Character of the Yezdi—Systematised inconsistency—Loyalty
to causes and individuals—Unreliability of
evidence—Shame—Humour—Disregard of time—Language—Lack
of initiative—Courage—The Yezdi soldier—Etiquette
and manners—Triviality—Pride—Kindliness and
cruelty—Dishonesty—Difficulty in obtaining anything—Tendency to
fatalism—Latent strength of Persian character—Family ties—The
Jus Paternum—Religious liberty—Open-handedness—Summary.
If it were not absolutely essential to the purpose of a book like this
that there should be a more or less detailed analysis of the character of
the Yezdi, I should certainly shirk making such an analysis. The Yezdi’s
faults are numerous, glaring, and interesting. His virtues are not only
fewer, but there is much less to be said about them. In the concrete man,
these virtues show fairly prominently, the vices have their peculiar
humour, and the whole is not unlovable. On paper, while discussing the
different points of the Yezdi’s character one by one, it will be almost
impossible to convey the general effect made by the entire human being.
When one first becomes acquainted with the Yezdi, one is inclined to
regard him as so inconsistent in matters of morals as to be utterly
devoid of all principle, bad or good. There is the same uncertainty about
his actions that there is about the fall of an unloaded die. But just as
the fall of the die is regulated by the law of averages, so the actions
of the Yezdi are more or less consciously decided by what can only be
termed systematised inconsistency, a kind of law of balance which seems
to him to possess the merit of a principle. When he has done a certain
number of good actions, which it must be confessed is frequently the
case, then it is time for him to do some bad ones; and _vice versâ_,
when he has done enough bad ones, he comes back for a time to good ones.
This is partially the result of the theory of _savabs_; and the painful
thing about it is that it makes moral trustworthiness impossible. If
a man holds this pernicious theory as it was sketched in a previous
chapter, then the more he has done right in the past the more he will
feel justified in doing wrong in the future; and this in Yezd is no mere
nightmare, but the literal fact. A good many of the Yezdis are frequently
fair and straight in their dealings, but I do not know a single Mussulman
among them, with regard to whom it would be fairly safe to depend on his
doing the right thing on any particular occasion simply because he knew
it to be right. There are men whose ordinary habits are fairly good, but
to a man who considers that derelictions of duty can be absolutely paid
for by past or future acts of merit not necessarily involving very much
trouble, the temptation to yield to slightly increased pressure is very
strong, and is likely to frequently overcome the bias of habit.
On the other hand, Persians have very strong notions of loyalty both to
causes and to individuals. Nothing has brought this out more than the
history of the Babi movement, which has certainly exhibited the strength
of Persian character. Boys and young men have in this movement willingly
undergone the most terrible tortures in the service of their spiritual
teachers and the common cause. It ought to be understood that the motives
of the Babi martyr are not quite the same as those which have generally
influenced the Christians who have died for their faith. The Christian
martyrs have generally died rather than do some act which they felt to
be sinful, or leave undone something which they regarded as essential.
A large number of the Babi martyrs on the other hand have died because
they chose not to deny their faith, which according to their tenets was
perfectly permissible to do. Now I know of at least one man, a Persian
of high position, who was killed as a Babi, but who would have preferred
embracing Christianity. What was his connection with Babiism I cannot
say: he would, I believe, have embraced Christianity had it not been
that he shrank from a religion where a direct denial of one’s faith must
always be accounted sinful. Whatever he was, he certainly did not shrink
from making his divergence from orthodox Islam dangerously plain, and in
this way he met his death. My purpose in mentioning the fact is to show
that it is most difficult to induce a Mussulman to accept a very hard and
fast line. Of course the story is only an illustration and does not prove
the point, because there must have been other considerations which made
Babiism, or a degree of unorthodoxy which passed for Babiism, easier to
such a man than Christianity. It is not necessary to suppose that he was
only influenced by a dislike to unbending rules; for the inability to
ever deny his faith might have exposed him to petty insults, which would
have been to him worse than death. Also his position as a Christian would
have been, humanly speaking, a more solitary one. Still, when all has
been said, I am convinced that the constitutional dislike to a hard and
fast rule played at least some part in bringing the man to his decision,
and also that this dislike is more pronounced in the Mussulman Yezdi than
in the Yezdi Parsi.
A Persian who attaches himself to an individual will often prove himself
very trustworthy in all matters affecting that individual’s interest; and
generally speaking, attachment to a European would be likely to produce a
more dependable loyalty than attachment to another Persian. The feeling
that a European friend would always himself act in a certain manner
frequently leads a Persian to try and act in the same way towards him. I
remember a Persian servant once replying to my wife, who had expostulated
with him on the subject of some egregious falsehood that he had just told
in the bazaars, “Of course, Khanum, I don’t tell lies to you, for you
don’t like it; but these people expect me to lie, and one couldn’t tell
the truth to them.”
Perhaps one might go further, and say that the Yezdi Mussulman frequently
questions the virtue of keeping to an abstract principle, particularly
when by abandoning it one might do a good turn to a friend. Impartiality
is a thing which he absolutely fails to understand: indeed he considers
it simply another name for disloyalty, and here it is probable that most
other Easterns would agree with him.
It is impossible to treat the inconsistency of Yezdi Mussulmans as
simple weakness. It is rather the absence of such principles as Westerns
generally possess than the inability to keep to them; and indeed it is
often the result of other principles of a peculiar kind, diametrically
opposed to those to which we are accustomed. The Yezdis are a free-handed
folk, and they despise a man who does not spend freely. They like to
appear to live up to their incomes, and I think that some of them have a
feeling of the same kind about their debit and credit account with their
Creator. Also we must not forget that Persian inconsistency is not always
a deviation towards wrong, but equally often a deviation towards right.
Though in Persia it is never well to trust to a man’s character, it is
always advisable to appeal to high principles, even when dealing with
apparently the most abandoned. While we were in Yezd we were brought into
contact with three men in high position, whose names it is not necessary
to mention, but whom I would put down as the three worst prominent men
in Yezd. The first was an aristocratic official, the second a cleric,
and the third an official and a _nouveau riche_. Now each of these three
at some time or other made himself conspicuous by conduct that one was
bound to commend and approve. It is impossible to always analyse motives,
but in at least one case the action seemed to have been due to nothing
but a disinterested and unselfish impulse. In the other cases it is more
probable that expediency, or a conscious intention of paying for sins by
_savabs_, entered into the matter.
To trace this peculiarity of the Yezdi’s character to its source is not
easy. Sometimes it appears to be a species of hedging, for it is very
difficult to find out the truth in Persia, and a general disbelief in
everything may have led the Persian to feel that it is unsafe to stake
his all on one theory of the universe. The amount of lying that is done
in a town like Yezd baffles description. An Englishman when in doubt
tells the truth. A Persian when in doubt tells a lie. This would be more
tolerable were it not that a Persian is always in doubt. In Yezd security
is a thing unknown, and telling lies becomes part of the instinct of
self-preservation. Then again the lies are of a new kind. Lies in England
are generally told to deceive people in some particular; in Yezd they
are just as frequently told in order to make the very search for truth
impossible. When I have had to examine into cases of petty theft amongst
schoolboys, I have found that to get at the truth is an almost superhuman
task. English boys, if they do not tell the truth, will at least tell as
few falsehoods as possible, if for no other reason, to avoid being found
out. Persian boys will not only lie on the subject they wish to conceal,
but they will tell as many untruths as they can cram into the story, so
as to render any attempt at investigation futile. Of course you know that
they are lying, but, as they never imagine that you will suspect them of
telling the truth, they are not much deterred.
The result of this practice is that in the Yezd bazaars, taking together
all statements, even the most trivial, that are made by Mussulmans,
probably not less than one-third of the speeches made are falsehoods. I
do not think that the Persian beggar ever expects to be believed. A woman
once came to the house, asking for a quilt because she had none, and her
son was ill. To have no quilt, that is, to have no bed-clothes, is by
no means an unbelievable state of poverty, and there is no doubt that
the woman expected to have her words taken literally. It transpired that
her son was quite well, but was taking sanctuary to avoid being molested
for a debt. The woman had a perfectly possible quilt, but it was old and
patched. She actually brought it to us the next morning, not to prove
that after all they were very poor, but to show that in saying she had
none she had spoken the truth. Another woman once told me in the street,
that she had six orphan children and her husband was sick.
In a country like this it is not surprising that evidence is at a
discount, and that there are intelligent people absolutely convinced that
truth is unknowable. A man who is accustomed to act upon this theory in
the ordinary affairs of life, is naturally inclined to apply the same
principle to whatever religion or philosophy he possesses. So we get
men who are unwilling to stake everything on anything in particular. If
they have previously assumed that it is most advantageous to do what is
right, then it is well to perform just a few actions on the assumption
that it is more advantageous to do wrong. If they have hitherto acted on
the principle that it is better to do what is wrong, then it is well not
to put all their eggs into that basket either. And indeed I am inclined
to think that many of the Yezdis would apply the same philosophy to
their non-ethical ideas. If they have based most of their opinions on
the assumption that something is true, it is well to base others on the
assumption that the same thing is false. This, of course, sounds to us
mere nonsense, but once grant with many of the Yezdis that evidence is
valueless, and truth absolutely unknowable, and it at once becomes an
approximation to sense.
It is quite possible that some of my readers may ask whether this last
attempt to explain the inconsistency of the Yezdis is to be taken
seriously. To say that I do not know is rather a weak confession, but at
the same time it is true. I certainly do not pin my faith to it, yet it
seems to be the way in which the bewildering topsy-turvydom of Persia
is working. Never forget that the jokes of W. S. Gilbert are the facts
of Persia. For instance, in an isolated place like Yezd, the laws of
supply and demand operate so peculiarly that the ordinary custom of
discount on quantity is inverted; you will be able to get things usually
sold at three for a penny at perhaps thirty for a shilling. There was a
governor in Yezd, certainly not more than twenty years ago, who had men
bastinadoed for walking in the bazaars without treading down the heels of
their slippers. In such a country it is very difficult to say what is in
itself ridiculous and impossible. One can only judge from evidence, which
is, I think, in favour of the theory I have just suggested as a possible
explanation of undoubted facts. At the same time the unreliability of the
Yezdi is probably due to several causes, and there is one of these causes
about which one may speak with less uncertainty. This is the piecemeal
appreciation of ideas and circumstances, which I have already mentioned
as the result of the impression made on the Yezdi’s mind by the isolated
objects which continually surround him, and which is probably heightened
by a religion which was constructed under circumstances very similar to
those of the Persian deserts.
Shame is the feeling of vexation consequent upon the consciousness of
having fallen below an accepted standard of conduct, and where such a
standard is not to be found, shame does not exist. Consequently the
Yezdi, who has only the faintest idea of a moral standard that ought to
govern his whole life, is not susceptible to shame in this particular.
He has, however, a rather stronger idea of a general standard of
intelligence up to which he ought to live, so it is often a greater
deterrent to him to point out that a certain action will be regarded as
ignorant or silly than to show that it is less moral than his ordinary
behaviour. He also possesses a very keen appreciation of what he
considers to be the ethical proprieties of a particular occasion. We must
remember that what he lacks in breadth of view he makes up for in power
of concentration on the comparatively small field of ideas that can come
simultaneously within the range of his mental vision. For example, when
European missionaries have been in vain attempting to simplify a most
abstruse and metaphysical doctrine by spreading it over several easy
steps, they sometimes find that the Persian mind, though it utterly fails
to grasp the simpler train of reasoning, can without any assistance take
in the more difficult idea, so long as it is expressed with sufficient
brevity. In the same way the Yezdi, who seems to have little or no sense
of the proprieties of a lifetime, will have an appreciation of what is
right and fitting on a particular occasion stronger than that of the
European. This is what makes him so dignified at times and seasons, and
so undignified in his life. Although his sense of propriety does not
always work, where it does work it is so far from being weak that to
violate it seems to give him a sensation that is near akin to physical
pain. You cannot make a Yezdi apologise: if he has done an injury, he is
quite content to ignore it, or to assert that it has not taken place,
which is the ordinary substitute for an apology in Persia: but the man’s
sense of shame is too great to allow him to confess to such an action
before the man he has wronged. He has no objection to the man knowing
what has happened; but at the interview his denial must be accepted or
the injury ignored. This is the only way in which he can submit to the
meeting.
The Yezdi has not a very fine sense of humour, but he is easily amused.
Perhaps it is worth while to instance an occasion which occurred during
our stay in Yezd when the natives seemed really tickled. A certain
Russian doctor resident in the town, who had not a very complete and
accurate knowledge of Persian, wanted to use bad language to his servant,
who had in some way offended him. As he knew no suitable expressions he
seized the dictionary and kept looking them out one after another, and
hurled them at the unfortunate man’s head as fast as this process would
permit. This story was retailed with very great appreciation by some of
the better class natives. I rather think it seemed to them very much more
funny than it does to us, and this for two reasons. Persians have a great
respect for literature, including dictionaries, and they would hardly
understand their being frivolously handled; also they are very particular
in adapting their language to the occasion, and it would strike them
as the height of absurdity to abuse a servant in book language, as the
doctor must have done, unless indeed the Russian publication he consulted
contained real specimens of colloquial abuse, which would have struck the
Persians as even more funny.
The story of Mulla Nāsiru’d Dīn and his mule is a very fair instance of
Persian humour at its best. The Mulla, who was a notorious wit, had
sent a mule to the market-place where such beasts were sold. People were
suspicious owing to the Mulla’s reputation, but nobody supposed that he
would let himself down by sending an unsaleable animal to the bazaars.
So first of all someone examined its forelegs, and got badly pawed;
then someone went to its hind-legs and got kicked; next they looked
at its mouth and got bitten; finally they tried to put saddle-bags on
to its back, and it threw them off immediately. Consequently when the
Mulla strolled down everyone laughed at him, and asked him if he really
expected anybody to buy it. “No, my friends,” said the Mulla, “I never
expected any of you to buy it; but I wanted you to know what I have to
put up with at home.”
One of the things that is most difficult for a European to tolerate in a
Yezdi is his extraordinary disregard of time. It is not only that he does
not care how long he takes over a thing, one might tell story after story
on this point, but this is a malady common in the East. What I was not
prepared for was that he should have no idea what time means. In Persia
a clergyman’s work consists more of seeing people in his own house, and
less of visiting; but the great difficulty in receiving visitors is that,
if one wants to see parties separately, a single reception is all one can
satisfactorily arrange in an afternoon. This is what happens. Two parties
send to ask when they can see you, and you reply by asking when it will
be convenient for them to come. Both messengers state with the most
absolute politeness that it makes no difference to their masters when you
say, and that they wish you to choose the time. If you are wise you will
tell one party to come two hours after noon, and the other to come at one
hour to sunset, which, supposing the sun to be setting at six, will be
five o’clock. They will both acquiesce, but you will have to be ready to
receive the party due at two at one o’clock, and you must not consider
them late if they arrive at three. Similarly you will prepare for the
second party at four, and not consider them late before six. But the
probabilities are that both parties will arrive at four, the favourite
visiting hour, having both decided on that time before sending to ask
you.[5]
Another great difficulty is the Persian language. Persian is a pretty
language with an extremely large vocabulary. What is more, every class
of Yezdi, that is, of the men, uses a very large number of words.
For all this it is almost impossible to accurately define an idea,
for the language largely consists of synonyms, which cannot be used
indiscriminately, but must be carefully selected according to the
occasion. Some of these synonyms really possess accurate meanings, but
if you choose your word according to the sense you wish to convey, you
talk bad Persian. To give an illustration of this, suppose in dealing
with the Incarnation you desired to bring out the Christian doctrine
that God is not only the Friend of man but also his close Companion. I
am quite certain that in ordinary Yezdi Persian there is no sufficiently
appropriate term for “companion,” that could be applied to God in such
a way as to bring out your meaning, without exposing you to a charge of
irreverence. As a matter of fact I once tried to convey this idea in a
Persian sermon, and was met with this difficulty. I afterwards tried
to get three or four native Christians, one of whom was a teacher of
Persian, to suggest a possible word, but the only expression they could
propose was the word I had used.
The words one uses in a letter in Persian, even for the commonest
objects, are almost entirely distinct from the words one uses
conversationally, and the words which one would use in an ordinary
prose history book are again different. Then it is almost impossible to
distinguish the tenses; the true future is hardly ever used, consequently
the present and the future are indistinguishable; and the preterite is
frequently used of action which was begun in the past but which is still
continuing. Lastly, the adjective is generally indistinguishable from
the substantive, and the link between an adjective and the term which it
qualifies is the same as the sign of the genitive. For instance the text,
“This is My beloved Son,” may be read in the Persian Bible, “This is the
son of My beloved” without the slightest violence to the grammar; nor,
indeed, is there any obvious way out of the difficulty. I have mentioned
these peculiarities of language because I think they are greatly
connected with the Yezdi’s inaccuracy of ideas, though which is the cause
and which is the effect is sometimes difficult to say.
There is no situation in which the Yezdi is so incalculable as that which
seems to demand a certain amount of daring. Sometimes the people seem
absolutely wanting in the power of taking the initiative, and expect
to be directed like children. They have an aversion to killing animals
except for food, even when there is danger to human life in allowing them
to live. One day an English lady asked why a dangerous dog which had
bitten several people was not killed. The answer was, “If you tell us
to kill it we will do so, but not otherwise.” The fact is no one minded
killing the dog, but they fancied the curse might lie with the initiator
of the movement. They will go on letting things be, or allowing them to
get more and more dangerous, until they have accustomed themselves to
an amount of risk to incur which would be accounted by a European mere
foolhardiness. In this they are largely influenced by predestinarian
notions. An English lady was one day standing by an open tank in a
Persian compound, into which one of the children had fallen that morning,
and she remarked on its extreme danger. “Yes,” said the mother, “I have
lost three children in that tank.” To build a small wall round such a
tank would be in Persia exceedingly easy. Perhaps the little power of
initiative that is left them by their predestinarianism is destroyed by
the insecurity of the country. People get in the way of making as few
improvements as possible, and of never exposing their capital more than
they can help. In fraudulent business, however, there is a great deal
of audacity, sometimes combined with a good deal of ingenuity. They are
exporting at present to China a quality of so-called opium in which there
is absolutely no morphia. The stuff is really an entirely different
substance, and very cheap, and it is tied up in bags steeped in a
solution of opium. It is, I believe, more harmful to smoke than the real
article.
Passive courage the Yezdi possesses to a very high degree, but he must
have a cause for which he cares sufficiently, if this courage is to be
called out. If the terrible Babi massacres that have taken place from
time to time in Persia have proved nothing else, they have at least shown
that there is grit somewhere in Persian character. The way in which mere
lads in Yezd went to their death in that ghastly summer of 1903 was
wonderful. There was one boy whom they tried very hard to spare, for
sometimes the mob were moved by something akin to pity. They took him
to the _mujtahid_ first, and told him to recant, and he would not. Then
they took him to the open square, and held him up to give him one more
chance, if he would curse the Behāu’llah and the Behāīs. “The curse be on
yourselves,” was all he said; and then they tore him in pieces. The early
Babis showed good fighting qualities in the north of Persia, as well as
passive courage, and, as they were chiefly townsmen, we may presume that
there are military possibilities in the Persian people, even amongst
those who dwell in cities. But to look for military feeling in the kind
of soldier that we get in Yezd is not fair. He is, I believe, collected
by a sort of conscription from certain localities. When collected he is
taught about as much of the ordinary elements of drill as is considered
necessary in England for the national schoolboy. He is also assigned a
wage of a _toman_ a month, which if punctually paid would be insufficient
to cover anything but the barest food expenses. This mistake is, however,
generally remedied by his superior officers, who usually intercept so
much of his wages that he is bound to look for other means of support.
In this he is not discouraged. If he has a little ready cash he usually
sets up as a money-lender, his official position and possession of a
bayonet assisting him to collect his debts. Otherwise he steals shoes,
or takes up some other similar form of employment which does not demand
an extensive capital; sometimes he even makes shoes. Once a year he
is supposed to be supplied with a uniform, but, though the uniforms
are probably not worth more than a few shillings, they are very seldom
regularly supplied. He is, however, free to add to his uniform as well
as to his pay, and at certain times of the year there is very little
left of the original outfit except an old cap with a metal badge, and
possibly a belt. When on sentry duty he amuses himself by planting a
small garden, four inches by two, in front of his station, and he keeps a
heap of rose-heads to press into the hands of passers-by on the chance of
extracting odd halfpence.
During the latter days of the Babi massacres, a guard of four men, a
sergeant and three privates, was placed at the doors of the European
houses by the Governor. Every soldier came to us with a thing that looked
like a gun and certainly had a bayonet attached to it; but we heard that
at one house it became necessary to send down an extra weapon which
would shoot for the common use of the party. Of course the gun that would
shoot was withdrawn at the earliest possible opportunity. The higher
officers of this extraordinary force are surprisingly numerous, but as
there are among them, I believe, boys of about twelve who hold the title
of Field-Marshal, there is some excuse for a reduplication of officers.
It is only justice to add that some of these soldiers are in their way
very good fellows: the guard sent to our house were by no means a bad
lot; and I shortly afterwards met a military officer whom I would class
with the best Persians I know.
Nor does the courage of Persia come out very strongly in the high
official class, though here too there are honourable exceptions. Still,
as a general rule, amongst those who claim nobility there is very little
apprehension of the maxim “_noblesse oblige_.”
Of course there is in Yezdi manners and customs much that strikes the
outsider as intensely funny. For instance, the etiquette is distinctly
peculiar, and although very ceremonious, it does not always appear to
the European to be characterised by great politeness. When you come
into the room the first two minutes will be spent in phrases intended
to convey an exaggerated respectfulness. In upper middle-class houses
your host will take upon himself the menial offices of service, not only
making your tea himself, but going out of the room every two minutes
to supplement the crockery, or to fetch another lump of sugar. If you
have a servant with you, your host or his other visitors will discourse
freely with this man before your face as to your most trivial personal
affairs, and if there is a pause in the conversation they will make side
remarks to one another on the number of your virtues, and when they have
discovered a certain consensus of opinion, they will turn to you and give
you the benefit of it directly, by telling you that you are a very good
man. From this you must not infer that Persian friendliness is hollow:
all that can be said is that the etiquette is artificial. Even so it
means something; for when a man is anxious to pay you proper respect he
adheres to it closely, unless he has reason to suppose that you would
like him to adopt something of European manners, which some Persians
dealing with Europeans try to do. However the etiquette is too elaborate
and artificial for universal use, and generally speaking it is not much
used except in matters relating to visits and to letter-writing. On other
occasions Persians who have no intention of impoliteness are often a
little off-hand as compared with other Easterns, and those who intend to
be rude find plenty of opportunities for being so.
There is, I suppose, between the Persian and the European a difference
of opinion as to what constitutes puerility. One of the Governors of
Yezd once boasted to an English resident that it was no good trying to
hide things from him, as he knew what every European in the town had
for dinner. Then there is the custom of making absolutely worthless
presents with the most superb _empressement_. Once when I was in a big
village near Yezd with my wife and baby and mirza, a woman whom my wife
knew came in, and after greeting us presented us with four very crumpled
lettuce leaves, selecting the leaves according to her ideas of our exact
precedence with the utmost care and circumspection, and having in the
whole transaction very much the air of a maiden aunt giving a tip to
a schoolboy. Nor must it be supposed that these customs only obtain
amongst the women. A European banker once told me that if one of his
brokers gave him anything, the others always followed his example; and
that once at the bank one of them presented him with a rose-head, the
second at once plunged his hand into his pocket and produced an old
sweet, the third fumbled among his treasures, and at last found something
which looked like a lump of gum. He could not quite remember what the
fourth presentation was, but he fancied it was another sweet. Sometimes,
particularly in Parsi houses, presents of this sort will be elaborately
handed about, somewhat after the fashion of a round game, everybody
giving something to everybody, and finishing with exactly the same amount
as they had at the beginning. This game, however, is generally played
on a special occasion, and the presents of fruit and sprigs of myrtle
have a certain symbolical significance which gives grace and dignity to
the performance. Of course the interchange of presents which although
trifling have a positive value is one of the most striking features of
the social intercourse of Persia. This is a custom which needs to be
understood, and which soon degenerates into extravagance, but essentially
it is a good custom. A higher value is always placed on what are called
_saughāts_ or travellers’ presents, and Europeans either travelling or
residing in Persia should remember that a certain number of these will
be expected of them. When a Persian has done you a real civility, he
feels that to a certain extent he has introduced you to his home, and
any little European thing which you may give him he takes as a graceful
introduction to your separate life, and he values it from this point of
view much more than would be otherwise possible. The custom, however, has
its drawbacks; for it is the fashion in Persia always to present anything
which a visitor has admired, and this becomes a peculiarly hollow piece
of etiquette. Occasionally big Persians in dealing with inferiors use
this custom as a means of enriching themselves, but this of course is
exceptional.
When all has been said I think that we must admit that for some reason
or other the Persian is willing to expend his energies upon things
which seem to us to be absolute trifles. This was curiously illustrated
on one occasion by one of the Yezdi gentlemen who is supposed to have
advanced most in civilisation and culture. I was calling at his house
at the time, and he handed me a most elaborate atlas with charts and
diagrams illustrating all sorts of out-of-the-way things. Some of these
I did not feel myself competent to explain, but everything that I could
explain he understood at once, and he had obviously before my arrival
discovered the meaning of many of the diagrams. We passed on from
this to discuss several of the great inventions of the age, including
wireless telegraphy. In everything he showed a most intelligent interest,
and great quickness of perception. Finally, he produced a photograph
of a man who had been shown at an exhibition, I think at Paris. The
man had an enormous beard, some twelve feet long. My Persian friend
made no difference at all in his manner, but discussed this peculiar
phenomenon in exactly the same way. I cannot remember all the details
of this interview, or the exact amount of smile which my host allowed
himself when we were discussing the photograph, but I have attempted to
faithfully convey the general impression left on me by his manner. I
think I am right in saying that it all points to the fact that the great
difference between Persia and Europe is that the Persian tends to take
things piecemeal, and the European to regard ideas in their relation to
others. At the same time this is not always at once obvious. A European
is firmly convinced of the value of scientific knowledge, and will
decorate a man who has discovered all that is to be discovered about a
black beetle. Here the Persian will laugh at the European, as he also
will when the European rewards highly extreme excellence in the practical
trivialities of life. But it is obvious that these exceptions are more
apparent than real. The Persian is like a man who has got a pair of
glasses that give him a very clear view of a very small field of vision.
He does not view things absolutely piecemeal, but he generally regards
only a very small area at a time. A man who picks up shells with an idea
of adding to the general store of human knowledge is to him an imbecile;
but he is only willing to pay the same attention to an invention like
Marconi’s that he would to an improved hair-wash. The consequence is that
the Yezdi very soon adapts himself superficially to circumstances, and
it is very easy to veneer him, but he does not easily assimilate fresh
principles of action. In dealing with Persians it is well to realise
this, and not to build too much on their adaptability.
A Persian visitor, when he is behaving according to strict etiquette,
depreciates not only himself but all his belongings. It has been
suggested that the admiration which is frequently expressed for foreign
customs and ideas is really due to this etiquette, and similarly that
the belittling of Persia as a country that has gone to pieces is due to
the same cause. This suggestion is, I believe, entirely incorrect. A
Yezdi will belittle himself, his house, his relations, and the country
of Persia, because he regards the first three as purely personal, and
does not care the least bit about the fourth; but if he belittles his
town, his etiquette, or the foundations of his creed, he will make it
very plain that he expects you to understand that he simply does it out
of civility. There is one thing that a Yezdi puts before everything,
and that is the water-supply of his town. I personally got on very well
with the Yezdis, although I had to own that I did not admire Mohammed
or his religion. But another European, who openly stated that he did
not approve of their water, succeeded in absolutely alienating their
affections. These exceptions show that Yezdis are willing to exhibit
their pride in what they really love. They are also very proud of their
literature, their language, and their intelligence. As a matter of fact,
considering their extreme ignorance, they are not a conceited people, and
their willingness to adopt foreign things more or less points to the same
conclusion. Some of them, and these are generally the most ignorant, are
insufferably conceited, but as a rule their comparative freedom from this
vice makes them peculiarly likeable.
The nearest approach to a moral principle that I can find amongst the
Persians is their commendation of simple acts of kindness. As I have
before mentioned the idea of _savabs_ covers many actions which have no
ethical point, and it fails to cover in the Persian mind many actions
of a moral character where the benefit is not at once apparent. But
Yezdis are brought up to admire simple and direct acts of kindness, and
to enjoy doing them. Generally speaking, they are very good-natured,
and in nothing is this so obvious as in their conduct towards children.
Of course cases of gross cruelty to children come to one’s notice
occasionally, but they are after all the exception and not the rule,
and the children are more often spoilt by weak indulgence. The Yezdi’s
conduct towards animals very well illustrates his character. I believe
that there is less wanton cruelty, particularly towards wild animals,
than you would find in a European town. On the other hand, the cruelty
towards working beasts is beyond description, there being in this case
an ulterior object. Again, the dogs in the street, which are more or
less under the ban of the Mussulman religion, are treated in the most
extraordinary way. They are made the recipients of little acts of
good-natured kindness, perhaps under the impression that a _savab_, even
to a dog, cannot do any harm, perhaps because a Yezdi is often better
than his ideas. They are also treated on occasions with the most fearful
cruelty, and the cruelty in this case has no point but the satisfaction
of a religious prejudice. This is, after all, exactly the way in which
the Yezdi Mussulman treats the human being whom he considers unclean. He
has alternative principles which he chooses according to his mood and
circumstances. Sometimes the prejudice against killing animals gives rise
to very great cruelty. It is generally considered a sin to kill an animal
except in self defence or for food, but you may do anything to it short
of extinguishing life with your own hand.
To sum up, in the case of offences against the person Yezdis have an
inkling of an ethical principle, which is frequently at issue with the
more explicit teaching of their religion. This seems to me to be one
of the most hopeful points in Persian character, and one which the
missionary ought to most carefully study, trying to make it in many cases
the basis of his appeals. But we have to beware of trading too much
upon this very rudimentary principle. When we come to offences against
property, we shall find it applied much less frequently, and working with
much less force. There is no inclination to honesty in a Mussulman’s
character to correspond with the inclination to kindly action. If you
want to find anything of this kind you must go to the Parsis. On the
contrary, there is nothing that gives the Yezdi Mussulman such intense
satisfaction as the feeling that he has scored by his wits. He would
much rather steal one _kran_ than earn two by the same expenditure of
effort. A certain amount of dishonesty is recognised, and is not in any
way resented. The servants, for instance, expect to make a certain profit
upon all transactions. The extent of their profit is by custom left
entirely to the conscience of the servant, but everybody would confess
that taking more than a certain amount was wrong. You will frequently
catch less trustworthy servants trying to make over fifty per cent., and
sometimes over a hundred. As to the morality of this custom when the
lowest possible percentage is drawn I can only say that I am not wholly
convinced, as it appears to me that servants who are trying to live a
straight life never ask for it to be sanctioned, and sometimes certainly
give it up, at any rate in its direct form. But the point is that wages
are generally arranged on a scale that allows for a man taking very much
more than the minimum percentage. Nor is this sort of allowance for
dishonesty only made in servants’ wages. One day the cook of one of the
Europeans went to the bazaars for meat, and after the usual haggling the
price was fixed at twelve _krans_ a _man’_ (thirteen pounds), “But,” said
the cook, “you have got your thumb on the scale.” “And do you think,”
retorted the butcher, “that I am going to give you meat at twelve _krans_
a _man’_, unless I keep my thumb on the scale?” This shows you something
of Persian business principles, and indeed trickery is regarded by all
Persians as part of the ordinary routine of life. Our servant once asked
the milkman if he could sell us some cream, and the man replied quite
gravely, “No, if I take off the cream they will complain of the milk.” He
obviously thought that the natural way to supply us with cream would be
to skim the milk he sold us.
Passing to the merchant class the opium trade affords a good instance
of the most barefaced type of wholesale fraud. Indeed, the fraud of a
Persian town is beyond conception. We had a neighbour in Yezd who was
considered a fairly respectable man, and whose sole business was the
forging of seals. But the fact is that every class, from the highest to
the lowest, is thoroughly permeated by the leaven of dishonesty.
There is so little security for property in Persia that men do not
consider it worth their while to amass wealth by ordinary means.
Everybody in a town like Yezd is trying to effect a _coup_, either a big
one or a small one, and one of the results is the most extraordinarily
rapid shifting of social positions. In Persia the road from beggary to
princedom is a very short one, and the road from princedom to beggary is
not very lengthy; only in this return journey it is somewhat difficult to
prevent being assassinated, for when a big man is disgraced his life is
in extreme danger.
This inattention to ordinary and petty business enterprise has curious
results. When I first went to Yezd I found it almost an impossibility
to get the things I wanted from the bazaars. The European has to deal
with the bazaar through his servants, and it took my men about three
days to get the commonest articles other than necessary provisions.
Articles which I knew would need a little hunting for were sometimes,
if I insisted, procured within the month. This is absolutely without
exaggeration; and, although I believe I was unfortunate, other residents
and travellers in Persia have confessed to similar difficulties. You may
go into a town where the chief occupation is weaving, and declare that
you want some of the woven articles which it is their principal business
to make, and it is very possible that you may be unable to procure them,
or only able to get the most inferior specimens, if you are passing
through quickly. This is rather less true of the larger places on the
main roads, like Tehran and Isfahan, but in towns like Yezd there is the
greatest difficulty in getting what you want.
In an emergency it is frequently almost impossible for a European to
get what is needed, if the things required are not such as he has been
accustomed to buy at other times. To offer rather more than the price one
usually gives is not of much use, and frequently has the very reverse
effect to what is intended; for the seller in such a case may decide to
forego the profits of legitimate trading for the chances of effecting a
_coup_. But the real difficulty is rather that the retail trading of Yezd
is totally devoid of ordinary enterprise. When the trader moves out of
the ordinary rut of his every-day commerce he prefers to be fraudulent.
In his customary business the shop-keeper makes a fair profit, and
although his dealings may not be very extensive, there is always the
chance of something really good coming his way. Meanwhile he has a
position very much more dignified than that of the English shop-keeper.
In Yezd the seller, not the buyer, is the conferrer of the benefit, and
so far as the relation is concerned, the superior. When he sells very
small quantities, he often charges less than the usual price. When he
sells large quantities, he frequently charges something extra. Europeans
in an ordinary way have not much difficulty in getting regular supplies
when they become well known, though they have to pay more for them than
the natives do. An Armenian also has to pay more than a Yezdi, but less
than a European. I am inclined to think that the poorer natives suffer
from the difficulty of procuring on emergencies things which they do not
ordinarily buy quite as much as ourselves, though probably the richer
Persians have more facilities. This is just one specimen of the inertia
of Yezd. In matters of transport one is even more in the hands of other
people. It is extremely difficult to find transport at less than three
days’ notice, and one can seldom get off on a journey within two hours
of the time arranged. During the journey there is the same difficulty
in controlling affairs. Under such circumstances people naturally get a
tendency towards fatalism, and undue persistence even gets to be regarded
as a sin. Probably this has some effect on the religious conceptions of
the people, for, if a man who sticks to his point is not to be admired,
it is difficult to understand why we should consider unchangeableness
of purpose a necessary attribute of the Deity. Whatever may be the
orthodox doctrine of Islam upon the subject, there is no doubt that the
Yezdi fails utterly to understand why there should be any persistence or
consistency in the view taken by the Deity of human sin, for the Yezdi
himself would hardly feel justified as a father, or person in authority,
in taking a similar firm stand. One of the consequences of this doctrine
is that weakness is hardly accounted a sin at all. I remember two
conversations with Babi mullas in which this came out very forcibly.
They tried to argue that _taqīya_, that is, the custom of denying one’s
faith under the stress of danger, was sanctioned in the gospels by the
story of Peter’s denial. I have also found other Persians who have
disputed the sinfulness of Peter’s action, on the ground that he was the
victim of compulsion. But the most curious suggestion with regard to the
defensibility of weak conduct was made by another party of Babi mullas,
who considered that the difference between the forbearance of Christ
towards His enemies and the impatience exhibited by Mohammed was fully
accounted for by the respective lengths of their ministries.
One finds the marks of this want of persistence everywhere. I have seldom
seen a tombstone in Yezd that has been finished accurately, and there
is scarcely a building that has not got a rough, unfinished corner.
Similarly every one who has seen a Persian carpet knows that the design
is almost always broken in at least one place.
I suppose the _prima facie_ conclusion is that the Yezdi is the weakest
of weak beings, but I am very doubtful whether this conclusion is true.
Repose and weakness are two different things, and although we seldom
find the Yezdi putting out his strength, the condition of the country
is hardly such as to rouse him. Certainly in the sphere of morals the
Yezdi’s religion gives him very little inducement to a consistent life.
“The Light That lighteth every man that cometh into the world” is not
wanting in Persia. Sometimes it makes Mussulmans superior to their creed,
but, if I may be allowed to express an opinion, I think this Light
operates more in calling men out of Islam than in guiding them in it.[6]
I should hesitate to make a similar statement about the Parsis. It is not
my intention to discuss Zoroastrianism at length, but although it is a
religion without a gospel, almost all the essential ideas about God, and
right and wrong, and the bases of human action are undoubtedly true so
far as they go.
If one wants to know whether the Yezdi Mussulman is strong or weak, one
must examine his conduct when he is sure of his cause. I think he is
worthy of some praise for the self-restraint he habitually shows when he
is conforming to the by no means easy restrictions of an established and
elaborate etiquette. But, as I have previously said, the thing which has
opened people’s eyes to the enormous strength of Persian character under
partially favourable moral conditions, is the way in which the Babis have
exposed themselves to martyrdom, and have stood firm to their beliefs and
cause under tortures too horrible for description. It has been mentioned
that, although Yezdis, while they remain Mussulmans, do not show any
great enthusiasm for a distinction between right and wrong, they still
possess the greatest powers of loyalty both to causes and to individuals.
In their affection for those for whom they care they are anything but
weak, and when they really attach themselves to Christianity and realise
the personal presence of Christ, they develop an unexpected strength of
character. We must, however, beware of expecting an utter change of
constitution to take place at the time of conversion.
A Yezdi’s personal attachments do not run so closely along the lines of
duty and relationship as might be expected by people coming to Persia
from other Eastern countries. The family tie is not always a very strong
one, though it is sometimes exceedingly strong. Perhaps one reason for
this is the extreme looseness of matrimonial relations. A Shiah may
have four regular and permanent wives. When he marries, a settlement is
made on the woman, who may be divorced at any time if he cares to pay
the settlement. The woman may also divorce her husband, if she cares
to forfeit the settlement, that is if she is sufficiently mistress of
her own movements to be able to make the necessary arrangements. There
is no limit to the number of divorces and re-marriages, so long as no
man possesses at any time more than four wives. Besides these he may
have as many temporary wives as he likes. It is true that these wives
are theoretically only slaves, but this, after all, is simply a legal
quibble. They can be married either for a few days or for a few years.
Babis may only have one wife, and divorce is discouraged, though amongst
the less respectable Babis in Yezd divorce is as common as anywhere.
Some of the more respectable Mussulmans in Yezd openly profess a belief
that monogamy is the more respectable state, and among the better Yezdi
merchants it is very common. Girls are sometimes married extremely young,
for instance at nine or ten, but there is a growing feeling that to marry
a very young child is not altogether respectable, and some of the better
class merchants prefer not to let their girls be married before fourteen.
Of course this is an unsatisfactory state of things, but one must not fly
to the conclusion that there is no affection in Persian marriages. One of
the missionaries had a lad of about eighteen in his employment, and there
had been talk of a marriage between him and a child of ten or twelve.
Going home one evening for his night off, he found that he had landed in
the middle of his own marriage ceremony, which took place that night. He
was a good-natured lad, fond of children, and the little wife was devoted
to him and was terribly distressed at his not coming home the next night,
for she had got everything ready for him, and would not believe he was
not coming. When one of the ladies from the missionary’s house went to
call on her some days after she came very close up and whispered that she
wanted her husband to come home every night.
The women of the highest official class are kept very close in Yezd,
perhaps only going out once in six months, except to the bath; but the
merchants’ wives have considerably more liberty, and the commoner women
go about freely. Sometimes there is a great deal of real affection in
the home, at other times exceedingly little, especially when there is
more than one wife, and sometimes there is the grossest cruelty. The
fact is that Persians are led by impulse in these matters. They are very
slightly constrained by any feeling of principle. As a class perhaps
the old mothers are the worst treated, and an old woman generally
prefers going to her daughter rather than to her son. One of the richest
merchants in Yezd had an old mother who was very ill, and he refused
even to buy a chicken to make the broth the doctor had ordered. At last
a favourite black slave wheedled one out of him, and made the broth for
the old woman. Slaves in Persia are very valuable and are generally well
treated. On the other hand, another well-known merchant and landowner,
whose old mother-in-law was very ill, thought nothing too good for her;
he insisted on her having all she wanted promptly, and came himself to
her room at least once a day to enquire after her health. The same man
took a personal interest in seeing that every provision was made for
the comfort of his old cook when she was past work, and the general
tone of the household was one of affection and consideration. Another
big merchant, whose old mother had fallen off a roof, showed the very
greatest solicitude for her comfort in every possible way, spending hours
with her, and himself lifting her most carefully. At the same time the
old women as a class are not well treated, and in the better class houses
it is often difficult to distinguish them from the servants. The poorer
classes are generally no better. I remember that at one time my wife was
trying to explain to one of my servants’ wives what ingratitude meant.
The woman was very fond of her children, so my wife asked, “Would you
not think it very ungrateful, if, when you were old and poor, your boy
refused to do anything for you?” “No,” she said, “of course that is what
I expect. Our boys are always like that. We only say, ‘It is the will of
God.’” Several women present joined in the laugh at my wife’s ignorance.
Of course a great deal of cruelty goes on in the less respectable Persian
households, and the use of poison is not uncommon. It should be explained
that in Persia people who are not even professedly respectable are to
be found in every class, and in a commercial town like Yezd status goes
largely by wealth, and carries with it no obligation to keep up even a
superficial reputation. The organisation of the household is very largely
outside the operation of the ordinary law. I do not know what is the
exact legal limit of the _jus paternum_, but I am quite sure that it is
very difficult to bring to book the head of a household for murdering
any member of his family. Also in the case of a member of the family
leaving Islam, the matter would probably be primarily left to the head of
the household, although if the case was flagrant the matter might also
be taken up by outsiders. It is very necessary to understand this when
discussing the possibility of religious liberty in Persia. Religious
liberty, proclaimed by a firman of the Shah, would not have the enormous
value which is sometimes supposed. Indeed it would be almost entirely
without immediate value, unless the Persian government were considerably
strengthened, and a limitation put on the _jus paternum_. A decision by
leading _mujtahids_ that it was expedient to give such liberty either
to the individual or to the family, would probably have more immediate
effect, but, even were such a thing possible, it would be difficult to
say how long such a decision would remain unchanged if advantage was
really taken of it, and the precedent of the decision would on the whole
be rather a bad one.
Another conceivable form of religious liberty is that the right of
making converts from Islam should be secured by treaty to the European
missionary. This, however, would not put a stop to the persecution of
converts. There is so much injustice that is done in Persia as a matter
of course, that it would be very difficult to prove that Persian subjects
who were converts had been interfered with for religious reasons. One
of the difficulties that missionaries experience at present, is that
converts are always bringing forward instances of injustice which they
themselves believe to be due to their profession of Christianity, whereas
the missionary, who has considerable doubts on the subject, is often
afraid of calling down real persecution by using his influence on their
behalf.
The subject of religious liberty is a very difficult one, and although
some people feel that an extension of treaty rights would be a good
thing, and others, that a firman of the Shah giving religious liberty to
his subjects would help the growth of sound and civilised ideas in his
domain, there can be no doubt that the primary want is strong and good
government. I have tried in this chapter not to discuss the government
of Persia more than is absolutely necessary. It is of course far from
perfect. At the same time, during my stay in Yezd, the governors of the
town, and notably the Jalālu’d Daula, showed great friendliness to the
whole European colony, and great fairness in their attitude towards the
mission. The strengthening of the Persian government is a clear gain
to the missionary, and seeing that strong government without religious
liberty could certainly do for us infinitely more than religious liberty
without strong government, I personally feel that the strengthening
of the Persian government, central and local, is at present the main
desideratum. At the same time, with God all things are possible, and I
should hesitate to press this view on other people.
One or two instances of the lengths to which crime can go in Persian
houses without arousing much notice from the authorities might be
recorded. There was in Yezd one man who stabbed his own child in
its mother’s arms, and remained absolutely unpunished. He was still
flagrantly ill-treating his wife and children while we were in the
town. In the Isfahan district, a man murdered his child-wife by pouring
paraffin over her and lighting it. The child died in the Julfa hospital.
If any punishment was inflicted it was a very light one. There was
another woman in Yezd dangerously stabbed by her son-in-law, but as she
did not die, even her family took very little notice of the matter. These
are a few typical specimens of the way in which the family is allowed to
manage, or mismanage, its own affairs.
[Illustration: SQUARE OUTSIDE GOVERNOR’S RESIDENCE IN YEZD.]
Generally speaking, Yezdis are open-handed. They have not the least shame
about begging, and will show the greatest meanness in money-getting, but
this does not prevent their being themselves generous at times. The fact
is, that they regard beggary as a bargain; one man gets a coin, and the
other a _savab_. They accept kindnesses of any sort in this manner, and
consider that they give as good as they get, particularly if they are
Seyids; but for all this, they are frequently ready to take the other
side in the game. Probably not less than ten per cent of the population
are professional beggars, and as they do not starve, we may conclude
that a great deal of money is given away. But the open-handedness of the
Yezdi takes other forms besides the mere giving of money to those who ask
for it. He spends money freely upon his own pleasures: considering his
poverty he lives well: this is true of all classes: finally, he really
enjoys showing hospitality.
There is in Persian hospitality a great deal more than the observance of
etiquette. Even the inquisitiveness of the Yezdi is a kind of attempt
to get into real touch with his guest. In a word, he is essentially
human. Most Europeans who have lived in Persia find it rather difficult
to explain why they like the people. In the Yezdi there is certainly
much to lament, but there is something to admire, and very much more
to like. A people who are open-handed, good-natured, affectionate, not
always extravagantly conceited, and above all, intensely human, are
a people one cannot help getting to like when one lives among them
for any time. At the same time, their inquisitiveness, unpunctuality,
intense dishonesty, frequent ingratitude, and absolute want of principle
in everything, are, to say the least of it, very trying. As to their
exact position in the scale of civilisation, my personal opinion of
them greatly changed after living through the Babi massacre of 1903. To
find men, and women too, who had been to a certain extent influenced by
contact with Western ideas and standards, and who prided themselves on
representing the section of Persian Society most advanced in civilisation
and refinement, openly gloating over horrors that would pollute these
pages if I were to write them, seemed to us to be an indication of a more
radical difficulty than was evidenced by the horrors themselves. At the
same time, the behaviour of the Babis under persecution was sufficient
to convince any one that there is plenty of strength in the Persian
character, if only it can be called out.
My conclusion is that it is unfair to the Yezdi’s character to in any way
depreciate the evil effects of the circumstances among which he lives.
His want of principle, his ferocity, and other similar points in his
character can most of them be traced to a religious system which was
forced upon him by the sword; for we must remember that he is four-fifths
a Parsi, and only one-fifth an Arab. The good points in his character
are much less easy to trace to his religion. He is not indisposed to
reform, a fact which is proved by the success of the Babi movement, the
possibilities of which have been discussed already.
Under these circumstances one can hardly imagine a country where the
call to Christian missionary work was so peremptory, both because of the
need and because of the peculiar opening afforded. Missionary work must,
of course, be based rather upon the direct commandment of the Saviour
than upon human judgment. However, there is no doubt that God sometimes
accentuates His written commands by placing peculiar circumstances before
our eyes, and I cannot conceive places appealing more strongly to the
intelligent student of the missionary field than these isolated towns of
Persia, one of which I have attempted to describe.