We slept out, à la belle étoile, under the majestic shadow of Besitun. The lights and shades on the face of the precipitous rock, reflected by the rays of a full moon, were very magnificent, and I long gazed at the glorious steep, watching the grotesque phantom forms produced by the flitting shadows stirred by the breeze; and at last, overcome by fatigue, fell asleep dreaming of the ancient peoples whose mark, living on the rock, hallows the place with a mysterious interest.
21st June.—Besitun to Kirmánshah, twenty-eight miles. Marched at one A.M.—route westerly, at first through a narrow valley skirting Besitun hills, and then away across an open undulating country, covered with ripe corn crops and villages and Kurd camps. As we struck away from the hills, a splendid meteor shot across the sky horizontally, and burst only a few hundred yards from us, in a shower of most beautiful stars of purple, gold, and silver hue, just a “roman candle.”
At six o’clock, crossing the Cárású river by a masonry bridge of six arches, we alighted at a dilapidated sarae for our baggage to come up. Here we were joined by Abdurrahím, a very fair and intelligent youth of eighteen years, a son of Agha Hasan, the British Wakiluddaula at Kirmánshah. He had been sent out, attended by a single horseman, to meet and escort us to the quarters prepared for us in the city. Up to this point I had ridden my dromedary, but here changed to my horse, as the more fitting mode of entering the city, though he was in such poor condition from his long and rapid marches, that he must have attracted as much attention from the punctilious as the camel would have excited comment. Kirmánshah has a clean, neat, and agreeable appearance as one approaches from the east, and is decidedly the most flourishing place we have yet seen in Persia. As we neared its walls, we passed a vast collection of new graves, filled during the last two years with the bodies of fifteen thousand people who have died here. Most of them, it is said, had come in from the surrounding country to find food in the capital of the province, but found instead a stone in place of bread.
In the city we alighted at some very dilapidated quarters adjoining the residence of the Wakiluddaula. The rooms were nicely carpeted with rich felts, and furnished with tables and chairs and cots. Soon after our arrival a couple of servants brought over tea and sweets for our refreshment; and the young lad returning from a visit to his father, said the Wakiluddaula begged his absence might be excused. He was laid up with a fit of ague, but he hoped on its passing off to call in the afternoon. I begged he would not take the trouble, and thanked him for his arrangements for our comfort, which were all very satisfactory.
Towards sunset Agha Hasan was announced. He walked across the court supported by two servants, and really looked very ill. With him came Mirzá Sadíc Khán, Hakím Bashi, a physician who had walked the London hospitals, and spoke English remarkably well. He told us we had now got over the worst part of our journey, and that all ahead would be easy travelling. His words were very strangely falsified, as the sequel will show.
We halted here a day, and I took the opportunity to return the visit of the Wakiluddaula, and inquire after his health. He came out to the court to receive me, and seemed much pleased at the attention. He told me that I should most likely have some difficulty in crossing the Turkish frontier, as reports had recently been received of disturbances on the road. He had applied to the governor here for a special passport for me, and would himself write to the commandant on the frontier, who was a personal friend—a service for which I afterwards had reason to be grateful.
The Wakil in conversation told me that the famine might now be considered as past. Prices had fallen greatly since the cutting of the crops, and would soon reach the usual rates. He said Persia was utterly ruined, and had lost nearly half her population, and he did not think the country could recover its prosperity for fifty years under favourable conditions. Society was disorganised; no two men in the country could trust each other, or combine for any good. Turkey, he said, though looked down on by Persia, was far ahead in civilisation. I took my leave much pleased with his attentions, and sent him a revolver as a present before starting on my forward journey, and he sent me a couple of small carpets in return.
Whilst here, we rode over to see the Tác o Bostám sculptures, and returned by the garden of Imáduddaula. The reservoir at the spring-head at Tác o Bostám is a charming spot, and the sculptures, so fully described and delineated by Sir H. Rawlinson, are well worth a visit. Kirmánshah is a very fertile province, and the city in better times was very populous and flourishing. We did not go over the bazárs, as it was considered unsafe to do so for fear of the beggars offering us insult or annoyance. I was disappointed at this, as I wished to see some Kurdistan carpets, which are here procurable of the best quality.