OUR JOURNEY HOME.
March 28th, 1881.—Ispahan Julfa.—At last I hear that a muleteer is found who will go direct to Resht, by way of Kūm, Hajeeb, and Kasvin, avoiding the capital. I go to the house of a Baghdad merchant in Julfa, and find the muleteer, who is being regaled with pipes; he is the head-man of the neighbouring village of Se Deh (three villages), and the proprietor of a hundred mules. I am told that his son-in-law will go with the mules, and am introduced to a young fellow some six feet high and thickly built, who is a Tabrizi, and speaks good Turkish and bad Persian. He is wearing the large heavy sheepskin cap of Tabriz, with the wool long. The merchant informs me that he thinks the hire should be sixty kerans per mule. This is said in English, and he then turns to the elder man and says:
“You will, of course, give this sahib mules at forty kerans per mule?”
The old man replies: “I have, after much persuasion, got Jaffer Kūli, my son-in-law, to agree to eighty.”
The young man, with many vows, raises his hands to heaven and demands eighty-five. “Why do you throw words into air, Jaffer Kūli? as I am this merchant’s friend let us say eighty, and the sahib will have had mules for nothing. Of course we get a present?”
I here get up, saying, “These fellows are quite mad; let us talk to men.”
They in turn rise and say, “Our last word is seventy-five.”
So we talk for an hour. Then, and not till then, the ceremony of agreement is gone through, and the articles strictly drawn up by the merchant, after much chaffering. At last he begins to read in a sing-song drawl, for our mutual edification, the following:
“‘I, Haji Mahomed, of Se Deh, and I, Jaffer Kūli, his son-in-law, give and let, for the journey to Resht, from Ispahan, viâ Koom, Hajeeb, Doong, Kasvin, to make twenty stages and halt four days at our own expense, and at the wish of the sahib; twelve mules, four for the mule litter, two for the kajawehs (covered mule paniers), and six for loads; we hereby acknowledge five hundred and fifty kerans, and two hundred more are to be paid in Resht; our hire is sixty-two and a half kerans per mule; we will start to-morrow, and have affixed our seals.’”
Here they all call on the prophet; and both muleteers seal, and the merchant witnesses the document, which is handed to me. I give them a cheque for five hundred and fifty kerans, and we all go off to my house to look at the loads. On seeing these, both men begin to vociferate. “Ah, loads, such loads, no one ever took such loads; on no account will we go.”
“All useless, Haji,” we reply, and a pipe is given them.
They then proceed to sing their own praises, and we (the merchant and I) profess to love them like brothers. They now retire, and I and my wife and servants begin to pack up our road-kit seriously; the travelling gear, got ready long ago, is dragged out and re-examined; tarpaulin is nailed firmly on the roof of the takhtrowan (horse litter), and the same is done to the kajawehs; then thin red covers are put on and patched, new straps and buckles are added to the bedding-bags, and the bedding packed so as to get each side one weight; movable curtains are hung in the takhtrowan and its harness is renewed. In the morning the assistant muleteers arrive, and proceed to cord each box with heavy ropes, leaving the ends loose; these ends are afterwards tied together; and so each half load hangs on a side of the pack-saddle; a long broad band with an iron ring at each end is flung over the mule and his load, and gradually tightened. Thus loaded, the mule and his burden seldom, or never, part company.
The muleteer, having had some of his hire, signed his agreement and roped some of his loads, is by Persian law bound to go, and we calmly prepared to start on the morning of April 4th.
April 4th.—No sign of muleteer. We use our road kit, and are in the same plight as when marching.
April 5th.—Muleteer arrives, and requests us to take back our money. Mutual threats and curses deep. Muleteer refuses to salaam. Muleteer is threatened with the Governor. Muleteer demands a present. Muleteer is offered a thrashing. Muleteer is insolent. Muleteer is pursued. Muleteer flees.
April 6th., eight A.M.—Muleteer arrives at six A.M. Harnesses the takhtrowan to two beasts, who shy and kick, and can’t be made to move. Again offers to return money. Is again threatened with the Governor, and called a Jew. Retires in violent passion.
Four P.M.—Arrival of muleteer with fairish horses (by the way, the man’s beasts are all yabūs or horses). They are tried and found satisfactory. Assistant muleteer addressed as “Hadji” (“pilgrim,” a title very agreeable to the lower class of Persians), and regaled with pipes. Head muleteer addressed as “That.”
Muleteer declines definitely to start, and offers to refund, but will go for increased hire. Muleteer publicly threatened with Governor, and called “That wind-bag.”
Muleteer retires, swearing he will die rather than start.
April 7th., eight A.M.—No muleteer. Nine A.M.—Arrival of muleteer and nine mules (i. e. ponies), four assistants, and a donkey. Assistant muleteer is secretly promised twenty kerans if he becomes the slave of hirer, to be given in Resht. Eleven A.M.—Mules at last loaded; they start. The wives of the servants come and weep on them. The takhtrowan is carried to the high-road. Twelve noon.—I take N⸺ (our English nurse), Frank, and the baby to the starting-place, and put them into the takhtrowan, placing Charlie, our eldest, with a nurse-boy, in one kajaweh, the woman-servant Bēbē in the other. They leave.
Half-past twelve.—I go round my rooms for the last time.
A⸺ (my wife) and I mount, with our table-servant, last of all. We leisurely walk our horses out. When we have got a quarter of a mile, our servant swears he has dropped his whip. I refuse to let him go back, as I don’t want to lose sight of him. Scene with him. Grumblings, threats.
We pass the Missionary house. We bid them all good-bye at the door. While this is taking place Ibrahim, the head-man, disappears. I gallop after him, leaving A⸺ to come on with the bedding and the groom. After a chase of two miles I catch him. He swears I told him to get up to the takhtrowan. Threats. Whispered curses. I shout myself hoarse. We cross the river, pass through the town, four miles out of which we reach the caravan. On over a sandy and muddy plain to Gez. Four farsakhs. Time, half-past four P.M. Tea, five P.M. Rest of caravan arrive. Eight, dinner. Nine, bed.
April 8th.—Leave Gez at nine A.M. Over a sandy plain, six farsakhs, twenty-three miles, to Mūrchicah. Cold wind, dull day, rain threatening. Arrive at “chupper-khana” (post-house) at five, having breakfasted among some ruins on the road, about half-way. The post-house keeper at this place was the man who behaved so well to me, and lent me clothes when I was robbed, so I gave him a double present, as usual, and a bottle of wine.
April 9th.—Left this morning at seven for Soh, six long farsakhs; left the plain, half-way breakfasted, and at the dam, a long farsakh from Soh, were met by Sergeant McG⸺. After ten minutes it began to rain heavily, and though we cantered for two miles, we got pretty wet ere we got our rugs. On their reaching us it left off raining. Mrs. McG⸺ gave us a magnificent high tea. Soh is a terribly cold place. We were hospitably entertained and well fed, but it is impossible to get warm, even with huge fires.
April 10th.—In the morning at five A.M. the ground was covered with snow, and the weather was severe; it also rained till seven, when it cleared a little. Started the caravan at eight, selves at nine. Rain and drizzle till we got to the Kohrūd Pass, when it suddenly came on to snow heavily.
The track was through snowdrifts half melted, and before we had got a dozen yards up the steep ascent, A⸺’s mare was off the track, trembling with fear, and up to her girths. A⸺, too, fancied, I think, that it was all over with us. The muleteers began to call on God, Ali, and the other saints, but we blundered along, one mule only falling. The snow got very thick, but our goggles protected our eyes, and we were heavily wrapped up. One side (the windward) soon got white, and A⸺ appreciated the big, old-fashioned, silk handkerchief which I gave her, to keep her sun hat on, and protect her face from the snow. After an hour and a half of this, we cleared the pass, the takhtrowan having got over in safety, and N⸺ and the babies not having had to get out, which, if they had been obliged to do, would, with knee-deep snow and two feet of mud, have been a serious matter.
The snow melted into drizzle, and in a quarter of an hour we were in a sheltered valley, in a strong sun, and entering the village of Kohrūd. We got to the post-house, and there took off our wet wraps and hung them up. About two hours before sunset. Six farsakhs. Seven hours in the saddle, all but the last two being severe work for a lady.
April 11th.—Started early, as we have seven farsakhs (twenty-six miles and a half) to do. Though we expected to feel the heat, we had soon to take to our wraps, as a strong Scotch mist, with occasional cold showers, followed us all through the mountains to the caravanserai of Guebre-abad (which is supposed to be haunted). We found it empty, and breakfasted with our horses there, but the weather was too awful for N⸺ and the children to get out, so we sent them on.
Half-way to Guebre-abad we had to pass down the causeway cut in the side of the mountain, which skirts the reservoir fed by the Kohrūd torrent, where is stored the water for the town of Kashan. It is simply a valley, closed at one end by a huge wall of masonry. This retains the waters, the surplus falling over the top, like the Staubach on a small scale.
Within two farsakhs of Kashan the climate changed; our faces seemed on fire. We found wheat two feet high, clover the same height, and the little rain that fell was warm and refreshing. We got to the telegraph-office at five-thirty, and were immediately regaled with tea by Mr. S⸺, the clerk there. An hour and a half afterwards the caravan came in. Here the men went to the bath, Bēbē started washing clothes, and after dinner we inaugurated the new hot bath, just built in the Government quarters (a great luxury).
Here at Kashan we determined to halt a day, and enjoy the genial warmth, doors all open, and the luxury of not having to start in the morning.
Kashan is celebrated for silk and velvet weaving, but the silk is generally of very sad colours, and the objects useless to the European, so we could merely buy a few handkerchiefs and some velvet curtains.
The water supply from the Kohrūd torrent is collected in the reservoir we passed, and on reaching Kashan is stored in “ab umbars,” or water-cellars, and when they are emptied they are regularly re-filled, thus getting a supply of fresh and clear water.
All about are curious, conical buildings of mud, some ten and twelve yards high. They have small terraces a few inches wide at top, others a foot or two wide at bottom. These are the grain stores of the place, and seem peculiar to Kūm and Kashan.
I tried to pick up some curios in the bazaar, but found it hopeless. The copper bazaar was particularly good and fine, but all of the work was useful, not ornamental. Was bothered by visitors the greater part of the afternoon, most of whom came for advice gratis. Near this place is Feen, one of the royal palaces, well worth a visit, but as our horses needed a rest as well as ourselves, and it is a four-mile ride, and I had seen it, we did not go.
April 13th.—Bid good-bye to Mr. S⸺. He had most hospitably entertained us. Left Kashan for Sinsin, six farsakhs. Found the immediate neighbourhood of the town well sprinkled with villages; they however soon ceased, and we came to a sandy desert, where it was very hot. Arrived about half-past three. Directly we got in we poisoned the kanaat (the underground canal for irrigation) in order to get a dish of fish. In about an hour the fish came to the surface quite intoxicated, and were caught and gutted at once. They were very good, and the poison did not affect us. I used six berries only of cocculus indicus, and we got about six pounds of fish. We got a good dinner at nine—soup, fish, roast lamb, pâté de foie gras, tinned peas, apricots and custard, Ispahan wine, port, coffee, cherry-brandy. This gives some idea of what a good road-cook can do. Directly we arrive in a place, our “farrash” and table-man (who keep up with us) drag out our carpets, sweep the little dirty rooms out, spread the carpets, fill our bags with chaff for beds, make our beds, prepare tea, and bring me a water-pipe. Then when this is completed, the “takhtrowan,” loads, children, tables and chairs arrive; N⸺ and the children go to their room. We get chairs and have tea and biscuits, or bread and jam (of course we have already had déjeuner à la fourchette with three or four dishes and tea on the road). In the early morning we have a slice of bread-and-butter and a “snack,” with chocolate and milk. After afternoon tea we doze, read, write, and stretch ourselves, or go for a little walk near the chupper-khana, or caravanserai, as it may be. The little sketch of the chupper-khana at Sinsin I made on the spot, and it gives a good idea of the regulation Persian post-house. In these post-houses the traveller in Persia passes a good deal of his time: they are all built upon this plan, and pretty much alike; the wall at the top is seen to be crumbling; most of them are in varying stages of dilapidation. They are all built of sun-dried bricks, except in the extreme north, and plastered with mud and cut straw (kah-gil). In the front is seen a takhtrowan or horse-litter, in which ladies of rank, or invalids, usually travel.
A CHUPPA KHANA OR POST-HOUSE. (SINSIN.)
April 14th.—Leave Sinsin at seven A.M. for Passanghūm, seven farsakhs (twenty-six miles and a quarter). Half-way, breakfasted, at Shūr ab (Salt Water), where Sergeant McL⸺ was killed, a wretched, ruined hole. The name is a good one, as nothing but salt water is to be got here. Heavy showers caught us in the afternoon before we could get into Passanghūm. From this place to Kūm is only four farsakhs, and the gold dome of the great shrine can be seen from here. Road all monotonous but good, with an undulating country perfectly bare.
April 15th.—Left at eight for Kūm, as we are to breakfast with Mr. J⸺, the clerk there. Half-way, two farsakhs, a pretty village, Lengarood; then a muddy plain; then, after many twists and turns, sacred Kūm. Through ruined bazaars, past ruined shrines and tombs, close past the great shrine, through a short but prosperous-looking bazaar to the big bridge; then along the river in the open, sandy, but cultivated plain for a mile, to the telegraph-office. On the first view of Kūm, on leaving Passanghūm, the great gilded dome sparkles and reflects in the strong Persian sun. Kūm contains the tomb of “Fatmeh,” the sister of Imām Riza, who lies at the shrine of Meshed. Imām Riza is the eighth imam, and Fatmeh is considered a very holy person indeed. Many of the kings of Persia are buried in the immediate neighbourhood of the shrine, and numbers of both sexes visit it yearly. Out of every hundred people on the two stages before we arrived at Kūm, eighty were pilgrims.
Unlike the Meccan, this pilgrimage can be made at any time of the year. Among Persians, after the great pilgrimage to Mecca, which gives the title of “Hadji,” that to Kerbela ranks next, and the man who has been there, for the rest of his life is termed “Kerbelai.” This title too is generally given to one of the lower orders when one wishes to stroke him the right way, as is also that of “Meshedi,” or “he who has visited Meshed” (as a pilgrim). This is the second great place of pilgrimage; next comes Kūm, and though it carries no title, yet many thousands go there yearly as pilgrims.
The tomb itself, I am told by my muleteers and servants, is, as are most graves of holy persons in Persia, covered by an ark; this in its turn is covered by a sad-coloured shawl. Of course it is exactly under the great dome. Round the tomb are laid shawls of considerable value as carpets; then comes a wooden trellis-work, next a row of steel railings, inlaid with gold, and, outside all, a row of solid silver rails surround it: they are six feet high, and the thickness of a London area-rail. The interior of the shrine is hung with European chandeliers of various patterns (unlighted), and various votive offerings are hung about.
Of course no Christian is admitted. The great dome is covered with small copper sheets, each having a layer of pure gold an eighth of an inch thick, on the outer surface: the gold never dulls in the pure air of Persia. The top ornament of the dome is also of pure gold, and reported to weigh one hundred and forty pounds; this is probably not an exaggeration.
The bridge over the river, which save in spring and winter is dry, has nothing remarkable about it; there are a few gaudy columns on it covered with blue and yellow tiles; the bridge itself is steep and narrow and also badly paved, as are most bridges in Persia.
Kūm lives entirely on the pilgrims, and is also a centre for muleteers. This journey is the first occasion of my getting them (the muleteers) to start on the next morning, as they and the servants generally find a strong attraction in the shrine.
Here, too, is a favourite place to make “tobeh,” or a vow of abstinence from some particular sin; the vow is registered, solemnly made at the shrine, and generally, for a time at least, kept.
In the afternoon I sold my last pony to the muleteer, and have now no horses of my own in the country; my wife’s mare is already sold to be given up at Resht, and my other pony on the same condition.
Here, too, I discharged my groom, an ill-conditioned fellow, who was lazy and useless, as I had only one horse to be looked after, and the under-groom could manage that.
April 16th.—Left at eleven for Pul-i Dellak (the Barber’s Bridge), so called because it was built by the court barber of the day. We should not have gone to Pul-i Dellak, but the road to Mejdabad is blocked, the river being unfordable, so we have to come to this place (the third stage from Teheran) to cross the river at the Barber’s Bridge. This gives us a stage more.
The bridge is the usual thing but longer, and an artificial causeway has been built where the Kūm river and another join our bridge, crossing the other stream (name unknown), while a few broken arches only are left of a continuation to the right of the causeway, of a bridge which once crossed the Kūm river. At sunset, as is usual at this place, it blew great guns. When we woke it was raining hard; it cleared at eight A.M.
April 17th., eight A.M.—At the time we started the caravan we got off ourselves in a drizzle, which at half-past nine became a shower, and then heavy rain; this continued till half-past eleven. It came down in buckets full, our puggeries got wet and so heavy that we had to remove them. A⸺ over her heavy jacket put a so-called waterproof cloak, and over that a thick wool shawl; her knees she kept warm by one of my overcoats, but the bottom of her habit ran water. I had a blanket with a slit in it, and a big plaid kept my legs dry and warm.
It then cleared, the sun got hot, the wraps were hung on the loads to dry, and at three we arrived at Shashgird, an outlying village, very poor, as all such villages are. Four walls, a turret at each corner, a ruined room over the doorway; the three sides within were mostly surrounded by hovels of the bee-hive order of architecture; two of these we cleared out, our servants took a third, while my wife’s mare got a fourth. The rooms are small but clean and comfortable; a hole in the roof lets out smoke; there is even the luxury of a door.
In the centre of the village square is a small pen; we inspect it: it contains some five-and-twenty lambs three or four days old. At sunset on the arrival of the mothers (after having been milked) the bleating and noise is something awful; the pen is opened, and the lambs distributed. Some of the mothers find it difficult to recognise their offspring; soon, however, with the help of the villagers of both sexes, and much laughter, all are given to their own mothers.
Weather fine and warm, no need of fire. We dine and sleep.
Villagers polite and good-humoured, quite ready to turn out. Many chattels left in our rooms with perfect confidence. Of course they expect a little present. Shashgird is four farsakhs from Pul-i Dellak over a sandy road very heavy from rain. A choice here of clear water which is salt, muddy water which is sweet; chose the muddy. No insects in our humble lodging, which was clean and comfortable.
Villagers civil and very obliging. Present on going, three kerans (two shillings and threepence)! They are delighted.
April 18th.—We left at nine A.M. in fine weather for Bagh-i Sheikh (Garden of the Sheikh), five farsakhs; after a long two farsakhs we came to a large and prosperous-looking village on the edge of the salt-plain. Here outside the walls was a large and good disused hammām (or bath); we breakfasted there, in it, as it was cool and quiet; after two hours, at two, started again, entered salt swamp, fortunately dry. After two miles came on good road, and made the large Shah Abbas caravanserai[37] at five P.M.; a mile before reaching it we struck the high-road from Kūm.
A large caravanserai in good repair; no doorkeeper; took four rooms—one for us, one for N⸺ and boys, one for servants, one for mare. Not a soul in the place.
About four or five miles before getting into this place, one of the ponies I had sold to the muleteer dropped as if shot; he didn’t hurt me beyond pinching my ankle a little; he dropped so suddenly, his foot giving way, that I was not quick enough. I am sorry for the charwardar, one leg is evidently gone.
Some hundred mules now in the caravanserai, noise of their bells all night long; country fertile, lots of villages all down the valley; we passed several on our left only.
In lighting the kalian or water-pipe, the way of preparing burning charcoal on the road without a fire, and with speed and economy, is ingenious; a light is put to a bit of charcoal, that is placed in a wire basket the size of one’s fist among other pieces of charcoal; the basket is then swung round at the end of a piece of string, and a handful of glowing charcoal is produced in three to five minutes.
Difficulty in getting our chaff beds filled here: man would only sell chaff, not lend it.
Told me he was ill. Told him I had the exact remedy for his disease. Delight of chaff-man. Told him I never gave away medicines, demanded fifty kerans. Rage of chaff(ed)-man. He gave chaff, and I physic.
April 19th.—Left at half-past eight for Doong; weather fine; road an uphill one. Saw heavy storms going on in the mountains, and one passed us about two miles off; much forked lightning in the mountains; at half-past twelve one was coming straight down on us. The sun was overcast; suddenly, when our man was getting out more rugs, a few drops came, then a shower of hailstones all the size of the largest cherries, some larger. The noise was terrific; the horses got frightened and rushed off the road; one mule threw his load. I got off and got hold of A⸺’s mare, and it was as much as I could do to hold both horses and get her off; the servant’s pony broke loose and kicked at the hail; none of the beasts would face it; fortunately the muleteers held the takhtrowan and kajaweh mules. Down it came, and it hurt; the ground got white, a heap formed to windward of each bush and stone. In five minutes all was quiet, and we started again after reloading the wine boxes which had been kicked off by the mule.
In speaking of the size of the hailstones, I do not exaggerate, and certainly I never saw any like them; they were all quite spherical, and more like balls of hard snow than hail, but very hard.
I asked the muleteer if he had seen anything like them. “Oh, they are nothing,” he replied; “in the neighbourhood of Ararat I have seen them as large as eggs (!), and they killed lots of sheep.” I thought him what the reader may think me.
At half-past three we got into Doong, after six hours and a half in the saddle.
We found a big caravanserai with only one room, the other places being merely stables, which were full.
However, some camel-men politely vacated it, and we, after some half-hour’s sweeping, made it very warm and comfortable. Fortunately it was a large one, twenty by ten, and sheltered, being built at the end of a recess.
While at dinner something fell on the table; it was a camel-tic, and I expected what followed.
A camel-tic is a flat insect, which is active when not distended and hungry, but very sluggish when full. We caught a small one in the bedclothes, but saw no more. In the night, however, one bit N⸺ on the top of her head, and the wound bled freely. This place was painful for a month.
In the morning, on walking over where some two hundred camels had lain, it was difficult to avoid treading on the sluggish and gorged beasts, who looked like smallish cockchafers. I mean the tics.
April 20th.—Started at eight for Hajeeb, six farsakhs. On getting to a big caravanserai, half-way, got down to breakfast, muleteer going on; but in an hour he returned, saying Hajeeb was not safe to stay in at night, so he advised stopping where we were. We took three rooms; they seem comfortable. Sleet storm in the afternoon.
The name of this place is Koshkirūd (Dry River). I don’t think there are any tics here, but we shall see.
One tic found. No one bitten.
A tremendous wind blew all the twentieth, making it very cold out of cover.
No robbers, which was lucky, as the caravanserai has no doors.
April 21st.—Started at seven A.M. Went through undulating hill tops, with only a few black tents in them, but plenty of grass. Saw four troops of antelope. On getting to Hajeeb (three farsakhs), found that one side of the caravanserai wall had fallen down, and the place was really not safe from night thieves.
Got breakfast of grilled mutton and maccaroni. Sent some on hot for N⸺ and the children, who do not stop on the march.
After one and three-quarter farsakhs of same sort of country, got to a descent and came to a large plain (the plain of Kasvin?), thickly sprinkled with villages. Though the wind continues, it is much warmer here, and the sun stronger.
The muleteer says that we shall have this wind to Kasvin, or a stage beyond it.
The first village, Allah Sung, five farsakhs from Koshkirūd, we did not stop at, but went a farsakh farther to Bōween, a large village. Here we got a good carpeted room in the large house of a villager, and another room for N⸺ and the children. In our room are the man’s carpets and all his valuables, boxes, etc., but they are left to our mercy without the slightest hesitation—his bedding, his clothes, and all his earthly goods.
The people of this place are very well-to-do. They speak Turkish, and do not understand Persian. The women do not hide their faces.
As we are having a cup of tea, we get astonished at not hearing of the arrival of our caravan.
I had ordered the servants to stop it as it passed the door. I suddenly hear that it has passed the village. Ibrahim (my head-man), at a crab’s run, goes to stop it. I saddle a horse and gallop out. At the other side of the village I find Ibrahim calling “Hoi, hoi!” to the caravan, which is a mile off. He calmly informs me that they don’t hear him. I reply, “Ass!” and canter after them and bring them in.
On nearing the house, a mob of boys, headed by a youth of eighteen, amuse themselves by hooting me, and calling out, “Dog of a European!” in Turkish. I remonstrate in Persian. Delight of boys, who hoot more. I produce two of my four words of Turkish, “Kupak ogli!” (“sons of dogs”). They throw stones. I ride at them, and give my village youth the lash of my crop across his face. They flee, and throw stones from a distance.
Arrival of my muleteer, who remonstrates in Turkish with some elders. Informs them that I am a European ambassador! (Elchi Feringhi), and dangerous to tamper with. They apologise. I reply, in a lordly manner, “Chok yakshi” (Turkish for “very good”), my other two words.
Have tea.
Ten P.M., dinner.
April 22nd.—Started at eight A.M. Gave our landlord two and threepence, with which he was satisfied. Of course, as we had bought grain, bread, wood, etc., he had made a good thing of us.
Wind still blowing very hard; lots of villages and cultivation, the sun being stronger. The wind is not so troublesome as yesterday, and we need no wraps. Still, it is difficult to talk. After two farsakhs pass through a salt swamp, which is fortunately dryish. Arrive at Kherrah, four farsakhs from Bōween, at two-thirty. Caravan gets in at three forty-five.
Find a fine caravanserai, but no rooms, the villagers having built up the entrances of the eight rooms there are. We find the shopkeeper, and take possession of his shop and the two next rooms. We have a door once more!—a real door! All his commodities are scattered about, and he does not remove a thing!
It appears this caravanserai is very little used, save by those who stick in the salt marsh. This, in wet weather, though only eight miles, must be a good day’s march, and sometimes even impassable in places. There is a causeway of big rough stones, but all the bridges were broken. At five P.M. wind went down to nearly nothing. All to-day (over the swamp) the weather seemed dull, from dust storms in the distance. We, however, fortunately did not get into one.
A⸺’s saddle will give her mare a sore back if she rides her, so she is compelled to ride one of the ponies, a hard trial after the easy and willing mare.
I had the benefit of the mare, as my saddle doesn’t gall. The back was better on arrival than when we started.
Our mules (yabūs, i. e. pack-ponies) are in fair fettle, considering that we have only halted one day at Kashan. To-morrow we strike the great high-road, and we left robber-land yesterday.
The children, the baby included, as yet have not had a day’s illness, and we are all in robust health.
All our rooms have been as yet wind and water tight, and save at Soh (that very hyperborean place) we never had or needed a fire.
We are hurrying on, as the steamer (so they say) leaves Enzelli on the second; and if we do not halt we can get a day there to repack and wash clothes, pay off the servants, hand over my road kit, which Captain W⸺ has bought, get money from Messrs. Ziegler, and start comfortably—Inshallah (please God).
Talking of doors, when we have no doors we nail up two curtains overlapping, if a big entrance, with an extra one crossway over the top if high, and at bedtime we put crossways over the bottom of the curtain our table-top and frame and two chairs, built up so that, if any one attempts to get in, the whole must come down on to a big copper bath with a crash, and so wake us.
I rather pride myself on this arrangement, which is, I fancy, very efficient, and keeps out wind and thieves too.
All the people here are big-headed, big-hatted, big-eared, small-eyed, stupid, chibouque-smoking, Turkish-speaking people, quite different from the smart and polished Persian of the South and Ispahan; but they are honester, not grasping, and in reality more obliging. Instance this morning, my cook asked a man to help him load his mule (i. e. give him a lift with his big saddle-bags).
He replied, “Load him yourself!”
On my asking the fellow if he called himself a Mussulman, he grinned, and helped at once.
April 23rd.—Started at seven for Kasvin. Lovely day, no wind, but after the first hour a good deal of sun. After three long farsakhs, came in sight of Kasvin; another farsakh, arrived at one P.M. People well-to-do. Heard that there is an hotel (!) here, but distrusted it.
Went to a fine new caravanserai, where we got a courtyard to ourselves.
Our muleteer says our beasts cannot go on, so we must perforce halt a day.
We have a grand clothes-washing and child-bathing to-day.
Settle our trunks for the sea voyage.
In the afternoon I go to see the hotel. I find what I expected, a very fine house, with bare walls, enormous charges, and impudent and dishonest servants. I should be very sorry indeed to put up there. I thrashed one fellow as it was for putting out his tongue; the rest at once became polite.
They say that the steamer goes twice a week—Sunday and Thursday.
I shall inspect the hotel again to-morrow.
There is a big tiled shrine, in which is the tomb of the son of Imām Riza. It seems in good repair, but not in good taste; also a Musjid-i Juma (big mosque), much ruined.
April 24th.—I find, after seeing the Russian telegraph clerk, that the steamers go only once a week; so we must hope to catch that of Sunday, the first. It will be very doubtful if we do it.
To-day I went through the bazaars to try and get a piece of Yezd silk (Houssein Kūli Khani) for A⸺, but failed.
I, however, found biscuits for the children, which the servants said were not to be had. They had been brought from Ispahan, where they were made.
When in the “chupper-khana,” I found a Russian locksmith, who had come to Persia in search of work. He found none, and was returning on foot from Teheran. He left this morning to catch the steamer of the first. Turkish is here more spoken than Persian, and the people seem quite another race, quiet and industrious, and more honest, but rougher.
A good many of the houses are built somewhat after Russian style, and our caravanserai has doors (and also big windows to some of the rooms).
Everything but the bedding is packed ready for a start in the morning early.
I say little of Kasvin, having had too much to do to see a great deal of it.
Kasvin has no special production; it is merely a mart. It is, however, a very populous town, and misrule is not so rampant as in other places.
We each wrote a letter home; found no one at the post-office and no letter-box, so had to entrust our letters to the Russian telegraph clerk. They arrived in due course. The place seems much larger than it really is, owing to large plots of waste ground, which are unbuilt on.
April 25th.—Left for Masreh. Passed in lovely weather through a grassy plain for two farsakhs; then two more to Akabah; breakfasted in the village gateway; then a tremendous two farsakhs through the hills to Masreh. Started at seven-thirty, got in at three-thirty. Seven hours in saddle, one hour halt.
Found a good room in chupper-khana, but the room for the children is full of camel-tics. Moved them to the roof room, which is supposed to be free. Our room is not safe from them, and at night it is too cold to go outside.
A⸺ will not allow me to sleep in the takhtrowan, so we shall all have to sleep in the room on the roof.
Masreh is a village of merely a few hovels, in a lovely grassy valley. Since Kasvin nothing bare; all grass or cultivation.
All night long we were awake at fits and starts looking for tics. We must have killed twenty. They are ordinary sheep-tics.
They seem exactly the same thing as camel-tics, but smaller, and the bites merely cause a spot (of effused blood) the size of a split pea at biggest.
The camel-tic that bit N⸺ on the top of her head at Doong has caused great soreness, and the blood flowed down all over her face. I was once bitten on the foot, and tenderness lasted two months. Frank and the baby were bitten, each in two places; so was A⸺. I was a little bitten, but not by tics; they leave a round black mark the size of sixpence.
April 26th.—Half-past seven A.M., left for Pah Chenar, a steady ascent for eight miles, then tremendous descents of steepness and difficulty. We had to get off our horses frequently for comfort’s sake, and the baby and N⸺ had three times to get out of the takhtrowan, while the children had twice to leave the kajawehs.
The takht horses were continually with their hind-quarters within three inches of the ground at the descents, and sliding along.
The scenery was grand in the extreme, and the weather, fortunately, fine. Small shrubs and wild roses now begin to be frequent. When at the top of the mountain, two farsakhs from Masreh, the view was gigantic. One saw far beyond Kasvin, over the plains and into deep valleys, which reached for miles, and were of every shade of grey, red, green, and brown; some hills even were bright orange; and such a bird’s-eye view was it when we commenced the descent that I, who have seen many places, never certainly saw anything so vast and magnificent.
It could not be called pretty till we got within a farsakh of Pah Chenar. Then it was all green in the bottom of the valley, in which ran a small, swift, and turbid river, or rivulet at the present time, doubtless a month earlier a swirling torrent.
The entire stage has been one continuous descent. Got in at half-past four; eight hours in saddle. Half-an-hour lunch. The people plough the almost perpendicular sides of many of the hills, so we were constantly coming on patches of various greens.
The climate has become tepid, and full of moisture; lots of flies. A fine chupper-khana, with a new water-cellar close by, from which I attempted to sketch the valley. We are all very tired, and have walked a good deal of the way perforce.
A curious thing happened this morning when we left Masreh. I had given the postmaster my knife to cut something; when I left I forgot it, and only thought of it when a mile away. I cantered back, and found my servants just leaving. I immediately said to the head-man:
“Have you got my knife, as directed, from the postmaster?”
He took the hint, and said:
“No; I forgot it.”
“Give it me.”
The postmaster put his hand in his pocket, and gave it up; but had I said “Where is my knife?” or “Have you got my knife?” I should never have seen it again.
To get on with Persians it is necessary to be smart and unscrupulous to a certain extent. Their own proverb is; “Better is a lie which causes joy, than truth which produces grief.” See the first tale in Sāadi. I am afraid my “as directed” was an acted lie. But then Sāadi is a high authority.
There is lots of water here, as the frogs are croaking all night in bursts: a croak, a chorus; silence, a croak; then “Berek ity kix, squax, squax,” etc.
Dinner at nine. Hotch-potch and mock-turtle soups, mixed (the cook’s idea, and a good one); fresh salmon, leg of lamb, mint-sauce, custard and plums, cheese, coffee, cherry-brandy, Persian wine, port, Madeira, kalian.
The climate here being humid, is very feverish. The people coming up get bitten by tics at Masreh, then get fever, and put it down to the tics. May not this theory account for the Bug of Meana? We are all taking quinine to-night, to avoid it (fever and ague). The grimaces, as each man takes it pure from a teaspoon, are grotesque, but all know its value, and are glad of the dose.
April 27th.—Left at half-past seven A.M. for Rūdbar, an up-and-down road, but fairly good, between mountains, by the bank of the big river (Suffid Rūd, White River). Vegetation plentiful; a few trees, barley in the ear. Came to Munjîl, after several bits of very bad road, up and down hill. Munjîl and Rustumabad are close together. There is a large olive-grove, lots of springs, trees, and corn about the village. After a mile came to a junction of three rivers, and on turning a corner came to a bridge of six arches.
The bridge is new, and well built. By its side, attached to its piers, is a wooden bridge, so placed that if (as is sometimes the case) parts of the bridge be washed away, there may still be a way over.
The wind was blowing a gale up-stream, and, though there was lots of sun, it made it chilly, and the wind under the arches blew up sheets of spray. As soon as we had crossed the bridge we began a series of steep ascents along an awful road, from one and a half to three yards wide, cut in the side of the cliff, often having a sheer drop (and never any parapet) of several hundred feet, to the rushing river. The wind was tremendous—the horses at times unable to march against it—full in our faces. The ascents were, it is no exaggeration to say, often of forty-five degrees. One had to hold the mane firmly to keep the saddle from going over the quarters, and we could not get down, as the horses would not face the blast riderless. Arrived (the last farsakh being the longest and worst I ever saw in Persia) at Rūdbar at half-past three, a lovely village, embosomed in olive-groves at the brink of the stream, in a wooded nook. Forest and olive-groves on the other side of the stream, which is still shut in by high mountains.
We put up at a good, but small, caravanserai in the village. Here saw the dress of the Ghilān working class for the first time. Also Ghilān shoes made of raw hide, with the hair on; the fronts lace up with hempen string or thong, tying over the ankle.
To-day up to Munjil, and for the last two days we met large parties of “chardūr nisheen,” or “dwellers in tents,” with their wives, children, oxen, sheep, tents, dogs, horses, etc., quite in patriarchal style. Everybody carried something, according to size, all save the men. The cows were all laden. One little thing of five was carrying on her head her father’s hat; all busy in some way or other. We bought a live lamb for dinner, two and threepence.
The wandering tribes’ tents are pitched as follows, and we saw so many, that we had an opportunity of seeing each stage. Stakes are driven in the ground in pairs. Between these stakes a piece of very stiff reed-work, like huge matting, is placed on its edge, in the form of a square; this forms the wall. Strong poles are put at the four corners, and cross-poles are attached to these. The whole is fixed to a centre pole; then cloths of black goats’ hair are stretched over them. The ground is carpeted, and the whole is wind-proof, rain-proof, and sun-proof. The wealth of the owner can be well guessed from the size and newness of his tent furniture. We noticed that they always had with them a primitive sort of plough, the share being wooden.
April 28th.—Left Rūdbar at eight, for Imāmzādeh Hāshem. Country more and more beautiful; wild flowers plentiful; all the hills and mountains covered with trees to their summits. Rode through olive-groves, each tree having a big excavation in the ground by its side, which is filled with water frequently, and so the tree is watered. Road very bad, and in many places very steep, almost precipitous. We keep by the left bank of the Suffid Rūd (or White River), which is at present the colour of café au lait. After three farsakhs we enter woods; the usual English trees, also yews, firs, box, wild vines, figs, and pomegranates (these latter in bloom), ivy, convolvulus. The ground is covered with red and white clover and ferns, violets, forget-me-nots, huge anemones, and most English wild flowers. Nothing bare; trees overhang the road, and we ford frequent small streams, constant runnels and watercourses. Lovely weather, temperature about eighty degrees Fahr. At half-past four we came on a large chaussée, which is perfectly flat, and at half-past six we get in—eleven hours (half an hour’s halt at breakfast), or ten and a half hours in the saddle! A stiff march for a lady.
The scenery has resembled the most wooded parts of Switzerland, and at times the “Iron Gates” of the Danube, only much more grand than either.
We have been in the forest since two P.M., and shall be in it till we get to Peri-bazaar. From within a farsakh and a half of this place there have been constant swamps, but even in them the trees are dense.
We manage to get all in by daylight, having come certainly thirty miles. We fortunately brought chaff (straw) with us, but no barley is to be got. Mules nearly done up. Happily this chaussée lasts to Resht.
We both agree that we have never seen anything so varied or so lovely as to-day’s march, though it was long and fatiguing.
I hope we may get dinner at half-past ten; it is now ten.
The people here have a miserable, agueish appearance; doubtless fever is very rife. We all again take quinine; the servants decline to do so. I insist. They yield.
Half-past ten.—Have happily got barley for my wife’s mare; trust to make the muleteer buy some for his mules, but price very high. We pass a nearly sleepless night from warmth.
April 29th.—Leave Imāmzādeh Hāshem at half-past seven; ride over the smooth road to Resht. The forest continues, but the trees smaller and more sparsely scattered; a big ditch at either side of the road keeps it dry; fields, or rather cultivated swamps, begin to appear in the forest and gradually become more frequent; at either side of the road, on the bank, are ferns of all sorts, including maiden-hair, common male fern, and ox-tongue; orchids of all colours, buttercups, forget-me-nots, poppies, anemones, violets, myrtle, all blooming luxuriantly: not a bit of bare earth to be seen—everything verdant. Quantities of snakes, tortoises, and green lizards (very tame), small and large.
At twelve we arrive at the town, and I send on a man to M. Schwab, agent to Ziegler and Company (to whom, Ziegler and Company, I have a letter).
M. Schwab puts us up in his huge house with great hospitality, gives us a good double-bedded room, and gives his own room to the children, telling us to make ourselves at home: we do so.
We find at M. Schwab’s, M. Vassiliardes, a Greek, formerly one of Ralli’s people whom I had known in Teheran, and a young American traveller, Mr. Doherty, who says he is a naturalist, and “hopes to find curious bugs” in Persia. He will! He tells me bug is American for beetle.
We breakfast. The rest of the day is occupied in paying off servants, giving over Captain W⸺’s purchases, handing over the mare, giving present to muleteer, repacking for the ship, getting money, etc.
April 30th.—We start after breakfast. A⸺ and I, with N⸺ and the children, in a rough cart on the mattresses and pillows; the luggage in another, the servants on its top. After one farsakh (the last one) we reach (passing through forest and swamp) “Peri-bazaar,” in the midst of swamps. Here is the wharf. In a few minutes we get on a boat manned by six rowers and haulers, a bow-man and a steersman; we take three servants with us, and the woman Bēbē. As soon as we push off from the bank, a rope is attached to the top of the mast and we are towed for an hour, by the haulers, through the swamp.
They then get on board and row; they row very badly with oars like long-handled spades, and when the steersman calls out “Mohammed,” they reply “Allah saklassān,” in a yelling chorus, and spurt. We passed through a narrow natural canal, and then came to the “Mūrd ab,” or “Dead Water,” a large estuary; we row for three-quarters of an hour and then the sail is set. We left Peri-bazaar at three, and reach Enzelli at seven.
The canal and estuary were teeming with fish and water-birds, and we saw cranes, herons, cormorants, and unknown water-fowls in thousands, flying up from the reeds, or rising as we neared them. We also saw a huge vulture who was eating a fish (or was it a big fish-eagle?), but no boat or human being.
At each side of the boat are fixed sticks tied in a bundle; these serve as fenders and rowlocks, really the latter being a small ring of rope.
We land just at the door of the prime minister’s harem, a tumble-down place. We find the governor of Ghilān in the berūni, or men’s apartments; he has laid down carpets in our rooms, and gives us tea, lights, dinner, and breakfast, i. e. he does so for his friend M. Vassiliardes, and we reap the benefit. Our beds are full of fleas. Weather hot and damp.
May 1st.—Lovely weather; have all ready by eight A.M. No steamer. Breakfast from Akbar Khan, Governor of Ghilān. Walk in the gardens, orange-trees with lots of oranges (of last year) on them, and at same time in full bloom quantities of roses, the iris too—very large and fine flowers. Everything very damp; rather too hot in sun, but nice breeze.
Four P.M.—No steamer. Go over the six-storied tower of the Shah, built when he went to Europe, a gew-gaw place going to ruin from damp; protected by mats. We inspect his bedroom, salon, etc. Walk in town; like a Russian suburb of, say, Astrachan.
Seven P.M.—No steamer. Bed at ten.
May 2nd.—Get up at five. No steamer. At six the steamer is seen; we cram in a few odds and ends, cushions and blankets, and make the final distribution of clothes, etc., to servants. We go down to the shore and get into our last night’s boat.
Half-past eight, arrive on board the steamer. Give my servants their presents: they kiss our hands and weep; we weep, the children weep. I send them off by saying their boat is leaving. Our boat is the Tzarovitch Alexander, one of the newest and best boats. N⸺ has all the ladies’ cabin; we have a state room below. We take in cargo.
Eleven, breakfast. Vegetables very well done come after the zakooska, or snack, then stewed steaks with carrots, then a sweet sort of omelette with jam—and very little jam. We drink piver (beer) of Astrachan. One P.M. Still taking in cargo.
Ten minutes to two.—We start, leaving some cargo-boats still unloaded; our principal cargo seems to be raisins, eggs, and cotton, and a little dried fish; but the captain tells me that this is the largest cargo he has ever got from Enzelli. We have been loading busily, both fore and aft, with steam cranes, since the vessel’s arrival. We run along the coast, no motion to speak of; strong sun, weather lovely. At half-past five we dine, and we took tea at half-past three. Ship’s tea undrinkable; we use our own. Dinner is stchēe (one of the national cabbage soups), cutlets, roast duck, and a sort of Bavaroise. We pass (without stopping) Astara at ten P.M., sea getting up. Stop at Lenkoran at one A.M., take eight passengers for Bakū.
They talk in cabins and wake A⸺. I remonstrate in German, French, and Persian; dead silence. Leave at three A.M., sea going down. Tea at eight; lovely sun, pass between islands; no sea on.
May 3rd.—Half-past ten, breakfast. Four P.M., arrived at “Bakū;” went on shore, bought photos of Russian types of Bakū, etc., changed all my Persian money into paper roubles; exchange, three roubles forty-seven copecks to one toman (or seven-and-sixpence).
May 4th.—Again went on shore. There is nothing to see; the usual cheap imitation of French fashions, much business, principally in naphtha (Bakū, owing to this, has in twenty years risen from nothing). There is a good natural harbour, lots of Russian officers about; Armenians, Persians, Lesghians, more numerous than the actual Russians. Deep water full of fine fish close in shore; our big steamer is warped up to a wooden pier 300 yards long. Only four other steamers lying here, all smallish, one barque, and lots of small crafts like galliots. Oranges plentiful and bad, also tobacco from Riga (?). I got a pair of Tartar enamelled earrings here, and a big turquoise.
Noon (twelve).—Sudden rush of the beauty and fashion of Bakū to breakfast on board; it appears that doing this, and the club, are the two amusements of the place. The naphtha trade and the steamer depot, with the garrison, form the society of this place. Festive Russia drinks bad champagne, at one pound a bottle, after breakfast. First whistle, half-past one. Second whistle, a quarter to two. Embracing, weeping, departure of Festive Russia, leaving some ten men-passengers, one Georgian lady very uninteresting, and one young lady with a quantity of fair hair and a fat baby. “Fair one with golden locks” is kissed freely by every one.
Third whistle. Final rush; we are warped out. The deck passengers are dissolved in oily and spirituous tears. At ten minutes past two we paddle off. No sea in the bay. Half-past four, tea. Half-past six, dinner. Heavy swell on. A⸺ and N⸺ go below; so does fair one with the golden locks, at end of dinner. A⸺ lies down, and escapes. Quarter to nine we all retire. Heavy swell on.
May 5th, seven A.M.—No swell. We make Durbend, said to have been fortified by Alexander the Great. We anchor half a mile off. I make a rough sketch. Arrival of “fair one with the golden locks,” with the locks done into one huge yellow plait; it is one foot from the ground exactly. I save the fat baby’s life, who had made for the staircase, and shot into my arms. At ten leave Durbend. Half-past ten, breakfast. Half-past four, tea. Reach Petrovsk. A fine natural harbour. Within this the Russians have made a second one, formed by two horns of blocks of rough stone, tossed in pell-mell, and masses of concrete, eight feet by four feet, which stand in a row seawards on the loose stones. They have a tramway for horses, and five men. Each mounts a horse and drags a truck full of stones out (tandem). When they get to the right place they dismount and throw out the stones. Simple, not pretty, but effectual. They were doing this when I was here ten years ago. They are doing it now.
The place is hardly Russian—full of Lesghians, who seem prosperous. I did not go ashore, as it was getting chilly, and there is nothing to see. The town covers a large space of ground, but is sparsely scattered, and looks better from the sea than nearer. As we had one thousand sacks of rice to discharge we did not get off till half-past nine P.M. Weather fine all night.
May 6th.—Up at eight. Did up rugs and bedding, as we get on the “flat” at the six-foot channel in the afternoon, and are towed in it to the Volga boat. We are at present in the boat in which the Shah made his last voyage to Europe. Of course he had it to himself, and the engineer tells me he slept on the floor of the ladies’ cabin, and put his shoes on the table. So much for the civilisation of the “Asylum of the Universe,” “The king of kings!” The stewards, after a little remonstrance, are civil and obliging, the food good and plentiful; the fish particularly good; while the Astrachan beer is a great treat, fourpence-halfpenny a bottle only. We had a lot of port with us, which, as we had to drink or throw away, we preferred the former. The corkage is charged fivepence. Many Russians bring their own liquor.
Children and ourselves all in robust health. The rest has done us good. The officers are all very obliging and friendly, two speaking English, all German, and one some French; but the stewards were, alas! Russians of the real vielle roche. The bill had to be gone carefully through. I cut off one-fifth of it; they merely smiled; and not finding that we were the sheep who before the shearer was dumb, were very civil.
Quarter to one.—Nearing the nine-foot channel. Not a ripple. We have been very fortunate, as the Caspian is at times very rough! Half-past four, arrived at the “Nine-foot,” as it is called. We go on board the “flat” This is a huge barge, some two hundred feet long; forward and aft are the holds; in the centre twenty cabins, each for four persons, and the saloon; over these another saloon, and a hurricane-deck on top. The sea is like oil, and we leave at ten P.M., being towed by a small tug.
May 7th.—Wake to find ourselves in the Volga. At eleven A.M. we reach Astrachan. Here I go on shore to the office, and complain that I have been forced to take a ticket for my two children, and that I ought only to pay half-fare for one. This, however, I put in a veiled manner. I find that children under ten travel free, and forty-one roubles are immediately refunded! Officials of company most civil. Our luggage is merely formally examined. I find all this is because my passport has a favourable mark from my friends of the Russian Legation in Teheran which signifies “treat the bearer well:” so they tell me. We are even provided with a private cabin, although every berth has been taken in advance. I and “Charlie” drive in a droschy through Astrachan, a hideous but flourishing, large town, evidently rich. I buy a pair of Russian salt-cellars, ugly, but good. I had fever yesterday. I have it again to-night. At ten P.M. we leave.
The current is very strong here, and the long shallow boats very fast and powerful, but the vibration is tremendous, worse than a railway carriage. There is every comfort, convenience, and luxury on board. The scenery of the Volga above Astrachan, as we see it on
May 8th, is very tame: a low sandbank, a little brushwood. River two miles wide. A few villages; country quite flat; consequently we see nothing. Here and on the “flat,” we have had “sterlet,” the celebrated Volga fish—fairly good, nothing wonderful. Here the police tell me not to wear my grey wideawake, as, if I did, I should be mobbed as a Nihilist. The Emperor just assassinated, and mob very excitable.
May 9th.—Tsaritzin, seven A.M. Go ashore and drive to railway station, a very fine building. We dine, and at half-past three P.M. start in a compartment of a first-class saloon carriage; this we have all to ourselves. About every half-hour we stop for five minutes at least. One gets in and out as one likes, and the guard takes care that the train does not leave without us. On every platform is a big vessel of clean drinking-water for the peasants. Bottled beer, hot pies, and vodka (a very raw spirit) to be got everywhere: the beer sixpence a bottle, and very nice bread, quite a luxury, and so good that the children eat it all day long, calling it “cakey.” Travel with windows open all night; pace, seventeen miles an hour, without stoppages.
May 10th.—Reached Griazi at noon. Sleep in the sleeping-room, and after a bath leave at half-past six P.M. We have with us sheets, pillows, and blankets, and at eight P.M. we all go to bed, undressing and making ourselves quite at home. Start at midnight.
May 11th.—Arrive at Orel ten minutes to nine A.M. Drive round town with “Charlie” and A⸺ in droschy. Buy a gilt silver salt-cellar of Moscow work. Nothing to see in the town, which seems well-to-do and substantial. Get a bath, or rather wash, and four hours’ nap in the waiting-room. Leave at three P.M. Carriage to ourselves.
In this part of Russia a train consists of one first-class, one second-class, and, say, fifteen third-class carriages. We find that it suits us to go first, as we can lie down and go to bed, which is of great moment in so long a journey. All the seats draw out to form beds, and the carriages are lined with velvet, have double windows, and every comfort on board. Pace, twenty miles an hour. No charge is made for the children! Witebsk at eight P.M.
May 12th.—Dunaberg at half-past five A.M. Here we find a wretched station and buffet. They try to persuade us to go to an hotel. We breakfast at the buffet, and then go by rail some two miles, to the Dunaberg station of the Warsaw-Riga line. This move was an inspiration. Here we found a really magnificent station and buffet. Nothing leaves till to-morrow at half-past three A.M.—an unearthly hour. We dine at the buffet, and take one of the bedrooms in the station provided for travellers by the Russian Government. We get a magnificent appartement for three roubles, with two beds! with blankets and pillows and a sofa. Fortunately, the beds are in alcoves, so I take the sofa, and we all sleep till three A.M. of the 13th. We get up, go down to the station, and at twenty minutes past four A.M. (awful time) start for Berlin.
Arrive at Wilna at eight A.M. Get to Eydtkuhnen, the Prussian frontier, at eighteen minutes to two. Here a form of custom-house examination is gone through. Leave at twenty-two minutes past two, and reach Berlin on May 14th at ten minutes past six A.M.
We are all dog-tired, dirty, woebegone in the extreme, our luggage eccentric-looking; and on our arrival in the Hôtel de R⸺, Unter den Linden, a new and handsome building, we humbly ask for rooms in French. The head waiter patronisingly informs us that he hopes to give us rooms, and informs the manager in German that we may be put anywhere.
We are taken into the lift and brought to the third floor. Two good rooms are shown us for six and a half marks each room—in all, with extra, i. e. children’s beds, fifteen marks.
When the head waiter sees our piles of luggage arrive, and is asked for hot coffee, he becomes polite and servile, and tells us he can give us better rooms on the second or first floors; but we decline to move, sleep being our first object. We do sleep, but miss the vibration of the carriage. We go to the table d’hôte, and, as we dread strange liquors, order a bottle of a well-known brand of dry champagne. It appears without label and without cork carefully frozen. The head waiter glides up, and remarks in English—
“You will find this a ver fine wine, sar.”
I taste it, and reply—
“You have brought me sugar-water; I asked for wine. Take it away.” Astonishment of head waiter, who retires with wine, and presently returns with same sweet mixture in an old labelled and capsuled bottle. I taste, and point out that the label says “très sec,” and the wine is sweet, in fact, the same as before. He then tells me that the “pore waitre” has made a mistake, and will have to pay for the wine if I return it. I retort “that that won’t injure him, as it can’t cost much, and that it would injure us to drink it.” This to the intense delight of some German officers.
The waiter then tells me that he finds that they are out of the wine I want, but he recommends ⸺. I decline to drink it, saying, “I don’t care for ‘Schloss weis nicht wo,’” as I feared getting a second succedaneum. After a sitting at the lengthy table d’hôte of one hour and a half, we leave for more sleep. The table was plentiful, but common, and required a youthful appetite. This we did not possess, and we were both decidedly seedy for the rest of our stay in Berlin. We merely had our morning coffee at the hotel, and dined and breakfasted at “Dressel’s,” a restaurant of European celebrity. The cost was the same, but the wines and cook were undeniable, the attendance good, and the place select and quiet, and only some three hundred yards from our hotel in the Unter den Linden. This evening my neck was cricked, and gave me great pain. We still could not sleep, missing the jarring of the train. A⸺ and Charlie quite knocked up. We all are feeling the cold.
May 15th.—All of us quite knocked up: headaches and sleeplessness, and want of appetite; in fact, we are getting ill. I went to see the National Gallery and Altes and Neues Museums. Much pleased with what I saw, but my cricked neck annoyed me. A⸺ too ill to go out. Our eldest boy, Charlie, still quite done up.
May 16th.—Saw the Galleries again, and the wax-works (to which I took Charlie, who seems nearly himself again)—far better than Tussaud’s.
In the evening we went to the Friedrich Wilhelm’s Theatre, and saw the ‘Piper of Hammelin,’ a so-called comic opera. The singing and acting were good, but serious in the extreme. The orchestra stalls cost only three marks (three shillings). Began at half-past seven, over at half-past ten. The players very respectable, and the audience very quiet and appreciative; dresses good, mise-en-scène fair, acting equal to that of English provincials.
May 17th.—A⸺ much better. Went for drive in morning. Had a good deal of business to do to get money, and start luggage, etc. At five went to Zoological Gardens, a fine collection and magnificent gardens, a concert; fairly good dinner there, price very moderate: lots of guests. Much pleased. These gardens are open till ten P.M. We returned home by eight.
May 18th.—Had coffee. Started at ten. Breakfasted at the station. Again no charge for the children. Secured a coupé, with washing-place, etc., to ourselves, after some wrangle with the guard, having to appeal to the station-master, who decided in my favour against another claimant, I having placed my hat in the carriage, and so retained it by travellers’ law, but the guard had removed it and put other people in. Started at twelve noon for Calais. Speed, forty miles, including stoppages. Lovely country till we got to the iron region, Essen (Krupp’s?). Minden particularly pretty.
May 19th, one P.M.—Arrive at Calais. Half-past one leave by the Calais Douvres. Fair sea on, no pitching, but considerable roll. None of our party sick; only some dozen ill in all on board. A great improvement on the little boats as to motion. Time, one hundred minutes. Half-past three leave Dover. Half-past five arrive at Charing Cross Station.
Home! “Alhamdulillah!” (“Thank God!”)
FINIS.
APPENDIX A.
Table of Post Stages and Ordinary Marches from Bushire, Persian Gulf, to Teheran.
N.B.—Towns and large villages are in italics.
APPENDIX B.
Duration of our Journey from Ispahan to London.
| Time. | |
| Days. | |
|---|---|
| Ispahan to Resht (488 miles) (including one day’s halt at Kashan and one day at Kasvin) | 23 |
| Resht to Enzelli | 1 |
| Halt in Enzelli waiting for steamer | 1 |
| Enzelli to Astrachan (including 22 hours in Bakū) | 5 |
| Astrachan (halt of ten hours) to Zaritzin | 2 |
| Zaritzin to Berlin | 5 |
| Berlin to London, including halt at Berlin | 5½ |
| 42½ | |
| Possible time for a horseman to do it, including stoppages but hitting off the steamer, and riding day and night. | |
| Days. | |
| Ispahan to Enzelli (488 miles) (including six hours’ delay and rest in Teheran) | 4 |
| Enzelli to Berlin | 12 |
| Berlin to London thirty-six hours (including delay in Berlin) | 1½ |
| 17½ | |
APPENDIX C.
TRAVELLING IN PERSIA.
In taking servants, take men who have travelled before: men who know their business, and to whom travelling is no trial, soon learn their duties and your ways, and after the second stage do all that they have to do with great regularity. Men who may be good servants in a city, on the road if they have never marched are quite helpless—they are for ever tumbling off their mules, dropping and leaving things behind, always tired, always asleep, and ever grumbling. Drop them as soon as you find them out, let some one else have the pain of breaking them in and making men of them. An old man (or middle-aged one) who has never travelled is hopeless; a boy may learn.
The cook should be a good one and one who is used to the road, and a man of even temper. Pity and spare him, for his trials are many—all day on his mule, the rest of the twenty-four hours in the smoke and blowing up a fire of, as a rule, damp wood, he barely gets his well-earned rest of four hours. Promise him a good present on the arrival at destination, humour him, let him make a little profit, and let him give you his accounts. Make him always have hot water and soup ready, and always cold fowl or meat in his bags, and he should be prepared to cook a hot breakfast at an instant’s notice in twenty minutes on a bare desert plain, with the wood and water he has with him, and without shelter of any kind.
In choosing a horse for the road it must be remembered that beauty is nothing. Great strength and health with quick and easy walking powers are needed, and a smooth action; the beast should be in good health, with a healthy back and clean feet, and a good feeder; he above all things should have a long stride and no tendency to trot; his paces being a walk, an amble, and a canter, he should not be lazy or a puller; his temper should be good, that he may be taken near the mules; and unless he be sure-footed, and never cuts, he is useless for marching purposes. He should not be too young or at all delicate, the more of a cob he is the better; greys should be avoided, and above all white hoofs, or even one white hoof.
He should be shod the day before leaving, but the hoof left as long as possible. The Dayrell bridle, being also a head-stall, is good for marching.
In starting it is very needful to secure a respectful and respectable muleteer, and having got him, to protect him from the exaction of ten per cent. of his total hire by the servants; let him feel that you are his friend.
All the kit that is required on the journey, as tables, chairs, food, clothes, and liquor, should be on one or two mules, not all mixed up on many, with things that are not needed till the journey’s end.
On the groom’s mule (which should be a good one in order to come in with the master’s horses) should be all the horse-clothing, head and heel ropes, etc., and full nose-bags, so that the horses may get a good feed on arrival (of chaff).
With the cook’s should be all their kit, a little dry fire-wood, knives and forks, and tea: with the head-man on a good horse, a snack, water, wine, matches, money, and a big whip, and the rugs and wraps. A whip is needful, as one is liable to be mobbed or insulted.
A good supply of tinned provisions should be taken, dried fruits, rice, flour, sago, tinned milk, and chocolate and milk, and some soups and vegetables in tins. The wine should be strong, to bear dilution. One bottle of brandy we took as a medicine; it arrived unopened.
In the foods the great thing is to get variety. Butter should be melted and run into a champagne bottle for cooking purposes, while fresh and good butter may be bought in each large town and carried in tins salted, for four stages, or more if in winter.
Small tent carpets are needed, large ones are useless, and two small ones are better than one of larger size, as they fit in better, or carpet two rooms. A small broom is needful. Copper pots for cooking, and enamelled iron cups and tin plates as being less bulky than copper are required. Bottles when emptied should be repacked to avoid smashes; all bottles should be in straw envelopes. Short carriage candles are good and need no candlesticks—being thick they stand upright.
A table should be made of a board three feet long by two and a half wide, with a cross piece near each end underneath; this is merely laid on cross trestles held together by a string.
Folding chairs, not camp stools, should be taken, and they should be strong and covered merely with canvas; thick stuff gets wet, and keeps so. The best chair is with a buckle, so as to raise for dining, or lower for lounging; by putting on a movable foot-piece of two small iron rods and a bit of canvas, a fair and very comfortable bedstead is produced, and no mattress needed. No mattresses should ever be used, but as coarse chaff is procurable everywhere, large bags should be taken, the size of a mattress, half filled with it, and shaken down; these beds are warm (and cool in hot weather), fairly soft, and hold no insects. Pillows must be carried; linen pillow-cases are best.
All “jims,” such as naphtha stoves, spirit lamps, air cushions, cork mattresses, iron bedsteads, are practically useless, as they are either so light as to smash, or so heavy as to be a nuisance. Everything should be of the commonest and strongest materials.
Bullock trunks are the best kind of clothes box, but should have no straps (the straps are always stolen), but strong brass hasps for two padlocks for each trunk are a very good thing, as locks sometimes open from a severe jar. As for bed-clothes, sheets are a great comfort; I never travelled without them; they should be also carried through Russia. Red or Vienna coloured blankets are the best, and should be carried in a “mafrash band,” or big carpet waterproof trunk; the carpets should be laid over all, and these with the man on top of them keep the bedding dry. These mafrash bands serve also to hold all odds and ends.
Bread should be taken on from each stage, as it may not be got or be very bad at the next, and when not wanted is gratefully accepted by the servants. A double supply should be got at each large town, as it is always good there.
At the big towns, too, very good “bazaar Kabobs” of chopped meat (they are eaten hot), also biscuits and dried fruits, may be had. The tea must be Indian, as that sold in Persia is very inferior.
Milk, as a rule, can only be got at sunset, and a tin or two of it is useful.
It is always better to go to a post-house, or chupper-khana, than to a caravanserai, as the noise of mules and camels is avoided, and the loud cries which resound on the arrival or departure of a caravan, which generally takes place at midnight or dawn.
Avoid night travelling if you can, but if you must do it, always start before midnight. When alone and unarmed keep within hail of your caravan, or keep at least one servant with you. It is easy to miss both caravan and road. If you have a swift horse it does not much matter.
See that your horses get their corn, and that they eat it; also that they are rubbed down when unsaddled, and are properly groomed two hours after feeding; also watered night and morning. Examine their backs, shoes, and hoofs each morning, and never take your groom’s word as to backs.
Insist on your saddlery, stirrups, and bits being bright each day.
Carry a big hunting crop and lash; even if you don’t mean to use it, the sight of it prevents rudeness. Unless the part you are in is disturbed, arms are as a rule needless.
Boots and breeches are only needed in autumn and winter, otherwise Bedford cord trousers, or pantaloons, and shoes are better; no straps. Boots, if worn, should be very large, with low heels, and well greased daily with resin ointment, or Holloway’s.
Spurs save one’s temper and arms with a very lazy horse, but otherwise are a nuisance.
A knife with corkscrew and straight blade, a tin-opening blade, and a leather-borer, is a good and needful thing.
Money should never be carried; one’s servant should keep it, save a few kerans.
In very cold weather it is as well to put on a big pair of coarse country socks over one’s boots, and to twist a bit of sheepskin, with the hair on, round the stirrup iron; these precautions keep the feet warm.
A sun hat or topi is of the first necessity; also thick and strong loose-fitting gloves (old ones are best) of buckskin.
A change of trousers or breeches, in case of a soaking, should be kept with the head servant, who should always have matches. Bryant and May’s are the best, and with three of their matches a cigar or pipe can be lit in any wind: they sell a tin outer match-box which is very useful, as one cannot crush the box; this, with one’s knife, pipe and pocket-handkerchief, should be one’s only personal load.
Oxford shirts, grey merino socks, and a cardigan of dark colour, complete the equipment; the last is a sine quâ non.
A Norfolk jacket is best for outer garment. No tight-fitting thing is of any use.
On arrival tea should be the first thing, the kettle being got under way at once; then carpets spread, chairs and table brought, mattresses filled and laid, beds made, and fire lit if cold. Make tea yourself in your kettle, and make it strong; never let your servants make it, as they either steal the tea or put it in before the water is boiling, so that they may get a good cup, and you, of course, get wash.
A Persian lantern should be taken of tin and linen (this shuts up) for visiting the stable at night, and another for the cook to use.
Water should always be carried both to quench thirst, and for a small supply lest at the next stage water be bad or salt.
Smoked goggles are a necessity.
A puggree of white muslin should be used for day marching.
A big brass cup can be taken in a leather case on the head servant’s saddle-bow; it acts as cup or basin.
No English lamps should be used, as they always get out of order.
It is wise before starting to see that the cook’s copper utensils are all tinned inside. A copper sponge-bath and wash-basin are needed. Plates and dishes all of tinned copper.
A few nails are required to nail up curtains, stop holes, etc.
APPENDIX D.
RUSSIAN GOODS VERSUS ENGLISH.
The Karūn River Route—The best means of reaching the Commercial Centres of Persia—Opinions of Experts—Wishes Of Merchants.
Colonel Bateman Champain, R.E., in a paper read before the Royal Geographical Society, January 15, 1883, after estimating the population of Persia at six millions, gives among the products of the country, “grains of all kinds, cotton, tobacco, silk, opium, fruits, dates, wool, hides, carpets, rugs, and an immense variety of the luxuries and necessaries of life. There is, on the other hand, a large demand for cloth, cotton fabrics, sugar, tea, coffee, and all the innumerable comforts called for by a moderately civilised community.” He then goes on to state, “that the great proportion of these articles are imported from or through Russia” and that “it is but too evident that Russian manufactures are steadily superseding British wares at Ispahan, and even in the Persian markets south of that centre.” Colonel Champain then proceeds to notice the various proposed means for reaching the commercial centres of Persia; and after pointing out their disadvantages, draws the attention of the Society to the proposed route viâ the Karūn River.
General Sir F. Goldsmid, after corroborating the statements of Colonel Champain as to the roads, spoke of railways in the future through Persia, particularly a complete railway between England and India; said that “failing the project of the great Indian railway, which could not be carried out for many years, nothing could be better than the proposed communication, partly by water and partly by road, viâ Ahwaz to Ispahan and Teheran” (the Karūn River route).
Mr. G. S. Mackenzie, after some prefatory remarks, recounted how he started from Mohammera (to which place goods may be taken by ocean steamers), on the 27th July, 1878, in the steamer Karūn of 120 tons, built for Hadji Jabar Khan, Governor of Mohammera, at a cost of 6000l.; in twenty-three hours Mr. Mackenzie arrived at Ahwaz, without the steamer either bumping or grounding, and he ascertained that at the lowest season the river is navigable. At Ahwaz the river is blocked by rapids for about 1100 yards as the crow flies, but (a canal or) a tramway of some 1600 yards would reach the open portion of the river; thence Captain Selby, in the Indian steamer Assyria, succeeded in ascending to within five miles of Shuster (and also he steamed up the Diz River to within one mile of Dizful). From Shuster to Ispahan is 266 miles, or twelve ordinary mule stages.
The time taken by goods in reaching Ispahan from Mohammera by river is,
| Days. | hrs. | |
|---|---|---|
| By steamer to Ahwaz | 0 | 23 |
| By transshipment by (train or) mules | 0 | 4 |
| Thence to Shuster by river, say fifty miles | 0 | 12 |
| By caravan to Ispahan (allowing one day’s detention) | 13 | 0 |
| 14 | 15 | |
| The present route is from Bushire to Ispahan (while from a week’s to a fortnight’s delay at Shiraz is generally experienced in getting fresh mules) | 23 | 0 |
| Certain difference | 8 | 9 |
| Or probably (on account of delay at Shiraz) | 18 | 0 |
The land journey (the chief of the Bakhtiaris being favourable, of which there is no doubt) resolves itself to a journey over an ordinary Persian mule track, no worse than the old one from Bushire to Shiraz, while as it passes through a good grazing country, hire would be cheaper.
After some remarks in praise of Russia from Col. C. E. Stewart, Mr. Russell Shaw, having a general experience of railways, and having actually surveyed a proposed line from Baghdad to the Persian frontier, disposed of the various costly and ideal schemes of railways for Persia; and suggested the feasibility of reaching Persia from India.
The President, after a few general remarks, in which he wished well to large schemes of railway extension through Persia, in the far distant future, “thought it had been clearly demonstrated that it was possible, at a very small cost, to get a route into that part of Persia where alone Englishmen could hope successfully to compete with Russians.”
The President stated that, “It was clear that if she (Persia) would offer no obstacles, the route up the Karūn would very soon be made practicable; and he could not but think that if it were steadily pressed upon the Persian Government, the desired result would be obtained.”
He concluded with well-deserved compliments to Colonels Champain and Smith, and Mr. Mackenzie.
It is a question whether the valuable commercial interests of this country in Persia receive the attention they deserve. Why do we not try to imitate Russia in opening the marts of Persia? She has done so till the word “Russian” has come to mean “anything foreign”! Why do not we insist on the Karūn River being thrown open to British enterprise? Russia is a civilising influence, a rough one, perhaps, but still a civilising influence: and she is civilising the Turkoman.
The export of opium alone in 1881 was 924,000 lbs., which at 16s. a lb.—an ordinary price—is 739,200l.; and were Persia thrown open to English enterprise, this sum would have been sent there, not in specie, but in Manchester manufactured goods, etc.
I have good authority for stating that England is the only country admitting the produce of Persia duty free; as opium, wool, cotton (and good cotton), carpets, grain, dates, galls, gums.
Persia gives nothing in the way of facilities in return, for Russian influence is too strong, and under that influence, or from her own tortuous policy, she keeps the southern route, viâ the Karūn River, closed to English enterprise.
But the principal difficulty that the English merchant has to contend against, is the difficulty he has as an Englishman to recover debts, and whether this be impotence or policy on the part of those in authority, the fact remains, and has necessitated the withdrawal of important English establishments from Ispahan and Shiraz. The tact or energy of Her Majesty’s representatives at Teheran and Bushire is not to be doubted; but Downing Street seems to order a “masterly inactivity” or “an expectant attitude.” At Teheran we have a Minister Plenipotentiary and a Vice Consul, with the usual staff of a Legation; at Tabriz and Bushire, Consuls-General: but at Kermanshah, Hamadan, Ispahan, Shiraz, Yezd, and Kerman, all great commercial centres, we have only native agents; these men exercise no influence, and are held in contempt by natives and Europeans alike, as powerless. At times, however, the native (or British) agent has real influence, mostly personal: as in the case of Mirza Hassan Ali Khan, C.I.E., our late agent at Shiraz. We want English Consuls to protect us and our trade, say the merchants, and then the opening of the Karūn River: without these Persia as a mart is closed to English enterprise, and becomes the monopoly of Russia.