MY TARTAR.
I cannot conceive it possible to imagine a greater contrast than an
Asiatic, and more particularly a Central Asiatic, who, as late as
two years ago, wrapt in his national garb of ample width, hanging
about him in loose folds, was feeding on the simple and primitive
fare of a nomadic people, and who, at the present moment, booted
and spurred, moves about in the closely-fitting costume of the
Hungarians, and is already accustomed to the food and manners of
the West; one, who, destined to lead the life of a Mollah, once
spent his time in the lonely cell of the Medresse Mehemmed Emin at
Khiva, absorbed either in prayer or in the doctrines of Islamism,
and who is now seen turning over the large folios in the library
of a European academy, acquainted with books on philosophy, or the
history of the world and religion, Greek and Latin literature, and
numberless authors besides; who scarcely ever had heard the name
of Europe, or had heard it mentioned only in terms of the utmost
abhorrence; who knew no other institutions, no other phases or
aspects of men and things, but those in his own wild Eastern world,
and recognised these alone as true and reasonable;--and who now is
reading the leading articles of European newspapers, discussing the
different politics of Western countries, and unhesitatingly making
the boldest comparisons between the Eastern and Western hemispheres.
These are certainly clear and sharply-defined contrasts, and such
contrasts my friend the Mollah exhibits "_in propriâ personâ_,"--the
Hadji whom I brought with me from Central Asia, whom I met with
whilst on his way to Mekka, who became my companion and associate,
and who, instead of the holiest of holy cities, now lives with me
in the metropolis of Hungary. How I succeeded in inducing him to
form this resolution has been to many a matter of the liveliest
curiosity to know; nor were their enquiries less eager as to the
impression made upon him by my metamorphosis from the pious dervish
into the European traveller. One fundamental error ran through all
these enquiries,--namely, the strange belief that my change had
been as sudden as that of the chrysalis to the butterfly. It was,
on the contrary, extremely gradual, and its various phases are the
more interesting, since they illustrate in a striking manner the
difference between Eastern and Western life. The history of my
transformation, in fact, deserves to be given in detail.
I first met my Tartar, as I mentioned before, in Khiva. A Mollah,
young and animated with a desire for travelling, he was in search of
a companion on his journey to Mekka, and in the full belief to find
in me a Turk and a Mohamedan, the most suitable fellow-traveller,
he at once attached himself to me with the utmost ardour and
devotion. During the early part of our acquaintance he saw in me
merely the learned Mollah, the wild zealot, whom he approached with
the greatest veneration, listening most attentively to every word
that fell from my lips. Such was the relation that existed between
us throughout our journey to Bokhara, Samarkand, and Karshi, as far
as the banks of the Oxus. Here I became more confidential towards
him: occasionally I put off somewhat the disguise of my affected
sanctity; we grew more and more intimate by degrees; our slender
store of provisions was put into one common bag, and as he was
thoroughly honest and true-hearted, his sincere and loyal friendship
became a great support and comfort to me on my solitary and perilous
journey. Only slowly, and with difficulty, could he accustom himself
to a real and mutual intimacy; and on our begging expeditions he
would take upon himself, as his own undisputed task, to collect the
heavy contributions, such as wood, flour, &c., whilst he left to me
the less onerous business of collecting the pence. In the evening
he made it his duty to prepare the supper, and, after having served
the rice on a piece of rag or a board, it was always a matter of
conscience with him not to touch it until I had twice helped myself
with my hands. I do not know whether veneration or conscience
inspired him with this excessive respect, but, be the cause what it
may, he invariably shrank from placing himself in a position of
equality. Not wishing to spoil his pleasure, I therefore let him do
exactly as he pleased.
On our journey from the Oxus to Herat, my feigned devoutness visibly
decreased in exact proportion as the distance between me and fanatic
Bokhara kept increasing. Prayers, ablutions, pious meditations--all
became less frequent. My Tartar, no doubt, observed this, but it did
not seem to trouble him, and he accommodated himself ungrudgingly to
his master. His questions on religion were fewer, but he listened
instead with more eager attention to my descriptions and narratives
of the foreign land of the 'Frengi,' and the pictures I drew of
those marvellous countries of the West. Such lectures as these were
usually delivered during our night marches, when we were riding
alone in intimate converse, and at some distance from the caravan.
The pleasure I felt in being able to talk of my beloved West in a
barbarous country, surrounded as I was with dangers in so doing, was
not greater than my Tartar's astonishment when he heard that there
were towns more beautiful than Bokhara, and countries where it was
possible to travel without fear of robbers or of dying with thirst.
He was especially struck when I assured him that the 'Frengis,' so
far from being the savage, pitiless cannibals, such as they had
been represented to him, possessed heart and feeling, and that they
were infinitely superior to their reputed character in the East.
Under different circumstances he might have doubted the truth
of my assertions; but as I, the Efendi, his teacher and master,
assured him of these facts, he placed implicit belief in all I told
him. No wonder that I was pleased with his thirst for knowledge
and his loyalty, and that I in return became greatly attached to
my young Tartar. Moreover, he kept as much as possible aloof from
the other Central Asiatics, his countrymen, uniting himself more
closely to my society. As soon as I perceived--which I could not
fail to do before long--that something could be made of the young
man, I resolved not to let him leave me, but, if possible, to take
him with me to Europe. If such was my determination long before we
came to Herat, it was still further strengthened by the brilliant
proofs of his attachment and fidelity which he showed to me during
our residence in this town. Here, as is already known, my sufferings
and privations reached their climax. Totally without means, I had
not unfrequently to bear all the torments of hunger; and whenever,
at this advanced season of the year, the cold prevented my sleeping
during the night, it was my young Tartar who honestly shared with
me his poor thin rags, in order to procure for me a warmer covering
and a quiet sleep. During these six weeks that we spent in Herat we
suffered, indeed, greatly; but I tried to strengthen the courage
of my companion by assuring him that we should meet with certain
help in Persia. The idea that a pious Sunnite should fare well in
the heretical country of the Shiites, appeared to him sufficiently
droll; but the child-like innocence of his heart, and his unaffected
confidence in me, prevented his making any further conjectures. He
looked, like myself, with intense longing to the frontiers of Iran,
and the capital of Khorassan.
At last we arrived in Meshed. The hearty friendship of the English
officer here, and his kindness towards me as well as my companion,
were at first a great puzzle to my Tartar. He knew Dolmage was
a Frengi;--what strange thoughts must have crossed his mind, in
his astonishment at seeing me, the pious Mohamedan, his "chef
spirituel," sit for hours in the company of an unbeliever, talking
with him in a foreign language, nay, eating with him out of one
and the same dish. The servants of the English officer, and indeed
every one in the town, repeatedly declared to him their opinion that
his master was a Frengi in disguise. He shuddered at the thought,
and although he heard these suspicions with feelings of anger and
indignation, yet he never questioned me on this point, and his
firm faith in me remained unshaken. Moreover, his attachment to me
naturally increased, from finding in me at all times a friend and
protector, especially on our journey to Teheran, when, on account of
his Tartar costume, he had frequently to encounter the ill-will of
the vindictive Shiites. On my part, again, it was, I consider, no
small risk, to travel for a whole month alone with this man, to pass
whole nights alone with him in desolate spots. Let one single evil
thought arise in his heart, and it would have been an easy matter
for him to kill me during my noon-day slumbers on the open road,
and, carrying with him my horses, weapons and money, to escape into
the desert, northward to the Turkomans. But I never harboured any
such suspicion. Fully confiding in him, I entrusted to his charge my
musket, sword and horse; when tired and fatigued I stretched myself
out upon the sand and slept soundly and securely, whilst he acted
as sentinel; for at the very beginning of our acquaintance I had
discovered that he had a true heart, and I cannot say that I have
ever once been mistaken in this respect.
It was in Shahrud where he saw me for a second time embrace an
unbeliever. He was struck by it, and said: "My master, thou art
truly wise, in always associating with the Frengis; for these
Persians, although they believe in the Koran and in Mohammed,
are, by heaven! a hundred times worse than the unbelievers!" On
this occasion he expressed to me also, after having met a second
Englishman, his surprise at finding these Frengis, both "outwardly
and inwardly, such agreeable persons," and yet he found it difficult
to approach them. He would stare at them and scrutinize them for
hours, proving clearly that, although he had partly got rid of his
deeply-rooted prejudices, a certain degree of shyness and reserve
was still clinging to him.
During the latter part of our march towards the Persian capital,
my joyous feelings occasionally woke within me some long-forgotten
song or melody. I began first to whistle, and then to sing, popular
airs of certain operas. Whistling is not practised in the East, and
regarded as extremely frivolous and indecorous; nevertheless, he
was greatly pleased with the charming melodies from the Troubadour,
Lucia, and others. He asked me with great naïveté, whether in Mekka
people recited the Koran with these accompaniments, and was greatly
astonished when I replied in the negative.
It was at the post station of Ahuan for the first time he heard me
called by my European name. This name touched the tenderest fibres
of his heart, and no doubt he struggled long and painfully before
he found the courage to question me. I replied, that I would give
him an answer in Teheran, and this set him at rest for a time. On
my arrival in Teheran, I lodged with my old friends in the Turkish
embassy. The young Efendis, who represented the Sultan, were
fashionable European diplomatists, bearing the signs of Frengiism in
far stronger colours than myself. This lessened his suspicions; and
when I enlightened him on the modern civilization of his Sunnitic
brethren in the West, he gradually became aware of the immense gulf
between Stamboul and Bokhara. He was told of the continuous efforts
of the Osmanlis to assimilate themselves as much as possible to
the Western countries and their culture, and he could not help
following this example himself. If we take into account, that he saw
and heard nothing but what was good and excellent of the few Frengis
whom he had hitherto had the opportunity of knowing, it was natural
that his hatred and his prejudices should vanish day by day.
In Teheran he made the acquaintance of a countryman of mine, Mr.
Szántó, who frequently came to see me, and with whom he was soon
on terms of intimacy. Szántó told him with no small joy, that he
and his master (he meant me) were the only Magyars in Persia. The
Magyars, moreover, the philologizing tailor added, are the kindred
of the Osmanlis,--a statement the Tartar felt surprised at, but
which did not exactly disquiet him, our long intercourse and
friendship reconciling him to all he saw and heard. And seeing in me
more affection and kindness than in the genuine Turk, the trifling
difference as to nationality troubled him very little. He roved
about cheerfully in Teheran, making himself acquainted with the
manners and language of the Persians, and was extremely glad, when,
after a residence of several weeks, we were saddling our horses once
more for our journey to Constantinople.
Hitherto no other plan had been talked of, but that he was to
accompany me as far as Constantinople, and from thence go on to
Mekka by Alexandria. But soon I perceived that this original plan
no longer pleased him, and that he intended to do otherwise.
Our life in the Turkish embassy in Teheran, where everything was
arranged after the European manner, and our frequent intercourse
with other embassies, had shown him a part of Western life in a
very pleasant aspect, and awakened in him the desire to visit with
me these wonderful countries. Nor is it difficult to understand how
his original longing, to prostrate himself upon the grave of the
holy Prophet, receded more and more into the background. His sound
understanding was not long in penetrating this religious humbug;
and, having naturally a great love for adventure, he soon resolved,
instead of the illustrious Mekka, to go and visit Frengistan, a
country formerly thought of with dread and detestation.
I pretended not to observe what was passing in his mind, and putting
him on shore at Constantinople, I was about to take leave of him,
after having amply provided him with money. The young Tartar looked
at me fixedly with tears in his eyes, and in spite of the sight of
the proud minaret, in spite of the crowd of orthodox worshippers who
surrounded him here on every side, he felt constrained to say to me,
in a voice trembling with emotion, and interrupted by frequent sobs:
"Efendi, do not leave me here behind alone. Thou hast brought me
from Turkestan into this strange land: I know here no one but thee.
I follow thee, gladly, whithersoever thou goest!"--"What, wilt thou
come with me to Frengistan?" I asked him; "from thence it is very
far to Mekka; there are no mosques and public baths, no Mussulman
food; how wilt thou live there?" For a moment he seemed perplexed;
but after a brief silence he replied: "The Frengis are such good and
kind people; I should like to see their country; and afterwards I
will return to Stamboul." I required no more. Fully understanding
the character of my Central Asiatic friend, I embarked with him
once more on the shore of the Bosphorus, and in three days he was
already upon a steamer on the Danube, surrounded by Europeans, and
on his way to the not far distant capital of Hungary. On board the
steamer I found him often absorbed in thought. Not yet venturing to
taste European food, he gazed at everything around him with a shy
timidity, but gradually he grew accustomed to the novelty of the
scene, and a few days later he promenaded the streets of Pesth in
Bokhara costume. During the first few days he could scarcely find
words, so full was he of amazement. Everything, indeed, appeared to
him like an enchantment. He admired all he saw, from the square-hewn
paving stones in the streets to the lofty buildings and towers;
and it can easily be imagined what singular, and at times comical,
remarks he made;--he, the son of the desert, in the midst of one
of the first cities in Europe. He was much struck with the quick
walking of people in the streets, and the rapid movements of the
vehicles; but, above all, the women arrested his attention; and he
could not understand how the Frengi, clever and sensible people
as they are, could allow their women-folk to appear in public in
such clumsy and uncouth attire, and without any protection. In the
day time I often saw him standing by the telegraph wires, listening
to the sounds that passed along them. At night he would stare at
the gas lamps, full of curiosity to discover whether it was the
iron that was burning. At the hotel, the luxury and magnificence
that surrounded him filled him with astonishment. Judging of every
person he met by his dress, he regarded every one as some mighty
lord or potentate, and frequently exclaimed: "Oh! this is a happy
country! Here seems to be not a single poor man!" He soon grew
accustomed to the looks of curiosity that followed him wherever he
went. His former dread of the Frengi had entirely disappeared; he
had a pleasant face for every one, and frequently entered eagerly
into conversation with the first person he met, forgetting, in his
characteristic manner, that no one could understand him; and he
would go on talking to his heart's content, without being in the
least disturbed by the surprise exhibited by those he was thus
addressing.
I should most gladly have taken him on with me to London, had I
not deemed it better for him to leave him for the while behind
in Hungary. A friend of mine, who lived in the country, received
him kindly into his house; and when, after a year's absence, I
returned from England, I was not a little surprised to find my
young Tartar dressed in the Hungarian costume, and, instead
of the turban, with his hair nicely curled and trimmed, with a
rather droll air and demeanour, and a certain stiff gravity in
his manner. He had learned the Hungarian language in a very short
time; he was everywhere liked and heartily welcomed, and when, for
the first time, I saw him smartly dressed, and with gloves on his
hands, talking most courteously and earnestly to a lady in her
drawing-room, I could scarcely refrain from laughter. Two years ago
a Mollah of a Medresse, he is now grown into half a dandy:--in truth
what cannot be made of an Oriental? Being able to write as well as
speak Hungarian, my friends kindly procured him an appointment as
assistant-librarian in the Academy, which position he fills at the
present moment. When I question him about his new life, and talk
to him of the difference between Eastern and Western manners and
habits, I find that his past life floats like a dream across his
mind, which he cherishes only as a distant reminiscence, but which
he would not on any account exchange for his present existence.
He rarely feels any longing for his native home, and he loves our
Western civilisation for the following reasons. In the first place,
he is particularly pleased with the perfect security that society
affords to the individual, and the absence of any arbitrary tyranny
on the part of the Government. In Central Asia a man's bare life is
not safe on the roads from robbers; in the towns he is threatened
with constant danger from the barbarous decrees of the authorities.
The frequent cruel executions, the desolating civil wars in his
country, have never struck him until now, when he has become aware
how thousands of persons come in daily contact with each other,
without quarrels, fighting, or bloodshed ensuing--all consequences
of frequent occurrence in his native country. Secondly, the comfort
which Europeans enjoy, at once benefits and captivates him. He finds
the house of a simple citizen better appointed than the palace of
his sovereign. The cleanliness in dress and food, the reciprocal
offices of kindness and courtesies of society, are magnets which
attract him and make him forget his rude and uncivilised home.
Thirdly, it is a special delight to him to find that the various
differences of religion and nationality are scarcely ever felt here,
whilst in the East they form the strongest barriers between man and
man. With him at home the mere notion of visiting the country of the
Frengi would have been certain death, and now he lives in the very
heart of their land, not only without encountering hostility, but
actually received with cordiality and affection.
With regard to his feelings on Islamism, his own speculations had
already in some degree enlightened him. He observed that the nearer
he approached the West, the more Mahometan fanaticism decreased,
and as he, in proportion with its decrease, drew nearer and nearer
to humanity and order, he could not help suspecting very soon that
Islamism, or at least the Islamism he knew and confessed, was the
declared enemy of civilisation and refinement of life, such as he
met with in Europe. He has never yet uttered a word of aversion or
reproach when referring to the doctrines of the Arabian prophet,
but his subtle and speculative theories sufficiently indicate that
a strong revolution has been wrought within him. Without wishing to
assign the cause of this great contrast between the East and the
West solely to the influence of Christianity, he has, nevertheless,
arrived so far in his conclusions as to comprehend that our western
culture and mode of life are incompatible with the teachings of
Mahomet. He has never yet distinctly expressed to me his preference
of either one or the other religion, and it will probably be long
before he will venture to give expression to any thought of the
kind. His allusions and fragmentary remarks, however, prove that his
mind is occupied with questions of this nature, and that the great
struggle with himself has begun.
Such, indeed, is the history of every Mussulman, whether Tartar,
Arab, Persian, or Turk, as soon as he becomes thoroughly acquainted
with our western civilisation--a complete transformation but seldom
occurs. The highly important question, whether the civilisation of
the East or West is the better--whether the teaching of Christ or
of Mohammed is the true religion, will long remain undecided by
the nations of Asia;--nay, so long, I feel inclined to say, as the
rays of the sun produce with us a temperate, with them a burning,
heat; so long as distance separates the east and the west. Were it
possible to bring the doctrines of Christianity more into conformity
with their views, by setting aside those of the Incarnation and the
Trinity, and were these tenets, thus modified, put into the place
of the Koran, an opportunity might be presented of a small, but
only a very small, step in advance. I say advisedly a small step,
since Christianity, though sprung from an Eastern soil, has long
ago proved to be a plant which can only flourish in the West. And
who would deny that the Koran and Vedas, created as they are by
an Eastern mind and in the spirit of Eastern nations, are prized
and revered by them above everything besides? Their disappearance
would bring new and similar productions into existence. I venture
almost to assert that the Christian tenets would, after a time,
become transformed, on Eastern soil, into a sort of Koran or Vedas,
in order to be the typical embodiment of oriental sentiment, and
be recognised by orientals as their real and peculiar property.
Are not the Nestorians, Armenians, and other followers of the
Eastern Church, all disciples of Christianity? but as great as the
difference is between them and their co-religionists in Europe, so
little do they differ in their mode of thought, their feelings, and
views of life, from their Mohammedan fellow-countrymen in the East.