a half hours of severe toil! The _katirgis_ asked us to keep together
in case of difficulties with caravans. Difficulties indeed! A mild
term! I was nearly smashed. I little knew what meeting a caravan in
these circumstances meant till we met the first sixty animals, each
laden with two heavy packing-cases. The question arises who is to
give way, and who is to drive his heavily-laden beasts off the track,
to struggle, flounder, and fall in three feet of snow, not to get up
again without being unloaded, and even then with difficulty.
The rub came on a bank near a stream where there was a deep drift. I
decided to give way, but nothing would induce my mule to face the
snow. An orderly was in front and Hadji behind. Down the track came
sixty animals, loaded with their great packing-cases. They could not
and would not give way, and the two caravans came into collision.
There were mules struggling and falling, loads overturned, muleteers
yelling and roaring, Hadji groaning "God help us!" my mule, a new one,
a big strong animal, unused to a bit, plunging and kicking, in the
middle of a "free fight." I was struck hard on my ankle by a
packing-case and nearly knocked off. Still, down they came, in
apparently endless hordes; my mule plunged her bridle off, and kicked
most violently; there were yells all round. My snow spectacles were
knocked off and lost, then came another smash, in which I thought a
bone was broken. Fearing that I should be laid up with a broken limb
for weeks in some horrible caravanserai, and really desperate with the
danger and confusion, I called over and over again to Hadji to get off
and pull my mule into the snow or I should be killed! He did not stir,
but sat dazed on his pack moaning "God help us!" till he, the mule,
and the load were rolled over in the drift. The orderly contrived to
get the bridle on my mule, and to back his own in front of me, and as
each irrepressible animal rolled down the bank he gave its load a
push, which, nicely balanced as these loads are, made it swerve, and
saved me from further damage. Hadji had rolled off four times
previously, and the last I saw of him at that time and of the caravan
was a man, five mules, and their loads buried in the snow. The
personal results to me of what is euphemistically called a
"difficulty," are my blue glasses gone, a number of bruises, a
badly-torn riding-skirt, and a bad cut, which bled profusely, and then
the blood froze.
A number of caravans snowed up for several days were _en route_, and
there were many similar encounters, and donkeys and mules falling with
their loads and rolling into the deep snow, and _katirgis_ coming to
blows over the right-of-way. If a donkey is forced off the track it
goes down at once. I unfortunately caught my foot in the pack of one
and rolled it over, and as it disappeared in the snow its pack and
saddle fell over its head and displayed the naked vertebrae of its poor
back.
This Kirrind valley must be fully twenty miles long by from two to
five broad, but there was only one village inhabited and two in ruins.
As we floundered along in the snow with our jaded animals, two
well-armed men on fine horses met and joined us, sent by the _Agha_
Abdul Rahim, son of the British agent at Kirmanshah, whose guests we
are to be. Following them was a _taktrawan_ or litter for me, a wooden
box with two side doors, four feet high, six feet long, and three feet
wide. At each end are long shafts, and between each pair of shafts a
superb mule, and each mule has a man to lead him. I could never use
such a thing except in case of a broken limb, but I am very grateful
to Abdul Rahim for sending it fifty-six miles.
The temperature fell with the sun; the snowy hills took on every shade
of rose and pink, and in a universal blush of tender colouring we
reached Kirrind. All of a sudden the colour died out, the rose-flushed
sky changed to blue-gray, and pallid wastes of unbroken snow
stretching into the gray distance made a glorious winter landscape.
We are now fairly in for the rigours of a Persian winter.
Kirrind, the capital of the Kirrind Kurds, is either grotesquely or
picturesquely situated in and around a narrow gap in a range of lofty
hills, through which the Ab-i-Kirrind rushes, after rising in a spring
immediately behind. The gap suggests the word jaws, and in these open
jaws rise one above another flat-roofed houses straggling down upon
the plain among vineyards, poplars, willows, fruit-trees, and immense
walnuts and gardens. There are said to be 900 houses, but many of them
are ruinous. The stream which bursts from the hills is divided into
innumerable streamlets, which must clothe these gardens with beauty.
A _far[=a]sh_ riding on ahead had engaged a house, so we avoided the
horrors of the immense caravanserai, crammed to-night with storm-bound
caravans. The house is rough, but has three adjoining rooms, and the
servants are comfortable. A fire, with its usual accompaniment of
stinging smoke, fails to raise the temperature of my room to the
freezing-point, yet it is quite possible to be comfortable and employ
oneself.
_Mahidasht, Jan. 24._--My room at Kirrind was very cold. The ink
froze. The mercury fell to 2 deg. below zero in it, and outside in the sun
was only 14 deg. at 8.30. There was a great Babel at starting. Some men
had sold four chickens for the high price of 2s. each, the current
price being 6d., and had robbed the servants of two, and they took one
of the mules, which was sent after us by an official. Slipping,
floundering, and falling in the deep snow, and getting entangled among
caravans, we rode all day over rolling levels. The distance seemed
interminable over the glittering plains, and the pain and stiffness
produced by the intense cold were hard to bear, and it was not
possible to change the cramped position by walking. The mercury fell
to 4 deg., as with tired animals we toiled up the slope on which Harunabad
stands.
A very large caravanserai and a village of sixty houses occupy the
site of a town built by Harun-al-Raschid on the upper waters of the
Kerkhah. It has the reputation of being one of the coldest places in
Persia, so cold that its Ilyat inhabitants desert it in winter,
leaving two or three men who make a business of supplying caravans.
Usually people come out of the villages in numbers as we arrive, but
we passed group after group of ruinous hovels without seeing a
creature. We obtained awfully cold rooms at a great height above a
bazar, now deserted. I write "awfully" advisedly, for the mercury in
them at sunset was 2 deg. below zero, the floors were plaster, slippery
with frozen moisture, the walls were partly wood, with great apertures
between the planks; where they were mud the blistered plaster was
fringed with icicles. Later the mercury sank to 12 deg., and before
morning to 16 deg. below zero, and the hot water froze in my basin before
I could use it!
We were to have started at eight, as there was no possible way of
dividing the nine hours' march, but when the time came the _katirgis_
said it was too cold to rope the loads, a little later that we could
only get half-way, and later that there was no accommodation for mules
half-way and that we must go the whole way! At nine the mercury was at
4 deg. below zero, and the slipperiness was fearful. The poor animals
could scarcely keep on their feet. We have crossed two high passes,
Nal Shikan (the Horse-Shoe breaking pass) and the Charzabar Pass, in
tremendous snow, riding nine hours, only dismounting to walk down one
hill. At the half-way hamlet I decided to go on, having still a
lingering prejudice against sharing a den with a quantity of human
beings, mules, asses, poultry, and dogs.
On one long ascent we encountered a "blizzard," when the mercury was
only 3 deg. above zero. It was awful. The men covered their heads with
their _abbas_ and turned their backs to the wind. I got my heavy
mackintosh over everything, but in taking off three pairs of gloves
for one minute to button it the pain of my hand was literally
excruciating. At the summit the snow was four feet deep, and a number
of mules were down, but after getting over the crest of the Nal Shikan
Pass and into the Zobeideh valley it became better. But after every
descent there was another ascent to face till we reached the pass
above the Cheshmeh-i-Charzabar torrent, in a picturesque glen, with a
village and some primitive flour mills.
Below this height lies the vast and fertile plain of Mahidasht, one
expanse of snow, broken by mud villages looking like brown islands,
and the truncated cone of Goree, a seat of the ancient fire-worship.
In the centre of the plain is an immense caravanserai with some houses
about it. When this came into sight it was only five miles off, but we
were nearly three hours in reaching it! The view was wonderful. Every
speck on the vast plain was seen distinctly; then came a heavy snow
blink, above which hovered ghosts of snow mountains rising into a pale
green sky, a dead and lonely wilderness, looking as if all things
which lived and moved had long ago vanished from it. Those hours after
first sighting the village were very severe. It seemed to grow no
nearer. I was half-dead with the journey of twenty-two miles at a slow
foot's pace, and was aching and cramped from the intense cold, for as
twilight fell the mercury sank to 3 deg. below zero. The Indian servants,
I believe, suffered more than I did, and some of the _katirgis_ even
more than they.
At last by a pointed brick bridge we crossed the little river of
Mahidasht, and rode into the house of the headman, who is a sort of
steward of Abdul Rahim, our future host, the owner of many villages on
this plain. The house is of the better class of Kurdish houses, with a
broad passage, and a room on each side, at the end a great, low, dark
room, half living-room, half stable, which accommodates to-night some
of the mules, the muleteers, the servants, and the men of the family.
Beyond this again is a large stable, and below-ground, reached by a
sloping tunnel, is the sheep-fold. One room has neither door nor
window, mine has an outer and inner door, and a fire of live embers in
a hole in the floor.
The family in vacating the room have left their goods behind,--two
plank beds at one end heaped with carpets and felts, a sacking cradle
hanging from the roof, two clay jars five feet high for storing grain,
and in the _takchahs_, or recesses of the walls, _samovars_ or
tea-urns, pots, metal vases, cartridge belts, and odds and ends. Two
old guns, an old sword, and a coarse coloured print of the Russian
Imperial family are on the wall.
I was lifted from the mule to my bed, covered with all available
wraps, a pot of hot embers put by the bed, my hands and feet rubbed,
hot syrup coloured with tea produced in Russian glasses, and in two
hours I was able to move. The caravan, which we thought could not get
through the snow, came in three hours later, men and mules thoroughly
knocked up, and not till nine could we get a scanty dinner. It has
been a hard day all round. The _far[=a]shes_ in the kitchen are
cursing the English sahibs, who will travel in the winter, wishing our
fathers may be burned, etc., two of the muleteers have been howling
with pain for the last two hours, and I went into the kitchen to see
the poor fellows.
In a corner of the big room, among the rough trunks of trees which
support the sooty roof, the muleteers were lying in a heap in their
big-sleeved felt coats round a big fire, about another the servants
were cooking their food, the _far[=a]shes_ were lying round another,
and some of the house people about a fourth, and through smoke and
flame a background of mules and wolf-like dogs was dimly seen, a gleam
now and then falling into the dark stable beyond, where the jaded
baggage animals were lying in heaps.
Mahidasht is said to be one of the finest and most fertile plains in
Persia, seventy-two miles long by fifteen broad, and is irrigated
throughout by a small stream swarming with turtles. Its population,
scattered over it in small villages, is estimated--over-estimated
probably--at 4000. At a height of 5050 feet the winters are severe.
The snow is nearly three feet deep already, and more is impending.
The mercury in my room fell to 5 deg. below zero before midnight, but rose
for a gray cloudy day. The men and animals were so done up that we
could not start till nearly eleven. The march, though not more than
sixteen miles, was severe, owing to the deep snow and cold wind. Five
miles over the snowy billows of the Mahidasht plain, a long ascent, on
which the strong north wind was scarcely bearable, a succession of
steep and tiresome ridges, many "difficulties" in passing caravans,
and then a gradual descent down a long wide valley, opened upon the
high plateau, on which Kirmanshah, one of the most important cities in
Persia, is situated.
Trees, bare and gaunt, chiefly poplars, rising out of unsullied snow,
for two hours before we reached it, denoted the whereabouts of the
city, which after many disappointments bursts upon one suddenly. The
view from the hill above the town was the most glorious snow view I
ever saw. All around, rolled to a great height, smooth as the icing of
a cake, hills, billowy like the swell of the Pacific after a storm--an
ocean of snow; below them a plateau equally unsullied, on the east
side of which rises the magnificently precipitous Besitun range,
sublime in its wintry grandeur, while on the distant side of the
plateau pink peaks raised by an atmospheric illusion to a colossal
height hovered above the snow blink, and walled in the picture. Snow
was in the air, snow clouds were darkening over the Besitun range;
except for those pink peaks there were no atmospheric effects; the
white was very pallid, and the gray was very black; no illusions were
possible, the aspect was grim, desolate, and ominous, and even before
we reached the foot of the descent the huge peaks and rock masses of
Besitun were blotted out by swirls of snow.
Kirmanshah, approached from the south-west, added no elements of
picturesqueness to the effect. A ruinous wall much too large for the
shrunken city it encloses, parts of it lying in the moat, some ruinous
loopholed towers, lines of small domes denoting bazars below, a few
good-looking houses rising above the insignificant mass, gardens,
orchards, vineyards, and poplars stretching up the southerly hollow
behind, and gardens, now under frozen water, to the north, made up a
not very interesting contrast with the magnificence of nature.
We circled much of the ruinous wall on thin ice, turned in between
high walls and up an alley cumbered with snow, dismounted at a low
door, were received by a number of servants, and were conducted
through a frozen courtyard into a handsomely-carpeted room with divans
beside a blazing fire, a table in the centre covered with apples,
oranges, and sweetmeats, and the large Jubilee photograph of Queen
Victoria hanging over the fireplace.
I. L. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[11] Another interest, however, is its connection with many of the
romantic legends still told of Khosroe Parviz and his beautiful queen,
complicated with love stories concerning the sculptor Farhad, to whom
the Persians attribute some of their most famous rock sculptures. One
of the most romantic of these legends is that Farhad loved Shirin, and
that Khosroe was aware of it, and promised to give her to him if he
could execute the impossible task of bringing to the city the abundant
waters of the mountains. Farhad set himself to the Herculean labour,
and to the horror of the king nearly accomplished it, when Khosroe,
dreading the advancing necessity of losing Shirin or being
dishonoured, sent to inform him of her death. Being at the time on the
top of a precipice, urging on the work of the aqueduct, the news
filled him with such ungovernable despair that he threw himself down
and was killed.
[12] The Pashalik of Zohab, now Persian territory, is fully described
by Major Rawlinson in a most interesting paper in _The Journal of the
Royal Geographical Society_, vol. ix. part 1, p. 26.
[13] Gen. x. 11; 2 Kings xviii. 11; 1 Chron. v. 26.
[14] See Sir A. H. Layard's _Early Adventures_, vol. i. p. 217.
LETTER V
KIRMANSHAH, _Jan. 31_.
This hospitable house is the residence of the British Agent or _Vakil_
for Kirmanshah, in whose absence at Tihran, his son, Abdul Rahim,
performs the duties of hospitality in a most charming manner, as if
though a very busy man he had nothing else to do but carry out the
wishes of his guests. His hospitality is most unobtrusive also, and
considerate. If such a wish is expressed as to visit the sculptures of
the Takt-i-Bostan, or anything else, everything is quietly and
beautifully arranged; a landau-and-four with outriders, superb led
saddle-horses, and arrangements for coffee are ready outside the
walls, with the host as _cicerone_, ready to drive or ride at the
pleasure of his guests. The rooms in which he receives Europeans are
on the opposite side of the courtyard from the house, and have been
arranged according to European ideas.
The family history, as usually told, is an interesting one. They are
Arabs, and the grandfather of our host, Hadji Khalil, was a trusted
_katirgi_ in the employment of Sir Henry Rawlinson, and saved his life
when he fell from a scaffolding while copying the Besitun
inscriptions. His good qualities, and an honesty of character and
purpose rare among Orientals, eventually placed him in the important
position of British _Vakil_ here, and he became a British subject, and
was succeeded in his position by his son, Agha Hassan, who is now by
virtue of singular business capacities the wealthiest man in this
province and possibly in Persia, and bears the very highest character
for trustworthiness and honour.[15]
Abdul Rahim is a very fine-looking man, with noticeable eyes, very
large and prominent. He has a strong sense of humour, which flits over
his face in an amused smile. He and his father are very large
landowners, and are always adding land to land, and are now the owners
of the magnificent sculptures and pleasure-grounds of the
Takt-i-Bostan. They are bankers likewise, and money-lenders, merchants
on a large scale, and have built a very fine caravanserai, with great
brick warehouses for the use of traders. Agha Hassan travels _en
prince_, driving to Tihran and back in an English landau with four
horses and a number of outriders and attendants, and his son
entertains visitors in the same way, mounting even the outriders and
pipe-bearers on well-bred Arabs. When he walks in the city it is like
a royal progress. Everybody bows low, nearly to the ground, and his
purse-bearer follows, distributing alms among the poor.
I mention all this because it is a marvel in Persia, where a
reputation for wealth is the last thing a rich man desires. To elevate
a gateway or to give any external sign of affluence is to make himself
a mark for the official rapacity which spares none. The policy is to
let a man grow quietly rich, to "let the sheep's wool grow," but as
soon as he shows any enjoyment of wealth to deprive him of his gains,
according to a common Persian expression, "He is ripe, he must be
squeezed." The _Vakil_ and his son are the only men here who are not
afraid to show their wealth, and for the simple reason that it cannot
be touched, because they are British subjects. They can neither be
robbed, squeezed, nor mulcted beyond the legitimate taxation by
Persian officials, and are able to protect the property of others when
it is entrusted to their keeping. British protection has been in fact
the making of these men.
The _menage_ is simple. The dining-room is across the frozen
courtyard. The meals are served in European fashion, the _major-domo_
being an ancient man, "born in the house," who occasionally inserts a
remark into the conversation or helps his master's memory. The
interpreter sits on the floor during meals. I breakfast in my room,
but lunch and dine with our host, who spends the evening in the
_salon_; sherbet is provided instead of wine. Abdul Rahim places me at
the head of the table, and I am served first! The interpreting is from
Persian into Hindustani, and _vice versa_. Our host expresses almost
daily regret that he cannot talk with me on politics!
Kirmanshah, which is said to be a favourable specimen of a Persian
town, is absolutely hideous and uninteresting. It is really half in
ruins. It has suffered terribly from "plague, pestilence, and famine,"
and from the awful rapacity of governors. It once had 12,000 houses,
but the highest estimate of its present population is 25,000. So
severely have the town and province been oppressed that some years ago
three-quarters of the inhabitants migrated, the peasants into Turkey,
and the townspeople into the northern province of Azerbijan. If a
governor pays 30,000 _tumans_ (L10,000) to the Shah for an
appointment, of which he may be deprived any day, it can scarcely be
expected of Oriental, or indeed of any human nature, that he will not
make a good thing of it while he has it, and squeeze all he can out of
the people.
The streets are very narrow, and look narrower just now, because the
snow is heaped almost to the top of the mud walls, which are not
broken up as in Turkish towns by projecting lattice windows, but are
absolutely blank, with the exception of low-arched entrances to the
courtyards within, closed by heavy, unpainted wooden doors, studded
with wooden nails. The causeways, on which, but for the heaps of
slippery snow two men might walk abreast, have a ditch two or three
feet wide between them, which is the roadway for animals. There are
some open spaces, abounding in ruinous heaps, others where goods are
unloaded, surrounded with warehouses, immense brick bazars with domed
roofs, a citadel or _ark_, where the Governor lives, a large parade
ground and barracks for 2000 men, mosques of no pretensions, public
baths, caravanserais, brick warehouses behind the bazars, public
gardens, with fountains and avenues of poplars, a prison, and some
good houses like this one, hidden behind high mud walls. Although the
snow kindly veils a good deal of deformity, the city impresses one as
ruinous and decayed; yet it has a large trade, and is regarded as one
of the most prosperous places in the Empire.[16]
The bazars are spacious and well stocked with European goods,
especially with Manchester cottons of colours and patterns suited to
Oriental taste, which loves carnation red. There are many Jews,
otherwise the people are Shiah Moslems, with an increasing admixture
of the secret sect of the _B[=a]bis_. In some respects the Shiahs are
more fanatical than the Sunnis, as, for instance, it is quite possible
to visit a mosque in Turkey, but here a Christian is not allowed to
cross the threshold of the outer gate. Certain customs are also more
rigidly observed. A Persian woman would be in danger of death from the
mob if she appeared unveiled in the streets. When I walked through the
town, though attended by a number of men, the _major-domo_ begged me
to exchange my gauze veil for a mask, and even when I showed this
deference to custom the passing through the bazars was very
unpleasant, the men being decidedly rude, and inclined to hoot and use
bad language. Even the touch of a Christian is regarded as polluting,
and I nearly got into trouble by handling a "flap-jack," mistaking it
for a piece of felt. The bazars are not magnificent. No rich carpets
or other goods are exposed to view for fear of exactions. A buyer
wanting such things must send word privately, and have them brought to
his house.
Justice seems to be here, much as in Turkey, a marketable commodity,
which the working classes are too poor to buy. A man may be kept in
prison because he is too poor to get out, but justice is usually
summary, and men are not imprisoned for long terms. If prisoners have
friends, the friends feed them, if not they depend on charity, and
charity is a Moslem virtue. There is no prison here for women. They
are punished by having their heads shaved, and by being taken through
the town on asses. Various forms of torture are practised, such as
burning with hot irons, the bastinado, and squeezing the fingers in a
vice. The bastinado is also most extensively used as a punishment.