TEHERAN.
Teheran—The Director’s house—Persian visits—Etiquette—Pipes,
details of—Tumbakū—Ceremony—Anecdote—The voice of the
sluggard—Persian medicine explained—My prospects as a
medico—Zoological Gardens.
Teheran struck me as a poor place, particularly from the outside of the
town; the streets were narrow, and the houses seemed mostly of plastered
mud, or of mud alone. And when we reached Major S⸺’s house, on the
outside the prospect was not inviting, but no sooner were we inside than
everything was comfortable: good doors, good windows, carpets of great
beauty, _chairs_—only try to do without these for a few days, and then,
and then only, does one appreciate their comfort—big settees and divans,
and a host of smart and attentive servants. Tea and pipes at once; a warm
bath, much needed, in prospect, and, above all, the freedom from the
morning’s call to boot-and-saddle at an unearthly hour.
No sooner was breakfast over than messages were for ever arriving for my
chief as to what time he would receive this grandee or that friend; and
shortly the ceremonious visits commenced. I was, of course, only too glad
to see what a Persian visit was like.
To be a successful entertainer in Persia it is imperative to be a master
in the art of compliment, as the conversation itself is generally
trivial; but the exact amount of compliment must be meted out with a
careful hand, according to the visitor’s rank. By no means should the
thing be overdone, as an excess of good treatment, over and above what
the caller is entitled to, merely lowers the recipient of the visit in
the guest’s estimation.
Of course I did not at once appreciate the differences of the intonation
in the “Bismillah!” or invitation to be seated, but I saw that great
differences were made in the position of the guest, in the duration of
his visit, and whether he were pressed to stop or not, and in the rising
and advancing to receive him, or the refraining from so doing.
I soon found out that in addressing a great man, or at times an equal,
the third person plural was frequently used; while the expression
“bander” (literally, the slave), really “your servant,” in lieu of the
first person singular, touched on scriptural form. “Shuma” (you), the
second person plural, was, of course, frequent, but in the case of a
grandee some prefix was used, as “sircar-i-shuma” (your excellency), &c.;
these prefixes it was necessary to use correctly, giving each man his
due, or if you wished to please him, a little more than his due. To give
a man a _good deal more than his due_ was understood to be sarcasm.
The second person singular is only used to inferiors, servants or
children, or in anger. As a rule the lower-class Persian always uses to
the European the second person singular, if he thinks he can do it with
impunity; and it has to be resented, and the transgressor put in his
place at once, or all respect is gone. Of course the offender feigns
ignorance.
Each visitor was regaled with some three little cups of tea and the
same number of water-pipes; some of the more advanced among the guests
affected cigarettes, as did Major S⸺ and most Europeans. A few whiffs
would be taken from the water-pipes, and they would be removed or passed
on, at the will of their masters, for I noticed that, as a rule, the
greater personages brought their own pipes.[3]
The tobacco smoked in the kalian is called “tumbakū,” in distinction to
“tootoon,” or that smoked in pipes or cigarettes; it is sold in the leaf,
which is packed dry in layers, and is preserved in bags sewn up in raw
hide; it improves by age, and is quite unsmokable the first year. The
best comes from Jarūm, south of Shiraz.
When a visitor is offered a pipe, and there is not a second one to hand,
it is at once taken to him by the host’s servant. He then deprecatingly
suggests that his host should smoke first; this is declined by a sweeping
gesture. He now offers it to the other guests, if any, and, on receiving
a negative gesture, commences to inhale.
Should, however, the host be much superior in position, the visitor will
either refuse to smoke first, or, if he has the bad taste to do so, the
host does not smoke at all, but sends the pipe away. When there are many
visitors and only one pipe, the greatest one smokes first, then the rest
smoke in order of rank, previously paying the compliment of suggesting
that some one else should precede them. These little punctilios are
endless.
Priests or holy men do not, as a rule, like to smoke the pipe of the
European, or to smoke even out of the same pipe. Of course the only
plan to be then adopted is to feign a disinclination to smoke at all.
As a rule, Persians (the Frenchmen of the East) are usually so polite
as to prevent any sign of this disinclination to be apparent, and will
bring their own pipes, or smoke those of friends, and so get over any
hitch. But at times bigoted men will try to be offensive. I well remember
a case in point. A priest of Hamadan, high in office, had occasion to
call on our superintendent, Captain Pierson, R.E. Pierson, with whom I
lived at the time, sought to provide against any possible unpleasantness
by purchasing a pipe with a clay bottle and head (it was summer-time,
and such pipes are liked then), and told his servant that if the priest
didn’t provide his own smoke, this particular pipe was to be brought to
him, with a hint in a whisper to the guest that it was an entirely new
one.
As he had expected, so it turned out; the holy man came without his pipe,
and on the usual procession of pipebearers entering, he roughly informed
Pierson that he did not smoke after Europeans. Pierson drew his attention
to the fact that a new pipe had been specially provided.
He took it, smoked it, and then had the gross impertinence to hand it to
Pierson; the latter politely declined, but the priest was not content,
and drew from Pierson the following:—
“Just as it would be painful to you to smoke after a European, so it
would pain me to do so after a Mussulman. I provided against you having
to do without your pipe, and respected your prejudices; as you are my
guest, politeness prevents my expressing what I think of your conduct.
You can break that pipe to pieces and burn the stick”—this to his
servant—“I do not care to smoke it.”
The priest turned pale, sat silent for a minute, and then said in apology—
“Yes, yes, you say truly, I have eaten dirt.”
Strange to say, we were very friendly with him afterwards.
The pipe affected by the lower classes is the short chibouque, this
nearly every North Persian of the lower class carries at his back in his
girdle or in his pocket; there is a small clay, brass or iron head, and
a straight stem of cherry-wood, six inches to a foot long, with a bore
some half-inch in diameter through it; there is no mouth-piece, and it is
held to the lips, _and not in the teeth_. The tobacco smoked is usually
Samsoon, a common kind of coarse Turkish; or Koordi, a mild tobacco,
nearly white in colour, but with a pungent flavour; there are many other
varieties. This Koordi looks like coarse sawdust, and is _quite_ dry, and
is simply the leaf-stalk and stem of the plant coarsely pounded; to look
at it, no one would suppose on a first inspection that it was tobacco at
all: the best comes from Kermanshah.
A third kind of pipe is used by the Arabs of the Gulf and many South
Persians; it consists simply of a tube of clay, an inch in diameter, bent
at a right or acute angle, and constricted at the middle; from end to
end it measures four to seven inches; one side is crammed with tobacco,
“Tootoon i Koordi;” a coal is placed on it, and it is passed from hand to
hand till the contents are burnt out. It is a very primitive pipe.
Enough of pipes. By five all the visitors had gone; we dined at seven,
and I retired to sleep in a comfortable bed.
At about five[4] next morning I am roused by—
“Chai, sahib” (tea, sir); and a lordly individual, with huge mustachios,
a black lambskin cap, a brown cloth inner coat, a blue cloth outer coat,
a broad belt, and a long “kummer” (or straight broad-bladed sword),
dark-blue “shulwar” (what an American calls pants, and an outfitter
pyjamas), and his stockinged feet—his shoes were outside my door—places a
cup of tea, some twice-baked sweet biscuit, of delicious crispness, and
some marmalade, at my side, and departs. He soon returns with a second
cup of tea and a kalian.
As I am a griffin, he draws my attention to the latter being—“Welly good
thing, kalian.”
He then goes through a pantomime suggesting sleep, talking all the time
to me in Persian. I take his advice.
At eight he wakes me, and I find he has a warm tub ready for me. I dress
once again in the clothes of ordinary life, and go down, to find no one
about, for Major S⸺ has gone to the office, and taken the Colonel with
him.
However, my especial chief, Mr. B⸺, soon appears, accompanied by his
big black dog “Topsy,” who comes into all the rooms and sits on all the
settees: there is a fine sense of liberty in this. Mr. B⸺ warns me that I
must not hope to make anything by practice—that he never did, and I never
shall; but that there is a fine field for gratuitous work.
He then explains to me the Persian system of medicine. It has its
advantages in its delightful simplicity. All diseases are cold or hot.
All remedies are hot or cold. A hot disease requires a cold remedy, and
_vice-versâ_.
Now, if the Persian doctor is called in, and has any doubt as to the
nature of the disorder, he prescribes a hot remedy, let us say; if the
patient gets better, he was right; if worse, then he prescribes a cold
remedy, and sticks to it. He thus gets over all need for diagnosis, all
physiological treatment, and he cannot, according to his own lights, be
wrong.
His prescriptions contain a multitude of mostly obsolete and inert
drugs, ten being a small number of ingredients, twenty an ordinary one.
Before he is summoned, an omen is taken by the patient and his friends,
as to who shall be called in; when he has seen his patient, another is
taken, as to whether his advice shall be followed or not. His fee is a
few pence, or more generally he undertakes the case on speculation; _so
much_—of which he is lucky if he gets half—if the patient gets well;
nothing if he doesn’t.
Most of the relatives, friends, and neighbours prescribe various homely,
or at times, powerful remedies, which are all as a rule tried.
Quiet by the sick-bed is unknown; in fact, the patient used to fuss
and noise would be depressed by it. And remedies and contrivances of a
barbarous nature, such as putting a patient in fresh horse-dung, sewing
him up in a raw hide, are the rule rather than the exception.
Usually the European doctor is distrusted, only called in when the
patient is breathing his last, or by the very rich or very poor.
Mr. B⸺ gave me one very good piece of advice. “You will go to
Hamadan—with the Persians novelty is everything. Strike while the iron is
hot, and before the novelty is worn off, and you—well, you will get lots
of experience.”
I was astonished and incredulous—_it was all true_.[5]
We visited the telegraph-office, and looked round the Colonel’s garden,
returning to breakfast at eleven, and we sat down to a substantial
_déjeuner à la fourchette_, with country wines, and tea for those who
preferred it. It was followed by the inevitable kalian and coffee.
I wanted much to see the Zoological Gardens, but we were told that the
Shah had turned the beasts loose. We, however, decided to go, and we
found it so—they were all loose.
The leo-panther, a cross between the lion and panther, a lovely animal
like an immense cat, very tame, allowing one to pat him; two lions, a
bear, two tigers (young ones), walking about with the antelopes and wild
sheep. I must say the presence of the tigers was not quite pleasant.
There is a pretty building—a sort of summer pavilion—here, belonging to
the king, well worth seeing.
A curious incident occurred as Major S⸺, Mr. M⸺, Mr. B⸺, and I were
walking home from these Zoological Gardens; we were crossing a bit of
desert plain behind the gardens towards the Major’s house. On a sudden we
saw come from under the corner of the garden wall at a shambling trot—a
big tawny animal; to discover that it was a lioness was instantaneous,
and it was coming our way. B⸺, with whom discretion was the better part
of valour, did not hesitate; like the last of the Horatii, he “vowed
revenge, and to pursue it fled.”
We kept on, but fear was in all our hearts—I know it was in mine,
possibly the Major was exempt—but we _walked very fast_, looking ever and
anon at the advancing _lioness_. There was apparently no mistaking the
shambling pace of the wild beast; as it got nearer it turned out to be a
big dog. Of course when we arrived at the house we all laughed at B⸺.
The Major’s dignity and profession forbade his running, Mr. M⸺, as a
diplomat, never of course did anything in a hurry, so couldn’t run, and
as they were present I didn’t like to run, though I itched to do it. Of
course, B⸺ said he _knew_ it was a dog, and ran to frighten _us_; if so,
his simulation of terror was _almost lifelike_.
In the evening we dined at the English Mission,[6] where there is a
billiard-table—my last game for some time, I fancy.