"Sahib, you are late," exclaimed the servant who met me in the doorway; "where have you been? A telegram has come for you, and we would have sent it to you at once, but we knew not where you were."
I rushed upstairs to my room and tore open the telegram. It
was a very long one, and the substance of it was this: that a
European lady, travelling northwards to Teheran with her
I sat down with the telegram in my hand to consider what I
ought to do. A few moments' reflection showed me that, however
unwilling I might be to quit Shiraz, and however diffident I
might be as to my fitness to deal with what I clearly perceived
was a difficult and critical case, I could not with a clear
conscience refuse to go. It was a sore disappointment to me to
tear myself away from Shiraz, and to forgo the visit to the Bab's
house, to which I had so eagerly looked forward; to ride post
for nearly 120 miles to confront a medical crisis, such as my
inexperience ill fitted me to cope with, and which, as I anticipated,
was but too likely to terminate fatally even before my arrival,
was, moreover, a prospect that daunted me not a little. My duty,
however, was perfectly clear; and when I joined the Nawwab
and Haji Da'i at supper, I told them that in all likelihood it was
the last meal we should eat together for some time. As soon as
it was over, I made the best of my way through the dark lanes
leading to the Bagh-i-Sheykh, to consult with the acting head
of the telegraph, and to obtain such medicines and instruments
as I might require. The medical stores, which we ransacked,
left very much to be desired, both as regards extent and quality,
and it was with a miserably insufficient outfit that I returned
Next day it seemed at first as though after all I might escape the dreaded ordeal; for in the morning a message came from Dihbid giving a somewhat more favourable account of the patient, and bidding me not to start till further notice. I therefore decided to accompany the Nawwab to the picnic at Rashk-i-Bihisht; but before doing so I made all my arrangements for quitting Shiraz. I had decided during the night that, should I be compelled to go to Dihbid, I would not return directly to Shiraz, but would proceed to Yezd (a city that I greatly desired to visit, both because of its remote situation and essentially Persian character, and because it is the chief stronghold of Zoroastrianism in Persia), and thence make my way perhaps to Kirman, and so back by Niriz and Darab. I therefore drew thirty tumans (nearly 10 pounds) in cash for my travelling expenses, and obtained a cheque on Ardashir Mihrban, the leading Zoroastrian merchant at Yezd, for the balance still remaining to my credit (147 1/2 tumans, or about 45 pounds). I also obtained a letter of introduction to this same Ardashir from one of the Zoroastrians at Shiraz, named Khusraw, and received from my kind friend Mirza 'Ali a promise of letters to certain highly-considered Seyyids of Yezd to whom he was related. Having furthermore purchased a pair of saddle-bags (khurjin) and sundry other necessaries for my journey, I had transacted all my business, and was able to follow the Nawwab to the garden of Rashk-i-Bihisht.
I found there the same company as on the previous occasion,
but, as the weather was fine, they were sitting out in the garden
on a stone platform overshadowed by trees, instead of in the
summer-house. The time passed pleasantly in the usual fashion;
and as sunset approached, and still no summons came from the
telegraph-office, I began to hope that my time at Shiraz was,
after all, not destined to be cut short. As I was returning from
a solitary ramble round the garden, however, I suddenly caught
"Haste is of the devil, and tardiness from the All-Merciful,"
says a very Oriental proverb, and it is indeed an ill thing to be
in a hurry in an Eastern land. It was well enough to have an
order for three post-horses; but these, notwithstanding all my
importunity, were not forthcoming till the following afternoon,
and then, that no element of delay might be lacking, I discovered
that my servant Haji Safar had gone off to the bazaars to buy a
saddle. Even when we did ultimately start at about 3.15 p.m.,
I had to submit to several further delays for the purchase of
sundry forgotten articles which were declared necessary; and it
was already late in the afternoon when, from the summit of the
Tang-i-Allah Akbar, I turned in my saddle to take what proved
to be my last look at beautiful Shiraz. It was the very day, even
the very time, when I was to have made my eagerly-desired visit
to the Bab's house; and instead of this, here I was with my
back to Shiraz, and the rain beating in my face, with a hundred
miles and more to ride, to what I much feared would prove to
be a death-bed. Remembering that life hung in the balance I
urged on my horse, and presently found myself in the great plain
of Marv-Dasht. Haji Safar and the shagird-chapar (post-boy) were
far behind me, but, thinking that I remembered the way, I heeded
this but little, and pushed on as fast as I could towards a group of
poplar-trees beneath the eastern hills, which, as I thought,
marked the position of Zargan. I was mistaken, however, for
when I drew near them I found nothing but gardens; and it was
in almost complete darkness and pouring rain that, drenched to
the skin, and in the worst of tempers, I finally entered the narrow
streets of Zargan, and alighted at the post-house, where (as it
appeared impossible to proceed farther), I spent a miserable night,
which wet clothes and prowling cats rendered almost sleepless.
Next morning I was off before 7 a.m. My first stage was to Puze ("the Snout"), hard by Persepolis and Istakhr, of Achaemenian and Sasanian splendour. I had promised the shagird-chapar a present of two krans if he brought me there by 9.30, and our pace at first was consequently good. But when the little solitary post-house of Puze was already in sight, the miserable, jaded horse which I rode, after relapsing from a spasmodic and laboured trot into a walk of ever-increasing slowness, came to a dead stop, and I was forced to dismount and walk the last few hundred yards. Just before this took place, there met us three post-horses which a shagird-chapar was leading back from Puze to Zargan. I stopped him, and demanded whether I should hnd horses at Puze, as I wished to continue my journey without delay; intending, in case of need, to impress into my service the horses of which he had charge. He assured me that there were three fresh horses in the post-house, ready to start at once, and I left him, wondering whether he was speaking the truth. I wronged him by my suspicions; what he had told me was exactly and literally true, for, a few minutes later, these "three fresh horses, ready to start at once," issued from the post-house (now only a hundred yards distant) with another traveller, and set off northwards!
On reaching the post-house I found, of course, that there
were no horses to be had; and there was nothing for it but to
sit on a carpet on the roof and try to dispel my annoyance with
tea and tobacco. I found that the traveller who had taken off
the horses, as it were under my very nose, was none other than
the Bombay Parsee whom I had met at Shiraz, and who was so
anxious to get back to a land of railroads and hotels. He was
so disgusted with caravan-travelling, and especially with the
extortions of the servant whom he had engaged at Bushire, that
he had decided to continue his journey alone by the post,
although he was a very indifferent rider, and had only
accomplished two stages during the whole of the previous day.
It was not till after mid-day that horses were forthcoming
and I was able to proceed on my journey. At the very last
moment, a woman brought her son to me, saying that she had
heard I was a doctor, and begging me to examine an injury in
his arm and prescribe for him. I was in no mood to tarry there
any longer, and, telling her that if she had chosen to come to me
any time during the last three hours I could have given her my
undivided attention, but that now it was too late, I rode rapidly
away. The shagird-chapar who accompanied us, stimulated by
the promise of a present, exerted himself to accomplish his two
parasangs an hour, and, by leaving the post-road and fording the
river (which here runs to the west of it), effected so great a
saving of distance that I caught up the Parsee just as he was
leaving the post-house of Kiwam-abad. I was obliged, however,
to wait there for an hour and a half before I could obtain horses
to take me on to Murghab; though I was more than ever desirous
of reaching Dihbid that night if possible, as I had met my friend
Muhammad Hasan Khan Kashka'i on his way to Shiraz, and he
had told me that my presence was urgently required there.
The ride to Murghab was delightful, the horses being good
and the night superb. I passed the Parsee hard by the Tomb
of Cyrus, and traversed the ruins of that classic plain by the
light of a crescent moon, which hung suspended like a silver lamp
in the clear, dark-blue sky. Once some great beast--a hyaena,
probably--slunk, silent and shadow-like, across the path and
disappeared in the bushes. It was 10 p.m. when I reached the
post-house of Murghab, where, much against my will, I was
obliged to remain for the night. The Parsee arrived soon after
me, and we established ourselves in the bala-khane or upper
chamber. I could not help pitying him, for he was travelling
Next morning, after a cold and uncomfortable night, I was off before 6 a.m., but, for all the fair words of the shagird-chapar, there fell to my lot the most miserable and ill-conditioned beast that ever it was my lot to bestride. So bad were all its paces, and so rough and steep the road, that it was past mid-day when I finally alighted at the telegraph-office of Dihbid. Needless to say how anxious I was to learn news of my patient, or with what heartfelt thankfulness I heard from Mr and Mrs Blake, who welcomed me at the door, that she had taken a turn for the better, and was now practically out of danger. When I had eaten and rested a while, I visited her, and found that it was even as they had said: the crisis was past, and all that was left for me to do was to watch over the period of convalescence, which, fortunately, was short. Day by day I had the satisfaction of seeing a marked improvement in her condition, and it was only as a matter of precaution, and at the request of my host and hostess, that I remained for twelve days at Dihbid, at the end of wnich time she was already able to walk out in the garden.
Dihbid is one of the loneliest and bleakest spots that I saw in
Persia. The village, so far as I recollect, consists of not more than
fifteen or twenty hovels, a dilapidated caravansaray, the post-house,
and the telegraph-office. This last is a spacious and comfortable
dwelling, with a fair-sized garden attached to it; but its remote
and solitary situation, and the severe cold of the winter
The first of them was a little boy, aged twelve, named Khan
Mirza, who was suffering from paralysis and wasting of the arms
"Sahib," they wailed, "we know that you can cure him if you like. We are only poor peasants, and we cannot reward you as you have a right to expect, but tell us what sum of money will satisfy you, and if possible we will obtain it."
I told them that to cure their child it was not money I wanted, but the power of working miracles.
"Can you not believe me," I concluded, "when I tell you that I would rejoice to help you if I could, but that it is beyond my skill, and not mine only, but that of the greatest physicians of our country? I neither desire nor would consent to accept your money, but I have no right to deceive you with false hopes. Surely you must understand that there are diseases which no physician can heal, and that, for instance, when the ejel1 comes, Jalinus and Bukrat2 themselves have no resource but to cry, 'there is no strength and no power save in God the Supreme, tbe Mighty!'"3
"You speak truly," answered the father; "but that only holds good of death."
"How, then," said I, "does it come to pass that even amongst
the rich there are blind and deaf and halt and dumb persons, who
would give any price to be restored to health if they could
find one to cure them, but who go down to their graves
unhealed?"
"It is because they cannot get hold of a physician like you,"1 replied the man. In the face of such faith what could one do but make up a prescription which, if it were not likely to do much good, could at least do no harm?
The other case to which I have alluded was a poor old man, called Mashhadi Khuda-Rahm, who lived at some distance from Dihbid. The first time he came was late one afternoon, when I had seen all my other patients, and was resting after my labours. My servant (whether out of consideration for me, or to emphasise his own importance) refused to let him see me or to inform me of his arrival. The poor old man thought that he had been turned away because he had not brought a present, and when he returned and was finally admitted to me, he had in his hands a couple of fowls as a propitiatory offering. These he begged me to accept, promising that in the morning he would bring me a lamb; and it was with great difliculty that I succeeded in making him understand that I had no wish to deprive him of any portion of his scanty possessions. I found that his son had gone down to the turbulent and lawless town of Abarkuh some two months previously, and had there been stabbed in a quarrel about a girl to whom he was attached. Since then the old father's eyesight had been gradually failing "through much weeping," as he said; and it was for this that he had sought me. I did the best I could for him (which, I fear, was not much), and he went on his way and was no more seen by me.
Of the country round about Dihbid I need say but little. Hard
by the village stands a ruined tower, with enormously thick walls
built of dried clay, which the country-folk believe to have
been one of the seven hunting-palaces of Bahram Gur. I was
1 "Bi-jihat-i-anki misl-i-shuma hakimi gir-ashan nami-ayad." The
expression gir amadan (to be got hold of), though not, I think, found
in classical, is common in colloquial, Persian.
2 "The haft gubudh" of Bahram (or Varahran) V, surnamed "Gur" (the
"wild ass"), from his fondness for chasing that animal, are familiar
to every student of Persian literature. The king in question reigned
from A.D. 420 to 438. At Shiraz I was told by Haji Nasru'llah Khan,
the Il-Khani, that the sites of all these seven-hued palaces were
known to him. He gave me a list of them, but I did not write it
down at the time, and only remember that he identified the Kasr-i-zard
or "yellow tower" with Kushki-zard, on the sar-hadd (or high-level)
road to Shiraz.
It was 29th April when, my patient being convalescent and
able to take the air in the garden adjoining the telegraph-office,
I finally quitted Dihbid and turned my face eastwards towards
Yezd. After the somewhat monotonous though pleasant fortnight
which I had spent at Dihbid, I looked forward eagerly to
the excitement of a journey through country far wilder and less
known than any which I had hitherto traversed. I had some
We left Dihbid about 7.30 in the morning, as our intention
was to push past the caves of Hanishk (where two or three
musket-men are stationed as a guard, and where it is possible to
halt for the night) and reach one of the flourishing villages which
lie like islands of verdure in the sandy desert of Abarkuh. The
Yezd road quits the main road from Shiraz to Isfahan close to
the Dihbid caravansaray, and runs in a northeasterly direction
towards the tail of the mountains above Hanishk. These we
reached about 10.30 a.m., and then began the long descent
towards the plain. The sides of the narrow ravines through which
our path wound were abundantly decked with flowers, concerning
which I questioned Baba Khan, who turned out to be a very intelligent
and agreeable companion. There were tall, hyacinth-like spikes,
with white blossoms and very thick succulent stems, called Kurroghlu;
fine large mountain chrysanthemums, called Da'udi; abundance of
wild rhubarb (Riwas); and a little ill-smelling plant with
orange-brown flowers, named Mar-giyah (snake-grass). After
passing a beautifully green grassy spot called Gushti, well
watered by a stream which ran down the ravine, where some
peasants were pasturing their cows and donkeys, we came, at
11.15 a.m., to a point where the valley opened out somewhat
and allowed us to see for the first time the great sandy plain
(kaffe) of Abarkuh spread out at our feet. This plain, which
at its narrowest point (where we proposed to cross it) is about
At 11.30 we reached Hanishk, and halted for lunch. There are no buildings here, but only a few caves in the rock, which serve the tufankchis (musket-men) there stationed for a dwelling; a couple of fine mulberry-trees, under which we rested; a stream; and a spring of clear, cool water. Leaving Hanishk again at 12.45, we continued our descent, and finally, at about 2.15 p.m. emerged from the narrow jaws of the ravine into the plain, which from this point slopes but very slightly downwards towards Abarkuh. At 3.30 we passed a ruined cistern (ab-anbar) covered by a dome, and about 6.30, just as the sun was setting, reached the beautiful green oasis formed by the gardens of Mihr-abad, where we were to halt for the night. Round about these, enclosed within a high outer wall to keep off the drifting sand, lay fields of corn and of the white poppy (for opium is largely produced in all this district); and I was amazed to see what the skilful irrigation of the Persians could do for even so unpromising a soil. It is more irrigation, not railways and factories, that Persia needs to increase her prosperity; and were the means for this forthcoming, many a dreary desert might yet blossom with the rose and the poppy.
There is, of course, no post-house at Mihr-abad, nor, so far
As I know, a caravansaray; but I was far from regretting this, as
Needless to say, visitors soon began to arrive; and, as none
of them thought of moving till midnight, I had plenty of
opportunity of observing their characteristics. In several ways
they appeared to me to differ very widely from any type of
Persian which I had hitherto seen, notably in this, that they
manifested not the least curiosity about my business, nationality,
or religion. Sullen, independent, quarrelsome, and totally devoid
of that polished manner which characterises most of their
countrymen, they talked for the most part with one another, and
appeared to take little interest in anything except sport, horses,
fire-arms, spirits, and opium. The only occasion on which Darab
Khan, the son of a local magnate, addressed me with any appearance
of interest was when he demanded whether I had with me any strong
drink. I told him I had not. "You lie," replied he; "all Firangis
drink." I then recollected that I had a little pocket-flask half-
filled with whisky. "Well, I have this small quantity," I said,
"in case of emergencies." "Let me see it," said he. I handed
it to him, whereupon he unscrewed the top, sniffed at the whisky,
and finally put the flask to his mouth, drained it at one gulp,
and threw it back to me with a grimace. I asked him what he
thought of it. "Poor stuff," he said--"no better than our 'arak,
if as good. You are certain you have no more?"
Darab Khan had with him a very handsome page; another most savage-looking attendant named Huseyn, with enormously long drooping moustaches, which gave him somewhat the appearance of a Chinaman; one or two younger brothers; and several friends. They all sat together, servants and masters, without distinction of rank; they were nearly all armed to the teeth; and they nearly all smoked opium and drank as much spirits as they could get.
As we had made a long stage on the first day, and as the heat
was now considerable, Baba Khan decided to await the approach
of evening before starting to cross the desert. In consequence
of this I saw plenty of Darab Khan and his dissolute companions,
who kept coming and going from 8 a.m. onwards. One, Ja'far
Khan, also came to consult me with symptoms of indigestion
and disordered liver. Having received a blue pill, he
became communicative, and entertained me with a panegyric
on a certain Mulla Ghulam Riza of Taft (near Yezd), who was
highly reputed for his medical skill, and a dissertation on Persian
pharmacology. Drugs, he explained, were primarily divisible
into two classes: "hot" (used for combating "cold" diseases),
amongst which the most efficacious were babune, afsantin-i-Rumi,
and gul-i-gav-zaban; and "cold" (useful for the treatment of "hot"
maladies), of which rishe-i-khatmi (hollyhock root), rishe-i-
kasni, and rishe-i-kadu enjoyed the highest reputation. This
interesting dissertation was unfortunately interrupted by the arrival
of two or three of Darab Khan's younger brothers (so, at least,
I judged them to be from their likeness to him), who forthwith
began to pull about my effects and examine my clothes and
bedding. One of them, seeing Haji Safar smoking a cigarette,
plucked it out of his mouth and began to smoke it himself,
whereupon he was, to my great delight, seized with so violent
a fit of coughing that he had to retire. The relief afforded by his
I was now left for a while in comparative peace; for my host, after amusing himself for a while by firing bullets with his long Shirazi gun at the birds on the garden wall, turned Darab Khan's troublesome young brothers out of the garden and shut the door. At 3.30 p.m. the animals were laden and ready to start. Haji Safar gave the owner of the garden five krans (about three-and- sixpence), with which he was evidently well satisfied, for he came and showed me the money, remarking, "This was not necessary, nor so much." He then gave me a large bunch of roses as I was about to mount, and walked beside me to the outskirts of the village, where he bade us farewell. As soon as he had gone, Haji Safar began to abuse the people of the village roundly for their churlishness, adding that one of the boys had stolen a pair of goloshes and other articles out of my baggage, but that he had recovered them. "I should like to have given him a good thrashing," he concluded, "but I thought you would not like it." Prudence, I imagine, had something to do with his self- restraint, for the Abarkuhis are not the kind of people one would care to anger.
Our course at first lay nearly due north, towards the fantastic,
jagged hills which rise abruptly from the sandy plain close by
the city of Abarkuh. As we passed between two ridges of these,
I could plainly see the mined domes, minarets, and walls which
crown their summits. The largest dome stands at the northern
end of the northern ridge, and is called Gunbudh-i-'Ali. I should
After supper I lay gazing at the starry sky till sleep overcame
me. About midnight Haji Safar awoke me, and soon afterwards
we started at a good pace (for these caravans of donkeys travel
faster than ordinary caravans) on the long desert stage which was
to bring us to Chah-Begi, the first habitable spot on the Yezd
side of the desolate plain. Bare and hideous as this desert is by
day, seen in the silver moonlight it had a strange weird beauty,
which produced on me a deep impression. The salt-pools and
salt-patches gleamed like snow on every side; the clear desert air
was laden with a pungent briny smell like a sea-breeze; and over
the sharply-defined hills of Yezd, towards which we were now
directly advancing, hung the great silvery moon to the right, and
the "Seven Brothers" (haft biradaran), or Great Bear, to the left.
I kept in advance of the caravan, and watched with a keen pleasure
the stars "beginning to faint on a bed of daffodil sky," till
first the "caravan-killer" (karavan- or charvadar-kush) and then
the morning star dissolved in the rosy flush which crept upwards
from behind the eastern mountains, and suddenly, like a ball of
fire, the sun leaped up over their serrated summits, scattering
As it grew light, a man carrying a large wallet over his shoulders, and walking rapidly, came up with me. I saluted him, and entered into conversation. He was, as I gathered, a kasid, or courier, with letters from Abade for Yezd. He told me that he had been a soldier in one of the Zillu's-Sultan's regiments till these were disbanded. He did not like a soidier's life, and had once deserted, walking from Isfahan to Abade (about 130 miles) in two days. He had also walked from Yezd to Mashhad by the desert road in twenty days, and from Teheran to Mashhad in the same time. He asked me many questions about England and its government, and complained bitterly of the heavy taxation to which the Persian peasantry were subjected. The tax on a donkey was, he said, two tumans (about 13s.) a year, and on a sheep three tumans (nearly 1 pound). He further informed me that bread was dear at Yezd, costing three panabats (one and a half krans, or about 11d.) the man; and that during the great famine about sixteen years earlier it had risen to sixteen krans (about 10s.) the man, and that the people were in some cases driven to eat human flesh to appease their hunger. As we approached Chah- Begi we passed numerous tamarisk-bushes (gaz), which, as my companion told me, had formerly been much more abundant, till they were cut down by order of the Government, because they afforded a harbour to highway robbers of the Bakhtiyari and other nomad tribes. He gave the people of Abarkuh a very bad character, declaring that fatal quarrels were of constant occurrence there.
We reached Chah-Begi, a miserable walled village, containing
a few sordid and quarrelsome inhabitants, a little before 7 a.m.,
and alighted at the dilapidated caravansaray, in front of which
stood several sickly trees. I spent the whole day in the large,
dusty, ruinous chamber allotted to me; sleeping, eating, washing
It was with sincere delight that I quitted this detestable spot
about 1.30 a.m., and found myself once more on the road in the
cool, clear moonlight. Having nothing else to do, I watched
and timed the changes in the sky which heralded the dawn. At
3.30 a.m. the "False Dawn" (Subh-i-Kadhib) appeared, a little to
the north of the point whence the sun subsequently arose. At
3.45 a rosy tinge was perceptible in the sky. At 4.0 the morning
star began to shine over the hills. At 4.30 it was quite light,
and at 4.55 the sun rose; but it was not till 6 a.m. that the day
began to grow warm. An hour later we entered the village of
Baghistan, where the road bifurcated. Taking the right-hand
branch, we presently passed the castellated village of Irdun,
situated on a small hill, and, at about 8 a.m., reached a beautiful
village named God-i-Shirdan or Sharif-abad, which, with its
shady lanes, rippling streams, and verdant trees, reminded me
Other persons gradually joined the group which had gathered round me, amongst these being a respectable-looking, though poorly-clad, man, who had joined our caravan at Hakim. Presently one of those present asked me if I knew Russian. "No," I said, "why should I? A great distance separates the English from the Russians." "One man only intervenes between them," remarked my fellow-traveller. I looked at him in wonder. "You are not a Russian," I exclaimed. "I am a Russian subject, at any rate," he replied,"though a Musulman; my native place is Erivan."
At length my visitors began to approach the object which
had brought them. "Was it true," they asked, "that I had some
knowledge of medicine?" I answered in the affirmative. "Would
I visit a woman in their village who was stricken with a grievous
sickness?" they continued. I asked whether she could not come
We left God-i-Shirdan about 4.30 next morning, it being then
quite light; but though it was mid-day before we reached Sunij,
our next halting-place, we did not suffer any inconvenience from
the heat, as we were again ascending into a cool and mountainous
region. The wheat-laden donkeys had started at an earlier hour,
but the Erivani, whose acquaintance I had made on the previous
day, had preferred to wait for us, and I had a good deal of
conversation with him. I found him a pleasant and intelligent
companion, for he had travelled widely, and spoke, besides his
own Caucasian Turkish, Ottoman Turkish, Russian, Persian, and
Arabic. He told me that it was now three years since he had left
Erivan, whence he had journeyed to Tabriz, Teheran, Isfahan,
Kirmanshah, Baghdad, Bushire, and Shiraz. He was now proceeding
The road which we traversed this day was singularly beautiful,
and the country looked prosperous and well cared for. We passed
two villages, however, one on the right and another on the left,
named Haydar-abad and 'Abbas-abad respectively, which had
been deserted owing to the failure of their water supply. The
trees in their gardens were still for the most part green and
luxuriant, but already the fragile mud walls were falling into ruin;
and, meditating on this process of rapid decay, I ceased to wonder
at the many Persian towns and villages mentioned by early
geographers and historians of which no trace remains, and which
it seems impossible to identify. At a considerable distance to
*Hawsala, properly the crop of a bird, or the stomach of an animal, is
commonly used in Persian in the sense of patience, evenness of temper, or
capacity for stomaching insults or annoyances. So a short-tempered or
impatient man is described as tang-hawsala. Thus Nasiru'd-Din Shah
says in one of his poetical compositions--
"Dust na-bayad zi dust dar gilah bashad; Mard na-bayad ki tang-hawsala
bashad."
"Friend should not complain of friend; a man should not be short-tempered."
I succeeded in obtaining a very comfortable lodging, past the
door of which ran a stream of beautiful clear water. In the
afternoon I was visited by a number of the inhabitants, who were of
the true Yezdi type, fair-skinned and gray-eyed, with loosely-
coiled bluish turbans, and the curious sing-song drawl which
always characterises the speech of Yezd. This accent reminded
me strongly of the south Northumbrian in English, the modulation
of the voice in both cases being very similar; it is generally
much laughed at in Persia, but to me it always seemed soothing,
and at times rather pretty. My visitors, of course, were very
inquisitive, and asked me more than the usual number of
questions, chiefly about my religion and the business that had
brought me into a region so seldom traversed by Europeans.
"Was it true," they asked, "that Europeans accounted the flesh
of the pig a lawful food?" "Had we fixed ablutions and prayers?"
"How were marriages celebrated in Europe, and what were the
regulations as to dowry?" Presently a comical-looking old man
broke in, declaring that as for my business, he had no doubt that
Next day we were off about 5.30 a.m., many people assembling
to witness our departure. Amongst these was the old man who
had regarded me with such suspicion on the previous evening,
but he seemed to have changed his opinion of me for the better,
for, in bidding me farewell, he begged me, should I again pass
that way, by no means to omit a visit to the ancient castle of
Shawwaz, situated ten parasangs away, in the direction of 'Ali-
abad. Our host accompanied us till we were clear of the village
and on the road to Taft, his little son following us somewhat
farther, plaintively calling out to Haji Safar in his childish Yezdi
drawl, "Ye' ta macham na-kardi!" ("Thou hast not given me one
kiss")--a remark to which Haji Safar only replied with an outburst
of mirth and mimicry, which caused the boy to turn petulantly away.
The road which we followed was again singularly picturesque,
for it led us almost immediately below the rugged and precipitous
cliffs of the Shir-Kuh, rent and shattered on every ridge into
fantastic towers and needles. We were now again descending
towards the plain of Yezd, and in a valley to the left could discern
amongst several others the village of 'Ali-abad, through which
passes another road from Yezd to Abarkuh. The conversation of
my Erivani friend did much to dispel the monotony inseparable
from even the most picturesque march. Amongst other things,
We reached the large and flourishing village of Taft about
mid-day, two hours and a half after passing another prosperous
and pretty village called Khurashe. Taft was looking its best
on that fine May morning, the luxuriant green of its gardens
being pleasantly varied by the bright red flowers of the
pomegranates in which they abound. A wide, sandy river-bed, at
this season devoid of water, divides it into two parts, whereof
the northern is inhabited by the Zoroastrians and the southern
by the Muhammadans. We followed this river-bed, which
appeared to serve also as a road, for some distance, till we came
to a point where the houses were more abundant and the gardens
fewer. Here we halted, and began to look for a lodging, which
I finally obtained in a sort of pavilion in the middle of a large
square. Four rooms, raised somewhat above the level of the
ground, opened out of the central hall of this pavilion, which
was surrounded by a few trees, and appeared to offer desirable
and comfortable quarters. Unfortunately, these rooms were
Later in the afternoon I went for a short walk down the road- river with my Erivani friend, after extricating myself with some difficulty from a crowd of people with sore eyes and other ailments for which they desired treatment. In the course of our walk we were accosted, to my great delight, by two of the yellow- robed Zoroastrians, whom I now saw for the first time in the raiment which in Yezd and Kirman serves to distinguish them, even at a distance, from their Muhammadan fellow-citizens, but which in other parts of Persia they are permitted to lay aside. The Erivani asked them what was their religion, to which they proudly replied, "Zardusht, Kiyani" ("Zoroastrian, Achaemenian"), whereat he laughed not a little. On returning to my lodging, I found a handsome clever-looking man waiting to see me. From his talk I had little doubt that he was a Babi, for he enquired very minutely into the Christian belief as to the advent of the Messiah, adding, "Perhaps He has come, and you have not recognised Him," and presently, "Have you heard news of the Manifestation?" But when I asked him point-blank whether he was "of that sect" (az an ta'ifa), he only replied "Khuda dana" ("God knows"), and soon after left me.
Next morning (Saturday, 5th May) we started about 5 a.m.,
so as to reach Yezd before the day grew hot. Our road sloped
continuously, but gently, downwards towards the city, which
was in view almost from the beginning of the march. As we were
leaving Taft, a little boy came up and presented me with a rose,
and farther on an old man who was working in a field near the