SHIRAZ.
Entry into Shiraz—Gaiety of Shirazis of both sexes—Public
promenade—Different from the rest of Persians—Shiraz wine—Early
lamb—Weights: their variety—Steelyards—Local custom of
weighing—Wetting grass—Game—Wild animals—Buildings—Ornamental
brickwork—Orange-trees—Fruits in bazaar—Type of ancient
Persian—Ladies’ dress—Fondness for music—Picnics—Warmth of
climate—Diseases—The traveller Stanley—His magazine rifle
and my landlord’s chimney—Cholera—Great mortality—We march
out and camp—Mysterious occurrence—Life in a garden—The
“Shitoor-gooloo”—Bear and dog fight—The bear is killed.
After a fifteen days’ march over desolate plains without any sign of
vegetation save sparse gardens round some few of the villages and the
green valley of Yezdicast (or Yzedcast as the natives call it), the view
of Shiraz is certainly grand and pleasing. Suddenly, after a twenty-mile
march from the last stage, the greater portion of which was between
rocky hills with nothing to please the eye save a little turf and a few
straggling trees around the tiny stream of beautifully cool water known
throughout the east as the Ab-i-Rookhni, and alluded to by Moore as the
“Rookhnabad,” the vast plain of Shiraz bursts upon one’s view with the
garden-surrounded city at one’s feet.
Of course distance lends enchantment, and it looks so clean and so cool,
particularly after fifteen days’ marching, that a strong contrast is
presented to most Persian towns whose mud walls as a rule are seen from
afar.
Shiraz is, however, as I said, embowered in gardens and cultivation.
On the right, the Bagh-i-No, or New Garden; on the left, the
Bagh-i-Jahn-i-ma, the Garden of my Soul, full of cypresses, which give,
from their peculiar deep green, a coolness to the scene very rare in
Persia; little oases of garden can be seen in the well-cultivated and
smiling plain beyond the whitish city, and within the walls are the
palaces of the Governor with their gardens full of trees, and numerous
large private houses whose gardens are ornamented by huge planes.
The green swamps of Karabagh, to which Shiraz probably owes its
unhealthiness, bound the view; but over the mist that hangs above them
tower the dark purple mountains that bound the Shiraz valley.
A steep descent over a broad but good road brings one to the wide space
between the two royal gardens. Here on the Thursday night the youth and
bloods of Shiraz meet to race and show off their handsome horses and
exhibit their gayest attire. Pistols are discharged, and light sticks,
flung when at full gallop against the ground, are caught after having
rebounded high in air; below the gardens, in the cemetery at one side
of this Rotten Row of Shiraz, and only separated from it by a low wall,
promenade the Shiraz ladies in search of fun, or it may be intrigue.
Veiled as they are, all are outwardly decorous; but the laughter, the
songs, and the frequent glimpses of very pretty faces and soft brown
eyes of a lustrousness only seen in the East, and the tendency that the
gayer of the cavaliers have to saunter or show off their horses along the
cemetery side, and their frequent purchases of nuts and melon-seeds from
the peripatetic dealers with which the place is thronged, seem to point
that the groups of laughing veiled ladies are the attraction. Certain
it is that visits to this cemetery are generally made on the sly by the
ladies of Shiraz.
One soon finds out that one has reached another country. Instead of the
thrift of the Ispahani and his mortified look—his dress made purely for
comfort and economy, and his donkey or ambling pony—the Shirazi smiling,
joking, singing, clad if he can by any means attain it in gayest-coloured
silk, the turban frequently discarded, even among the aged, for
the jaunty hat of finest cloth or lambskin, the well-dyed and kept
moustaches, and the long love-locks, with the hat of the smallest size
and latest mode cocked with a knowing air among the beaux; the universal
pistols at the holsters, the well-appointed and gay horse-trappings,
and the well-bred, well-fed, well-groomed horses, all with some breed
in them, like their riders. These men are a different race from the
more northern Persians; polite, at times _debonnair_, they seem to enjoy
life, and are in no way the down-trodden race that the Ispahani seems;
with them it is a word and a blow. There is little fanaticism and some
religion. Greyhounds, hawks, and even half-bred hunting dogs of sorts
abound, and all are clean and well-looking.
As one approaches the walls, which are much ruined and surrounded by a
dry ditch, the garden of Dilgoosha (heart’s-ease), the property of the
Kawam, the hereditary calamter or mayor of the town, and another huge
Government garden, the Bagh-i-Takht (or throne garden), with numerous
private ones stretching in every direction, varying in size from two to
one hundred and fifty acres, come into sight.
The dry bed of the river—it is only running say for two months in early
spring, and is at times for a day or two a raging torrent—is now crossed
by a steep bridge, and I canter off to our superintendent’s (Captain St.
J⸺) quarters by a road skirting the town ditch, thus avoiding a march
through the crowded bazaars. He has kindly ridden out to meet me.
Here Shiraz wine is given me for the first time, and I am sadly
disappointed; it is intensely bitter, and not very clear (when I first
came to Shiraz it was only bottled for sending up country); it is very
strong and very genuine however. After some years I got used to it, and
cared for no other native wine than what Moore calls “the red weepings
of the Shiraz vine,” which rather looks as if he pronounced it Shī-raz,
whereas the real sound is Shēē-rarz.
Here, too, we get delicious early lamb, for there are in all the places
south of Shiraz _two_ lambing seasons in the year, consequently young
lamb all the year round; what _we_ call lamb the Persian would call
mutton. The extravagant Shirazi will not eat mutton when he can get lamb,
and they only kill them before they are weaned; in fact, the early ones
are, when ready for the spit, only some six to eight pounds in weight,
and consequently very young.
Weights differ all over Persia. In Ispahan everything is sold by the Shah
maund of thirteen pounds and three-quarters, here in Shiraz is the Tabriz
maund[19] of seven pounds.
Weighing is done by means of a steelyard for anything over a maund. These
steelyards are ingeniously made, one side of the yard having the heavy
weights, the other the lower marked on it; and by reversing the hook the
position of the fulcrum is altered, and so either side reads correctly
with the same weight.
Much trickery is employed by the Persians in weighing, and it takes some
time to be able to circumvent their various ingenious manœuvres. Local
custom also is curious—each article has a special mode of being weighed.
Thus in Ispahan one pays for a load of wood of twenty Ispahan (or Shah)
maunds, but the woodseller gives twenty-one, and thus five per cent. from
the weight is deducted; the same for charcoal and so on. But the wily
Ispahani also sells his grass (for the horses) by weight, and prior to
his arrival the bundles are carefully dipped in water; it can hardly be
called cheating, as they _all_ do it. But it also spoils the grass and
makes it liable to ferment, and give one’s horses colic if not consumed
at once.
There is little game to be found just round the town of Shiraz, though
I have put up partridges within a mile, but the swamp of Karabagh,
some seven miles to the south, swarms during the winter with ducks and
geese, also snipe; the Persian does not try for the latter, as he does
not shoot for sport but for the pot, and snipe would burn too much
powder. Wild duck are generally sold in the market four, five, or six
for ninepence—probably a native gets them for less—but they are not
appreciated or eaten by the wealthy. Persians have no idea of _hanging_
game. Partridge (the red-legged) are found on every hill and mountain,
and are sold four for ninepence, and are as often sold alive as dead.
Many people keep them in their gardens tame; they are as often netted as
shot, particularly during the breeding season; and quite young birds are
often captured with even down on them.
Quail are plentiful during the spring, and there are a few woodcock in
the gardens in winter and autumn; the wood-pigeon, also the blue rock
(which occurs in enormous flocks), can always be got. Hares are not
unplentiful, the price being fourpence to sixpence each. Rabbits are
unknown. Wild geese are common, but very poor eating. Antelopes (gazelle)
are commonly sold; wild sheep (moufflon) are very rare.
Hyænas are frequent about the gardens in winter, while the kanaâts
swarm with jackals and a few porcupines. I have seen what appeared to
be a panther, and he was hunted by the Persians, but got away. Foxes
of the grey variety are common, wolves less so. Bears are occasionally
brought in, they are small. Lions are at times seen and shot near
Shiraz, particularly in the neighbourhood of a hill called Kola-Muschir
(Muschir’s Cap), near Desht-i-Arjeen, the second stage on the high-road
to Kazerān and Bushir.
I had an idea that the lioness had as a rule a litter of only two. But I
saw once a litter of seven lion cubs (the mother had been killed) in the
possession of his Royal Highness Zil-es-Sultan; they were some twenty
pounds weight each, screamed, continually growled, and always tried to
bite when handled; they appeared like very vicious kittens, and were “the
spitefullest little cusses” I ever saw.
The prince asked me if I should like one. I had no objection, but he said:
“These are toys for princes, not at all in your way, doctor.”
They were afterwards sent to the Shah in Teheran.
Contrary to the custom in Ispahan, the houses are here built of
kiln-dried bricks. In Ispahan the houses built with mud or sun-dried
bricks stand at times five and six hundred years, but the clay is
peculiarly tenacious and the climate extremely dry there. Here all
save the houses of the very poor are built of burnt bricks, which are
beautifully white, cheap, and good. The brickwork in Shiraz is often
highly ornamental; elaborate patterns are made in bricks of very small
size upon the walls; these are ever in the best taste and very chaste in
design; the interiors, however, fall short of the Ispahan and Teheran
work; brighter and more gaudy colours are used to suit the more florid
taste of the Shirazi, and the effect is not so good.
In the sunken beds of many of the courtyards are orange trees; the scent
from the blossoms of these is rather overpowering in spring; the beds
beneath are generally covered with a tangle of luxuriant convolvulus
or clover. The oranges are the bitter orange, like that of Seville;
generally a few of the fruit are allowed to remain, and all through the
winter the golden balls make the trees gay. In the bazaar the sweet
oranges from Kafr and Kazerān, limes, fresh dates, pomiloes, shaddocks,
and fresh lemons, show that we are in a warmer zone. And the complexions
of the natives are more swarthy. Here, too, we see the type of the
ancient inhabitant of Fars, the tall straight figure, the clear-cut
features, and the _aquiline_ nose; the eye, too, is much larger, and the
foot much smaller; quite a Jewish cast of countenance is often seen.
Here, too, the ladies’ dresses are gayer. The hideous blue veil is often
of silk, and, among the ladies of rank, generally trimmed with gold
braid. These “Chadūr,” or veils, are very expensive, at times costing,
when the embroidery is deep (and it is always _really_ gold thread), some
ten pounds.
The shirts are clean and white, the big baggy trousers always of bright
silk and always fitting the feet like a glove, the slippers tiny; whereas
the Ispahan lady never goes beyond a sad-coloured cotton for her nether
garment, and the feet coverings are much larger and less natty in cut and
material, as are the feet themselves.
The tall hats of the lower orders are often of felt, and the hideous
triangular cap of chintz of the Ispahani is unknown, save among the Jews.
As evening approaches the sound of music and singing is heard in every
direction, and the professional musicians, singers, and dancers, under
their Mūrshed, Chelinjeh Khan, drive a roaring trade. There are here,
too, many amateurs among the upper classes even; such a thing in Ispahan
as an amateur is very rare. The “kosh guzerān,” or “free liver,” is
openly a toper, and considerable licence is the rule. Even the merchant
out of office hours enjoys himself, and as a rule does not work more than
four days a week.
The numerous gardens, public and private, are open to all the world,
and little picnic parties may be seen every day, all the year round,
taking tea and smoking and singing near a stream or under the trees. The
servants all smile, and everybody seems to be enjoying himself. The
thrifty Ispahani when transferred to Shiraz becomes another man, and the
corners of his mouth turn down less; the few Ispahan merchants soon make
fortunes, and having done so seldom return to their native place.
The climate is much hotter than Ispahan; snow is rare, though at times
very heavy. At night as a rule, during three months of the year, one
sleeps on one’s roof in the open air. Intermittent fever, diarrhœa,
dysentery, and typhoid are frequent. Guinea-worm among those who have
come from the Persian Gulf is often seen, and cholera of a severe type
is a frequent epidemic; diphtheria and small-pox are rife. Shiraz is
_not_ a healthy place, and drink in this hot climate has many victims.
Ophthalmia, too, is a great scourge, but phthisis here is happily
unknown, and is rare in Persia.
During my first sojourn in Shiraz I had the pleasure of putting up Mr.
Stanley, of ‘Across the Dark Continent’ renown; he had not then been to
Africa, but was on his way. One thing that he brought with him, then a
novelty, was a Winchester repeating rifle which carried a magazine of,
I think, eleven or fourteen cartridges. One day my landlord happened to
come in, and he being a travelled man had doubts on the authenticity
of Stanley’s “many-shooter.” The fellow had been in India, and was a
horse-dealer, and smart for that.
Stanley showed him the gun.
“Ah, I see,” said he, “it has two barrels” (the second barrel is
underneath and forms the magazine for cartridges).
He then declined to believe it went off more than twice.
Stanley was loath to fire away cartridges which he could not replace, but
as Meshedi Aga Jan importuned him, he suggested that he should take an
elaborately carved plaster-of-Paris chimney some seven feet high on Aga
Jan’s house as a mark.
“By all means,” said the Persian.
At the fifth shot, for Stanley had fired at one point, down came the
chimney, and Aga Jan’s doubts were solved. He wished Stanley to go on
firing, but this Stanley declined to do, as there were no more chimneys
handy.
The second summer I was in Shiraz the cholera broke out with great
severity. I laid down rules for diet for the staff; they were very
careful, and nothing serious occurred among them; but my private work in
the town became considerable, and my dispensary was thronged.
At length it became so serious that in our mohulla (or quarter)
seventy-two bodies were washed for the grave in one morning (there are
twenty mohullas in Shiraz). Of course in an Eastern town it is difficult
to get at facts, but this one was sufficiently alarming, unburied bodies
lay in rows in the cemeteries. After a consultation with Captain St. J⸺
it was decided to go into camp. By the energy of Mirza Hassan Ali Khan,
British Agent, in getting mules, in a few hours we all cleared out of the
town and encamped in Government tents in the bed of the river some two
miles out. There the night was spent, and next morning the whole of the
staff and their servants moved to the banks of a river near Khana Zinyun,
quite away from human habitation, in cool and good air, taking with them
what tents they could carry and leaving one of the inspectors and myself
to take down the rest of them, bring on the heavy baggage, and bury a
muleteer who had died in the night.
We had some difficulty in getting this latter done, as the natives were
in what is termed a “blue funk” and wouldn’t touch the poor fellow.
Just as we were sitting down to breakfast Mr. P⸺, a Scotch merchant of
Bushire, turned up; he was surprised to find us, and had just arrived
post from Ispahan. He took breakfast with us, but on hearing what had
occurred in the night he declined our further hospitality and started off
at once.
By midnight we got all the things to the camp and established a strict
quarantine; we stayed out three weeks.
While we were in camp a curious incident occurred. I saw a well-dressed
Persian riding in our direction. I hurried out on my horse and explained
to him that he couldn’t enter our camp. He said that he was ill and
wanted the English doctor.
Of course I prescribed for him, and his servant proceeded to make him
comfortable under a tree (the weather was warm).
Next morning when I went to see him no one was there, but the servant’s
clothes lay on the ground. He _may_ have died in the night and the
servant may have decamped with his clothes, arms, and horse; but what
did he do with the body? The river would not have carried it away, and
he could not have buried it without tools; he may have carried it off on
the horse, or the master may not have died, but ridden away; but why the
clothes? who knows? But a Persian servant does not throw away a suit of
clothes for nothing.
We returned to the town without any casualties among the staff or their
servants.
During the very hot weather it was my habit while in Shiraz to stay in
the garden of “Resht-i-Behesht” (glory of heaven), coming or sending
into town to inquire if my services were required and to attend to
my dispensary. In this garden there was a building with three large
windowless rooms, but having many doors and air-holes; these, when
carpeted and the doors covered with “chicks,” or fly blinds, were very
comfortable indeed. I slept on the roof, which was free from mosquitoes,
and lounged about the garden, which was very large, sitting and smoking
beside the streams, which were numerous, or by the side of the gurgling
“shitūr gūlū,” or “camel’s throat.”
The garden was _all_ shade, and, in addition to the building, had two
large brick platforms ten yards by ten, for day sleeping—one being shady
in the morning, the other in the afternoon.
The shitūr gūlū was appropriately named, for it was a long channel
constructed to cause a gurgling noise—camels have a habit of “gurgling.”
The stream irrigating the garden, which made a refreshing sound of
running waters, was widened, and at the edge was a hole some five feet
deep and two in diameter; at its bottom it branched off into a tunnel
of some four yards at a right angle; it then ascended at right angles,
opening into the bottom of a channel a _little lower_ in level than the
first one; this it supplied, and the air drawn in at the one hole and
ascending at the other with the rush of water made a gurgling noise. The
gardener’s boy used for a present of a few coppers to allow himself to be
sucked down the one hole, scramble along the earthen tunnel and appear at
the further opening. The tame bear kept by the gardener nearly lost his
life by jumping into the water (to avoid my dogs who pursued him), and
getting sucked down by the “shitūr gūlū.”
One day I was sitting with a young telegraph clerk of the cable
department, Mr. P⸺, recently arrived from England, and on a pleasure trip
(on leave) to Shiraz. As he knew nobody, I put him up. This youth had
a very high idea of the dignity of the Englishman, and looked on the
Persians as “_niggers_.” While we were sitting in chairs on one of the
brick platforms reading the newly-arrived _Times_, the prince, his Royal
Highness Zil-es-Sultan, entered the garden with two attendants only; he
had on a blue satin coat with gold and coloured embroidery, a pink tie,
and white duck trousers.
He was very polite, and of course I rose to receive him, but Mr. P⸺
remained in his chair reading his _Times_, and declined to take any
notice. The prince, astonished at being treated in so cavalier a fashion,
asked who he was. I told him.
“Ah,” he said, “he is very young,” and made no further remark to him.
He then began to question me respecting the capabilities of my
bull-terriers who bayed at him from their chain pegs, asking me if they
would tackle the gardener’s bear. I suggested that the bear was a tame
one; but his Royal Highness was not to be denied, and ordered my servants
to loose the dogs, and the weeping gardener was told to produce his bear.
This was a smallish, pale-green coloured animal about the size of a big
St. Bernard dog, but heavier.
Here Mr. P⸺, being interested on the appearance of the bear, rose.
The prince laughed and said: “He will get up for a bear then, and not for
a prince.” He now ordered the dogs to be loosed: they flew at the bear,
who slapped at them and tried to claw them, but they, fixing themselves
one to each ear, avoided his paws and kept clear of hugs. There they
hung, and the bear sat on his hind-quarters looking most miserable. The
prince now ordered my men to let loose a big and very savage watch-dog I
had, of no particular breed—one of the big shepherd-dogs of the country.
This dog went immediately for the bear, who was quite powerless, having
the other two dogs still on his ears. The force of his rush threw the
bear over, the dog seized him by the throat and was proceeding to worry
him, when suddenly dogs and bear all rolled into a muddy watercourse.
Clouds of mud covered the gay dress of the Prince-Governor, and the dogs
were by my order taken off, or they would have killed the bear. The
prince presented a piteous figure, green and black from head to foot, for
he had been standing close to the struggling animals when they fell in.
His two attendants tried to get some of the mud off, but it was no use;
good-humouredly laughing at the accident, his Highness mounted his horse
and rode off at a gallop, attended by the crowd of mounted followers that
awaited him at the garden door outside.
The dogs having been set at the bear was unfortunate, for having tasted
the pleasure of bear-baiting, they barked and howled at the mere sight
of Bruin. At night all the dogs were loose, but the bear was safe, for
he lived in one of the high trees, where he was out of reach, having a
chain attached to a rope some ten yards long. One night, however, he came
down and the dogs were upon him in an instant; the noise of barking,
shouting servants, with hurrying lights and sounds of a struggle, awoke
me. I, thinking thieves were in the garden, rushed on the scene with my
revolver, too late to save the bear, who had been severely mauled by the
dogs, then five in number and all strong and savage. With difficulty they
were separated, but they had broken one of the bear’s hind legs, and I
was forced to shoot the poor animal in the morning when I found out the
nature of his injuries.