ISPAHAN.
Daily round—The river—Calico rinsers—Worn-out mules and
horses—Mode of treating the printed calico—Imitations
of marks on T-cloths—Rise of the waters of the
Zend-a-Rūd—Pul-i-Kojū—Char Bagh—Plane-trees—The college—Silver
doors—Tiled halls and mosque—Pulpit—Boorio—Hassir—Sleepers
in the mosque—Cells of the students—Ispahan
priests—Telegraph-office—Tanks—Causeways—Gate
of royal garden—Governor’s garden—Courtiers and
hangers-on—Prisoners—Priests—The Imām-i-Juma—My
dispensary—Ruined bazaar—A day in the town—Bazaar
breakfasts—Calico-printing—Painters—The
maker of antiquities—Jade teapot—Visit to
the Baabis—Hakim-bashi—Horse-market—The
“Dar”—Executions—Ordinary—Blowing from guns—A girl trampled
to death—Dying twice—Blowing from a mortar—Wholesale walling
up alive—A narrow escape from, and horrible miscarriage in
carrying it out—Burning alive—Crucifixions—Severity: its
results.
In my early days I was in the habit of riding over from Julfa to the town
of Ispahan daily; twenty-five minutes’ smart trotting brought me to my
dispensary. During the summer the river was easily fordable, large banks
of gravel being visible; these were occupied by the “rinsers of printed
calicoes;” while the sun was out, for about half a mile the gravel banks
were covered with long strips of printed calico placed closely together;
at dawn the rinsers came down from the bazaars with many donkey-loads of
dyed cotton cloths; the beasts used for the carriage were the lame, the
halt, and the blind of the asses and mules of Ispahan. As the last use a
horse is put to in Persia is to be a miller’s pack-horse, so this work
seemed to be the end of the donkeys and mules.
Along the edges of the channels between the gravel banks stood rows of
old millstones; in front of each stone was a rinser up to his knees in
the river. Taking a piece of dyed cloth half wrung out, which had been
thoroughly soaked in water, in his hands—and the pieces were at times
twenty yards long—he proceeded to thwack the roll of cloth against the
stone with his whole strength, keeping time to a loud song until he was
out of breath. As these men worked in rows, and the cloths were full of
water, the noise and splashing were something tremendous. The work was
heavy in the extreme, and as they can only get to the river when low,
some seven months in the year, the pay is good.
As each piece had the water thus thoroughly beaten out of it, a boy on
the bank seized it and proceeded to spread it on the gravel, fixing the
edges and corners with a stone; his duty was never to let the wrung cloth
get dry, which he managed to do by constantly dashing water over the
out-spread rows of dyed cloths with a pan. Often the process has to be
repeated several times, as the cloths are sent down from the printers
in the various stages. Above each furiously beating rinser rose a cloud
of variously coloured spray which gradually became colourless; in every
direction the sheets of water thrown by the boys glittered in the strong
sun, and the loud choruses of the half-naked rinsers, and the barking
of their watch-dogs—for each batch had their dogs—made a cheerful and
exciting scene.
Of course the calico, cotton-cloth, or T-cloth, as it is variously
termed, had to be strong and good to stand such a process; and the
adulterator had little chance with the wily calico-printer, who always
weighed his cloth prior to purchasing, washed and dried it, and then
weighed it again; the consequence is that, save of _the best quality_,
little cotton-cloth is sold in Ispahan. Certain brands well known
for their genuineness command a high figure, such as that of the Ace
of Spades, though they are soon closely imitated by unscrupulous
makers. However, the calico-printer is generally quite a match for the
adulterator.
Many of the rinsers make little hovels of brushwood and earth, and live
altogether on the banks of gravel, and in February, when the waters
suddenly rise, the scene is exciting as they collect their traps at the
last moment, and a few seconds after, their huts are swept away—banks,
huts, and millstones disappearing, and a furiously rushing river of
muddy water taking their place. This yearly occurrence of the rise of
the waters happens on the melting of the snows on the mountains. The
Ispahan river (Zend-a-Rūd) usually presents the appearance near the town
of a number of chains of pools of water united by a central brook just
occupying the middle of a wide but dried watercourse, having a hardly
perceptible stream, and as clear as crystal. No sooner, however, do the
spring rains commence than the stream becomes muddy, or at all events
discoloured; and when the “sale ab,” or rise of the waters, comes, the
dams that have been placed to regulate the amount of water taken off by
the various canals for supplying the town and irrigation—some of which
are very old and really important works—are carried away, the river is
seen to rise many feet an hour; at times even a large wave appears, and
trees torn up by their roots come rapidly down in large numbers. The huge
bridges are crowded by a shouting and excited populace, the banks and
all coigns of vantage are thronged, and for a couple of days all Ispahan
enjoys the sight. Then the river sinks, the stream becomes clear, and a
broad and swift river is seen till May, when it gradually sinks to its
normal summer insignificance, most of its waters being taken off for
irrigation and the supply of the town.
[Illustration: THE PUL-I-KOJŪ.]
During the “sale ab” the great sight is at the Pul-i-Kojū, Bridge of
Kojū. This handsome structure, crossing the river from one of the ruined
quarters of the town of Ispahan to the palace of Haft Dust, in which
Futteh Ali Shah died, is built of brick with well-made stone piers, and
is of very original construction. As through its arches for eight months
in the year a small stream slowly flows, the huge piers are separated at
the bottom by merely narrow channels; these are arched over, and a level
causeway is the result; over this is built the second or real bridge,
which has rooms on each side of it at each pier, with open doorways
looking towards the waters; there are stairs and rooms too in the upper
piers.
When the rise of the waters takes place, this bridge, rooms, staircases,
and parapets are crowded, also the causeway. Rapidly the lower arches
become filled with the roaring torrent, still more quickly it rises above
them; at length it flows over the causeway of stone, which at the last
moment is left by the crowd, and falls with tremendous noise into the
seething flood the other side; still rising, it thunders through the
large archways, and soon the curious appearance from the lower side is
presented of a regular waterfall the whole width of the stream, with as
many torrents as there are arches, seething out above this; above all,
the double-storied bridge covered with sightseers shouting, singing, and
shrieking, with the additional possibility of the whole being washed
away at any moment. The upper bridges are often damaged; somewhat of the
beauty of the scene, however, is detracted from by the river at these
times being the colour of _café au lait_.
In summer, fording the river, I entered the Char Bagh (four gardens), or
in winter approached it by the bridge. There are several Char Bagh in
Ispahan, but the principal one extends for about a mile on either side
of the river in a straight line, the centre of the line being formed by
the bridge, which is quite level—a rare thing in Persia; and also a rare
thing in Persia, it has many _large_ arches; the parapet is some twelve
feet high, and at each pier is a small chamber having three apertures to
the river; above the parapet is ample room for foot passengers.
The Char Bagh contains a double avenue of magnificent plane-trees, some
of great age—alas! too soon to disappear. As these gigantic planes decay
in the inside, they are felled and become the perquisite of somebody: at
times in great gales they fall with a crash, the inside being quite gone.
Also whenever the Governor wants a big tree for any purpose he takes one,
but _nobody plants any new ones_.
A high wall bounds the Char Bagh on either side; at intervals are
edifices pierced by gates of from three to four stories, of no
architectural pretensions; they are of brick, ornamented with barbarous
designs on plaster in flaring colours, which time has happily toned
down; these gates lead to what were once lovely fruit gardens, now mere
enclosures sown with grain, grass, etc. The Char Bagh is some thirty
yards or more wide: about half-way up on the right-hand side is the
Mehdresseh, or college, the tiled dome of which, now fast decaying, is
a very ornamental object for miles. The dome is surmounted by a golden
ornament which is stated to be solid and of pure metal; this, I fancy,
is very doubtful. The college is entered by a high gateway, and here are
the celebrated silver doors—of the genuineness of these there can be no
doubt; the centre plates are very handsomely made, and have been heavily
gilt; the plates are not, however, very thick, and the _substance_ of the
doors is wood under thin silver. The gateway, which is in bad repair,
contains nothing of interest, and is blocked up by fruit-stalls and
pipe-sellers. A rough kind of orchard and a tank occupy the courtyard, a
few pomegranates and roses being the principal shrubs, though there are
some large trees. Several halls for instruction are seen on either side;
these, like the mosque beneath the dome, are lined and roofed with one
sheet of perfect tile-work, green, black, and yellow on a white ground;
the whole interior of the college, too, is tiled. Taken separately, there
is nothing particular about these tiles, but the _tout ensemble_ is grand
and cool in the extreme.
Of course we were not permitted to enter the mosque, as there were many
idlers about, but a good view is got from the entrances and from the
windows below the dome from the roof. The only furniture is the “mambar,”
or pulpit. The floor is covered with coarse matting, or borio, which is
made only in Ispahan; another kind of matting, which is more expensive,
is in use throughout Persia, called hassir; in the manufacture of this
thread is used. The borio is of reedy grass alone, strong, clean, and
inexpensive. Contrary to the hassir, which is made in strips, the borio
is in one piece, and here we saw pieces twenty yards by ten.
Thus there is nothing in the Persian mosque to distract the mind from the
prayers, the exhortation, or religious meditation, though the coolness
and dim religious gloom of the lofty halls rather incline one to sleep;
in fact, being the hot part of the day, we saw many men curled up in
sleep covered with their camels’ hair abbahs, or cloaks.
The mosques are at night the casual wards of Persia; there sleep those
who have absolutely no home and no business, and entrance is always
free to all comers. The busy use the numerous caravanserais. There were
lofty minarets, from whence is made the call to prayers, and numerous
little cells windowed with the old elaborate carpentry of the East, and
their beautiful tracery often papered over by the inmate to render his
cell warmer in winter; a bit of matting, a box, and a few books, were
the contents of most of them, in the corner being a small carpet, which
formed the place of honour by day and the bed at night.
The students are all either divinity or law, aged from eighteen upwards;
and an Ispahan lawyer or priest, on finishing his education, is looked
on by Persians as the type of hypocrisy and _finesse_. Many of the mūllas
(priests) are not, however, bad fellows when one can break through the
crust of _apparent_ moroseness and fanaticism; they are mostly at heart
freethinkers, many Deists, more Atheists, few being good Mussulmans.
Leaving the college and still proceeding up the Char Bagh, a building on
the right contains the Persian telegraph-office. The office is for the
local traffic, and the Persians have possession, by convention, of one of
the wires of the line; they do their own local traffic, but the line is
kept up by the English staff of the Persian Telegraph Department.
At intervals in the Char Bagh are large hauz (tanks), most of them in
ruins, but during winter generally full of water; all down the centre
runs a watercourse a yard and a half wide—alas! dry—edged by huge blocks
of hewn stone and bridged at intervals.
On either side of this watercourse is a paved stone causeway ten feet
wide edged by similar hewn stones; along the edges under the walls is
another paved road of less width; between these causeways are wide beds
once covered with flowers and fruit-trees, now only sown with clover and
barley, which in the early spring gives, with the huge plane-trees, a
fine _coup d’œil_.
The Char Bagh ends in a gateway of more lofty pretensions, but of the
same style of architecture as the buildings on either side. Here,
however, are a few tiles representing scenes in the chase, probably made
during the Afghan occupation.
A wide paved chaussée leads to the gate of the royal garden, now merely a
meadow with trees. At the entrance is the Lion and Sun daubed in staring
colours on a plastered wall, and here, unless known to the sentries,
one is not allowed to pass. My professional work having made me free
of the place, we pass on, and leaving the Chehel Sitūn, or hall of the
forty columns, crowded with the hangers-on of the minister, who here
adjudicates with local grandees on minor affairs, we come, passing a huge
hauz or tank full of clear water, to a wall in which are two recesses
having life-sized portraits in oil of former Ispahan magnates, evidently
good likenesses and not without merit. On the right is the principal
entrance to the quarters of audience of the minister and various
antechambers. We dismount, pass through a small door, are saluted by the
sentry, and enter a well-kept Persian garden, the paved walks of which
are fenced off, with telegraph wire and painted posts, from the sunken
beds.
Here, too, everything is in good repair, for we are now in the outer
courtyard of his Royal Highness the Zil-es-Sultan, Governor of one-third
of Persia, the eldest son of the king, a man of genius, and in high
favour; in fact, at present (1883) the most powerful of his Majesty’s
subjects, if we except the Valliāt, or heir-apparent, a priest-ridden
ascetic of weak intellect, whom the royal policy, which points to the
survival of the fittest, will probably quietly remove, in which case the
Zil-es-Sultan will surely reign. Here all who are expecting an audience
of his Royal Highness or his people, wait; great men and their servants,
merchants, artisans, priests, veiled women, wrestlers; a few well-dressed
servants of the prince swagger about, while his carpet-spreaders, or
farrashes, with long sticks, are present to keep order or administer the
bastinado; a few executioners, dressed in red, and shunned save by the
lowest, skulk in one corner, while half-a-dozen Jews gesticulate and
shake their fists in each other’s faces in another.
Rooms at the side, open to the air, show mirzas in long cloaks, busily
writing official letters or making out accounts. Close to the door, which
is covered with a curtain, on which is painted a colossal sentry on
guard, stands a sentinel, and here lounges the big moustached doorkeeper
with his huge silver mace.
The farrash-bashi here, too, is waiting a summons, with two villagers
in shirt and drawers of blue cotton, and felt hats: they are chained,
probably on a charge of highway robbery, or a still more heinous crime
in Persia, backwardness with their taxes. They don’t seem comfortable,
for they know that a gesture from his Royal Highness will consign them
either to the tender mercies of the executioners, or the bastinado of the
farrashes, or even perhaps immediate liberty.
Many servants, with their masters’ pipes of gold or silver, and dressed
sumptuously, if domestics of the wealthy, smoke or chatter. A knot of
thin and forbidding-looking priests, of sourest looks, some wearing the
blue turban (marking the supposed descendant of the prophet, or Syud),
take as a right, hardly acknowledging it, the salute of each passer-by,
and favour me, an unbeliever, with ferocious sneers, drawing back their
flowing garments to avoid contact, an action which I resent by doing
likewise. Here the curtain is raised, and the greatest man in Ispahan
(I speak of some years ago), whose word to the priests and mob can give
endless trouble to the king—the “Imām-i-Jūma,” or high priest, and head
of the law, for he was both—appears, followed by two other priests of
high rank. His turban is dark blue, almost black; all bend and salaam to
him. I stop to give him a military salute. He is an old patient of mine;
he smiles and speaks in a stage whisper, saying to the other priests what
a very superior unbeliever I am. I hurry on, and, passing through many
passages, come to my dispensary over the jail.
Three hours are occupied in seeing patients, then back through the ruined
bazaar, “Bazaarcha baland,” a lofty but _empty_ arcade of shops, having
a second story above them, the whole roofed in and beautifully finished
as to the brickwork. Cool and dim, this silent bazaar opens into the Char
Bagh, and I return as I came, in the hot sun, to breakfast; then siesta,
tea, afternoon ride, dinner at eight, perhaps a rubber, and so the days
go on.
Or I have a day in the town, and lunch at my dispensary on _bazaar
food_—slices of mutton off a sheep roasted whole; brilliān, _i. e._
chopped and seasoned meat; pillaws of rice, with various meats; kabobs,
or chopped and seasoned meat roasted on skewers, and served hot with
herbs between two flaps of bread, also hot; a bowl of sherbet, _i. e._
syrup and water, with blocks of ice in it; grapes or apricots as dessert;
then my water-pipe is handed to me; the whole—and the plentiful leavings
give my servant and the groom a substantial breakfast—costing a shilling.
Then, mounting, I visit the calico-printers, and see the elaborate
printing by means of blocks—some of them over three centuries old—of the
curtains for which Ispahan is celebrated, covered with strange pictures
of peacocks, elephants, soldiers, lions, etc., in all the colours of the
rainbow, and _fast, too_, on a white ground.
Or I sit and chat with the artists on the upper story of the caravanserai
Gulshan, who each in his little room is hard at work on some bookcover or
pencase, or possibly is illustrating a manuscript copy of Hafiz or Saadi,
and chatting with whom I learn a good deal of the inner side of Persian
life. I look over the work of my artist friends, who do not press me to
buy, but who do descant on the falling off in art in Persia.
Or I take a look at Houssein Khari, who has a factory for false
antiquities. Here I see, among heaps of sham, at times something real and
good; but Houssein Khari does not sell the good things, only the rubbish.
As I go he ironically holds out to me a jade teapot, requesting me to buy
it for one hundred pounds. I see that the age of bargains is over, and
retire.
Or I make a visit to my friends the Baabis. Here, however, I have to
eat such a tremendous breakfast that a siesta is needed, and I only am
allowed to start homewards at six, after pipes and tea have been taken,
and much information extracted from me.
Or a professional visit is made, and I come across bits of Eastern life
in out-of-the-way quarters of the huge and ruined town.
Or I call on the hakim-bashi, or head doctor, my friend, and hear of his
troubles in ruling the Jews, editing his newspaper—for he is the editor
of the _Ispahan Gazette_—in establishing the _new_ or _modern_ college,
of which he is the head and the prince the patron.
Or I take a long ride through the bazaars, to the disgust of my servants,
who do not care to be seen as an unbeliever’s servants in the fanatical
heart of the city.
Or, riding to the maidān, I look out in the early morning for a cheap
horse, which the brokers offer for sale here each day, and see the
furious riding of the Persian buyer trying his steed. This maidān, or
“_place_,” is, I think, over a quarter of a mile long by a furlong wide.
In the centre is a small circular brick platform, on which is a high
pole, with projecting pieces for the feet, and a pulley at top. Here
criminals used to be hoisted by the feet, and then allowed, the rope
being cut, to be dashed head foremost to the ground. At the foot of this
pole take place the numerous executions, though the Governor of Ispahan
is not fond of shedding blood.
When the new Mission at Gulhaek was being finished in the time of the
late minister, Mr. Alison, he instructed the builder to make “a place for
a flagstaff,” and a huge pole having been procured, it was set up, and
the architect smilingly presented the work to his Excellency.
Mr. Alison looked at it and tapped his forehead, and, turning to the
architect, said—
“I think I have seen somewhere something like this” (there was then an
execution pole in Teheran exactly like the one in Ispahan, but with a
higher and larger brick platform).
“Yes, yes,” replied the smiling Persian, of course, “the Dar” (execution
pole). “I have tried to copy it exactly; very imposing, is it not?
Strikes the eye at once.”
No praise came. His Excellency turned away, and the pole was earthed up
over the brickwork, leaving an ornamental mound, now covered with shrubs
and roses.
The ordinary way of execution is by throat-cutting; the victim, clad
in shirt and drawers only, is led into the square; unless a celebrated
criminal, only a few loafers crowd round; a pipe is smoked by the
culprit, and he is told to kneel; he does so, and the executioner, coming
behind him, cuts his throat with a short curved knife. As a rule the body
lies where it falls, and the relatives, on payment of a small fee to the
executioner, are allowed to remove it next morning. Blowing from a gun is
a common form of death when it is wished to strike terror into the hearts
of evil-doers; I have known it done once at Ispahan, the criminal being a
Khan accused of rebellion. This man had been some months in prison under
sentence of death; day by day he found means to bribe the minister and
the Governor, and his execution was delayed; at length his funds being
exhausted he was actually brought out into the maidān, and the cannon
loaded in his presence; but he had still a little money left, which he
paid, or rather his friends did, and he was taken back to prison; this
was his last penny; _the next day_ he was blown from a gun.
Just after my arrival in Teheran a notorious female dancer of
considerable personal attractions, and only seventeen years of age, was
brought before the queen-mother, who was celebrated for her intrigues,
charged with visiting the houses of Europeans. The girl did not deny
her crime, and, feeling her danger, became desperate, reviling the
queen-mother, and saying that they were fellow-sinners. The queen-mother
immediately obtained an order for the girl’s death, and caused her, to
be first handed over to her own servants’ mercies, and then to be rolled
in a carpet and jumped on by the farrashes till she was dead.
In the Governorship of the Zil-es-Sultan at Shiraz curiosity took me,
with some of the rest of the telegraph staff, to see two men blown from
guns; the roof of the doorway of the telegraph-office commanded the
maidān, or square.
One man was led out and blown from a gun; a second was then brought
forward, and they prepared to lash him to another gun; but as he was very
short, a good deal of time was lost in getting some bricks, which were
piled in a heap for him to stand on; he was then lashed to the gun, the
executioner advanced with a port fire, the priming fizzled, but the gun
did not go off—_they had forgotten to load it_; the man was unbound, the
artillerymen went for more powder. I ran across the square to try and beg
him off from the prince, being at that time in high favour. He kept me
chatting, and in the meantime I heard the report of the gun which killed
the poor fellow. About this time a man was blown into the air from a
mortar by the Zil-es-Sultan’s order in the square at Shiraz.
When I was last at Shiraz twenty highway robbers were caught by the
Governor, Khosro Mirza, the king’s uncle; nine escaped death by bribery,
but eleven were _walled up alive_.
Fourteen hollow pillars, four feet high, built of mud bricks, were each
built around a small hole in the ground, thus leaving a cavity six feet
deep.
One morning we heard that eleven men had been walled up in them alive;
it appeared that three of the fourteen men were reprieved, that the
farrash-bashi (chief carpet-spreader literally), or principal of the
police of the Governor, was ordered to wall up eleven men, and that,
fearing a disturbance, it was done suddenly. At midnight he, with a force
of some two hundred soldiers, four executioners, and numerous farrashes,
marched the eleven highway robbers in irons some mile and a half through
the deserted streets to a place outside the town where the pillars
stood. They were accompanied by several masons whom they had impressed,
and a donkey-load of plaster of Paris. It seems that the farrash-bashi
had received from the friends of one of the robbers forty pounds (one
thousand kerans) to allow him to escape, so on the road he seized on a
poor porter, intending to wall him up and let the robber go. Day dawned
ere they reached the place, and fortunately for the porter a crowd
assembled; among them were some who recognized him; the farrash-bashi
was forced to let him go, for had he carried out his intentions Khosro
Mirza, the Governor, would not have spared him. Each robber was placed
in a pillar alive, then loose earth was poured in up to his chest, then
a quantity of earth was hurriedly mixed with the plaster of Paris,
water was added, a kind of mortar made, and the top of each column was
plastered over having the man’s head enclosed in a mass of mortar which,
had there been _enough_ plaster, would have _set_, at once destroying
life. Unfortunately the plaster was insufficient in quantity, no more
was to be had; the mud did not set, and many of the men _were alive and
crying for water at the end of two days_. The Governor on hearing this
sent the executioner to put them out of their misery, which he did by
opening the top of each column and cutting their throats. As my wife and
I came home from a ride we passed the columns freshly plastered; this was
in 1877.
Just prior to my first arrival in Persia the “Hissam-u-Sultaneh,” another
uncle of the king, had burnt a priest to death for a horrible crime and
murder; the priest was chained to a stake, and the matting from the
mosques piled on him to a great height, the pile of mats was lighted
and burnt freely, but when the mats were consumed the priest was found
groaning, but still alive. The executioner went to the Hissam-u-Sultaneh,
who ordered him to obtain more mats, pour naphtha on them, and apply a
light, which _after some hours_ he did. A terrible death!
On another occasion a young slave who had shot his master’s son by
accident was “_crucified_,”[17] lived fifty hours, and was then put out
of his misery. There was no cross—the men are nailed to walls. I was
passing one day the outer wall of the “ark” or citadel of Shiraz; I saw
a small crowd, I rode up, the crowd made way, and I found a poor fellow,
very pale, standing with his face to the wall; a horse-nail had been
driven through each foot, also through each of his hands, which were
extended on the wall, and three more nails had been driven through his
chest into the wall; he groaned occasionally, and I was informed he had
smoked and drunk water offered him by compassionate bystanders.
He lived thirty hours, and the executioner took him down then, and put
him out of his misery. His crime was that he had stolen a jewelled horse
necklet of the Zil-es-Sultan’s; this in the eyes of Persians is high
treason.
The sentence, however, was not the prince’s, then a mere boy, but his
minister’s. He is now averse to blood, although he is given to making
severe examples to avoid _continual_ executions. With some Governors
there are executions weekly, and this in such a sparsely populated
country as Persia, is even more sad than the _occasional_ cruel examples
made by Khosro Mirza, the late Hissam-u-Sultaneh, and the Zil-es-Sultan,
to avoid _continual_ bloodshed, which I believe to be the true reason of
their occasional great severity; and this policy is successful, for in
their governments crimes of violence are unusual, their severity being
deterrent; and the _total_ of their executions very much smaller than
that of the so-called merciful Governors. In justice to these three
Governors this must be allowed, that the cruelty is much more apparent
than real.
It is to be noticed that executions are not nearly so frequent now, as on
my first experiences of Persia.