SHIRAZ—PERSIAN CUSTOMS.
The Tazzia—Persian pulpit—Prince’s flirtations—Month of
mourning—Details of performance—Breast-beaters—Hymn in
honour of the king—The performers—Processions—Detail
of the tragedy—Interludes—Rosehkhaneh—The Ramazan—The
Fast—Hospitalities—Zalābi—Religious affectation—Reading
poetry—A paraphrase—A quotation—Books and their
covers—Calamdans—Writing a letter—Sealing—Specimen of an
ordinary letter—Apparent piety—The evil eye—Talismans—I procure
one.
While in Shiraz I made my first acquaintance with the Tazzias, or
religious representations, given by the grandees of the town, of the
various histories from the Koran leading up to the climax, the tragedy of
the saints Houssein and Hassan[28] and their wives and children.
Almost all of the wealthy did some public act or other in the Mohurrim,
the month of mourning for the martyred saints. The tazzia, or dramatic
representation, was given by the Zil-es-Sultan, the Governor, in the
garden of his palace, on a very large scale indeed, and in a smaller way
by the Muschir and the Kawam and others.
To the prince’s tazzia I went by his invitation each day, and the young
prince took great interest in the getting-up of the various scenes in the
story.
A platform, some thirty yards square, was formed by placing together a
number of takhts, or wooden platforms. These were planked over, and a
level stage made by placing on them big doors and planks. The whole was
carpeted with thick felts, and at one corner was placed a pulpit, draped
in black. This pulpit, like all Oriental ones, is merely a flight of
wooden steps, some eight feet high, leading to a platform some two feet
square, on which squats the preacher or reader, as the case may be. The
stage is placed some twenty feet from the principal front of the prince’s
palace, the rooms of which thus form private boxes.
To the left spaces are roped off to accommodate the women, who pour in in
hundreds; they are all closely veiled. In the lower room, also veiled,
and facing the crowds of women, sit the prince’s ladies. Above their
apartment, at a large open window, is the prince himself, and during
the waits, and sometimes even during the most pathetic parts, the young
fellow amuses himself in ogling the ladies, the better-looking of whom
seize these opportunities of raising their veils and casting coquettish
glances in his direction. I have even known him, when very young, to
have a basin of frogs handy, and he would toss the animals out among the
thickest throng of the tightly-packed women, and shriek with laughter at
the cries and confusion produced.
To the right of the platform were dense crowds of men, the common people
of Shiraz, while several large rooms opening towards the stage were
devoted to the invited of the better class, officials and courtiers.
The whole crowd were protected from the sun, rain, and wind by a huge
tent provided for the purpose, and the raising of which had taken a
hard week’s work, all the soldiers of the two regiments in the town
being employed to aid an army of professional tent-pitchers. This tent
was without walls, thus permitting the free ingress and egress of the
performers of the tragedy and interludes, and the many processions of
horses, soldiers, camels, etc. It was sustained by four huge masts.
During this month the whole of the community go into the deepest
mourning. Black is the only wear, and the poor seize the opportunity
to have their old clothes dyed, and so get an extra bit of wear out of
them, the more ceremonious going into mourning some days before the
commencement of Mohurrim, and remaining in black the whole even of the
following month.
Behind the stage is raised a huge scaffolding, covered with red cloth,
and hung with Cashmere shawls.
On this are arranged all the glass and crockery that the prince
possesses, and all he can borrow by hook or by crook, all his mirrors,
lamps, and chandeliers, and the whole are set off by rows of brass
candle-lamps hired from the bazaar, the general effect being that of a
very miscellaneous broker’s shop. Considerable care is, however, devoted
to this display, and its grandeur, or the reverse, is one of the subjects
of town talk for a week.
The women having been crowding in from an early hour, the wives of the
grandees and officials are accommodated with seats with the princess and
her ladies, while the less favoured have places retained for them in good
situations by their servants, and according to rank. As noon approaches
every seat is taken, and the stage surrounded on all sides by a sea of
faces, a path being, however, left all round it for the processions to
advance and make the circuit of the stage. All being now ready the band
plays a march, a gun is discharged, and the Prince-Governor takes his
place at his window.
A priest now ascends the pulpit, on the steps of which others are seated,
while a crowd of lesser moollahs squat at the base. In a clear voice,
every word of which is plainly heard in this assembly of many thousands,
the priest recites the facts of the death of Houssein and Hassan. At the
mention of these names the audience become overwhelmed with grief, and,
baring their breasts, smite them, crying, “Ai Houssein, Wai Houssein, Ai
Houssein jahn!” (“Oh, Houssein, Woe for Houssein, Oh, dear Houssein!”)
or at times join in the choruses led by organised mourners, who, with
clenched fist or open hand, strike their breasts simultaneously at each
mention of the names Houssein Hassan, Houssein Hassan, till they are out
of breath, and their crimson and bruised chests force them to desist,
with one final shout or shriek of “Houssein.” Half-a-dozen volunteers
(these generally dervishes), as the sainted names are pronounced by the
hundreds of voices, strike themselves over each shoulder with heavy
chains. All the beholders are gradually worked up into a state of
excitement and enthusiasm, and the descriptions of the saints and their
children’s sufferings make even the heart of the European listener sad.
And now a curious chant in honour of the king is sung by a band of
youths; after this the priests leave the stage, and the professional
exponents of the drama make their appearance dressed to sustain the
characters of the day. Small boys, chosen for their clear and sympathetic
voices, from among the singers of the town, sustain the little parts of
the granddaughters and grandsons of the prophet.
The wives are veiled, and these characters are played by bearded men,
as are the angels and prophets, who are also veiled by glittering
handkerchiefs.
Yezeed, the infidel king, and Shemr, the actual slayer of the saint, are
clad in gay attire, booted and helmeted, and, with shirts of chain-mail
on, rant as do the heroes of a Surrey melodrama; but the language is
effective, the action rapid, and the speeches, though often long,
accompanied by vigorous pantomime.
There are no actual acts, no scenery, no curtain, but as each scene
terminates the actors leave the stage; and a long procession of
horses, camels, and litters and biers, on which are carried the kotol
(dummies) of the dead saints, enters with much noise, music, shouting,
and drumming; followed and preceded by the volunteer mourners and
breast-beaters, shouting their cry of Hous-s-e-i-n H-a-s-san, Houss-e-i-n
H-a-s-san, and a simultaneous blow is struck vigorously by hundreds of
heavy hands on the bared breasts at the last syllable of each name.
Continual flourishes are played by the band, and the noise is deafening,
the excitement contagious.
The actors are mostly well up in their _rôles_; many of those sustaining
the principal characters have come from Ispahan, where the tradition of
the tazzia is handed down from father to son; and year by year they have
played the mournful tragedy, making it a business as well as a religious
act. They are fed, dressed, and paid by the Governor. The numerous
bands of well-drilled supernumeraries who combat on the stage are eager
volunteers. Each speaking actor carries his part written out on a small
scroll on the palm of his hand, and calmly reads it when memory fails
him. Each act lasts from two to four hours. The drama itself goes on for
from a week to twelve days, and various interludes and acts of it are
performed; the most popular being the wedding of Kasim, from the great
amount of spectacle, the death of Houssein, the death of Ali Akbar, and
the Dar.
[Illustration: A ROSEH KHANA, OR PRAYER-MEETING.
(_From a Native Drawing._)]
This latter is more than usually comic, and relates to the supposed
conversion and immediate martyrdom of a Christian ambassador; the
former of which is effected by the sight of the head of Houssein. The
deaths of the various saints (imams) are portrayed with a ridiculous
minuteness, but so excited are the audience that they do not appear to
cause amusement. Thus, on the death of Ali Akbar, he enters wounded and
thirsty, and beats off some thirty assailants, then after a long speech
exits; then enter more assailants; re-enter Ali Akbar, covered with
arrows sewn on his clothing to the number of sixty or so. He puts his
assailants to flight, killing several, is wounded, exit. Re-enter Ali
Akbar, long speech; he has now only one arm, puts assailants to flight,
speech, exit; re-enter _armless_, his sword _in his mouth_.
Enter a murderer. They fight. The murderer is slain.
Enter thirty assailants. At last Ali Akbar, after rolling up and down the
stage, is killed, to the immense relief of everybody.
His head is stuck on a long spear, the band strikes up, the mourners
shout _Houssein! Hassan!_ for ten minutes, and the drama for the day
ceases.
There are other irregular interludes, Adam and Eve, Cain and Abel, etc.
Some of the scenes are very comic; as that between Yezeed the tyrant and
his physician.
On the day when the martyrdom of Houssein himself is portrayed, the place
is thronged. The cruel Shemr, generally very vigorously represented, is
at times roughly handled by the mob. The crowd are often regaled with
sherbets by the personage at whose cost the tazzia is given, also pipes,
and even coffee; and the amount expended in pipes, coffee, tea, etc., to
the numerous guests is very considerable indeed.
Almost every house has its rosehkhaneh, or reading of prayers and
Scripture. These are generally given either to men or women; and in the
latter case, female readers and singers are employed. When given to men,
the moollahs officiate; and the reading takes place from a pulpit hung
with black, the roofs being crowded with rows of veiled women.
The tazzias are not approved of by the higher classes of the priesthood,
but custom has made the people cling to them, and each small village has
its local tazzia. Wherever a tazzia or rosehkhaneh is held, small black
flags are exhibited at the door, and any one walks in. By the performance
of the tazzia the commemoration of the death of Houssein and Hassan is
annually brought home to the Shiah Mahommedan, and the more fanatical
yearly hold a sort of Guy Fawkes day, when a _comic_ tazzia, in ridicule
of Omar, is held, and the (from their point of view) usurper is finally
conducted to the infernal regions by the devil in person.
During the greater part of Mohurrim bands of boys visit the houses of
their quarter singing a long chant commemorative of the death of the
martyrs, and collecting a few pence at its conclusion.
The month of Ramazan is the fasting month of the Persians, and the great
majority of the people rigorously observe it, tasting no food _nor
water_, nor even smoking, from sunrise to sunset. Of course when the
month falls in the summer the penance is much more serious.
The more ascetic go “peishwaz,” that is, observe the fast a few days
before it is really in force.
Only the sick, very aged, young children, and travellers are exempt, and
no one dares to openly break it, though, of course, many of the more
advanced or irreligious do so in secret.
In the night, an hour before dawn, the cry is, “Oh, water, water and
opium!” This is the warning given to the people to take their last snack,
the farewell cup of tea and pipe; and a copious draught of water and an
opium pill are generally swallowed just at the gun-fire which announces
daybreak.
Now the fast commences, and all compose themselves to sleep. At nine or
ten the usually early rising Persian gets up and prepares to maunder
through the day. He does no business save that which it is absolutely
impossible to avoid. Half the shops in the bazaar are shut, or only
opened for a few hours; the Government offices are closed the greater
part of the day; everything is put off “_until after Ramazan_.”
Towards the latter part of the afternoon the streets become thronged;
as sunset approaches every one gets more lively, and at the fire of the
sunset gun the longed-for pipe is seized, a cup of tea taken, and in
half-an-hour every one sits down to a heavy meal.
Many parties are given in this month, the guests generally spending the
night at the host’s house.
A peculiar form of eatable, called zalābi, is prepared during Ramazan.
A thin paste of starch and sugar, mixed with sesamun oil, is poured in
streams upon heated copper trays, and a kind of fritter produced, which
is delicate-looking and rather appetising. When eaten it is served cold.
A particular Mahommedan will not swallow his own saliva during this
month; and riders may be seen during Ramazan with their mouths and
nostrils carefully covered by the end of their turban, or by a
handkerchief, thus in their idea preventing the breaking of the fast by
the swallowing of dust, or animalculæ invisible to the eye. Generally,
however, this is merely affectation of religious scruple.
The most severe trial, however, setting apart the _thirst_ produced
in hot weather, is the abstention from smoking; and a merchant or
shopkeeper, who has the tube of a water-pipe between his lips eight hours
out of the twenty-four, really suffers considerable inconvenience from a
fourteen hours’ abstention.
The long nights of Ramazan are enlivened by numerous festivities;
dinner-giving takes place throughout the month, and the number of pipes
smoked till two A.M. is considerable. The story-tellers are now in great
request, and drive a roaring trade going from house to house. Poetry,
too, is much recited and read aloud, the favourites being Saadi, Hafiz,
and Firdūsi. Story-books, cheaply printed and roughly illustrated, are
much read. They mostly contain short tales.
Here is one paraphrased, with a facsimile of the rude woodcut
illustrating the tale. I must premise that Mortaza Ali, the fourth
successor and son-in-law of Mahomet, was assassinated by a fanatic; the
caliphate having been previously usurped by Omar and Abubekr, an old man
the father-in-law of Mahomet, who succeeded the prophet on his death. (So
say the Shiah sect.)
Abdul, a lazy peasant, lay
A-snoring half the livelong day;
His thrifty wife to scold began—
“Arise, and work, O lazy man.”
Yawning, he rose, and, stretching, spake,
While half asleep and half awake,
“Ah, little wife, why should I rise?”
“To earn our bread,” the girl replies.
“Know, woman, if we work or not,
In winter cold and summer hot,
Great Allah feeds his slaves, and he
Will surely feed both you and me.”
The youthful peasant kissed his wife,
Then sallied forth in dread of strife.
With merry song and joyous lay,
Abdul beguiled the dusty way.
At length he reached a spreading plane,
“Beneath thy shade I will remain;
A brooklet and a shady tree,
There is no better place for me.”
He laid him down prepared to doze;
But suddenly he quickly rose,
And clambering the plane in fear,
Espied a dervish drawing near.
The dervish had the dullard air,
The maddened look, the vacant stare,
That bhang[29] and contemplation give.
He moved, but did not seem to live;
His gaze was savage and yet sad,
What we should call stark-staring mad.
All down his back his tangled hair
Flowed wild, unkempt; his head was bare;
A leopard’s skin was o’er him flung,
Around his neck huge beads were hung,
And in his hand—ah! there’s the rub—
He carried a portentous club,
Which Abdul’s eye had caught, you see,
And this is why he climbed the tree.
The dervish stopped and gazed around,
Then flung himself upon the ground.
“I ne’er have seen in God’s creation
A fitter spot for meditation.”
Smiled at the turf which ’neath him lay,
And said, “Yes, here I’ll spend the day.”
This Abdul heard, and shook with fear,
While from his eye there fell a tear.
“Oh, heaven!” exclaimed the trembling wight,
“He may, perhaps, too, stop the night.”
...
The dervish, squatting in the shade,
Five puppets small of clay has made;
And to the first he spake: “To thee
I give the name of Omar. See,
The second’s Ali Mortaza,
The mighty prophet’s son-in-law.
You, Abubekr, are the third”—
Abdul craned out his neck and heard;
“The fourth the prophet’s self shall be”—
Abdul here groaned, and shook the tree.
The dervish paused, then gave a nod,
“The fifth one—yes—the fifth one’s God.”
Poor Abdul heard the blasphemy,
And shook with fear and agony.
“Ah,” quoth the dervish, “Omar; well,
You doubtless grill in deepest hell;
You robbed our Ali—I have smashed you;
Had Ali pluck he might have thrashed you.
Ali; could you do naught yourself to save
From murder and an early grave?
Ah! Islam’s head too weak to rule,
I fear you were a torpid fool—
Half-hearted idiot—bah—pooh”—
He raised his club—“I smash you too.
And you, old Abubekr—triple ass,
Could you not aid him? I’ll not pass
You over,—there, take that!”
And Abubekr got a spiteful pat.
“While as for you,” the dervish cried—
Here Abdul’s ears were opened wide—
“Oh, prophet, you at least did _know_,
Why didn’t you avert the blow?
In highest heaven you sat and saw;
But didn’t help your son-in-law.”
Down came the club with heavy thud,
The prophet was but flattened mud.
The dervish turned him, bowing low,
“Allah,” he cried, “from you I’ll know
Why _you_ did nothing; like the rest,
You were a lazy God at best.
When all mankind are in Thy hand
Why not despatch an angel band?
Or bid the earth to open wide
And swallow Omar in his pride?
What, silent too! ah, senseless clod!”—
The dervish raised his club to God.
Here Abdul screamed, and shouted, “Hold!
Ah, had you smashed _Him_—over-bold
And brainless dervish—as before,
Chaos would come again once more.”
The dervish heard—“Azraël!”[30] he cried,
Stared, and sunk back, and, shuddering, died,
And gave up his reluctant breath,
Thinking he heard the voice of Death.
Then cautious Abdul reached the ground,
Looked on the dervish, gazed around,
And softly to himself did cry,
“’Tis certain there is no one by.”
He searched the corpse, a purse appears,
And Abdul dries his frightened tears,
Hies to his smiling wife, says, “See!
From Allah, love, for you and me.”
“Husband,” quoth she, “God helps us all,
Both prince and beggar, great and small.”
Abdul replied, “But, girl, you see,
_God would have perished but for me!_”
[Illustration: FACSIMILE OF RUDE PERSIAN WOODCUT.]
The reading of poetry is much in vogue among the upper classes to
_promote sleep_! and even the most ignorant can rattle off long
recitations. So common is the habit of introducing poetry, that Europeans
are looked on as very ignorant, because their conversation is prosaic;
and one of the staff obtained quite a reputation as a well-read man in
a curious manner. He was acquainted with one (_and only one_) verse of
Persian poetry, a very well-known one. It was this:—
“For the mole on the cheek of that girl of Shiraz
I would give away Samarkand and Bokhara.”
Now the gentleman, on the mention of the word mole, cheek, girl, Shiraz,
Samarkand, or Bokhara, would instantly introduce the quotation; and
as Shiraz was the town we lived in, and Central Asian affairs are
continually on the tapis, Samarkand and Bokhara, unlikely words as they
were for general conversation, were invariably introduced, and the
inevitable quotation made. Unfortunately another member of the staff,
jealous of his rival’s reputation, betrayed him, and Othello’s occupation
went.
Books are treated with consideration in Persia. They are generally
bound in boards, and these are elaborately hand-painted, generally with
representations of birds and flowers. From two kerans to two hundred may
be paid for a pair of these boards. Sometimes a book is bound in leather.
This is, however, less common, save for account-books. A sort of outer
envelope of cloth or chintz is made, and the book enclosed in it, thus
preserving the binding and work at the same time.
Great expense, too, is lavished on the pencase (kalam-dān); it is nearly
always of papier-maché, about seven inches long, one wide, and one and a
half deep; it draws open and contains the pens, which are reeds, an ivory
or bone block for nibbing them on, a tiny spoon for moistening the ink,
and a penknife, also the peculiar scissors for trimming paper. At one
extremity is a small box of silver or brass containing a skein of silk,
which absorbs a quantity of Chinese ink, and is wetted with the tiny
spoon as it dries up. A roll of paper is also carried at the girdle, and
a few adhesive strips of thin coloured paper are provided for the closing
of letters.
When it is wished to write a letter, the Persian sits if he can, but
this is not a _sine quâ non_; he tears from his roll of polished paper
(made in the country) a piece of the needful size, and commencing in
the right-hand top corner, he proceeds to fill his sheet, writing from
right to left, and leaving at the left-hand side of his sheet a large
margin of at least an inch; should he reach the bottom of the page, and
have still more to say, he turns the paper round and proceeds to fill
the margin. He then concludes, reads the letter, and with his scissors
carefully trims off the torn edges, and cuts off all needless paper.
If it be an important letter he now seals it at the right-hand bottom
corner, or at the end; the sealing is often repeated on the back, and is
equivalent to our signature. He damps the paper with his tongue, inks his
seal, breathes on it, and presses it sharply on the paper. A permanent
and very distinct impression is the result. He now cuts a tiny piece off
one corner, for to send a _four_-cornered letter brings ill-luck, the
Persians say. The letter is either rolled up and squeezed flat, or folded
as we should fold a spill; it is thus about three to four inches long,
and half an inch to an inch wide. A strip of adhesive paper is rolled
round it, and the end of this is sealed in the same manner as before. The
letter is now addressed.
Titles are continually used in writing letters, and the language is
usually high-flown and even bombastic. Thus an ordinary invitation to
dinner would be couched from one merchant to another:—
“To the high, the great, the influential, the descendant of the Prophet
Lord Ali Baba; please God you are in health. It is my representation that
to-morrow your slave will be delighted to be honoured, in the house of
your slave, with your illustrious and pleasant company to dinner. I trust
your Excellency’s health is good. I have no further representation to
make.”
Or after a long string of compliments and inquiries after the health
of the correspondent, comes the “mutlub,” or _essence_ of the letter,
which is expressed thus:—“and please send by bearer your horse. I have no
further petition to make.”
A Persian is apparently very pious in his conversation, the name of God
being continually introduced, but these phrases have merely the meaning
of affirmatives or negatives.
Thus:—“Inshallah (please God), you will ride out to-morrow.”
“Alhamdillillah (thank God), I have nothing to do. Inshallah, I will.”
“Bismillah” (in the name of God), handing a pipe.
Friend admiring it: “Mashallah” (God is great). And so on.
Many of these phrases in which the name of God is used are with the
intention of avoiding the evil eye. Nothing must be admired, _in so many
words_, without one of these invocations.
Thus, one must not say, “What a fine boy!” on seeing a Persian son, but
“Mashallah” (praise God). In fact, the word “Mashallah,” engraved on
gold or silver and ornamented with pearls, is commonly worn sewn to the
caps of young children, and the word is often written and worn as an
amulet to protect a fine horse. For the same reason a blue bead is often
put in the tail of a horse, or sewn on the caps of the children of the
poor. Cats’ eyes are frequently worn for this protection from the evil
eye, and a hand[31] with one finger extended I have seen used. This hand
was, of course, quite different from the metal open hand which surmounts
religious buildings and banners, all the fingers of which are extended.
Talismans (“Telism”) are constantly worn; they are generally enclosed
in metallic cases and affixed to the arm (“Bazūbund”). They are often
verses from the Koran, at other times merely figures rudely drawn, or a
collection of letters placed in some eccentric figure, as the well-known
Abracadabra; often the repetition of some of the names of God being
simple invocations.
A Persian is very loath to let these talismans be seen. They are
generally obtained from dervishes, priests, or old women.
During the cholera time in Shiraz I was attending the daughter of the
then high priest. I happened to see the old gentleman, who was sitting
surrounded by a crowd of friends, petitioners, and parasites. He was
writing charms against the cholera. I, out of curiosity, asked him for
one; it was simply a strip of paper on which was written a mere scribble,
which meant nothing at all.
I took it and carefully put it away. He told me that when attacked by
cholera I had but to swallow it, and it would prove an effectual remedy.
I thanked him very seriously, and went my way. The next day he called
on me and presented me with two sheep and a huge cake of sugar-candy,
weighing thirty pounds. I did not quite see why he gave me the present,
but he laughingly told me that my _serious_ reception of his talisman had
convinced the many bystanders of its great value, and a charm desired by
an unbelieving European doctor must be potent indeed.
“You see, you might have laughed at my beard; you did not. I am grateful.
But if I could only say you had eaten my charm, ah—then.”
“Well,” I replied, “_say_ so if you like,” and our interview ended.