JULFA.
Hire a house—Coolness of streets—Idleness of men—Industry
of women—Stone mortars—Arrack—Hire a vineyard—A wily
Armenian—Treasure-trove—The “Shaking Minarets”—A
hereditary functionary—A permanent miracle—Its probable
explanation—Vaccination—Julfa priests—Arrack as an
anæsthetic—Road-making—Crops of firewood—Fire temple—Huge
trees—The racecourse—Disappearance of ancient brick
buildings—Donkeys—Healthiness of Julfa—Zil-es-Sultan—His
armoury—Prospects of the succession to the
throne—Bull-terriers—Mastiffs—Politeness and rudeness of the
prince.
After a considerable amount of diplomacy, we managed to secure a fine
large house with a good garden and stabling, in the principal and best
street of Julfa. My wife was pleased with the cool climate of Ispahan,
the abundance of water, and the rows of trees with which each street is
planted.
The Armenian is a thrifty fellow, and plants the Zoban-i-gūngishk, or
sparrow-tongue, a kind of willow, on either side of the small ditch
which runs down the side or centre of the streets; this ditch brings
the water for the irrigation of the gardens, and by planting the trees
he obtains shade and fire-wood; for the “Zoban-i-gūngishk” is the best
of all woods for fuel, and the roots keep the ditch-bank solid and in
good repair. Cool and pretty as the streets look from the unaccustomed
masses of foliage, one soon finds that one is in a _Christian_ village.
Sheep and oxen are slaughtered all down the principal street, in the most
public manner; and on Saturday night especially drunkards are common,
while swarms of loafers, generally men who live on small pensions from
relatives in India, lean with their backs against the wall, basking in
the early sun, or sprawl in the shade during the heat.
In each doorway sit or lounge the women, but their hands and tongues are
busily employed; they knit socks as long as daylight lasts; some widows
even maintain a family by this industry. With nose and mouth hidden,
poorly fed, but well and warmly clad, the Armenian woman makes up by her
industry for the laziness of her husband; she sweeps the house and yard,
cooks the food, makes the clothes, bakes the bread, makes wine, arrack,
flour—for this is generally ground in a hand-mill by the poor; and the
rest of her time is filled up by knitting. These Armenian women are
notable housekeepers, and though generally ignorant and ungraceful—a girl
is never even fairly good-looking after seventeen—they are hard-working
and very virtuous.
In most of the quarters of Julfa may be seen at the roadside huge stone
mortars for the pounding of rice, by which means it is extracted from the
husk; these are the remains of the teeming Julfa of other days, when it
was a large city with twenty-four crowded parishes, each with its church,
the ruins of most of which are now all that remain of the parishes. You
seldom see a Julfa man pounding at one of the huge mortars; he prefers to
hire a Mussulman or villager to do the heavy work for him, and as he does
not care to part with his money—“Thrift, thrift, Horatio!”—the payment
is generally a glass of spirits. These spirits cost nothing, as each man
makes his own wine, which he sells, and from the refuse his arrack, which
he drinks. Armenians seldom drink wine; it is not strong enough for them,
and arrack is much more to their taste. All the refuse, after clearing
the wine, is put in a big pot, a head and worm is fixed on with mud, and
distillation by means of a very slow fire of big logs is proceeded with.
The product is redistilled once, and even a third time. A strong rough
spirit is the result; it is generally coloured green, and flavoured by
thrusting a handful of leaves of anise (rasianah) into the receiver. Of
course the spirit is quite pure, being after a third distillation simply
strong spirits of wine. What the Armenians _sell_, however, is much
adulterated and drugged; it is known as “fixed bayonets,” and is simply
made to produce intoxication.
I secured a fine house in Julfa for forty-eight pounds a year. One
side of this house—it formed two of the four enclosing sides of a big
garden—is shown in the illustration. The immense window indicates the
great size of the huge T-shaped summer room, or Orūssee, the floor of
which was tiled. The fountain is seen playing in the hauz, or ornamental
tank, in front of the Orūssee.
[Illustration: DR. WILLS’S HOUSE IN JULFA.]
My landlord had a fine vineyard at the side of my house, and for a yearly
payment of one hundred kerans I secured the right of entry, and the
privilege of eating as many grapes as we pleased. The landlord, however,
made mud bricks, and covered over _all_ the paths with the freshly-made
bricks laid to dry; it was only, finding remonstrance ineffectual, by
calling our five dogs in with us, and letting them run over the soft
bricks, that I could get him to clear the paths. I found, too, that I was
waterless directly water became scarce and dear, the man having sold our
water. Fortunately the lease specified the water, so I _took_ the water,
and referred the purchasers to my landlord. They beat him, and got back
their money. I saw the three arguing and fighting for several days; how
the matter ended I did not inquire. I got my water.
Twice in my house concealed treasure had been discovered; once to a large
amount by the grandfather of my landlord, and a second time to a smaller
value by his father.
On this second occasion, the well running dry, men were sent down to
deepen it; a door was found in the wall, and a quantity of arms and
clothing were discovered in a small chamber in the wall, but no money or
jewels. I found a secret chamber in this house, but it was empty.
Of course my wife had to be taken to that terrible fraud, the _Shaking
Minarets_. Why, no one knows, but every one has heard of the Shaking
Minarets. “You went to Ispahan. What did you think of the Shaking
Minarets?” is constantly asked by those who have not been there. Even
those who have, much on the principle of the bumpkin, who, on paying
his penny, is triumphantly shown the biggest donkey in the fair, _in a
looking-glass_, and urges his friends to go and see that show: so does a
feeling of having been defrauded cause people to advise their friends to
see the Shaking Minarets. The mere name is poetical and mysterious.
Upon a gentleman high in the diplomatic service being asked what was the
use of the British Agent at Ispahan, he replied:
“Oh, it is an hereditary office; he shows British travellers the Shaking
Minarets.”
But then that “excellency” was a humorous man. He it was who, on being
troubled by a pertinacious clergyman with many grievances, and told
by him (the parson) that “he was but a humble member of the Church
Militant,” replied, “Church Pugnacious, you mean.”
Dearly did the British Agent love to perform his “hereditary function.”
The new-comer, full of desire to see the Shaking Minarets, and really
pleased with his visit to the town of Ispahan, would make the appointment
for _the_ sight, and, seeing the “hereditary functionary’s” enthusiasm,
not liking to damp it, would acknowledge that he _had_ seen the eighth
wonder of the world.
An hour’s sharp canter through bridle-paths and shady lanes, after
crossing the river by the old Marnūn bridge, would bring one to the
little shrine, through the power of whose “Pir,” or saint, there
interred, the _miracle_ of the _Shaking Minarets_ is daily on view. As
one approached the village where the shrine is, the labourers in the
field would begin to run towards it, each eager to be the holder of a
European’s horse, and their shouts would bring a crowd to the scene.
There is nothing particularly wonderful about the shrine; it is under a
lofty arch of modern construction, and is the usual rectangular chest,
under which reposes the body of the saint. On the whole lies an open
Koran and reading-stand. The chest is covered by a ragged pall of cotton
cloth; and a few strings of copper “kendils,” or votive offerings, in
the shape of small copper cylinders constricted in the middle, attest
the popularity of the saint with the villagers. The guardian, also the
village schoolmaster, is a Syud, or holy man; no information can be
obtained from him, save that the dead saint has great power, and that the
shaking is a miracle. Proceeding to the top of the shrine, a good view of
the Ispahan valley is obtained, and here one sees the celebrated _Shaking
Minarets_. A lusty villager ascends each, and by dint of strong shaking,
both vibrate considerably. The “hereditary functionary” used _to do this
himself_ with great gusto, but, having visited England, has become too
important for the personal exercise of his “functions.” When one man
ceases to shake the vibration continues in both, and a peculiar sensation
of insecurity is felt when one is inside the minaret.
The _minarets_ are some twelve or fourteen feet high above the roof. They
are of brick; and the fact is, that being continuous with a long thin
wall which connects the two at the base, the vibration caused in one is
communicated to the other. This is the _miracle_, which will probably
some day cease by the vibrator being propelled into space, and then the
office of the “hereditary functionary” will be really a sinecure. The
place, however, has been repaired, and the minarets rebuilt, within the
last thirty years, so the guardian says. I fancy that the explanation
of the miracle lies in the hypothesis I have suggested, the long wall
on which the minarets are built having probably settled, and so, having
no communication with the side walls, being no miracle, but merely
bad building. We saw the miracle, expressed our wonder, thanked “the
hereditary functionary,” and went home sadder and wiser than we came.
Vaccination is now happily appreciated in Persia. On my first arrival it
was unknown, and inoculation was regularly practised. Another plan, too,
was common, and the future native pastor of the Protestant Armenians lost
a child by its practice. He put his own child in bed with a child having
small-pox, that it might take the disease in a benign form; confluent
small-pox of the most virulent type resulted, and the poor child died, to
the great grief of the parent, a most deserving and honest fellow.
This man and one other are the only teetotalers of Julfa, which may
dispute the palm with any Scotch town for capability of swallowing liquor
on a Sunday.
So common is drunkenness here, that an old cook of mine, an
English-speaking Armenian, used to say to me on Sunday night—
“Dinner finished, sir; if you no orders, I go get drunk with my priest.”
Needless to add, that they both did get drunk, and that it was at the
cook’s expense. Happily, there are some few exceptions among the Julfa
priests, for all India, Persia, and Batavia are supplied with priests for
their Armenian communities from Julfa.
Spirits are supposed to deaden pain, and a Yezdi, a guebre
(fire-worshipper), who had lodged some slugs and iron in his hand, prior
to my removing them, swallowed a quart of strong spirit without my
knowledge. I supposed him to become suddenly delirious, but he was only
suddenly drunk.
Our first care was to make a road for our little dog-cart. The gates
separating the parishes were mostly too narrow to let it pass, and we
finally made one six feet wide at the narrowest, having three bridges
without parapets (which we widened), and one was at a sharp angle, _and a
deep ditch the whole way on one side, and a wall on the other_. This was
capital for a small two-wheel thing, as long as the horse didn’t jib or
shy, or we didn’t meet any one. Happily, it did not in our time, but when
we got a bigger trap, a park phaeton, with a pair of horses, the pleasure
of our drive was somewhat damped by the possibility of a capsize at night
in the dark! But the cherub that always keeps a watch over poor Jack must
have been on duty, for we never did have an accident. It was Hobson’s
choice, that road or none.
Crossing the river at Marnūn became our favourite ride, and here one
could canter for miles on a good road, the greater part of which was
shaded by the gardens and orchards on either side. A great deal of
firewood, too, is grown in this neighbourhood, water is plentiful, and
so firewood is a staple crop. Getting out beyond the gardens, on a small
mountain standing by itself on the plain, was the ruin of an ancient
fire-temple. It was merely built of mud bricks, but here at Ispahan these
remain for centuries, and it was only on climbing up to it that one
perceived that it was not all quite modern, and a small portion built of
very large bricks on an ancient wall. A grand view was got from it, as it
commanded the entire plain.
Several large plane-trees are to be seen in the villages, many with
platforms built round them, where the villagers sit and smoke in the
evenings. A sort of semi-sacred character is attached to some of them,
particularly to one which is called the “plane of Mortaza Ali.”
A striking feature at Julfa is the so-called racecourse at Ferhabad.
A couple of walls enclose a straight run of over a mile. These walls,
which are in ruins, and of mud, have at intervals various pavilions,
some of the rooms of which are still almost perfect. At the end is a
large square, having many rooms round it in a still better state. The
road turned at a right angle towards the village of Julfa; but as this
is intersected by wells and watercourses, it is not used as a cantering
ground. The place is supposed to have been the summer palace of the
Afghan conquerors.
Ruins and ancient buildings, when built of burnt bricks, rapidly
disappear in Persia. It is for a very simple reason. It is cheaper to
demolish an old building, and carry off the good _seasoned_ bricks by
donkey-loads, than to make and burn new ones, which often crumble.
In my own time a large and handsome college near the Char Bagh of
Ispahan has utterly disappeared, the prince having given an order for
its demolition, and that the material be used in making the new one he
has now completed. The very foundations were grubbed up. In Ispahan
itself every third house is a ruin, and in Julfa the walls of gardens
and orchards often contain the bare inner walls of ancient houses, which
retain the brightness of their painting and gilding in the dry and pure
air.
Donkeys, as beasts of burden, are much employed in a country where there
are no carts or wheeled vehicles; save in the capital, the donkeys do
all the ordinary work of vehicles. Earth, manure, produce, firewood,
charcoal, grain, are all carried on these beasts or on mules. Each animal
has his pack-saddle, in which he lives and sleeps. It is only removed
when the donkey gets a rare and very occasional curry-combing from a
very primitive sort of instrument, having jangling rings, which produce
a music supposed to be soothing to a donkey’s soul. Every villager has
his donkey; if more than one he is well-to-do. The ordinary wage of a man
is one keran, a man and donkey one keran and a half, and each additional
donkey half a keran. They work from sunrise to sunset, with an hour’s
interval for feeding.
Julfa is a particularly healthy place, for the cesspools are constantly
kept clean by the market-gardeners, who pay for the privilege of removing
the manure. By mixing the contents of the cesspools with ashes, a dry and
portable manure is produced of the highest efficacy, and odourless. It is
removed on donkeys, and stored in the fields until required.
In the very depth of the winter, when snow and ice had rendered the
ride to the town highly dangerous for horses, I was summoned in haste
to see my old patient the Zil-es-Sultan, now the most important man in
the kingdom next to the king. I went, though risking my horse’s knees,
and was rather disgusted to find that I was sent for _to see if he was
ill or not_, as he was not sure. I found him in a hot room, temperature
eighty (by the thermometer), wrapped in furs, being shampooed by three
attendants, while a fourth was reading poetry to him. He was, I told him,
in a fair way to get ill, and that air and exercise were all he needed.
He took my advice, and returned to his usual very active life.
He showed me an armoury of some eight hundred rifles, with a
proportionate amount of fowling-pieces and pistols. I expressed the
desired amount of admiration. I suppose the time will come when his Royal
Highness will make an effort for the throne, probably on the present
Shah’s death. It will be a lucky day for Persia if he succeeds, as he
is clever, tolerant, and a good governor. His personal popularity is
very great, and his luck as a governor proverbial. He has a dislike
to deeds of blood, but is a severe governor, like his uncle, the late
Hissam-u-Sultaneh, whose virtues he emulates.
The Valliāt, or heir-apparent, on the contrary, is physically weak, and
mentally imbecile, being a bigot in the hands of a few holy men, and as
impracticable as he is obstinate. No doubt if he ever does reign a black
time will set in for the country, for religious persecution on a gigantic
scale will commence, and the future of Iran be very sad.
The Zil-es-Sultan had just got two bull-terriers from England. He was
convinced of their ferocity; and certainly the dog, very short-faced, and
almost a bull-dog, was of terrific appearance. His Royal Highness caused
them to be let into the courtyard, cautioning me to be very still, as not
knowing me they might attack me, and providing me with a lump of sugar to
appease them. Of course nothing of the sort took place, but the dogs ran
about and smelt the various grandees, to their great disgust. The prince
made great pets of them, feeding them with sugar. I was surprised to find
that though these dogs had not seen an Englishman for months, yet on my
speaking to them in English they followed me about, fawning on me, and
neglecting the prince, and the dog-man who was their valet.
Since this time the prince has procured two huge half-bred Dutch
mastiffs, in which he greatly rejoices, and these animals, though not
fierce, are certainly very powerful dogs. Strange that the love of
animals in a man like the Zil-es-Sultan should so overcome the Mussulman
dislike of the unclean beast. The dogs were in the habit of licking the
prince’s hand.
This particular winter was an unusually severe one. There was much snow,
and it was impossible to get out for rides for a fortnight; and two
store-rooms of my huge house fell in, from the heavy mud roofs being
soaked with water, and breaking their supports by the enormous increase
of weight.
On one occasion in the early spring we had ridden out to the garden
palace of Haft Dust, and were preparing to take tea, when with great
noise the Zil-es-Sultan rode into the place with some fifty horsemen. No
sooner did he see and recognise my servants than he asked if I was alone.
On hearing that my wife (“my _house_,” as my man put it) was with me, he
rode out, taking all his followers with him, and sending me a message to
“go on with my tea, that he trusted I should enjoy my visit, that the
place was mine as long as I pleased,” etc.
Europeans avoid the Persians when with ladies, as very ridiculous scenes
are at times the result. One gentleman, whose wife was not in her first
youth, on meeting the prince when riding with her, instead of avoiding
him, stopped to speak.
It was one of his rude days, for he calmly asked, in defiance of the
rules of Persian politeness, which demand the ignoring of the existence
of any female:
“Is that your wife?”
“Yes, my wife.”
“Well, I wouldn’t have a wife so old and ugly as that. Get a young one.”
The situation for both lady and gentleman was embarrassing.