Part 10

I felt a special interest in the names of the older and more recent Asiatic travellers, which I found carved in many places about the ruins. I met with even Hebrew inscriptions dating, it is alleged, from the time of the first captivity of the Jews, and written by the unfortunate men then dragged into slavery. Most names were those of renowned English travellers; of German names there were comparatively few, and I grieved at not being able to find a single Hungarian after two days' search. I asked myself if I were the first of my countrymen who had visited this interesting country with its remarkable ruins. Next day, I was delighted to come across the following Hungarian inscription, "Maróthi István, 1839," in a recess of a window, as I was examining the base of an immense structure, built of black marble. I examined my countryman's writing with a childish triumph; and to relieve its loneliness, I added my own name for companionship, writing above the latter, "Eljen a Magyar!" (Hungary for ever!)

A caravan, camping outside the village and consisting mostly of pilgrims returning from Kerbela, was starting a little after midnight. I joined it, and on the following morning I was glad to learn that I had every reason to be satisfied with having done so, for all of the travellers came from _Zerkum_, the place nearest to Shiraz. They had passed the night here, although it is not far from their native place, in order to afford time to their relatives and friends, to whom they had sent information of their approach, to make the necessary preparations for their festive reception. As we drew near the village we were met by crowds of people, who were constantly reinforced by newcomers, and there was no end to shaking of hands, embracing and kissing. Every one of the pilgrims from Kerbela was surrounded by a group of village people, and not only he himself, but his ass, too, were carried home in triumph. As we were marching along the streets of the village, I could not help admiring the patience with which the pilgrims bore the ever-increasing felicitations of the villagers. Some of them, especially the stouter ones, were freely perspiring from the many embraces, but they all heroically endured the infliction; nay, they delighted in it, for to have visited Hussein's the beloved martyr's tomb, was tantamount to having been raised above the common herd, and to embrace such a lucky mortal was worth nearly half a pilgrimage to Kerbela.

I left Zerkum in the company of a _tcharvadar_ (owner of animals of burden) and his men, and we proceeded together to Shiraz. These people were from Shiraz, and having been absent from their native place for a long time, they were impatient to get there. Every Persian is given to exaggeration in speaking of the sights and wonders of his native city, but these men went beyond anything I had yet experienced in the way of civic glorification, and I could not help looking forward to something extraordinary in Shiraz. The recollection of some verses by Hafiz, full of praises of the shores of _Ruknabad_ and the flowery places of _Musalla_, which I had retained in my memory, contributed to raise my expectations to the highest pitch. We had been advancing for about half an hour when the shout of "Ruknabad! Ruknabad!" burst simultaneously from the lips of my companions. I immediately dismounted, thinking we should have to pass over the bridge, crossing the river, and wishing, in doing so, to lead my animal by the bridle; but my pains were all wasted. The Ruknabad river, of which poets deemed it right to sing, had shrunk into an insignificant brook hardly three spans wide, the shallow waters of which gaily leap over its gravel bottom.

I own my expectation about Shiraz received, at this sight, a slight shock, nor were my drooping spirits revived by the appearance of the surrounding country. Cold, bare rocks were staring at me on every side; there was not the slightest trace of vegetation of any kind; yet my companions kept assuring me that we were quite near to Shiraz. We reached at last an opening, called _Tenghi Allah Ekber_ (the pass of Allah Ekber) by the Persians. From this place the traveller obtains his first view of the wide-spreading valley below him, in the centre of which rises the city of Shiraz.

XV.

SHIRAZ.

The sight of Shiraz, standing in the midst of groves of thickly planted cypress trees, is quite a relief for the eye, wearied with the monotonous look-out upon the barren desert and bare rocks. The natives say that looking at the enchanting capital of Southern Persia from the spot whence I first saw it, the stranger in his admiration involuntarily bursts out into the customary "Allah Ekber" (God is greatest), and that the place owes its appellation to this exclamation. The eye, wandering over the extensive valley, meets everywhere, as far as it can reach, the exquisite dark green of the cypress. The city is fringed by a garland of cypress gardens, through which a wide brook meanders like a silvery ribbon. Proud edifices rear their heads both inside and outside the walls of the city, the brilliant cupola of the Shah Tchirag mosque looming up most conspicuously. Beyond and opposite to it the far-stretching plain is bordered by a lofty chain of mountains stretching through Kazerun as far as the shores of the Gulf of Persia. Thus the valley is screened by natural walls of rock both to the north and south, and Shiraz stands foremost amongst all the cities of Persia in the matter of climate, fertility and purity of air.

Shiraz owes its fertility especially to its great abundance of water. Its vegetation is so luxuriant that roses and other flowers are blooming throughout the whole year, the plants renewing their sweet-smelling crops every month. The fields are covered with a green sward, and whilst in other parts of Persia the favourite mutton can be got but twice in the year, it can be obtained here throughout all seasons. But what challenges most the admiration of the Western traveller is the exquisitely pure air, the beauty of its blue sky, excelling in these all other parts of Persia, the whole of Asia and, I may add, every country in the world. The air in Shiraz, in spite of its southern position, is bracing enough, and I do not at all wonder that the people, under the influence of their benign climate, are fond of pleasure, and pass their lives in continual amusements and everlasting merry-making. They have a proverb which says:

"In Isfahan many scholars and artists may be, But dancers, singers and drinkers only in Shiraz you see."

And, indeed, I do not know of a town in Persia, the inhabitants of which are as merry and jovial as those of Shiraz. Centuries have passed by since Hafiz, the glorifier of wine, sung his odes here, but a sojourn of a very few days in the capital of Fars will convince any one that the people of Shiraz have not modified a hair's breadth their views of life since the time of Hafiz. Everybody indulges freely in wine in spite of the rigid inhibition of the Mohammedan law. The poor journeyman, the mechanic, the official, and even the priests, begin their libations as soon as the dusk of evening sets in, and keep up their merry-making until midnight, and even later.

As I had now reached the end of my immediate journey, and intended to make a protracted stay, I took lodgings at the large court of the mosque. I sold my animal, and although the funds I had brought with me were considerably reduced, my future gave me little concern, considering, especially, the abundance and cheapness of food. True to my part of a dervish, I wandered through the streets of the city, on the first day of my arrival, and made the acquaintance of a great many people. Of course, my acquaintances, being zealous Shi-ites, never neglected an opportunity in my presence of cruelly vilifying Omar and his associates; but seeing that I bore their vituperations of my saints very meekly, they were highly pleased with me, and I made so many friends during the first weeks of my stay that they rendered my life very agreeable.

One day, I happened to learn that a European, a native of Sweden, was living in the city and practising as a physician. My love of adventure immediately suggested to me the propriety of paying him a visit; but I determined, as a matter of precaution, to keep up my incognito and to appear before him as a dervish. When I entered his room with the dervish's salutation of "Ya hu! Ya hakk!" the good doctor immediately put his hand in his pocket, in order to get rid of me by a gift of a few coins, the usual way of dismissing a dervish.

"What, dost thou give me money?" I exclaimed. "I come to seek thy confidence, not thy money. I come from a far-off country. I am sent to thee by my chief, to convert thee from the false religion that thou followest and to lead thee to the path of the true faith. I am charged by the Sheikh of Bagdad to make a Mussulman of thee."

The doctor to whom such attempts at proselytizing were by no means new, replied with a suppressed smile:

"This is all very fine, very fine, my dervish, yet it is not usual to try conversion in such a commanding way, but by convincing, affecting and eloquent speech. How canst thou prove to me that thy chief has sent thee to me, and that he can work miracles?"

"Hast thou any doubts about it? One syllable from my master is enough to bestow the knowledge of all the sciences and languages of the world. Thou art a Frengi, and speakest probably many tongues. Put me to trial in any language."

The doctor stared at me, and I had some difficulty in maintaining my reserve. Finally he addressed me in Swedish, his native language.

"Swedish," I said, "I know that language as well as thou dost." As a proof I recited to him a few verses from Tegnér's "Frithiofs Saga," which, having been my favourite reading in my youth, came vividly back to my memory. The doctor's surprise knew no bounds. He began to try me in German, and to his astonishment I readily answered him in German, too. He did not fare any better with his attempt to upset me with French and English; and after having exchanged with him a few words in various languages, I returned to Persian and recited very impressively a verse from the Koran for the good of his soul. The poor man was utterly stupified, but when he began to take to guessing at my real nationality, I abruptly rose and made the following farewell speech: "I will give thee time to reflect until eight o'clock to-morrow morning; either thou wilt turn Mussulman, or thou shalt feel the power of my master."

I returned to my quarters, but I had scarcely got out of bed next morning when I found the good doctor waiting for me. His curiosity did not allow him to wait until I came. I continued the old game with him at first, but finally I dropped the mask, and told him who I was. The delight of the doctor was great, and we embraced as if we had been two brothers. "I immediately thought you were a European," he said, "but your Persian talk made me doubt of it." He inquired about Teheran and his acquaintances there, and insisted, after we had been talking for some time, upon my gathering up my things and following him to his dwelling, in order to remain his guest as long as I desired it. To my Persian friends I pretended that I made my stay with the doctor in order to receive instructions in alchemy from him, a science which he was known to have cultivated before, and, besides, my living with him seemed less strange to them from the fact of Europeans in Shiraz living entirely in Persian fashion. I passed six of the pleasantest weeks at his hospitable house. I chiefly employed my time in studying the customs, manners and modes of life of the interesting inhabitants of Shiraz. The most striking feature about them is their extreme excitability and irritability. Everybody, without exception, carries a two-edged curved poniard in his girdle, and is ready to make use of it on the slightest provocation or difference of opinion. Nor is there another city in Persia where so many lives are taken in such a careless manner. Once I was witnessing a richly dressed Persian walking superciliously along the narrow side walk of the bazaar whilst another Persian came from the opposite direction. The latter, in his hurry, did not know exactly which side to take in order to pass the former, and, as is usually the case on such an occasion, danced before the irate Persian from right to left. The latter, who evidently belonged to the better classes, drew his poniard without another word, and mortally stabbed the innocent man. This happened in broad daylight, in the presence of thousands of people; it may thus be easily imagined what frightful things are occurring in the darkness and seclusion of night. The dreadful cases one daily hears of make one's blood curdle; but the punishment dealt out by the Government is not a whit behind these atrocities in their extreme ferocity. To have the belly split open, the limbs maimed, and to be torn to pieces by horses are, by no means, unusual punishments, and once it happened that the governor caused four culprits to be buried together in a pit and had burning lime poured over them afterwards.

One day, in the company of my kind host, I visited the grave of _Saadi_, the celebrated poet and moralist. It stands in a secluded gorge of the valley, and over it is a very fine building erected by _Kerim Khan_ and surrounded by a little garden kept in excellent order. Mounting several steps, we first passed through sundry minor chambers, until we came to a large open hall, in the centre of which rose a marble sarcophagus, bearing masterly inscriptions in Arabic. In the water-basin of the garden there used formerly to be fish, and it is said that the enthusiastic visitors of Saadi's grave would hang golden rings on them, to steal which was looked upon as the greatest sacrilege. There is a small village in the neighbourhood of the grave called _Saadi_ in honour of the great poet, and a gate in the city, looking towards the grave, bearing the name of _Dervazi Saadi_ (Saadi's gate), as well as a bridge, christened _Pul Saadi_; which are all evidence of the veneration in which he is held to this day. But this great poet and scholar is an object of veneration not only to the people of Persia but to every Mohammedan in the Asiatic world. His _Gulistan_ (Grove of Roses, the title of his book) is read with admiration and rapture in the middle of China as well as on the extremest borders of Africa. Wherever schools are attended by Mohammedan youths, there the Gulistan is sure to form the basis of instruction. European scholars have long since appreciated and admired the undying freshness of his style, his brilliant language and his witty and telling similitudes. In one of the chambers of the mausoleum I came across a respectable-looking grey-headed man, whose clean garb and mild aspect formed a strange contrast to the dervish's hat, denoting his calling. With engaging good humour he hastened to address me, and I learned in the course of conversation that he was a native of India, and that, prompted by his veneration for Saadi, he had resigned his rank and given up his wealth at home, in order to pass the remaining days of his life at the tomb of the great man. It is known that Saadi was a dervish himself, but unlike the majority of that tribe who assume the _Khirka_ (dervish's garb) in furtherance of their own worldly aims, Saadi went roving about for thirty years meeting with numerous adventures during his wanderings. He was, in turn, a servant, a slave, a lord and celebrated scholar; and he even assumed the religion of the worshippers of Vishnu, in order to extend and increase his knowledge of all things. He despised wealth and the favour of princes, and sought his only happiness in--as the Orientals metaphorically express it--"perforating with the diamond of his soul the precious stones of his experiences, and after gathering them on the string of eloquence, hanging them for a talisman around the neck of posterity." The grave of Hafiz, standing in a larger cemetery, may be seen not far from Saadi's mausoleum. The site of his grave is marked by a monument of white marble erected by Kerim Khan, and the inscription carved upon it is a verse from his own book, the Divan. I frequently visited the grave, and, to my astonishment, found at times a merry carousing company seated about it, drinking their wine; at other times it was surrounded by penitent pilgrims. The former look upon Hafiz as their great master in a life of carelessness and jollity; the latter consider him a saint and come here to beseech him to intercede for them. Some sing his songs while the cheering cup is going the rounds, whilst others deem his book as holy as the Koran itself. When any one wishes to read the fate in store for him, he opens at random either Hafiz or the Koran, reciting the following verses:

Ei Hafizi Shirazi, Ber men nazr endazi, Men talibi yek falem, Tu Kashifi her razi.

(Oh Hafiz, of Shiraz, cast one look upon me; of thee I wish to learn my future fate, for thou art the discoverer of all secrets); and having done his invocation, he studies the page before him, construing its text into a prophecy of good or bad fortune.

I had passed three months in Shiraz, and was so much pleased with the city that I began to turn over in my mind the propriety of spending the winter in the genial climate of Shiraz rather than in Teheran, and going afterwards, when spring came, through Yezd and Tebbes to Khorassan. But the arrival in Shiraz of two European travellers upset all my plans in that direction. One of them was Count Rochechouart, a member of the French Embassy in Teheran, who was travelling with a view to studying the commercial condition of Persia, and the other the Marquis of Doria, a distinguished member of the extraordinary Italian Embassy which came to Persia at the same time that I did, travelling in pursuit of zoological and botanical knowledge. Upon their arrival these distinguished foreigners were received and feasted by the authorities. After the official receptions were over, Dr. Fagergreen, my excellent Swedish friend, invited them to his house, and the table spread before his European guests literally groaned under everything that was good and savoury produced beneath the southern skies of Persia. The doctor's face beamed with inward satisfaction as he rose, glass in hand, to propose a toast in honour of the three nations represented by the guests sitting at his hospitable board. The good man was happiest if he could entertain a European traveller in his house, and overwhelmed him on such occasions with kindness. I had met such a friendly reception and generous treatment at the hands of the kind-hearted doctor, he had proved such an unselfish friend to me, that I became quite attached to him. I therefore received with feelings of keen regret the invitation of Count Rochechouart to accompany him to Teheran, where he was soon going, leaving behind him his Italian fellow-traveller, the Marquis, who intended to prolong his stay in Shiraz in order to enjoy its unrivalled climate. Yet I was bound to accede to the French nobleman's proposal, although it involved an immediate separation from my friend, as I was nearly destitute of everything, and expected to derive some advantages from making the journey back in his company. I had come here in the guise of a begging dervish, and here was a chance to go back as a European traveller, sharing in all the comforts at the disposal of a gentleman travelling in an affair of state and representing His Majesty the Emperor of France. I did not waver long; my mind was soon made up. The Count remained in Shiraz three days longer in order to attend to some matters, and at their expiration we were to return, in forced marches, to Teheran.

On the day of my departure I went to take leave of my generous friend, Dr. Fagergreen. I found him still in his bedroom in the upper storey of his house. Our conversation frequently turned upon the probability of our ever meeting again, and whenever I happened to touch upon my Turkestan journey the tears would start to his eyes. I was deeply moved by this heartfelt, genuine sympathy. I had to leave; I embraced him for the last time; I seized his hand to give it a last hearty shake; but at the very moment I received a shock as if the whole house were falling. I glanced at my friend's face--it was pale as death. "Quick, for the love of God," he cried; "let us call my wife and children, there will be an earthquake. The earthquakes in Shiraz are awful, especially if the shocks begin early in the morning."