into night with no warning time of twilight, so, to adapt the words
of Omar the Tent-Maker, between the house of riches and of penury
there is but a breath. We were accustomed to strange contrasts, yet it
scarcely seemed possible that this gaudy squalor could be the setting
of the priceless Treasure of the King. The stories we had heard of its
magnificence must be due to the fecundity of the Oriental imagination.
The East is the birthplace of wonders; there the oft-repeated tale
gains a semblance of veracity which ends by deceiving not only
credulous listeners, but him also who invented it. We should have
received it like other fairy stories, sedulously nursing the happy
faith which flies all opportunity of proving itself a superstition.
We stopped before an unregal gateway, and were conducted with much
ceremony into the palace. The palace was expectedly beautiful, after
all. Crossing a narrow strip of garden, we found ourselves in its
first court--a court of Government offices, we were told, though
the word _office_ conveys no impression of the graceful buildings,
from the upper galleries of which curtains floated, fanning the air
within to coolness. Our guides led us beneath more archways, through
high, dark passages, and out into the sunlight of the central garden.
It was built round with an irregular architecture. Here the walls
were radiant with faïence, there a row of arches stood back from the
sun-beaten pavement--delicate arches which might have graced some
quiet Italian cloister--beyond them stood the much-decorated building
where the Shah sits in state on the day of the New Year, and which was
separated from the garden in front only by the folds of an immense
curtain, which, when it is drawn back, discloses the carved throne set
in a grove of columns. Still further on we reached the palace itself,
two-storied and many-windowed, from whose steps stretched the dainty
pleasure-grounds, with their paved paths and smooth, fresh grass, their
trees and gay flower-beds, between which fountains leapt joyfully, and
streams meandered over their blue-tiled beds. They were bounded by the
impenetrable and forbidding walls of the andarun.
Mounting the marble staircase, we found ourselves before a big wooden
doorway, the seal on whose lock had to be broken ere it could be thrown
open to us. We stood expectantly while the Minister, our guide, fumbled
at the lock. Perhaps he was really some powerful efreet whom, after
long captivity, our presence had released from the bottle in which
Solomon had prisoned him. We were half prepared for the fairy treasures
he had come forth to reveal to us.
Prepared? Ah, no, indeed! For what sober mortal could be prepared for
the sight that burst upon us?
A great vaulted room with polished floor and painted walls, with
deep alcoves through whose long narrow windows splashes of sunlight
fell--and everywhere jewels! Jewels on all the shelves of the alcoves,
thick-sown jewels on the carpets which hung against the walls, jewels
coruscating from the throne at the top of the room, jewels in glass
cases down the middle, flashing and sparkling in the sunlight, gleaming
through dark corners, irradiating the whole hall with their scintillant
brightness. With dazzled eyes we turned to one of the alcoves, and fell
to examining the contents of the shelves. Here were swords sheathed in
rubies; here were wands and sceptres set from end to end with spirals
of turquoise and sapphire; diamond crowns, worthy to throw a halo of
light round the head of an emperor; breastplates and epaulets, from
whose encrusted emeralds the spear of the enemy would glance aside,
shields whose bewildering splendour would blind his eyes. Here were
rings and bracelets and marvellous necklaces, stars and orders and
undreamt-of ornaments, and, as though the ingenuity of the goldsmiths
had been exhausted before they had reached the end of their task, rows
and rows of tiny glasses filled with unset stones--diamonds, sapphires,
topazes, amethysts--the nectar of an Olympian god frozen in the cup.
Under glass cases lay the diadems of former kings, high, closed
helmets ablaze with precious stones; masses of unstrung pearls; costly
and hideous toys, remarkable only for their extraordinary value--a
globe, for instance, supported by an unbroken column of diamonds,
whose seas were made of great flat emeralds, and whose continents of
rubies and sapphires; and scattered with lavish profusion among the
cases, festoons of turquoise rings and broad gold pieces which have
long passed out of use, but in which regal currency, it is related, an
immense subsidy was once paid to the Czar. On the other side of the
room the treasures were scarcely less valuable and even more beautiful,
for cupboard after cupboard was filled with delicate enamel, bowls and
flagons, and the stems of kalyans all decorated with exquisite patterns
in the soft blended colours whose freshness is immortal. These lay
far beyond the criticism of captious connoisseurs, who would not have
failed to point out to us that the jewels were tinselbacked, after all,
and that most of the enormous rose diamonds were flawed and discoloured.
Taking an honoured place among the jewels and the enamel there were
some objects which raised a ripple of laughter in the midst of our
admiration. The royal owner of the treasure-house, doubtless anxious
to show that he considered no less the well-being of the inward than
the adornment of the outward man, had filled some of his upper shelves
with little bottles of----what could those silvery globules be? we
wondered, gazing curiously upwards. Not white enough for pearls, and
yet they could not be, though they looked suspiciously like--yes, they
were!--they were pills! Yes, indeed they were pills--quack remedies
which the Shah had collected on his Western travels, had brought home
and placed among his treasures. After this discovery we were not
surprised to find bottles of cheap scents and of tooth-powder among the
diamonds, nor to observe that some of the priceless cloisonné bowls
were filled with toothbrushes; nor was it even a disillusion when we
were solemnly told that the wooden cases placed at intervals down
the room, each on its small table, were only musical boxes, which it
is the delight of the Protector of the Universe to set a-playing all
at once when he comes to inspect his treasures. Heaven knows by what
fortunate combination of circumstances he finds those treasures still
intact, for they seemed to us very insufficiently guarded, unless the
tutelary efreet watches over them. There is, indeed, a locked door, of
which the King and the Prime Minister alone possess a key; but a thief
is not usually deterred by the necessity of forcing a lock, and if a
scrupulous sense of honour prevented him from breaking the royal seal,
with a little ingenuity he might contrive an entrance through one of
the many windows, or even through the roof, were he of an enterprising
disposition; and once within, nothing but the glass cupboard-doors
would separate him from riches so vast that he might carry away a
fortune without fear of detection.
We were next taken to see the world-famous Peacock Throne, which
is reported to have been brought from Delhi by a conquering Shah. A
scarlet carpet sewn with pearls covered its floor, on which the King
sits cross-legged in Eastern fashion, surrounded by a blaze of enamel
and precious stones. A year ago this throne had been the centre of
a hideous story of cupidity and palace intrigue--who can tell what
forgotten crimes have invested its jewels with their cruel, tempting
glitter? We passed on into a long succession of charming rooms with
low, painted ceilings, walls covered with a mosaic of looking-glass,
and windows facing the smiling garden. Execrable copies of the very
worst European pictures adorned them; one was hung with framed
photographs--groups taken on the Shah’s travels, in which his shabby
figure occupied a prominent place, and all wearing that inane vacuity
of expression which is characteristic of photographic groups, whether
they be of royal personages or of charity school children. Here and
there a wonderful carpet lent its soft glow to the rooms, but for the
most part the floors were covered with coarse productions of European
looms--those flaming roses, and vulgar, staring patterns, which
exercise an unfortunate attraction over the debased Oriental taste of
to-day.
With a feeling of hopeless bewilderment, we at length quitted the
palace where we had been dazzled by inconceivable wealth and moved
to ridicule by childish folly. Wealth and childishness seemed to us
equally absurd as we rode home in silence along the dusty roads.
Before our garden gates there dwelt a holy dervish. He, too, was a
king--in the realms of poverty--and over the narrow strip of wilderness
he bore undisputed sway. He levied pious alms for taxes, his palace
was a roof of boughs, four bare poles were the columns of his throne,
and the stones of the desert his crown jewels. His days were spent
in a manner which differed little from that of his neighbour and
brother sovereign. The whole long summer through he had collected
the surrounding stones and piled them into regular heaps. His futile
religious exercise was almost completed, he was putting the finishing
touches to a work which winter winds and snows would as surely destroy
as the winter of ill-fortune will scatter the other’s wealth. But the
dervish was untroubled by thoughts of the future; he laboured to the
glory of God in his own strange fashion, and though his jewels needed
neither locks nor seals nor men-at-arms to guard them, their human
interest lent them a value unattained by the Treasure of the King.
_SHEIKH HASSAN_
I USED to watch him coming round the curve of the avenue, his quick
step somewhat impeded by the long robes he wore, holding his cloak
round him with one hand, his head bent down, and his eyes fixed on the
ground. As he drew near he would glance up, wrinkling his eyebrows in
the effort to pierce the darkness of the great tent under which I was
sitting. The plane-trees grew straight and tall on each side of the
road; overhead their branches touched one another, arching together
and roofing it with leaves fresh and green, as only plane-leaves can
be all through the hot summer. Between the broad leaves fell tiny
circles of sunshine, which flickered on his white turban and on the
linen vest about his throat as he came. He looked like a very part of
his surroundings, for his woollen cloak was of a faded gray, the colour
of Persian dust, and his under-robe was as green as the plane-leaves,
and his turban gleamed like the sunshine; but his face was his own,
brown and keen, with dark eyes, deep-set under the well-marked brows,
and his thin brown hands were his own too, and instinct with character.
If you had only seen the hands, you might fairly have hazarded a guess
at the sort of man he was, for they were thoughtful hands, delicate
and nervous, with thin wrists, on which the veins stood out, and long
fingers, rather blunt at the tips; and the skin, which was a shade
darker than the sun can tan, would have told you he was an Oriental.
I believe he came up from Tehran on a mule on the days appointed for
our lesson, and reached our village at some incredibly early hour in
order to avoid the morning heat; but the six-mile journey must have
been disagreeable at best, for the roads were ankle-deep in dust, and
the sun blazed fiercely almost as soon as it was above the horizon. The
cool shaded garden and the dark tent, with an overflowing tank in the
midst of it, and a stream of fresh water running over the blue tiles in
front, was a welcome refuge after the close heat of the town and the
dusty ride.
‘Peace be with you!’ he would say with a low bow. ‘Is the health of
your Excellency good?’ ‘Thanks be to God, it is very good,’ I would
answer. ‘Thanks be to God!’ he would return piously, with another bow.
Then he would draw up a chair and sit down in front of me, folding his
hands under his wide sleeves, crossing his white-stockinged feet, and
gazing round him with his bright quick eyes. He made use of no gestures
while he talked, his hands remained folded and his feet crossed, and
only his keen, restless glances and the sudden movements round the
corners of his lips told when he was interested. He never laughed,
though he smiled often, and his smile was enigmatical, and betokened
not so much amusement as indulgent surprise at the curious views of
Europeans. I often wondered what thoughts there were, lurking in his
brain, that brought that odd curl round the corners of his mouth, but I
never arrived at any certainty as to what was passing through his mind,
except that sometimes he was indubitably bored, and was longing that
the lesson were over, and that he might be permitted to go and sleep
through the hot hours. On these occasions he expressed his feelings by
yawns, very long and very frequent--it certainly was hot! I was often
sleepy too, for I had been up and out riding quite as early as he.
Our intercourse was somewhat restricted by the fact that we had no
satisfactory medium through which to convey our thoughts to each other.
He spoke French--such French as is to be acquired at Tehran! and I--ah
well! I fear my Persian never carried me very far. Nevertheless, we
were accustomed to embark recklessly on the widest discussions. He
was a bit of a reformer was Sheikh Hassan; indeed, he had got himself
into trouble with the Government on more occasions than one by a too
open expression of his opinions, and the modern equivalent for the
bow-string had perhaps flicked nearer his shoulders than he quite
liked; a free-thinker too, and a sceptic to the tips of his brown
fingers. A quatrain of Omar Khayyam’s would plunge us into the deepest
waters of philosophic uncertainty, with not even the poor raft of a
common tongue to float us over, from whence we would emerge, gasping
and coughing, with a mutual respect for each other’s linguistic
efforts, but small knowledge of what they were intended to convey. Pity
that such a gulf lay between us, though I dare say it came to much the
same in the end, for, as Hafiz has remarked in another metaphor, ‘To no
man’s wisdom those grim gates stand open, or will ever stand!’
The Sheikh had an unlimited contempt for Persian politics. ‘It is all
rotten!’ he would say--‘rotten! rotten! What would you have?’ (with
a lifting of the eyebrows). ‘We are all corrupt, and the Shah is our
lord. You would have to begin by sweeping away everything that exists.’
But his disbelief in the efficacy of European civilization was equally
profound, and his pessimism struck me as being further sighted than the
careless optimism of those who seek to pile one edifice upon another, a
Western upon an Eastern world, and never pause to consider whether, if
it stands at all, the newer will only stand by crushing the older out
of all existence. Sheikh Hassan, at all events, was not very hopeful.
‘Triste pays!’ he would say at the end of such a conversation. ‘Ah,
triste pays!’ and though I knew he had his own views as to the possible
future of his country, he was far too discreet a man to confide them to
frivolous ears.
Concerning his private life I never liked to question him, though I
would have given much to know what his own household was like. He had a
wife and children down in Tehran. The good lady looked with unmitigated
disapproval upon infidel foreigners, and her husband was obliged to
conceal from her how many hours of the day he spent with them. Judging
by an anecdote I heard of her during the cholera time, she must have
ruled the establishment with a hand of iron. The Sheikh, being much
concerned over the risk his family was running in the plague-stricken
town, had taken the precaution of laying in six bottles of brandy, the
most convenient medicine he could obtain, and hearing at the same time
that a good bargain offered itself in the matter of olive-oil, he, as
a prudent man, had also purchased six bottles of oil and stored them
too in his cellar. But on one luckless morning, when his wife happened
to enter there, she espied the brandy lurking in a dark corner. Being
a lady of marked religious convictions, she at once called to mind
the words which the Prophet has pronounced against alcoholic liquors,
and without more ado opened the bottles and poured out their contents
upon the floor. On further search her eldest daughter discovered the
oil in another corner. Having observed the conduct of her mother, she
concluded that she could not do better than imitate it, and accordingly
the innocent liquid also streamed out over the cellar floor, libation
to an unheeding god. The unfortunate Sheikh found on his return that
his foresight and his skill in bargaining had alike been brought to
nought by the misguided fervour of the female members of his family. To
none of them did the cholera prove fatal, though the wife suffered from
a slight attack; but Sheikh Hassan spent anxious weeks until the danger
was over. ‘For thirty-seven nights,’ he told me pathetically, ‘I lay
awake and considered what could be done for my children’s safety.’ With
true Oriental fatalism, he did not seem to have taken any active steps
in the matter, and at the end of his thirty-seven nights of thought he
was as far from any conclusion as ever. Happily, the extreme fury of
the cholera had by that time abated.
The mysteries of Eastern education were no less unfathomable to me.
Though he was a man of middle age, Sheikh Hassan had only recently
quitted the Madrasseh, a sort of religious college, of which he
had been a student. There he had been taught Arabic, geography and
astronomy; he had read some philosophy too, for he was acquainted, in
a translation, with the works of Aristotle, and he had learnt much
concerning the doctrines of religion, which study had profited him
little, since he heartily disbelieved in them all. He wrote a beautiful
hand, and was very proud of the accomplishment. He would sharpen a
reed pen and sit for half an hour writing out quatrains with elaborate
care and the most exquisite flourishes, and he evinced such delight
over the performance that I could not find it in my heart to interrupt
him. He was very anxious that I, too, should acquire this art. I asked
him how much time I should have to devote to it. ‘Well,’ he replied
reflectively, ‘if for five or six years you were to spend three hours
of every day in writing, you might at the end be tolerably proficient.’
He did not appear to consider that the achievement was in any way
incommensurate with the labour he proposed that I should undergo,
and I abstained from all criticism that might hurt his feelings. I
wrote him long letters in Persian characters. ‘Duste azize man,’ they
began--‘Dear friend of mine.’ He would read them during the lesson,
and answer them in terms of the most elaborate politeness--‘My slave
was honoured by my commands,’ and so forth; and my crude and uncertain
lines became abhorrent to me when I saw him covering his paper with
a lovely decorative design of courteous phrases. He was not without
dreams of literary fame. One day he laid before me a vast scheme of
collaboration: we were to compile a Persian grammar together; it would
be such a grammar as the world had never seen (in which statement I
fancy he came nearer the truth than he well knew!); he would write the
Persian, and I should translate it into French. I agreed to all, being
well assured that we should never bring our courage to the sticking
point. We never did--the grammar of the Persian language is still to be
written.
The one really useful piece of knowledge he possessed had not been
taught him at the Madrasseh--he had picked up French by himself, he
told me. I could have wished that he had picked it up in a somewhat
less fragmentary condition, for his translations did but little to
define the meaning of the original Persian. We read some of Hafiz
together, but the Sheikh had only one gender at his disposal, and the
poet’s impassioned descriptions of his mistresses were always conveyed
to me in the masculine. ‘Boucles de cheveux’ seemed at first a strange
beauty in a lady, but custom, the leveller of sensations, brought me
to accept without question even this Gorgon-like adornment. The Sheikh
took a particular pleasure in the more philosophical verses. Over these
I would puzzle for long hours, and in all innocence arrive at the
conclusion that some anecdote of angels, or what not, appertaining,
doubtless, to the Mohammedan religion, was related in them. The Sheikh
would then proceed to annotate them in halting French, pointing out
that a pun was contained in every rhyme, that half the words bore at
the smallest computation two or three different meanings, and that
therefore the lines might be done into several English versions, each
with an entirely different significance, and each an equally truthful
rendering of the Persian. At this my brain would begin to whirl. I
was unable to deal with the confusion of difficulties among which the
Sheikh Hassan was delightedly battling; it was enough for me if I could
seize some of the beauty which lay like a sheath about the poems, the
delicate, exquisite rhythm of the love-songs, the recurrent music of
the rhyme, and the noble swing of the refrains. I received and admired
their proud stoicism as it stood written: women were women and wine
red wine for me, the cup-bearer was the person whose advent was most
eagerly to be greeted; roses and nightingales, soft winds and blooming
gardens, were all part of a beautiful imaginative world, and fit
setting for a poet’s dreams.
But this was wilful stupidity. If I had listened to the wisdom of
Sheikh Hassan, I should have realized that we were in the midst
of sublime abstractions, and that the most rigid morality and the
strictest abstinence were inculcated by those glowing lines. In
practice, however, I had the poets themselves on my side; the days
of Hafiz sped merrily, if tradition has not belied him, and the last
prayer of the Tent-Maker was that he might be buried in a rose-garden,
where the scented petals would fall softly upon his head and remind him
after his death of the joys he had loved on earth.
Were these things also abstractions?
For lighter reading we had the Shah’s Diary, a work whose childlike
simplicity admitted of but one interpretation. I never got through very
much of it, but I read far enough to see that the royal author did not
consider himself bound by the ordinary rules of literary production. He
was accustomed in particular to pass from one subject to another with
a rapidity which was almost breathless. The book began somewhat after
this fashion: ‘In the month of Sha’ban, God looked with extraordinary
clemency upon the world; the crops stood high in the fields, and plenty
was showered upon his fortunate people by the hand of Allah. I mounted
my horse and proceeded to the review....’
At last the day of parting came; with much regret I told the Sheikh I
was about to leave Persia. ‘Ah, well,’ he replied, ‘I’m very glad you
are going. Healthy people should not stay here; it’s not the place for
healthy people.’ We fell to making many plans for a meeting in England,
a country he had often expressed a desire to visit, I as often assuring
him that an enthusiastic reception should be his. I fear these also
will never be brought to fulfilment, but if he should ever come, it
would be interesting to find what peculiarities in us and in our ways
would attract the notice of his bright, observant eyes. I confess it
would give me no small pleasure to meet him walking along Piccadilly in
his white turban and flowing robes, and to hear once more the familiar
salutation: ‘The health of your Excellency is good? Thanks be to God!’
_A PERSIAN HOST_