where pious faith discovers on a marble
stone the print of Ali's foot. Such miraculous footprints are by no
means of rare occurrence in the East. Christians, Mohammedans, and
Brahmins, all hold them in equal veneration. What especially excited my
wonder was the vast size of most of them, suggesting as they did rather
the idea of the foot of an unwieldly elephant than that of a man. But
religious credulity does not trouble itself about such trifles as logic
or the fitness of things. In the mountains near Shiraz, for instance,
there is a footprint three feet long; the one in Herat is of the same
size, as is also that on Mount Sinai; and even in the distant Kothen, in
Chinese Tartary, a large footprint is shown, where, as the story goes,
the holy Jafer once strolled near Sadik. As I have observed, their
monstrous size creates no surprise or doubt in the minds of the pious.
Under the auspices of the holy place stand numerous inns for the
accommodation of pilgrims. In one of these I had comfortably established
myself, and was just engaged in making tea in the shade of the fine
poplars, when one of the priests of the place made his appearance, and
with a devout look invited me to visit the holy spot. As the only thing
the priest seemed to want at the time was a cup of tea, I treated him to
one. His further importunities proved him to have more mercenary views;
so as the cold marble stone which contains the sacred footprint was of
little interest to me, who had seen so many of its kind already, I
contrived at the expense of a few krans (francs) to dispense at once
with the society of my guest and the performance of a religious duty.
My third day's march took me over a region of low hills into the plain
of Nishapur, so celebrated in Persia, and I may add in all Asia.
Djolghe-i Nishabur (Plain of Nishapur) is in the eyes of the Persian the
_ne plus ultra_ of beauty and wealth. For him the air there is purer and
more fragrant than elsewhere; its water the sweetest in the world, and
its products without rivals in creation. It is difficult adequately to
describe the proud joy which is pictured in his countenance as he points
out the hills lying towards the north-east, abounding in turquoise mines
and precious metals. For myself, I must own that the plain, like the
city situated in its midst, produced a pleasing, but by no means the
entrancing effect I felt justified in anticipating. Its historical
importance would hardly have occurred to me, had it not been that a
Persian, who discovered I was a foreigner, joined in conversation with
me by the way, and unasked, began to sound with no little exaggeration
the praises of his native city.
No less inconsiderable did I find the town of Nishapur itself. The
bazaar is tolerably well filled with European and Persian wares, but the
traveller in vain explores the town for remains of that wealth and
architectural beauty which have been so highly lauded by Eastern
historians. The only things of note in the town are workshops for
grinding and polishing the turquoises found in the neighbourhood. The
stones in their unwrought state are of a gray colour, and only acquire
their well-known sky-blue hue after repeated polishings. The deeper its
colour, the more prominent its shape, and the smoother its surface, so
much the more costly is a stone--veins being regarded as flaws. A
curious phenomenon observable in these turquoises is that in many
specimens the colour fades a few days after being polished. The
inexperienced purchaser who is not aware of this circumstance not seldom
becomes a victim to Persian fraud; and many pilgrims who have purchased
in Nishapur stones of brilliant azure, have no other choice left them on
their return home than to throw them away as faded and colourless. At
the present day these mines are by no means so profitable as in former
times, they being rented altogether for the low sum of two thousand
ducats yearly. The commerce in the stones, which was once actively
carried on between Persia and Europe, especially with Russia, has also
of late years very much fallen off.
From Nishapur the road leads to Sebzevar, distant three days' march. The
intervening stations have been often described. No one who has travelled
in Persia can have failed to have heard the names of the four "stations
of terror," so rich are they in danger and in strange tales of
adventure. Whoever amongst the people has the ambition of laying claim
to a character for bravery, he never forgets to introduce their names
into the story of his adventures. Do you ask why? The answer is very
simple. The four stations are posted on the edge of the great plain
which extends far away into the steppes of the Turkomans. No river, no
mountain, breaks its uniformity, and as those rapacious children of the
desert have but little respect for political boundaries, their predatory
inroads are frequent, and these four places are just those which are
most exposed to their ravages. They seldom fail to profit largely by
such incursions, as here runs the principal road towards Khorassan,
which is ever full of heavily laden caravans and well-equipped pilgrims.
The Persian never tires of dwelling on adventures with Turkomans. At one
of the stations, among much else that was curious, I heard the
following story. A Persian general had sent his troops of six thousand
men on before him, and was only staying behind for a few minutes to
enjoy comfortably the last whiffs of his kalian. He had just finished
his pipe and was about to join his soldiers, followed by a few body
servants, when he was pounced upon by a body of Turkomans and carried
away on their swift horses. In a few minutes he was robbed and made
captive, and a few weeks later was sold as a slave in the market of
Khiva for the sum of twenty-five ducats.
On another occasion a pilgrim was captured on his way to the shrine of
Imam Riza. Luckily he saw the approaching enemy, and had just time to
hide his little store behind a stone ere the plunderers came upon him.
After he had been sold as a slave and brought to Khiva, he wrote from
thence to his tender spouse as follows: "My dear child, in such and such
a place, under such and such a stone, I have hidden forty ducats. Send
thirty of them to this place to ransom thy loving husband, and take care
of the remainder until I return from the land of the Turkomans, this
house of bondage, in which I must now, perforce, perform menial
service."
It is true that there is good cause here for fear and caution, but the
absurd pusillanimity of the Iranians is the main source of their
misfortunes. Their caravans are wont to assemble here in large masses.
They are protected by soldiers with drawn swords, and cannons with their
matches burning. Often their numbers are very considerable. No sooner,
however, do a few desperate desert robbers make their appearance than
caravan and escort alike lose their courage and presence of mind, fling
away their weapons, offer all their property to the enemy, and putting
out their hands to be fettered, allow themselves to be carried away
into painful, often lifelong, captivity and slavery. I rode from station
to station with my Tartar for my only escort--a journey which no
European had ever made before me. Of course I was warned not to do so.
But in my Turkoman dress what cared I for Turkoman robbers? As for my
Tartar, he looked wistfully around in hope that he might espy a
countryman of his. If we had fallen in with some of those Sunnite sons
of the desert, travelling as we were in a Shi-ite land, I believe that
so far from injuring a mollah of their own faith, they would have
rewarded us richly for the fatiha which we would have bestowed on them.
For four days I wandered in the steppe; once in the dusk of the evening
I lost my way, yet not a single Turkoman crossed my path. I met no one
except a few scared Persian travellers.
The reader will easily imagine the eagerness with which the traveller's
eyes look out for the gardens which surround Shahrud. As this town is
situated at the foot of a mountain, it is visible for miles off on the
plain. The wearied horseman thinks he has already reached the end of his
day's journey, when it is in reality five German miles distant. The road
is as monotonous as can possibly be imagined. It affords nothing
whatsoever to attract the eye. In summer, owing to utter want of water,
it must be very unpleasant to travel over it. Unfortunately I had
mistaken a village which lies in the vicinity of Shahrud for the town
itself, which at the point of the road was concealed in a hollow. My
anger when I discovered my mistake may be easily conceived. It was in
truth no joke to have added to the long day's journey a good half-hour's
additional ride. I had mounted my horse before twelve o'clock the night
before, and it was already past six o'clock in the evening, when I at
last gained the badly paved streets of Shahrud, and dismounted in one of
its principal caravansaries. My poor beast was utterly exhausted, and I
myself scarcely less so. But as I looked around the square of the
caravansary, how great was my astonishment at beholding a son of
Britain, yes, actually an unmistakable living Englishman, with a genuine
John Bull physiognomy, sitting at the door of one of the cells. An
Englishman alone here in Shahrud--that is certainly a rarity, almost a
miracle. I rushed towards him. He also, although apparently absorbed in
deep thought, regarded me with wondering eyes. My Bokhariot dress, and
my evident fatigue had attracted his attention. Who knows what he
thought of me then? For myself, in spite of my extreme exhaustion, I
hastened as well as I could to this extraordinary _rencontre_. I dragged
myself towards him, and staring at him with weary eyes, addressed him
with a "How are you, sir?" He appeared not to have understood me, so I
repeated my question. At this he sprang from his seat in surprise, the
greatest astonishment depicted in his countenance, while he gave vent to
his feelings with "Well I----. Where have you learned English?" asked
he, stammering with emotion; "perhaps in India." I should have liked to
have screwed up his curiosity a peg or two higher, and at any other time
might have enjoyed a mystification amazingly. But my long ride had so
thoroughly tired me out that I had not the spirits required for carrying
on the joke. I made a plain confession of what and who I was. His joy
was indescribable. To the great astonishment of my Tartar, who until now
had always regarded me as a true believer, he embraced me and took me
into his quarters. We spent a famous evening together, and I allowed
myself to be induced to rest there the whole of next day; for it did
the poor fellow no end of good to be able to speak of the West after six
months' separation from European society. A few months after our strange
meeting he was robbed and murdered on the road. His name was Longfield,
and he was agent for a large Lancashire house, for which he had to
purchase cotton. He had to carry a great deal of money about him, and
unfortunately forgot, as do too many, that Persia is not the civilized
land which the glowing representations of its lying agents in Europe
would lead us to suppose, and that one cannot place much reliance on
passports and royal firmans.
Before reaching Teheran I had a journey of eleven days yet before me.
The road is safe. The only point of interest offered along the stations
is the observation of the contrast between the manners of the
inhabitants of Khorassan and those of Irak. The proximity of Central
Asia has left its mark of many rude habits on the people of Khorassan,
whilst the polish of Iranian civilization is unmistakable in the
inhabitants of Irak. The traveller who is supposed to be possessed of
worldly means is always sure here of most polite treatment. Not but that
in outward appearance they pretend to a vast amount of guilelessness
with not a touch of greediness. The guest is treated as a most welcome
personage. He is overwhelmed with the very quintessence of courtly
phrases which accompany the presents offered to him. But he had better
be careful of his purse if he is uninitiated in the intricacies of
Persian politeness. I had become well acquainted with Iranian etiquette
during my travels in Southern Persia, and on such occasions I always
played the Iranian, meeting compliments with phrases even more
complimentary. I accepted, of course, the presents offered me, but never
failed with most flowery speeches to invite the giver of the gift to
partake of it. It rarely happened that he was proof against my
high-flown bombast, and quotations from Saadi and his other favourite
poets. Forgetting compliments and courtesy, he would then make a fierce
onslaught on the food and fruits he had himself heaped on the _khondja_
(wooden table), and tell me with repeated and significant shakes of the
head, "Effendi, thou art more Iranian than the Iranians; thou art too
polished to be sincere."
The nearer we approached Teheran the worse became the weather. We were
now in the latter part of December. I had felt the cold of the impending
winter while still on the plains; but here, in more elevated regions, it
was doubly severe. The temperature in Persia is liable to sudden
changes, and a journey of a few hours often makes a serious difference.
But the weather in the two stations of Goshe and Ahuan was so very
severe as to cause me anxiety. These two places are situated on a
mountain, and can afford accommodation to but a small number of people.
I fared tolerably well at Goshe, where I had the caravansary all to
myself and could arrange myself comfortably and cosily, while outside a
cruel, bitter cold prevailed. The next day, on my way to Ahuan, I found
snow in many parts of the roads. The biting north wind compelled me
often to dismount in order to keep my feet warm with walking. The snow
lay already several feet deep when I arrived at Ahuan, and it was frozen
so hard as to form along some parts of our road two solid walls. In
catching sight of the solitary post-house, I had but one intense
longing, to get beneath a roof and to find a good fire by which to warm
myself. The eye roving over the hills, white with snow, could not
discover within its range anywhere a human habitation or even the wreck
of one. We rode into the yard of the tchaparkhane in our usual
demonstrative manner in order to attract attention. The postmaster was
exceedingly polite, which, in itself, was a good omen, and I was
delighted as he led me into a smoky, but withal well-sheltered room; and
I paid but little attention to what he was saying, as he expatiated at
great length, with an air of great importance, on the expected arrival
of the lady of Sipeh Salar, the Persian generalissimo and minister of
war, who was on her way back from a pilgrimage to Meshed, and would
arrive either that night or the following day with a retinue of from
forty to sixty servants. To be overtaken by them in a place affording
such meagre accommodations as this post-house did, would of course be
far from pleasant. But the likelihood of such an event little disturbed
my equanimity; on the contrary I made myself and my weary beast as
comfortable as I could. As the fire began to blaze cheerily on the
hearth, and the tea to send its steamy flavour through the room, I
entirely lost all sense of the cold and discomfort I had so lately
endured, and listening to the shrill whistling of rude Boreas without,
who seemed to wish to rob me of my slumbers out of spite for having
escaped his fury, I gave no thought to the probability of being ousted
from my comfortable quarters. After I had taken my tea and felt a
pleasant warmth creeping through my whole body I began to undress. I had
thrown myself on my couch, my pilar and roast fowl were almost ready,
when, about midnight, through the howling of the wind I heard the tramp
of a troop of horsemen. I had scarcely time to jump up from my bed when
the whole cavalcade dashed into the court with clashing arms, oaths and
shouts. In an instant they were at my door, which was of course bolted.
"Hallo! who is here? Out with you! The lady of Sipeh Salar, a princess
of royal blood, is come; every one must turn out and make room for
her." I need not say that there were cogent reasons for not immediately
opening the door. The men asked of the postmaster who was the occupier
of the room, and upon learning that it was only a hadji, and he too a
heretic, a Sunnite, they began to level their swords and the butt ends
of their guns at the door, crying out, "Ha, hadji! take thyself off, or
wilt thou have us grind thy bones to meal!"
The moment was a very exciting and a very critical one. It is but a
sorry jest to be turned out of a warm shelter, where one is perfectly
comfortable, and to have to pass a bitterly cold winter's night in the
open air. It was not, perhaps, so much the fear of harm from exposure to
the cold as the suddenness of the surprise and the shock of the
unwelcome disturbance, which suggested to me the bold thought not to
yield, but fearlessly to accept the challenge. My Tartar, who was in the
room with me, turned pale. I sprang from my seat, seized gun and sword,
while I handed my pistols to him, with the order to use them as soon as
I gave him a sign to do so. I then took up a position near the door,
firmly resolved to fire at the first person who would intrude. My
martial preparations seemed to have been observed by those without, for
they began to parley. Indeed I remarked that the elegance of the Persian
which I employed in talking with them rather staggered them into a
suspicion that they might be mistaken after all in supposing me to be a
Bokhariot. "Who art thou, then? Speak, man, it seems thou art no hadji,"
was now heard from without. "Who talks about hadjis?" I cried; "away
with that abusive word! I am neither Bokhariot nor Persian. I have the
honour to be a European, and my name is Vambéry Sahib."
Silence followed this speech of mine. My assailants seemed to be
utterly dumbfounded. Its effect, however, was even more startling on my
Tartar, who now, for the first time, heard from his hadji
fellow-traveller's own lips that he whom he had looked upon as a true
believer was a European and that his real name was Vambéry. Pale as
death, and with eyes glaring wildly, he stared at me. I was in fact
placed between two fires. A sharp side-glance from me restored his
equanimity. The Persians too changed their tactics. The name of
European, that word of terror for Orientals, produced a magic effect.
Terms of abuse were followed by expressions of politeness; menaces by
entreaties; and as they earnestly besought me to allow two of the
principal members of the escort to share my room, while the others would
resign themselves to occupy the barn and the stable, I opened the door
to the trembling Persians. My features convinced them at once of the
truth of my assertions. Our conversation soon became very lively and
friendly, and in the course of half an hour my guests were reposing in a
corner of the room, completely stupified by over-indulgence in arrack.
There they lay snoring like horses. I then applied myself to the task of
explaining matters to my Tartar, and found him, to my agreeable
surprise, quite willing to appreciate my explanations. Next morning when
I left the snow-clad hills, and rode over the cheerful plain of Damgan,
the recollection of the adventure came back to me in all its vividness,
and I own that on sober second thoughts I was disposed to quake somewhat
on contemplating the unnecessary danger my rashness had exposed me to
the preceding night.
Damgan is supposed to be the ancient Hecatompylae (city with the hundred
gates); a supposition which our archæologists will maintain at every
hazard, although the neighbourhood affords no trace of a city to which
the hundred gates might have belonged. Of course one must make large
deductions from all assertions made by either Greeks or Persians, who
rival each other in the noble art of bragging and exaggerating. If we
reduce the hundred gates to twenty, it will still remain a matter of
considerable difficulty to discover a city of over twenty gates in the
obscure spot now called Damgan. The place boasts of scarcely more than a
hundred houses, and two miserable caravansaries in the midst of its
empty bazaar are sufficient indications that Damgan's reputation for
importance in commercial respects is equally unfounded.
From Damgan I travelled over two stations to Simnan, celebrated for its
cotton, and still more for its tea-cakes. Almost every town in Persia is
conspicuous for some speciality, in the production of which it claims to
be not only the foremost in Persia, but unrivalled in the whole world.
Shiraz, for instance, is famous for lamb, Isfahan for peaches, Nathenz
for pears, and so on. The odd thing about it is, that on arriving in any
of these towns and looking for the article so much bragged of, the
traveller is either greatly disappointed as to its quality, or, more
amusing still, he fails to find the article at all. In Meshed I heard
the tea-cakes of Simnan talked of, nay even in Herat; but as I had often
had occasion to value these exaggerations at their true worth, I did not
expect too much. Nevertheless, I went into the bazaar to inquire after
tea-cakes. My search, long and painful, was rewarded by a few mouldy
specimens. "Simnan," said one, "is justly celebrated for the excellence
of this article, but the export is so tremendous that we are left
without any." Another said: "It is true that Simnam was once famous for
the production of this article, but hard times have caused even the
quality of the tea-cakes to deteriorate." Here at any rate people had
the grace to invent some excuses, but in most places not even an
apology is attempted; and the unblushing fraud of the pretended claim to
the production of some excellent article shows itself without any
disguise.
The same sensations which overcame me when I arrived in Meshed, I felt
now with even greater intensity as I drew near Teheran, the
starting-place of my adventurous journey, where I was to meet so many
kind friends who, in all probability, had long ago resigned themselves
to the thought of my having paid with my life the penalty of my rash
enterprise.
XXIX.
FROM TEHERAN TO TREBIZOND.