SHIRAZ.
The Muschir—His policy and wealth—His struggle with the
king’s uncle—He is bastinadoed—His banishment to Kerbela—The
Kawam—Mirza Naim—Siege of Zinjan—Cruelties to Mirza Naim—Reply
to an author’s statement—Cashmere shawls—Anecdote—Garden
of Dilgoosha—Warm spring—“Sau-Sau-Rac”—The Well of
Death—Execution—Wife-killing—Tomb of Rich—Tomb of Hafiz—Tomb of
Saadi—A moral tale—Omens—Incident at tomb of Hafiz.
The two principal men of Shiraz are the Kawam,[24] the calamter or mayor
of the town, in whose family the dignity has been for some generations
hereditary; and the Muschir,[25] an aged official who has held all the
offices of the province of Fars: he has farmed the customs, collected the
revenue, been the minister (really responsible Governor) of the young
prince during his nonage, he has even been Governor himself; rising from
a small official, Abol Hassan Khan has succeeded in enriching himself
and at the same time making many friends and dependants; his rivals have
generally gradually succumbed to his vigorous policy, and the free system
of bribery at Teheran adopted by the Muschir has generally removed them
from his path; when that has failed he has not scrupled to have recourse
to other measures. Careful to allow himself to be looted, at times nearly
ruined, by the powerful king’s uncle, the Hissam-u-Sultaneh, he has
always thus secured a friend at court, and while feathering his own nest
during the governorship of the Zil-es-Sultan, he has always satisfied the
young prince by large subsidies. Having several daughters, all ladies of
mature age and all married save the favourite child—for whom he obtained
the title of Lika-ul-Molk—on the Muschir’s death, the Governor of Shiraz,
whoever he may happen to be, will have a gigantic prize. After fifty
years of successful official life the savings of the old man must be
enormous; besides his own estates, which are very large, he inherited
the entire property of his brother, a very wealthy man, and much of
that of his son-in-law, the late Governor of Fussa. In 1879 and 1880,
however, came an evil day for him. Khosro Mirza, the Motummad-ul-Molk and
uncle of the king, was made Governor of Fars. This powerful and politic
prince had on a previous occasion been compelled to leave Shiraz, and was
subsequently deprived of his governorship by the successful intrigues of
the Muschir, whose son-in-law, specially kept at Teheran for the purpose
of having access to the royal ear, had administered on the Muschir’s
behalf bribes to the king, to such an amount as to induce the Shah to
deprive his uncle of his governorship, and to appoint a man of straw,
thus giving the real power into the hands of the Muschir. And now came
the day of reckoning. The Muschir became, as it were, a prisoner in his
own house. The Kawam, his wealthy and ancient rival, was at once taken
into the Governor’s favour, and titles of honour and local governorships
conferred on his son, a youth long supposed to be an idiot, but who now
showed a capacity for Persian political life which astonished even his
own people. The hungry sons of the Motummad, despatched into the richest
governorships of the province, proceeded to fleece the dependants of the
Muschir. And to be a dependant, friend, or adherent of the old man became
a crime.
Mirza Mahomoud, the secretary of the Muschir, was arrested, his house and
property arbitrarily confiscated, and his accumulations wrung from him
as the price of his life. And at last the Governor seized the Muschir
himself, and actually administered a severe bastinado to his enemy,
_now an old man of seventy-five_: the Muschir’s life was also attempted
by poison. All that could be confiscated was taken, the ready cash and
jewels to an enormous amount became the property of the Motummad-ul-Molk
(the king’s uncle) and his sons, while claims were made against the
Muschir for great amounts.
But though Khosro Mirza hungered for the old man’s life, he had yet
influence sufficient at the capital to preserve it, and an order came
that the Muschir should retire to Kerbela (in Turkey), the shrine of
the prophets Houssein and Hassan, there to end his life in prayer and
repentance. But the Muschir may yet prove a thorn in the side of his
enemies; he is now back in Shiraz and apparently inactive.
The Kawam (grandson of the celebrated Hadji Kawam of Shiraz, executed by
boiling to death), after being for some years in the shade, through the
successful intrigues of the Muschir, is now in the full blaze of power.
His son has his foot in the stirrup of success, and he is the only local
man in real power in the province of Fars. Rather boorish in manner, the
Kawam is kind and honest, liberal and true to his adherents in adversity;
it remains to be seen whether he will show the politic moderation of
the Muschir, who never made an enemy unless he was able to remove him.
The system of the Kawam has been to strengthen his local influence by
marriages of the various members of his family, and his open and honest,
if at times obstinate, policy has made him many personal friends, more
valuable than those of the Muschir, whose adherents were either mercenary
or those who for their safety assumed the name.
The policy of the Governors of Fars has invariably been to play off
the Kawam against the Muschir, so taking bribes from both, but never
destroying either. However, one thing is quite certain, the Kawam is an
old and honoured citizen of Shiraz without a personal enemy save the
Muschir, while the latter does not possess a real friend, and being
heirless may fall a victim to some unscrupulous Governor, who may take
his life on some pretext, secretly or openly, for the sake of the
pickings from his still gigantic estates.
Another grandee of Shiraz was Mirza Naim, the paymaster of the forces of
Fars, a military officer of high rank and great age. (He was the general
who in the time of the Baabi revolt besieged the walled city of Zinjan,
the capital of a province of Persia held by those fanatics; the place was
obstinately defended, the women even appearing on the walls, and fighting
and dying for the sake of their ridiculous creed. On the taking of the
city by assault, a kuttl-i-aum, or general massacre, was ordered, and
the atrocities committed were too horrible to mention.) The Governor of
Fars (at that time, 1870-5), the Zil-es-Sultan, wishing to wring a large
fine, and a considerable sum of money supposed to have been appropriated
by the paymaster-general, after numerous indignities placed Mirza Naim
in a snow-chair—the man was seventy-five years of age—compelled him to
drink water-melon juice, to produce the well-known diuretic effect, and
while the sufferer was frozen to the snow-seat, caused a dog to be placed
on his lap, thus insulting his aged co-religionist. Although the man had
borne these horrible tortures for some hours, he now consented to pay
the sum demanded. Of course the result to his aged frame was not long in
doubt; he soon succumbed to the effects of the injuries he received.
I am particular in describing his treatment from the Zil-es-Sultan, as
it shows the improbability of the story told by a radical politician
who recently travelled through Persia, and among other marvellous
tales inserted the groundless calumny, seen at page 15, volume ii.,
of Mr. Arthur Arnold’s ‘Through Persia by Caravan,’ in which he says,
“A European doctor, to his shame be it said, talking one day with the
Zil-i-Sultan [_sic_] upon the interesting topic of torture, suggested
an ancient method which, we were told, at once struck the prince as
applicable to the snowy regions of Ispahan. To draw the teeth of Jews
who refused gifts to the Government was the practice in days when the
civilisation of England was no more advanced than that of Persia; but
I never heard before of stuffing a man’s trousers with snow and ice as
an efficient way of combating his refusal to pay a large demand in the
season when the thermometer stands—as it does in Central Persia—for
months below zero.” Now, as possibly I may be alluded to under the vague
title of “A European doctor,” not many of whom exist in Persia to speak
to the Zil-es-Sultan, and the story is glibly told by this author, yet
I fancy that it will not be credited, even on the statement _of the
retailer of scandals, said to be heard, through interpreters, from
Orientals_; when it is considered that it was hardly needful to _apprise_
the Zil-es-Sultan of a means of cruelty, since he was so ingenious as to
use the very same old method on a general of over seventy-five, _some
years before—I being in Shiraz at the time, as the prince well knew—and
the supposed refinement of cruelty no new thing to the prince_.[26] When
an author swallows and repeats such yarns, as that one of our sergeants
shot an unoffending Armenian, etc.—the unoffending Armenian and the
shooting being alike myths (see vol. ii. p. 167, etc.)—one can only
suppose that the capacity for swallowing such tough stories is equalled
by the pleasure found in retailing them. Whoever the cap fits—and I do
not believe it fits any one—it does not fit me, and I will not wear it.
One can only pity a man who travels through a country, _mostly by night
in a closed litter_, with his eyes very tightly shut and his ears very
widely open, all whose facts are hearsay, and most of whose deductions
are mistaken.
One of the means of making presents used by the great in Persia is the
giving of Cashmere shawls; the gift of a shawl is supposed to be an
honour as well as a money payment to the recipient. Among other presents
made to me by the Persians in my professional capacity was a pair of
handsome shawls; as it is not expected that these should be retained, and
as they were useless to me as dress-stuffs, for which they are used by
the upper classes in Persia of both sexes, I disposed of one for eighteen
pounds in the bazaar to a merchant, and retained the other as a present
to my mother. On taking it to England I was astonished to find that it
was unappreciated, and still more surprised to learn that, as it was made
in several strips, as are all the real Cashmere shawls that go to Persia,
and fringeless, it was nearly absolutely valueless; in fact, one of the
large West End drapers offered as a favour to give me thirty shillings
for it. I took it back to Persia, as my mother said it was useless to
her, and sold it for twenty pounds, my servant probably making a five
pound commission on the transaction.
Under the hills, some mile and a half from Shiraz, is the garden of the
Dilgooshah, or “Heartsease,” the property of the Kawam; in the middle is
a large and solid brick building, having a small tank in the centre, the
water flowing into which is warm, about 70° Fahrenheit. Above the tank is
a dome, once decorated with a large picture of a battle; this was painted
on plaster, but all, save a few pieces, has crumbled away. The garden is
planted with orange-trees, and is very large.
Above the garden is the “Sau-sau-rac,” or sliding-place; here for
centuries the young of both sexes were accustomed to resort; the rocks
slope sharply down, and generations of sliders have polished the stones
till they have become like glass. After a breakfast at Dilgooshah,
whenever there are children or young people, the whole party adjourn to
the “Sau-sau-rac,” and the juveniles, and not unfrequently the elders,
run up the edge and, squatting at the top, slide rapidly down in strings,
the whole tumbling over pell-mell at the bottom; the more adventurous
slide down on their stomachs head downwards, but they generally squat
and go down in strings for mutual safety; all, however, thus conduce to
the polishing of the “Sau-sau-rac.”
A difficult climb of three-quarters of an hour brought one to the
Chah Ali Bunder, a well cut in the surface of the living rock; a huge
square aperture yawns in the surface. The well was probably originally
constructed to supply a mountain fastness with water (which was, I think,
never reached); the shaft is of great depth, and is popularly supposed to
be without bottom. I have attempted to measure it by dropping a stone,
but the echoes thus produced render it impossible. One hears no sound of
water on throwing objects into it, and I have lowered six hundred yards
of string, and the cord has remained still taut.[27]
There are no ruins round it, and this points to an unsuccessful boring
for water. Such a position in the times previous to artillery—and it is
only of very modern introduction in Persia—would have been, _if_ supplied
with water, almost, if not quite, impregnable, for the road up is very
steep, and could easily be rendered quite impassable.
The use to which the Chah Ali Bunder is now put reminds one of the
‘Arabian Nights’; it is the place of execution of faithless women. I am
not sure whether it has been used within the last ten years for that
purpose, I believe it has. But some seventeen years ago a friend of mine
was present at such an execution. The woman was paraded through the
town bareheaded, with her hair cut off, on an ass, her face being to
the tail. She was preceded by the lutis or buffoons of the town singing
and dancing, while the Jewish musicians were forced to play upon their
instruments and join in the procession. All the rabble of the town
of course thronged around the wretched woman. The ass was led by the
executioner, and it was not till nearly dusk that the place of punishment
was reached. The victim had been mercifully drugged with opium, and was
probably unaware of her fate; she was ordered to recite the Mussulman
profession of faith; this she was of course unable to do. Her hands were
bound behind her, a priest recited the profession of faith in her name,
and the executioner, saying “Be-ro!” (“Get thee gone!”) by a touch of
his foot launched her into eternity. Such executions are getting less
common in Persia than formerly.
In Shiraz, where intrigues among married women are very rife, the
husband’s relatives—and often the woman’s make common cause with
them—generally take the matter into their own hands, and either fling the
woman from a roof or into a well, or administer a dose of poison; the
adulterer generally taking refuge in flight, or getting off with a severe
bastinado if the affair is brought home to him; generally, however,
such things are hushed up. In any case no notice is taken of them by
officials, and no punishment is visited upon the actors in these private
tragedies.
I had a man-nurse for my children, one Abdul Hamid, by trade a gold
lacemaker, a native of Shiraz; he was the quietest and most humble of
little men—nearly a dwarf. I was told by him a curious incident in his
history. Marrying his cousin, a young and handsome Shirazi, she was not
long faithful to him; and his mother, who is usually the master-spirit
and guardian of her son’s honour in a Persian household, finding that the
lady’s amours were becoming notorious, at length informed her son; there
was unfortunately no room for doubt; the husband ran with his woes to his
mother and brothers-in-law, respectable artisans; one of these the same
evening brought some corrosive sublimate, and the girl’s own mother, her
mother-in-law, her brothers, and her husband compelled her to swallow a
fatal dose of the drug.
Although in a few days the affair was common bazaar talk, no notice was
taken of the matter, the thing being looked on as a natural ending to
the woman’s intrigue. I asked my man one day if the story were true; he
replied, “Oh yes, sahib, it was her fate,” and proceeded to inform me
that he was on the best of terms with the family of his late wife.
In the garden of Jahn-i-ma (my soul) is the grave of Rich the traveller;
he died in Shiraz when on his road home. Close to this garden, in a small
cemetery having a mud mosque, is the monolith covering the grave of the
poet Hafiz; it is a huge block of Yezd marble beautifully carved with
verses from the writings of the poet. The Yezd marble is very similar
in appearance to alabaster. It is a favourite place of resort of the
literary, who may be frequently seen reading the works of the poet, and
smoking or meditating over his tomb. Around him are buried many who look
on his works as religious and inspired writings; some, and the major
portion of educated Persians, simply consider Hafiz as an Anacreontic
dreamer, and his works the ways of wickedness made bright.
A mile off is the tomb of Saadi, another poet, the author of the moral
tales upon whose teaching the mental course of most Persians is guided.
The first story forms the keynote to this system, and explains the
otherwise mysterious course pursued by most Orientals, who usually
prefer the crooked to the straight. The tale is well known, and I may
be permitted to quote it from memory. All these “moral tales” are very
concise. It is as follows:—
“Once a great king, having overcome his enemies in battle, caused the
principal captives to be brought bound into his presence. On their
arrival they commenced to revile him. The monarch, being ignorant of
their language, turned to his minister and requested him to explain
their speech. The minister, instead of faithfully repeating their
sentiments, said, that overcome with the magnificence of the king, they
were expressing their astonishment at his greatness, and imploring his
clemency. The king, pleased, ordered their release. The moral is, ‘_It
is better to tell a lie that produces good, than to tell the truth which
produces evil._’”
Thus the tenets of the Persian sage and those of the Jesuits are similar.
To do evil is lawful, if a greater good be the result. I fear the evil is
often done without the expected good resulting.
A visit to the tomb of Saadi, or that of Hafiz, is common among the
Shirazis for the taking of omens or “fal,” as they are termed. For a few
coppers the dervish who usually acts as guardian to the tomb produces his
well-thumbed manuscript copy of the poet, and, after an invocation to the
Deity, he thrusts his knife into the closed volume between the leaves.
Taking the passage at the top of the right-hand page, he recites it to
the anxious inquirers, and, if they be ignorant people, he generally
manages to recite a passage favourable to their wishes. Nothing serious
is done in Persia without the taking an omen, “fal,” the casting of
lots, “istikhara,” or the decree of an astrologer. It was a common thing
for a patient to tell me that the reason he consulted me was, that he
had put all the names of the doctors of the town in a bag, and mine had
been drawn. I also was commonly told that a man had refused his physic
because the omen was against it. They will close a bargain or not by
an omen, start on a journey or refrain from the same reason; and their
action in such little doubtful points as the staking in games is ruled in
the same manner. A common way to take an omen (in this case “istikhara,”
for “fal” is generally confined to the omen by the book, be it Hafiz,
Saadi, or the Koran) is to grasp the rosary haphazard (every Persian man
or woman carries a rosary) and count from the bead grasped till the end
is reached—good—doubtful—no; the last bead reached being the decisive one.
On a taking the “fal” at the tomb of Hafiz by Captain T⸺, R.E., who was a
gold medalist in Persian, a curious incident occurred. The old dervish,
taking the book of poems between his palms, muttered the usual invocation
to God, and opening the book proceeded to recite some stanzas highly
favourable to Captain T⸺’s proceeding on his journey. But T⸺, taking
the book from his hand, and looking only at the first line, closed the
volume and recited from memory that line and some fifty that followed
it. The dervish certainly was nonplussed. Here was a Feringhi, who could
not make himself understood by even the servants (so different is the
Persian of books and that learnt in India from the colloquial), reciting
correctly, and with appropriate gesture, the poetry that he, the dervish,
prided himself on being familiar with. His eyes rolled, he looked with
astonishment on the gifted European, put his spectacles in his pocket,
bowed, and disappeared, not even waiting for the present that he knew he
could be sure of. We were naturally much surprised, but we were cognisant
of Captain T⸺’s being well versed in the Persian classics; for did he not
address my servant as “cupbearer,” “sorki”? and did he not request, to
the man’s astonishment, when requiring beer, that he should bring “the
soul-inspiring bowl”?—which phrases, being poetical, were quite as Dutch
to the servant as if a London waiter were ordered to “fill high the bowl
with Samian wine.”
Saadi, though more influencing the actions of the people, is less read
by the upper classes than Hafiz, to whom are paid almost divine honours;
and the humble tomb of the one, in its little unkept garden, is little
visited, while the handsome stone over the grave of the other has
generally a few reverent idlers round it.