SKETCHES OF CENTRAL ASIA.
CHAPTER I.
DERVISHES AND HADJIS.
The dervish is the veritable personification of Eastern life. Idleness, fanaticism, and slovenliness, are the features which in him are regarded as virtues, and which everywhere are represented by him as such. Idleness is excused by allusion to human impotence; fanaticism explained as enthusiasm in religion; and slovenliness justified by the uselessness of poor mortals in struggling against fate. If the superiority of European civilization over that of the East was not so clearly established, I should almost be tempted to envy a dervish, who, clad in tatters and conversing in a corner of some ruined building, shows, by the twinkling in his eye, the happiness he enjoys. What a serenity is depicted in that face; what a placidity in all his actions; what a complete contrast there is between this picture and that presented by our European civilization! In my disguise as a dervish it was chiefly this unnatural composure which made me nervous, and in the imitation of which I made, of course, the greatest mistakes. I shall never forget one day at Herat, when, after reflecting on the happiness of the early termination of the painful mask I had been wearing for so many months, I suddenly jumped up from my seat, and in a somewhat excited state began to pace up and down the old ruin which gave me shelter. A few minutes afterwards I perceived that a crowd of passers by had collected at the door, and that I was the object of general astonishment. Seeing my mistake, I blushingly resumed my seat. Soon afterwards several people came up to ask me what was the matter with me, whether I was well, &c. The good people thought I was deranged; for, to oriental notions, a man must be out of his senses if, without necessity or a special object in view, he suddenly leaves his seat to pace up and down a room.
As the dervish represents the general character, so he does the different peoples of the East. It is true, Mahomedanism enforces the dogma: "El Islam milleti wahidun"—all Islamites are one nation; but the origin and home of the different sects are easily recognised. Bektashi, Mewlewi, and Rufai, are principally natives of Turkey; because Bektash, the enthusiastic founder of the Janissaries, Moola Djelaleddin Rumi, the great poet of the Mesnevi, lived, and are buried in Turkey; the Kadrie and Djelali are most frequently met with in Arabia; the Oveisy, and Nurbakhshi Nimetullah in Persia; the Khilali and Zahibi in India; and the Nakishbendi and Sofi Islam in Central Asia.[1] The members of the different fraternities are bound together by very close ties; apprentices (Murid) and assistants (Khalfa) have to yield implicit obedience to the chief (Pir), who has an unlimited power over the life and property of his brethren. But these fraternities do not in the least trouble themselves about secret political or social objects, as is sometimes asserted in Europe by enthusiastic travellers, who have even discovered Freemasons amongst the Bedouin tribes of the Great Desert. The dervishes are the monks of Islamism; and the spirit which created and sustains them is that of religious fanaticism, and they differ from each other only by the manner in which they demonstrate their enthusiasm. For instance; whilst one of these religious orders commands constant pilgrimages to the tombs of saints, the other lays down stringent rules for reflection on divine infinity and the insignificance of our existence. A third compels his votaries to occupy themselves day and night with repeating the name of of God (Zikr) and hymns (Telkin); and it cannot surprise us to learn that the greater number of a company which has continually been calling out with all its might: "Ja hu! Ja hakk! La illahi illa hu! are seized with delirium tremens. The orthodox call this condition Medjzub; i.e., carried away by divine love, or to be in ecstacy. A person to whom such a fortunate event happens, for as such it is regarded, is envied by everybody; and as long as it lasts, the sick and the maimed, and barren women, try to get in his immediate presence, taking hold of his dress,—as touching it is supposed to have healing powers.
What the dervishes are able to do during the ecstacy caused by Zikr, I had once an opportunity of witnessing in Samarkand. In Dehbid, close to the tomb of the Makhdun Aazam, one of these howling companies had grouped themselves around the Pir (chief) of that district. At first they contented themselves with repeating the formula in a natural tone of voice, and almost in measured time. The chief was lost in the deepest thought; all eyes and ears were fixed upon him; and every motion of his hand, and every breath he drew, was audible, and encouraged his followers to utter wilder and louder ejaculations. At last he seemed to awake from his sleep-like reflections, and as soon as he raised his head all the dervishes jumped up from their seats like possessed beings. The circle was broken, and the different members began to dance in undulating motions; but hardly did the chief stand upon his feet than the enthusiastic dancers became so terribly excited that I, who had to imitate all their wild antics, became almost frightened. They were flying about, constantly dancing, right and left, hither and thither, some leaving the soft meadow and getting upon the rough stones, constantly dancing, till the blood began to run freely from their feet. Still they kept on their mad excitement, till most of them fell fainting to the ground.
In a country like the East, where such social relations exist, and where we meet with such amusing extremes, the dervish or beggar, though placed at the very bottom of the social scale, often enjoys as much consideration as the prince who reigns over millions and disposes of immense treasures. Man, an unresisting plaything in the powerful hand of Fate, can, if Destiny wills it, be transported from one extreme to the other, of which history furnishes us with numerous instances; and as in fiction we see with pleasure the two antipodes—the king, Shah-ü Keda, and the beggar, brought into close propinquity—even so we often find a ragged and dirty dervish, covered with vermin, sitting on the same carpet with a magnificently-dressed prince, and engaged with him in familiar conversation, nay, often drinking with him out of the same cup. European travellers view such a tête-à-tête with surprise, and even sometimes with a feeling of amusement; but in the East it is considered as quite natural. For, says the oriental moralist, the king must see in the glaring contrast between him and his neighbour the vanity of earthly splendour, and banish from his mind all feeling of pride; while the dervish discovers beneath the pompous dress of the prince a mere mortal man, and mindful of the vanity of sublunary things, laughs at the farce of life.
Though perfectly conscious of their relative position, these two extremes exhibit, when they meet, an admirable degree of toleration and indulgence. The dervish, who, when received in private, behaves with the freedom and unconstraint of an intimate friend, never forgets on public occasions that he is the poorest of the poor. The man of rank suffers from him what to any other person would appear insupportable. At Kerki, the governor of the province had a dervish in his palace, who, in conformity with a precept of his order, had the agreeable office of crying aloud uninterruptedly, from sunset till break of day: Ya hu! ya hakk! La illa hu![2] and that with the voice of a Stentor. As soon as darkness prevailed, and the busy hum of public life had become silent, the melancholy and monotonous exclamations became more and more audible, not only in the palace itself, but to a considerable extent around it. That his devotions disturbed many in their sleep, may be easily imagined. Nevertheless, the governor, notwithstanding the entreaties of his own family, did not venture to make any objection to this proceeding, and the dervish continued his vociferations every night as long as he sojourned in Kerki. As I lodged in the vicinity of the palace, I enjoyed my share of this nightly concert; and as the voice of the enthusiastic bawler became towards the approach of dawn weaker and weaker, I was enabled to calculate from it the distance of daybreak without stepping out of the dark cell in which I lay.
We may say, however, that we nowadays very seldom meet with a dervish in the strict sense of the word; that is, a man who, renouncing from inward conviction earthly goods and worldly comforts, is desirous only of obtaining experience of life and devoting himself to the practice of religious duties: such a man, in a word, as the poet Saadi is represented to have been. Those who embrace this vocation are either unprincipled and lazy fellows, or professed beggars, who, under the cloak of poverty, collect treasures, and when they are sufficiently enriched often adopt some lucrative trade. This is particularly the case in Persia. So long as Fortune is favourable to them they lead a life of ostentatious magnificence, and forget how transitory all is in this world. But should he be overtaken by adversity, then he retires to some modest corner, rails at the vain pursuits of men, and, inflated with pride, cries out: Men dervish em; I am a dervish.