In the land of the lion and sun, or, modern Persia

by C. J. Wills

I was introduced to a M. la Fontaine, a most enthusiastic sportsman, and his many nephews, and by him I was given a day’s cock-shooting, and there was plenty of it. As for me, I was an utter muff and cockney, or rather town-reared; but had I not a new pin-fire breechloader, and was it not my first day’s real shooting? And as I really did shoot two brace, I returned a delighted but tired youth. That night will be ever memorable. I ate my first pillaw, with fowls boiled to rags in it, and followed by curds with thick cream on the top called “yaourt.” How we all ate!

We had come from Pera, crossing in a steamer, and had to ride some twenty miles on rough little ponies to the sleeping place, and—horror of horrors!—on Turkish saddles. Now to the timid rider a Turkish saddle is at first a delight, for to leave it without great effort is impossible, and there is a pommel which is so high that it appears the height of folly not to cling to it; but when one’s knees are in one’s mouth, when one’s saddle is hard as iron and cuts like a knife, when one has new and heavy shooting-boots on, and one’s unmentionables have a tendency to ruck, besides having the glory of carrying a forty-guinea gun slung (oh, demon cockney gun-maker!) by a sling that slips along the barrel, and was highly recommended, with the addition of one hundred loaded cartridges distributed over the many pockets of a very new shooting-coat, in the sun, with a fur cap on—is it to be wondered at that the sufferings of the tortured Indian at the stake were child’s-play to what I endured without a groan, and repeating constantly assurances of my delight and enjoyment?—and remember, reader, we went at a brisk canter all the time.

How glad I was to lie down! How grieved I was, at 4.30 A.M. the next day, to be called, and, after a hurried wash, to start in the half dawn in my tight and heavy boots! But the firing began; I forgot the tightness of my boots, the stiffness of my back. Do you remember how stiff you felt after your first riding lesson, my friend? and you hadn’t one hundred loaded cartridges about you, and an intermittent garotte with your knees in your mouth; and I thanked Heaven I need not sit down, for weighty reasons.

Of course I fired wildly; of course I missed continually, but it was my first day, and I never enjoyed anything so much in my life. I hobbled bravely on till there was no more daylight, but I did feel thoroughly done on getting in, and I did not enjoy my ride back the next day.

I used to try and learn Persian in my idle hours, and I soon mastered the printed character and could read fluently, but without the slightest idea of meaning. Kind Colonel G⸺ gave me many a lesson, but I fear that loafing in Stamboul by day and going to the French or Italian theatre in the evening had greater attractions.

I was always passionately fond of the stage, and, as we were always going in a day or two, I used, on the principle that I might never be able to go to the play again, to go every evening.

Of course there was only a third-rate French company, but how very good they were! The term “stick,” so justly applied to many of our actors, could not be attached to any player in the little band. All were good, and all were good all round, and though the leading man might be everything in the drama, yet he didn’t object to play the lover in the little vaudeville, and played it well. An Englishman, in the event of anything so dreadful happening to him, would soon let his audience see that he was only doing it under protest.

At the Opera the prima donna was ridiculously fat, and to a man unmusical this somewhat destroys the illusion—but then the fauteuils d’orchestre only cost ten francs. I also went to an Armenian theatre, but it had the national characteristics, squalor and misery, and I did not repeat the visit. I failed even to see an Armenian piece (if such a thing exists), but sat out a fearful edition of ‘The Chiffonier of Paris;’ and I was told that all the pieces played in Constantinople (Pera) in Armenian were mere translations.

Even the delights of gaming were permitted in Pera. A few doors from Messeri’s was the Café “Flam,” as it was affectionately called by the Pera youth. “Café Flamand” was, I fancy, its real title. Here were played “pharaon” and roulette. I was recommended the former game, for economical reasons—it took longer to lose a napoleon. Nobody seemed to win at either game, but pharaon certainly “took longer.” I was not tempted to make frequent visits, as I had played for some small sums at Baden-Baden a year or two before. There one was at least cheated fairly; here the robbery was open.

A few days after the New Year the Colonel told me that we should really leave for Persia by the very first opportunity. I bid farewell to all the kind friends I had made, had my photo taken in breeches, boots, and revolver at Abdullah’s—a weakness every Englishman who reaches Constantinople is guilty of. It does not do to be too oriental. At Abdullah’s I purchased a fearful-looking type, marked a Bashi-bazouk, and found it out afterwards to be the portrait of a man whose acquaintance I made in Persia, the Dutch Consul in Bushire; but he made a very good type, being a big man; and he literally bristled with weapons, and seemed capable of any atrocities.