TRAVELS IN 
 
 THE MIDDLE EAS 
 
 
 
 CAPTAIN T. C. FOWLE
 
 s vjr CALIFORNIA 
 S
 
 C*RP r '
 
 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST
 
 IN THE MADRESSIH-I-SHAH HUSSEIN
 
 TRAVELS 
 
 IN 
 
 THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 Being Impressions by the Way in 
 Turkish Arabia, Syria, and Persia 
 
 BY 
 
 CAPTAIN T. C. FOWLE 
 
 40th PATHANS 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS AND A MAP 
 
 LONDON 
 
 SMITH, ELDER, & GO. 
 
 15 WATERLOO PLAGE 
 1916 
 
 [All rights reserved]

 
 JD5 
 PtZt 
 
 <c 
 K 
 
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 IN MEMORIAM 
 
 >- 
 w 
 
 DC 
 
 DJ 
 
 CO 
 
 MY BROTHER 
 LIEUTENANT L. R. FOWLE 
 
 14TH KING GEORGE'S OWN FEROZEPORE SIKHS 
 
 KILLED IN ACTION IN THE DARDANELLES 
 JUNE 4, 1915 
 
 -
 
 I am indebted to the Editors of The Academy, 
 The Cornhill, The Pioneer, The Saturday 
 Review, The Times of India, and The World's 
 Work, for permission to have re-published in this 
 book matter which originally appeared under their 
 auspices.
 
 PREFACE 
 
 The question which is most frequently put to the 
 returned traveller by his kindly, curious friends with 
 regard to the regions which he may have traversed 
 may be summed up in the query, ' What is it like ? ' 
 It is the question which has most frequently greeted 
 the writer ; it is the question which he invariably 
 puts to other returned wayfarers. Some of us may be 
 interested in the politics or economics, the sociology 
 or anthropology, or any of the other more abstruse 
 features of foreign lands, but we are all interested in 
 the ' What is it like ? ' of them. And what do we 
 mean when we ask this question ? We mean, what 
 experiences did the traveller have in his wanderings 
 in those countries ? How did he travel ? What sort of 
 country did he traverse ? Where did he sleep o' nights, 
 and what did he eat ? Of what kind were the folk 
 with whom he rubbed shoulders ? Did he perchance 
 have any adventures ? And so forth. Nor do we 
 expect the traveller in reply to display any undue false 
 modesty in thrusting himself into the background. 
 Not that we necessarily feel a special interest in the 
 personality of the traveller himself, but it is through
 
 x PREFACE 
 
 him that we vicariously enjoy his travels, and if he 
 interests us many capital ' I's ' may be forgiven him. 
 
 If, therefore, the writer can be said to have any 
 object in this book beyond the already ambitious one 
 of pleasing the reader, it is to answer the question, 
 ' What is it like travelling in the Middle East ? ' 
 Not that he has any illusions as to this ambition 
 being attained. Amongst all the multitude of travel- 
 books written since first Man set out upon the Open 
 Road, there are perhaps a dozen — if as many — which 
 answer this simple question, ' What is it like ? ' and 
 Travels in the Middle East is not one of them. But 
 the writer has the less excuse for the extent to which 
 he may fail in his object, since the scope of his journeys 
 cut, as it were, a very fair ' section ' through the various 
 strata of Middle Eastern travel. These journeys con- 
 sisted of two ' language-leaves ' from India, the first to 
 Turkish Arabia and Syria, the second to Persia, for the 
 purpose of studying respectively Arabic and Persian, 
 The itinerary of the first was : Karachi to Busra via 
 the Persian Gulf, Busra to Baghdad up the Tigris, a 
 stay in Baghdad of some three months, a short trip 
 to the borders of Kurdistan, Baghdad to Damascus via 
 Palmyra, and a sojourn in Damascus of about three 
 and a half months. Thence back to India by the 
 ordinary steamer route — Beyrout, Port Said, the Red 
 Sea, &c. In the second trip, starting from Quetta, 
 the writer proceeded to Seistan by the trade route 
 across the Baluchistan desert, thence up to Meshed via 
 Birghand, and thence to Teheran via Askabad, the
 
 PREFACE xi 
 
 Transcaspian Railway, the Caspian Sea to Baku, and 
 Baku to Resht. From Teheran he travelled south to 
 Ispahan, thence out of Persia via the Lynch Road to 
 Ahwaz, the Karun river to Mohammerah, and back 
 to India via the Gulf. 
 
 These two trips were taken, it is hardly necessary 
 to say, and the records of them written, before the 
 War broke out. The result of the tremendous struggle 
 now in progress will bring, of course, considerable 
 changes to the Middle East, and it may seem that such 
 changes will make this book not so much a picture — 
 as far as it is a picture at all — of present-day travel 
 in the countries concerned as of travel-conditions 
 of a bygone age; that it may haltingly answer the 
 question, ' What was it like ? ' instead of ' What is 
 it like ? ' It is true that with the changes may come 
 those revolutionaries of travel — railways ; that where 
 the writer's caravan bells tinkled merrily there may 
 one day be heard the raucous scream of the locomo- 
 tive ; and that journeys which took the writer weeks of 
 preparation and months of actual wayfaring may be 
 accomplished by the reader in a few days after five 
 minutes' conversation at a booking-office. But it 
 is also true that the said changes will in the main 
 affect politics, of which this book contains no mention 
 from cover to cover ; that railways are not built in a 
 day nor yet in a year ; that even when — if ever — they 
 stretch across the Middle East they will be few and far 
 between, and that in the wide spaces ' between ' will 
 still lie the happy hunting-grounds of the traveller,
 
 Xll 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 where wayfaring will stretch before him in all its 
 primitive fascination as it did before the writer. 
 And as for the cities, the life of which the writer 
 has endeavoured to give some impression of in his 
 chapters on Baghdad and Damascus, those — as far as 
 the indigenous inhabitants are concerned — will con- 
 tinue to present the same features to the gaze of 
 the traveller by whatever new mode of locomotion 
 he may arrive at their gates. 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 October, 191 5
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAP 
 I 
 
 PART I 
 
 TURKISH ARABIA AND SYRIA 
 Karachi to Busra 
 II. Busra to Baghdad 
 
 III. In Baghdad. 
 
 IV. To the Borders of Kurdistan 
 V. Baghdad to Palmyra . 
 
 VI. Palmyra to Damascus 
 VII. A Sojourn in Sham 
 
 PAGE 
 I 
 
 12 
 17 
 
 35 
 
 55 
 
 82 
 
 100 
 
 PART II 
 PERSIA 
 
 VIII. QUETTA TO SEISTAN .... 
 
 IX. Seistan to Meshed .... 
 
 X. The Tragedy of Karbala . 
 
 XI. Meshed to Askabad .... 
 
 XII. Askabad to Teheran via the Caspian Sea 
 
 XIII. Teheran to Ispahan by Post- Wagon . 
 
 XIV. Ispahan ...... 
 
 XV. Ispahan to Ahwaz .... 
 
 129 
 
 149 
 
 168 
 
 187 
 
 205 
 
 225 
 
 242 
 260 
 
 Index 
 
 279
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 In the Madressih-i-Shah Hussein 
 
 Maskat ..... 
 
 Members of my Caravan crossing a Stream on a 
 
 Raft .... 
 A Bedouin Tent 
 In a Mosque 
 
 Dervishes .... 
 In a Mosque Courtyard . 
 Writer's Caravan 
 A Spill in the Snow- 
 City Gate, Seistan . 
 Persian Soldiers on the Road 
 A Wayside Meal 
 A Gate in Birjand . 
 Birjand .... 
 En Route 
 Persian Guards 
 The Post-Wagon 
 Entrance to Bazaars 
 Ispahan from the Ali Kappi Gate 
 A Persian Beggar 
 coffee-houses . 
 View on the Lynch Road 
 Bakhtiaris 
 A Suspension Bridge 
 
 Frontispiece 
 Facing p. 10 
 
 4° 
 
 4° 
 
 ,, 102 
 
 102 
 
 112 
 
 130 
 
 130 
 
 146 
 
 154 
 
 154 
 
 1, 160 
 
 ,, 164 
 
 ,, 164 
 
 ., 196 
 
 226 
 
 ,, 226 
 
 ., 242 
 
 252 
 
 252 
 
 266 
 
 266 
 
 268 
 
 Map to Illustrate ' Travels in the Middle East ' . At end of text
 
 TRAVELS IN 
 THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 PART I 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 KARACHI TO BUSRA 
 
 Though the sky was grey the day had not yet broken, 
 and I stood leaning out of my carriage window sniffing 
 at that little breeze which in the East is herald of 
 the dawn. And I had need of that little breeze, and 
 enjoyed it accordingly, for I was a passenger in the 
 Lahore- Karachi express which the night before had 
 crossed the Scinde desert. 
 
 The crossing of a desert at certain seasons, and by 
 the proper means of locomotion, the camel, is not 
 without its strange fascinations, but to cross it by 
 train, and while the weather is still warm, is — in one 
 word — Hades. 
 
 Hour after hour you live in a sand-storm raised by 
 tne rapid passage of the train through the air. Sand 
 is in your hair, in your shoes, in your eyes, in your 
 mouth, down your throat. A terrible gritty feeling 
 pervades you from head to foot. At frequent intervals 
 you wash your outside and your inside man with the
 
 2 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 sandy ; ;epid mixture which passes for water under 
 such circumstances, and at every halt you have your 
 carriage swept out. But in another half-hour the 
 desert has once more flowed over you and your abode. 
 
 And as, with this twelve hours of nightmare be- 
 hind me, and my train journey about to end, I stood 
 and drank in the fresh morning breeze, I felt a strange 
 sweet tang in the air, and knew that I smelt the sea. . . . 
 
 Karachi is a city which has not yet come to her 
 own as any of her residents will tell you. At some 
 future date when various railways, as yet but dotted 
 lines on the map, are converted into iron rails laid on 
 firm earth, she will assuredly come into her kingdom 
 with all the pomp and circumstance of a great com- 
 merce, and will bear the tide of the East and West trade 
 roaring through her gates, and her rivals will gnash 
 their teeth with envy. 
 
 But for the present she sleeps, a city of the desert, 
 with sand-strewn streets on which her traffic moves 
 noiselessly, silent and somehow sinister. Even her 
 vehicles smack of the primitive wastes from which she 
 has arisen, for you can see many carts drawn by camels, 
 which lounge along at their accustomed leisurely gait. 
 Her houses likewise are low, and straggle amazingly, 
 sure sign of a young township — young in progress, if 
 not in site — before rising rents force the sky-scrapers 
 upwards. 
 
 If you should explore her at night, Karachi is even 
 more of the East. She has all the silence of an Oriental 
 town after dark. Little or none of the life of a Western 
 town — or of a Western town in the East, such as Cal- 
 cutta — with its blazing shop windows, its open doors 
 of theatres, its quick come and go of motor-sped traffic, 
 is hers. Rather does she present to your view wide
 
 KARACHI TO BUKRA 3 
 
 squares, empty or perhaps occupied by "a C&fe, bz which 
 under palm trees the townsfolk collect after the manner 
 of the Arabs (and, indeed, one sees not a few Arabs 
 amongst them) ; white-faced houses shining in the 
 moonlight, many-windowed, flat-roofed ; dark mysteri- 
 ous lanes, narrow and tortuous. 
 
 No ! Karachi has not yet come to her own in the 
 march of progress, but perhaps is none the less interest- 
 ing thereby to the casual traveller with an eye for 
 contrasts. 
 
 It is as well for the traveller if, at the outset of his 
 journey, he can put himself under the protection of 
 some patron saint of wayfarers, more especially a saint 
 with powers local to the territory which he proposes to 
 traverse — Ganesh of the Elephant Head for India, but 
 who for the Persian Gulf ? No saint could I find for 
 this corner of the world, and so was fain to pay my 
 vows to a certain famous traveller and put myself 
 under his aegis. 
 
 For if you know your Arabian Nights you may 
 perchance remember the following passage : 
 
 So we took ship and set sail by the permission of God 
 (whose name be exalted). And destiny favoured us, and 
 the wind aided us, and we ceased not to travel by day and 
 night until we reached the city of El-Bussorah. 
 
 And having remembered so much you will undoubtedly 
 be able to fit the quotation to its author — Sindbad the 
 Sailor. 
 
 Having thus acquired a patron saint, as well as 
 more mundane necessaries in the shape of steamer 
 tickets and the like, I was ready to depart, and one fine 
 morning stepped off the quay into the sailing-boat 
 which was to bear me steamer-wards. 
 
 B 2
 
 4 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 'The great lateen ; sail' be Hied from the breeze, the 
 boat heeled over, little ripples whispered along the side, 
 and with my bag and baggage — two mule trunks, a 
 Wolseley valise, and a saddle — I moved down channel 
 to where the up-Gulf mail had her nose pointed to the 
 open sea. It was good, after nigh on four years' total 
 abstinence, to sail again on the face of the waters, 
 to hear the soughing of the bow meeting a wave, the 
 creak of the ropes, and to see the harbour set fair 
 in the sun to the moving shipping. 
 
 It was better that evening, leaning on the taffrail, 
 to watch the sunset's panoply gild the sea and sky, 
 the twain equally calm ; to watch, and scan with the 
 imagination — beyond the gold of the horizon — the 
 coasts of Arabia, and the minarets of cities hitherto 
 but cold names on the map, and wide deserts, and 
 months of wayfaring with no master but the whim of 
 the day and the turn of the road. 
 
 There are two boats by which you can go up the 
 Gulf, both of which belong to the B.I. S.N. Company. 
 The fast mail will rush you up to Busra in six days ; the 
 subsidiary mail, proceeding leisurely, and lading and 
 unlading cargo at many ports, will land you there in 
 ten to twelve. Ours was the latter, so leaving Karachi 
 we skirted the Mekran coast and touched at little places, 
 Pusnie, Charbar, and Jask — this latter after Maskat — 
 on the Persian side, and Debai on the Arabian, which 
 the mail ignores completely. All these spots are as 
 like one another as the dots which represent them on 
 the map. Of a sudden, coming up from the saloon, 
 you will find the ship at anchor, a good two miles from 
 the land. Here on the straight sea-shore — without 
 pretence of harbour — you will perceive some mud
 
 KARACHI TO BUSRA 5 
 
 huts, nearly merging into the sand on which they rest. 
 In front stretches the sea burnished into molten silver 
 by the sun, behind rise bare sand-coloured hills, on 
 either hand the sandy coast runs uninterrupted, and 
 the glare is intolerable. 
 
 On shore, with sand trickling over the edges of 
 one's boots, even in November it is warm, and one 
 makes one's way gladly to a building, a little apart from 
 the miserable bazaar, over which flies the flag. And 
 the flag, which one never notices folding and unfolding 
 itself majestically over public mansions in the impor- 
 tant places of the earth, claims one's attention, and 
 perhaps something more, in these outposts of Empire. 
 Here, flouting the open sea and the stark Mekran hills, 
 it is not so much a decoration as an emblem. 
 
 Beneath the flag one is received courteously with 
 a cool drink, and the superintendent of the telegraph 
 office is pleasantly communicative. ' Yes, there are 
 only just ourselves, myself and my assistant. Of 
 course, there is the guard. All the places up the Gulf 
 have detachments from the Indian Army as guards. 
 A trifle lonely ? Well, perhaps. We're not so well 
 off as at Jask, for instance, where there are at least 
 twelve men in the telegraph office, a hockey ground, 
 and a billiard table. Letters of any sort, of course, 
 only once a week. A bit warm in the hot weather ? ' 
 (Looking out of the window across the sand dunes, to 
 the glare of the sea — as one asks this question — one 
 can in imagination see the heat wave rise to heaven.) 
 ' Not too cool, certainly. The ladies feel it rather. 
 Ladies in these places ? Oh, yes, sometimes. Always 
 some at Jask.' (Mary, pity women up the Gulf in the 
 hot weather !) ' There are worse places than this, too.
 
 6 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 There's a telegraph station on the other side of the 
 Gulf where there's a white man by himself. Never 
 has a soul to talk English to from month's end to 
 month's end. What, got to get back to the ship ? 
 Have another whisky and soda ? No ? Well, good- 
 bye. Hope you'll have a pleasant trip.' . . . 
 
 The boom of the ship's signal gun woke me with a 
 start, and by the grey dawn I saw that we were floating 
 peacefully on the dark waters of a great lake — so it 
 seemed — girdled with high cliffs still ringing with the 
 echoes of the shot, while from in front a silent white- 
 faced town stared gravely down on us with innumer- 
 able window-eyes. And this was Maskat — the Maskat 
 of my first impressions, at any rate. Later there were 
 others. The lake was no lake, but a harbour ; two castles 
 flanked the town on either hand, and behind towered 
 a peak-topped hill. Later still I went ashore. 
 
 Maskat keeps its windows for the sea front. Once 
 past the British Consulate, and you find yourself in 
 narrow bye-ways, scarce room for two abreast, while on 
 either side the blind walls of houses rise cliff-like to a 
 thin strip of sunny sky. But down below there is no 
 sun, or heat, or sound— only the cool shade, the shuffle 
 of one's feet in the sand, and the solitary figure of a 
 cloaked Arab striding leisurely. Who lives behind 
 these silent walls ? What plots and counter-plots are 
 hatched behind their friendly barriers ? What strange 
 eddies here commence of the East whose fringes 
 touch the Wahabis at Riad or the Pathan in the far- 
 off Khyber hills ? Behind this iron door, gun-runners, 
 or the beauties of the harem ? And instinctively one 
 pauses in one's step for the glimpse of a fair hand and 
 the tinkle of a silvery laugh. But the door opens not,
 
 KARACHI TO BUSRA 7 
 
 the blind walls seem to frown, and there is no sound 
 save the shuffle of one's feet in the sand. . . . 
 
 I have said that the small fry of the Gulf ports — 
 Pusnie, Charbar, and their ilk — are alike as so many 
 peas, and in truth the large ones are unable to present 
 any startling peculiarities from each other. There is 
 the same sandy straight foreshore, the same long white 
 line of houses with dark masses of palms here and there, 
 and the same crowd of native craft with their queer 
 ungainly sails. As one draws near there is the same 
 evil-smelling beach, with boats half built, or left by 
 the falling tide. A few women wash their clothes in 
 the pools, a few boys play with shrill cries up and down 
 the sand, some curs — scavenging for their daily bread — 
 slink aside as one's boat grates upon the beach. Over 
 the Consulates and the houses of the local powers that 
 be, flutter many-coloured flags, and over the flags in 
 the blue vault hang vultures, ever wheeling. To be 
 sure, they call up different memories — do these said 
 ports — in retrospect. Bander Abbas and Bushire we 
 were fain to explore from the ship's rail, at the end of 
 our glasses. From the former the laws of quarantine 
 debarred us, and from the latter the distance of our 
 anchorage from the shore. 
 
 Lingah, to me at any rate, is a place of lonely squares 
 flooded by the moonlight — for we landed at evening — 
 with palm trees sending fantastic shadows across our 
 path as we stumbled after our cloaked guide, lantern 
 in hand. Now and then a figure muffled to the eyes 
 came from the shadows, peered at us askance, ex- 
 changed a hasty word with our guide, and disappeared 
 again into the shadows from which it came. 
 
 At Bahrein you will remember that my patron saint,
 
 8 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 Sindbad the Sailor, did some very good trading. It was 
 on his return from the City of the Monkeys, where he 
 had obtained many coconuts by the simple expedient 
 of pelting the creatures with stones until they pelted 
 him with the precious fruit. On his arrival at Bahrein 
 he induced some pearl-divers, by the payment of a 
 coconut apiece, to make a descent. ' And lo ! when 
 they came up out of the water they had with them 
 many pearls of price. And they said, " By God, O 
 our Lord, thy luck is great." ' 
 
 Remembering this fortunate episode, I had visions 
 of myself seated in a boat, smoking my pipe at my ease, 
 while energetic divers brought wealth, beyond the 
 dreams of avarice, to my feet. But unfortunately, on 
 our arrival at Bahrein I discovered that the pearl 
 season was over until the next hot weather warmed 
 the water, and even if it had not been so, I doubt 
 whether I should have made my fortune. For I learnt 
 that most of the trading is in the hands of banias (money- 
 lenders and merchants) from Hindustan, and when the 
 bania has squeezed the orange there is not much juice 
 left. The greater number of the pearl-divers are com- 
 pletely in the hands of their masters the merchants, 
 from whom they are compelled to obtain all the 
 necessaries of life, and thus are as a rule heavily in their 
 debt. Bahrein has apparently not been backward 
 in adopting one of the leading maxims of civilised 
 trade, that one shall sow and another reap. 
 
 At Koweit I saw the Bedouin on the edge of his 
 native desert. Here he comes with horses, cattle, and 
 sheep to barter for fire-arms, dates, and clothing. Out- 
 side the town was his encampment — a confused mass 
 of camels, bales, odds and ends of gear, black dwarfish
 
 KARACHI TO BUSRA 9 
 
 tents, women, children, and prowling dogs. Over all 
 rose a babel of grunts, babblings, shrill cries, and the 
 occasional yelp of a dog visited with vengeance for too 
 bold an attempt at pilfering. And amidst this noise, con- 
 fusion, and scuffling, moved the Bedouin, stately, calm, 
 and aloof, one of the last picturesque figures left to a 
 civilised world. A long cloak hangs from his shoulders, 
 with broad sleeves which leave full play to his sinewy 
 wrists and well-shaped hands. Open at the front, this 
 reveals a long garment resembling the dressing-gown of 
 the Western world, gathered in the midst with a waist- 
 cloth into which are stuck a couple of silver-handled 
 daggers. Over the head, and drawn forward at each side 
 so as to resemble a headpiece of old, is a gay-coloured 
 kerchief, round which are twisted rings of camel hair. 
 From under the kerchief stares out a dark sombre 
 face, with keen dark eyes puckered at the edges with 
 much watching against the desert sun, and well-cut 
 features. Over his shoulder hangs a rifle by its sling ; 
 a full bandolier crosses his chest. Such is the Bedouin, 
 the Spirit of the Desert made manifest in flesh. Such 
 was he that day at Koweit ; such was he long centuries 
 ago or ever Mohammed was born to Amina, wife of 
 Abdullah, the merchant of Mecca. Not otherwise can 
 we imagine him on the Last Day, facing the assembled 
 nations, stately, calm, and aloof. . . . 
 
 The scene 'tween decks when unloading was in 
 progress — a scene repeated at every port — was of 
 perennial interest, especially if at night. Leaning 
 over the rail of the upper deck, calmed by one's after- 
 dinner cigarette, one watched as from high Olympus 
 the stirrings of the mortals below. Overhead the 
 electric light flared ; under it the great ' buggalows '
 
 io TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 (native boats) rose and fell gently against the ship's 
 side ; the deck teemed with the movements of many 
 men, and sent up to heaven the sound of many 
 voices and the harsh rattle of machinery ; whilst 
 all around the night encompassed us, dark and 
 impenetrable. 
 
 After a while the eye began to dissect the component 
 parts of this hurly-burly. Supreme above it was the 
 chief officer, conspicuous in white, wielding the voice of 
 authority, bidding this one go to Tophet, and that 
 one come. Near by stood the tally-clerks, notebook 
 in hand, elaborately arrayed in long frock-coats and 
 fezzes, oblivious to all but the checking of the bales. 
 A crowd of ragged coolies formed connecting links 
 between the holds and the boats, their voices sounding 
 sepulchrally from the former and with no uncertain 
 discord from the latter. Around these the bees of 
 the hive crowded the drones, the deck passengers : 
 Arabs in long cloaks of divers colours ; Persians in 
 pleated skirts, with tall fezzes ; old men with long 
 patriarchal beards ; women enveloped from head to 
 foot in black, funereal garments, with white face- 
 pieces ; children in rags; some sheltered in little corners 
 made by erecting their packages of stuff; some with 
 only a blanket; some cooking, some smoking from large 
 hubble-bubbles ; a few, more devout than the rest, 
 perusing their Korans. 
 
 And by the side of these placid Biblical figures of 
 a bygone age the machinery clanked and groaned, 
 brought up large bales from the depths of the hold — 
 while the coolies yelled caution as one man — swung 
 them across the deck, and lowered them into the wait- 
 ing buggalows. It was a strange medley of the East
 
 ■ % ' 4 • 
 
 - 
 
 . » . • • . •
 
 KARACHI TO BUSRA n 
 
 and West rubbing shoulders, the twentieth century and 
 the first cheek and jowl. . . . 
 
 At Koweit we took on board a pilot to navi- 
 gate us up to Busra. He looked three-quarters negro 
 to one Arab, but a kindly and loyal heart must have 
 beat under his uncouth exterior. For : ' See our old 
 pilot ? ' asked the second officer. ' Funny-looking old 
 card, isn't he ? Well, apparently at one time he was 
 slave, or servant, of some fellow in rather a big way 
 up in these parts. The fellow died, and his son got 
 into trouble over killing a man ; Turks took him and 
 put him in prison. Well, our old pilot worked heaven 
 and earth to get him off ; he gets a good screw, you 
 know, does a pilot, and he spent it right and left — 
 " backshish," of course. It seems he got him off all 
 right, too, and then spent most of his hard-earned 
 gains in having him smuggled out of the country. I 
 call it rather fine on the old fellow's part.' 
 
 Yes, it was quite fine of him, and long may he live 
 to take ships across the bar and up the Shat-el-Arab 
 to Busra! 
 
 It is a relief on entering the Shat-el-Arab to have a 
 cool green vista of date-palms on either hand in place 
 of the sea glare and barren sandy coasts. And it is 
 fitting that the country should be restful to the eye, 
 for here in the beginning was the Garden of Eden, here 
 did our first parents fall, and hence were they driven 
 out, whilst behind them stood an angel ' with a flaming 
 sword which turned every way,' so that never more 
 might tired humanity find its way back to the shady 
 groves.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 BUSRA TO BAGHDAD 
 
 One is not long in the East, outside those parts of it 
 controlled by the British Government, before one dis- 
 covers that one is under the special protection of Provi- 
 dence. Everything will occur — or not' — by the will of 
 God, and if you make statements without the proviso 
 of In sha Allah (If God wills) your speech is looked 
 upon as mildly irreverent, and is mildly corrected. If 
 God willed the river steamer would leave Busra for 
 Baghdad on a certain date, and under the same pro- 
 viso would slip her moorings at 3 p.m., the advertised 
 time of sailing. With the first, God's disposal was in 
 accord with man's proposal; but not so with the 
 second, for it was not until 5 p.m. that our paddles 
 began to churn the waters of the Tigris. 
 
 ' We shall reach Baghdad, then,' I remarked, ' on 
 Saturday next.' 
 
 ' In sha Allah,' corrected the Turkish captain 
 gently. 
 
 We were carrying pilgrims to Kerbela, the great 
 Shiah shrine situated about sixty'miles from Baghdad. 
 How many hundreds I don't exactly know, but cer- 
 tainly more than the Baghdad could comfortably hold. 
 For in spite of much vociferation and gesticulation on
 
 BUSRA TO BAGHDAD 13 
 
 the part of the chief clerk, who withstood them for a 
 time at the top of the companion-stairs, they pressed 
 forward with their wives, their children, and their bales, 
 and finally took possession of the space reserved for 
 first-class passengers. The captain, blue-suited and 
 fezzed, shrugged his shoulders as we came forward 
 and took refuge on his quarter-deck. ' At this time,' 
 he said, philosophically lighting a cigarette, ' there are 
 many many pilgrims all going to Kerbela, and they 
 must travel somehow.' 
 
 However, with a plentiful supply of cigarettes, a 
 book or two, my fellow-passengers, and the panorama 
 of the banks slipping past on either hand, the hours 
 sped away as quickly as the swirling water. 
 
 Filled by the sense of movement, I could watch with 
 a placid interest the pastoral life on the banks, from 
 which the great bare plains stretch away on either 
 hand to a far horizon. Now and then a horseman, 
 rifle on back, stood on a little mound, clear-cut as 
 a statue against the sky. Now and then we passed 
 a Bedouin encampment — low black booths, hobbled 
 camels and horses, lounging men, and screaming women 
 and children, who scurried along with us, scrambling 
 for the bread and dates thrown by the passengers. 
 Anon would come a sail moving, so it seemed, in the 
 midst of the land, but when we had travelled a little 
 further, lo ! it was but a bend in the river and a great 
 clumsy country boat which had created the illusion. 
 Sometimes we passed wooden erections for drawing 
 water from the river, worked by two bullocks or horses. 
 Once we neared, where the river narrowed, some men, 
 armed as usual, one of whom proceeded to cover me 
 with his weapon, doubtless in jest, as, if they had medi-
 
 14 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 tated an attack, they wouldhavebeenin larger numbers. 
 Nevertheless, as I happened to be on the bridge at 
 the time, offering a conspicuous mark, and as a motion 
 begun in jest might end in earnest — the temptation 
 of bringing down a Feringhi proving too strong to be 
 resisted — with as great a show of nonchalance as I 
 could assume, I walked slowly to the other side and 
 put the chart-room between myself and the jester. 
 
 The pilgrims, too, were always a source of in- 
 terest, and, by reason of the overcrowding, were in 
 very close contact with us. They lay sprawling over 
 the deck around the clear oasis still left exclusively 
 for our use, so that one picked one's way carefully to 
 and from the companion-hatch over prostrate bodies. 
 They were for the most part Persians, who are practi- 
 cally all of the Shiah sect, fairish of face, with great 
 conical caps, sheepskin coats, and dirty blue dressing- 
 gown garments. They gathered in little groups of 
 families or chance acquaintances, building up their 
 bales as a precaution against the wind. Some of the 
 more wealthy — probably by the purchase of deck space 
 from their fellows— arranged little harems for their 
 women by devices of hanging cloths, though to the 
 outsider it would seem that these temptresses of the 
 virtuous were already sufficiently protected from pry- 
 ing eyes. For one and all wore the burkha, a great 
 shapeless garment with elephantine sleeves, effecting 
 a complete concealment of form and face, and only 
 allowing the eyes to appear. 
 
 There was, however, one fair pilgrim who was by 
 no means content to hide herself behind her black 
 shroud, but then she was privileged by her youth, being 
 not more than six or seven years old. She had that
 
 BUSRA TO BAGHDAD 15 
 
 peculiar beauty which is often granted to the younger 
 generation in the East to compensate for its rapid 
 decline, and moreover a very decided will of her own. 
 She bullied her father — a venerable white-beard — her 
 presumable brother, and her mother in the most de- 
 lightful way possible, and the way she would coquette 
 her burkha,in imitation of the more flighty of her elders, 
 with her playmates, two ragged urchins, turning first a 
 coldlittle shoulder,then a peepingand finally a piquante 
 little face, all merry with smiles, was one of the most 
 engaging sights I have ever seen. Poor little maiden ! 
 It was sad to think that once of age she was likely to 
 be sold by her parents in loveless marriage to some fat 
 old merchant of Shiraz, who would squeeze her young 
 life dry, and then make of her a household drudge. 
 Great beauty in the East is a family asset in hard cash, 
 not lightly forgone. 
 
 Although they were on their way to a shrine which 
 is at least as sacred in their eyes as Mecca is in the eyes 
 of the Sunnis, the pilgrims did not seem very zealous 
 in the matter of prayer. One only of the five times 
 during the day did they honour with any approach 
 of unanimity. All during the day they would lounge 
 about the deck, sleeping for the most part, but when 
 the evening came, and the setting sun flared the western 
 sky and the river with crimson, turning towards 
 it, they would make their devotions to Allah. This 
 accomplished, they would gather in little circles around 
 their charcoal braziers and eat the evening meal, 
 sending forth rich odours into the night, which now 
 gathered quickly around. 
 
 Now and again a pilgrim would go a-begging from 
 his fellow-travellers. It would seem that there was
 
 16 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 an etiquette in this matter, the needy one not asking 
 of himself but through the medium of a patron. The 
 latter, loud of voice and gesticulating, would go the 
 round of the deck, importuning all and sundry, and 
 detailing the merits of the particular case in hand, 
 become penniless so far from home, and while perform- 
 ing the sacred duty of pilgrimage. The former, poor 
 wretch, in rags and looking half starved, would follow 
 in rear, uttering no word, but beseeching with his looks. 
 Once or twice I contributed something, which must 
 have put a handle to the arguments of the patron. 
 For if a Christian's heart was melted by his eloquence, 
 hard indeed must that Moslem be who refused his 
 zakat (alms).
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 IN BAGHDAD 
 
 We arrived at Baghdad in the most un-Oriental 
 weather. A grey sky, a cold wind, and the waters of 
 the Tigris whipped to small waves. So Baghdad im- 
 pressed itself rather as how it would have looked under 
 a bright sun than how it actually appeared. First 
 came gardens sheltering detached balconied houses 
 overlooking the river — deserted, too, for these were the 
 summer residences of the wealthy classes. Still steam- 
 ing, and passing garden after garden, we reached 
 Baghdad itself, a long vista of fine houses rising from 
 the river banks, backed by the tumbled mass of the 
 city, and overtopped by the blue minarets and cupolas 
 of the mosques. Flocks of pigeons hovered over these, 
 women washed their clothes where the narrow streets 
 ran down to the water's edge, across the bridge of 
 boats endless passengers passed, the long balconies of 
 the coffee-shops were crowded, and innumerable gugas 
 whirled giddily in the tide. These last added the 
 necessary touch of quaintness to the scene, being per- 
 fectly round constructions, propelled by paddling,and of 
 an antiquity stretching back to Herodotus. Taking it 
 as a whole,it was animated, pleasingly strange to the eye 
 of the traveller, and needed but a flashing sun to make 
 
 17 c
 
 18 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 it perfect of its kind. But unfortunately the traveller 
 cannot bring his weather with him, or, for the matter 
 of that, his emotions. 
 
 Having taken a temporary footing in the building 
 which does duty for a hotel in Baghdad, I went 
 house-hunting. To a bachelor — in a profession which 
 necessitates much shared quarters with other beings — 
 the prospect of a house to himself was not without 
 charm, especially in the city of the Arabian Nights. 
 And as the hunting-grounds lay through a city which 
 was virgin soil for the hunter, where he gathered new 
 impressions of a new people at every step, the hours 
 passed quickly enough. Among these first impres- 
 sions the one that strikes most forcibly is the narrow- 
 ness of the streets. When one finds oneself in a lane 
 barely eight feet broad, when to avoid the crushing of 
 toes by a passing carriage one has to pancake against 
 the wall, it is difficult to believe that this is the principal 
 thoroughfare, the Piccadilly of Baghdad. Yet it is so, 
 notwithstanding the fact that the streets, being un- 
 metalled, are merely of beaten earth, with many hills 
 and valleys. Then the houses force themselves on the 
 attention. They bound the streets on either hand 
 with high blank faces. There are no windows by 
 which to get a glimpse of their inner life, no gardens 
 visible with pleasant flowers. They have an air of 
 hostile secretiveness to the wandering eye . Even their 
 doors — of iron set deep in archways — seem rather 
 made to bar one's passage than to open and let one 
 through. 
 
 Coming from India, one misses the large and im- 
 portant turban in the headgear of the people who 
 tread the narrow streets between the frowning walls.
 
 IN BAGHDAD 19 
 
 In its place are the coloured kerchiefs of the Arabs, 
 drawn over the head and beringed with camel's hair ; or 
 the small, inadequate-seeming turbans of the Persians, 
 or the fezzes of the Turks. As for their garments, 
 first impressions are of voluminous outer cloaks, over- 
 flowing under ones, a warring kaleidoscope of colour. 
 
 After many wanderings, and openings of heavy 
 iron doors which only closed again behind my dissatis- 
 fied back, I at length found the house wherein I write 
 this. It fronts an alley- way so narrow that I have 
 christened it the Needle's Eye, no camel, I am con- 
 vinced, being able to pass through. It leads off an alley 
 slightly broader, which turns into the lane constituting 
 Baghdad's principal street. It has no windows, and 
 offers in true Eastern fashion a blank face to the few 
 passers-by. Few, because the Needle's Eye is not a 
 frequented thoroughfare. Now and then a couple of 
 urchins sport up and down ; a woman, enveloped in 
 her shapeless black cloak, shuffles by ; a beggar raises 
 his mournful whine before my door. But for the rest 
 it is left to stray cats and dogs, who prowl and fight 
 and sleep away the sunny hours. 
 
 So we find ourselves in the alley-way before my 
 door, which is not of iron. In truth my imagination 
 longed for an iron portal — that would have given the 
 final touch of the Orient to my abode, that would in 
 very sooth have made my house my castle. But the 
 houses which possessed iron doors also possessed dis- 
 advantages, so I was fain to descend to a mere wooden 
 one. Perhaps I should have taken the disadvantages 
 with the iron portals, and so satisfied my imaginative 
 conscience ; one should, of course, endeavour to live 
 up to ideals. But I am punished for my backsliding
 
 20 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 in this matter by the loss of a sensation — its absence 
 barely noticed, but surely there — every time I pass in 
 or out. 
 
 At any rate, the door is sunk deep in its arch — like 
 its betters, the iron ones ; it looks stout enough to 
 resist a battering-ram, and we pass through. We find 
 ourselves in a small courtyard with a balcony running 
 round three sides, not on the ground level, but one 
 storey up. On the ground level are the kitchen, 
 store-room, servants' quarters, and sardab (summer 
 quarters) — these latter beneath the ground level for 
 greater coolness in the hot months. The four rooms for 
 the use of the owner of the mansion are off the balcony. 
 The first I do not use ; the second is my dining-room, 
 sparsely furnished ; the third my bedroom, still more 
 Spartan ; the fourth the room where I live, move, and 
 have my being, and where, consequently, some attempt 
 at comfort in the shape of divans, Persian carpets, 
 and book-littered tables has been made. Such a thing 
 as a furnished house to let in Baghdad is unknown ; 
 and as a traveller — sojourning there but for a space — 
 it profited not that I should invest in more encum- 
 brances than the comfort of the body absolutely 
 required. 
 
 All houses in Baghdad are built on very much the 
 same plan as mine — that is to say, round a courtyard, 
 with the sardabs down below. The larger sometimes 
 possess two courtyards, the outer for the men, the 
 inner for the harem, with fountains, tessellated pave- 
 ments, and so forth ; but these are not for the way- 
 farer, here to-day, gone to-morrow, with a light pack 
 and a lighter pocket. 
 
 Baghdad is a city of coffee-houses, among other
 
 IN BAGHDAD 21 
 
 things — khawa-khanas, as they are called. They vary 
 in size between little dark recesses just holding the 
 proprietor and his coffee-cups, while his patrons stand 
 drinking in the street, to large open halls holding a 
 hundred or more. Undoubtedly, the best khawa-khana 
 in Baghdad is the Khawa-Khana al Jisr (the Bridge 
 Coffee-house), and half-past four of an evening, as a 
 rule, saw me turning down the lane which leads to it 
 from the main bazaar. Mounting the dark earthen- 
 stepped staircase, I would find myself in a large room, 
 and, crossing to the outside balcony, would take a seat 
 from which to view both the free spaces outside and 
 the crowded life within. 
 
 The room is large and airy, with wooden pillars 
 supporting the roof ; seated on wooden benches covered 
 with straw matting are the coffee-drinkers. These are 
 mostly of the well-to-do of Baghdad — merchants, 
 whether Turkish, Christian, or Jewish ; so the fez, 
 surmounting the ordinary garb of civilisation, pre- 
 dominates. Here and there, however, flowing robes, 
 with small turbans or wool-ringed kerchiefs on head, 
 proclaim pure Persians or Arabs, some of the latter 
 especially taking the attention. Their gait as they 
 lounge into the hall seems to speak of the desert. Their 
 cloaks are coarser, stronger, seem made more for use 
 and less for show than those of their degenerate fellows 
 of the town. In like manner, their faces are harder, 
 darker, as though tanned by the unthwarted sun. 
 They take their coffee in taciturn silence, watching with 
 some contempt their gesticulating, babbling fellows. 
 Their eyes are glare- wrinkled ; they have something of 
 a free, predatory air. Perhaps they are of Nejd, or 
 Hail, or still more distant Riad.
 
 22 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 The rest of the customers, however, pursue their 
 way unmindful of scrutiny. Some recline almost 
 at full length, puffing narghilehs (water-pipes) ; some, 
 cross-legged, smoke cigarettes ; others sip their tea or 
 coffee ; others play at draughts, chess, or backgammon 
 — the latter the favourite game ; others again, their 
 coffee and smoking finished, gather in little groups, 
 discussing the news of the day. A bespectacled old 
 man reads aloud the paper to a couple of other grey- 
 beards in one corner, and in another the Koran is 
 being softly chanted. Among them moves the beggar 
 whom the charity of the proprietor allows in to ask 
 alms of his patrons ; the water-boy, jar under arm, 
 chain over shoulder, metal dish in hand, selling water 
 at half a farthing a drink ; the dispensers of the coffee, 
 clinking their china cups, metal pot under arm, and 
 their satellites, the urchins who collect the empty 
 vessels. So from the room rises a cheerful bustle, the 
 sound of many voices, the sharp click of the pieces on 
 the backgammon boards, and now and again athwart 
 the whole the cry of khawa-khawa from an impatient 
 customer. 
 
 No sooner am I seated than the proprietor himself 
 hurries up with a smiling greeting, calling loudly for 
 a narghileh. Perhaps I am the only Feringhi in 
 Baghdad who regularly frequents a coffee-shop, and 
 Mahmud considers it a special testimony to his house 
 that this should be the one chosen for my patronage. 
 The narghileh, I think, he looks upon as a shibboleth 
 of good faith, an open sign that under his roof I conform 
 to its customs, that when I am in Baghdad I do as 
 Baghdad does. As the narghileh gives its first bubble, 
 and I puff out the first cloud of smoke, Mahmud smiles
 
 IN BAGHDAD 23 
 
 anew and departs. In the meanwhile an attendant 
 has brought me my tea in a tiny glass, milkless, but 
 with a large piece of sugar slowly crumbling in its 
 amber depths ; for this is the custom of the coffee- 
 houses — first tea, then coffee. Presently he returns 
 with coffee, which he pours into a diminutive cup, 
 holding perhaps three teaspoonfuls. Even this the 
 attendant — for his other customers — fills but half full, 
 when it is drunk at a draught, and returned for another 
 helping. For me, however, he fills it, brimming over, 
 so that I may sip as I smoke, a habit not in vogue 
 among the Arabs. As for the coffee itself, it is milkless, 
 unsweetened, and of an excellent quality untasted 
 elsewhere. 
 
 Here on the balcony it is very pleasant. Twenty 
 feet sheer below the Tigris flows broadly, slowly past. 
 From the further bank many-windowed, irregular, 
 flat-shaped houses rise stately. Behind the houses 
 tall date-palms move gently in the evening breeze 
 against the setting sun, which gilds the sky, and soon, 
 descending, touches the water with crimson. On the 
 right the bridge of boats bears its complement of small 
 figures crossing to and fro. A guga paddles its way 
 leisurely across the crimson flood ; far down the stream 
 a single country craft remains becalmed with hoisted 
 sail. Two more are tied to the bank beneath us, their 
 crews on deck mending the gear. A little while and 
 the sun vanishes suddenly from behind the palms ; a 
 mist rises from the river ; the long high-pitched cry 
 of a muezzin rises from a neighbouring minaret, and is 
 taken up by another, and another ; the Arab boatmen 
 below turn to prayer. In the coffee-shop behind, the 
 hanging lamps are lit. The day is past. . . .
 
 24 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 Baghdad, though in some ways the most Oriental 
 of towns, possesses one Occidental luxury — music-halls, 
 of a sort. Mohammedan public opinion, however, in- 
 sisting as it does on the veil for its womenkind, would 
 hardly tolerate that the danseuses should profess its 
 faith. So the ladies of the corps de ballet are mostly 
 Jewesses from Aleppo and Beirut, with a few local 
 products, and Baghdad goes nightly to see them 
 perform. 
 
 Behold us, then — my friends, A. Effendi and M. 
 Effendi, and myself — ready to set out on the path of 
 pleasure. The Effendis have dined with me, we have 
 finished our coffee and cigarettes, and it remains but to 
 don fez and overcoat for the expedition to be ready. I 
 wear a fez sometimes at night, not with any idea of pass- 
 ing as a Turk or Baghdadi if spoken to — my Arabic is 
 very far short of that ideal — but merely to avoid the 
 curious glances of the crowd. Nothing spoils enjoy- 
 ment so much as being the centre of attention, as see- 
 ing a neighbour nudge his neighbour and the two look 
 covertly, until perhaps half a dozen pairs of eyes are 
 turned upon one. However innocent and harmless the 
 curiosity may be, it gives an uncomfortable feeling of 
 self-consciousness. A stray European now and then 
 wanders into a Baghdad theatre, but is sufficiently a 
 rata avis to share with the stage some of the attention 
 of the audience. Nor can this be avoided except by 
 the expedient of a fez. A cap immediately ' gives one 
 away,' and a bare head equally so — for the fez, like the 
 turban, is never taken off indoors. On the other hand, 
 in a fez and a dark suit — the dress of the greater part 
 of upper-class Baghdad, whether Christian or Moham- 
 medan, Jew or Gentile — one passes without comment.
 
 IN BAGHDAD 25 
 
 A. Effendi is a youth of about twenty, but un- 
 commonly old for his years. He belongs to a well- 
 known, wealthy and respectable merchant family in 
 Baghdad. His uncle, besides his principal occupation, 
 indulges in journalism, and is editor of one of the four- 
 teen newspapers in Baghdad — El Irak — not the name 
 the paper bears in print, but no matter. I gather that 
 El Irak, with thirteen competitors among such a small 
 public, is not a stupendous success from the sordid 
 financial point of view, and is carried on for the pleasure 
 it gives its editors. Art for art's sake ! It was this 
 which first attracted me to A. Effendi. For I, too, have 
 been editor en amateur of a journal, now defunct, which, 
 far from being a pecuniary success, necessitated sundry 
 disbursements from the editorial pocket. We fore- 
 gathered on the river passage from Busra, and renewed 
 our acquaintance in Baghdad. 
 
 M. Effendi is a somewhat older man. He has a 
 good taste in cigarettes, and affects a somewhat un- 
 common brand, of which he was kind enough to present 
 me with a hundred. Both talk French fluently besides 
 Turkish, as do the majority of educated Baghdadis ; 
 so when my Arabic fails I eke it out with the first 
 language. 
 
 Having started — preceded by our servants carrying 
 lanterns — the first point to decide is which theatre, for 
 there is a choice of four in Baghdad. 
 
 The Jisr coffee-shop which I frequent during the 
 day is at night metamorphosed into a cafe chantant, at 
 which Thera, the ' beautiful Egyptian,' sings and dances. 
 In the lower floor of the same building a rival beauty 
 trips and warbles, while in the Midan bazaar are two 
 more places of amusement.
 
 26 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 We finally decide on the latter, and quicken our steps, 
 for the Midan is far distant. Turning out of the Needle's 
 Eye, our way lies through the uncovered bazaars. 
 The shops are shuttered, the streets deserted save for 
 a few chance wayfarers. Overhead the stars twinkle 
 stilly in the black sky ; now and then we catch a gleam 
 of water in the flickering light of a lamp on the river's 
 edge at the end of an alley-way. The streets are empty 
 of life until to-morrow's sun shall again set them astir. 
 To the quick, jostling, noisy come and go under the 
 blazing lights of a Western city at night, Baghdad offers 
 dark, empty, silent bazaars. But it is not until we 
 reach the great covered marts that we find the true 
 Avernus. Here the arched roofs shut off the stars, and 
 the gloom is as that of Tophet . Our steps sound muffled 
 in the emptiness ; unconsciously we talk in whispers. 
 Dark tunnels open on either hand ; we might be in 
 caverns or vaults far under the earth. Save for the 
 watchmen and the city dogs, we seem the only moving, 
 living things. The former — crouched half asleep, 
 swathed in their long cloaks — raise a cry of ' Ya ! 
 Allah,' on our passing, as a warning to their brethren, 
 and these in turn take up the mournful wail, which 
 echoes and re-echoes far in front of us down the long 
 aisles. The latter raise their voices in dismal barks 
 and howls, which their enemies of the next section reply 
 to — in the manner of Stamboul, each party having its 
 own territory — until the roofs ring again. 
 
 Then suddenly a large open door flings a band of 
 light across our path, and the sound of music, and the 
 murmur of voices. We have arrived at the Theatre 
 Royal, Baghdad. 
 
 The price of entrance* the same to any part of
 
 IN BAGHDAD 27 
 
 the house, is not excessive — about fourpence, coffee 
 and narghilehs extra. The hall is a tolerably large one, 
 with a gallery all round. At the further end is the 
 stage, at which we get a confused glimpse as we make 
 our way to our places in the gallery above. Once there, 
 our overcoats off, cigarettes lighted, we have oppor- 
 tunity to look round. 
 
 The shortest way to describe the entertainment 
 would be to say that it was an Indian nautch. Those 
 who have not seen an Indian nautch will at once conjure 
 up some picture of Oriental fascination, bewitching the 
 senses, deliciously wicked. Those who have will agree 
 with me that it is one of the most boring entertainments 
 possible for a European to watch. Sad am I to strike 
 down another illusion, but so it is. 
 
 Nothing could be further from our ideas of ballet- 
 dancing than those of the East. In the West it is mostly 
 energetic movement, quick gesticulation of arms and 
 legs, short skirts, and possibly high kicking ; in the East 
 it is all slowshufning,imperceptible turning of the hands 
 and head, twitches of the body never out of the perpen- 
 dicular, limbs swathed to the toes. The nautch-g\v\ 
 shuffles this way and that, completes slow circles, 
 thrusts her chin backwards and forwards, waves her 
 hands stiffly from the wrists, and twitches all over like 
 a sleeping seal. After five minutes you are fearfully 
 weary of it, but do your best to conceal it from your 
 Eastern friends, who watch it calmly, gravely, keenly 
 interested, and will continue to do so until far into the 
 morning. For the nautch is no duller, no more moral, 
 not a whit less suggestive to Eastern eyes than the pas 
 seul of the most daring danseuse in Europe is to Western 
 onlookers. But it is different, that is all, and the
 
 28 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 nautch remains a perfect epitome, in its way, of the gulf 
 between East and West. 
 
 The singing is on the same plane, so far removed 
 from the Western that one hardly draws a comparison. 
 What can one say of an Eastern prima-donna who 
 possesses not a single treble note in her voice, but who 
 yet is said by educated Easterns to sing beautifully ? 
 Again one can only shrug shoulders, and say the East 
 is different. It is a poor definition, criticism, what you 
 will ; but it is the best possible. 
 
 The performance at the Theatre Royal, Baghdad, 
 was a nautch, with the difference that the artistes were 
 Jewesses and not Mohammedans, and that for the most 
 part they wore morning gowns of European cut, which 
 made them look somewhat ridiculous. Altogether the 
 performance was not exciting, and although that un- 
 failing Eastern ' draw ' to the Western traveller, the 
 crowd, made up in part for the dullness of the stage, 
 I was not sorry when we were once more walking 
 homewards. . . . 
 
 An hour before noon M. Effendi and I set out 
 one day for a continued exploration of Baghdad. 
 M. Effendi was much amused at the idea of our minia- 
 ture expedition, and we strode out of the Needle's 
 Eye with a gait and seriousness as if bound for the perils 
 of Nejd. Turning to the left, we found ourselves in a 
 long street, which is the highway between the European 
 quarter of the well-to-do classes and the native bazaars. 
 Near the latter end a few solitary shops exist — out- 
 posts of the native town — but these soon cease, and we 
 walked henceforth between blank walls, iron doors, 
 and high overhanging windows. A little further on we 
 met some maidens of the place — Christian Armenians,
 
 IN BAGHDAD 29 
 
 by their dress — out to pay a morning call. Non- 
 European Christians in Baghdad adopt the custom of 
 veiling their womenfolk when out of doors, but in a 
 far more artistic way than do the Moslems. The 
 funereal shrouds of the Moslem women with their 
 thick black veil give place to beautiful pieces of 
 coloured silk, and veils so thin as to be merely attrac- 
 tive. Every face is beautiful behind a veil, and very 
 pretty bits of colour did these maidens bring into the 
 street as, passing on their way, they gave us a fleeting 
 glance from mantles drawn coquettishly across. 
 
 The Bab-ash-Sharki (the Eastern Gate) is reached 
 by the Road of the Strangler — a memorial to some 
 garrotter long since gone to his account — and lies 
 between gardens. 
 
 At the gate was a guard, and the inevitable coffee- 
 house. It is a favourite resort for the town-dwellers, 
 this cafe on the edge of the desert, where some of the 
 fresh breezes come, and there was the usual complement 
 of fezzes and kerchiefed heads puffing at narghilehs and 
 basking in the sun. But beyond these the gate slept. 
 East only by name, south-east by position, not two 
 hundred yards away from the rippling Tigris, it bears 
 no throng through its portals. It is one of the four 
 ancient gates of Baghdad, but now its glory is departed 
 and it sleeps away the hours with its loafers and coffee- 
 drinkers. 
 
 One thing, however, does appear at the Bab-ash- 
 Sharki, and that is the desert. We passed through, 
 turned sharp to the left, and, ascending a slight incline, 
 were on the edge of the great plain which stretches 
 away to the mountains of Luristan. Baghdad is ringed 
 with deserts. From whichever gate you travel you
 
 30 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 cannot escape them, but from the Bab-ash-Sharki the 
 desert comes suddenly. One moment we were in 
 narrow streets, the next our horizon was bounded only 
 by our eyesight. The wind blew fresh as across an 
 ocean ; in the middle distance a file of camels moved 
 microscopically ; from the city behind began the call 
 to the mid-day prayer, faint and clear, Alla-hu-Akbar, 
 Alla-hu-Akbar (God is most great, God is most 
 great). 
 
 Here we could see the limits of eastern Baghdad — 
 a dried moat, a crumbled wall — and rousing ourselves 
 from the semi-trance born of large distances and far- 
 off sounds, we walked the half-circle, always the desert 
 on our right, the town on our left, passing the two gates 
 — the Bab-at-Talism, still closed by the order of an 
 ancient caliph, and the Bab-ul-Wustani. So some 
 hours after leaving the Bab-ash-Sharki, we found our- 
 selves at the Bab-ul-Muazzam. This is certainly the 
 most imposing gate in modern Baghdad. The arch is 
 high and complete ; the wall is so thick that houses are 
 built upon it, and the arabana (carriages) to Mosul pass 
 to and fro beneath. Outside, Arabs from caravans fed 
 their animals or chaffed with the stall-holders. Now 
 and then a string of camels or pack-horses streamed 
 through, while their owners shouted ' Balag, balag,' 
 and the small urchins tried to stampede the frightened 
 animals into the dividing crowd. 
 
 A little way inside the gate are the book-shops. 
 Here you may purchase tomes in every language of 
 the East, from the Thousand and One Nights to the 
 Koran, and their vendors, gravely smoking, will often 
 let you thumb the volumes without importuning you 
 to buy.
 
 IN BAGHDAD 31 
 
 To-day we had no time for loitering, and pressed 
 forward into the heart of things — the great crowded, 
 jostling, gesticulating, shouting bazaars. It was a 
 wonderful scene. All along the side were the little 
 shops, raised some three feet off the street, with their 
 owners sitting cross-legged behind their wares. Over- 
 head the great arched roofs shut off the sun and en- 
 closed the hum of the vast hive to a dull roar. Under- 
 neath moved the crowd. And what a crowd ! Flow- 
 ing robes, colours of the rainbow; keen, dark faces, 
 tossing hands, wide-opened mouths vociferating to be 
 heard above the din. Arabs of the city, Bedouins of 
 the desert, Persians from Shiraz, Turks from Stam- 
 boul, Jews, Christians — all crushed together pell-mell. 
 Porters charged through the fray, shouting the universal 
 ' Balag, balag ' ; carriages followed hard on their track, 
 driven at reckless speed, but the crowd only parted 
 to join more firmly. Women shuffled timidly on from 
 shop to shop, cast hither and thither by the stronger 
 eddies. Auctions collected struggling whirlpools in 
 which even hardy porters were lost to view. Water- 
 sellers, bearing their merchandise in skins on the backs 
 of horses, or in smaller bulk on their own backs, or in 
 smaller bulk still in earthen bottles slung by a chain 
 under the left arm, joined their cries to the hubbub. At 
 the corners the money-changers clinked silver in a 
 flowing stream from hand to hand. And in the midst 
 of this pandemonium, among the legs of the passers-by, 
 picked out by a shaft of light through the roof, two 
 caged doves, for sale, pecked unconcernedly at their 
 food, while their owner above extolled their plumpness 
 and small price. 
 
 There are many covered bazaars in Baghdad, each
 
 32 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 with its own trade. The bazaars of the iron-workers 
 ringing like a blacksmith's shop, while the workers 
 themselves, half-naked, stand out in the gloom against 
 their own fires like figures of an inferno ; the clean, 
 comparatively quiet bazaars of the carpet and cloth 
 sellers, much frequented by women ; the bazaars of 
 china and enamel ware, mostly in the hands of the Jews ; 
 of the butchers, grisly with much slaughtered flesh ; of 
 fruit, pleasant to the eye and smell ; of the kabob sellers, 
 with simmering dishes of stews and balls of meat 
 (kabobs), stuck through with skewers, roasting over grid- 
 irons — these and many more did we inspect. Then 
 we sought rest and refreshment in the nearest coffee- 
 shop. It now was three o'clock, and we had been some 
 four hours afoot . As we sipped bur first cups of tea grate- 
 fully, the cry of the muezzins calling to the asr (after- 
 noon prayer) rose high even above the roar of the 
 streets, and floated peacefully in on our ears — Alla-hu- 
 Akbar, Alla-hu-Akbar. 
 
 It must have been nearly four when we rose regret- 
 fully, and set out once more, this time down to the 
 bridge of boats which connects east with west Baghdad. 
 The same crowds which filled the bazaars passed and 
 repassed, but for the most part in silence, save for the 
 occasional cry of a sweetmeat-seller, sitting cross-legged 
 by the bridge-side. Here the air blew pleasant and 
 chill up the river after the close streets, and seagull-like 
 birds swooped over the sun-kissed wavelets and the 
 plying gugas. 
 
 We paused a moment at the other side to look back 
 at the best view of Baghdad, which is any one's property 
 who takes the trouble to cross from bank to bank on a 
 fine day. On the water's edge were the large white
 
 IN BAGHDAD 33 
 
 houses, long-balconied, flat -roofed ; behind rose minaret 
 and cupolas into the blue sky, beringed with settling 
 and hovering pigeons ; in front rolled the great river 
 with its busy bridge. 
 
 Western Baghdad is Baghdad's East End, as is 
 only fit in the topsy-turvy East. On the east bank 
 are the houses of the well-to-do, the large bazaars, the 
 great mosques ; on the west the mean houses of the 
 poorer folk whose work lies in the eastern quarter, 
 the smaller bazaars, the minaretless mosques. Yet for 
 all that western Baghdad contains two things of note, 
 its tramway and its busiest gate. 
 
 It was with something of a shock that I came upon 
 the former. I felt a jarring note. A tram — even 
 that ancient vehicle, a horse-tram — is centuries out 
 of place in the city of the Arabian Nights. It does 
 not thrust itself too much on the attention, that is 
 one good point about it : it hides its decrepit modernity 
 — for it is a very poor affair even as horse-trams go — 
 exclusively in the western side, running a couple of 
 miles to a Shiah shrine (Kazmain) outside the city. 
 
 As for the gate, though it is the busiest it is the 
 least pretentious in the city. There is no definite arch, 
 no wall, merely an open square into which the bazaars 
 run. There is no startling contrast here between the 
 busy streets and the silent desert ; you reach the 
 latter through scattered hovels, diminishing as you 
 proceed, and high-walled gardens. Yet it is from here 
 that the overland route to Aleppo and Europe begins ; 
 from here that the pilgrims set out to Kerbela ; by 
 this gate that the caravans arrive from Central 
 Arabia. 
 
 We found it busy enough. A score of arabana
 
 34 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 stood empty round the square ; more had just arrived 
 and were disgorging their passengers. Pilgrims — 
 Persians, for the most part, in tall conical caps and 
 sheepskin coats — trudged in, Kerbala accomplished, 
 their womenfolks following in horse-panniers. A 
 string of laden camels padded past. All was bustle 
 and the arrival of tired men and animals from many 
 miles of wayfaring. 
 
 Here also ended our exploration ; but I had 
 rather the feeling, which I suppose must come at the 
 end of every exploration, of things unseen rather than 
 those seen, places unvisited, streets untrod. 
 
 ' There,' replied M. Effendi, ' will we explore 
 another day. In sha Allah (If God wills).' 
 
 ' In sha Allah,' I echoed.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 TO THE BORDERS OF KURDISTAN 
 
 Ten o'clock of a fine winter's morning, a month or so 
 after my arrival in Baghdad, found me outside the 
 Bab-ul-Muazzam with my caravan bound for the open 
 road. Caravan ! Let there not arise in your mind 
 mistaken visions of a long line of swaying, shuffling 
 camels. My caravan consisted of only three animals, 
 and they were horses — ponies, to be quite accurate. 
 One carried myself, one my servant Mohammed, 
 perched high on layers of quilts— his bedding for the 
 night — and one my goods and chattels for the journey — 
 my valise, to wit, balanced on the other side by pots 
 and pans and my gun-case. Hussein, the youth in 
 charge of the horses, brought up the rear on foot. 
 
 Starting from the Bab-ul-Muazzam, for all you 
 can see to the contrary, you might be bound on some 
 desert journey of months. In front stretches away 
 the bare brown desert to the flat horizon, and it is 
 only from the map that you know that what lies 
 beyond is not desert again, but the mountains and 
 hills of Kurdistan. 
 
 Yet there was enough desert that fine January 
 morning to dwarf my minute caravan into less than 
 insignificance. Stamping its hoofs in the little court- 
 
 35 D 2
 
 36 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 yard of my house, boring its way blusteringly through 
 the crowded bazaars, my caravan had seemed of 
 importance and moment. But here in the midst of 
 that vast circle of horizon we dwindled down to five 
 shadows, hurrying almost fearfully, as it were, over the 
 sand in the midst of the encompassing solitude. For 
 of all animals it is the camel, and the camel alone, 
 who fits into the desert. Other animals, like my 
 ponies, scurry fussily across it, knowing they are out 
 of their proper sphere — the land of grass and hills — 
 and speeding to reach it once more. But the camel 
 moves leisurely in his own kingdom, lounging away 
 one after another the long desert miles. No fear for 
 him, no fuss, no slipping in the moving sand. Else- 
 where incongruous, here he is the spirit of the land 
 made manifest in the flesh. He belongs to the desert 
 and the desert to him. 
 
 The wind was fresh, the sun was bright ; I had 
 opened the gates on a new journey. Al dunia taieb 
 (the world was pleasant), as the Arabs say simply. 
 
 At about three o'clock we arrived at our khan, 
 Beni Said. A short stage this, starting late and halt- 
 ing early. But it is not wise policy to press one's 
 men and beasts the first day. 
 
 So we alighted, and while Mohammed and Hussein 
 unloaded the pack-pony, I made a tolerably straight 
 line for the coffee-house adjoining the khan, for here 
 tea, a narghileh (Turkish pipe), and peace were to be 
 found. 
 
 Mohammed, my servant, was somewhat scandalised 
 by this trait of mine of attending the public coffee- 
 houses. He held my conduct to be unconventional 
 on the part of a sahib, and would have had me shut
 
 TO THE BORDERS OF KURDISTAN 37 
 
 myself up in my room in the khan. Now, whatever 
 position I may have held in the Indian station where 
 my regiment happened to be quartered, thanks be 
 to the god of liberty I held none in Turkish Arabia. 
 So I bound myself by no shackles of respectability 
 and foregathered with whom I pleased. There is of 
 course a commonsense limit to this matter of fore- 
 gathering with all and sundry, since familiarity breeds 
 contempt, East as well as West. Still, it should be 
 the traveller's aim to approach as near as may be to 
 this limit, and with the exercise of some tact and a 
 little knowledge of the local manners and customs 
 the golden mean can usually be struck. 
 
 A word as to khans. In Europe you call them 
 ' caravanserais ' ; in India we shorten it to ' serais ' ; 
 in Asia Minor they become khans. But in India for 
 English travellers there are ' dak bungalows ' (rest- 
 houses) along the roads, so this was my first experience 
 of a khan. True to its type, it was built in the form of 
 a square in two stories, in front of the upper of which 
 ran a balcony. In the middle was a courtyard for 
 the animals. All round were rooms for the travellers, 
 or for stowing grain, or for stables for the horses. 
 As I walked across to my room from the coffee-house 
 the caravans were very busy settling down for the night. 
 Mules were being curry-combed, their heads deep in 
 their feeds, their heels ready for the unwary ; camels 
 squatted hunched up, ruckling and munching ; while 
 the muleteers or camel-men, ragged and unkempt, 
 staggered to and fro with fodder, or chaffered in 
 high-pitched screaming voices. Through half-open 
 doors I could see well-to-do travellers — fat bearded 
 pilgrims returning from Kerbela maybe — squatting on 
 
 rv*f
 
 38 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 piles of carpets, their narghilehs and samovars before 
 them. 
 
 My room was of the ordinary type, bare as the palm 
 of your hand, mud floored, mud walled. My camp 
 bed had been left in India by a careless servant when 
 packing, so Mohammed had annexed two benches 
 from the coffee-house whereon to lay my valise. Here 
 I ate my evening meal of stewed chicken, dates, and 
 native bread ; here by the dim light of my candle 
 lamp I wrote up my diary for the day ; and here 
 finally I strapped myself into my valise and slept as 
 one of the Seven Sleepers, notwithstanding the hard- 
 ness of the couch. 
 
 The journey which I proposed was as follows : 
 From Baghdad I purposed to travel north-east to 
 Kirkook by way of Deli-Abbas and Kifri, or Salahiyeh, 
 as it is called now ; from Kirkook to Suleimaniyeh, 
 from there to Kifri, and from there to Baghdad, via 
 Gurfa — a circular trail, leading nowhere, but travers- 
 ing in its compass caravan tracks both great and 
 small, so that on returning bearing one's sheaves with 
 one — to the extent of some four hundred and fifty 
 miles — one would have a shrewd idea of what travel 
 was like in Turkey in Asia. And in any event — 
 
 There's nothing under heaven so blue 
 That's fairly worth the travelling to. 
 
 It is the road that one travels for, not its end — the 
 pilgrimages that one remembers, when the shrines are 
 forgotten. 
 
 Next morning we were up betimes and, travelling 
 without incident, reached Bakuba, the next halting- 
 place. Here it was pleasant, with a flowing river and
 
 TO THE BORDERS OF KURDISTAN 39 
 
 thick palm groves rustling in the breeze, and Moham- 
 med would have had us stay there. Now, I was paying 
 for my caravan at the rate of two mejidies, or about 
 a lawyer's fee, six and eightpence, per diem. And 
 though I was quite willing to pay for my own moods 
 of laziness, and stop days in places if the fit took me, 
 I had all the objection in the world to pay for other 
 people's, and stop hours. So I gave the fiat that the 
 march would be continued, and the more Mohammed 
 grumbled and protested that the next stage was baed, 
 baed (far, far), the more determined I naturally 
 became to traverse that farness. 
 
 So we fared forth, and rode the long afternoon 
 over flat grassy lands, pleasant to the sight after the 
 sparseness of the sandy tracks between Baghdad 
 and Bakuba, and even as Mohammed had foretold 
 the setting sun found us still upon the road. Low it 
 sank behind a palm grove, flushing the sky, and fill- 
 ing the plain with creeping shadows. Evening mists 
 arose and mingled with the scattered smokes of Bedouin 
 encampments. The flush left the sky, and the far 
 horizon line gleamed thinly red, darkly defining the 
 sentinel palms. The cries of unseen herdsmen driving 
 home their flocks came faintly to our ears from the 
 gathering darkness, then the sun fell, and all around 
 us, the earth slipped swiftly into night. 
 
 And surely it is in beautiful, inevitable, simple 
 things like this that the true charm of travel lies, 
 and not in uncertain adventures by the way. Every 
 day the traveller has in fee the promise of the dawn, 
 the rich life of the noonday, the fading panoplies of 
 eve. Every day they come, old as the world itself 
 yet ever with something new, either in themselves,
 
 40 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 or in his seeing them with new eyes. And yet they 
 are unrecordable. The traveller cannot pass their 
 joy on to another. The words are not forged to paint 
 one such beautiful simplicity, how much less to dis- 
 tinguish between the subtleties of a thousand. 
 
 That night found us in poor quarters, as khan Said 
 was not the regular caravan stage, which went through 
 from Bakuba to Deli Abbas, and could only offer us 
 the same accommodation as our horses. Supplies, 
 moreover, seemed to be scanty. 
 
 At last, however, a chicken was produced, slain out 
 of my sight, though not altogether out of my hearing, 
 stewed, and eaten ravenously with the inevitable bread 
 and dates. My waterproof sheet was laid in the 
 cleanest — not clean — part of the stable, and my valise 
 being extended I strapped myself into it, clothes and 
 all, minus only boots and coats, it being no occasion for 
 the amenities of civilisation. Then Mohammed brought 
 my tea, steaming hot and fragrant, and I set match 
 to my pipe. The firelight flickered strange shadows 
 on the mud walls and roof beams ; the horses near at 
 hand munched steadily ; a little breeze floated in 
 through the doorway — open, for door there was none — 
 ruffling my hair gently as it passed ; and I would not 
 have exchanged my stable for the most gorgeous 
 mansion in Park Lane. . . . 
 
 All the next day we travelled over the same pleasant 
 grasslands, the wide horizon broken only by scattered 
 Bedouin encampments, herds of sheep and goats, and 
 an occasional mound, its insignificant forty feet or so 
 here standing up with all the dignity of Mount Everest. 
 We had left the main caravan route from Persia to 
 Baghdad at Bakuba, and consequently the road, purely
 
 MEMBERS OF MY CARAVAN CROSSING A STREAM ON A RAFT 
 
 A BEDOUIN TENT
 
 TO THE BORDERS OF KURDISTAN 41 
 
 a courtesy title for a rough track, emptied itself of 
 company. No longer did we move with long, swaying 
 lines of camels, with sheepskin-coated pilgrims from 
 Kerbela, leading bepanniered ponies in which sat 
 their womenfolk discreetly curtained from the gaze of 
 the curious ; with the hubbub and life of an important 
 way. For two hours perhaps we would journey with- 
 out meeting any save a solitary wayfarer, then far off 
 on the horizon would appear some black dots, disappear 
 into a dip of the ground, emerge again larger and more 
 distinct. 
 
 ' Karawan ' (caravan), Hussein would say, with a 
 wave of his hand. Nearer and nearer would they 
 approach, until all of a sudden, so it seemed, they 
 would be upon us, one hundred and fifty, two hundred 
 laden ponies, the leader stepping proudly in the van, 
 his head held high, jangling perhaps a score of bells, 
 the others in the rear making the most of their one 
 apiece. So the whole air would be full of their merry 
 chorus, and the rattle of hoofs on stones, and friendly 
 greetings between the two caravans. Then the last 
 loiterer would pass, the track stretch ahead empty as 
 before, a final faint tinkle of their bells reach our ears, 
 and we would be alone again in the silence. 
 
 That night we stayed at Deli Abbas, where, the 
 khans being full, I slept in a species of store-room, and 
 next day were off with the dawn, for the march was a 
 long one, twenty-seven miles. My escort had been in- 
 creased, for to-day we were to cross the Jabal (moun- 
 tains or hills) Hamrin, which do not bear too savoury 
 a reputation, the Kurdish tribes which inhabit them 
 now and then preying upon the travellers. 
 
 By this time the character of thepeoplehad changed.
 
 42 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 We had left behind the Bedouin and began to meet 
 the Kurd. No longer the beringed kerchief drawn 
 over the head, the long abba, the clear-cut face. Our 
 fellow-wayfarers wore now small turbans of thick shawls 
 wound round their heads, blue garments curiously 
 like dressing-gowns, and thick sheepskin coats. They 
 had a more uncouth air than the Arabs, with thicker 
 features, and gibbered Kurdish at our escort, who also 
 were of that district. The Jabal Hamrin did not prove 
 very formidable, and we crossed it in a leisurely two 
 hours. All the way we met parties of Kurds — for the 
 most part with the rifle slung on back — driving their 
 small flocks before them. Some of them seemed to 
 eye first my caravan wistfully, and then rny escort, 
 with a look that was not all loving. Perchance, but 
 for the latter, they had already divided the spoil. Now 
 and then, coming round a corner, we would see a party 
 seated on a knoll that commanded the road. Then 
 would the escort dig their stirrups into their horses 
 and dash forward with a fine clatter, holding their rifles 
 free in their right hands. I also would loosen my 
 revolver in my holster, in case of accidents. But the 
 supposed brigands would give us a friendly ' Salaam 
 Alaikum ! ' (Peace be upon you ! ) as we passed, and all 
 was well. 
 
 At Kartepe — our stage for that day — Mohammed 
 got me a pleasant room on the upper storey of the khan, 
 from which I could view the country-side, and at sun- 
 set it was curious to see the flocks coming in from all 
 points of the compass, whose centre was the town — 
 at first moving smudges on the far pastures, then dis- 
 tinguishable units on the brown tracks leading through 
 the green, finally a jostling, black and white woolly
 
 TO THE BORDERS OF KURDISTAN 43 
 
 mass, following with much maa-ing their shepherds 
 in the street beneath my feet. 
 
 Next day I remember as one of the most enjoyable 
 of the stages. We started over rolling downs — for 
 all the world like those of Salisbury Plain — with good, 
 rich grass — for we had now entered the fertile uplands 
 — covered with flocks of grazing sheep. And we had 
 just topped a rise, when lo ! of a sudden to the north- 
 east rose on the horizon snow mountains, so beau- 
 tiful, so serene, so unexpected, that they came in the 
 form of a shock, tightening my hand on the reins, and 
 bringing an exclamation to my lips, while all around 
 stretched the empty spaces, with the wind blowing 
 fresh and chill from the snow. 
 
 The whole of that day — 
 
 'Twas bent beneath, and blue above, 
 'Twas nodding grass, and naked sky. 
 
 So that for the very joy of living I would press my 
 horse into a gallop, and tear down some long slope, 
 or burst into song. And at evening we reached 
 Salahiyeh. 
 
 To me, standing amid my bales in the khan, 
 approached the Good Samaritan. He introduced 
 
 himself as G Effendi, an Armenian clerk employed 
 
 in the administration of the Ottoman Debt. The 
 English Consul at Mosul had frequently stayed with 
 him when on tour, and would I give him the pleasure 
 of doing the same by me ? I was delighted, and said 
 so. A comfortable house was an improvement on 
 a khan, a pleasant interlude of the road not by any 
 manner of means to be refused. So he took me to his 
 home, where I was introduced to Madam Mina his wife
 
 44 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 —they were Christians, hence the introduction — and 
 to the Lady of the House, Zakhea, aged one year and 
 two months. When we had had dinner, seated cross- 
 legged on the ground round a tray bearing not less 
 than half a dozen choices of delightful indigestibles, 
 
 Zakhea played with her mother, while G Effendi 
 
 and I smoked, each in our separate corner of the 
 divan. And they seemed so happy, this little Christian 
 family in the midst of a Moslem town, so contented, 
 that I could almost find it in my heart to envy them ; 
 or more accurately to envy what they stood for. Even 
 for a rolling-stone like myself a fixed habitation with 
 the etceteras thereof was not without its attractions. 
 There were other things in life besides the open road, 
 I reflected, as I lighted a fresh cigarette ... at which 
 point I decided it was time to go to bed. The mood 
 passed, of course, swept away by the first breath of 
 dawn taken in the saddle next morning. But it 
 occurred, and so I have put it on record. 
 
 The next day we reached Duz Khurmutli, and 
 two days later the town of Kirkook, picturesque with 
 half its high-walled houses and minarets perched on 
 a hill, looking from a distance like a great castle, and 
 connected with the lower half — nestling mid palms — 
 by a long bridge over a wide stony bed; this latter 
 now dry, save for shallow streams, but after a month, 
 when the snow melted, to become a rushing torrent. 
 
 Here, by virtue of letters patent given me by G 
 
 Effendi, I stayed with relations of his, and not merely 
 that night but the day following also. 
 
 Our journey from henceforth until we reached 
 Salahiyeh once more by way of Suleimaniyeh was 
 to be off the beaten track. The semicircle led to
 
 TO THE BORDERS OF KURDISTAN 45 
 
 nowhere. Caravans went to Suleimaniyeh, but they 
 were small ones, and the track was bad, even for pack- 
 animals. So we were informed, but undismayed we 
 set forth. 
 
 Our informants were correct when they said the 
 track was bad. It was stony, it was steep, in parts it 
 overhung precipices — it was in fact all that a caravan 
 route should not be. 
 
 However, we had our reward. If travelling on the 
 plain is easy, a dead level to the sky-line becomes 
 monotonous in time. But here ! Once over the first 
 pass and we could see stretching before us rolling green 
 downs, then a greenish-brown sea of small hills, break- 
 ing wave upon wave against the sheer range beyond, 
 while o'ertopping these again were the snow moun- 
 tains. 
 
 That evening we rested in a Kurdish hut, for the 
 village where we stopped possessed no khan. A fire 
 was lighted in the middle of the floor, the smoke, after 
 nearly stifling me, escaped through a diminutive hole 
 in the roof, and the whole party of us — villagers, escort, 
 and travellers — waited hungrily for our food. At 
 length it was brought — great tin trays covered with 
 ' chupatties,' on which were mountains of rice, and 
 wooden bowls of butter-milk. After the meal we one 
 and all disposed ourselves for the night. My valise 
 was unrolled in the warmest corner, somewhat apart 
 from the others, a token of respect for my Effendi-ship ; 
 the others wrapped themselves in their blankets and 
 lay where they had sat, the escort hugging close their 
 rifles, which never left them day or night. The dying 
 embers hissed gently and played grotesque shadow- 
 tricks with the recumbent figures. I reflected that
 
 46 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 wayfaring, as well as misery, could make one acquainted 
 with strange bed-fellows, and fell asleep. 
 
 Next day the frost crackled crisply under our 
 horses' feet as we started, and I was glad of my great 
 cloak of camel-skin, purchased in Baghdad, for we 
 were ascending with every step we took. We crossed 
 the last of the rolling downs, entered the sea of little 
 hills — seen from so many miles back on our journey 
 of the previous day — scrambled through them, and 
 made for the cliffs in front. 
 
 Half-past five that evening found us riding over 
 rolling downs again, with the hills behind us. In front 
 far away across the plain I could see a dark blotch 
 through my glasses — Suleimaniyeh — while beyond it 
 towered the snow mountains. 
 
 Then arose the question as to whether we would 
 halt for the night at a village near by or press on to 
 Suleimaniyeh. We had been on the road since 8 a.m. 
 Suleimaniyeh was about two hours distant, which 
 meant an hour's march in the dark. I hesitated, and 
 finally plumped for going forward. In for a penny, 
 in for a pound, and the road seemed good — com- 
 paratively. 
 
 So we rode somewhat wearily forward, while the 
 setting sun cast our shadows long upon the grass, and 
 tipped the snows with the delicate pink of a blush on 
 a woman's cheek. The sun sank, night came with a 
 chill wind and breaking stars, and we stumbled on 
 with tightened reins, keeping close to the blurred figure 
 of our next ahead. At length came the barking of 
 dogs, the flare of lights, and not long after we clattered 
 through the bazaars of Suleimaniyeh. 
 
 Suleimaniyeh was disappointing. As the furthest
 
 TO THE BORDERS OF KURDISTAN 47 
 
 limit of my desultory pilgrimage, it ought to have proved 
 picturesque, something out of the ordinary, some- 
 thing to match the snow mountains behind it. But, 
 quite otherwise, it shrank from observation in a large 
 hollow in the ground. Its people, too, were altogether 
 given over to their barbarous Kurdish language, so 
 that I could rarely find one to understand me, address- 
 ing them in Arabic. There was in fact but one thing 
 which claimed my attention in Suleimaniyeh, and 
 that was the track out of it to the north. Zigzagging 
 up towards the snows, I could follow it with my glasses, 
 and, when it disappeared from view over the mountain- 
 tops, with the glasses of the imagination, as it wound 
 ever northward through Persia, until it reached the 
 land of the Muscovite, where doubtless it became a 
 carriage-road, and so lost half its interest. ' Some 
 day,' I thought to myself, ' I must go and see if this 
 is so.' 
 
 But in the meantime it was a case of a return to 
 Baghdad, not of a trip to Caucasia, and after a day in 
 Suleimaniyeh my caravan once more took the road 
 southward. 
 
 A scrambling march followed, over a stony track 
 which crossed the first range of the Kara Dagh, and 
 at two o'clock we halted at a village for the day. 
 
 There was no khan in the village — we were, as I 
 have said, well away from the main caravan routes — 
 so we enjoyed the hospitality of the chief man. En- 
 joyed his hospitality, that is, in theory ; in practice, 
 Mohammed, in my name, pressed something into his 
 hand the next morning, as he had done between 
 Kirkook and Suleimaniyeh on a similar occasion. 
 
 That night was an uncomfortable one. There were
 
 48 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 other living things present besides human beings — small, 
 but in great numbers, and incredibly voracious. I had 
 had a nodding acquaintance with these eaters of 
 human flesh since my start, and being hardened by a 
 residence in India had escaped almost scot-free. But 
 here — ye gods and little fishes ! So I spent an uneasy, 
 dozing night, tossing from side to side, being slowly 
 devoured alive ; and scarcely had the square of light 
 at the door changed from black to grey before I was 
 up, had collected my caravan, and had shaken off 
 the dust of my feet from that unpleasant place. 
 
 Our landmark for the first hour or so was a great 
 cleft in the hills in front of us. Steering by this, we 
 made our way over the customary foothills, and as we 
 went the sky became overcast. The wind blew in 
 eddying gusts, drops of rain began to patter on the 
 stones, and great clouds descended and rolled over 
 the cliff ahead, until it loomed dark and menacing like 
 the gate of Avernus itself. 
 
 Nor did its entrance belie what lay beyond — a 
 narrow valley, clothed with black, leafless, stunted 
 trees, with the track climbing upwards on the other 
 side, to be finally lost in the sombre mists above. 
 
 Soon we ourselves essayed the heights. My horse 
 stumbled on the steep stony track, and the blinding 
 clouds encompassed me from my companions, so that 
 soon I moved alone, the one living thing in that dead 
 world. It was bitterly cold, here and there patches 
 of snow stood out in dazzling white against the sur- 
 rounding gloom, and the moaning wind pierced me 
 like a knife, treating as naught my thick cloak. The 
 whole hillside seemed to lament for its desolation, 
 knowing not that in a short two months the kindly
 
 TO THE BORDERS OF KURDISTAN 49 
 
 spring would melt the snow and clothe its nakedness 
 with green. 
 
 So we groped our way across, and half-way down 
 the other side were free of the clouds ; and lo ! far below 
 stretched to the horizon the level grasslands bathed 
 in the noonday sun, but still up above the clouds 
 hung dark over the pass. 
 
 Notwithstanding the remonstrances of my escort 
 — who wished to make a halt at a village near by — I 
 insisted on pushing forward. So we rode over flat 
 country, and evening found us still baed, baed from 
 the next stage. Gloomily the escort prophesied a 
 night spent in the open, consequent upon my obstinacy 
 in endeavouring to accomplish two stages in one day, 
 contrary to all custom. Moreover, under cover of 
 darkness haramis (robbers) would doubtless attack us, 
 and we would be slain one and all. Having worked 
 artistically up to this point and seeing me perfectly 
 unmoved, the chief of the escort suddenly announced 
 that there ought to be a village near by, if it hadn't 
 been removed — where, if God willed, we might find 
 shelter for the night. I didn't understand how a 
 village might take wings unto itself until, turning 
 sharply up a steep path, we topped a rise, and there, 
 cunningly concealed in a little hollow, was a Kurdish 
 encampment — a dozen long black tents — all agog at 
 our sudden appearance. The children ran screaming, 
 the women stood at their tent doors divided between 
 curiosity and fear, while the men hastily appeared, 
 rifles in hand, ready to welcome or repel, as the case 
 might be. As for us, the escort laid their rifles ostenta- 
 tiously across their saddles, and after a few minutes' 
 conversation with the men, made for the largest tent,
 
 50 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 that apparently of the Sheikh, where we stopped, 
 dismounted, and went inside. 
 
 The tent was a large one, about twenty feet long 
 by fifteen broad, and was divided into various com- 
 partments all the way down by means of matting 
 partitions. The walls of the tent itself were also made 
 of matting, or in some places of packed, dried grass, 
 to the height of about five and a half feet. From the 
 top of this the tent itself, its texture black by long 
 exposure to the sun and wind, sloped up to a height 
 of about seven feet, where it was supported by poles 
 placed at intervals down the middle. 
 
 On first entering I had turned to the right, but the 
 shrill expostulation of women's voices and a tug at 
 my sleeve announced the fact that at that side was 
 the harem — or what passes for that institution among 
 the free Kurds. So I made my way to the other end 
 of the tent, where, in complete contrast to his ragged 
 owners, and appearing incongruously large in that small 
 space, was a fine upstanding horse, sleek and well- 
 groomed, munching his evening feed. An improvised 
 manger of matting held fodder in one corner ; a 
 saddle, some large ornamented stirrup irons, and other 
 odds and ends were in the second ; and in the third I 
 took my seat on a pile of rugs. 
 
 I sighed contentedly as I stretched my legs, a 
 little stiff after the day's riding. Without a doubt 
 these were the ' black booths of the Bedouin,' albeit 
 inhabited by Kurds, of which I had so often read 
 but never entered up to now. Even down to the 
 horse stabled in the corner the details were complete. 
 It was in abodes like this that Doughty sheltered, 
 taking his life in his hand, for a long two years ; that
 
 TO THE BORDERS OF KURDISTAN 51 
 
 Palgrave in the guise of a Syrian merchant enjoyed 
 desert hospitality ; that every traveller in Arabia 
 Deserta has made mention of. 
 
 I had had enough of khans and villages, but here 
 was something new, something not yet experienced, 
 all the more acceptable because not arranged for, coming 
 as a happy chance of the road, and I blessed my 
 obstinacy of the morning which had brought us to it. 
 
 The Sheikh came in gravely and saluted us 
 courteously, while his son, a merry-looking lad of about 
 eighteen, proceeded to kindle a fire, for the evening 
 drew in chilly. As, however, they spoke no Arabic 
 save a few words of salutation and the like, our con- 
 verse was limited to smiles and signs. The women 
 and girls hurried in and out of the tent door, preparing 
 the evening meal for the strangers ; and pretty girls 
 they were, moreover — all Kurdish women, you must 
 know, have a reputation for beauty — tall and slim, fair 
 as many a European, with well-cut features and great 
 dark eyes. As the sun set I heard a confused murmur 
 approaching, and soon sheep and goats streamed past 
 the door — the flocks returning from the pasture — and 
 the whole camp was filled with their bleatings. A 
 boy, blithe and light-footed, his shepherd's crook in 
 his hand, entered the tent, accompanied by a little 
 maiden. All day long they had been out with the 
 flocks, and now had brought them safely home again. 
 A cheerful greeting met them as they came in, and the 
 boy made what I judged to be a report ot some sort 
 to the Sheikh, who listened attentively, and at the end 
 signified his approval with a word of praise, whereat 
 the lad blushed with pleasure. 
 
 How good it all was, this simple pastoral lodging !
 
 52 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 Here amid these nomad folks, in their free airy tents, 
 with their simple straightforward courtesy, I felt pecu- 
 liarly at home. I even let myself dream, absurdly 
 enough, of adopting their way of life . . . marrying one 
 of their womenfolk — that girl with the laughing eyes, 
 for instance, who let them stray now and then in my 
 direction — accumulating flocks and herds and . . . 
 
 My meditations were interrupted by the arrival of 
 the evening meal — a rich mutton and rice stew. While 
 we ate it I was conscious of a subdued whispering and 
 giggling behind my back, and looking round perceived 
 that the womenfolk had collected in a little group 
 and were watching me interestedly. Doubtless I was 
 the first European they had seen. Among the tent- 
 dwellers, whether in Arabia or in Kurdistan, the 
 Mohammedan custom which restricts its womenfolk 
 to a life behind the veil is relaxed, and they move 
 about freely, unveiled, and mixing with the men, 
 though with certain limitations. Thus they eat by 
 themselves, are not supposed to converse with 
 the male sex outside their family, and are conse- 
 quently more or less in seclusion when a stranger is 
 present. Even these restrictions are more a matter 
 of loose convention than any strict custom, and, un- 
 like the laws of the Medes and Persians, are frequently 
 broken. 
 
 After dinner the curiosity of the womenfolk became 
 a little more embarrassing : the minxes would see the 
 stranger into his bed. They scanned my valise and 
 sleeping-bag with wondering eyes, then directed their 
 gaze on me, whereupon the Sheikh's son turned and 
 drove them off, with much shrill squeaking. But I 
 had hardly taken off my right boot when again I heard
 
 TO THE BORDERS OF KURDISTAN 53 
 
 those feminine giggles and whisperings, and looking 
 up, behold ! there they were once more, but reinforced 
 this time, apparently, with a contingent from half the 
 camp. It was useless to attempt to frustrate them. 
 They had evidently determined not to miss any of the 
 antics gone through by this strange being whom fate 
 had brought to their camp. The Sheikh turned to me 
 and made a gesture with a shrug of his shoulders as of 
 man appealing to man against the vagaries of the Sex. 
 I nodded sympathisingly, and continued my toilet, 
 shortening it, however, to ridding myself of my boots 
 and coat. I am no shyer than one here and there, but 
 not for all the gold in Asia would I have continued my 
 disrobing any further before that battery of criticising, 
 unabashed, entirely feminine eyes. . . . 
 
 After a long but uneventful march, in the late 
 evening of the following day we were once more in 
 Salahiyeh, where once again I shared the hospitality 
 
 of G Effendi. The Lady of the House appeared to 
 
 have grown perceptibly older even in the short time I 
 had been away, and greeted me gravely by raising her 
 small hand to her head, in a manner that delighted 
 her proud parents as much as it did me. 
 
 But at Salahiyeh I had perforce to change my plans. 
 My original intention had been, as may be remem- 
 bered, to return to Baghdad by a place called Gurfa. 
 Fair and clear ran the caravan route on the map, but 
 on inquiring at Salahiyeh anent this route I was in- 
 formed that it had been disused for some little while, 
 and bore a bad reputation by reason of robbers. Well, 
 like the ' cat who walked by himself,' all ways were 
 alike to me, and since to return by Deli Abbas would 
 have been old ground, I determined to regain Baghdad
 
 54 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 by way of Khanikin and Bakuba, by which route up 
 to Bakuba at all events would be new. 
 
 We reached Khanikin in an easy two days, the 
 only event to break the monotony of the plain being 
 the crossing of a small river, which we accomplished 
 on a khalag. This form of conveyance is a raft sup- 
 ported on inflated skins, and of an antiquity stretch- 
 ing back into the mists of time. 
 
 At Khanikin we joined the main caravan route 
 from Persia to Baghdad once more, and moved in 
 company with long caravans of camels, horses, and 
 mules, and pilgrims bound for Kerbela carrying their 
 dead with them. For it is the custom of the Shiah 
 sect of Islam to bury their dead, if possible, at the 
 shrine of Kerbela. So down come the caravans bearing 
 their gruesome burdens from all the wide land of Persia 
 — the stronghold of the Shiahs — from Ispahan, Shiraz, 
 Teheran, or even far-off Meshed. 
 
 From Khanikin to Baghdad was an orderly tally 
 of regular marches from flat horizon to flat horizon, 
 its monotony only broken by the come and go of the 
 road. Again we reached Bakuba, once more Beni Said, 
 and two hours later saw far away a blurred mass of 
 palm trees with here and there a minaret against the 
 grey sky. Baghdad was in sight !
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 BAGHDAD TO PALMYRA 
 
 Not long after my return from Suleimaniyeh I pro- 
 ceeded to carry out my intention of moving on to 
 Damascus, a journey of some twenty-six days. So 
 one March morning found me leaving Baghdad with 
 my caravan — travelling light, with but three horses 
 in all — my proposed route being Kerbela, Hit, Der, 
 Tadmor, Horns, Bealbeck. But, as will be seen, this 
 itinerary was to be observed in the breach rather than 
 in the observance. 
 
 On my arrival at Kerbela, the great shrine of the 
 Shiah sect of the Mohammedans, I was unable to pro- 
 cure an escort to take me direct across the desert to 
 Hit : water was scarce, the Bedouins were on the war- 
 path. So I had perforce to double back on my tracks 
 and make for a place called Ramadi on the Euphrates, 
 two days' journey below Hit. From Ramadi I 
 
 passed on to Hit, where I fell in with F , of The 
 
 Times, whom I had seen before in Baghdad, and 
 whom I had agreed to meet on the road, as we 
 were both travellers for Damascus. From Hit we 
 journeyed up the Euphrates along the usual route, 
 whipped by the howa-al-ajuz (the wind of the old 
 woman), as the Arabs call it, which blows every year 
 for a short time just at this season. So travelling from 
 
 55
 
 56 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 khan to khan, in due course we reached a little village 
 called Abu Kamal — you may or may not find it on 
 your map — where, for all its unimportance, the un- 
 expected stood in ambush for me. 
 
 For here my journey took a different aspect, and 
 by the course of events I was snatched from my 
 caravan and the beaten track and pitchforked into 
 the desert with a single Bedouin guide. Thus : 
 
 A glance at the map will show that by going 
 straight across the desert to Tadmor instead of round 
 by Deir we would shorten our journey considerably, 
 and before arriving at Abu Kamal we had determined 
 to make this short cut. On reaching Abu Kamal, 
 however, we found difficulties in the way. The caravan 
 track from Abu Kamal to Tadmor marked on our 
 map, if it had ever existed in reality, certainly did so 
 no longer, the track of country lying between Abu 
 Kamal and Tadmor being desert pure and simple, 
 inhabited solely by the wandering Bedouin. Water 
 was scarce too, and the sites of the infrequent wells 
 known only to the tribesmen. Altogether an impos- 
 sible route for a caravan. 
 
 But, the first disappointment at this piece of news 
 over, the idea came to me that what was out of the 
 question for a caravan might well be possible for a 
 single traveller who could ride far and fast, and who 
 would offer but little temptation for plunder to any 
 Bedouin met with — indeed might even lay claim by 
 his defencelessness to their traditional hospitality. 
 
 It is perhaps hardly necessary to add that the 
 further idea came to me that this solitary hard-riding 
 wayfarer should be myself. I was tired of the Darb- 
 us-Sultan (the King's highway), and an unending
 
 BAGHDAD TO PALMYRA 57 
 
 succession of unclean khans. I wished, moreover, to 
 see something, even if a very little, of the open desert, 
 and this trip across it would fulfil that desire. 
 
 So I broached the idea to F that he should take 
 
 the caravan road by Deir, that I should proceed straight 
 across the desert, and that we should meet at Tadmor, 
 
 the first to arrive to wait for the other. F was 
 
 willing, and it only remained for me to obtain a dalil 
 (guide). 
 
 But it was just in this matter of the dalil that my 
 difficulties lay. He would have to possess an intimate 
 knowledge of the desert between Abu Kamal and 
 Tadmor, belong to one of the tribes which roamed 
 this area in order to ensure us a good reception at 
 their hands, and above all be trustworthy. And this 
 paragon of dalils would have to be found in less than 
 twenty-four hours, as we were off on the morrow. 
 
 By a piece of good fortune I got in touch with a 
 merchant of the village — a Christian as it happened — 
 and he, being a person of influence, at length procured 
 me a Bedouin who agreed to take me to Tadmor across 
 the chol (desert) for a specified sum, the said sum to be 
 deposited with the merchant and to be delivered to my 
 dalil on his return from Tadmor with a letter from me. 
 
 But this treaty was not made without many sittings. 
 At last, however, it was concluded, the merchant, as 
 court of arbitration, summing up the situation. 
 
 ' Effendi, Nayal (the dalil) is your wajhak, that 
 is to say your surety with his life against harm 
 to you from the Bedouins, and for guiding you in 
 safety from here to Tadmor. And you must know, 
 Effendi, that when an Arab has sworn to be 
 wajhak for anyone, he stands to it with his life,
 
 58 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 in act as well as word. Well,' turning to the Bedouin, 
 ' do you agree ? ' 
 
 ' Aye,' said Nayal, extending a sinewy hand which 
 I gripped in mine, ' W'Allahe, t' Allah B'Allahe.' 
 
 So the treaty was signed, more binding I trusted 
 at the time than some treaties written on parchment. 
 
 As for the risk of the journey. In my person little 
 or none unless the very unexpected happened ; for my 
 property some, but slight. The Arabs are chary of 
 meddling with Europeans, from the trouble which some- 
 times ensues. On the other hand, anyone travelling like 
 myself in the desert, without escort, does so at his own 
 risk, and some ghazzu (Bedouin raiding party) might 
 
 take advantage of this. F himself, while travelling 
 
 near Aleppo some time previously, had been shot at, 
 badly wounded, and robbed, by a Kurdish outlaw. 
 
 Altogether it was with a feeling of excitement, half 
 pleasant and half — let me confess — the reverse, that 
 I went to bed that night, realising that when next the 
 hour of sleep arrived I should be far out in the desert. 
 
 Since for various reasons I wished my departure 
 on my desert trip to be as inconspicuous as possible, 
 I had planned to leave with my caravan in the ordinary 
 manner the next morning, and then to flit away with 
 my dalil. 
 
 In pursuance of this object my dalil and I started 
 a little ahead of the others, and about half a mile from 
 the village reached a mound by the roadside, with 
 a little hollow nestling behind it — the very conceal- 
 ment for my purpose. In a trice I had ridden behind 
 it, had dismounted, and was casting Europe from me 
 in the shape of my Norfolk jacket and riding-breeches, 
 while embracing the Arab East with its flowing abba
 
 BAGHDAD TO PALMYRA 59 
 
 (cloak), voluminous shirt with long full sleeves, and 
 beringed kerchief drawn over the head. A chilly 
 metamorphosis, too, I can assure you, that March 
 morning, in the coldest hour of the twenty-four which 
 comes just at dawn. 
 
 My reason for adopting Bedouin dress was not that 
 I hoped to pass as an Arab at close quarters, but that 
 at a distance, or even at casual meetings when much 
 converse was not required, my garb would be sufficient 
 to carry the deception off. 
 
 As I dressed we heard the caravan approach with 
 a jingle of bells and sound of voices, pass and die away 
 in the distance. Scarcely had it done so when two 
 seeming Bedouins rode out of the hollow and headed 
 straight for the open west at a sharp trot, with the 
 empty sky above and the empty desert around — 
 apparently the only living, moving things in the great 
 world. 
 
 And since we were destined to travel in this desert 
 world, we were not unprovided with the wherewithal 
 to sustain existence. 
 
 In our saddle-bags were dates and bread, Bedouin 
 fare, sufficient for five days. Hanging to my saddle 
 were two kirbas (small leather water-skins), while 
 a matarea (large water-skin of the same material) 
 squelched against the side of Nayal's mount. My 
 blankets for the night, including a waterproof sheet, 
 were placed beneath us, divided equally. This was 
 at once an easy and comfortable way of carrying them, 
 as we both bestrode native pack-saddles, with the addi- 
 tion in my case of stirrups taken from my English one. 
 
 And what of the Bedouin, that unlettered wanderer 
 of the wastes, now become for me the most important
 
 60 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 personage in the strange world into which I had 
 plunged ? Short was Nayal, and slightly built, with an 
 open countenance and a pleasant smile that revealed 
 a row of beautiful teeth. Indeed, had I not liked his 
 face and trusted him instinctively from the first, I 
 would have been very far from putting myself so com- 
 pletely in his hands, had all the Christian merchants 
 from Stamboul to Bushire testified in his favour, for 
 once in the desert I was as dependent on him as he 
 would have been on me in the streets of London. 
 
 I have used the word desert, but it must be under- 
 stood that there are deserts and deserts in Arabia. 
 There is the terrible Rub-el-Khali (the Abode of 
 Emptiness), which no man has ever crossed, where there 
 is no life of beast or bird ; there are the sands of the 
 Nafud, which guard the emirships of Nejd, traversed 
 even by the Bedouins themselves in safety only at cer- 
 tain seasons of the year ; and there are the deserts — like 
 the North Syrian — so called merely because they grow 
 no single acre of crops or contain a single house. Over 
 such lay our path, over scanty grass, and desert 
 flowers, and rolling downs. 
 
 After some five hours' riding we reached wells. 
 Themselves life in the desert, they presented a 
 desolate contrast to the green around. The grass 
 had been killed by the trampling of many feet, and 
 a ring of bare sand extended on which were fire- 
 blackened stones, charred sticks, and odds and ends 
 of frayed garments. The wells were shallow holes 
 in the earth, their water stagnant and slightly salt, 
 so that the horses, when it was poured out for them 
 in the little troughs built for that purpose by the 
 Bedouins, sniffed at it, dissatisfied, and drank only a
 
 BAGHDAD TO PALMYRA 61 
 
 few mouthfuls. Nevertheless, it was the only water 
 for man or beast, so we drank of it ourselves — Nayal 
 with relish, I as one taking medicine — and filled our 
 water-skins. For all that they present so poor a 
 satisfaction to the senses, whether of taste or smell, 
 wells are the important factor in the desert. Feuds 
 between the various Bedouins not uncommonly begin 
 with a dispute over water, and once fighting has 
 commenced he who holds the wells has his hand on 
 his enemy's throat. 
 
 Here also Nayal and I took our first meal together — 
 dates and bread — squatting on the ground by our 
 tethered horses. Then we readjusted our saddle-bags 
 and rode away. 
 
 That evening we sighted a Bedouin encampment — 
 half a dozen black tents, surrounded on the horizon 
 by flocks of sheep and goats — and here Nayal proposed 
 we should stay the night. Repressing as best I could 
 my apprehensions as to the nature of our, or rather 
 my, reception, I followed him with what confidence I 
 could summon up. 
 
 A little group of men were seated outside the biggest 
 tent, whom we greeted — after the Arab fashion — with 
 ' Salaam Alaikum ! ' (Peace be unto you !). ' Walekum 
 as-Salaam ! ' (And on you be peace !) they replied, and 
 then when we had dismounted and taken our seats, 
 ' Marhubba ! ' (Welcome !). Such is the ' How-do-you- 
 do ' of the desert. 
 
 The fact that I was English did not occasion the 
 surprise I had expected. This was doubtless due to 
 the fact that English travellers are by far the most 
 frequent anywhere in the Middle East, and that one of 
 them should wander a little off the beaten track in
 
 62 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 Bedouin guise they doubtless attributed to the incom- 
 prehensible vagaries of the Western mind. For the 
 rest, their bearing was kindly, but their interest chiefly 
 centred in my dalil, who could give them the latest 
 news — for even the desert has its gossip. 
 
 Where did the So-and-so pitch their tents in these 
 days ? Had Nayal seen Such-a-one, the son of Such-a- 
 one, lately ? Above all, how did the great Anazeh tribe 
 move ? — north, south, east or west ? 
 
 Their eagerness on this latter point was soon ex- 
 plained. They themselves, unlike my guide, were not 
 the Anazeh, but on the contray a small tribe on which 
 the Anazeh preyed, taking off their flocks and herds. 
 
 I was by no means loth thus to play second fiddle, 
 as it were, to my guide, since it gave me an opportunity 
 of observing my hosts. My host-in-chief, whom I 
 judged to be sheikh of the tribe, was middle-aged, 
 very fair-looking for an Arab, not unhandsome, but 
 with a shifty expression which I did not wholly like. 
 Instead of the abba he wore a long, English-looking 
 coat, which at once proclaimed him not quite the 
 Simon Pure, for no sheikh of a big tribe would so 
 Westernise himself. The others, whose exact rela- 
 tionship to the sheikh I could not quite determine, 
 were a youth — a walking arsenal of cartridge-belts — 
 a pleasant-faced man with a dark beard, and an old 
 greybeard whose only contributions to the conversa- 
 tion were cackles of senile laughter. 
 
 Presently the setting sun brought the flocks in, and 
 soon the air was filled with their clamour and the 
 guiding shouts of the shepherds. The twenty or so 
 camels which belonged to the tribe also came to rest, 
 and there was heard from time to time a harsh con-
 
 BAGHDAD TO PALMYRA 63 
 
 tented gurgle as the ungainly beasts sank on the ground 
 one by one and fell to chewing the cud. 
 
 The shepherds, long staffs in their hands, joined 
 our circle, and the evening meal was prepared. Leban 
 (sour curds — in Persia called mast), a sort of cream 
 cheese, and barley bread were our portion, and may 
 it never be my fate to have worse. The leban and 
 cheese were placed in bowls, the bread in slabs around ; 
 we used the knives and forks which nature had given 
 us, and the devil took the hindmost, who was not the 
 Christian of the party. After the meal we had gathered 
 round the fire, when said Abdul Aziz — such was the 
 sheikh called — ' Ya (O) Fehal ' (this was their Arabic 
 interpretation of my name) ; ' have you a pistol ? ' 
 
 'Yes; O Abdul Aziz,' I answered foolishly and 
 without thinking. 
 
 ' Then will you show it ? ' 
 
 I could not well refuse, and handed it across. 
 
 ' It is a good pistol, but not as good as mine ; see ! ' 
 
 I saw quite well that mine was the superior weapon, 
 but— 
 
 ' Yes, it is a good weapon, and perhaps is better 
 than mine.' 
 
 ' Then will you make a darghaish (exchange) ? ' 
 
 ' Nay, I do not wish to rob you.' 
 
 The sheikh laughed, and the incident passed, but 
 not without further unpleasant consequences, as will 
 be seen. 
 
 Anon the idea came to me that instead of departing 
 on the morrow I would stay with these people another 
 day. I was in no hurry. I would in any case arrive 
 in Tadmor before my caravan, and I might as well 
 take the opportunity of seeing as much as possible
 
 64 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 of Bedouin life. So I suggested it through Nayal, 
 and it was well received. 
 
 This being agreed upon, I announced my intention 
 of retiring for the night. Nayal spread my bedding 
 in a corner of the tent, and making a pillow of my 
 saddle-bags, and placing my revolver under my pillow, 
 I rolled myself well into my blankets, for the night was 
 chilly, and presently fell asleep. 
 
 Next morning, at sunrise, when I awoke the camp 
 was all a bustle, for the Bedouin were to move to 
 another ground. The men hastily swallowed some 
 leban and bread, and fell to loading or striking tents. 
 These tents are not really tents in our sense of the 
 word, pyramid-shaped and of regular appearance. 
 They are in fact more ' booths ' than tents, oblong in 
 shape, six feet high perhaps, of goat's hair turned 
 by long exposure to sun and rain pitch-black. They 
 are but a feeble protection against the elements, 
 for many a tear lets in the sun's heat in summer, 
 the rain and wind in winter. Down the centre there 
 is a partition — or if the tent be a large one, perhaps 
 two — which divides the men's from the women's 
 quarters. 
 
 While superintending the breaking of camp the 
 sheikh found time to hail me across the hubbub : 
 
 ' Ya Fehal ; may your morning be fortunate ! ' 
 
 ' And may God make your morning fortunate ! ' 
 
 ' See, Fehal,' coming towards me ; ' anent that 
 matter of the pistol. Come, now ; make an exchange.' 
 
 ' But I have already said that I do not wish to 
 rob you.' 
 
 ' Nay, I am willing to take the risk. But we 
 will talk of the matter later ' ; and there was a tone
 
 BAGHDAD TO PALMYRA 65 
 
 in his voice which seemed to take away, for me, some 
 of the freshness and joy of the morning. It was not 
 so much that I objected to the exchange in itself, 
 though mine was the superior weapon, but I judged 
 it would be merely the beginning of other polite de- 
 predations. Already Abdul Aziz had peremptorily 
 exchanged an old water-skin of his for a new one 
 of mine, and I had pretended to acquiesce willingly 
 in this piece of petty knavery, but revolvers were 
 a different matter, and decidedly a long step in the 
 wrong direction. 
 
 At length the business of breaking camp was 
 finished, and, Nayal bringing up my horses, we mounted 
 and rode off. We horsemen, about half a dozen in 
 number, went ahead, our robes fluttering in the breeze. 
 Behind came the donkeys and camels, loaded with 
 tents and bundles, and behind them again moved 
 slowly the flocks and herds, spread fanwise over the 
 plain, grazing as they went. 
 
 Soon we reached the wells, where the precious 
 water was placed in skins for personal use, and the 
 thirsty animals were watered. Then again we set 
 out and after some two hours reached the camping- 
 ground, for the Bedouins do not camp on water, but 
 within easy distance of it, and Abdul Aziz cantered 
 ahead to choose the exact site. To me anywhere in 
 the vast plain would have seemed suitable, but doubt- 
 less to the Bedouin eye there were subtle differences. 
 Where he halted there was to be the camp, and when 
 this at length occurred there ensued the minor point 
 of the situation of each tent. Finally this also was 
 arranged, and each horseman, lord of a tattered booth, 
 rode off to superintend its pitching, and within an
 
 66 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 hour there were the same six black booths, the same 
 groups of men moving in and out, and dotted here 
 and there, far away on the horizon, the same flocks and 
 herds as had marked the camp of the evening before. 
 The camp pitched, and a meal of dates and leban dis- 
 posed of, the sheikh had leisure to give his time to me 
 and to the acquirement of that thrice accursed revolver. 
 ' Ya Fehal ; wilt thou not exchange pistols ? ' 
 ' Ya Abdul Aziz ; thine is the better weapon. 
 Moreover (happy thought !), the cartridges for my 
 pistol cannot be obtained in this country.' 
 
 ' Have you no more with you than those in the 
 pistol ? None in your saddle-bags ? ' 
 ' Only half a dozen.' 
 His face fell. 
 
 ' No matter, I shall be able to get them in Halab 
 (Aleppo), or perhaps Baghdad.' 
 
 ' I am sure that that will be impossible.' 
 ' Then the loss is mine. Come, now, Fehal, and 
 make the exchange.' 
 
 And so it went on, half-hour after half-hour. You, 
 if ever you have been in a position like mine — 
 hostilely questioned by some one in whose complete 
 power you were — will appreciate my feelings. You 
 will know how I longed to lose my temper and tell 
 him and his d — d piece of ironmongery to go to 
 the devil, and you will also realise how foolish such 
 an explosion would have been. 
 
 The climax came some time in the early afternoon. 
 Abdul Aziz entered the tent where I happened to be 
 sitting, and addressed me in that loud blustering tone 
 which I had begun to learn heralded a demand for 
 the darghaish.
 
 BAGHDAD TO PALMYRA 67 
 
 ' Ya Fehal; I am going to take that pistol from 
 you to-night.' 
 
 Whatever my outward composure may or 
 may not have been, inwardly I felt that damnable 
 sinking sensation at the pit of the stomach which 
 ordinary mortals feel when face to face with a sudden 
 danger. 
 
 ' Yes, Fehal ; I am going to take that pistol from 
 you to-night,' and he advanced his sneering face close 
 to mine. 
 
 ' Then I won't give it to you.' 
 
 ' What ! You won't give it to me ? ' 
 
 'No!' 
 
 The buttons were off the foils with a vengeance, 
 and if the sheikh's face had been dark before, it grew 
 ten times blacker at this. An outbreak was imminent, 
 but with a manifest effort he checked himself, and 
 proceeded in a milder tone : 
 
 ' See here, Fehal ; the Anazeh, as you know, rob 
 us and take away our sheep, and our goats, and our 
 camels, and even our household goods. We have 
 heard that to-night they will make an attack upon 
 us. I wish, therefore, to give one of my shepherds 
 your revolver for the night, so that he will be able 
 to defend himself properly.' 
 
 I knew what that meant, of course. When the 
 morrow came ' the shepherd had been attacked in 
 the night by those haramis (robbers) of Anazeh, and 
 my revolver taken from him ' ; or ' some camels had 
 strayed, the shepherd had gone after them, and would 
 not be back for some days' ; or merely a flat statement 
 that possession was nine-tenths of the law. 
 
 I managed to profess a polite interest in the mis-
 
 68 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 doings of the Anazeh, and the storm blew over for the 
 time. 
 
 As soon as was possible I escaped into the open air. 
 I felt I could face the situation better there than in 
 the confined tent. But the open spaces, and the wind 
 blowing free and unchecked from horizon to horizon, 
 and the blue sky above — all so pleasant to me this 
 time yesterday — had lost their savour. I would have 
 exchanged them all for the dirtiest of London's mean 
 streets. 
 
 And what was this situation which I had come out 
 to face ? Abdul Aziz had said that he was going to 
 take my revolver from me that night. I saw no 
 reason why he should not keep his word. It was 
 true that I had defied him, but this, in poker parlance, 
 was the weakest of weak ' bluffs,' and if he chose to 
 ' see ' me, in other words, to take it from me by force, 
 the game was his. And if he took my revolver, why 
 not my horses, my saddle-bags, the little money I 
 had on me ? Other and grimmer possibilities also 
 hung about nebulously in the back of my mind — possi- 
 bilities which my reason refused stoutly, but which 
 my imagination weakly entertained. 
 
 You, reading this in your Club, perhaps, with the 
 roar of police-regulated traffic in your ears, I, writing 
 it, far removed from Abdul Aziz and all his works, 
 may perhaps think that at the time I exaggerated the 
 situation — made a mountain, if not out of a mole-hill, 
 at any rate out of a very ordinary hill. But unfortu- 
 nately — or perchance fortunately, for our pleasures as 
 well as our pains depend on the circumstance — no 
 event appears to us as it really is, but distorted by our 
 senses, which take colour from our surroundings. So
 
 BAGHDAD TO PALMYRA 69 
 
 I can assure you, my dear sir, sitting in that easy-chair, 
 smoking that good cigar, and you my other self, smugly 
 censorious now that you have won to safety, that in 
 the open desert things wear a very different aspect to 
 what they do five minutes' walk from a post-office. 
 
 The afternoon merged slowly into evening, each 
 hour laden with its burden of unpleasant anticipations ; 
 the sun set, the flocks came in, the evening meal was 
 served. Still Abdul Aziz made no sign. 
 
 I referred to my departure on the morrow. 
 
 ' No, W Allah, Fehal ; you must not go to-morrow. 
 Behold, everything that is mine is yours. What do 
 you desire ? A camel ? a sheep ? a horse ? Take 
 what you will when you depart, but it must not be 
 to-morrow. We do not let our guests leave us so 
 quickly.' 
 
 ' I am very grateful to you, O Sheikh, but I must 
 go. I have already stayed one day with you, and 
 Tadmor is far from here.' 
 
 ' Tadmor is close, quite close. Go the day after 
 to-morrow, and you will arrive in good time before 
 your caravan.' 
 
 I did not press the question. Sufficient unto the 
 day is the evil thereof, and the morrow could look 
 after itself. 
 
 Night drew in. We gathered round the fire which 
 crackled in front of the sheikh's tent. 
 
 Presently I said that I would sleep, and who so 
 solicitous as Abdul Aziz ? Had I enough blankets ? 
 With his own hands did he arrange my bedding. 
 B'lllah, but this was very good, this bag for sleeping 
 in. But my belt ? Was I not going to take off my 
 belt ? My belt held my revolver.
 
 70 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 No ; I would keep it on. 
 
 I felt his hand pass lightly over my body, and 
 turned as if to compose myself to sleep. The sheikh 
 seemed to hesitate a minute — surely that minute 
 held double its complement of threescore seconds — 
 then turned and went. I heard his voice join the 
 circle around the fire, and drew a long breath. My 
 ' bluff ' had come off. 
 
 I shivered in the dawn next morning as I made 
 my simple toilet, and went out to warm myself at the 
 fire, round which already crouched the Bedouins. In 
 silence, save for a greeting given and returned, I 
 watched the sun rise, then, turning to Abdul Aziz : 
 
 ' I fear I shall have to start soon.' 
 
 ' Start soon, O Fehal ? No, W Allah. To-day 
 you must stay with us. We move a short distance 
 upon your road. To-morrow, in sha Allah, you can 
 leave us.' 
 
 ' But the way is long.' 
 
 ' Long ? No, but short. To-day you must stay 
 with us.' 
 
 Under ordinary circumstances I should have had no 
 objection ; in fact, I should have welcomed an oppor- 
 tunity of another twenty-four hours with the Bedouins. 
 But as it was, if ever I have wanted anything badly 
 in my life, it was to get away from my kind host, Abdul 
 Aziz. I knew perfectly well that I could never hold 
 out another day against his importunities. Before 
 nightfall the revolver would be his ; and after that the 
 deluge ! 
 
 I got together all my Arabic to meet the situa- 
 tion. 
 
 ' O Abdul Aziz, listen to my words. What is
 
 BAGHDAD TO PALMYRA 71 
 
 this that you are doing ? I am your guest. I am 
 your friend. I have eaten your bread, and drunk 
 your water. For two days I have lived in your tent. 
 Yet first you trouble me to exchange my revolver with 
 yours, when you know right well I wish for no such 
 exchange ; and second, when I propose to depart, 
 you put obstacles in my way. Is this right from a 
 sheikh to his guest ? ' 
 
 It was my trump card — it was my only card, and 
 a sufficiently poor one at that, but it took the trick. 
 Abdul Aziz reddened and looked stupid ; a murmur 
 of approval ran round the little circle. If the Bedouin 
 sometimes fall away in practice from their ideal of 
 hospitality, in theory and in speech they cling very 
 closely to it, and I think it flattered them that a 
 stranger and an Englishman should appeal thus con- 
 fidently to their code of honour. 
 
 ' Nay, nay, Fehal,' apologised Abdul Aziz ; ' I 
 meant nothing save that we Bedouins like not our 
 guests to leave us in a hurry. Go your way in peace.' 
 
 ' Nayal,' I said, ' bring the horses.' 
 
 Until they were brought I wrapt myself in a haughty 
 silence. I knew that my harangue would only have 
 a temporary effect, but I trusted that it would last 
 long enough to enable me to effect my retreat. And 
 so it proved ; but only just that and no more. For at 
 the end of a long hour the sheikh had already recovered 
 his Bedouin assurance, and was once again throwing 
 out hints anent that bone of contention — my revolver. 
 But at the end of an hour also my horses were ready 
 saddled at the tent-door. 
 
 Then came the delicate question of payment for 
 my stay. Had Abdul Aziz been a bigger sheikh any
 
 72 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 offer of board and lodging would have been an insult ; 
 had he been a smaller, backshish would certainly have 
 been expected. I solved the problem by giving him 
 my pipe, a large calabash in which he had already 
 displayed considerable interest, filling it liberally with 
 my tobacco, and passing it round the circle of his 
 cronies after the manner of a narghileh. This gift, 
 moreover, was a diplomatic move, which I hoped 
 would tie his hands had he any lingering designs on 
 my property. For having accepted a present from 
 me — and he could not well refuse it — surely very shame 
 would prevent him from troubling me further. 
 
 With a ' Fi Aman Illah ' (In the guardianship of 
 God) to their ' Audana hum' (We trust you to God), a 
 handshake and look in the eyes for the sheikh, in 
 which I endeavoured to express my exact opinion of 
 him and his hospitality, we rode off. 
 
 So closed the incident. But if ever you wander 
 in Turkish Arabia and come across a shifty-looking 
 sheikh smoking a large calabash pipe, you will know 
 that this is none other than Abdul Aziz, and you will 
 be wiser than I and not show him your revolver. 
 Further, if you are in a position to do so — which I was 
 not — will you kindly inform him from me that he is 
 no true sheikh, and a d — d scoundrel to boot, or he 
 would not wear an English-looking coat and try to 
 rob his guests ? After this tell him that Fehal, who 
 stayed in his tents for two days in one month of March, 
 has written in a book a full account of the kindly and 
 courteous treatment he received, so that the name of 
 Abdul Aziz has become a byword and a reproach in 
 all Feringhistan, and men spit on the ground when they 
 mention him.
 
 BAGHDAD TO PALMYRA 73 
 
 All that day we rode through the desert, stopping 
 at wells once ; and the wind blowing free and unchecked 
 from horizon to horizon, and the empty spaces around, 
 and the blue sky above me had recovered all their 
 charm. I felt as if I had waked from a nightmare, 
 and hummed snatches of song as I went. 
 
 Three or four times we saw men far away. That 
 is, Nayal's keen sight picked them up immediately, and 
 mine, once I knew in what direction to look, followed 
 suit. My sight, in comparison to Europeans, is not 
 slow, but naturally enough a tortoise to the eagle gaze 
 of the Bedouin. There are, however, two circumstances 
 which greatly aid them in picking up objects quickly. 
 First, any black speck on the horizon must almost 
 certainly be a living thing or a tent, for there are no 
 trees in the desert and few rocks, at any rate in the 
 North Syrian part of it. It will not be a sheep, for 
 that has not the requisite height to show up clearly 
 against the sky. It may be a wandering camel, but the 
 pace at which it moves will decide whether this is so, 
 or whether it is a horseman. Second, everything which 
 rises above the surface of the desert must sooner or 
 later silhouette itself without background against the 
 sky-line. 
 
 Whenever we saw these specks we generally made 
 a detour to avoid them. It was one thing to seek 
 hospitality from the Bedouin in his camp, another to 
 meet a wandering band in the open. Sometimes my 
 dalil would stand upon his horse, and from this vantage 
 scan the horizon. Then descending he would strike 
 his bare heels into the chestnut's sides and trot off to 
 the right or left, as the case might be. 
 
 ' KaY amis' he would grunt. Apparently in the
 
 74 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 chola man is presumed to be guilty until he has proved 
 himself innocent. ' Ride on this side of me, Fehal, 
 then we shall only appear as one to them.' 
 
 Sometimes Nayal would check his horse, dismount, 
 and dig the tether-pin into a little mound with thin 
 curious cracks across it. Anon would come forth a 
 whitish object something the size of an apple. This 
 was that expensive luxury, a truffle, for which gour- 
 mets in Europe pay high prices. But the Bedouins 
 call it kama, or sometimes bint-ul-Rad (daughter of 
 thunder), connecting it in one of their superstitions 
 with the after-effects of storms, and get it free by 
 the exertion of a little manual labour. 
 
 That evening we came within sight of some black 
 stationary specks, which Nayal said were tents, and 
 where he proposed sheltering for the night. I cannot 
 say that I hailed this proposal with any particular 
 satisfaction after my experience with Abdul Aziz, but 
 I reflected that it would be a very hard and unlikely 
 fortune to meet two of his breed in so short a time, so 
 shoved my revolver to the bottom of my saddle-bag 
 and followed Nayal. 
 
 The tents were deserted save for some women and 
 children, the men being out tending the flocks and 
 digging for the 'daughters of thunder.' Nayal un- 
 loaded the horses and laid my bedding on the ground 
 in front of a tent ; it would not, apparently, have 
 been etiquette for me to have entered it in the ab- 
 sence of the men. 
 
 ' Ya bint (O daughter),' said I to the woman stand- 
 ing at the door, ' may I have a little water ? I am 
 thirsty ? ' 
 
 ' Water ? Will you not then drink leban ? ' And
 
 BAGHDAD TO PALMYRA 75 
 
 going into the tent she came forth with a large bowl 
 of that delicious liquid fit for the gods. 
 
 ' Drink,' she said, smiling kindly, ' and take your 
 rest. You must be weary.' 
 
 Now why had I a feeling that all this had happened 
 before ? Where had I solicited water from a Bedouin 
 woman and been given leban ? Not in this existence, 
 I could swear to that. Or perhaps I had read some- 
 vivid account of such an incident. Perhaps . . . 
 perhaps . . . then all of a sudden I remembered — I 
 knew. 
 
 He asked water, and she gave him milk ; she brought 
 forth butter in a lordly dish. 
 
 Sisera and Jael, the wife of Heberthe Kenite, and that 
 ' butter in a lordly dish ' — none other than leban, 
 whatever the learned commentators may state — all 
 passed before my mind. 
 
 On just such an evening did the weary captain of 
 the hosts of Jabin— that morning lord of nine hundred 
 chariots, at sundown a fugitive on foot — come to the 
 tents of Heber the Kenite, where Jael awaited him 
 with words of welcome, and leban, and at the finish 
 the hammer and the nail. And since his fate was upon 
 him, could he have ' obtained release ' more pleasantly 
 than with the sweet taste of the curds upon his lips 
 and the lost fortunes of the day mercifully closed in 
 sleep ? 
 
 Like Sisera, I also stretched out my tired 
 limbs — Jael's prototype might nail my head to the 
 ground with the tether-pin for aught I cared — and 
 slumbered. 
 
 Unlike Sisera, I awoke not in the next, but in this
 
 76 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 very world, to find ' Jael ' bending over me — but with 
 no hammer in her hand. 
 
 ' Look ! The men are returning from the pastures,' 
 she said. ' The evening meal is prepared. Enter into 
 our tent.' 
 
 All this brings the Bedouin woman rather into 
 prominence — a prominence which unfortunately she 
 does not adorn. The ' Bedouin maid ' in fiction and 
 poetry may be a figure of romance. In real life, as 
 I have seen her, trudging behind some caravan and 
 assisting with shrill screams and blows to hasten the 
 pace of the tired animals, or gathering firewood from 
 the desert bushes around some Arab encampment, she 
 is very far from being romantic. Poor soul, she is not 
 lovely — the hardships of the desert, doubly hard for 
 women, have taken care of that ; and she is not clean — 
 if there be barely enough water for drinking, whence 
 can come the wherewithal for washing ? Maid or 
 matron, young or old, she leads a hard, a bitterly 
 hard, existence, knowing the pinch of hunger daily — 
 she sups on her menfolks' leavings — the stabs of thirst 
 not rarely. She is not the household drudge, because 
 she is denied a house, but that of the tent — far worse — 
 the tent which fails to protect her from the biting 
 blast in winter, and the fiery heat in summer. So the 
 lean years have their will of her, and soon — far sooner 
 than her sister of the city — she becomes old, her life 
 holding naught else save the hewing of wood and the 
 drawing of water. And then a little time, and she has 
 found ' the great palace of Magnificent Death,' and 
 her poor old body is laid to rest in the desert which 
 has treated her so hardly. 
 
 They were poor people, our Bedouin hosts,
 
 BAGHDAD TO PALMYRA 77 
 
 wretchedly poor, so I had no scruples next morning 
 in offering payment for their hospitality, and pressed 
 some pieces of silver into the nearest child's hand — the 
 most gracious way of doing what is after all a rather 
 ungracious act, however much it may have to be 
 appreciated. 
 
 The next day — the fourth from Abu Kurnal — 
 passed as the previous one had done, except that we 
 came upon no wells. Twice or thrice we saw flocks 
 of sheep and goats, and as we were now well in the 
 Anazeh country, moreover in that particular section 
 from which Nayal came, we would ride towards them, 
 our procedure being as follows : — While we were 
 still far away Nayal would strike up some Bedouin 
 ditty, to signify, I suppose, that we had no intention 
 of a stealthy surprise. The shepherd, rifle in hand, 
 would advance to meet us, when Nayal would dis- 
 mount and walk up to him. Keeping his piercing 
 gaze full upon him, watching his every movement 
 as a cat does that of a mouse, the shepherd would 
 suffer his approach. Not until Nayal was quite 
 close, and this scrutiny had proved satisfactory, 
 would the shepherd release his vigilance, when they 
 would embrace and, squatting down, commence 
 a Bedouin gossip. From myself, as one of less im- 
 portance, was expected merely a ' Salaam Alaikum,' 
 but before departing, by the good offices of Nayal, I 
 generally obtained a bowl of milk, warm, pure, and 
 refreshing. 
 
 That night we were to bivouac in the open, no 
 sheltering encampment lying on our path, but first 
 came the evening meal. So Nayal built a small fire 
 from the desert bushes, cooked some truffles thereon,
 
 78 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 produced bread and dates, and sat himself down 
 opposite me. And as we ate the sun sank. 
 
 Desert lore prescribes that one should eat one's 
 evening meal before dark, when one's fire is less 
 likely to be observed, and then move on an hour or so 
 for the night bivouac. Even if one's smoke has been 
 sighted, and too curious inquirers approach, they find 
 but blackened ashes, while the friendly night has 
 covered one's departure. 
 
 It was after our meal that I discovered that I had 
 not yet done with Abdul Aziz. You will remember 
 that he had high-handedly exchanged an old water- 
 skin of his for a new one of mine. Hitherto I had 
 had no occasion to drink from his, as my two small 
 ones had proved sufficient, but now these had run 
 dry, and Nayal tilting up one end of the materea, I 
 put my mouth to the other. 
 
 Ugh ! the filthy, yellow, evil-smelling concoction 
 that trickled slowly forth, grateful for the moment 
 because of its chill, but thereafter nauseating and 
 abominable. 
 
 I am not very well acquainted with the technicalities 
 of water-skins, but I have learnt that the goat- or sheep- 
 skin of which they are made has to undergo a species 
 of curing before being fit for holding drinking water. 
 Either this particular skin had never undergone the 
 required process, or extreme old age had played the 
 deuce with its inside. In any case, what had been put 
 into it as water came out as sewage, and my two 
 horses, Nayal, and the open desert heard a specimen of 
 English speech which I trust was not altogether in- 
 adequate to the occasion. Also, if there be any virtue 
 in cursing, Abdul Aziz was a sorry man that night.
 
 BAGHDAD TO PALMYRA 79 
 
 It was, however, no good crying over spilt milk, or 
 bad water, so we mounted our horses and rode forward 
 another hour under the full moon, when we halted for 
 the night. 
 
 The horses were unloaded, tethered, and left to 
 graze. My waterproof sheet was unrolled upon the 
 ground, and my blankets were spread on top — half for 
 myself, half for Nayal ; and then side by side, the 
 Mohammedan and the Christian, the Arab and the 
 Englishman, bound together — I liked to think — by 
 something more than a promised sum of money, by 
 that link which binds together all travellers on the 
 Open Road, east or west, we lay down with the sky 
 for a roof. And what a splendid thing it is to sleep 
 thus under the stars ; to gaze upwards, not into the 
 stuffy darkness of a room, but through infinite space, 
 where the numberless night-lights of heaven twinkle 
 so kindly and calmly upon you ; to feel the light 
 touch of a breeze on your forehead ; to hear the 
 tired earth sigh and turn in her sleep ; at one with 
 the great Cosmos, to be near the solving of many 
 mysteries, and then — lest you should unriddle them 
 — to have your eyes gently closed ! . . . 
 
 Up with the dawn the next morning, we travelled 
 hard till noon, when an obstacle more powerful than the 
 most inaccessible of mountains forced us to turn our 
 steps — thirst. For though desert travelling seems so 
 easy, so smooth, so untrammelled, he — King Thirst — 
 moves always with you, a little out of your sight ; and 
 as your water-skins empty he draws nearer and nearer, 
 until, with the last drop finished, he strides across your 
 path, imperiously bids you draw rein, and asks with a 
 mocking smile : ' Whither away now ? ' And you
 
 80 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 know the answer, which you give humbly enough: 
 ' To the nearest water.' 
 
 So it was with us. My horses had been without 
 water for over thirty-six hours, I myself — save for 
 a few mouthfuls of that yellow abomination already 
 alluded to — for over twenty. From where we were 
 to the nearest water on the Tadmor line direct, Nayal 
 said was eight hours' hard riding, but he seemed to be 
 doubtful of even that. On the other hand, he knew 
 of wells some two hours to the north. 
 
 We turned northward. 
 
 At the wells I had hoped for a short rest, but it 
 was not to be. The Bedouins, as I have said, are 
 jealous about their water, and we were now in territory 
 belonging to a section of the Anazeh which was at feud 
 with Nayal's. So our movements, far from being 
 leisurely, were characterised by extreme haste. Our 
 bucket was unloosed and water drawn for ourselves, 
 for our horses, and for our water-skins, with the same 
 anxious speed, the same searching glances round the 
 horizon. At length the watering was finished ; our 
 water-skins, but lately so limp, now squelched 
 pleasantly against the horses' sides, and we rode off 
 free of the desert once more. 
 
 That night we met a party of merchants with their 
 sheep, their horses, their goats, and their camels, 
 travelling to Damascus, with an armed escort, and 
 stayed the night with them. The next day we struck 
 the darb-us-Sultan, by the side of which I again became 
 of the West — western by virtue of apparel produced 
 from my saddle-bags — and halted the same night in 
 a small hamlet, once thriving, now for the most part 
 in ruins, having been sacked — so the few remaining
 
 BAGHDAD TO PALMYRA 81 
 
 inhabitants told us — by the Anazeh. The Bedouins, 
 however, could not ' lift ' the spring of the place, 
 which contained delicious soft water free from im- 
 purity — nectar after what I had had to drink in the 
 desert — and of which I took exorbitant toll, lying 
 on my stomach to gulp it down for whole minutes 
 together. 
 
 The day following we saw the ancient burial 
 towers of Palmyra stand up against the sky.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 PALMYRA TO DAMASCUS 
 
 The best asset, I suppose, which a traveller can carry 
 with him, next to a well-filled purse, is an orthodox 
 sense of appreciation. With such a sense he is never 
 disappointed at what he may meet on his road. 
 When his guide-book tells him that he is to be 
 ' interested,' or 'amazed,' or 'struck with the loveli- 
 ness around him,' he is so, and proceeds on his way 
 rejoicing. But there are some people, hard of heart 
 and understanding, who cannot for the life of them 
 order their emotions so conveniently. The thing must 
 take them in the mood, or they are frankly bored. 
 
 For instance, when the orthodox traveller sees 
 Babylon, he is properly impressed. He feels that 
 here was one of the cradles of the human race ; here 
 great peoples, nations, and languages have had their 
 day and gone. He is something of an archaeologist, 
 well learned in the ancient histories, so ' glorious 
 guilty Babylon ' means a good deal more to him than 
 a pile of old stones. But when I saw Babylon I 
 merely felt hungry, ravenously hungry, cold — there 
 was a biting wind blowing — and somewhat weary. I 
 had ridden far. There being nothing of majestic 
 superstructure to catch my ignorant eye — Babylon of 
 to-day lies in excavations — it wandered off to the 
 
 82
 
 PALMYRA TO DAMASCUS 83 
 
 spaces around, where it saw something which was 
 at the moment infinitely more to its taste — the open 
 desert lying bare beneath the setting sun. 
 
 So much for Babylon ! And I had an uneasy idea 
 that perhaps Palmyra might prove the same. But it 
 was not so. For here were large columns, tall pillars, 
 gateways, arches, walls, porticoes, and what not ; while 
 beyond a great pile heaved itself massively into the 
 sky. Here was something to see ! — something grand 
 and beautiful which even the most ignorant, like 
 myself, could stand before and worship. 
 
 What impresses one most at Palmyra is that subtle 
 trick of Nature's — contrast. Here, in the midst of the 
 desert, where you might expect a miserable hamlet, 
 you are confronted with the wreck of a mighty city. 
 You know it is going to be there, yet you rub your eyes. 
 You are as much surprised as if you came across a 
 piece of desert set down in the midst of Piccadilly. 
 It has the same incongruity. This sense of surprise 
 stays with you, moreover. You are continually being 
 pulled up with a jerk, and find yourself looking in 
 wonder from the barren hills and the lifeless desert 
 to the magnificent relics of life around you. There 
 seems something inhuman about the choice of such a 
 site for such a city, notwithstanding the plausible ex- 
 planation of the guide-book as to trade centres and 
 so forth ; but it was not until I came to Damascus that 
 I found that such was actually the case. For, as says 
 an Arabic writer whose record I chanced upon there : 
 
 So God said to Suleiman, the Son of David, ' Go to 
 the desert, and there collect an army of the Jinns, for I 
 have given them permission to build Tamor.' [Tamor, 
 Tadmor, and Palmyra are all one and the same.] 
 
 G 2
 
 84 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 The Bible is rather more reticent on the subject, 
 the author of Kings merely remarking, ' And Solomon 
 built Tamor in the wilderness.' Doubtless he too was 
 in the secret of its supernatural construction, but very 
 naturally did not wish to emphasise the fact that 
 the great and good king was in any way connected 
 with the Black Arts. For myself, having seen with 
 my own eyes Tamor and its wilderness, I intend to 
 adhere to my Arabian authority until I shall receive 
 direct proof to the contrary. 
 
 From my childhood up I had connected the two 
 cities of Babylon and Palmyra each with a famous 
 character — to wit, Nebuchadnezzar and Zenobia. The 
 former, of course, from its scriptural connection, the 
 latter I really don't know why or wherefore, except 
 that I have a vague idea that somebody or other 
 wrote a poem, ' Zenobia, Queen of Palmyra.' I am 
 sure that I never read the poem, but that was of little 
 account, the name in itself, with its fine rhythms and 
 its sense of the romantic unknown, being worth many 
 poems to me. 
 
 As for Nebuchadnezzar, that grass-eating monarch, 
 I never felt any particular interest either in him or 
 his harsh- sounding name. The only piece of poetry 
 I remember where he is concerned was one dating 
 from the time of my early schooldays. It began, 
 ' Nebuchadnezzar, the king of the Jews ' ; the rest I 
 have forgotten, except that the second line ended with 
 ' shoes,' and as far as I recollect it was not com- 
 plimentary to that great ruler. 
 
 But Zenobia the Queen, wrapped as much in the 
 alluring mantle of her sex as of her sovereignty, to 
 her I doffed my hat.
 
 PALMYRA TO DAMASCUS 85 
 
 Nor in this need I be deemed unduly impression- 
 able. Even the stolid Gibbon— he ' who sighed as a 
 lover, but obeyed as a son ' — has caught the glamour 
 of the great queen, and actually devotes some of his 
 solemn periods to a description of her charms : her 
 pearly white teeth, her sparkling black eyes, ' tem- 
 pered by the most attractive sweetness,' and the like. 
 
 And he is no less lavish in his praise of her as queen 
 than as woman. How in Palmyra she mourned 
 and avenged the death of her gallant husband, 
 Odeinathus ; how her imperious will proceeded to 
 follow, even more gloriously, in his footsteps, until her 
 soft woman's hand gripped firmly and justly strange 
 peoples from the land of the Pharaohs to the banks 
 of the Tigris ; how finally she swept forth with a flash 
 of spears to do battle with Aurelian for the Empire 
 of the East ; and how she animated her people to a 
 desperate resistance in the siege of her capital which 
 followed the lost fortunes of that day— all this glows 
 in the pages of The Decline and Fall. But why, oh 
 why, with an altered mind must we read a few 
 pages on ? : 
 
 The courage of Zenobia [this when in the hands of 
 the enemy] ' deserted her in the hour of trial ; she trembled 
 at the angry clamours of the soldiers, who called aloud 
 for her immediate execution, forgot the generous despair 
 of Cleopatra, which she had proposed as her model, and 
 ignominiously purchased life by the sacrifice of her fame 
 and her friends. It was to their counsels, which governed 
 the weakness of her sex, that she imputed the guilt of her 
 obstinate resistance ; it was on their heads that she 
 directed the vengeance of the cruel Aurelian. 
 
 So she purchased her life ; and later still, after they
 
 86 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 had led her in golden chains through the streets of 
 Rome at Aurelian's triumph, what do we see ? 
 
 The Emperor presented Zenobia with an elegant villa 
 at Tibur, about twenty miles from the capital ; and the 
 Syrian queen insensibly sank into a Roman matron. . . . 
 
 Ye gods, what bathos ! A ' Roman matron,' occu- 
 pying the smug respectability of an ' elegant villa ' ! 
 
 Oh ! great and conscientious narrator, could you 
 not/even for once only, have neglected your meticu- 
 lous authorities, and, blushing as a historian but dis- 
 sembling as a man, have manufactured for us some 
 ending to the story more worthy of you and her ? . . . 
 
 Beyond Zenobia, Palmyra held for me the melan- 
 choly attraction that all great ruins do for those who 
 gaze upon them. 
 
 They have but fallen before us : for one day we must 
 fall. Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged 
 days ? Thou lookest from thy towers to-day ; yet a few 
 years, and the blast of the desert comes ; it howls in thy 
 empty court, and whistles round thy half-worn shield. 
 
 As for them, so for us — some day. Naught left 
 but an ' empty court,' a ' half-worn shield,' an obscure 
 legend, a sight for the rare traveller, a motive for a 
 few paragraphs in his fugitive diary. But though 
 our pomp and circumstance be gone, let us trust at 
 least that our legend will not be unworthy of fame. . . . 
 
 During my stay in Tadmor I enjoyed the hospitality 
 of the Sheikh Mohammed, more commonly known 
 as the Sheikh of Tadmor, none other than he who was 
 the Blunts' guide to Hail, North Central Arabia,in 1879. 
 This, of course, I being not uninterested in Arabian 
 exploration, afforded us much ground for conversation.
 
 PALMYRA TO DAMASCUS 87 
 
 I informed the sheikh also that I intended to write a 
 small record of my insignificant travels — though only 
 God and the publishers knew whether it would see the 
 light of print — in which I would certainly not forget 
 to mention my host's kindness. So if ever you find 
 yourself at Palmyra, you would dome a kindness by in- 
 forming the sheikh that I have fulfilled my promise. 
 
 F came the second day after my arrival, 
 
 bringing my caravan in tow as well as his own. 
 Nayal left for Abu Kamal to claim his reward from the 
 Christian merchant, and soon after we set out for Horns, 
 from where we were to go to Damascus via Baalbek, 
 purposing, like Ulysses of old, ' many things which 
 the gods had determined should not come to pass.' 
 
 Our caravan was now of some little size. First 
 
 there was F , with two horses and two mules, his 
 
 dragoman Shamoo, and his muleteers ; then there was 
 myself, with three horses, my servant and muleteer ; 
 there was also a Baghdadi clerk, with his aunt, who 
 had attached himself to our cortege in order to travel 
 to Damascus in greater security. These latter had 
 between them two horses and a donkey, and the way 
 the old lady would sit out the longest and coldest day, 
 perched up cross-legged on her pack-saddle, was a 
 thing to marvel at. Besides these, the permanent 
 members of the caravan, we would often pick up 
 chance wayfarers, either riding or walking, who would 
 accompany us for a stage or two. Thus we made quite 
 an important jingle and commotion as we bustled along. 
 
 At a place called Ain-el-Baitha, half a day from 
 Tadmor, where the road branches off to Damascus or 
 Homs, we were obliged to take the former, though 
 we had intended taking the latter. First we were
 
 88 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 unable to procure an escort for the latter road, though 
 one was available for the former ; and second, our 
 muleteers more or less flatly refused to take the Horns 
 road. It is true that by a show of force we could have 
 compelled the muleteers to take whatever road we 
 liked, but as there was some doubt in their contracts 
 with us as to whether they were strictly bound to take 
 the Horns road — which was indeed not the direct one 
 to Damascus — we were unwilling to do this. And so, 
 after much argle-bargling and unpleasantness and 
 time wasted, we took the Damascus road direct and 
 gave up our idea of Horns. 
 
 From this incident it will be seen that travel in 
 the East is not all a path of roses. The very freedom, 
 unexpectedness, and charm of the picturesque which 
 it has over Western travel bring their disadvantages. 
 The wayfarer in the East deals with elemental, uncer- 
 tain factors : horses instead of trains, men instead of 
 obsequious officials, foodstuffs in the raw in place of 
 station buffets, uncertain wells — few and far between 
 — instead of taps with hot and cold laid on, robbers 
 who make unsafe the King's highway ; and his travel- 
 ling will be successful or unsuccessful, a pleasure or a 
 continuous worry, according as he has savoir-faire to 
 deal with these factors. In the West I am almost 
 inclined to say there is no travelling proper — unless 
 indeed it be on foot, well away from the railway line — 
 only touring. For there the journey is made for the 
 traveller ; in the East he makes his own. In the West 
 you pay a certain sum of money, and lo ! there are 
 hundreds of officials, chosen by other people, who are 
 your most obedient servants to help you on your way ; 
 there are scores of trains, with the working of which
 
 PALMYRA TO DAMASCUS 89 
 
 you are blissfully unconcerned, to carry you swiftly 
 and luxuriously whither you will ; there are hotels 
 and refreshment -rooms from which, at a word, you 
 obtain the soft couch and the well-cooked meals which 
 you desire ; you are as a child in the hands of many 
 considerate nurses. 
 
 But in the East — unless, indeed, you cling to the 
 beaten ways — everything depends upon yourself. 
 You propose a journey. Is the time of year suitable 
 for the country which you propose to traverse ? It 
 is. Then you must set to work to get your caravan 
 together. Will you have mules or horses ? The 
 former are better for hills, the latter for plains. Will 
 you hire your animals, and so incur a certain expense, 
 or buy them on the chance of selling them at your 
 destination ? In the latter case you run the risk of 
 mishaps to them on the road, and selling them at a 
 loss when your journey is finished. Then what is 
 the state of the horse market, as far as you can ascer- 
 tain, at your destination ? The animals are brought 
 for your inspection. Do they look up to the mark ? 
 You imagine they do, but the price, buying or hiring, 
 is ridiculous. You must set to work to beat down 
 the dealer. He will not come down beyond a certain 
 price. Will you risk a ' bluff,' and send him away in 
 the hope that he will come back with a lower offer — 
 which should he not do, you may go further and fare 
 worse — or will you clinch the bargain, and afterwards 
 find to your mortification that you could have made a 
 better one elsewhere ? How many animals can you cut 
 down your caravan to ? Every additional animal 
 means additional expense ; on the other hand, to take 
 too few and overload them is rank folly. You make
 
 90 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 your final arrangements and start. After a few days 
 you suspect your horses are being underfed and that 
 your muleteer is pocketing the difference. This must 
 be seen to. You wish to go by a certain road. Your 
 servant, primed by the muleteers, swears by all he 
 holds sacred that there is no water or fodder on that 
 way. From independent inquiries you have to ascer- 
 tain whether this is the truth or not. The khan-chis 
 along your route want a certain amount for your night's 
 lodging. You have once and for all to decide how 
 much will uphold your dignity as a Frank, and how 
 much is mere throwing away of good money. You see 
 that your servants are quarrelling among themselves. 
 As a final court of appeal, you must so arrange matters 
 that their differences are diplomatically adjusted. 
 For when retainers fall out, matters go not smoothly 
 for the master. You can turn two short stages into 
 one by a forced march, but will your animals stand 
 it ? And so ad infinitum. 
 
 But even if a traveller be never so capable, there 
 are times of vexation of body and spirit when he finds 
 himself confronted by the inertia, the hostility, or 
 the greed of the East. And at such times if he cannot 
 borrow something from the East itself — something of 
 its easy fatalism, something of its calm philosophy — 
 to soothe in part his mind, he had better not leave his 
 railway lines and his hotels. 
 
 I have mentioned the wearisome side of Eastern 
 travel, because, in most of the books of travel which 
 I have had the pleasure of reading, this reverse of 
 the medal is not mentioned. And it was only from 
 experience of my own that I realised that such a 
 side existed at all.
 
 PALMYRA TO DAMASCUS 91 
 
 I 
 
 That night we took shelter in an Arab encampment. 
 The Der-Damascus road being not much used, the 
 khans are few and far between, and we were still far 
 from Khareatein, our next halting-place. The women 
 were singularly free of bearing, even for Bedouins, 
 and as they made leban in great water-skins, chaffed 
 merrily enough with F and myself. On our solici- 
 tations two of them even agreed to come with us ! 
 When it came to the point of departure I noticed that 
 these two lost their gaiety and became silent and 
 nervous. Their men were away from the tent, and 
 I imagine they thought we were quite capable of 
 carrying them off across our saddle-bows nolentes 
 volentes. 
 
 We were attacked by Bedouins about 11 a.m. on 
 the next day, and this was the manner of it. 
 
 Very early, earlier even than usual, had we started 
 from the Bedouin camp that morning, and by eleven 
 o'clock must have been eight hours on the road. 
 There was a cold wind blowing, and I was walking, 
 in the endeavour to restore circulation to my limbs. 
 
 Some way behind the caravan came F , riding. 
 
 Our escort, who were supposed to guard us with their 
 lives, had disappeared on ahead and had not been 
 seen for the last hour or so. Such was the disposition 
 of our forces. 
 
 Suddenly I was aware of three men who, mixed 
 up with the caravan, were demanding khubz, khubz 
 (bread, bread), in a rather more threatening manner 
 than seemed to agree with their statement that they 
 were poor and hungry. Indeed, when I came to 
 observe these gentry closer I noticed that, poor as 
 they were, one was armed with a pistol, one with a
 
 92 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 sword, and the third with a stick. There was obviously 
 but one thing to do — to produce some armament of 
 war on my side. 
 
 My pistol, instead of being in my pocket as it 
 should have been, was in my saddle-bag. Luckily, 
 however, the enemy gave me plenty of time to run to 
 my animal and get out my Webley. The production 
 of this, I imagined, might scare the Bedouins off, but 
 they belonged to too hardy a race, and were too accus- 
 tomed to war, for anything of the kind. 
 
 They drew away from the caravan ; that was some- 
 thing, but for the rest they stubbornly refused to leave 
 the field of battle, and as an answer to my levelling 
 my revolver at them, the pistol man — a negro, by the 
 way — levelled his weapon at me. At this point they 
 received reinforcement in the shape of an ally armed 
 with a stick, who apparently shot up out of the ground, 
 for I never saw him walk up. 
 
 So there we were, manoeuvring hither and thither, 
 neither side caring to commence hostilities — I for a 
 reason which will appear later, the Bedouins because 
 they do not care much about assaulting Franks, 
 whose consuls always make such a fuss on their 
 behalf. Every minute that they refrained from ab- 
 solute attack was so much gain to me. The caravan 
 — the object of their solicitude — was drawing farther 
 
 and farther away, and F was coming up from the 
 
 rear. I calculated that when he rode up, off would 
 go the ghazzu (raiding party), and the affair would be 
 over. But it was not to end so easily as that. 
 
 In the intervals of covering the Bedouins with my 
 
 revolver, I signalled and halloed to F to come up 
 
 and take them from the rear. But the wind, as I have
 
 PALMYRA TO DAMASCUS 93 
 
 said, was high, so my voice failed to reach him. We 
 were, moreover, in a straight line from him, as he told 
 me afterwards, and bunched up all together, so he 
 was unable to see what was happening, or in fact 
 that anything was happening at all. 
 
 So there we continued — the four Bedouins, myself, 
 and Shamoo, who, though unarmed, very pluckily 
 stayed with me, quartering the ground in a sort of 
 grotesque lancers. 
 
 I do not know whether you have ever covered a 
 man with your pistol in earnest. I trust you have 
 never done it in play. But if you have not, when 
 you do — unless it is a case of covering and firing at the 
 same instant — I think you will find a kind of unreality 
 about the affair. You will find it hard to realise that 
 you hold the life of a fellow-creature under your finger, 
 that you have only to press it gently, and the man 
 facing you, at that moment full of strong life, will the 
 next be a dead lump of flesh at your feet. 
 
 At least, looking back on my sensation, that is what 
 I felt. I could hardly bring myself to believe that this 
 was all real ; that these four men were truly robbers, 
 only held at a safe distance by the shining barrel of 
 my Webley ; that it might possibly come to a pinch 
 where, if I didn't kill them, they would kill me. For 
 the rest, I felt no particular anger against them. 
 
 In fact, if I had thought for a minute that they 
 would have been contented with a few loaves of bread, I 
 would have given it to them and told them to go in 
 peace ; but I knew very well that the bread was only a 
 ' test case,' to see what sort of spirit we were made of, 
 and what sort of resistance we would show. 
 
 The Bedouins began to encourage themselves with
 
 94 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 the ancient war-cries of Islam : Ya Allah ! (0 God !), La 
 Illaha Illala, Mohammed Russul-Ullah (There is no 
 God but God, and Mohammed is the prophet of God). 
 They also began to use Nature's artillery — stones, and 
 a shower of these latter came flying about our ears. I 
 heard a grunt from Shamoo, and he wrung his hand. 
 
 The Bedouins had drawn first blood. But for all 
 their stones, it was the negro with the pistol whom I 
 kept my eye on. He was the only one of the ghazzu 
 who could slay from a distance. However, from the 
 way he held his revolver I could see either that he was 
 not much acquainted with its use, or that he had no 
 intention of using it seriously — just then. And it was 
 only with ' just then ' that I was concerned : the future 
 minutes could look after themselves. 
 
 Nevertheless, things were becoming serious, and 
 
 again I halloed and gesticulated to F . This time, 
 
 to my great relief, I saw him ride rapidly forward. So 
 did the Bedouins, and began to retreat. It remained 
 but for us to turn the retreat into a rout, and the 
 day was ours. Shamoo and I raised a warlike shout 
 between us and pursued hotly. 
 
 Bang, went my revolver. I had fired over the 
 enemy's heads. Bang, the negro had replied at ran- 
 dom, but they broke into a run nevertheless. Again 
 we yelled ; the Bedouins ran. Victory was ours. But 
 the Bedouins did not propose to give up the day so 
 easily. There might still be time — so they evidently 
 thought — to depart, if not with the honours of war, at 
 any rate with loot, which was the same thing to them. 
 
 So, suddenly rallying their forces, they attacked, 
 and it was our turn for the manoeuvre which has 
 been immortalised by Xenophon. Stones again came
 
 PALMYRA TO DAMASCUS 95 
 
 hurtling about our ears. Bang, bang, went the enemy's 
 artillery, and bang once more. I thanked the gods 
 that the son of Ham appeared to be an atrociously 
 bad shot. 
 
 The Bedouins slackened their pursuit. I looked 
 over my shoulder, and saw the cause. One of my 
 horses, which I had bought in Baghdad for the road, 
 with the intention of selling it in Damascus, had fallen 
 into their hands. My servant had been riding it, and, 
 although armed with a Derringer which I had given 
 him, had apparently made no effort to protect his 
 mount, but had got off, left it, and sped after the 
 caravan. 
 
 Here was a nice kettle of fish. My chestnut, my 
 hard-earned pounds, my prospect of gain in Dimishq — 
 where horses are dearer than in Baghdad — my well- 
 filled saddle-bags, all in danger of being ridden off with 
 by these thieving rogues ! One of them had the chest- 
 nut by the head-rope. By Allah ! he was preparing to 
 mount. It was now or never. I ran back upon them. 
 
 The would-be thief let go the head-rope when he 
 saw me approach, and retreated. I caught the head- 
 rope with my left hand and levelled my revolver with 
 my right. The four closed in upon me. There was 
 no more unreality about the affair now : it was grim 
 business, and I shot with the faithful intention of 
 killing. 
 
 That I did not succeed must be put down to my 
 bad aim. They were ten yards off. I pulled the 
 trigger, picking off the negro. Bang ! 
 
 A miss at seven yards. Bang ! I whirled round, 
 and discharged my pistol point-blank at one of the 
 stick- men who had come up in rear. A palpable writhe
 
 96 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 told that at any rate this shot had gone home — some- 
 where. I pulled the trigger again ; there was a dull 
 click. 
 
 The Bedouins raised a yell of triumph, and the 
 second stick-man was upon me, and had struck me on 
 the right arm and shoulder twice in quick succession. 
 Indeed, the quickness of the blows defeated their own 
 object, as they were too light to do any serious damage. 
 Through the hurly-burly I heard the sound of shouting, 
 saw the stick raised again, and the savage, contorted 
 face of the striker. I dodged under the chestnut's 
 neck, turned to fire once more, and then — 
 
 There was F , sitting on his horse near by, 
 
 opening fire on the Bedouins, who were in full retreat. 
 Phut, phut, phut — his Browning cracked like a whip, 
 and never was any music sweeter to my ears. The 
 cavalry had come up just in time. 
 
 But it was not until I opened my revolver to 
 ascertain the cause of the supposed misfire that I saw 
 how close the margin of time had been. Four empty 
 shells fell out on to the ground. I then remembered 
 that I had fired two shots away practising at stones 
 
 on the road, so when F came to my assistance I 
 
 had exhausted my ammunition. 
 
 But this was no time for comments or explanations. 
 We had driven off the Bedouins, it is true, but we had 
 no guarantee that they did not possess friends near at 
 hand — friends with rifles and horses. And if this was 
 so, and they came upon us before we could reach our 
 next halting-place, Khareatein, it was a case of actum 
 est de nobis. So the chestnut was hastily reloaded — 
 in the scrimmage various things had fallen off — my 
 servant was reinstated minus the Derringer which had
 
 PALMYRA TO DAMASCUS 97 
 
 been so futile in his hands, and which I now took 
 possession of myself in place of my useless revolver, 
 and we hurried the caravan forward at its best pace, 
 with many an anxious look rearward. 
 
 Then, and not till then, had we leisure to discuss 
 
 the affair and I to give my thanks — to F for 
 
 saving me a probable journey across the Styx, and to 
 Shamoo for his pluck in voluntarily sharing with me 
 the risk of such an encounter. 
 
 ' Well, yes, Shamoo ; it was devilish plucky of you 
 to stay with me like that, unarmed as you were, too. 
 It was very good of you, Shamoo, to stay with 
 me like that, very good, and I shan't forget it.' I 
 haven't either. 
 
 ' By Jove, yes, Shamoo. You've done very well 
 to-day, very well indeed. You were the only one 
 of the caravan who stuck to Mr. Fowle.' This 
 from F . 
 
 Shamoo's honest face beamed all over. 
 
 ' How I leave Mr. Fowle ? Not possible that, sir. 
 I serve Englishmen ten, twenty, thirty years, and then 
 when little trouble comes I not stick to them ? That 
 not possible, sir. I stay with Mr. Fowle, and I shout 
 out to Bedouins that this not ordinary traveller, but 
 English consul — very big consul ' (here was promotion 
 indeed !) ; ' think perhaps then they become afraid. 
 But they not care, sir, consul — no consul. Plenty 
 bad men.' 
 
 I think you will agree with me that it was worth 
 travelling far, worth an encounter with the Bedouins, 
 worth even the risk — what shall we say ? — of losing 
 a chestnut horse, to meet such a loyal follower as 
 Shamoo, dragoman.
 
 98 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 ' All the same,' observed F , ' I wish I had slain 
 
 one or two of those gentry. It would have been 
 getting my own back for that affair at Aleppo two 
 years ago.' 
 
 But as for me, I was quite content with the ending 
 
 of the affray. For, as I pointed out to F , if I had 
 
 killed one of our assailants, self-defence or no self- 
 defence, I should have had an Arab blood-feud on my 
 hands ; and a Bedouin blood-feud is, as far as I can 
 judge, just as bitter as a Pathan one, which is saying 
 
 a good deal. Now F was leaving the country for 
 
 civilised lands where blood-feuds are not ; but I, on 
 the contrary, was to be a sojourner in the land for the 
 next four months, perhaps might again wish to travel 
 in the desert, so you may imagine that a blood-feud 
 was the last complication I wished for. 
 
 Thus, discussing the affray and hastening forward 
 the while, we caught up our faithful guards, who had 
 deserted us, if you please, to gather grass for their 
 horses. About an hour later we reached Khareatein 
 and rested from our labours. . . . 
 
 From Khareatein to Damascus is only a journey 
 of three days, but it is a very interesting three days, 
 as it takes you out of Turkish Arabia into Syria. The 
 change is a pleasant one. The little towns you pass 
 through have an air of cleanness wanting hitherto ; 
 the khans show the same improvement. After the 
 pale, unhealthy looking children of Baghdad, you 
 are delighted to see rosy-cheeked youngsters playing 
 riotously at the street-corners. And not only do the 
 children hold the monopoly for rosy cheeks. For as 
 you clatter through the streets more than one pretty 
 maiden glances shyly up at you, and you see that her
 
 PALMYRA TO DAMASCUS 99 
 
 colouring also is pleasant to the eye. You look your 
 approbation ; perchance you smile. The pink blushes 
 slowly to red in the maiden's cheeks, but slowly also 
 a smile plays about her lips, and you guess that your 
 boldness is not wholly without its pardon. As you 
 ascend the air becomes brisker, colder. Ahead you 
 see a smudge of pure white against the sky : the snowy 
 peaks of the Anti-Lebanon. You turn to your com- 
 panion and observe, as I did to F , ' By Jove, 
 
 we're in a different country altogether.' 
 
 At Kuteifeh, one day from Damascus, we celebrated 
 our return to civilisation by hiring a carriage to drive 
 the rest of the way in, leaving our caravan to follow 
 at its leisure. As an act of charity we took the old 
 lady with us, for already she must have suffered much, 
 poor thing. 
 
 It was my fortune to enter two of the most Oriental 
 cities of the world — Baghdad and Damascus — in most 
 un-Oriental weather — the former on a bleak windy 
 day, typical of an English autumn, the latter through 
 a Scotch mist, thick as pea-soup and cold as the 
 ' frosty Caucasus.' But presently the mist cleared 
 away, and behold ! we were driving through the lovely 
 green gardens, flaked with the pink and white of the 
 apricot blossoms, which are the glory of the Sham-Ash- 
 Sharif (Sham the Honoured), as the Arabs lovingly 
 call Damascus.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 A SOJOURN IN SHAM 
 
 At Sham F 's path and mine separated — I to 
 
 pursue my studies in that city, he bound for London 
 Town via Stamboul. 
 
 For that is the way of the road. For a time it and 
 its hazards, and its long hours spent in the saddle 
 riding side by side from dawn till eve, bring you and 
 your companions in close touch with each other ; 
 then, the open country crossed where the road is one, 
 and one only, you reach an outpost of civilisation 
 where many highways meet, and they take one and 
 you take another, each upon your own business, and 
 the partnership is dissolved. 
 
 My object being the acquirement of Arabic, a house 
 of my own such as I had had in Baghdad was the first 
 desideratum. To have gone to one of the European 
 hotels, where tourists abound and where the waiters 
 talk French or English, would have been to have had 
 no more touch with things Arabic, whilst in it, than if 
 I had resided in any Continental spa. After some little 
 difficulty, for house agents are a luxury which Damascus 
 has not yet indulged in, I procured a suitable residence 
 not far off the Darb-el-Moustaqim, the long bazaar 
 to which two thousand years ago that lion-hearted
 
 A SOJOURN IN SHAM 101 
 
 traveller, Paul of Tarsus, came groping his way to the 
 house of Judas, that ancient way which is known to 
 all the English-speaking world as ' the street which 
 is called Straight.' 
 
 My next necessity was an instructor in the language, 
 that is chiefly on the literary side ; for the colloquial 
 I had the three hundred thousand inhabitants of 
 Damascus at my service, or at any rate such of them 
 as I might chance to speak with in the day's round. 
 I was fortunate enough to find a capable instructor 
 
 in Mr. A. K , a Syrian Christian ; and it was with 
 
 him that I finally acquired the right pronunciation 
 of the two Arabic letters h and Ain, which when a 
 European can master he may be said to be at 
 
 the beginning of knowledge. Mr. A. K had been 
 
 Doughty's teacher in Damascus before that explorer 
 started on his journey into the unknown wastes 
 of Northern Arabia, so I felt I was following in no 
 mean footsteps. 
 
 My third need was a ' guide, philosopher, and 
 friend ' in the shape of some respectable Moslem who 
 would act as a sort of perambulating professor of 
 Arabic. I wanted some one who would accompany 
 me in my rambles through the bazaars — some one 
 whose knowledge of people and things Damascene 
 would render such rambles doubly interesting ; and 
 who so suitable as a Moslem sheikh ? 1 I say Moslem 
 because, though the number of Christians in Damascus 
 is by no means small, yet the city is of course a 
 Moslem one, and the first interest of a traveller is to get 
 
 1 The word ' sheikh,' though used generally to denote the chief 
 of a Bedouin tribe, also denotes in Syria any Moslem of respectable 
 position.
 
 102 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 into touch with the indigenous people of the country. 
 Moreover in Damascus, as indeed throughout Syria, 
 there is still considerable enmity between the Moslems 
 and the Syrian Christians, and one stood a better chance 
 of receiving a more open welcome if one came under 
 the aegis of a Moslem than of a Christian. After some 
 difficulty — for the affair, as you can imagine, was a 
 somewhat delicate one in consideration of Moslem 
 
 prejudices — through the good offices of Mr. A. K , 
 
 who was held in high respect by the Moslem com- 
 munity, the matter was arranged. Of the sheikh I 
 procured, more anon. 
 
 My fourth need was a fez, or tarboosh, whichever you 
 like to call it, and I procured one — of a height and re- 
 spectability such as would not have disgraced the head 
 of the Sultan himself — for the sum of one medjidie, 
 or about three shillings and fourpence. My object in 
 wearing a fez was of course the same that it had been 
 in Baghdad, i.e. to avoid being pestered by beggars, 
 who invariably expect largesse from anyone wearing 
 a European hat, and to avoid being stared at if I 
 chose to frequent places, such as native eating-houses 
 and cafes, where the European is not often seen. 
 
 Thus was my sojourn in Sham completely 
 arranged for. . . . 
 
 If you have been in Damascus you probably were 
 of the opinion that one of the most picturesque bits 
 in that city occurs at the end of Straight Street ; but 
 if you have not I should like to describe it to you. 
 
 Straight Street itself is a covered bazaar, but at 
 right angles to it runs the uncovered thoroughfare 
 which under one name or another may be said to 
 traverse the whole of Damascus from north to south.
 
 IN A MOSOUE 
 
 DERVISHES
 
 A SOJOURN IN SHAM 103 
 
 The bazaar ends in a great arch, and across the street, 
 in a blaze of light, the delicate proportions of a mosque 
 and minaret are outlined against the blue sky. A few 
 tattered beggars bask in the sunshine outside the 
 mosque door, and the crowd surges in and out of the 
 bazaar. The whole charm of the picture lies in the 
 abrupt contrast between light and shade — a contrast 
 peculiarly characteristic of an Eastern sun — and 
 between the movement of the crowd and the ' still 
 life ' of the prostrate beggars. Then, just when you 
 are thinking that never did you see a more typical 
 Oriental setting, an electric tram whizzes round the 
 corner, and with a grinding of brakes comes to a stand- 
 still just in front of you, effectually obliterating the 
 beggars and the mosque. To your picturesque sense 
 this is annoying, but to your imaginative and critical 
 sense — which takes some pleasure in noting, and 
 speculating on, the conflicts and differences between 
 the East and the West — the advent of this Behemoth 
 is rather stimulating than otherwise. It also under- 
 lines contrasts, though of a different nature from 
 those of the picturesque. . . . 
 
 The finest bazaar in Damascus is perhaps the 
 Suk-el-Arouam (the Bazaar of the Greeks). But it is 
 by no means the most Eastern. Perhaps that is be- 
 cause it is too clean, for in an Eastern city dirt and 
 the picturesque are usually inextricably mixed. It also 
 has a tin roof, which, however useful against the 
 elements, is not artistic. Its shops too for the most 
 part, instead of being the proper old-fashioned holes 
 in the wall, presided over by imperturbable grey- 
 beards smoking long narghilehs, are large European 
 structures with plate-glass windows, where you are
 
 104 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 attended to by shoulder-shrugging, gesticulating 
 young Syrians, very voluble in French. Native cook- 
 shops, old-clothes' shops, emporiums for the sale of 
 carpets and antiques, boot-shops, tailors, and so forth 
 are all found here. Here one can buy curios to take 
 home with one and be well swindled in the process, 
 for the manufacture of antiqdts is a flourishing trade 
 among the good people of Sham. Of course you can 
 purchase really good curios at the better-class shops, 
 but then you have to pay really good prices in 
 exchange. 
 
 Not having the wherewithal to buy curios, my 
 chief interest in the Suk-el-Arouam lay in the cook- 
 shops. A native eating-house in the bazaars of 
 Damascus may, to the fastidious, not appear very 
 promising, but I sincerely hope that I shall never fare 
 worse on my travels. The menu is not in writing, 
 but is displayed to the patron's gaze as he enters in 
 large tin dishes heated from below. From one of 
 these dishes he makes his choice, and a portion is served 
 out to him. The fare consists mostly of stews— either 
 meat or vegetable — there being no joints, and curiously 
 enough, as far as my experience went, no curries, not- 
 withstanding the prevalence of that dish in Indian 
 cookery. But sweets play a prominent part in the 
 menu, including the famous cream tarts mentioned 
 in the Arabian Nights. Once inside, the place is clean, 
 and fitted with the ordinary imitation marble-topped 
 tables. Knives and forks are provided, and nearly 
 every one uses them. In fact, your seeker after * local 
 colour ' would find it disappointingly civilised. 
 
 I used to have nearly all my meals at one of these 
 eating-houses, as I found it a much simpler arrange-
 
 A SOJOURN IN SHAM 105 
 
 ment than housekeeping for myself. When any of 
 my Moslem friends came to visit me and take a meal 
 in my house, I could always procure the necessary food 
 from the nearest cook-shop. 
 
 There are other and humbler native restaurants 
 than the class described above, where the poorer classes 
 resort, and sometimes I would frequent them. Here, 
 according to custom, I would buy my meat from a 
 neighbouring butcher and have it cooked at the eating- 
 house. No knives and forks were provided. One 
 showed one's quality by the skill wherewith one used 
 one's fingers, like Chaucer's lady, who was of such 
 gentility that never did she dip her fingers into the 
 dish above the second joint. 
 
 My sheikh, as I shall call him — his name is of no 
 consequence — had a friend who kept a shop at the end 
 of the Suk-el-Arouam, and in our excursions through 
 the town would often stop there to pass the time of day. 
 The sheikh was a man of letters, the shopkeeper was 
 a shopkeeper, but being both respectable Moslems 
 any idea of social difference never occurred to them. 
 The Moslem East is the only true democracy, and 
 snobbery is still a monopoly of the West. On the 
 merits of my companion I also was made welcome, 
 and taking a seat would watch all Sham pass before 
 my eyes. And as an epitome of types Arabic it was 
 worth watching. 
 
 First, as most insistent on one's attention, were 
 the street hawkers, prominent amongst whom were the 
 syrup, lemonade, and liquorice- juice sellers. A narrow 
 strip of white cloth wound round the head ; a striped 
 coat gathered in at the waist, where were held the im- 
 plements of his trade, his trough for holding glasses
 
 io6 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 and his money-bag ; an apron reaching down to his 
 knees to protect his white pantaloons from stain ; over 
 his shoulder a leather strap to hold his jar of sweet 
 drinkables ; in his hand a couple of brass cups, which 
 he clinked together as he raised his cry — such was the 
 sharbatli (seller of sherbet and lemonade) . 
 
 But if the sharbatli — by reason of the brazen aid 
 which his clinking cups gave to his voice — was most 
 heard, the beggar was not far behind him in his clamour. 
 Damascus, like every city of the East, is a happy hunt- 
 ing-ground for the sturdy loafer. Clad in a bundle of 
 dirty rags, this individual peregrinates from bazaar to 
 bazaar, calling upon God and man for relief : ' For the 
 sake of God ! O ye charitable ! I am the guest of God 
 and the Prophet ! My supper must be Thy gift, O 
 Lord ! ' and the like. For the European the cry is 
 generally shortened down to the familiar 'Backshish.' 
 The retort courteous to this is either ' Allah yaateek ! ' 
 (May God give it to you !), or still better, since it is 
 in the nature of a rhyming jest, 'Mdafish ' (I have 
 nothing). Beggars there are, to be sure, who are of a 
 truth in a state of beggary. But these poor creatures 
 — the blind, the halt, and the diseased — choose for 
 their ' pitch ' some sheltered nook beside a mosque 
 wall, and do not venture into the hubbub of the 
 bazaars. 
 
 Then there were the sakkas (water-men), carrying 
 their water-skins either upon their backs or upon 
 donkeys ; the sellers of sweetmeats, with tray on head, 
 of vegetables, of truffles — that European delicacy, here 
 common enough in season — of fruit, each with his own 
 peculiar piercing cry. 
 
 As for the people in general, they were of all types :
 
 A SOJOURN IN SHAM 107 
 
 venerable sheikhs in long flowing robes ; poorer citizens 
 in single shirt and pantaloons — these forming the 
 bulk of the crowd ; well-to-do Syrians and Turks in 
 blue suits ; now and then a gorgeous kawass from a 
 foreign consulate ; now and then a travel-stained, 
 unkempt Bedouin fresh from the open desert ; and 
 now and then a party of tourists whirling through the 
 crowd in a hired carriage, ' doing ' Damascus — that 
 ancient city — in two days. 
 
 The shopman would break in on my meditations. 
 
 ' Say now, Beg, for what purpose have you come 
 to our city ? Speak openly : we three are friends.' 
 
 ' Why, to learn Arabic. Where can one learn better 
 Arabic than in Sham-ash-Sharif ? ' 
 
 ' W Allah ! That is true. But have you no other 
 purpose ? ' 
 
 ' To travel, to see new peoples and strange places.' 
 
 ' To travel ? Only ? ' His smile would express 
 polite unbelief. 
 
 The sheikh : ' In truth the Englezi think of nothing 
 but safar (travel), saied (sport), and,' with a sly glance 
 at me, ' sedsat (politics).' 
 
 ' Ay ! B'lllah ! That is a good saying. Safar, 
 saied, and sedsat ' ; and the shopman would chuckle 
 approvingly to himself. 
 
 The truth is that somehow or other we English 
 have a great reputation for a crafty foreign policy all 
 through the Middle East, and the Oriental, not under- 
 standing the ' call of the road,' puts every traveller 
 down as a political emissary. . . . 
 
 I have already remarked that I would make further 
 mention of my sheikh ; and, indeed, it needs no great 
 effort of memory, even now, to call to mind his
 
 108 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 personality. Invariably dressed in the most spotless 
 of flowing garments, with well-shaped hands and long 
 tapering fingers that would have been the delight of an 
 artist, his face grey-bearded and commonly grave but 
 now and then relaxed into a kindly smile, his deport- 
 ment that of a Mohammedan gentleman — than whom 
 no better exists — his whole presence brought with it 
 an atmosphere of benign dignity. 
 
 Nor did his character belie his outward man. Our 
 conversation, carried on at first for the practice of 
 my Arabic, soon widened into long discussions and 
 arguments ad infinitum. And whatever the subject 
 on hand — politics, or metaphysics, or morals and 
 manners — I always found a spirit tolerant and full of 
 goodwill towards its fellow-creatures, a mind steeped 
 in Arabic learning, and an understanding shrewd and 
 acute ; yet with this shrewdness there was a touch 
 of simplicity which I found very attractive. 
 
 The sheikh was of the old school, and while tolerant 
 of innovations, had no very great faith in them. 
 
 ' You know how our proverb goes, Beg ? — " The 
 borrowed cloak never warms." New-fangled notions 
 and customs from the West are for us of the East all 
 borrowed cloaks. They are not based on the hearts of 
 the people. They may suit you Englez — though you 
 too have your political troubles, have you not ? But 
 they will not suit us.' . . . 
 
 One of the quarters in Damascus most suggestive 
 to imagination was perhaps the Suk Souroudjieh (the 
 Bazaar of the Saddlers). Here there came to you, 
 as it were, a whiff of the open desert in the midst of 
 the crowded city. For here were all necessaries for 
 desert wayfaring : high-peaked native saddles, coloured,
 
 A SOJOURN IN SHAM 109 
 
 striped, and betasselled ; cartridge-, pistol-, and money- 
 belts ; embroidered girths, and martingales of woven 
 wool; heel-ropes.camel-bags, and water-skins, large and 
 small. Here maybe to buy outfit for the road came 
 the Englishmen, Palgrave and Doughty ; Huber, the 
 ill-fated Frenchman ; Nolde, the soldier of fortune and 
 the other brave adventurers who have made Damascus 
 the starting-point of their explorations 1 ; but whether 
 this was so or not, here at any rate comes he to whom 
 the desert is not a hazardous venture, but his hearth 
 and home — namely, the Bedouin. 
 
 The Bedouin for the most part sticks to his native 
 wilds, but now and again he comes into town to buy and 
 sell, or on pleasure bent. Some of the smaller Bedouin 
 tribes are only partly nomadic. They till land on the 
 edge of the deserts and keep great flocks of sheep. 
 These tribes have constant intercourse with Damascus, 
 and trade in camels and horses, which they breed ex- 
 tensively. They are, however, despised by the desert 
 tribes, who say that they are not the true Ahl-Ash- 
 Shadar (People of the Tents), and who harry them 
 whenever opportunity offers. 
 
 Some sheikhs also, even of the big tribes, own 
 property round about Sham, and keep agents there to 
 look after their interests. So any day of the year, but 
 especially in the summer-time, when the tribes have 
 to seek the more fertile regions in search of water, you 
 will meet many Bedouins in your walks through the 
 bazaars. Generally rather short, and of wiry rather 
 
 1 And since the time of these well-known travellers, possibly 
 
 L also, a brother officer, whose wanderings in Northern and 
 
 Central Arabia are worthy to be compared with the exploits of any 
 of the above.
 
 no TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 than strong build, his dress makes the Bedouin 
 appear taller than he really is. The Pathan, as he 
 walks through Peshawar on a day when a caravan has 
 come down the Khyber, and the city is all agog, is a 
 sight to have seen. But nevertheless in picturesque- 
 ness he is second to the Bedouin, with his abba swing- 
 ing voluminously from his shoulder at every stride, 
 his kafeea dropping down like some gorget of old on 
 either side of his weather-beaten cheeks, and his argal 
 wound crownwise about his head. 
 
 The dress of the common Bedouin is often ragged 
 and not overclean, but that of a Bedouin sheikh is 
 fine raiment indeed. In town he discards his rough 
 travelling abba of camel's hair, costing perhaps fifteen 
 shillings, for one of silk, costing perhaps as many 
 pounds, and to complete his attire wears a silver-hilted 
 sword, the sign of his tribal authority. . . . 
 
 A great feature of Sham are the cafes — even more 
 so than they are of Baghdad. Here they take indeed 
 the place of our clubs, in the same way as did the 
 coffee-houses of London in the days of Doctor Johnson. 
 Like clubs, particular cafes are resorted to by particular 
 patrons. In some you will find military officers, in 
 others civilian officials, in others a mixture of both. 
 Others again are resorted to chiefly by Arabs from the 
 surrounding districts, others by all and sundry. Some 
 of the better-class cafes have comfortable chairs, and 
 French and Arabic newspapers. Most of the cafe 
 patrons, however, have to content themselves with 
 benches and with bringing their own literature. 
 
 Behold the sheikh and me, then, entering one of 
 these temples to nicotine, coffee, and gossip. It is 
 one of those which are resorted to by all and sundry,
 
 A SOJOURN IN SHAM in 
 
 so the general public of Damascus is well represented. 
 Some are playing backgammon, some reading, some 
 talking ; all are smoking and drinking coffee. We 
 steer our way to a seat, and give our orders and our 
 tobacco to an attendant — our tobacco, because the 
 weed provided in the cafes is not of the best. If, 
 therefore, you are a little particular in what you 
 smoke, it is better to purchase your tobacco outside. 
 In a few minutes we have each a cup of coffee and 
 a narghileh placed before us. The cup is very small, 
 holding, perhaps, a wineglassful. And when you have 
 drunk the coffee you no longer wonder at its smallness. 
 Does one drink green Chartreuse out of a pint glass ? 
 
 And the narghileh ? What shall I say of the 
 narghileh ? This : that if I had to name something 
 typical of the Orient, I should choose it as an emblem. 
 With its glass water-filled vase, its long wooden stem, 
 its silver receptacle for tobacco, its six-foot flexible 
 tube, it stands — a stately edifice — in its complicated 
 paraphernalia, in its picturesque unpractical un- 
 wieldiness, in its unnecessary elaboration as a lifeless 
 personification of the East. Your briar is your trusty 
 companion on the rolling decks of plunging vessels, 
 in express trains rocking at sixty miles an hour, on 
 long tramps upon windy uplands, when you move 
 amongst the sons of a restless race, driven hither and 
 thither by the demon Energy over the face of the 
 earth. But the other — your narghileh — is a languor- 
 ous and subtle mistress, to be wooed at rest under 
 an Eastern sun, amongst a people who know not 
 haste, and whose watchword is ' To-morrow.' . . . 
 
 The most famous mosque in Sham is of course 
 the great Djamia-el-Oumia (the Ommiad Mosque).
 
 ii2 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 Here is found the Western sight-seer in season — there 
 is a fixed tariff for being shown round — and the 
 Damascene beggar at all times. If one does not 
 happen to be a sight-seer or a Damascene beggar, there 
 is really not much reason to frequent the place. It is, 
 moreover, fully described in all the guide-books, and 
 in some which are not guide-books, so any further 
 words of mine would be superfluous. 
 
 But there are other mosques in Damascus which 
 the sight-seer never enters, and where in consequence 
 — blessed exemption — there are no voluble guides to 
 jar upon one's moods. In fact, it is doubtful if the 
 sight-seer would gain admittance to most of these 
 other mosques, where use, unlike at the Grand Mosque, 
 has not accustomed the custodians to the invasion of 
 the behatted Feringhi. My fez, and still more the 
 company of my sheikh, however, passed me unques- 
 tioned — that is to say at times when public prayer 
 was not being held. 
 
 I know of no building the interior of which is more 
 impressive — hackneyed and distorted adjective, but 
 the only suitable — more impressive than that of a 
 large mosque, empty of worshippers. Even a cathedral 
 under similar circumstances has not the same effect. 
 Unlike in the West, you do not at once enter from the 
 outside world into the building : there is an ante- 
 chamber, as it were, to attune you to its solemnities. 
 You find yourself first of all in an open court colonnaded 
 at the sides, with a fountain playing in the centre. 
 Two or three sleeping figures lie at full length on the 
 pavement. In a shady corner an old man drones 
 the Koran to a small circle of little boys. Above in 
 the blue vault numberless pigeons wheel and flash
 
 IN A MOSQUE COURTYARD 
 (The ablution before prayers)
 
 A SOJOURN IN SHAM 113 
 
 in the sunlight, or settle on the minarets and cupolas 
 with soft cooings and flutterings of wings. As from 
 a great distance come to your ears the faint noises 
 of the city. It is very restful and very peaceful, and 
 you stand awhile half-hypnotised by its atmosphere. 
 Then, taking off your shoes, you enter the mosque itself. 
 
 If — as is sometimes the case — this is walled off 
 from the court, it is dark, and your eyes, dazzled by 
 the glare outside, see nothing at first beyond a lofty 
 space with a curious sense of emptiness. As your 
 eyes become accustomed to the gloom, you see what 
 has given you this sense of emptiness : it is that 
 there are no seats. The marble floor glistens bare 
 under the dim light, broken only here and there by 
 stretches of matting or of prayer-carpets. 
 
 For the mosque makes no concessions to the weak- 
 nesses of its worshippers. It will give them none of 
 the amenities of Western worship, nor reserved pews, 
 nor comfortably cushioned seats, nor hassocks to 
 protect their knees — nought to raise man in his de- 
 votions above the dust to which he must at the last 
 return. Nothing rises above the ground save the 
 pulpit, the platform from which the Koran is read, 
 and the tall pillars which, supporting the roof, stretch 
 into the obscurity above your head. 
 
 And it is this emptiness which marks the difference 
 between a mosque and a church. The emptiness of 
 the latter, with its rows of tenantless pews, seems a 
 void waiting to be filled ; the building seems to call for 
 the presence of man to make it complete. But as 
 you look round the former you feel that its emptiness 
 is complete in itself, and that man is superfluous. 
 And then your thoughts take another turn.
 
 ii4 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 In the outside world you may be the least meta- 
 physical of mortals. But here in the heart of a great 
 faith which is alien to your own — in fact just because 
 it is alien to your own — it is different, and the long 
 quiet minutes pass as you lose your way in the un- 
 profitable blind alleys, which lead to the great 
 unanswerable trinity of — Whence ? Why ? and 
 Whither ? 
 
 A single worshipper enters the mosque, and you 
 watch him half curiously, perhaps half enviously, as 
 he proceeds through his complicated genuflexions, 
 for he at any rate has no doubts. ' There is no 
 God but God, and Mohammed is the Prophet of God.' 
 Prayer must be said five times a day, and all Jews and 
 infidels are doomed to the pit. 
 
 On going out you pass through the court once 
 again. There the pigeons are still flashing and wheel- 
 ing in the sun, the fountain is still murmuring softly 
 to itself, and the recumbent figures are still motionless. 
 Only the little group in the shady corner has altered 
 — for the old man is fast asleep and his pupils have 
 vanished. 
 
 But mosques have fallen on evil days in these 
 latter times. One of my Moslem friends in Sham was 
 the head of a sect of Dervishes, who had a certain 
 mosque for their takeea, as the praying and lodging- 
 place of Dervishes is called. My friend lived in a 
 villa in Salahieh, which is a quarter situated above 
 the town on the first slopes of the Anti-Lebanon. 
 There I used often to visit him, and of an evening 
 we would sit on the balcony of his house, overlooking 
 his garden, and the plain far below dotted with 
 villages, and the rich orchards — enclosing in their
 
 A SOJOURN IN SHAM 115 
 
 midst the winding waters of the Barada and the 
 beautiful city, its tall minarets gleaming white in 
 the rays of the setting sun. 
 
 ' Ah, Effendi,' the old man would say, ' in these 
 days the glory of Islam is dying. In the old days my 
 takeea had the revenue of forty-two villages assigned 
 to it. Then Sultan Abdul Majid took away the 
 revenues of the villages, and granted it one hundred 
 pounds per month. After this Abdul Hamid reduced 
 this to fifty pounds ; and now I get monthly thirty 
 pounds Turkish. How can I maintain the dignity of 
 my mosque and of myself on thirty pounds Turkish ? 
 How can I pay attendants ? How can I make repairs ? 
 How can I give free lodging to all the Dervishes of my 
 order who come to Sham ? Al-hamdu-l' Illah, I have 
 some land of my own, and from it I get a little money. 
 So I am able to prevent my mosque from falling down 
 altogether, and to live in some sort as befits my station. 
 But . . . it is not enough. . . . My mosque has become 
 a shame and a reproach in the eyes of Sham — my 
 mosque that in the old days was its delight and its 
 pride. . . . There is no might and there is no majesty 
 save in Allah the glorious, the great . . kulu halin 
 ezul. . . . Everything comes to an end. Even the 
 true religion must pass away in these evil days . . . 
 unless . . . unless . . .' 
 
 Then he would break off into silence, and stare 
 across the darkening landscape with fierce eyes, 
 revolving in his mind I know not what wild schemes 
 for the regeneration of Islam. . . . 
 
 The takeea of the Molawees (whirling Dervishes) 
 was certainly pleasantly situated. It was a hot day, 
 unpleasantly dusty, yet when I entered the takeea 
 
 1 2
 
 n6 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 I found myself in a ' pleasance ' — I do not think 
 there is any other word which exactly fits it — where 
 the ripple of water was music for the ear, and the green 
 of the trees and the delicate red of the roses rest 
 for the eyes. There was a small summer-house at 
 one end, where the sheikh of the Molawees received 
 me. He was a tall, fine-looking man, very fair for 
 an Arab, with blue eyes, and wore the peculiar dress 
 of his order. 
 
 The peculiarity in the appearance of the Molawees 
 sect lies in their headdress, which is a tall brown 
 conical-shaped affair — something after the fashion of 
 a bishop's mitre. As a rule they wear a long black 
 outer cloak, under which are the ordinary Arab robes. 
 The sheikh, however, wears an outer cloak of light 
 blue, and has a blue cloth twisted round the base of 
 his cap. 
 
 As we drank coffee and smoked cigarettes I en- 
 gaged the sheikh in conversation, complimented him 
 on the situation of his takeea, said how obliged I was 
 to him for permission to view this unique sight, and 
 in general endeavoured to grease the wheels of con- 
 versation. Notwithstanding my efforts, the wheels 
 moved but slowly, and it was somewhat of a relief 
 when the sheikh arose and, motioning to a Dervish 
 who stood near, informed me that he would conduct 
 me to my place. 
 
 Leaving the summer-house, we entered a building 
 which faced the entrance gate, and were confronted 
 by the doorkeeper, who signed to me to take off my 
 boots. My guide, in compliment doubtless to my 
 foreign nationality, protested against this formality. 
 I, however, was on the side of the doorkeeper, for it is
 
 A SOJOURN IN SHAM 117 
 
 my opinion, and that I think of most sensible people, 
 that either you should keep away from Rome or, going 
 there, do as Rome does. The middle course by which 
 the foreign traveller, endeavouring to ' see something 
 of the East,' refuses to leave his prejudices and customs 
 behind him, and so tramples on the prejudices and 
 customs of those amongst whom he thrusts himself, 
 seems to me to be all against common sense, to say 
 nothing of common decency. 
 
 Shoeless, and wearing my fez, there was nothing 
 to distinguish me in the crowd from any fair-looking 
 Turk, and so I escaped the annoyance and embarrass- 
 ment of being pointed out and stared at as a Frank. 
 In fact, I imagine if I had been wearing a hat it might 
 not have been so easy to gain admittance. 
 
 The place in which I found myself at first sight 
 did not look unlike a prize-ring. There was a large 
 open boarded space in the centre, surrounded by low 
 wooden railings. Around this railing, seated on the 
 ground, were a crowd of people ; up above was a gallery 
 also filled. It was to the latter that my guide took 
 me, and finally found me an inconspicuous corner from 
 which I could see everything. Carefully avoiding 
 sitting in front of a devout Mohammedan who was 
 praying — one should never pass close in front of a 
 Moslem at prayer — I squeezed myself into a corner, 
 cross-legged, and prepared to be interested. 
 
 For some time, however, nothing happened. The 
 floor continued empty, the crowd— of all sorts and 
 conditions, including women, who had a curtained 
 gallery to themselves, through which one saw vaguely 
 their shrouded form — waited expectantly. Continuing 
 my analogy of the prize-ring, and keeping my eyes
 
 n8 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 fixed on the empty boarded space, I could almost 
 imagine that in a minute a lithe form in a voluminous 
 sweater— followed by two others bearing towels, 
 sponges, a basin, and the other paraphernalia of a 
 glove fight — would enter the ring and proceed to his 
 corner, amid a ripple of applause. But when there 
 was a stir and a procession entered, it was of a very 
 different nature, and consisted of the sheikh followed 
 by his Dervishes, looking not unimposing in their tall 
 mitres and long black cloaks. 
 
 Prayer-mats were now laid upon the ground — 
 that of the sheikh being a particularly gorgeous one 
 — and the sheikh and the Dervishes addressed them- 
 selves to prayer, accompanied by the onlookers. And 
 so quite unexpectedly I found myself personally in a 
 Mohammedan mosque, with service taking place. 
 
 I say ' unexpectedly,' because I had no idea that 
 any part of the Mohammedan ritual would be indulged 
 in before the whirling began. I had learnt that the 
 Whirling Dervishes performed every Thursday at this 
 time of the year. Now Friday is, as every one knows, 
 the Mohammedan Sunday, and the only authority with 
 me on the subject of Dervishes — that exceptionally 
 complete book, Lane's Modern Egyptians — had not 
 specifically mentioned that prayer was made before- 
 hand. Indeed, if I had known that such was the case, 
 I would have thought it more politic to suggest my 
 coming in after the service was over ; however, as it 
 was, the only thing that remained for me to do was 
 to sit still. To have gone out at this stage would have 
 been impossible. In the event nobody gave me a 
 second thought. Either they looked upon me as a 
 Moslem unpurified for prayer and merely there as
 
 A SOJOURN IN SHAM 119 
 
 a curious spectator ; or as a Christian, under the 
 invitation and patronage of the sheikh ; or never 
 noticed me at all in the press. The prayers were at 
 length finished, and the Dervishes prepared to acquit 
 themselves like men by throwing off their black outer 
 cloaks, and appearing in long white skirts and tight- 
 fitting white jackets of the same colour. 
 
 The ' ball,' however, opened very slowly, the 
 Dervishes walking staidly round in a circle — counter- 
 clockwise. As each Dervish reached the prayer-mat 
 of the sheikh he took two quick long steps forward, 
 turned, and bowed to the one following him, who 
 returned his salutation. This continued until all 
 had given and received a salute, which brought the 
 sheikh back to his original position in front of his 
 prayer-mat — all this to the accompaniment of slow 
 music, the instruments consisting of a drum, a fiddle, 
 and a pair of cymbals, and the whole having a much 
 more pleasant and harmonious effect to my ear than 
 the ordinary Eastern music. 
 
 The music now stopped, the Dervishes stood still 
 in their positions, and the sheikh, stepping forward, 
 uttered a short prayer or exhortation, his voice sound- 
 ing strangely resonant through the silent, crowded 
 building. 
 
 Again the music began, this time to a faster beat. 
 The Dervishes again began their slow procession 
 round, but as each reached the sheikh, who now stood 
 still at his prayer-mat, a change occurred. The 
 sheikh bent forward and kissed the cap of each 
 Dervish, which was inclined for his salute, and no 
 sooner was this done than, as if moved by some sudden 
 and invisible machinery, the Dervish himself spun
 
 120 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 away whirling giddily around. At first his arms 
 would be crossed on his breast, his hands clasping his 
 shoulders, but as his momentum increased his arms 
 would swing outwards until they were at right angles 
 to his body. The next Dervish would go through the 
 same slow dignified approach, the same salutation from 
 the sheikh, the same sudden rotation ; and the next, 
 and the next, until the whole company of them, to the 
 number of about fifteen, were whirling below me like 
 so many gigantic white tops. It was a strange and 
 a not ungraceful sight either. In fact, I have seen 
 far more awkward expositions of the ' poetry of 
 motion ' in a Western ball-room than I did that day 
 in a Dervish takeea. 
 
 From where I was — looking down — their whirling 
 skirts prevented my seeing their feet, so that they 
 seemed to be moved by some invisible power rather 
 than by their own volition. This illusion was helped 
 by the fact that they accomplished their whirling 
 with great dexterity and smoothness, there being no 
 up and down movement visible — that is, for the 
 most part, a few novices perhaps being not so smooth 
 in their movements as the rest. There was one old 
 man whom I watched with special admiration : there 
 was no doubt as to his being the ' star ' of the troupe 
 — the way he slowed down when the music ceased in 
 the manner of a ' dying ' top, ending with a twirl of 
 his skirts around him, was the last word, I should say, 
 in the art of whirling. 
 
 While whirling, the Dervishes did not adopt the 
 same method of holding their arms, nor did indeed 
 any one of them keep to the same method the whole 
 way through. Some held their hips, others crossed
 
 A SOJOURN IN SHAM 121 
 
 them on their breasts. Among the most curious styles 
 was one who rested his head and long cap along his 
 right arm, held at an angle of about 45 up from his 
 shoulder, his left arm being at right angles to his body. 
 
 After ten minutes the music ceased, the Dervishes 
 ceased spinning, coming to a standstill with their 
 hands on their shoulders, their arms crossed before 
 them, and the sheikh, entering the centre of the circle — 
 he had not as yet taken part in the whirling — bowed 
 gravely to them. The Dervishes returned his saluta- 
 tion, and took rest for a short while. 
 
 Again the music commenced, again the Dervishes 
 whirled in the same manner, and after about the same 
 space of time stopped, when once more the sheikh 
 bowed and was bowed to. 
 
 The third and last bout of whirling was remarkable 
 for the fact that the sheikh took part in it himself — 
 that is, in a modified manner. He did not divest him- 
 self of his blue cloak, nor did he twirl on both feet, 
 nor did he extend his arms fan wise. His movements 
 were more dignified, as befitting his exalted rank. He 
 merely twirled slowly on one foot, holding the lappet 
 of his cloak with his right hand and letting his left 
 hang loosely by his side. This last whirling must 
 have lasted fully fifteen minutes, and concluded, as 
 the two others had done, in low bows on the part 
 of the sheikh and Dervishes to each other. 
 
 The final act was that by which the Dervishes 
 kissed each other's hands, running up and down the 
 semicircle of their companions by turns. 
 
 This was the end of the whirling for that day, so 
 I made my way — with some little difficulty, for the 
 crowd was large — outside, bade adieu to the sheikh,
 
 122 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 thanking him for his courtesy in letting me be present 
 at such an interesting ceremony, gave backshish to 
 the Dervishes, and departed. . . . 
 
 With al hammam (the bath) I became acquainted 
 in early days when I read The Thousand and One 
 Nights ; later I read Burton's translation and learnt 
 how the hammam covered the flirtations of flighty 
 dames. At that period also I indulged in the Turkish 
 baths of civilisation. But it was not until I reached 
 Sham that I found the hammam of the Arabian 
 Nights ready with open doors for curiosity and for 
 pleasure. 
 
 The day is sultry ; the sultriness has penetrated 
 even to the cool recesses of my house, and of a sudden 
 I have a longing for the ease of the hammam. So I 
 rise up and go forth into the glare, past the house of 
 the Greek Church Patriarch, and thence up Straight 
 Street. Some way up on my right lies the Suk al 
 Khayyateen (the Bazaar of the Tailors), and in it is 
 the hammam of the same name. 
 
 On entering it for the first time you might get the 
 impression of a lofty silk emporium, for all round you 
 are bundles of coloured cloth— cloths spread out in 
 tempting fashion, as it were, to catch the buyer's eye, 
 cloths hanging overhead. But a fountain plays in 
 the centre, and you notice next that round you, on 
 four square daises raised some three feet above the 
 ground, are long divans with here and there a silk- 
 bemufned, reclining figure. Yes ; you have not made 
 a mistake. This is the hammam. 
 
 But it is not the first time by many that I have 
 entered it. I may be said to know my way about, 
 and pass without hesitation to my accustomed dais.
 
 A SOJOURN IN SHAM 123 
 
 The attendants give me a smiling ' Marhubber,' and 
 returning their salutes, I take off my shoes before tread- 
 ing on the dais. Under my divan is a long drawer into 
 which an attendant puts my clothes, after which he 
 wraps me in two towels, and gingerly I step off the dais 
 on to a pair of high clogs, which form of footgear is 
 worn by all the bathers — I say gingerly, because one's 
 progress on high clogs over a slippery marble floor is 
 not far removed from the uncertainties of skating. But 
 I am more expert than I was, and can travel with some 
 amount of safety if not speed. A little door leads out 
 of the meslakh (entrance hall), as it is called, and as it 
 shuts behind me I feel an instant increase of tempera- 
 ture. I find myself in a long, bare chamber, with 
 a marble floor and stone walls. The floor is finely 
 mosaicked in black and brown. Around the walls are 
 divans, for it is the beyt-owwal (first warm chamber), 
 in which the bathers undress in winter. From the 
 beyt-owwal I click-clack over the marble floor into 
 the hararah, the warmest chamber of all, the lowest 
 inferno of the hammam. The floor and walls are those 
 of the beyt-owwal, but around are stone basins, with 
 primitive taps for hot and cold water. From an 
 attendant I received a fresh towel, which I gird 
 round my waist, flick my clogs away from me 
 spinning over the slippery surface, and seat myself 
 by the side of a basin. 
 
 It is very pleasant here, sitting by the side of my 
 basin, sluicing myself with a tin dish. There is a 
 fascination about the tessellated marble floor glisten- 
 ing with spilt water, a sense of freeness about my 
 apparel, and a disresponsibility from the great world 
 without. I am become once more as primitive man,
 
 124 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 with no thought for the morrow, sitting by the side 
 of some old-world spring, clad in a waist-cloth. 
 
 There are other little groups about the other basins. 
 A man has brought his child, and is pouring Niagaras 
 on the little fellow's head, who pretends to like it, and 
 gasps bravely with tight-shut eyes between the douches. 
 
 Further on two youths act the amateur masseur 
 upon one another, thus saving some part of their fee 
 and also, be it remarked, of their time. For in 
 the hammam things move in the leisurely Eastern 
 fashion, and it is some little while before the masseur 
 comes and leads me to one of the little apartments off 
 the hararah. Here again I sit myself down by a basin, 
 and operations begin. 
 
 My attendant is not unlike my idea of the Old Man 
 of the Sea. Somewhat bent with age and work, his 
 grip is nevertheless of the strongest, and his hands — 
 from much contact with water — have a scaly appear- 
 ance and feel. He works on me with grim earnest- 
 ness, and I am as clay beneath the potter's hand. 
 With a rough glove he rasps me all over, and then, 
 bringing in a large basin and an enormous sponge 
 made of palm-tree fibre, he raises a lather which would 
 terrify the heart of the stoutest urchin ever scrubbed 
 in a nursery. As for me, I shut my eyes as tight as they 
 will go, for I know from experience that never has the 
 ' Dirty Boy ' of Pears' soap received a more vigorous 
 cleansing than is in store for me. And so it proves. 
 Up and down, to and fro, now on my back and now 
 on my face, I received such a soaping as would make 
 the hardest-handed of nurses envious. At length the 
 old man is satisfied, and feeling the splash of water on 
 my head and shoulders, I open my eyes cautiously
 
 A SOJOURN IN SHAM 125 
 
 and find him looking at me with the impersonal and 
 critical inspection of the artist at his handiwork. 
 
 ' Naemun,' he mumbles, with an air which says 
 plainly that if there is anything left of me it is only 
 through his clemency. 
 
 ' Allah enam alek,' I answer, and he goes to seek 
 fresh victims. 
 
 Immersion in a tank follows, the water hot to 
 bearing-point, then once more do I mount my clogs 
 and click-clack into the beyt-owwal, where an atten- 
 dant gives me new lamps for old, dry towels for wet. 
 A door is opened, and I find myself once more in the 
 lofty meslakh with its four daises, its long divans, its 
 spread of coloured cloths, its silk-bemuffled, languid 
 figures. Hardly have my feet touched the dais when 
 an attendant has whipped off my towels and clad 
 me in fresh robes — no towels these, but drapings of 
 delicate yellow silk, the beautiful colour of old gold. 
 He motions me to my divan, and as I sink luxuriously 
 upon it, covers me with yet another robe, and winds a 
 silken cloth turbanwise around my forehead, lest my 
 august head should in any wise catch cold. Turning 
 my head to my neighbour on the next divan, I murmur 
 ' Naemun.' ' Allah enam alek,' he murmurs drowsily 
 back, this being not a prelude to conversation — the 
 Gods of Silence forbid at such a time — but merely the 
 etiquette of the hammam. I sink back into my divan, 
 and lo ! a narghileh and a cup of fragrant tea are at my 
 elbow. 
 
 And now I am travelling slowly on the road to 
 Nirvana. Ay, Nirvana ! for not by any Western word 
 can one conjure up a vision of perfect rest. Nirvana, 
 where ' there is neither good nor evil, pleasure nor
 
 126 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 pain, but only Brahma.' No pleasure, that is, by 
 your restless standards of Europe, by which, forsooth, 
 one must be ever doing something to acquire happiness 
 — fighting or making money, sinning or triumphing over 
 evil, ever stirring amid a stirring crowd. But by other 
 and subtler standards I am here wrapped round in the 
 very essence of enjoyment. I have a pleasant sense 
 of lassitude in my limbs, a drowsy sense of detachment 
 in all my being. Not under the heavy hand of sleep 
 do I, as one temporarily dead, pass the long hours all 
 unconscious of my bliss ; not in the glare of wakefulness 
 is my cosmos caught up in the thousand eddies of 
 the fierce stream of existence ; but somewhere between 
 sleeping and waking — as Mohammed's coffin hung 
 between earth and heaven — I drowse with half-shut 
 eyes. How softly the fountain croons to itself, how 
 bravely flash its upward jets which turn to a hundred 
 falling raindrops, how rich the silken hues, how restful 
 the muffled figures joined with me in the mute com- 
 panionship of rest, how perfect the silence which fills 
 the lofty emptiness ! 
 
 I draw sleepily at the mouthpiece of my narghileh. 
 With a little murmur of protest the smoke, leaving 
 the glass bowl, passes through the water and through 
 the long sinuous stem, until it finds its goal deep down 
 in my lungs ; thence, leaving added peace behind, it is 
 puffed slowly forth in spiral clouds. I sip my tea, and 
 at the moment it is as nectar fit for the gods . . . 
 and I, too, am as a god. . . . 
 
 Here where the world is quiet, 
 Here where all trouble seems 
 
 Dead winds and spent waves riot 
 In doubtful dreams of dreams.
 
 A SOJOURN IN SHAM 127 
 
 Free from the Wheel of Life, utterly free . . . how fast 
 and furious it spins ! — and so far and so unconnected 
 am I that I can see it spin calm and unmoved. For 
 it has nothing that can move me a whit ; nor hate, 
 nor love, nor greed, nor anxious ambition. If there 
 is aught of reality about me it is not of these, but of 
 the deep silence, the gentle crooning of the fountain, 
 the soft coverings which enfold my sleepy limbs. 
 
 Far across the meslakh I see a figure reclining en- 
 wrapped in silk, a silken kerchief wrapped turbanwise 
 around his head. The figure pleases my eye ; it seems 
 to embody the perfect atmosphere of rest in which 
 my being is. I raise the stem of my narghileh to my 
 mouth. The figure does the same. I draw the smoke 
 far into my lungs, and let the stem fall. Not 'other- 
 wise the figure. I look hard at it. It grows familiar. 
 With mild surprise I realise that it is none other than 
 myself, transformed by a mirror from my ordinary 
 self of the twentieth century into a figure from the 
 bygone ages — Haroun Al Raschid, perhaps, leaning 
 on his elbow listening to the words of Sharazada the 
 Fair. 
 
 But now the time of my sojourn in Nirvana is 
 drawing swiftly to a close, for not in this world can 
 mortals dwell there save for a fleeting space of time. 
 Nearer and nearer do I drop from my serene heights to 
 where in space the Wheel of Life spins dizzily around ; 
 clearer and clearer do I hear the brazen clanging of its 
 uproar. Already I am seized with its vague unrest — 
 gusts of its hurly-burly sweep through my mind. In 
 vain I endeavour to retain my aloofness, my sense of 
 adequateness in merely being, not doing. I move
 
 128 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 uneasily on my couch. • I wish to be up and moving ; 
 and at that I know that I am on the Wheel again, on 
 the Wheel where there is no rest but only toil and 
 travel. 
 
 It is useless to remain quiescent any longer. Of 
 what profit is it that the body should rest while the 
 spirit frets ? So I arise and dress, and far across the 
 meslakh I see, not Haroun Al Raschid, but a very 
 ordinary looking type of the twentieth century. I 
 feel slightly humiliated, shrug my shoulders with a 
 would-be indifference, and pass out into the shouting 
 bazaars.
 
 PART II 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 QUETTA TO SEISTAN 
 
 The guard blew his whistle, the hubbub on the plat- 
 form rose a note or two higher — the native of India 
 is not a silent traveller — and then died away as the 
 train drew slowly out of Quetta Station, taking me 
 towards Nushki, and far beyond it towards the open 
 road leading over many, many hundreds of miles to 
 Seistan, to Meshed, to Teheran, to six months' free 
 and unfettered ' language leave ' in Persia. At last ! 
 
 I think most travellers will know the meaning of 
 that ' At last ! ' It means that the weary time of shop- 
 ping, of packing, of engaging your servants, of assem- 
 bling your transport — camels, mules, or horses, as the 
 case may be — of haggling, of vexatious delays, of all the 
 tedious arrangements necessary for a long overland 
 journey, is past and done with. It means that your 
 passport is in your pocket, your boxes are packed, and 
 your caravan is at the door. You light your pipe, 
 take a last look round to see that nothing has been 
 forgotten, and go out, condensing a whole song of 
 thanksgiving in those two words ' At last ! ' 
 
 My caravan was not at the door, but the next best 
 
 129 K
 
 130 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 thing to it, awaiting my arrival at ' rail-head,' Nushki, 
 whence the Quetta-Seistan Trade Route finds its way 
 over about three hundred and fifty miles of bare desert 
 to the Persian frontier station of Koh-Malik-Siah. And 
 at rail-head did my train arrive some six hours after 
 starting, emerging from a labyrinth of small hills, and 
 disclosing to my gaze a great plain stretching away 
 to the horizon, flooded by the rays of the evening sun. 
 
 Rail-head ! A romantic word this, smacking of 
 war, and of countries where travel is conducted on 
 other lines than by merely buying a first- or third- 
 class ticket, and jostling one's fellow-passengers for a 
 corner seat with one's face to the engine. But there 
 are perhaps now only two countries left in the world 
 which are free from those innocent parallel lines of 
 steel which look so insignificant and mean so much, 
 and both these two came into my mental vision as 
 I stood on Nushki platform. For to one of them 
 I was bound, and the frontier line of the other — 
 Afghanistan — ran only some sixty miles to the north. 
 
 My caravan — four riding camels — which had 
 marched down from Quetta under the charge of my 
 orderly, met me at the station, and a proud man was 
 I when mounted and at the head of my retinue. I 
 led the way towards the dak-bungalow which was 
 to shelter us until we made our start on the day after 
 the morrow. 
 
 Abdul, the aforesaid orderly, is a Hazara sepoy, 
 and my chief vizier, dragoman, and karawan-bashi 
 (chief of the caravan) all rolled into one. Always 
 cheerful, no matter how tedious the way may be — 
 and a smiling face on a weary stage is no small boon 
 — shrewd, with perfect savoir-faire for the details of 
 travelling, from tying a knot to finding the path on
 
 WRITER S CARAVAN 
 
 A SPILL IN THE SNOW
 
 QUETTA TO SEISTAN 131 
 
 a dark night, possessed of that tact of dealing with 
 strangers which is half the battle in successful way- 
 faring, Abdul is that rare person, the born traveller. 
 ' A brave heart and a courteous tongue will carry 
 thee far in the jungle.' Ay, and on the road too, and 
 it will not be Abdul's fault if we do not enter Teheran 
 some months hence with our two thousand miles of 
 travel a pleasant memory of the past. 
 
 As for the other members of the caravan, they con- 
 sist of the writer, Khuda-Dad his Persian servant, his 
 sarwan (camel-man), and Rags. Khuda-Dad — that is 
 to say, the ' God-given ' — is certainly a gift from heaven 
 to his present master, whatever he may have been to 
 his original parents. He is a good servant and an 
 excellent cook, under whose ministrations even the 
 daily round of chickensand eggs, varied by an occasional 
 store, is relieved of some of its monotony. Like Abdul 
 he is a cheerful soul, but, unlike him, of small physique 
 and inclined to tire at the end of a long march. Un- 
 like him also he has not his suaviter in niodo for the 
 conduct of affairs, and so becomes involved in wordy 
 warfare with hewers of wood, drawers of water, dealers 
 in produce, and the like, in which the sahib every now 
 and again is forced to interfere lest a brawl ensue. 
 
 The sarwan is merely a — sarwan. Long intercourse 
 with camels does not tend to develop originality of 
 character. However, what is of far more importance, 
 he has the appearance of taking good care of my 
 camels ; and being moreover a dense, slow-witted 
 creature he serves as a butt for the good-natured 
 chaff of the more nimble-witted Abdul and Khuda- 
 Dad, thus filling his place in our little circle. 
 
 And Rags ? What shall I say of Rags ? That he 
 is silky-coated, sedately-mannered and bright -eyed ?
 
 132 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 That he is the friend of many years, the companion 
 of many happy hours on the road ? That he excels 
 all others of his species in the steadfastness of his 
 affection and the personality of his temperament ? 
 This is all true, and yet leaves half unsaid. So I will 
 merely add what will convey all or nothing to you, 
 according to what manner of person you may be : 
 Rags is my dog. 
 
 The day after the morrow saw our start, and the 
 order of going was this. Each member of the caravan 
 bestrode a camel, with baggage equal to the weight of 
 one man — for the load of a riding camel is two riders 
 — strapped in front of him over the empty seat of the 
 saddle. It is true that by this method I had to travel 
 light, whilst by taking baggage camels in addition to 
 riding ones I could have been less parsimonious in 
 the way of outfit. It is true also that by this method 
 I had no spare transport in case a camel lamed. But 
 it is also true that the method I adopted was — saving 
 accidents — the cheapest, for I hoped to sell my caravan 
 at a profit, or at any rate rupee for rupee, in Meshed 
 or Teheran; and that baggage camels would either 
 have entailed my accompanying them from stage to 
 stage — a most tedious form of progress, as a walking 
 camel is the slowest of created creatures — or trotting 
 on and leaving it to Fate and the sarwan to bring them 
 safely into camp, in which case, once across the 
 Persian frontier, the local brigands would probably 
 prove one too many for Fate and the sarwan. As for 
 a camel laming, that was one of the risks of the road. 
 
 Though other and more recent days have been 
 overlaid with the dust of travel, not to be dug out 
 without the help of my diary, the afternoon of our
 
 QUETTA TO SEISTAN 133 
 
 setting forth stands out as clear as if it were but 
 twenty-four hours old. So elastic is Time, such queer 
 tricks does memory play us, so great is the egoism of 
 the wayfarer wrapped up in his trivial comings and 
 goings ! 
 
 We left Nushki at about three o'clock, for the stage 
 was a short one of only eleven miles : larger marches 
 we would reserve until our beasts were hardened. I 
 stood watching the loading, until finally the last knot 
 was tied, the last bale adjusted, when I climbed to 
 my seat ; and with a loud ' Bismillah Al-Rahmam Al- 
 Rahim ' (In the name of God, the Compassionate, the 
 Merciful) from Khuda-Dad — no true Mohammedan 
 begins any action of importance without this pious 
 preface — we rode off. Somehow I felt that we ought 
 to have had a more imposing ' send-off,' that, like Tom 
 Sawyer in the more important moments of his life, 
 a brass band would not have been inappropriate. 
 However, there was only a little group of natives to 
 watch us depart, and of these the only interested 
 spectator was the dak-bungalow chowkidar, who asked 
 for backshish, which he had already been given. 
 
 But though our start had not been an imposing one, 
 our first stage was accomplished very successfully. 
 One or two of the camels were loaded a trifle heavily, 
 and I wished to make a test case of our opening march, 
 so as to be able to judge of future results. At first 
 the beasts moved slowly, stalking along at their 
 peculiar camel's walk, which is, for the rider, more 
 like being in a small boat in a heavy sea than any- 
 thing else. But soon Khuda-Dad, who in the topsy- 
 turvy fashion of the East proved to be the camel-driver 
 par excellence of the party, while the sarwan was no
 
 134 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 better than myself — the novice — gave his mount a few 
 hearty thwacks, struck up a long-drawn yodelling 
 dirge, and the caravan slid easily into the jambaz 
 (camel-trot), which will run down any other living 
 thing in the world, provided you give it time enough. 
 I have detailed the personnel of our expedition; 
 now for the other and equally important half — the 
 camels. First there is Janda's Pride, or Janda for 
 short. Him I christened after ' The Riding Camel ' : 
 
 I was as sour as a snake to handle, and as rough as a rock 
 
 to ride, 
 But I could keep up with the West Wind, and my pace 
 
 was Janda's pride. 
 
 Though this is a criminal libel on my Janda, who 
 has a most urbane un-camel-like disposition, and moves 
 as smoothly as a rocking-horse. With regard to pace : 
 
 ' Swift ! ' had said his Baluchi owner who sold him 
 to me, gesticulating in the ecstasy of his admiration. 
 ' Why, Sahib, he won the races x down at Sibi last year, 
 and this year would have won in Quetta, but, look 
 you, he ran out of the course, such is the keenness of 
 his spirit.' And he shook his head sadly. All this 
 with the air of one recounting triumphs at New- 
 market and Epsom. 
 
 Janda is undoubtedly the pick of my string, wears 
 a collar of bells to announce the fact, and always has 
 the honour of carrying the fortunes of the writer. 
 
 Then there is Kuchik (the Small One). He 
 is a smooth-skinned, good-looking youngster ; fast, 
 but not up to any great weight. A regular camel's 
 temper his — snarling, grumbling, vicious, and greedy 
 
 1 At local fairs, &c, camel-races are often a feature. ,
 
 QUETTA TO SEISTAN 135 
 
 withal; in fact not an amiable travelling com- 
 panion. 
 
 The remaining two are good honest hardy beasts, 
 slow, but as strong as houses. Them, after some 
 thought, I named Yajuj and Majuj — Persian for 
 Gog and Magog — which somehow seemed to fit them. 
 These appellations at first created great merriment 
 amongst my followers, but soon became matters 
 of everyday speech, and it would be reported to me 
 gravely that Yajuj was going a little lame, for in- 
 stance, or that Majuj was off his feed, and the like. 
 
 All that afternoon we trotted forward, and, reaching 
 our stage at half-past five, I repocketed my watch, 
 well satisfied. Nearly four and a half miles an hour ! 
 A short stage, of course. On the long ones we should 
 have to be content with something below that figure, 
 but still, for the opening run, very good. 
 
 There are chapper-khanas (rest-houses) all along 
 the route as far as the Seistan frontier, but our first 
 halting-place being merely in the nature of a half-way 
 house to the manzil (camp, halting-place) proper, there 
 was only a little mud hut of two rooms, with a court- 
 yard attached, for our accommodation. I reflected, 
 however, that if we always had such a building 
 to shelter in at the day's end during the next six 
 months we should be more than ordinarily fortunate ; 
 and when I had taken possession of one room and my 
 retinue of another, and a carpet — sinful luxury this — 
 had been spread on the earthen floor, and my camp- 
 bed, table, and chair had been erected, and my boxes 
 ranged along the wall and a lamp lit, it was as cosy a 
 lodging for the night as you could wish for. 
 
 Then came the question— the great and important
 
 136 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 question — of the evening meal. It seemed about as 
 wild a proceeding as ' calling spirits from the vasty 
 deep ' to expect food to materialise in this microscopic 
 manzil, planted in the midst of the desert. However, an 
 old man suddenly appeared — the chowkidar, it would 
 seem, of the place — who announced that he would 
 produce a chicken for the sahib. Whence and how, 
 unless like a conjurer from up his sleeve, I did not 
 quite comprehend. On being graciously granted per- 
 mission to perform this feat, the old man again dis- 
 appeared into the wilderness, and as it was now growing 
 late, and I had not much faith in the chicken-producing 
 trick, I opened a tin of sardines, and dined on them, 
 hard-boiled eggs, and chupatties, washed down by 
 steaming hot cocoa. And may I never fare worse ! 
 
 ' Dinner ' over, I lit a pipe, and strolled out 
 through the little courtyard, where my servants were 
 squatting round a fire, into the night. Just outside the 
 door were the huddled shapes of my camels, steadily 
 munching, and as I stopped and watched them with 
 the interest of an owner in the well-being of his animals, 
 they raised their long necks and peered at me, then, 
 satisfied with their inspection, fell to munching again. 
 A figure came out of the darkness, holding something 
 that clucked and struggled. It was the old man, who 
 had performed his conjuring trick according to promise. 
 The chicken would do for the morrow's breakfast 
 instead of to-day's dinner. 
 
 I moved a few hundred yards away from the 
 manzil, and sat down on a little mound. Soon a cold 
 nose was thrust into my hand, a silky head was laid 
 on my knee, and a warm little body snuggled itself up 
 to mine. Rags had come out to enjoy the night air
 
 QUETTA TO SEISTAN 137 
 
 with his master. The moon was not yet up, overhead 
 the sky was ablaze with stars, all around, save 
 where the fire in the courtyard flickered through the 
 open door, the desert stretched sombre and still. Yet 
 not quite still. For now and then, if I strained my 
 ears, there floated up the faint sound of the far-off 
 barking of dogs and the intermittent cries of voices, 
 coming doubtless from the nomad encampment whose 
 black booths I had seen that evening as we rode up. 
 I was back on the Road again — back on the Road. 
 
 Love and war, the lure of ambition, the lust for 
 gold, these have their enduring places amid the lode- 
 stars which move the children of men. Yet not so 
 far behind — at least for some — comes the Road. 
 And why ? There is no complete answer. For like 
 every other pursuit in the world it has its moments of 
 surfeit, of distaste, of boredom — only the untravelled 
 imagine that the traveller is for ever singing a paean 
 of joy — and like everything else worth having in the 
 world it demands its price : not all our modern space- 
 decreasing inventions, for instance, have solved the 
 problem of how to be in two places at once. But with 
 all it grips, and though it lets you escape for a time 
 back to cities and civilisation, it is but to draw you 
 out once again, and again, and again. 
 
 Thus I sat for awhile, engaged doubtless in much 
 the same thoughts which every traveller has the night 
 of his first march out. Then I knocked my pipe 
 against a stone, rose, and went in to bed. 
 
 The next fortnight or so after that first stage was 
 filled with steady marching day after day, and so, 
 that neither reader nor writer may weary, let a typical 
 day be taken as a sample.
 
 138 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 I awoke with a start then, to find Khuda-Dad by 
 my bed, holding a candle in one hand, and in the other 
 my watch, whereon is marked three, or four, or five, 
 or some such improperly early hour. We start thus 
 betimes, partly because camels travel better by night, 
 and partly to allow them to have their grazing during 
 the day. I would give all I possess to have the moral 
 courage to turn over and sleep once more. But held 
 by my own complacent order of the night before for 
 an early start, I stretch myself, condemn all wayfaring 
 to the bottomless pit, rise, and pull on my clothes. 
 Scarcely am I out of bed before Khuda-Dad has 
 whipped off the blankets, probably fearing a return 
 to them on my part once his back is turned ; and 
 while I, in a species of stupor somewhere between 
 sleeping and waking, sit smoking a cigarette and sipping 
 a cup of tea, all around me is bustle and movement. 
 My valise is strapped, my boxes are locked, and from 
 outside the grumbling of the camels and the hoarse 
 ejaculations of the orderly and the sarwan show that 
 loading up is proceeding. 
 
 Presently enters Khuda-Dad to say that all is 
 ready for the start, and in a few minutes we have 
 left the manzil behind us. The sky is cloudless, with 
 a regular traveller's moon, bright and clear, so we 
 have no difficulty about the road. I walk on ahead 
 — I shall have had my fill of camel-riding before 
 the day is over — with Rags trotting at my heels, and 
 the camels about a hundred yards behind, looming 
 large, each with his own particular fantastic shadow. 
 
 An hour or so passes, and I mount Janda. Simply 
 said, but not quite so simply done. For the process 
 of a camel coming to earth is complicated, and the
 
 QUETTA TO SEISTAN 139 
 
 cause of much labour and thought — both apparently 
 of a painful nature— to the animal himself. First he 
 has to make up his mind to squat at all. When he 
 has conceded this point — assisted thereto by blows on 
 his neck, knees, and elsewhere, as well as by various 
 guttural cries — still he must needs hover on the brink, 
 like a bather facing a chilly plunge, all the while 
 expostulating and complaining, before finally sinking 
 on his knees. In this position he remains for a period, 
 groaning pitiably, as of one calling upon his Maker 
 for help against the tyranny of mankind. All the 
 while he is in considerable embarrassment with regard 
 to his hind legs, which have not yet come to earth, 
 and for the life of him cannot decide whether the right 
 should be tucked under the left, or vice versa. At 
 length he decides upon a plan of action, and lowering 
 himself cautiously upon his haunches, and coming to 
 rest with a long sliding motion and a sigh of relief, 
 proceeds to chew the cud and ruminate upon things 
 in general, with the evident expectation of a long 
 repose before him. His indignation when he finds that 
 this repose will only be for such duration as will enable 
 you to seat yourself comfortably in the saddle is great, 
 and rising suddenly in his wrath he nearly succeeds 
 in shooting you first over his head, then over his tail. 
 Failing in this, and encouraged by more guttural cries 
 and more applications of your camel-whip, he breaks 
 sulkily into the jambaz, and all is well. 
 
 This performance has to be gone through before 
 I am upon Janda's back, and so for a few minutes the 
 stillness is broken by bubblings, shouts, imprecations, 
 and excited barks from Rags, who evidently considers 
 it is some sort of entertainment indulged in specially
 
 140 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 for his amusement. Then we swing forward once 
 more, and there is no sound to be heard but the 
 shuffle of the camel's pads on the sand and the jingle 
 of the bells round Janda's neck. 
 
 Shuffle, shuffle, jingle, jingle ; on we go, and on, 
 and on. I change my position from astride to side- 
 saddle to relieve my cramped limbs, and back again 
 to astride. The stars twinkle, the moon shines 
 serenely, our shadows cling to us faithfully, and still 
 we jog on, with nothing to show that we are in truth 
 making any advance at all save the white two-foot- 
 wide camel-track which slides away beneath us. 
 Shuffle, shuffle, jingle — 
 
 And then suddenly another sound breaks across 
 our monotonous refrain. From somewhere ahead, but 
 not to be classified at first . . . lost . . . then heard 
 again, and this time louder and more insistent, comes 
 a gentle, melodious chiming, for all the world like the 
 pealing of church bells heard a long way off. But 
 since no church or chapel is here within a hundred 
 leagues, then a caravan. And so it proves ; and soon 
 the air resounds with its merry clamour, and each 
 bell— not the tinkling toy of the riding camel, such 
 as Janda wears, but the full-toned, sonorous gong of 
 the beast of burden— is individually ringing its music 
 into the night, and a long line of swaying silhouettes 
 is slowly passing us, and my retinue are shouting out 
 greetings to voices that answer from the darkness, 
 and the silent void of five minutes since is filled with 
 the brisk sense of the companionship of many men 
 and animals. Then the caravan has passed, the 
 desert lies empty and still before us, the bells melt 
 their individuality once more into one harmonious
 
 QUETTA TO SEISTAN 141 
 
 whole, grow faint, like church chimes heard from afar 
 off, are lost . . . come to our ears yet again . . . 
 and then cease. 
 
 Time passes, and right behind us, for we are steer- 
 ing almost due west, a faint pink flushes the sky and 
 a trace of greyness flecks the moonlight. These, the 
 first tokens of the dawn. But still ahead the night 
 holds good. Then very slowly the eastern sky turns 
 to crimson, and the greyness to white light, which 
 runs westward, driving the night before it, putting 
 out the stars one by one, and bringing up to view, 
 beneath it, desolate mile after desolate mile. Soon 
 the sun himself climbs over the horizon, and in a while 
 it is broad day, but She of the Night will not in anywise 
 accept dismissal, and still clings to her place, looking 
 at last like some foolish stage moon which has been 
 overlooked when the scene has changed from night 
 to morn. 
 
 Another half-hour, breakfast by the road, some- 
 thing more substantial this time than a cigarette and 
 a cup of tea, then to camel again. And soon the 
 burden and heat of the day are heavy upon us. For 
 the sun is high in the heavens, and though it is October 
 and so not really hot as warmth goes east of Suez, 
 still the blaze and the glare encompass us in one vast 
 and dreary ring — sands alternating with patches 
 of stony waste, sand-dunes shimmering in the haze, 
 mirages of cool lakes that fade away at our approach, 
 dust-devils that spin feverishly hither and thither 
 moved by mysterious breezes which never come to fan 
 our cheeks, the abomination of desolation naked and 
 unashamed. Yet through it all the camel moves 
 undismayed and indifferent. His brother beasts of
 
 142 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 the caravan, the horse and the mule, hurry furtively 
 across the desert, as if knowing that here they are 
 aliens, that here Death — in his cruel guise of thirst — 
 dogs their footsteps, and that at the next well alone is 
 safety to be won. But the camel hurries not. Thirst 
 to him, who can go many days without water, is robbed 
 of half its terrors, and this wilderness is his home. 
 Nevertheless, even his home can treat him hardly ; 
 even upon his assured footsteps disaster creeps un- 
 awares. For here and there beside the track we come 
 upon grim remains : whole skeletons, scattered bones, 
 sometimes the ghastly decomposing shapes of those 
 who have fallen by the way. 
 
 Then at length, perched upon some small eminence 
 perhaps, appears the manzil — or is it the manzil ? 
 The cursed mirage plays so, one cannot tell for sure. 
 Perhaps it is merely a sandhill, and for the next ten 
 minutes the most important question in the whole 
 world is whether that speck is, or is not, the stage. 
 
 ' Abdul,' I shout at length, ' is that the manzil ? ' 
 
 He shades his eyes with his hands. 
 
 ' Yes, Sahib ; that is the manzil without doubt.' 
 
 Thank goodness ! And at length even those last 
 few miles, when the camels are tired and time drags 
 on by leaden feet, and the manzil gets no nearer but 
 seemingly travels before us on a volition of its own, 
 even those last few miles are somehow accomplished, 
 and the day's travel is done. 
 
 Perhaps nothing gives a better idea of the complete 
 desolateness of the country traversed by this trade 
 route than these very manzils. For they are not villages 
 — there is only one hamlet on the whole route from 
 Nushki to the Persian frontier — but merely shelters
 
 QUETTA TO SEISTAN 143 
 
 erected by the Indian Government for the convenience 
 of the traveller, to wit, a chapper-khana, a serai, a levy 
 post, and, in some of the larger manzils, a shop and a 
 post and telegraph office. Just a few small houses 
 flung down in the midst of the desert, not a tree, not a 
 shrub do they contain within their limits ; nothing to 
 explain their raison d'etre meets the eye, but to one's 
 intelligence the fact is of course plain — they hold the 
 only water within twenty, thirty, or forty miles. 
 
 But once within the rest-house one can forget 
 the wilderness. For there are carpets on the floors, 
 curtains over the windows, even easy-chairs, and the 
 air of comfort, seclusion, and cool shade is very restful 
 after the blinding glare of the world without. Books 
 there are too, the property of the manzil, left by kindly 
 travellers on their way through. One of these I pick 
 up at hazard to pass the time until Khuda-Dad shall 
 come with lunch. 
 
 Lunch over, forty winks — or it may be even fifty — 
 not undeserved seeing the hour of our start : then to 
 the study of Persian for some hours, and then to 
 the best hour of the day. For it is now close on 
 sunset, and putting a book in my pocket — one of 
 some tattered old friends which have followed my 
 wanderings for more than a few years — I stroll out, 
 Rags at my heels, and take a seat on some neighbouring 
 sand-dune. 
 
 A caravan near by is preparing to start under the 
 vociferous guidance of a few Persians clad in long 
 bright-coloured dressing-gowns and high conical caps 
 — picturesque figures these, straight from the Arabian 
 Nights — and some wild-looking/ragged Baluch sarwans. 
 
 The sun sets, the caravan stalks away, I read a
 
 144 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 little, economically — not only in stores must a traveller 
 be sparing — and muse somewhat in the lazy contented 
 fashion of one with a good day's work, physical and 
 mental, behind him, until night drives me in to the 
 manzil for dinner. 
 
 After dinner the simple accounts of the day, so 
 much for camel-fodder, so much for eggs, so much for 
 chickens, and so forth. 
 
 Then Khuda-Dad broaches the question of the 
 morrow's start, and I, forgetful already of the stress 
 of this morning's rising, say with a stout heart, ' The 
 same hour as to-day.' . . . 
 
 In the above manner we travelled as far as Koh- 
 Malik-Siah, which is distant about one hundred miles 
 from Nasratabad, the capital of Seistan. But there a 
 mischance of the road befell us, and one of our camels 
 — Kuchik — went lame. Not having a spare animal, we 
 were faced by a difficulty, but, necessity being the 
 mother of invention, we solved it in the following 
 way : — We relieved Kuchik of his rider and his load, 
 after which he could limp along at a walk, though with 
 some pain I am afraid, poor beast. We also relieved 
 Yajuj of his rider, and put up Kuchik's load instead 
 of the latter. But this necessitated two of our number 
 being dismounted, and reduced our rate of march 
 between stages from four miles an hour to about two 
 or two and a half, the utmost a camel can accomplish 
 at a walk. 
 
 If this had occurred on the other side of Kuh-Malik- 
 Siah I could have gone ahead myself on Janda with 
 Khuda-Dad, and left the rest of my caravan to follow 
 slowly afterwards ; but once across the Persian frontier 
 it was a different matter, and the close proximity of
 
 QUETTA TO SEISTAN 145 
 
 the Afghan border, and the possibility of gun-running 
 parties being in the neighbourhood, made me unwilling 
 to split up my little force, such as it was. 
 
 So we made two weary marches, the details of which 
 — quite tedious enough at the time — far be it from me 
 to live through again by narration. Suffice to say 
 that starting from Kuh-Malik-Siah one morning at 
 6 a.m., with two hours' halt in the middle of the day, 
 we reached our manzil at twelve that night, and starting 
 from the manzil at 2 p.m. the next day, reached our 
 next stage, a place called Lutak, at 2.30 a.m. the next 
 morning. 
 
 The tedium of these marches was somewhat re- 
 lieved by the many ruins we passed — a testimony to 
 the former greatness of Seistan — and by Khuda-Dad's 
 sagas as to the doughty deeds of Rustum, for this is 
 supposed to be the country of that redoubtable warrior, 
 who is also a Persian national hero. So I heard all 
 about Rustum himself, and Sohrab, and Ruksh the 
 horse. The latter's manger was pointed out to me — a 
 tower of no small size — and the place where his hind 
 legs were hobbled while he ate. This latter place was 
 some eight hundred yards off the manger, and as 
 Khuda-Dad wisely observed : 
 
 ' If Ruksh was so large, Sahib, what must have 
 been the size of Rustum, who rode him ? ' 
 
 As for our march into Lutak, it contained one of 
 those little unexpected, unrehearsed effects of travel 
 which are in truth the salt of wayfaring. 
 
 I have already said we did not reach our destination 
 until 2.30 a.m., but long before that, about two hours 
 after sunset, found us somewhat tired, and very hungry, 
 plodding over the plain through the pitch-black night,
 
 146 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 with very little idea of our whereabouts. For we had 
 had to make several detours owing to the recent floods 
 — a large part of Seistan is intersected with canals — 
 and the guide whom we had obtained from the last 
 stage confessed himself at fault. However, at length 
 we saw a friendly light glimmering in the darkness, 
 and made our way towards it, expecting to find a 
 nomad encampment, where we might make a halt for 
 food, and get information as to our road. But on 
 approaching the light we found but a solitary fire, built 
 up in a little hollow of the ground, with a single figure 
 crouching over it, and on a still nearer approach this 
 proved to be, not a witch and her cauldron, as might 
 naturally have been expected at such an hour and 
 place, but an old man engaged in — of all prosaic occu- 
 pations — boiling a saucepan of turnips ! 
 
 Now a fire that would boil turnips would also make 
 tea, and so — with a few words of salutation to the old 
 man — we soon had the camels down and hobbled, the 
 saddle-bag containing the provisions opened, and a 
 kettle, filled from our water-skins, hissing on the fire. 
 Khuda-Dad produced for my benefit a plate, a knife 
 and fork, and some cold chicken. Chupatties — of 
 which we had a good supply with us — and tea were for 
 every one, including, needless to say, the aforesaid old 
 man, who kindly obliged with many boiled turnips. 
 Beyond this courtesy and the information vouchsafed 
 that the tents of his tribe were somewhere behind him 
 — pointing vaguely into the night — he seemed to show 
 but little interest or curiosity in our sudden descent 
 upon him, and continued to stir his saucepan and gaze 
 dreamily into the fire. Anon, the pangs of hunger 
 assuaged, I puffed at my pipe, sipped my tea luxuri-
 
 QUETTA TO SEISTAN 147 
 
 ously, and had leisure to observe the scene, which was 
 not without its picturesqueness. Sometimes the fire 
 would burn up and throw into relief the faces of the 
 little circle around it, and, beyond, the squatting 
 figures of the camels. Then it would sink into dull 
 embers, and the darkness would creep up upon us, and 
 I would be conscious of the lonely waste around us 
 and the gloomy arch of the sky above. 
 
 And the whole circumstances being what they were, 
 it was not strange that they brought back vividly to 
 my mind the last occasion I had supped with any 
 of the ' People of the Tents,' which was in the North 
 Syrian desert, one march on from Palmyra, with my 
 face towards Damascus. 
 
 Indeed, so taken was I with my surroundings that 
 I was in two minds whether I would not sleep there 
 for the night instead of toiling on in the darkness. 
 However, on being questioned, the old man of the 
 turnips said that the manzil was but a far sang and a 
 half distant (about six miles), and, as it was now only 
 shortly after nine, I considered we should arrive there 
 by midnight, taking the darkness into account, which 
 forced us to go at a walking pace. So we got to 
 camel again and rode off. 
 
 But ill did that old man requite me for my back- 
 shish, my chupatties, and my tea, with his false in- 
 formation ; for it was not in three hours but nearer 
 six that a very weary caravan at last arrived at Lutak. 
 
 There I found an escort and a horse for my personal 
 use, kindly sent out by the British Consul at Nasrata- 
 bad, and the next evening, after a ride of about twenty 
 miles, I saw the town itself — disappointingly like a 
 large overgrown village — stretch ahead of me across the
 
 148 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 horizon. I was at the terminus of the Quetta-Seistan 
 Trade Route. 
 
 And if in retrospect I was glad that the journey 
 was over, I was also glad that it had been accom- 
 plished. There are other sides to travelling than the 
 fulfilling of the senses with beautiful scenery, and 
 this trade route, created and maintained by British 
 enterprise, passing for hundreds of miles through barren 
 wastes, struggling — and struggling successfully too, 
 as its yearly returns show — with the bitter cold in 
 winter, the scorching heat in summer, with scarcity 
 of water, scarcity of food, with the near presence 
 of lawless tribes, such a route has its own peculiar 
 appeal to the imagination of the traveller who has 
 traversed it, as being not among the least of the 
 pioneer works which are yearly performed at the 
 outskirts of the Empire.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 SEISTAN TO MESHED 
 
 At Nasratabad the complement of my men and animals 
 was reduced. Item one : there was a place open for 
 Abdul as gulam (orderly) in the British Consulate, and 
 as this employment would be permanent, while that 
 which I could offer him would extend only to Meshed, 
 or at most to Teheran, I — though very reluctantly, for 
 Abdul was a pearl of great price among travelling 
 attendants — waived my right to him. Item two : 
 Kuchik was likely to remain lame for longer than I 
 could afford to stay in Seistan. Item three : the heart 
 of my sarwan failed him at the thought of the long 
 journey to the north, over hills and possibly through 
 snows — for it was now November. So, as he had 
 performed his duties moderately well during our 
 five hundred miles' trip across the Baluchistan desert, 
 I paid him up and bade him depart to a place where 
 no snow is, and where the temperature is ever at 
 boiling-point. 
 
 Then, after some cogitation, I determined to send 
 a box back to India, and with my luggage thus 
 lightened go forward with only three camels, having 
 obtained a fresh sarwan, and having settled for Kuchik 
 to be sold at Seistan. These arrangements concluded, 
 we were ready for the road once more. 
 
 149
 
 150 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 But first some words as to Nasratabad ; and they 
 shall be few, for, however important it may look spelt 
 across the map, or in print, as the capital of Seistan, 
 in cold reality it shrinks before the traveller's dis- 
 appointed gaze to a large, overgrown, dilapidated 
 village. The dome-shaped houses from the distance, 
 or from above, present a spurious air of solidarity 
 and picturesqueness, which disappears on the closer 
 acquaintance of a walk through the town. A large 
 number of the houses are in ruins, and many more in 
 not much better condition. There are a few small 
 and squalid bazaars, and the only two shops of any 
 size are in the hands of Indian traders. Khuda-Dad 
 informed me in a voice of inexpressible contempt 
 that there was not a single khawa-khana in the place, 
 and as far as I could see there was only one dilapi- 
 dated mosque. The inhabitants are so miserably 
 poor that the lower classes subsist for the greater 
 part of the year on water-melons, with or without 
 the addition of bread. Here and there you pass a 
 figure in a dirty tattered uniform, plying some trade 
 or performing some odd job. A rusty rifle may, or 
 may not, lie beside him. In any case you know 
 that this is a sarbaz (Persian soldier), eking out his 
 pittance of pay — which as likely as not he rarely sees 
 — by civil occupation. Often his face has the drawn 
 listlessness of the tareaki (opium-smoker), for this vice 
 is very prevalent in Persia, especially among the upper 
 classes and, for some reason or other, among the 
 sarbazes. If you happen to serve your own country in 
 ' the ancient and honourable profession of arms,' you 
 may perhaps feel a sort of vicarious shame that here, 
 among the descendants of the men whom Nadir Shah
 
 SEISTAN TO MESHED 151 
 
 led to victory on many a hard-fought day, from the 
 waters of the Persian Gulf to the Imperial city of 
 Delhi, it should have fallen on such evil times. 
 
 Such is Nasratabad, the capital of a province which 
 in the days of old was one of the granaries of the East, 
 and which under a reformed administration might 
 again aspire to its former greatness. Nor do the 
 possibilities — commercial and otherwise — of Seistan 
 escape the notice of the few men at Simla, London, or 
 Petrograd whose business it is to direct the moves 
 on the great chess-board of international politics in 
 Asia ; for over this same dilapidated, overgrown 
 village fly the consular flags of Russia and England. 
 
 The first stage of our five hundred miles to Meshed 
 lay across the Hamun, a great shallow lake formed by 
 the Helmund, and lying just to the west of Nasratabad. 
 Our camels would cross by the main caravan route, 
 where the lake was dry, or nearly so ; we ourselves 
 would be ferried over by raft on a more direct line 
 where the water was deeper. As the camels in crossing 
 would take two days to our one, they were sent ahead 
 to await our arrival on the other side, under the charge 
 of Abdul — the last service he would be able to perform 
 for me — and the new sarwan. 
 
 Two mornings later Khuda-Dad and myself, 
 mounted respectively on mule and horse, and flanked 
 by an escort of Indian sowars who were to take us 
 as far as the Hamun, rode away from the British Con- 
 sulate, whose kind hospitality I had enjoyed during 
 my stay in Nasratabad. 
 
 And it is in these departures from, or arrivals at, 
 the oases of civilisation which lie on his path that the 
 traveller in the East finds all the effects of extreme
 
 152 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 contrast. For weeks he is a ragamuffin of the road, 
 eating and living roughly, sheltering in unclean cara- 
 vanserais, rejoicing in a freedom from shaving, clad in 
 ancient and homely attire, his whole interests bounded 
 by the next day's march, his next meal, or the con- 
 dition of his animals. Then comes a considerable 
 town, which has European consuls, men of business, 
 a small cosmopolitan community. Out come his 
 razors and off comes his beard. His consul extends 
 to him the right hand of fellowship, and for a time he 
 settles down to the life of civilised man, paying calls, 
 having afternoon tea in drawing-rooms, playing tennis 
 of an evening, clothing himself in purple and fine linen 
 for dinner, sleeping between sheets, and through the 
 exertions of the amiable Mr. Reuter gathering to him- 
 self the news of the great world without. But soon 
 the time for departure comes round, and once more he 
 drops back upon the road, and upon a way of life 
 which is so far removed from the twentieth century 
 that it even includes amongst its characters that old- 
 fashioned individual, the highway robber. 
 
 For indeed an encounter with this sinister person- 
 age cannot be overlooked by the traveller in the East 
 as part of the price he may have to pay for his 
 wanderings. Some routes are more dangerous than 
 others, but on most is an off-chance of an unpleasant 
 encounter {vide my brush with the Bedouin foot- 
 pads near Damascus). On arrival in Seistan I was 
 sorry to hear — through Reuter 's medium — that a 
 brother officer, who had indeed contemplated maldng 
 the present trip with me but had afterwards changed 
 his route, had been assaulted and robbed by a gang 
 of marauders near Ispahan. A short time after some
 
 SEISTAN TO MESHED 153 
 
 Turkomans laid a chappao (ambush) for an English 
 official of the Indo-European Telegraph Company 
 between Meshed and Teheran, killed two of his men, 
 and took him prisoner. They afterwards released him, 
 but kept all his goods. And every six months or so 
 brings round its attack of robbers on individual foreign 
 travellers, to say nothing of those on native caravans. 
 
 With five good men and true at his back the 
 traveller could wend his way over most roads with an 
 easy mind, for if it came to ' robbery under arms ' he 
 could at any rate render a good account of himself. 
 But it is just these five good men and true that he lacks. 
 Should a traveller be attacked he is usually either 
 travelling without escort — the road being presumably 
 safe — or with a few mounted policemen supplied by 
 the local administration, and these latter, naturally 
 enough, are not prepared to fight to the death either 
 for a traveller or for his possessions. So it is this feel- 
 ing of helplessness in case robbers should be met with 
 which is so disconcerting, and which takes away 
 from the traveller some of his pleasure in his way- 
 faring. But after a time he acquires a sort of 
 philosophy in the matter. He realises that it is a case 
 of no robbers, no travelling. Civilisation gives the 
 tourist railways, hotels, and security, but not the 
 open road — not travelling, but touring. If one must 
 needs be a traveller one must take the risks of the 
 profession. In more civilised communities people 
 take their risks out hunting, playing polo or Rugby 
 football, motoring, aeroplaning, mountaineering, and 
 the like. The traveller takes his on the road. 
 Voild tout. 
 
 I thought I had exhausted most of the modes of
 
 154 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 Eastern progression, but the crossing of the Hamun 
 introduced me to a new one — the tutin, to wit. The 
 tutin is a reed raft, constructed by the say ads, a curious 
 semi-amphibious tribe who make a living by catching 
 wildfowl and fish on the great lake. It floats almost 
 awash with the water, and is as cranky as an outrigger. 
 The one provided for our passage did not look capable 
 of bearing Rags, much less Khuda-Dad, myself, our 
 luggage, and the say ad who was to punt us across. 
 However, we all got gingerly on board ; contrary to 
 expectation the tutin did not sink, and the sayad 
 shoved off. 
 
 Our course led through a water-way bounded by 
 a high forest of reeds, which, except for such paths as 
 we were on, cover a greater part of the lake. We took 
 nearly three hours to cross, and a very pleasant three 
 hours they were too. I made myself comfortable with 
 a rug and my back against a yakdan, smoked, had 
 lunch, and drowsed the time away. On either side 
 the green grew so tall that above only a narrow ribbon 
 of sky was left to view, and ahead only a narrow avenue 
 of channel, up which we glided, breaking the quiet 
 reflections of the reeds into a thousand ripples. There 
 was no sound save the steady plash, plash of the 
 sayad's pole, and sometimes the quack of a wild 
 duck from some secure retreat near by. Now and 
 then other water-ways diverged, and now and then we 
 met other tutins, for the most part larger than ours, 
 on which were cunningly tied down donkeys, and 
 even cattle. 
 
 On the other bank was Abdul, smiling a welcome 
 as usual, with Janda and Majuj ; Yajuj had gone 
 forward to the serai with the new sarwan.
 
 PERSIAN SOLDIERS ON THE ROAD 
 
 <P ^ 
 
 A WAYSIDE MEAL
 
 SEISTAN TO MESHED 155 
 
 Having disembarked, we loaded up, procured a 
 sayad as a guide to the serai, said good-bye to Abdul 
 — with a very real regret on my part, and I think, 
 too, on that of Khuda-Dad, for he and the orderly had 
 become great friends — mounted, and rode off, reaching 
 the manzil about two hours after dark : a long day, 
 but an easy one. 
 
 Next morning we were up betimes, with a dreary 
 march before us over the dasht (stony plain) which lay 
 between us and our next manzil, Bandan by name. 
 Rags, who over the Baluchistan desert had sometimes 
 to be picked up and carried in front of his master, 
 was now in hard training, and trotted beside us for 
 the whole thirty miles. 
 
 At Bandan the Deputy-Governor of the district 
 had come to meet me with an escort, as the road north- 
 wards for some marches was liable to Baluchi raids, 
 some .dea as to the extent of which may be gathered 
 from the fact that, not long ago, twelve hundred 
 Baluchis attacked and looted the town of Neh, situated 
 about one hundred and thirty miles south of Birjand, 
 on the direct road to Seistan. My surprise on hearing 
 of raiding on this gorgeous scale was somewhat abated, 
 however, when I learnt that there was not a single 
 regular soldier in the whole of the province — Teheran 
 having omitted to send their pay for some consider- 
 able time past — and that my escort had been most 
 kindly provided from his own personal attendants by 
 His Excellency the Governor of Kain. 
 
 A room in one of the village houses had been set 
 apart for my use. It was of course quite devoid of 
 1 arniture, and the mud floor was bare of any covering, 
 but in half an hour it presented quite a different
 
 156 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 appearance. My strip of carpet had been unrolled, 
 my camp-table bearing a travelling-lamp, books, and 
 papers, my camp-bed with Rags curled up in possession 
 of it, and my yakdans and saddle-bags were set against 
 the walls. For ornaments, a gun leant in one corner, 
 a rifle in the other.. A fire crackled bravely on the 
 hearth, before which a chair had been drawn up, and 
 in it, with his hands and limbs outstretched towards 
 the blaze, and a cup of boiling hot cocoa at his elbow, 
 reposed your most obedient and humble servant. 
 
 Such accommodation, when the village is not large 
 enough to boast a caravanserai, can be had almost 
 all over Persia — and all over Asia Minor too for the 
 matter of that. So, unless indeed one aspires to the 
 exploration of unknown tracts, that white elephant 
 of the traveller, his tent — which adds to his baggage, 
 needs pitching and unpitching daily, and is at best a 
 protection inferior to the rudest of houses against heat 
 and cold — is generally unnecessary. 
 
 Our march from Bandan was as dreary as the one 
 which preceded it, save that it lay over some low hills 
 and that I managed to shoot a few partridge ; but the 
 one of the day after was relieved by an incident which 
 was not without its elements of humour. We were 
 approaching some wells, which lay about half-way to 
 the next manzil, and round which a large flock of sheep 
 and goats were grazing, when suddenly the Deputy- 
 Governor dug his stirrups into his pony's sides — the 
 stirrup being pointed serves for a spur throughout 
 Persia — and scuttled ahead, followed by the escort. 
 
 ' Hullo ! ' I thought to myself ; ' nomad marauders 
 on the prowl,' and I hitched my pistol-holster round 
 to a more convenient position.
 
 SEISTAN TO MESHED 157 
 
 But if there were any robbers in the neighbourhood 
 we were of their company, for in not much longer time 
 than it takes to write it the Deputy-Governor and his 
 merry men were off their mounts and had secured a fine 
 fat sheep. This the escort slew, skinned, cut up, and 
 had roasting over a fire in the most expeditious manner 
 possible. Anon they ate it, securing the most dainty 
 portions for their leader, who courteously invited me 
 to partake. I might have had scruples ; perhaps I 
 should have had scruples, but after all, so I quibbled 
 to myself, my refusal would never be ascribed to its 
 proper cause — my high principles — but would doubt- 
 less give offence. Who was I, forsooth, to sit in 
 judgment on a Deputy-Governor moving as such 
 through his own district ? For aught I knew, this 
 picking up of a fat sheep by the roadside might be one 
 of his privileges as administrator of the ' high, the 
 middle, and the low justice.' In any case the animal 
 was now mutton ; nothing could alter that . Moreover, 
 the air was keen, so was my appetite, and the kabobs 
 (balls of roasted meat) smelt infernally enticing. In 
 short, I fell to, ate heartily, and — acting on the pre- 
 cepts of a certain famous traveller — as to the rights 
 or wrongs of the matter asked no questions 'for 
 conscience' sake.' Later I compromised by giving the 
 shepherd something in the shape of backshish, though 
 whether it ever found its way to the proper owner of 
 the animal, who after all was not the shepherd but his 
 master, is more than doubtful. 
 
 It was all very Persian, very much as if it had 
 come straight out of the pages of the immortal Hajji 
 Baba of Ispahan, a copy of which even now was 
 securely packed away with the few books I had brought
 
 158 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 with me on the road. To read Hajji Baba in Europe 
 is to read an amusing tale ; to read him in India 
 is to obtain a new insight into native life in general ; 
 but to have him as a travelling companion in Persia 
 itself is to possess a guide-book, not for sights and 
 places, but for things far more interesting — the people 
 themselves, with their ways, their customs, their whole 
 outlook upon life. 
 
 At Neh the redoubtable Hajji again gave me 
 chapter and verse for my guidance in things Persian. 
 Here I had a visitor who afterwards sent me a small 
 present of fruit, which I accepted with a polite note of 
 thanks. 
 
 ' But the present ? ' said Khuda-Dad. 
 
 ' The present ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, Jenab (Your Excellency — equivalent to the 
 Hindustani ' Sahib ') ; the servant who brought the 
 mewa (fruit) expects a present. Such is the custom 
 in Iran.' 
 
 Then I remembered. For what said the doctor, 
 Mirza Ahmak, to Hajji Baba when the latter asked 
 him for a salary ? And what were the feelings 
 of the doctor himself when he had to disburse five 
 tomans (about £1) to the Shah's running footman 
 for bringing him a gift of two partridges ? So I sent 
 out the requisite present, but could not help imagin- 
 ing to myself how this custom would go amongst us 
 Westerns. For instance : 
 
 Mr. Brown : ' What's that, James ? You say you 
 have received no wages for the last month ? ' 
 
 James (the butler), stiffly : ' Yes, sir.' 
 
 Mr. Brown : ' Oh, well — take a leg of mutton round 
 to Mr. Smith with my compliments.' . . .
 
 SEISTAN TO MESHED 159 
 
 From Neh, up wide valleys, flanked by bare hills, 
 past little brown villages with dome-shaped houses 
 and desolate gardens and orchards, bearing now only 
 forlorn leafless trees, we marched day by day into 
 winter. Cold winds blew, pools upon the road were 
 frozen over of a morning, and we were glad to reach 
 at length the kindly shelter of the British Vice- 
 Consulate at Birjand. 
 
 At Birjand a second of my camels went lame, and 
 this time it was the peerless Janda, the flower of the 
 flock, the apple of my eye, who developed some 
 mysterious swellings on his fore-legs — mysterious, 
 because they came after two days' rest, and therefore 
 could not have been due to the fatigues of the road. 
 
 Anxiously I called in native experts, men from 
 whom no ailment of that lusty-seeming yet in reality 
 delicately-constituted beast, the camel, was hid. These 
 — after the fashion of experts all the world over — 
 wagged their heads wisely, talked much, and disagreed 
 systematically. Yet on this were they unanimous : 
 that though there was, praise be to God, no permanent 
 aib (ailment, hurt) in the mari, nevertheless it would 
 be at least twenty days before he would be fit for the 
 road. Twenty whole days out of my six months, 
 and I with the Meshed, Teheran, Ispahan, and Bushire 
 road still to traverse ! Here was a pretty pickle ! 
 
 However, if from previous experience I had learnt 
 nothing else of the art of Eastern travel, this had been 
 ground into me as a first principle — patience, patience, 
 and yet again patience ; also that the Oriental is a 
 confirmed Job's comforter, and delights to wring your 
 withers, even supposing he has no ulterior motive of 
 his own, with prophecies of gloom. So for my own
 
 i6o TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 peace of mind I divided the twenty days by two, and 
 the event proved that I was right. On the eleventh 
 day I was able to say good-bye to my kind hosts, and 
 to strike out upon the Meshed road, though very 
 slowly, as Janda, treading delicately, like Agag, could 
 only go at a walk for the first few stages. 
 
 And it was in the first two stages that we 
 encountered some of the rigours of winter wayfaring : 
 on the first day snow over the Saman Shah Pass, and 
 on the second a storm of sleet and rain. The snow 
 in reality was not an unmixed evil. The fall had not 
 been a deep one, and the frost crisped and held it 
 together, so that it afforded a firm foothold to the soft 
 pads of my animals. The sun shone bright, and under 
 it what a welcome difference did that great white 
 mantle make to the ugly landscape which had accom- 
 panied us all the way from Seistan, hiding up the 
 naked hillsides, spraying the trees of the village gardens 
 with delicate foliage, and turning each little dome- 
 shaped house into a miniature ice-palace. 
 
 I beguiled the time too, as was my wont, in con- 
 versation with Khuda-Dad. To beguile the time by 
 converse with one's ' bearer ' may sound a little 
 strange to Anglo-Indian ears — I know it would have 
 to mine before I began my travels. But firstly, the 
 retainer of one's wayfarings, jogging beside one on 
 horse- or camel-back for hundreds of miles, for months 
 at a time, sharing alike the hardships and hazards 
 of the road, occupies quite a different niche in one's 
 appreciation from the creature in cantonments, who 
 merely assists in valeting one twice a day and then 
 disappears into the unsavoury depths of the servants' 
 quarters behind the bungalow. And secondly, the
 
 A GATE IN BIRJAN'D
 
 SEISTAN TO MESHED 161 
 
 Persian is essentially an homme d'esprit, possessed 
 of imagination, quick sympathies, wit, and a sense of 
 humour ; and it is this combination which makes him 
 such a pleasant companion, even supposing him to 
 lack other qualities as a man of affairs. 
 
 Now Khuda-Dad can neither read nor write, but 
 he can tell me long stories in which the great Rustum 
 with his horse Ruksh, and the saintly Ali with his 
 sword, Zulfikar, and a whole miscellany of Dervishes — 
 he is one himself, by the way — kings, jinns, and what 
 not, each play their appointed parts. He can discuss 
 shrewdly and intelligently the customs and manners 
 of East and West, as they have come under his obser- 
 vation during his travels — for I am not his first sahib — 
 and can round off a sentence with a quotation from 
 Firdausi or Sheikh Sadi. In a way I endeavour to use 
 Khuda-Dad as a sort of stalking-horse for ethnological 
 study, and by a process of ab uno disce omnes to get, 
 through him, an idea of Persian character in general. 
 
 To return to our travels. If something could 
 be said for our day over the snow, nothing could be 
 for our march through the rain and sleet. A bitter 
 wind blew the whole way, hurling the icy drops into 
 our faces, soaking us and numbing us from head to 
 toe. Our animals hour after hour slowly slithered 
 their way through the mud, for the camel's progress 
 over wet ground is not unlike that of a tyro on skates, 
 and it was a very woebegone caravan that came to 
 rest that night in its caravanserai. In fact, between 
 ourselves, one of the party would have exchanged 
 all the ' romance of the open road ' for the most 
 prosaic of snug hearthsides. 
 
 But with ' a little warmth, a little light ' — and
 
 162 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 the next day was fine and clear — all the old illusions 
 returned, and the snug hearthside faded away until 
 the next wet day, and I would not have exchanged 
 my seat on Janda's back, smoking an old briar, for 
 the throne of the Czar of All the Russias. 
 
 So we travelled northwards to Gunabad, which 
 lies three marches south of the town of Turbat-i- 
 Haidari, and seven marches south of Meshed. Here 
 I saw the Passion Play, which however merits a 
 chapter to itself. 
 
 Up to now we had travelled without escort, but 
 from here for a few stages the road bore an evil 
 reputation, chiefly on the strength of the deeds of one 
 Mohammed Ali — outlaw, now deceased. This enter- 
 prising individual had held a fort at the small hamlet 
 of Amrani, one march north of Gunabad, from which 
 he took toll of all caravans passing up and down; 
 and, since the main Meshed road ran past his front 
 door, he reaped a rich harvest. On one occasion the 
 Governments of Meshed and Birjand made common 
 cause against him with a not inconsiderable force, 
 accompanied by guns, but the siege proved unsuc- 
 cessful. Later, however, what open force could not do 
 was accomplished by treachery, and the outlaw was 
 murdered by one of his own men. 
 
 But though Mohammed Ali slept with his fathers, 
 there were others of his kidney about, and I had been 
 warned at Birjand that an escort would be advisable 
 as far as Maina, one march beyond Amrani. But here 
 came the difficulty. The Deputy-Governor of Gunabad 
 — like the Governor of Kain— had no regular soldiers, 
 and for precisely the same reason. However, after 
 some delay and difficulty, five raffish-looking riders
 
 SEISTAN TO MESHED 163 
 
 were impressed, who, I understood, were responsible 
 in a vague way for the safety of the road, and to these 
 I was entrusted as far as Maina. 
 
 On the way I entered into conversation with the 
 escort. They complained that though they acted as 
 road-guards they had received no pay for the last 
 year. But how then did they make a living, I 
 asked. ' Oh, one way and another ' — here they seemed 
 secretly amused at something best known to them- 
 selves. They escorted caravans up and down the 
 road, for instance, and thus made a few tomans. But, 
 W Allah, it was a hard life. Were there any robbers 
 on the road just now ? No ; at present the road was 
 amdn (safe). ' But in any case,' said their leader with 
 an engaging smile, ' all the robbers are my friends. 
 Why, I used to be one of Mohammed Ali's men.' 
 Not otherwise might a veteran of Napoleon have 
 boasted that he had served under the great captain. 
 
 Thus it transpired— what I afterwards verified to 
 be the case— that my five worthies, or at any rate 
 three or four of them, had been local highwaymen of 
 some repute, whom the Government, being unable to 
 bring them to book, had turned into road-guards. 
 This is a common practice all over Iran, and dates 
 at least as far back as the time of Nadir Shah, who 
 began life as a brigand. Indeed, what says the Persian 
 proverb ? — ' Duzd ne giriftah padshah ast ' (The 
 uncaught thief is a king). 
 
 On arrival at Amrani my uncaught thieves evi- 
 dently considered themselves to be kings in their 
 own right, and swaggered about the village with loud 
 voices, hectoring the poor yokels right and left. 
 
 Presently Khuda-Dad came to my room to say
 
 164 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 that the escort wanted money for the day's expenses, 
 notwithstanding that a definite bargain had been struck 
 that they were to receive no payment until Maina 
 was reached. However, being willing to humour them, 
 I told Khuda-Dad to disburse a small sum. 
 
 Peace for a while, then more loud talk without : 
 the escort were evidently trying to bully Khuda-Dad, 
 who entered to me anon, looking somewhat scared. 
 
 ' These sons of burnt fathers want more money, 
 a toman or two each. What are we to do, Jenab ? ' 
 
 That was just the crux. What were we to do? 
 Naturally I was angry, and as naturally my inclination 
 was to tell these ' sons of burnt fathers ' to go to the 
 devil. But our situation had to be considered. Here 
 we were, at nightfall, boxed up in a small lonely 
 village with our truculent escort. Ahead of us was a 
 march of more than thirty miles over complete desert 
 which bore a bad reputation for robbers. Supposing 
 I told the escort to go to the devil, they might easily 
 adopt the alternative of going back to Gunabad and 
 leaving me to get to Maina as best I could. Or they 
 might wait until I was well on my way next day and 
 then materialise in their old guise of highwaymen. 
 Or, if they did not wish to embroil themselves, they 
 might give the office to some of their brigand friends, 
 and afterwards share the spoils. Or they might then 
 and there attempt a coup de force. I do not say that 
 I thought any of these alternatives — except the first 
 — was likely, but they had to be weighed and con- 
 sidered. 
 
 On the other hand, supposing I yielded once more 
 to their demands, it would be a very evident confession 
 of weakness, and would probably encourage them to
 
 BIRJAND 
 
 EN ROUTE
 
 SEISTAN TO MESHED 165 
 
 further blackmail, either in an hour's time or next 
 morning, or in the middle of our next day's march. 
 By showing a firm front I might nip the ' mutiny ' 
 in the bud, or at any rate bring matters to a head and 
 find out where I stood. I finally decided upon the 
 latter course. So I had up my rapscallions and rated 
 them soundly, pointing out that I had, through pure 
 kindness of heart, given them money to which they 
 were not entitled by the terms of our contract, in 
 addition to tea, sugar, bread, and other trifles. And 
 now were they so utterly without shame that they 
 kept asking for more ? Not another farthing should 
 they have until we reached Maina, and they could 
 take it or leave it at that. 
 
 To my great relief this harangue had an excellent 
 effect. With one accord all five lifted up their voices 
 and called upon their Maker to witness that I, that 
 Khuda-Dad, had completely misunderstood them; 
 that they wanted nothing more, nothing at all ; that 
 they were ready to take me not only to Maina, but to 
 Meshed, to Teheran, to wherever I had an inclination 
 to go. And finally — after many protestations of good- 
 will and penitence — at what hour would my Excellency 
 wish to start on the morrow ? 
 
 This was all as it should be, and I fell asleep that 
 night with a more or less easy mind. 
 
 Nevertheless the next day's march was not a 
 pleasant experience. Though my common sense told 
 me that any attempt at robbery and violence was 
 so remote as to be not worth thinking about, my 
 imagination was not so well behaved and played me 
 tricks. Wherefore — with the aid of my Winchester, 
 which lay across the saddle before me — I endeavoured
 
 1 66 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 to keep an eye on my guard of honour. Now, to watch 
 five men, mounted on horses, lest they should have 
 evil intent upon you, over thirty miles of desert, with 
 a sharp winter wind blowing the while, you yourself 
 being perched upon an unwieldy camel, is trying both 
 physically and mentally. I was not sorry therefore 
 when at long last we reached Maina just as the sun 
 went down. There I paid off the escort, who returned 
 to Gunabad, to await doubtless the arrival of other 
 unhappy travellers. As for us, we made another 
 forced march the next day — Christmas Eve — into 
 Turbat-i-Haidari. 
 
 At Turbat, Janda, poor beast, who had been falter- 
 ing for the last few marches, again fell sick. Again I 
 consulted experts, who once more were of the opinion 
 that for him there would be no travel for some 
 weeks. But not again could I afford a long delay, so, 
 leaving him behind with the sarwan to follow to 
 Meshed when he should recover, I hired a donkey in 
 his place, and set forth. 
 
 From the lordly Janda to the humble ass was indeed 
 a come-down, and of my caravan of four camels and 
 three retainers which had left Nushki two months ago 
 only Khuda-Dad and myself, Yajuj and Majuj, were 
 left. Thus had the road taken toll of us. 
 
 Of our journey from Turbat to Meshed there is 
 nothing to record. Snow and steep passes were the 
 order of the day, and consequently long hours between 
 stages. As a sign of approaching civilisation I met 
 again my old friend of Turkish Arabia and Syria — the 
 wayside khawa-khana, with its fragrant tea for the 
 refreshment of the traveller. And then one afternoon, 
 from a spot whence the pilgrim gets his first view of the
 
 SEISTAN TO MESHED 167 
 
 holy city, and where he raises a prayer of thank- 
 fulness for his safe arrival and piles a few stones 
 together as a commemoration of the fact, far below us 
 — for we were high on the hill-tops — we saw a dark 
 mass spread out on the plain, and in its midst some- 
 thing which gleamed a dull white. That mass was 
 Meshed, and the dull white the great Shrine of Iman 
 Riza. 
 
 Our pilgrimage was over.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 THE TRAGEDY OF KARBALA 
 
 It was at Gunabad, mentioned in the last chapter but 
 one, that I saw the great Persian Passion Play. Our 
 arrival was in the sacred month of Moharram, during 
 which the Persians, and indeed all Shia Moham- 
 medans throughout the East, celebrate the mourning 
 for Hussain, slain at Karbala twelve hundred years 
 ago ; in fact, the morrow was the Ruz-i Qatl, or Day 
 of Slaughter, the tenth and final day of the festival, 
 when the Passion Play itself would be enacted. For 
 these ten days all business, including that of travelling, 
 is suspended, and my servants, pointing out that we 
 had broken the festival in part by being on the road 
 during the past week, made a petition that we might 
 at any rate acquire some small merit by making a 
 halt of a day or two and observing the Ruz-i-Qatl. 
 
 I had already endured delays not a few — who has 
 not, in a long overland journey in the East ? — but after 
 all, the Moharram only came once a year, and it would 
 distinctly savour of tyranny to force my attendants 
 to travel on such a day. He is, moreover, a foolish 
 traveller who cannot humour his followers every now 
 and then. So I graciously granted their petition, and 
 was the more ready to do so as we were settled in 
 comfortable quarters — a school, to wit, now deserted 
 
 168
 
 THE TRAGEDY OF KARBALA 169 
 
 by pupils during the Moharram, built around a court- 
 yard, shut out from the turmoil of the streets by high 
 walls and keeping a very pleasant air of seclusion. 
 
 In the afternoon, according to custom, I intimated 
 to the Governor of the Gunabad district, who resided 
 in Gunabad itself, that I would do myself the honour 
 of calling on him, whenever he might be at leisure. In 
 return he replied that, owing to the Moharram, to-day, 
 if I would excuse him, he could not receive me, but 
 to-morrow, if I would honour him with a visit, he would 
 be much pleased. In the meantime here was a sheep, 
 as a token of his esteem, which would I condescend to 
 accept ? And finally my camels (housed in a neigh- 
 bouring caravanserai) had been much admired, as 
 they were riding, not baggage animals, and would I 
 be so kind as to lend them for the festival processions ? 
 
 The sheep was a very welcome addition to our 
 larder, and I was only too willing to lend my beasts, 
 as it enabled me to counter with the proposal that 
 I should be present at the Tazea (Passion Play) the 
 next day. After a little delay the answer was returned 
 that there would be no objection to this, and that a 
 man from the Governor himself would attend on the 
 morrow to take me to the play. So that was satis- 
 factorily arranged. 
 
 Before going further it must be explained that in 
 the Moharram celebrations there are two main parts. 
 The first consists of assembling in mosques, crying 
 upon the names of Ali, Hassan, and Hussain, and beat- 
 ing upon the breast — a very old signification of Oriental 
 grief — reading out to congregations tales and sermons 
 on the tragedy of Karbala, processions through the 
 streets, and the like. This part takes place in the first
 
 170 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 nine days alluded to above. On the tenth day is what 
 we may call the Passion Play proper, a representation 
 of the death of Hussain and his family. It was this 
 latter which I was going to see next day. 
 
 But celebrations of the first order were not yet 
 over. The school stood next the town mosque, and, 
 as the darkness closed in, from it the shuffling of many 
 feet and the murmur of many voices came muffled to 
 my ears through the thickness of the intervening walls. 
 Then the nasal Arabic chant of a mulla, and then a 
 single voice crying aloud the name of Ali. Back came 
 the response from the crowd, ' Hussain,' but uneven 
 and straggling, like the dropping fire of musketry. 
 ' Ali,' again cried the single voice, and back again the 
 echo, ' Hussain,' this time stronger, more even, ' Ali ' 
 — ' Hussain,' ' Ali ' — ' Hussain,' ' Ali ' — ' Hussain.' 
 They were swinging together now. ' Ali ' — ' Hussain,' 
 ' Ali '— ' Hussain,' ' Ali '— ' Hussain,' ' Ali '— ' Hussain.' 
 They were no longer voices which cried ' Hussain,' but 
 one unanimous shout from hundreds of throats — deep, 
 savage, menacing, like the coughing roar of a lion, 
 smashing the stillness of the night into a thousand frag- 
 ments. ' Ali '• — ' Hussain,' ' Ali ' — ' Hussain.' And. a 
 fresh sound had taken its place in the symphony, for 
 with the ' Hussain ' came a dull, reverberating thud, 
 the sound of hands striking upon the breasts of their 
 owners. ' Ali ' — ' Hussain,' ' Ali ' — ' Hussain.' Deeper, 
 more savage, more menacing, crashed out that harsh 
 requiem. ' Ali ' — ' Hussain,' * Ali ' — ' Hussain.' 
 
 I think I could without difficulty obtain a written 
 testimonial from most of my friends that I am of a 
 fairly placid temperament, one whose nervous system 
 is in excellent order. So I have no hesitation in conr
 
 THE TRAGEDY OF KARBALA 171 
 
 fessing that I was not unaffected by such a volume of 
 sound, or that its hammer-like reiteration did not fail 
 to rasp my nerves. For besides the recognised effects 
 on the human soul of music, with its wailing violins and 
 deep-mouthed organs, Nature too has her orchestras, 
 at times not less moving, with her inexorable breakers 
 grinding upon shingle, her storms tearing their way 
 through high forests. And of all, perhaps the effect 
 of the human voice, when it takes upon itself some 
 inhuman function and imitates these great orchestras, 
 is most harrowing. 
 
 ' Ali '— ' Hussain,' ' Ali '— ' Hussain.' High above 
 the crashing bass rose the treble of boys' voices, shrill 
 and hysterical. But indeed the note of abandonment, 
 of frenzy, had crept into the whole. Discordant cries 
 began to sweep across the steady refrains, like eddies 
 across a river in full flood. I felt as if I were, in 
 imagination, watching a strand, woven of sound and 
 emotion, being stretched tighter, and tighter, and 
 tighter to breaking-point. 
 
 Then of a sudden, to my relief, the strand snapped, 
 and the shouts of ' Ali ' — ' Hussain ' ceased, giving place 
 to low incoherent ejaculations, in the exhausted tones of 
 spent men. But after a pause the maddening, mono- 
 tonous refrain began again, ■ Ali ' — ' Hussain/ ' Ali ' — 
 ' Hussain,' irregular at first, gathering strength with 
 repetition, stretching a strand of emotion and sound 
 tighter, tighter, and tighter to breaking-point, until 
 once more it snapped ; when again ensued the low inco- 
 herent ejaculations of spent men. For a third time the 
 ritual was opened, swelled again, and again ceased, but 
 this time for good and all, and left me in peace in my 
 quiet courtyard, with the silent night for company
 
 172 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 and the minarets of the mosque rising against the 
 stars. . . . 
 
 For the understanding of the Passion Play a general 
 knowledge of the main events which lead up to the 
 tragedy it commemorates is necessary. The following 
 short synopsis gives the necessary data, and there is 
 the less need of excuse for introducing such a synopsis 
 as to the general reader it will possibly be new ground, 
 and because, unless one has some such knowledge, not 
 only the Passion Play but the whole of the Moham- 
 medan East of the present day, its schisms, its cross- 
 currents, and its motives must remain a closed book. 
 
 When Mohammed died in a.d. 632, Abu Bakr 
 became Khalif, or Emperor, of Islam, and on his death 
 was succeeded by Omar, who in turn was followed by 
 Osman. When the latter fell by the hand of the 
 assassin in a.d. 656, Ali, Mohammed's son-in-law, was 
 elected Khalif by the people of Mecca and Medina. 
 Syria, however, under the governorship of Muawiya, 
 refused allegiance, as did the important province of 
 Busra, at the head of the Persian Gulf. The latter Ali 
 brought to submission, but Syria remained stubborn 
 until his assassination in a.d. 661, when Muawiya 
 became Khalif, having bought off the claims of Hassan, 
 Ali's eldest son, by settling upon him various enormous 
 revenues. Hassan, a pious, easy-going, unambitious 
 sensualist, lived in retirement, taking no part in public 
 affairs, until the year a.d. 670, when he was poisoned 
 by his wife. Part of the agreement between Hassan and 
 Muawiya had been that on the death of the latter 
 the government should revert to the family of the 
 former. But when Muawiya died, in a.d. 680, his son 
 Yazid seized the khalifate, thus ousting Hussain—
 
 THE TRAGEDY OF KARBALA 173 
 
 Hassan's brother — from his just rights. The people 
 of Busra, however, and notably the inhabitants of the 
 important city of Kufa, sent messages to Hussain, as 
 on a former occasion they had sent them to Ali, that if 
 he would but show himself amongst them they would 
 unanimously rise in his favour. The only force which 
 Hussain, who was then in Mecca, could induce to 
 accompany him in his bid for the khalifate of Islam 
 was a small band of seventy-two devoted adherents. 
 His friends strongly advised him against proceeding 
 any further with such a hazardous undertaking, but, 
 disregarding all their admonitions, Hussain set forth 
 at the head of his caravan — for it was in reality little 
 else, encumbered moreover with women and children 
 — to fight for a great empire. Doubtless he was 
 inspired by the issue of a like proceeding on the part 
 of his father, who had marched to Busra with a 
 totally inadequate force, and had ended by winning 
 the Kufans over to his side. 
 
 On nearing Kufa, Hussain learned that his envoy, 
 whom he had sent ahead to try the temper of the 
 people, after meeting with some preliminary success, 
 had been seized and beheaded. Other news from the 
 city went to show that the fickle Kufans, whatever 
 might be their secret sympathies, had no intention of 
 putting them into practice by a rising in favour of 
 Hussain ; and even before the appearance of four 
 thousand men under Amr and Shimar, sent by 
 Obaidullah— the Governor of Busra — it was evident 
 that the cause of the house of Ali was a lost one ; and 
 to convince Hussain that he was a doomed man it 
 needed not his sister's lamentations : ' My mother 
 Fatima is dead, and my father Ali, and my brother
 
 174 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 Hassan. Alas for the destruction that is past, and the 
 dregs of it that remain behind.' 
 
 Negotiations were opened between the two forces, 
 but with no results. Obaidullah instructed his lieu- 
 tenants, Amr and Shimar, to offer but the two alterna- 
 tives : unconditional surrender or a fight to the last. 
 And Hussain and his dauntless handful, tying their 
 tents together to form a barricade on one side, and 
 digging a trench for the same purpose on the other, 
 chose the latter. 
 
 The next morning a small reinforcement came for 
 the devoted garrison. One Al Hurr deserted the 
 standards of Amr, and with thirty men came over to 
 Hussain. Soon after the battle was joined. 
 
 According to the ancient practice, it began with 
 single combats between the opponents, in which the 
 champions of the Imam were victorious, seeing which 
 the enemy made a combined attack, and the engage- 
 ment became general. Hopelessly outnumbered, sub- 
 jected to a rain of arrows from which their weak 
 defences afforded little or no protection, racked by 
 burning thirst — for their water supply had given out, 
 and the enemy had interposed between them and the 
 Euphrates, which flowed near by their camp — their 
 plight made all the more poignant by the presence of 
 their women and children, the followers of Hussain, 
 encouraged by the deeds and the voice of their in- 
 trepid and beloved leader, fought with an indomitable 
 courage which has given that day at Karbala so many 
 centuries ago a lasting niche in the Temple of Fame. 
 But no valour could prevail against such odds. One 
 by one the Imam's warriors fell, sword in hand. 
 Hussain himself, in a desperate attempt to cut his way
 
 THE TRAGEDY OF KARBALA 175 
 
 to the river to bring water for his parched garrison, 
 was surrounded and cut down, and by the time that 
 the evening shadows had begun to creep over the 
 stricken field, the darker Shadow of Death — except 
 for the women and children, whose fate it was to fall 
 into a captivity of insult and degradation — had passed 
 completely over the little band of heroes. 
 
 It is the tragedy of Karbala which is the theme of 
 the Persian Passion Play, and the extraordinary effect 
 it has on the people — an effect testified to by almost 
 every traveller in Iran — is due to the three great feel- 
 ings which it touches and harps upon, namely, religion, 
 national pride, and a very human feeling for a tragic 
 event. Religion, since the Shias execrate Abu Bakr 
 Omar, and Osman and the remainder of the khalifs, 
 and maintain that Ali and his eleven descendants 
 (whom they call the twelve Imams) were the true 
 successors of Mohammed. This is of course in direct 
 opposition to the tenets of the Sunnis, and the hatred 
 between these two sects can best be described by 
 saying that not uncommonly they barely regard each 
 other as Muslims at all. National pride, since Hussain 
 was the husband of a Persian princess of royal blood, 
 and therefore represents the Persian nation of the day, 
 conquered and thrown in the dust by the victorious 
 Arabs. As for the feeling of sympathy with a tragic 
 event, there are few, if any, more ' splendid failures ' 
 in history, or which have more legitimate claims on 
 human sympathy, than that of Karbala. . . . 
 
 The next morning I witnessed another of the rituals 
 connected with the festival — a religious procession, as 
 it surged by the door of my courtyard. First came a 
 motley band bearing flags and banners, then a com-
 
 176 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 pany of men beating themselves with chains, and then 
 the representations for the martyrs, as those that fell at 
 Karbala are called : a riderless steed for the fallen 
 Imam ; three or four other horses with children 
 strapped on their backs, covered with chaff and ashes 
 — these, the infants that were present that day at 
 Karbala; my camels, stalking superciliously along, 
 bearing men dressed as women to represent Zainab, 
 Hussain's sister, Shah-i-Banu, his wife, and the other 
 women led into captivity to Syria. Then swung past 
 a frenzied line of swordsmen, dressed all in white flow- 
 ing robes, flashing their weapons in the air, and ever 
 and anon cutting themselves about the head, so that 
 the blood streamed over their vestments, all the while 
 shouting and progressing with grotesque leaps and 
 bounds. Some poor wretches were so faint with loss 
 of blood that they were almost unconscious. Friends 
 kept pace with the line, bearing cloths in their hands 
 with which every now and then they wiped away 
 the accumulated gore from the faces of the 
 fanatics. 
 
 Taken in all, the sight was not a pretty one, and 
 indeed left me with an uneasy feeling as to the 
 advisability of my attending the Passion Play. Those 
 frenzied shouts of the night before, those demented 
 swordsmen with their flashing blades, passed through 
 my mind. How would the populace, in their present 
 excited state, look upon the presence of a European 
 at this, one of their most sacred observances ? Many 
 Christians of course had witnessed the Passion Play, 
 but generally from the security of a neighbouring house 
 belonging to some Persian friend, or, if from among 
 the crowd itself, under the protection of some local
 
 THE TRAGEDY OF KARBALA 177 
 
 notable of importance ; and in either case nearly 
 always in some large town whose inhabitants were 
 accustomed to the sight of Europeans. I, however, 
 had practically none of these advantages. Gunabad 
 was a place where no Europeans lived, and through 
 which only a stray traveller, like myself, passed now 
 and then, at the rate, perhaps, of two or three in the 
 year. No protecting roof for me, to boot, but the 
 company of the spectators, as one of themselves. It 
 was true that the Governor had offered me his aegis 
 — two of his followers would come to conduct me 
 to the play — but the protection of a small Persian 
 official, who, as I discovered later, had not even enough 
 men to afford me an escort for my forward journey, 
 would in time of trouble probably prove to be far from 
 a very present help. 
 
 However, it was too late to draw back now. So 
 at the appointed hour I donned my frock-coat — for 
 any occasion of ceremony the Persian considers the 
 display of leg in ordinary European dress indecent — 
 put a Browning pistol in the tail-pocket in case of 
 accidents, though common sense might have suggested 
 not attending a performance at all where such a 
 companion was thought to be necessary, and set out 
 with my two guides. 
 
 Traversing the empty village — for all the inhabitants 
 had flocked a-playgoing — we came upon the outskirts 
 of a large crowd collected on the plain outside, passed 
 through, and crossed towards a tent, where the Governor 
 and some other of the leading men were seated on 
 carpets spread upon the ground. I made my salutations, 
 which were politely returned ; a place was vacated 
 for me next to the Governor ; and squatting in my turn,
 
 178 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 I was free to look around. The crowd was arranged 
 in a great circle, a section of which — in white head-to- 
 toe enveloping veils — represented the female spectators. 
 In the centre was a small group, including women 
 (i.e. men dressed as women) and children, which I had 
 no difficulty in identifying as Hussain and his martyrs, 
 hemmed in by their implacable foes. About the bare 
 ring, between the spectators and Hussain's band, half 
 a dozen horsemen wheeled and quartered. These were 
 undoubtedly the ruthless couple, Shimar and Amr, 
 at the head of their hosts, come hot -foot from Busra 
 to accomplish their fell designs. Such was the stage, 
 and such the setting. 
 
 Just after I had seated myself something of note 
 had evidently occurred. On the far side of the ring 
 a melee was in progress. Shimar's horsemen, dis- 
 mounted, had surrounded and were driving hither and 
 thither some Hussainite, who was evidently making 
 a desperate resistance. Presently however they had 
 him down, and one delivered the coup de grace by a 
 plunge of his dagger. Shouts of execration, sobs, 
 cries, and groans rose from the crowd. When these 
 subsided I whispered to my neighbour as to who the 
 victim might be — ' Al Hurr.' And his slayer ? — ' Amr.' 
 And that other in the long Russian boots ? — ' Shimar.' 
 And the player with the beringed Arab kerchief over 
 his head and shoulders ? — ' Hussain himself.' And 
 the large man seated ? — ' Abbas, Hussain's brother.' 
 And the young man near him ? — ' Ali-Akbar, Hussain's 
 son.' And the women ? — ' Hussain's wives, Ali- 
 Akbar's sisters, &c.' And so on, until I had placed 
 most of the dramatis personae. But indeed there was 
 not much immediate interest in the identification of
 
 THE TRAGEDY OF KARBALA 179 
 
 the players, for the play, at present, decidedly dragged. 
 Shimar — in appropriately melodramatic form — de- 
 livered long and threatening harangues at Hussain, who 
 replied in like fashion. Now and then the tale would 
 be taken up by Abbas for Hussain, or by Amr for 
 Shimar. Now and then one of the women would have 
 her say. 
 
 Frankly speaking, I began to get bored. This slow 
 interchange of interminable blank verse was hardly 
 what I had expected, from the accounts of Europeans 
 read or heard, who described the play as not unmoving, 
 even for those of another race and religion. The 
 absence also of any stage effects was strange to a 
 Western mind. Stage there was of course none, but 
 even the illusions within their compass the players 
 seemed to despise. Thus Hussain's band, supposedly 
 suffering from the tortures of burning thirst, sipped 
 tea and smoked qalcdns. One little maiden from the 
 company, suffering the pangs of real thirst, toddled 
 out and received water from the hands of the hard- 
 hearted Shimar. When the ' women's ' veils were 
 blown aside the beards and whiskers of men could be 
 distinctly seen. All read their parts whenever they 
 happened to forget them ; all prompted each other, 
 and were in turn prompted by the stage manager — a 
 benevolent old gentleman, who was here, there, and 
 everywhere in the execution of his office. 
 
 Nor did the spectators seem much interested — 
 after their outburst at the death of Al Hurr — in the 
 proceedings. They also had their qaleans, and a 
 steady bubbling rose all along the circle of the crowd. 
 The Governor — a somewhat dissipated and blase- 
 looking young man — lighted a cigarette. The rest
 
 180 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 of his company chatted to one another in low 
 undertones. 
 
 People began to notice the presence of a Feringhi 
 (European) amongst them, to nudge each other, and 
 look in my direction. The process of being stared at 
 is one to which any English traveller in the East must 
 submit and if possible get hardened. But many years 
 east of Suez has still left me somewhat sensitive on 
 this point, and I began to feel slightly uncomfortable, 
 especially when I considered the position in which I 
 was. My legs grew cramped with squatting. Yes ! 
 I was undoubtedly becoming bored. 
 
 And then a change came over the scene. The time 
 for speechifying was apparently past, and that for 
 action come. Hussain bids farewell to his wife, and 
 with a shout of grief and rage rushes on the foe — his 
 water-skin on his back — evidently in the attempt to 
 cut his way to the river, from which to bring water 
 for his garrison. That shout rings true, as does the 
 accompanying acclamation of the crowd. Qaledns 
 are dropped, and in place of their quiet monotonous 
 bubbling low fierce mutterings run round the assembly. 
 There is no lack of interest now. 
 
 And this gives me a juster appreciation of the play, 
 and also of its spectators. The play is indeed no play 
 to them, but a religious ceremony of the most solemn 
 import, and as such any attempts at stage-effects 
 would be completely out of place. The feelings which 
 the play inspires are more caused by the remembrance 
 of the real tragedy of long ago, and all that it means to 
 a Shia Mohammedan, than by any excellence, or the 
 reverse, in the particular performance presented to 
 their gaze. A fine deed can stir a reader's feelings
 
 THE TRAGEDY OF KARBALA 181 
 
 through the bald terseness of a newspaper telegram, 
 and so the tragedy of Karbala the feelings of a Persian, 
 though the imagery of it be as inadequate as you 
 please. Moreover, it is impossible for the emotions to 
 be at white heat during a play that lasts some six hours 
 — I had come in after some three hours and a half 
 had passed — and in which the action is continuous, 
 without any drops of the curtain. The interest of the 
 spectators must of necessity come and go. Lastly, all 
 these players were in no sense professional actors. 
 They were not even as those of Karbala, Meshed, and 
 Teheran, who receive large presents from wealthy 
 patrons. They were merely humble village folk, taking 
 a day's rest from the day's toil to play their parts in 
 the representation of a great national epic. 
 
 So with these reflections uppermost I watch the 
 performance with a more understanding eye. This 
 (the performance) is now moving rapidly. Hussain 
 is fighting single-handed for his life against the hosts 
 of Shimar ; and the combat is represented not by the 
 ridiculous two-up, two-down fencing one sees some- 
 times on the Western stage, but by the combatants 
 twirling their swords this way and that above their 
 heads, at the same time bending their bodies, advancing 
 and retreating, the whole effect, once one allows the 
 convention, being extremely graceful. The struggle is 
 followed with breathless attention by the crowd ; the 
 Governor's cigarette goes out ; the low-toned chatter 
 of his suite ceases. Imperceptibly all around me I 
 feel the tide of emotion rising slowly. 
 
 Soon Hussain is driven back to his devoted band. 
 Once more he takes farewell of his family, but this 
 time a long last farewell. Not again will he look
 
 182 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 upon their faces in this life. His wives, his son, his 
 little daughters — all receive embraces. Sobs and 
 lamentations break from the crowd. It is true that 
 tears shed on such occasions acquire religious merit, 
 according to Shia belief, but it is also true that 
 no fictitious spurs to emotion are really necessary. 
 The situation has in itself ample and real pathos. 
 
 Before plunging again into the fray Hussain makes 
 a last appeal to his foes, not for ultimate mercy — 
 that he does not expect— but for a little water for his 
 followers and for himself. In the Name of God, the 
 Compassionate, the Merciful, in the name of their 
 common religion, in the name of humanity— water, 
 water. 
 
 Shimar, with fiendish malevolence, lifts a bowl of 
 water on high and spills it slowly on the ground before 
 the eyes of the thirst-stricken garrison. A roar of 
 rage goes up from the crowd. Even the only Christian 
 and foreigner present feels that the wringing of Shimar's 
 neck would give him not a little pleasure. Once more 
 Hussain rushes single-handed on the foe. This way 
 and that the battle sways. At length Hussain cuts 
 his path through the enemy and disappears through the 
 crowd on the far side of the circle. 
 
 A pause, then a cry of horror from the spectators as 
 a blood-stained object is flung into the ring. It is the 
 right hand of Hussain. The martyrdom of the Imam 
 has commenced. With a shrill scream his daughter 
 rushes forward, and seizing the terrible relic presses it 
 to her bosom. 
 
 Presently the hero himself staggers back into the 
 circle, but not the same warrior who had but now 
 flashed forth in all the pride of his great strength.
 
 THE TRAGEDY OF KARBALA 183 
 
 His head is bare, his clothes torn and dishevelled, his 
 face racked with pain. He is weak with the loss of 
 blood and falters in his gait . His right hand is severed, 
 but with indomitable courage he holds his sword 
 in his left, and still continues the unequal struggle. 
 His water-skin is still across his shoulders, and glistens 
 with wetted surface : he has succeeded in filling it 
 from the river. Beset as he is with foes, he tries to 
 bear the precious fluid towards his people. But it is 
 not to be, and fighting desperately he is borne back- 
 wards and forced out of the circle. 
 
 Again a cry of horror from the crowd as a second 
 hand is flung into the arena, and again the daughter 
 secures this ghastly relic of her father. And soon 
 Hussain himself follows, a piteous spectacle indeed — 
 both hands shorn off, now staggering forward, now 
 dropping to his knees and crawling painfully, now 
 lying out along the ground, too weak to move ; but ever 
 and always the water-skin slung about his shoulders, 
 and ever the ' unconquerable soul ' of the man urging 
 him forward on his errand. Perhaps he may achieve 
 it, for he has shaken off his pursuers. There is no 
 sign of Shimar and his men. Slowly, inch by inch, 
 he progresses, a forlorn figure on the sun-baked face of 
 the arena, watched by hundreds of tense, staring eyes. 
 
 And the Feringhi — what of him ? He forgets that 
 Hussain died many centuries since. He forgets that 
 religiously and racially the play, the players, and the 
 spectators are alien to him, so alien that he has thought 
 it necessary to have a pistol in his pocket. He forgets 
 entirely the presence of the pistol. He only knows 
 that he is watching a drama, a tragedy, in its own 
 peculiar way as real, as true, as artistic, as any placed
 
 184 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 on a Western stage, and, in its effect upon its audience 
 and upon its actors, far more true and real — a tragedy 
 calling to feelings deeper than religion, deeper even than 
 race, deep down to those of human nature itself. So 
 he watches with as intense eyes as any. . . . 
 
 But Hussain's fate is upon him, for presently Shimar 
 and his horsemen are once more on the scene. At first 
 far away in the desert, as one must imagine, for they 
 course swiftly round and round. Nearer and nearer 
 they come, spurning the miles beneath their hoofs, 
 while that piteous crawling figure makes but its painful 
 inches. Soon they are in sight of their prey, and raise 
 a savage cry. Another round, and they are off their 
 horses and upon him. 
 
 One merciful blow would end that life already 
 ebbing, but Shimar knows no mercy. Not the sword 
 does he use, but the scourge. Brutally he tears away 
 the water-skin, casts it on the ground, and raises his 
 whip on high. The blows fall. Under them the thing 
 which has no longer the semblance of a man writhes 
 and moans. 
 
 Among the spectators is a very frenzy of emotion. 
 The screams of the women, the deeper shouts, sobs, 
 and groans of the men, rise to heaven in one loud 
 utterance of grief and rage. As for me, notwithstand- 
 ing the heat of the afternoon sun, cold shivers steal 
 up and down my spine, so indescribably painful is 
 the scene, so terribly real the whirlpool of feeling which 
 engulfs me on every side. 
 
 The scourge rises and falls. Hussain's moans 
 become articulate. ' Baradar, Baradar ! ' (Brother, 
 brother !). He is calling upon Abbas. But Abbas is 
 far away in his camp. ' Baradar, Baradar ! ' The voice
 
 THE TRAGEDY OF KARBALA 185 
 
 gets stronger, until, with one last great cry, it is silent— 
 for ever— and the body falls limply to the ground, and 
 Hussain is dead. 
 
 It is the climax of the play, and the climax in the 
 emotions of the spectators ; and when the glamour 
 dies away the reaction comes. Qaledns once more 
 begin to bubble, cigarettes once more are lighted, the 
 buzz of conversation rises afresh. The Governor and 
 his suite proceed to discuss the respective merits of 
 the steeds of Shimar and his followers. 
 
 'W Allah, but the grey is a good animal, fast and 
 without aib (i.e. sound).' 'The black is better.' 
 ' Never ! Why, the grey is worth ninety tomans.' 
 ' He is old, though.' « Not more than eight years. 
 ' How much does Abdul want for him ? ' ' One hun- 
 dred tomans.' ' One hundred tomans ? May God 
 give it to him ! — he won't get it from me.' (Laughter.) 
 
 It sounds strange after the sobs of five minutes 
 before to hear this badinage tossed to and fro. But 
 it only means that the Persian is possessed of that 
 curious thing, the artistic temperament, whose neces- 
 sity it is to feel deeply and quickly, but by no means 
 continuously. 
 
 Once more the crowd is moved as Abbas mounts 
 his horse, and scours the plain for Hussain, only to 
 find his corpse. Then again, with Abbas back in camp, 
 it resumes its qaledns and gossip ; deserts them for 
 the killing of Ali Akbar ; resumes them on his death, 
 when the play comes to an end. There are still many 
 of Hussain's band waiting for their martyrdom, but 
 Ali Akbar, like the Merry Monarch, has taken a long 
 time a-dying, and it is now close on sunset, when 
 prayers have to be said and evening meals to be
 
 186 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 cooked. So the Governor gives the word, and the 
 assembly breaks up. Some of the actors, Hussain and 
 Shimar amongst them, came over to our tent, and, 
 saluting the Governor and myself, fell into amicable 
 conversation. How did I like the play ? It was 
 not so good as at Meshed and Teheran of course ? 
 I hastened to express my entire approval of the 
 Gunabad production. Where had I come from, and 
 whither was I bound ? From Seistan, and I was 
 bound for Meshed, and after that to Teheran. Indeed ? 
 A long journey that, and winter was a bad season for 
 travelling. They hoped the road would be good for 
 my onward wayfaring. And so forth, and so on. 
 
 Nothing could have been more friendly or less 
 fanatical than this bearing, and my only anxiety was 
 lest the aforesaid pistol should betray itself by any 
 unseemly bulge in my frock-coat, which after all was 
 not originally constructed to carry such weapons of war. 
 And as I returned to the town, reflecting on what I 
 had seen, it seemed to me that I had caught a glimpse 
 —momentary though it had been — of something firm 
 and abiding in a country probably fated to great 
 changes ; and this something was the spirit of a 
 people. For whatever may be the fate of Persia as 
 a nation — whether she remain independent, or pass 
 eventually under foreign dominion — the spirit of the 
 people, which can produce such a universal expression 
 of itself as its Passion Play, will remain. And every 
 year as the Moharram comes round, whatever govern- 
 ment may rule in Teheran, the people will turn to that 
 past, which in truth means more to them than any 
 future, and will continually delight in the Tragedy of 
 Karbala.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 MESHED TO ASKABAD 
 
 For all that Meshed is the possessor of a world-famous 
 shrine, to the casual traveller the town is not of much 
 interest, the more so as the shrine itself — that of 
 Imam Riza — is not only closed to the inspection of the 
 European, but even the approaches to it, by chains 
 placed across the various bazaars leading thereto. 
 And other buildings of note are non-existent. Placed 
 in close proximity to Russian Central Asia and Northern 
 Afghanistan, politically of course Meshed possesses 
 many points of interest, but then this book is not a 
 political treatise. 
 
 So, with the remark that I passed a very pleasant 
 three weeks enjoying the hospitality of the British 
 Consulate, we can * skip ' Meshed and strike the road 
 once more, but minus one of our party— Khuda-Dad, 
 for whom the attractions of the holy city had been 
 too much, and who announced his intention, with 
 suitable regret, of staying behind. Luckily enough, I 
 managed to procure the services of a Persian, Teheran 
 bound, as a domestic that far, and so substituted him 
 for the faithless K.-D. 
 
 The direct way from Meshed to Teheran is of 
 course by road through Northern Persia, and it was 
 by this road that I had intended travelling. But on 
 
 187
 
 188 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 arrival at Meshed I found that the road was infested 
 by bands of Turkoman robbers, who plundered 
 caravans, looted villages, cut telegraph wires, and 
 generally harried the countryside. They had already 
 attacked and robbed one English traveller, killing two 
 of his men, and, as I had no wish to be the second 
 victim, a change of route seemed to be advisable. 
 
 This change required the less cogitation as there 
 was left me but one other alternative route : via 
 Askabad, the Transcaspian Railway to the Caspian 
 Sea, across it to Baku, thence down to Resht, and 
 thence to Teheran— a devious route this, but safe 
 from molesting brigands, and so, although the longest 
 way round, in all probability the shortest way home. 
 
 From Meshed to Askabad, on the Transcaspian 
 Railway, is about two hundred miles, and a carriage 
 road connects the two places. This is the principal 
 avenue of trade between Russian Central Asia and 
 Khorasan, and merchandise is carried up and down it 
 either by means of large caravans or great lumber- 
 ing drays — ' fourgons,' as they are locally called. The 
 European traveller drives in a phaeton, and his luggage 
 follows in a ' diligence,' a species of lighter fourgon. 
 
 By the efforts of some kind friends in Meshed I 
 procured the services of one Daniel, who was to pro- 
 vide me with a phaeton, driven by himself, and a 
 diligence, driven by a satellite of his. Daniel — with 
 an accent on the last syllable — was a sturdy, grizzled, 
 middle-aged man of, presumably, Russo-Central- 
 Asian extraction, though what particular blend it 
 would be difficult to say. At any rate he was no 
 Persian, his efforts at the language being ludicrous, 
 notwithstanding that he must have been driving up
 
 MESHED TO ASKABAD 189 
 
 and down the road any time for the past ten years. 
 As his name implies, he was a Christian, though, as I 
 found, this was in no way any check on his powers of 
 * cussing ' when it was needful later to speed our 
 passage through opposing traffic. For the rest, he 
 had a good reputation on the road as a careful driver, 
 and, as our way would lie up and down not a few 
 hazardous slopes, this was something of an asset. 
 
 Special permission is required from the capital 
 itself before a foreign traveller can use the Trans- 
 caspian Railway, in addition of course to a Russian 
 passport. This permission nowadays is always forth- 
 coming, and on its arrival, with my passport in my 
 pocket, I was ready to depart. 
 
 Figure to yourself, then, us leaving Meshed one fine 
 morning at the end of February. First the phaeton 
 with three horses, containing Rags and myself, Daniel 
 handling the ribbons. Rags the old traveller, the 
 follower of the fortunes of his master over so many 
 leagues, had curled himself up at my feet with the 
 most philosophic calm. North, south, east, or west, 
 camel, carriage, mule, or train, it is all one to him, 
 for he travels like royalty or the moneyed tourist — 
 on personally conducted tours, while his master has 
 the privilege of planning, arranging, haggling, and 
 incidently trying to make both ends meet. 
 
 Following the phaeton at a respectable distance 
 came the diligence with four horses, containing my 
 baggage, my Persian servant, and Daniel's satellite. 
 Notwithstanding its superior horse-power, the diligence 
 was a slower moving vehicle than ours, made heavy 
 way over the rough ground, and was soon left behind. 
 The phaeton — a good one, mercifully supplied with
 
 190 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 strong springs — swayed easily to and fro, except at 
 some unusually bad lump. The day was a perfect 
 one, with a warm sun and a cool breeze, and Rags 
 and I, bound for pastures new, were once more on 
 the road. 
 
 Speaking even with some degree of latitude, there 
 is only one carriage road in Persia, and the Meshed- 
 Askabad route is not this one and only — at any rate as 
 long as it crosses Persian soil. The others — well, for the 
 others imagine a bare plain, traversed by the roughest 
 of unmetalled tracks, for which no preparation or 
 levelling of any sort has been attempted. Now the 
 track swerves to the right, now to the left, to avoid 
 some exceptionally abrupt hollow or broad water- 
 course. Now, taking its courage in both hands, it 
 flies hollow and water-course in mid-career. After a 
 moderate amount of snow or rain it becomes a slushy 
 mass, through which your straining horses can barely 
 pull you. After an immoderate amount of rain or 
 snow it becomes an impassable quagmire. Of such, 
 doubtless, were the old unregenerated coaching roads 
 of Europe. 
 
 The carriage- is also the camel-track, but with this 
 difference, that the latter is even more sinuous. For 
 the camel is essentially a creature of the flat, and 
 delights to make mountains out of molehills — though 
 he can cross the former at need in a marvellous way. 
 Thus his path is as sensitive to levels as running water, 
 and it is amusing to see how it will break away and 
 make a divergence of perhaps a hundred yards to avoid 
 some paltry and infinitesimal incline. 
 
 So we bowled smoothly and steadily, or slowly and 
 painfully — as the track was better or worse — through
 
 MESHED TO ASKABAD 191 
 
 the morning up to the hour of lunch, which I had in 
 the khawa-khana of a wayside village ; then to carriage 
 again, and so on through the afternoon until dusk, 
 when we reach the manzil. 
 
 The manzils from Meshed to Askabad contain 
 small posts of Russian soldiers for the purpose of 
 guarding the route, and are superior to those met 
 with on most other roads. This is not to say that they 
 equal the dak-bungalow of Hindustan, which one is 
 rather inclined to revile until one comes to Persia and 
 learns what the discomforts of real travelling may be. 
 By no means ; but the rooms have doors — which those 
 in other caravanserais sometimes have not — and, 
 having doors, are fairly air-tight and not more pene- 
 trable by draughts than can be checked by a stretched 
 blanket. Sometimes, mirabile dictu, they even contain 
 a table and a chair — carpets or other furnishings of 
 course they never do. This was the case in our manzil 
 for that night, which saved me the trouble of erecting 
 my own camp furniture, except my bed, on which, no 
 long time after the evening meal — for Daniel had 
 promised an early start on the morrow — I got between 
 the folds of my sleeping-bag, with Rags in his accus- 
 tomed position as foot-warmer. 
 
 I awoke the next morning with a sense of sharp 
 cold, to find my servant lighting the fire. A white 
 powdery substance spangled him from head to foot. 
 
 ' Baraf (snow), he grunted laconically. 
 
 I was equally laconic — but the word I said was 
 not baraf — and getting up to the door, looked out. Yes, 
 it was snowing, and snowing hard, too — great fat flakes, 
 following one another fast and furious. They must 
 have started coming early during the night, for the
 
 192 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 whole countryside was white. Down below in the 
 courtyard Daniel was shovelling the snow from off the 
 hood of the phaeton. 
 
 Again I said that short sharp word. Now swearing 
 is a bad habit, chiefly because on the part of the 
 traveller it indicates a want of that philosophic calm 
 which should form part of the equipment of every 
 real wayfarer ; but I had some excuse. 
 
 The first two days out from Meshed, until the town 
 of Kuchan is reached, are over flat country. You then 
 begin to ascend, and go over mountain passes some 
 6000 feet in height. Here snow in winter may rightly 
 be expected, and received by the traveller without 
 strong language. Snow falls from time to time in the 
 low country itself, but if it does so, what must you 
 look forward to over the mountains ? We had started 
 in such fine weather, too. However, it was no good 
 crying over spilt milk, or falling snow, so I made 
 my simple toilet — one does not unrobe excessively for 
 the night when winter travelling in Persia — swallowed 
 my hot cocoa, and after an interval to allow of the 
 diligence being loaded up we started off. 
 
 For the time we made fair progress. The track was 
 comparatively good — the snow had not had time to 
 settle very deep — but towards noon the wind began 
 to rise, and when we stopped at a village khawa-khana 
 for lunch, and to let the diligence catch us up, it was 
 blowing half a blizzard. By the time that the diligence 
 did eventually arrive the storm was in full blast. The 
 satellite who drove the diligence, since his was the 
 slower craft and would be the last to reach port, not 
 unnaturally wished to postpone our sailing until the 
 morrow. My servant, since he was in the same boat
 
 MESHED TO ASKABAD 193 
 
 with the satellite, was of the same opinion. They had 
 words with Daniel, who wished to start immediately. 
 
 Daniel replied in suitable terms, and the three stood, 
 a comic sight enough, in the falling snow, shouting and 
 gesticulating in true Persian style. I, snugly ensconced 
 in the khawa-khana, took no part in the war. The 
 storm was self-evident, the night was not too far off. 
 On the other hand, Daniel presumably knew his own 
 business, and in any case, completely ignorant of local 
 conditions, distances, and the like, I was in no position 
 to give an opinion. 
 
 The words of Daniel finally prevailed, and we took 
 the road again. Once free of the shelter of the village, 
 we met the abandoned fury of the blizzard, and were 
 enveloped in a white, dense veil, as it were, which 
 effectually limited our vision to a circle of some fifty 
 yards. The cold was intense, and in spite of high fur- 
 lined boots, fur-lined overcoat, two waistcoats, a thick 
 tweed suit, as well as many rugs and wraps, I was soon 
 uncomfortably near freezing-point. All signs of a 
 track had by now been obliterated, and we had only 
 the telegraph line to guide us. This latter, it was 
 true, showed the general direction to Kuchan, but 
 by no means necessarily followed the road faithfully 
 the whole way. Hither and thither we turned, seek- 
 ing the track, sometimes on firm ground, some- 
 times engulfed axle-high in a drift. Daniel shouted 
 encouragements, the horses plunged and strained, the 
 wind moaned, the snow swirled. Every minute brought 
 us nearer to darkness ; every minute the snow seemed 
 deeper, more impenetrable. The unpleasant prospect 
 of a night in the blizzard loomed large. 
 
 Then from somewhere beyond the white veil which
 
 i 9 4 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 hemmed us in came the cries of human voices. We 
 were not the only travellers in difficulties, it would 
 appear, and presently we came upon another carriage 
 in the same plight as ourselves. Company in mis- 
 fortune — even if it be company which can afford no 
 relief — is always cheering, and I think we were mutually 
 glad to see each other. The drivers exchanged saluta- 
 tions, the horses whinnied, only the passengers remained 
 unseen in the recesses of their vehicles, and who the 
 other snow-bound traveller was I do not know to this 
 day. 
 
 In the meantime the encounter was decidedly to 
 their advantage, as our animals were the fresher, and 
 so led the procession to break the trail. On we went 
 as before, only even slower, as the horses wearied. 
 Often we made prolonged halts to rest them, and to 
 enable Daniel — standing up on the box— to scan the 
 surrounding haze, which was gradually turning to a 
 darker tinge. The day had passed ; night was upon us. 
 
 But at the same time the blizzard capriciously 
 cleared, and scrambling over the top of a little rise 
 we saw beneath us a black irregular mass, with 
 twinkling lights here and there. It was Kuchan, 
 and presently we were driving through its streets. 
 
 Daniel— as I impressed on him later in Askabad, 
 to the accompaniment of a reduced tip— did not care 
 as well for his passengers as he did for himself or his 
 horses. His one idea on reaching a manzil was to have 
 his horses well stabled — a very laudable idea too in 
 itself — and himself comfortably housed. As for me, 
 I could shift for myself, for all Mr. D. troubled. Here 
 for instance in Kuchan, though better places must 
 have been known to him, he dumped me down in a
 
 MESHED TO ASKABAD 195 
 
 caravanserai which had only one room left unoccu- 
 pied. After I had seen the room I understood also 
 why it was vacant. It was not merely dirty, but 
 filthy, half in ruins, and with a crazy door which 
 might obstruct the light but certainly not the winter 
 winds. 
 
 A certain amount of wayfaring in the East has not 
 left me squeamish when it comes to rough quarters, 
 and I might have made a shift to occupy a corner of 
 the pigsty if it had only been for the one night. But 
 Daniel, before betaking himself off, had muttered 
 something about a stay in town until the weather 
 bettered, and an indefinite sojourn in that ' black hole ' 
 was more than I could face. 
 
 I was standing thus in a gloomy quandary when 
 suddenly a fairy godmother, in the shape of a little old 
 Russian woman, appeared. In Kuchan, as in Meshed, 
 besides Russian troops there is a small Russian colony. 
 She knew a little Persian, on which she fell back when 
 she found that I knew no Russian, and with this — eked 
 out by signs — she gave me to understand that she 
 knew of a mehman-khana (hotel), whither she would 
 take me. 
 
 ' Lead, and I follow,' said I joyfully, or words to 
 that effect, and after a five minutes' tramp we reached 
 the mehman-khana. It was not exactly what would be 
 called an hotel in England, or even in India. How- 
 ever, they could give me a room, with a bed, a carpet, 
 and a stove in it, which, after the black hole of the 
 serai, seemed an apartment fit for a king. As for 
 the little old woman, while I was talking to the 
 proprietor of the mehman-khana she disappeared as 
 suddenly as she had come. I never saw her afterwards
 
 196 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 about the hotel premises, so presumably she was 
 unconnected with its management, and must have 
 done what she did from simple pity for a forlorn 
 traveller. Bless her ! May she prosper in Kuchan 
 and live to return to her own country ! 
 
 But with all this, where was the diligence ? Where 
 indeed ? It had not entered the town with us, and 
 had been last seen at the village of the mid-day halt. 
 About two hours after arrival, having thawed and 
 eaten, I waded — the snow was almost knee-deep in 
 the streets — up to the serai. There I found Daniel 
 at dinner with some Russian friends, in snug quarters 
 which were very different from the rest of the building. 
 No ! The diligence had not yet arrived. Perhaps 
 they had gone back to the village, finding the road 
 too bad. We could do nothing now but wait till the 
 morning. This was true enough, so I went back to 
 the mehman-khana, saw to it that there was a good 
 fire in the stove, and went to bed just as I was, 
 except for boots, all my impedimenta being with the 
 diligence. 
 
 The diligence arrived the next day at about n a.m., 
 just when I was becoming somewhat anxious as to its 
 fate and Daniel was organising a search party to go and 
 look for it. My servant was very sorry for himself, and 
 spun me a long tale of woe. It appeared that with 
 great difficulty they had followed us a short way, and 
 then, seeing the hopelessness of the attempt, had 
 turned back, and after many hours' struggling had 
 reached the village from which they started long after 
 nightfall. This morning they had again set out at 
 dawn, and by dint of incredible exertions and extra 
 horses borrowed for the occasion had just managed
 
 & i 
 
 
 
 PERSIAN GUARDS
 
 MESHED TO ASKABAD 197 
 
 to make the passage. He, my servant, had nearly 
 died from cold. Sitting on the top of my luggage in 
 the diligence was certainly an exposed position. 
 
 All that night it snowed, and on the morrow, sure 
 enough, though the gale had ceased, there was trouble 
 about setting sail, for on going to the caravanserai 
 early I found Daniel and his satellite engaged in a 
 fierce argument — to start or not to start being the 
 subject of the debate. The satellite, as skipper of 
 the slower craft, pointed out — justly enough — that, 
 though the phaeton might win through, the diligence 
 might very well not, and he'd be d — d if he'd spend 
 another night wandering about in the snow. One 
 experience of that sort was quite enough ! At least 
 that appeared to be the gist of his remarks when 
 considerably compressed and put into very bad 
 Persian for my benefit by Daniel, the original being 
 in Russian. My servant, as a diligence passenger, sup- 
 ported the satellite. Daniel himself, being paid by 
 me for the trip, and not by the day, was naturally 
 anxious to get it over as soon as possible. Thus 
 they strove, and the caravanserai was filled with their 
 clamour. 
 
 I, as on the former occasion, remained neutral, 
 and for precisely the same reasons. So, telling them 
 to let me know when the decision of the court should 
 have been arrived at, I plodded my way back to the 
 mehman-khana and my warm stove. Presently my 
 servant appeared and gloomily announced that the 
 vehicles were at the door ready to load up and start. 
 He added that Daniel had carried the day by treating 
 the satellite to unlimited vodka, and that the latter 
 was now ready to go anywhere and do anything.
 
 198 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 At length we were off, and this time carrying an 
 extra passenger. The owner of the mehman-khana, 
 a Russian, had a friend, also a Russian, returning to 
 his native city of Tiflis ; would I be so very kind as to 
 let him have a seat on my diligence as far as Askabad ? 
 The friend appeared a pleasant-looking individual, 
 the management had been civil and obliging, and one 
 more would make no difference to the diligence, in 
 fact might be useful if it came to digging it out of a 
 snowdrift. So I assented, and the man from Tiflis — 
 as I dubbed him — became one of our party ; and if 
 in truth he owed any return for the lift, he more than 
 repaid it by the amusement he afforded me. 
 
 For this cross-country journey, which had appeared 
 to me to call for the roughest of homely attire, he had 
 arrayed himself in a decidedly smart blue suit, while 
 over his boots were a pair of highly polished goloshes, 
 putting to shame my ancient 'rubbers.' On his head 
 was perched a stylish green Homburg, with the bow 
 fashionably set behind— the effect of this headgear, 
 however, being somewhat spoilt by a woollen muffler 
 which passed round his chin and over the top of the 
 hat. From out of the muffler looked forth a mild, 
 middle-aged face. His baggage consisted of a single 
 bundle, carried in his hand. Thus he proposed to 
 live, move, and have his being until he reached the 
 far-distant city of Tiflis. Whenever my eye caught 
 his, something comical in his appearance irrepres- 
 sibly tickled my fancy, and I would smile, while he in 
 his turn — scenting some unknown jest — would grin 
 amicably back. 
 
 If the snow lay deep in the town, it was still deeper 
 outside, and when I saw the unbroken white expanse
 
 MESHED TO ASKABAD 199 
 
 stretching away on every side, and when we resumed 
 our old tactics of plunging hither and thither seeking 
 for the track, our chance of making the next manzil 
 seemed to be so hopeless that I was within an ace of 
 suggesting to Daniel the advisability of our turning 
 back while we could. However, Daniel had set out 
 on his own responsibility, and on his own responsi- 
 bility he could continue — so I decided — if he thought 
 fit. He continued to think fit, and notwithstanding 
 protests from the unhappy satellite, in whom doubtless 
 the vodka was now growing cold, held doggedly on. 
 And the event proved that he was right. After some 
 two hours' heavy going, the track showed up faintly 
 in places through the snow, and we could proceed — 
 also in places — at a slow trot. Thus, walking and 
 trotting, we reached the manzil shortly before sunset. 
 We were now four days out from Meshed, and under 
 ordinary circumstances should have been sleeping at 
 Askabad. As it was, with the mountains still to cross, 
 Askabad was goodness only knew how many days 
 distant. Next day we were early on the road, but 
 there were others before us. The fine weather — the 
 day was bright, with a clear sky — had set free the 
 stream of traffic dammed by the previous snowy days, 
 and all the Life of the Road was in motion. Long lines 
 of camels, droves of mules and donkeys, fourgons and 
 diligences, impeded our progress, until at length we 
 reached a spot where was a block which would not have 
 disgraced Piccadilly. The track here wound in sharp 
 S turns down a steep hillside, and was scarcely wide 
 enough to allow two laden camels to pass abreast. 
 There must have been some five hundred animals, 
 with perhaps a hundred carts, arrived from opposite
 
 200 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 directions, all jammed together and disputing the 
 right of way. And far out on the plains were other 
 black specks, representing other caravans, coming 
 up to add to the hurly-burly. 
 
 We were at the tail of one end of the block, and, 
 any immediate advance being impossible, Rags and I 
 alighted and descended the hill on foot. It was an 
 amusing medley that we passed, and well worth the 
 walk. Here were two opposing camel caravans push- 
 ing and shoving, the while their masters bickered 
 fiercely, burning each other's fathers with the greatest 
 energy. 1 Here a weaker camel had gone to the wall, 
 or rather over the edge of the road, and lay helpless 
 in the snow until he should be dug out. There was 
 a line of mules. There again was an overturned 
 fourgon, its bales strewn broadcast. 
 
 One little wayside comedy I noticed which especi- 
 ally took my attention. 
 
 At a turn in the road the drivers of some blocked 
 fourgons — rough, somewhat scoundrelly looking Turko- 
 mans^ — were collected in a group, chatting, and now 
 and then indulging in rough horse-play among them- 
 selves. Presently passed a line of camels, and on the 
 rearmost a bucket loosely tied. The eyes of the 
 nearest Turkoman lit up. In a twinkling he had un- 
 tied the bucket and thrown it across to a companion, 
 who as quickly concealed it in the nearest fourgon. 
 Scarcely had this been effected when back came the 
 camel-man, searching for his bucket, and who so 
 innocent as those rascally drivers ? 
 
 1 In Persia you do not consign a man to Hades, but politely 
 insinuate that his father is already grilling there, " son of a burnt 
 father " being the correct expression to use.
 
 MESHED TO ASKABAD 201 
 
 They had a bucket, it is true, but it was their own 
 and. they showed it to him. He however knew very 
 well who the pilferers were, and began shrill expostula- 
 tions, whereupon the burliest of the knaves seized him 
 round the waist, and put him on his back in the snow. 
 He rose slowly and moved off, followed by the ribald 
 jeers of the Turkomans. Doubtless he did wisely — the 
 next time the grip of the Turkoman around his ribs 
 might not have been so light. 
 
 In India, where the word of a sahib goes for a good 
 deal, I would have interfered on his behalf, but in Persia 
 — which is emphatically not India — one must choose 
 one's times and seasons for putting one's fingers into 
 other people's pies ; and the present I did not judge 
 an expedient one so to do. 
 
 And in any case the camel-man ought to have 
 known that on a Persian road there is only one law 
 of life : 
 
 The good old rule, the ancient plan, 
 That he shall hold who has the power, 
 And he shall take who can. 
 
 And knowing this ought to have taken greater 
 care of his property. 
 
 On going back to my carriages I found a state 
 of affairs which speedily drove all thoughts of other 
 people's misfortunes out of my head. 
 
 Daniel, impatient of delay, had endeavoured to 
 cut off the bend of an S turn by dropping straight 
 down the side of the hill from road to road. If success- 
 ful, this enterprising manoeuvre would undoubtedly 
 have gained us much time by putting us in front of 
 a large portion of the ' block.' Unfortunately the
 
 202 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 plan did not succeed, and left both vehicles stuck 
 firmly in a drift about one hundred yards short of the 
 lower track, from which Daniel and Co. were now 
 busily engaged in trying to extricate them. 
 
 But it was no easy task. The snow was deep, 
 topping the carriage wheels, and deeper still in front, 
 and for a long time all efforts failed, notwithstanding 
 that they were concentrated on one vehicle at a time 
 — the phaeton first, two of the diligence's horses being 
 harnessed to it as well as its own. But with all this 
 extra aid, the poor beasts could only strain vainly, 
 time after time, under the scourge of Daniel's whip. 
 
 In this affair the man from Tiflis did yeoman ser- 
 vice. His duty it was to scout ahead and pick out 
 the best trail. This he did valiantly, Homburg hat, 
 polished goloshes and all. Once he disappeared up to 
 his shoulders, and only extricated himself with con- 
 siderable difficulty. After this he came up to me to 
 take breath, smiling sadly, as much as to say this was 
 a bad business, and exhibiting a right foot from which 
 the golosh was missing. Then he once more plunged 
 into the fray. 
 
 As for me, I considered there were quite enough 
 cooks at the broth without my interference ; so, having 
 waded to the phaeton and taken out a rug and the 
 luncheon basket, and waded back again to firm ground, 
 I sat in the sun with Rags, ate, smoked, and thanked 
 my stars that it was a fine day and not blowing a 
 blizzard. 
 
 The block slowly dissolved ; camels, mules, and 
 fourgons went their respective ways ; and at length 
 we were left alone on the hillside. 
 
 More time passed away, and still our carriages
 
 MESHED TO ASKABAD 203 
 
 remained embedded to all appearances as firm as the 
 rock of Gibraltar. At length I could see that a last 
 forlorn hope was being organised. All seven horses of 
 the two carriages, by a cunning arrangement of straps 
 and traces which took nearly half an hour to arrange, 
 were harnessed to the phaeton, the satellite and my 
 servant put their shoulders to its rear, and at a crack 
 from Daniel 's whip men and horses made a great final 
 effort. The phaeton moved reluctantly, then stopped ; 
 but as the whip fell mercilessly and as the maddened 
 team plunged desperately forward, it moved again — ■ 
 though with a tantalising slowness. A leader slipped 
 and fell, but recovered his footing miraculously without 
 checking his trace-mates. Then the drift was through, 
 and the wheels of the phaeton were spinning fast, 
 and under them the snow was spurting up like spray, 
 and the men were shouting, and the horses cantering, 
 and the man from Tiflis was running in front like Elijah 
 before the chariot, and the road was reached. 
 
 But the diligence still remained unretrieved — a 
 heavier vehicle too, though it would have the ad- 
 vantage of the phaeton's broken trail. So when the 
 sweating, quivering horses had been given a rest — and 
 they needed it, poor beasts — all seven were again har- 
 nessed, and once more the men shouted and shoved, 
 and the horses strained and stumbled, and the man 
 from Tiflis ran ahead, and for a second time success was 
 achieved. But at the cost of many valuable hours. 
 We had arrived at the block at nine. As we drove off 
 I looked at my watch. It was now half-past one. 
 That day, as may be expected, our stage was not a 
 long one. 
 
 The next we were to cross the Russian frontier, and
 
 204 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 as a preliminary to pass the Persian Customs. But 
 this latter did not prove formidable. A little polite- 
 ness, a lifted hat, a shake of the hand, goes very far 
 with the courteous Persian. If to politeness a fiesh- 
 kush (present) be added every now and then, the 
 traveller's path will as a rule be smooth enough. 
 
 Twenty minutes later we reached a little post 
 perched on the top of a hill. Some Russian soldiers 
 lounged round the door. A Russian sentry paced to 
 and fro with fixed bayonet. The phaeton stopped. 
 An officer came forward, examined my passport, and 
 returned it with a polite bow. We drove on again, 
 and I was in Russia. 
 
 The Russian Customs, situated about a mile on the 
 other side of the frontier, were not so amenable as 
 the Persian. Every box was opened, one or two were 
 probed to the bottom. At length, however, all official 
 righteousness being fulfilled, we were permitted to 
 depart, and making a forced march — or rather drive — 
 reached Askabad at about ten o 'clock that night.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 ASKABAD TO TEHERAN VIA THE CASPIAN SEA 
 
 At Askabad I went, of course, like all travellers — 
 
 who know not Russian — to Madame R 's hotel. I 
 
 say of course, because if he knows not Russian the 
 foreign traveller is as much at a loss in Askabad as 
 though he were cast away among the natives of 
 Patagonia. 
 
 There is a very prevalent idea that the Russian 
 is a great linguist, that every educated Russian, for 
 example, knows French. But this, as a matter of cold 
 fact, is a fallacy. The cosmopolitan Russian, who is 
 as much at home in Monte Carlo or London as in 
 Petrograd, does speak with tongues. High officials, 
 whether military or civil, as a matter of course know 
 French and German. So do business men whose 
 work compels a knowledge of these languages. But 
 the lower official, and the civilian of the same stand- 
 ing, probably speak only their mother- tongue. 
 
 This being so, Madame R , who is French, was 
 
 to me in truth a friend in need. Seven years here and 
 there in the East — though it had given me a little 
 knowledge of Eastern tongues — had rusted my French 
 considerably ; still enough remained, however, to ex- 
 plain myself for the common needs and necessaries 
 
 of life. But not only did Madame R act as 
 
 205
 
 206 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 interpreter, but also took me out shopping, showed 
 me the sights, and finally saw me off at the station — 
 of which more anon. 
 
 But of sights, indeed, Askabad — except for the 
 temple of the Babis — is void. 
 
 A very fair comparison for it — as indeed for most 
 features of Russian Central Asia — is to turn to its 
 equivalent in India, where the same conditions — a 
 European Power ruling over a large Eastern empire — 
 to a great extent exist. And in this comparison Aska- 
 bad — like nearly all the other towns of Russian Tur- 
 kistan — resembles an Indian cantonment — Lahore, for 
 example, with its military quarter and its native city 
 each separate from the other. The cantonment is laid 
 out in broad streets, flanked for the most part by one- 
 storied bungalows — like its Indian prototype — and con- 
 taining several good shops. As befitting its position of 
 administrative centre to the province of Transcaspia 
 it covers a large extent of ground. The military ele- 
 ment pervades it ; the whole of Russian Central Asia 
 is more or less under military government, and nine 
 out of ten of the men met with seem to be in 
 uniform. 
 
 The Babist temple is on the outskirts of the can- 
 tonment, and to me, who am blissfully ignorant of the 
 ethics of architecture, it seemed a singularly beautiful 
 place of worship. It was not quite finished, but enough 
 was completed to show that it must have cost an im- 
 mense amount of money ; so immense that it gives one 
 quite a new idea of the numbers and wealth of the sect 
 which can subscribe such funds. At the same time 
 Askabad, being tucked away in a corner of Asia, so to 
 speak, and hardly on the high road to anywhere in
 
 ASKABAD TO TEHERAN 207 
 
 particular, does not seem a very suitable spot for the 
 Mecca of the Babi sect, which in truth it is meant to be. 
 Persia itself — where the Babis have endured, and en- 
 dured heroically too, the most terrible persecutions — is 
 out of the question. But if they wished for a place as 
 near as possible to the country from which their religion 
 sprang, some such headquarters as Baku, on the main 
 route from Europe to Teheran, would have seemed 
 more central. 
 
 The most interesting side to the native city — 
 which contains nothing at all remarkable in the way of 
 buildings, secular or religious — is that which usually 
 attracts the traveller's notice in most Oriental cities, 
 the crowd. For here one can see all the Central Asian 
 types, besides stray individuals from the neighbouring 
 countries of Persia, Afghanistan, and China. 
 
 I had arrived at Askabad on a Thursday, and 
 proposed leaving by the Krasnavodsk express at 10.30 
 on Friday night. The first thing to be done prepara- 
 tory to starting was to retrieve my passport from the 
 police, to whom it had been entrusted by Madame 
 
 R ; every hotel- keeper in Russia, on the arrival of a 
 
 traveller, being bound to send his passport immediately 
 to the local police office. There it is kept until its owner 
 intimates that he is leaving for elsewhere — destination 
 to be strictly specified; and as no one can travel in 
 Russia without a passport, the traveller's movements 
 are thus carefully watched, and even regulated at 
 times. In addition to the ordinary passport special 
 permission is required before a foreigner can use the 
 Transcaspian Railway. However, as I had already pro- 
 cured this before leaving Meshed, when in due course 
 my passport came back to me, I was free to depart.
 
 208 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 Madame R and I drove down to the station, not 
 
 in one, but in three droschkis— that is to say, Madame 
 R — — , Rags, and myself occupied one, and my ser- 
 vant and my luggage the remaining two. The droschkis 
 are ridiculously small phaetons utterly unsuitable for 
 luggage, but as there are no other species of vehicles 
 available one is forced to employ them in large numbers, 
 to the great benefit of their drivers. 
 
 Askabad may resemble an Indian cantonment, but 
 its railway station is very different from that of the 
 latter. You, if you have travelled in India, know 
 what a night departure from one is like. As your 
 vehicle stops before the station a horde of vociferat- 
 ing coolies precipitate themselves upon your goods and 
 chattels, and bear them away. Following them you 
 find yourself upon the platform, where recumbent, 
 sleeping figures are extended, waiting for the train to 
 arrive. Itinerant vendors of sweetmeats, of chupatties 
 and curries, and of other native delicacies, hawk their 
 wares up and down with raucous voices. A few Euro- 
 peans — all in ' mufti ' — are scattered here and there, 
 surrounded by piles of luggage. Presently the train 
 comes in, the recumbent figures arise and — making 
 common cause with the hawkers in rendering the night 
 hideous with screams and cries — scuffle for places in 
 the crowded carriages, and pandemonium reigns su- 
 preme. Yet it is an orderly pandemonium. The few 
 policemen moving unobtrusively up and down handle 
 the crowd admirably. There are no fights, no ' regret- 
 table incidents, ' and before the last whistle of the guard 
 shrills everyone has found a place, and the engine puffs 
 away again into the night. You realise that you are 
 travelling under a Government which, for good or ill,
 
 ASKABAD TO TEHERAN 209 
 
 interferes as little as possible with the life of those 
 under its charge. 
 
 Some such scene as this I had expected at Askabad. 
 But the reality was far different. 
 
 To begin with, instead of the vociferating coolies, 
 three quiet uniformed Russian porters took firm 
 possession of my baggage and bore it away, while 
 
 Madame R and I proceeded to the waiting-room. 
 
 This was also the salle-a-manger, and a bookstall 
 occupied one corner. The room was filled by a crowd 
 of travellers, or friends seeing them off. The men 
 seemed to be officers, and all wore uniform, the ladies 
 furs. 
 
 No railway waiting-room is a place of joy and 
 abandon, but the atmosphere of this particular waiting- 
 room seemed to be more than ordinarily frosty. A 
 friend with some experience of Russia once said to me, 
 apropos of the subdued air which — he said — hung over 
 Russian society, that ' they always seemed to be wait- 
 ing for something to happen.' From my own small 
 personal experience I am unable to say whether this 
 is a correct description or not, but the phrase has stuck 
 in my memory, and it certainly seemed to fit the present 
 company. Though what they were in expectation for 
 was not apparent, unless indeed it was the express 
 which presently steamed in, when we all streamed out 
 on to the platform. 
 
 Among the minor interests of travel is the coming 
 to cross-roads, whose finger-posts have alluring destina- 
 tions inscribed upon them. Your own road goes 
 straight on, but that does not prevent you from 
 following the others in imagination. Here, for instance, 
 was a commonplace twentieth-century machine straight
 
 210 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 from such epitomes of romance as Bokhara and Samar- 
 kand. Now my path — and my passport — pointed west- 
 wards, but perhaps some day I might return, my face 
 turned eastwards, and visit these ancient cities. . . . 
 
 ' If you wish to see the people of India,' says a very 
 famous writer, ' go to the railway stations,' and by the 
 same analogy I had expected to see the people of Trans- 
 caspia on the platform of Askabad. But whether the 
 Central Asian does not travel by express, or whether he 
 has not the same love of movement as the Indian, I do 
 not know. This I do know, that there were no third- 
 class passengers to be seen on the platform, and only 
 official Russia— and his wife— were to be seen bustling 
 to and fro beneath the electric lights. 
 
 At the last moment I went near to missing the train. 
 
 For Rags — acting on Madame R 's advice — I had 
 
 taken no ticket. Dogs in Russia travel as baggage, and 
 
 if I purchased a ticket, so said Madame R , they 
 
 would put Rags in the luggage-van— the Muscovite 
 knows not dog-boxes — where doubtless he would be 
 supremely uncomfortable. On the other hand, I could 
 smuggle him into the carriage with me, and if the inspec- 
 tor were to say anything— ' Une rouble, vous savez.' . . . 
 To me this seemed a reckless proceeding, and I had 
 visions of Rags and his master being led away to Siberia 
 
 in chains. However, I gave way to Madame R 's 
 
 superior experience, and endeavoured to hide away 
 Rags unostentatiously behind my valise. Unfortun- 
 ately there was no evading the eagle eye of the inspec- 
 tor, and so magnificent a creature, in gorgeous uniform, 
 with flowing moustaches and whiskers, was he, that I 
 quailed at approaching him with bribery and corrup- 
 tion. So there was nothing for it but to get out on to
 
 ASKABAD TO TEHERAN 211 
 
 the platform again and procure the necessary ticket, 
 though the first bell — on the third the train departs — 
 
 had already sounded. Assisted by Madame R I 
 
 made the necessary purchase, and got back to my 
 carriage just in time. The autocrat of the hirsute 
 appendages was placated by this display of zeal to 
 the extent of allowing Rags to remain in the carriage, 
 so all was well. Half a minute later the third bell 
 rang out and the train started. 
 
 I travelled second-class. In Russia one always 
 does apparently, unless one happens to be a person of 
 exalted rank, and I found my carriage a very comfort- 
 able one — much more so than the similar article sup- 
 plied on the Indian railways. It was a coupe, which I 
 had to myself as the train was empty, so my place- 
 carte — entitling me to full and undivided possession of 
 my berth — was an unnecessary expense. But though 
 comfortable, it was most oppressively hot and stuffy, 
 rendered so by a complicated system of boiling hot- 
 water pipes. The Englishman keeps warm by taking 
 exercise, the Chinaman by putting on more clothes, as 
 the old saying runs, and the Russian one might add, 
 both by means of extra apparel and by Turkish bath 
 atmospheres. On the inner of the two windows — 
 double windows are common throughout all Russia 
 to keep out the intense cold — was the usual sash. I 
 pulled at this without avail until the perspiration stood 
 out on my forehead, when a grunt behind caused me to 
 look round. A train official, not he of the whiskers, 
 was eyeing me askance and shaking his head. Still 
 grunting and shaking his head he stalked away. Evi- 
 dently, I thought, I had broken one of the many 
 million of Russian bye-laws, the more so as in about
 
 212 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 five minutes the first official came back with a second. 
 I was in the process of wondering what the penalty 
 might be for ' a desperate attempt at window-opening, ' 
 when the second official produced a long stick and un- 
 screwed a ventilator at the top of the carriage. It was 
 seemingly too great a responsibility for the passenger 
 to be able to open a ventilator himself. Afterwards 
 I examined the window. It was hermetically sealed, 
 and no amount of pulling on the false sash could have 
 opened it. There were no risks of fresh-air on the 
 Krasnavodsk express ! 
 
 But even with the ventilator open it was still very 
 oppressive, and I lay in my berth and ' sweated ' — 
 there is no other word for it — much as I have sweated 
 in the Punjab at the beginning of the hot weather. 
 And the season of my journey, you must remember, 
 was winter, with fresh snow lying in the streets of 
 Askabad. 
 
 Later — having shown my passport and ticket — I 
 was left to slumber in peace. 
 
 Next morning we were far out on the desert which 
 separates the Turkoman country — of which Askabad 
 is roughly the western limit — from the Caspian Sea, 
 and the desolate landscape stretched away unbroken 
 on either hand, terminating on the south in some far- 
 off mountains. 
 
 But though the line traversed so featureless a 
 country, from a historical point of view it was interest- 
 ing enough, for in its day it had made history — grim 
 and bloody history too at that. Just as Lord Kitchener 
 used a railway to subdue the Sudan, so Skobeleff — 
 many years previously — had built the Transcaspian 
 line to do likewise by the Turkoman. Doubtless the
 
 ASKABAD TO TEHERAN 213 
 
 former plan of campaign was inspired by a knowledge 
 of the latter. The Turkomans— as everybody knows — 
 were finally crushed in the action of Geok Teppe. 
 Geok Teppe is now a little wayside station on the rail- 
 way, and as a soldier myself I should have liked to 
 catch a glimpse of the scene of a great commander's 
 exploit. Unfortunately we passed it in the night, so 
 this was impossible. 
 
 There was an excellent buffet on the train, with a 
 menu the length of my arm to choose from, but written 
 all in Russian. However, drawing a bow at a venture, 
 and pointing to two items at hazard, I made a dejeuner 
 of some soup and a roast of sorts, washed down by 
 a bottle of light beer, a repast which was as superior 
 to the chicken-fried, chicken-curry, chicken-this, and 
 chicken-that fare on the ordinary Indian dining-car 
 as the smooth running of the Russian express was to 
 the rackety progress of the Indian train. 
 
 To put the matter shortly, there is not a line in 
 India which, in all-round comfort for the traveller, 
 can — save for a little over-heating — compare with the 
 Transcaspian Railway. This may be sad, but it is 
 certainly true. 
 
 We arrived at Krasnavodsk at 3 p.m., and two 
 hours later — with my passport again examined, and 
 with my baggage and Rags safely stowed away in my 
 cabin — I stood on the deck of the Baku-bound boat as 
 she threshed her way out to the open sea, with the 
 threat of a stormy night lowering in the heavens. 
 
 I am not an enthusiastic sailor, for one reason, 
 that when the sea gets up, I am forced — on account of 
 urgent private affairs — to go below. Therefore I prefer 
 my travels to be upon dry land. But at the same time
 
 214 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 the sea is so engraved upon the very souls of us — the 
 English — that there are probably few Englishmen who 
 can meet her after long separation without some sort 
 of emotion. And more, to the exile in the East, the 
 sea means the return from his exile. 
 
 Could the winds blow me back 
 Or the waves hurl me home ? 
 
 Not those of the Caspian at any rate, but nevertheless 
 it did not need much imagination to change that over- 
 grown lake into the wide waters of the Indian Ocean, 
 or that little paddle-steamer into a lordly twin-screw 
 P. and O., or the twinkling pin-points of Krasnavodsk — 
 now coming out from the gathering dusk — to what 
 some cynic has said to be the best sight in Asia, ' the 
 Bombay lights astern. . . . 
 
 A flat sea over-hung by slight haze, a line of ship- 
 ping with the white smoke from the funnels ascending 
 steadily in the still air ; behind, a town climbing to low 
 snow-streaked hills — Baku ; and the time — early on the 
 following day. 
 
 Here also I found a sign-post for a journey in 
 imagination ; to wit, the oil-boats lined along the 
 jetties waiting for the Volga ice to loosen that they 
 might begin their long up-river trip. . . . 
 
 Andre met me on the pier. Andre belongs to the 
 
 Hotel d'E , and is to Baku what Madame R 
 
 is to Askabad, for in Baku likewise few know any other 
 tongue but Russian, and the stranger finds himself at a 
 
 loss. Like Madame R , Andre is obliging. Not 
 
 only does he pass your baggage through the Customs 
 and take your passport to the police, but he will also 
 show you your shops, and your bank for the cashing of
 
 ASKABAD TO TEHERAN 215 
 
 your letter of credit. Under his auspices — for I was 
 now approaching the capital of Persia, and my clothes 
 bore the travel-stains of an overland journey of some- 
 thing under fifteen hundred miles — I purchased various 
 articles of apparel, among others a hat — a Homburg of 
 a delicate shade in green — and an overcoat. The shop- 
 man produced two of the latter, of which my choice — 
 if not my taste — inclined towards the cheaper. ' But, 
 Monsieur,' expostulated Andre\ ' the other suits your 
 hat so much better ! ' I felt I was in the presence of an 
 artist, of one who had inherited the spirit if not the 
 body — for Andre is short and fat — of the late lamented 
 Beau Brummell, and submitted to the dictum — at the 
 expense of my pocket. 
 
 Baku — like many towns in Asiatic Russia — is 
 subject to periodical outbursts of anarchy. Its popu- 
 lation is largely made up of Tartars and Armenians, 
 which combination is about as conducive to peace and 
 quiet as that of cat and dog. Some years ago a general 
 feeling of unrest all through the Caucasus, the Persian 
 revolution, disturbances throughout Russia-in-Europe, 
 and various other causes, led to a particularly bad 
 outbreak of lawlessness in Baku, which began by a 
 general massacre of the Armenians by the Tartars. 
 The former, however, were by no means prepared to 
 submit tamely to such treatment, and some months 
 later — having successfully ' run ' through numerous 
 consignments of arms — turned on their oppressors and 
 took their revenge. 
 
 The state of the town while these operations were in 
 progress, and afterwards while the embers of anarchy 
 were still glowing, may be gathered from the following 
 incidents.
 
 216 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 A friend of mine in Baku happened to be taking a 
 morning promenade, when two carriages passed — one 
 carrying Armenians, the other Tartars. Without a 
 word exchanged the occupants pulled out their pistols, 
 and opened fire on each other, pop — pop — pop, all the 
 way down the street. Two policemen standing at the 
 corner, with military precision knelt down, faced out- 
 wards, and opened fire — in their turn — one on the 
 Armenians, the other on the Tartars. The passers-by 
 took cover in adjacent doorways during the fusillade, 
 in which, strange to say, none of them were hit, the 
 innocent bystander — as a rule — suffering more in 
 affairs of this sort than the combatants themselves. 
 Then the carriages passed out of sight, the policemen 
 resumed their beat, the passers-by came out of their 
 shelters, the traffic went its way. No further notice 
 was taken of the matter. In the eyes of Baku it was 
 quite an everyday occurrence. 
 
 Incident No. 2. Another friend of mine — a lady, as 
 
 it happens — was staying at the Hotel d'E while 
 
 passing through on her way to England. In the night 
 she was awakened by some shots, which sounded as if 
 they had been fired outside her door. Concluding that 
 this was impossible, and that the firing had in reality 
 occurred in the street outside, and being a traveller of 
 some little experience and the possessor of strong nerves, 
 she turned over and went to sleep again. Next morning, 
 however, revealed the fact that the shots had been 
 discharged outside her door. During the night some 
 desperadoes had entered the hotel, had shot dead 
 the concierge who attempted to withstand them, and 
 then decamped. 
 
 Remembering these and other events of a like
 
 ASKABAD TO TEHERAN 217 
 
 nature, I expected to see some exciting scenes in Baku — 
 from a safe distance, bien entendu. However, my visit 
 found the city on its best behaviour. A state of law 
 and order prevailed, and had prevailed for some time, 
 which would not have disgraced London. Signs, how- 
 ever, there still were that the good old times might 
 some day return. The policemen in the streets had 
 Mauser pistols strapped round their waists; in the 
 Russian-Asiatic bank two policemen were seated near 
 the cashier's desk, with loaded weapons across their 
 knees ; and in the entrance of the same building a 
 notice was still prominent, that clients entering the 
 bank armed were liable to be shot on sight ! 
 
 I arrived in Baku on Sunday morning. The Baku- 
 Enzeli boat did not leave until Tuesday evening. I 
 thus had some time on my hands, part of which I 
 used in looking round for a fellow-traveller, or fellow- 
 travellers, who might share the expenses of the Resht- 
 Teheran trip, which are by no means light. The 
 means of progression is by carriage, which costs you 
 about £12. Then for your luggage — if you have any 
 appreciable amount — you must have another carriage 
 or wagon, which costs £10. Total, £22 for a journey 
 of forty-eight hours. 
 
 I was very fortunate in finding in the hotel a Swedish 
 
 officer, Captain P , proceeding to Teheran to join 
 
 the Swedish Gendarmerie, and we accordingly agreed to 
 travel together. A third offered himself in the person 
 
 of Monsieur F , a Frenchman who was proceeding 
 
 towards Teheran to open an hotel. F informed us 
 
 that he was held up at Baku waiting for money. Per- 
 haps P and myself might consider the plan of 
 
 paying half expenses each from Resht onwards, and
 
 218 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 allowing him (F ) a seat in our carriage. On arrival 
 
 at Teheran, where he had funds, he would pay his 
 share of a third seat. 
 
 In money matters one has to be cautious with 
 casual hotel acquaintances. The confidence trick has 
 
 many and specious disguises. But in any case P 
 
 and myself would have to pay half shares, and, should 
 Monsieur default, would only be ' done ' to the extent 
 of giving him a free passage. These considerations, 
 and a prejudice in favour of F — ■ — 's personal appear- 
 ance — which after all is the best letter of credit a 
 man can carry — clinched the bargain. So the three 
 of us, a Swedish officer, a British traveller, and a 
 French mditre-d 'hotel, set out for Teheran. It was a 
 queer combination, but it is in the rubbing shoulders 
 with all sorts and conditions of one's fellow-men that 
 half the fascination of travel lies. 
 
 I need hardly add that Monsieur F was true 
 
 to his word, and that on arrival at Teheran he paid us 
 his share to the uttermost farthing. In addition, his 
 knowledge of French, Persian, and English, his ex- 
 perience of the route — which he had traversed two 
 or three times before— his cheerfulness in face of the 
 various vexatious delays inseparable from any sort of 
 travel in Persia, proved of great use to our party and 
 made him an excellent travelling companion. And 
 when you have said this about a fellow-mortal you 
 have little to add except the hope that he reciprocates 
 your opinion. 
 
 The run from Baku to Enzeli is about eighteen 
 hours, and the sea was calm, which enabled me to do 
 justice to the excellent dinner on the boat. First the 
 sakoska, which the Russians take by way of an appetiser,
 
 ASKABAD TO TEHERAN 219 
 
 but which is in reality a square meal in itself, consisting 
 of smoked salmon, sardines, caviare, sausages, cheeses, 
 &c, and of course the (then) inevitable vodka. After- 
 wards came the dinner proper, well cooked, and of 
 five courses. And all this, mark you, on a small 
 coasting steamer, which in English waters would have 
 provided for her passengers boiled mutton and suet 
 dumpling — take it, or leave it. 
 
 On arrival at Enzeli at one o'clock in the day, we 
 passed instanter from the well-ordered ways of the 
 West to the disordered pandemonium of the East. 
 
 Here, however, P proved a trump card, as, being 
 
 in the service of the Persian Government, he held an 
 Open Sesame in the shape of an official mandate which 
 required all whom it might concern to help him on his 
 way. And we, being of his entourage, benefitted like- 
 wise. So we passed the Customs successfully and 
 quickly, and, having done so, were confronted with 
 another difficulty. 
 
 Enzeli lies some twenty miles from Resht, and since 
 the latter is on the high road to the capital, it might be 
 thought that there would be some adequate means of 
 conveying thither the heavy baggage of the numerous 
 passengers arriving from Europe. But ' Nous sommes 
 
 en Perse, ' as F would satirically remark at every 
 
 check, and the only transport available were the 
 same small phaetons which I had already experienced 
 at Askabad. And even the number of these was 
 so limited as not to suffice for the needs of all the 
 passengers arriving by the steamer. 
 
 What were we to do ? Finally F suggested 
 
 that he and my servant would take the baggage up the 
 river in a hired boat propelled by a couple of rowers,
 
 220 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 while P and I would drive. The river is navigable 
 
 by small boats to within three miles of Resht, whence 
 doubtless he could get some sort of conveyance for 
 transference to the city. We would foregather that 
 evening at the carriage office. 
 
 But when, some four hours later, P and I 
 
 reached the carriage office there was no news of F . 
 
 Further, we were informed that owing to a shortage of 
 horses on the road we should not be able to start until 
 the day after the morrow — if then ; but in view of 
 
 P 's Open Sesame we should, at any rate, be the 
 
 first travellers to get carriages for Teheran. So, having 
 
 left a note for F , we betook ourselves to one of the 
 
 apologies for hotels which exist in Resht, paddling our 
 way on foot through slush and snow, as owing to a 
 heavy fall of the latter the streets were quite impass- 
 able for wheeled traffic. 
 
 Next morning, early, we again called at the carriage 
 
 office. No news of F . We went to the bank, 
 
 cashed cheques and letters of credit, returned. Still 
 no news of our maitre d' hotel. Eleven o'clock came. 
 Twelve o'clock. And we were debating the advisa- 
 bility of informing the police — fearing that F must 
 
 have come to some harm — when he appeared in person 
 with quite a small Odyssey to relate. The stream — 
 swollen by melting snow — had been so rapid that their 
 progress had been extraordinarily slow and difficult. 
 Twice they had had to completely unload in order to 
 get the boat past difficult corners, and finally had not 
 reached their destination until nine o 'clock — long after 
 dark. F — i — passed the night in a native coffee- 
 house, and next morning had set about getting the 
 baggage into Resht. But there were no vehicles to be
 
 ASKABAD TO TEHERAN 221 
 
 had near the town itself, and when a wagon was 
 finally procured the road was in such an atrocious 
 state from mud and snow that it was only with great 
 efforts that the carriage office was made. 
 
 However, here he was, safe and sound, still cheerful, 
 and with all our baggage ; and with his assistance we 
 managed to prevail on the mirza (clerk) of the carriage 
 office to promise us two vehicles next morning at seven 
 o'clock. 
 
 F — — predicted that nine would probably approach 
 nearer to Persian ideas of punctuality, and I, with four 
 months of Persian travel behind me, was inclined to 
 agree ; but since it was important for us to start as early 
 as possible, eventually we found ourselves at the office 
 at 6.30 a.m., after a long, dark, and wet tramp from 
 our hotel. Seven o'clock came — no sign of life at the 
 office. Carriages stood about in the courtyard, but 
 there were no horses to be seen. Eight o'clock, and 
 half -past eight, and nine passed before his majesty the 
 mirza deigned to put in an appearance. Then there 
 was our baggage to be weighed, payments to be made, 
 horses to be put to, and finally we did not start until 
 nearly ten. The last straw came when his majesty 
 approached and asked for a tip ! This after having 
 kept us waiting, kicking our heels in the cold, for three 
 hours ! However, it gave us the opportunity for a 
 counter-attack, and putting our heads out of the 
 window — we were by this time securely en voiture — 
 we had the satisfaction of consigning his majesty to 
 
 the devil — F and myself in Persian, P in 
 
 Swedish and German. Of course, in any other country 
 we should have followed this up with a report to the 
 carriage company, but in Persia such reports are merely
 
 222 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 so much waste of time, so one has to shrug one's 
 shoulders and thank one's stars that one starts at 
 all. 
 
 From Resht to Teheran takes forty-eight hours, 
 as I have said above — that is to say, theoretically. 
 Practically it often takes longer, according to the 
 condition of the road and the number of horses avail- 
 able. These latter are laid out in stages at a distance 
 of every ten miles or so, and you drive day and night. 
 
 To be boxed up in a carriage for two days and two 
 nights — in our case it resolved itself into three days and 
 two nights, owing to various delays — save for halts of 
 a few hours every now and again for rest and refresh- 
 ment at a stage, is not a pleasant way of wayfaring, 
 But at any rate the route is safe for travellers — though 
 the mail-carts are robbed sometimes ; it is quick— for 
 Persia ; and the road — being originally constructed, 
 and now kept up, under Russian supervision — is good. 
 The halting-places are also much superior to the 
 caravanserais one has to put up with on other roads 
 in Persia. 
 
 Soon after leaving Resht the road runs over the 
 Elburz mountains, and there are some fine bits of 
 scenery along it. Unfortunately, we traversed this 
 section during the first night, and the next morning 
 were descending the lower slopes of the southern 
 side, which do not contain anything special to strike 
 the eye. 
 
 At Kazvin, which lies a little more than half-way 
 
 to Teheran, we met a comrade of P 's, a Swedish 
 
 officer of the gendarmerie who had charge of the 
 Kazvin-Hamadan road. He talked English fluently, 
 and we had a long conversation together. The work of
 
 ASKABAD TO TEHERAN 223 
 
 the gendarmerie is not unlike that of our own militias 
 on the north-west frontier of India,and from the general 
 trend of our talk I might almost have been sitting in 
 the Peshawar Club, say, with an officer of the Khyber 
 Rifles. Thus : 
 
 ' Yes, I have charge of the road from here to Hama- 
 dan. Disturbed ? Oh, no ! Not as much as down 
 in the south, Shiraz to Bushire. That is very bad. 
 Those Kashgais and Kuguloos. . . . But we have our 
 brigands up here too, though not so many as there 
 were. ' (Smiles.) ' We have shot a few. Oh, yes ! 
 any brigand taken with arms in his hands we shoot.' 
 (Shrugs his shoulders.) ' What can you do ? It's the 
 only way to deal with them. Just now I have received 
 a telephone message — yes, we have telephones all along 
 the road — from one of my under-officers — what you 
 would perhaps call sergeant in your army — a Persian, 
 saying that he has taken two brigands prisoners — what 
 is he to do with them ? I tell him he must not ask 
 questions like that. He knows our rule. They were 
 taken in arms. ... A cigarette ? Thank you very 
 much. These Persian cigarettes, when one gets used 
 to them, are not at all bad. All our officers smoke 
 them .... What were we talking about ? Oh, yes. 
 Shooting brigands. We have now made — how do you 
 say in English ? — a good expression ? impression ? 
 Yes, yes ; impression, of course. We have made a good 
 impression, and need not be so strict. But the shoot- 
 ing is not all on our part, you understand. When we 
 have a skirmish the brigands of course shoot back. 
 I had my horse shot under me once, and was wounded 
 myself. Serious ? Oh, no. How do you call it ? — flesh 
 wound. Nothing at all. . . . There is one brigand
 
 224 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 who is a great enemy of mine ; his name is Mohammed 
 Hassan, and he has got a band of about twenty men 
 under him. I have tried many times to catch him, 
 but he always gets away. However, I am starting 
 with fifty men to-morrow morning to hunt him once 
 more. ... Do I like life in the gendarmerie ? Yes ; 
 on the whole. You see it is more exciting than sitting 
 in garrison in Sweden. Then one gets more pay, and 
 one sees the world a little. And of course one has more 
 responsibility. I am quite independent to manage 
 my own affairs. I have my spies out through the 
 villages, who give me information about the brigands. 
 Then I get my little force together and we go out — 
 make a long night march perhaps — and attack a village 
 where the brigands may be. Sometimes they are not 
 there, so I have all my trouble for nothing. Some- 
 times they are there, but get away. Sometimes they 
 are there, and do not get away. It is not la grande 
 guerre, of course, but it is — what you call — good 
 fun. ... Ah ! your carriage is ready. Good-bye. 
 Bon voyage. Good luck to my expedition against 
 Mohammed Hassan ? Thank you very much. 
 Au revoir.' . . . 
 
 Twenty-four hours later we were inside the city 
 gates of Teheran.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 TEHERAN TO ISPAHAN BY POST-WAGON 
 
 Like Meshed, Teheran in itself does not claim the 
 attention of the passing traveller to any great degree, 
 more especially perhaps if his stay there be only a week, 
 as mine was. As the capital of Persia, Teheran — again 
 like Meshed- — is of considerable political import, holding 
 as it does the seat of the Supreme Government, besides 
 the legations of the Foreign Powers. But since politics 
 are outside the scope of this book, we can ' skip 
 Teheran — doubtless to the relief of the reader — as we 
 did Meshed, and make for the road without more 
 delay. 
 
 You can travel in Persia by camel, mule, or, if the 
 road permits, by carriage, but there is also a fourth way 
 — by post-wagon. This is not a way that is in any 
 degree to be recommended, as can be imagined when it 
 is understood : That you drive night and day ; that you 
 may be packed with your fellow-passengers tight as 
 any sardine ; that you have neither a seat below you — 
 save for the hard and knobby postal packages — nor a 
 covering above your head to protect you against snow, 
 sun, or rain, nor aught of railing at the sides to prevent 
 your falling out ; and that finally and lastly the wagon 
 is entirely innocent of springs. You who read this 
 may perhaps in India have driven in an Ekka out 
 
 225 Q
 
 226 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 shooting, or at home have taken a lift in a country-cart 
 — what we call a ' butt ' over in Ireland. Multiply 
 the maximum amount of possible jolting endured in 
 either of the above by two, and imagine this jolting to 
 continue for whole days and nights continuously, save 
 for short halts of a few hours now and then, and you 
 will have some idea of my experiences from Teheran 
 to Ispahan. 
 
 Yet with all this the post-wagon has two great 
 advantages : first it is cheap, second it is quick. If I 
 had taken a carriage it would have cost me about £24, 
 plus another £4 for the freight of any surplus luggage. 
 My fare on the post-wagon with all my luggage and 
 one servant was £6 10s. With a caravan I should 
 have taken twelve to thirteen days over the journey ; 
 the post-wagon did it in four and a half. 
 
 So one morning late in February found myself, 
 Rags, and my Persian servant, perched up on the top 
 of the bales and bundles of the post-wagon, with four 
 or five other passengers, being trundled out of Teheran. 
 All roads in Persia are bad, but those in the vicinity 
 of, or actually in, the towns themselves are peculiarly 
 atrocious. The constant traffic has worn away the 
 surface into a system of ridges and furrows, and either 
 they have been left as they are, or a half-hearted 
 pretence of repair has been attempted by throwing 
 down blocks of stone of all shapes and sizes indis- 
 criminately over the road. In either case the effect 
 on a springless cart can be imagined, and also on an 
 unhappy Englishman riding in the said cart, who, 
 though not unaccustomed to other modes of Eastern 
 travel, had as yet not expiated his sins by experiencing 
 that instrument of torture — the post -wagon. Bump
 
 THE POST- WAGON 
 
 ENTRANCE TO BAZAARS 
 
 [P- 251
 
 TEHERAN TO ISPAHAN 
 
 227 
 
 — bump, bump. Bump, bump — Bump. Myspine began 
 to jar terribly, my teeth to rattle in my head ; my head 
 itself felt that at any moment it might roll off my 
 shoulders. And this was only the very beginning. 
 We had scarce been an hour on the road, and there 
 were four live-long days and nights before me of this 
 damnable cup-and-ball performance. 
 
 Just outside the city we passed Persia's one and 
 only railway line. This is on a miniature scale, in 
 length not more than six miles or so, and is only remark- 
 able, of course, because it is the one and only the 
 country possesses. Seeing it impresses on one's mind 
 the fact that when travelling in Persia ninety-nine out 
 of a hundred people one meets — rich or poor, great or 
 small — have never seen a real railway. That this fact 
 does not obviously strike one in intercourse with the 
 people — which it does not— is a decided tribute to the 
 intelligence of the Persian, who can as a rule discuss 
 affairs at large — whether in his own country or out- 
 side — as if he had all the conveniences of civilised 
 locomotion at his door. 
 
 By this time the road had slightly improved, so I 
 was able to take stock of my travelling companions — 
 all natives of Persia. One was a young khan of sorts. 
 He was armed to the teeth — as the Persian loves to be 
 when he can afford it — with a dagger and revolver 
 stuck in his belt and a rifle slung across his back. At 
 the other end of the social scale — the khan represented 
 the aristocracy — was an Armenian Christian, whom 
 everybody rather sat on, actually as well as meta- 
 phorically, whenever the wagon bumped more than 
 ordinarily. Between these two extremes were others, 
 notably a very friendly young merchant. He and I 
 
 q 2
 
 228 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 were the only passengers going the whole way to 
 Ispahan, the rest being bound for various places en 
 route. 
 
 But the most outstanding figure of our circle was 
 the postman. Drivers were changed with our horses at 
 every stage, and it was of course only by changing 
 horses that we could keep going day and night. But 
 the postman was responsible for the mails and pack- 
 ages, and as such travelled the whole way. Our post- 
 man was a short, sturdy individual, with a smack of the 
 sailor about him, rolling slightly in his gait, and possess- 
 ing an air of bluff cheerfulness. Indeed the life he 
 lived was not unlike that of a dry-land sailor — if one can 
 use such an expression. He spent his time in post- 
 wagon voyages up and down the north of Persia. 
 Sometimes — as at present — from Teheran to Ispahan, 
 then the return voyage back. Then as far as Shahrud 
 on the Meshed road. Another time up to Resht, with 
 perhaps a side-excursion as far as Hamadan. At the 
 end of each voyage he had four or five days in port, and 
 doubtless, like his prototype, a wife — or two or three — 
 in each. But even with these rests he must have had 
 a frame like cast-iron, and an inside like an ostrich's, 
 to stand the life he had to lead between-whiles. Ex 
 officio he was the skipper of our craft, settled the dura- 
 tions of halts, apportioned us our various places, and 
 acted as arbitrator in any quarrels that might arise 
 amongst strangers so much thrown together in more 
 senses than one. 
 
 For the rest, we were all more or less on equality, 
 with the real equality of the Mohammedan East, where 
 alone true democracy is to be found, and not the sham 
 article which usually passes for such in your snobbish,
 
 TEHERAN TO ISPAHAN 229 
 
 purse-proud West. Needless to say, I was not so 
 foolish under the circumstances as to pretend to any 
 special rights and privileges on the score of being 
 a ' sahib. ' I was travelling third-class — a private 
 carriage, or my own caravan, would have represented 
 first — and I did not expect to be treated anyhow else 
 than as a third-class passenger. For from the point of 
 view of common sense either you travel first-class, in 
 which case — if it so pleases you — you are at liberty to 
 put on first-class airs, or you travel third, when you 
 must expect third-class treatment. But to travel 
 third and put on first-class airs is simply to make 
 yourself ridiculous. Yet nevertheless it cannot entirely 
 be excluded from a list of minor British failings. 
 But though, or perhaps because, I did not make any 
 pretensions over my fellow-passengers, I found they 
 were made for me. Every one was politeness itself ; 
 and the postman, by pulling bundles here and there, 
 made me a sort of arm-chair, which, if not anything 
 approaching actual comfort, was not far removed from 
 it in comparison to the precarious perches of the others. 
 Doubtless this service was performed for me with one 
 eye on a tip at Ispahan, but that did not make it any 
 the less welcome. On the other hand, the young 
 merchant, and the khan, who could have had no hopes 
 of a peshkush, were equally friendly, and would have 
 me partake of their supplies — we all carried these with 
 us — besides their arrack (native spirit). In politeness, 
 of course, I could not refuse, and indeed found the latter 
 quite acceptable when night came on with its accom- 
 panying cold. For, though the worst of the winter was 
 over, it was still very uncomfortably chilly. 
 
 Another proof of the amenability of my companions
 
 230 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 was their compliance to the company of Rags. The 
 Persian is not a very strict Mohammedan in some ways, 
 but has more than the ordinary Mohammedan objection 
 to dogs. To Rags, however, they seemed to have no 
 objection ; in fact, his antics when put out to run for 
 a stage, and the way he would encourage the lagging 
 horses by his shrill barks, amused them vastly. But 
 then Rags, being an old traveller, has the knack of 
 effacing himself at the right time ; and indeed I have 
 met very few of East or West who have not been fast 
 friends with him after the shortest of acquaintances, 
 which statement you may discount as that of a pre- 
 judiced and proud master, but which is true never- 
 theless. 
 
 About an hour after leaving Teheran we reached 
 the shrine of Shah Abbas, which is especially patronised 
 by women, who go there to pray for various feminine 
 mercies. But unless bazaar gossip is quite at fault, 
 these visits are often undertaken with other — and less 
 pious — ends in view, and cover a multitude of clandes- 
 tine flirtations, Friday — when the shrine is filled with 
 numbers of both sexes — being the fashionable day for 
 rendezvous. Indeed, there is a Persian proverb to the 
 effect that by a visit to the shrine of Shah Abbas one 
 can achieve the double object of acquiring merit and 
 amusing oneself. Intrigue of this sort is much facili- 
 tated by the universal wearing of the veil, which covers 
 the woman from head to foot, and thus forms an im- 
 penetrable disguise. Once in it, and out of her house, 
 the fair intrigante can pass where she wills, unrecognised 
 and unchallenged, for to attempt to see the face of a 
 veiled woman is one of the seven deadly Mohammedan 
 sins.
 
 TEHERAN TO ISPAHAN 231 
 
 The day bumped and jolted itself away. We 
 changed horses at the manzils, stopped to drink tea 
 at the wayside khawa-khanas, and beguiled the time 
 in conversation. This latter covered most subjects : 
 national and local politics, the length of the stages, 
 the prospects of the weather, the state of the road, but 
 generally veered back to the all-engrossing subject of 
 robbers. And in a country where fully half of the 
 travelling public have had a nodding acquaintance with 
 these gentry, and the other half look upon it but as a 
 pleasure deferred, the topic is indeed an absorbing one. 
 Formerly, for instance, the Teheran-Ispahan road was 
 in a perilous condition owing to the attentions of one 
 Naib Hussain, a noted outlaw, who at the head of a 
 band of brigands, robbed right and left all who went 
 upon the road — whether private travellers, caravans, 
 or post-wagons. On one occasion he seized the post- 
 horses at the various stages, in consequence of which 
 both the post -wagon and any travellers driving through 
 had for a long time to use the same animals all the way, 
 thus doing the journey in twelve or thirteen days 
 instead of four or five. And this on the supposition 
 that they did not meet the redoubtable Naib Hussain 
 himself. The Persian Government made various 
 attempts to catch him, but without success, and finally 
 gave over the charge of the road into his hands. This 
 seems to the Westerner a somewhat extraordinary step 
 to take, but as a matter of fact is by no means an 
 uncommon occurrence in the Persia of to-day, and 
 as a last expedient this setting of a thief to catch a thief 
 acts better than might be expected. 
 
 Just at present, however, Naib Hussain was on his 
 best behaviour, and beyond an occasional ' hold-up '
 
 232 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 of a post -wagon — unfortunately it was on a post -wagon 
 that we were travelling — by local robbers, the road 
 was safe — for Persia. 
 
 Evening came, and about two hours after dusk we 
 made one of our usual halts at a khawa-khana. The 
 khawa-khana is a great institution for the comfort of 
 the traveller, and is to be found all along the main 
 routes of Persia — sometimes in villages, sometimes a 
 lonely little mud hut by the side of the road far from 
 any habitation. In the Turkish khawa-khana coffee 
 as well as tea can be had, but in the Persian only tea, 
 served in little glasses, fresh from the samovar, boiling 
 hot, and very grateful to the benumbed wayfarer. 
 
 The hands of my watch pointed to eight o'clock. 
 This time twenty-four hours ago I had been dining out 
 at Teheran, and now — I looked round and smiled, for 
 it was one of those sharp contrasts which only Eastern 
 travel can give. The room — the khawa-khana only 
 had one — was low, and of unadorned mud throughout. 
 On the four sides were raised mud divans. In one 
 corner was a shelf projecting from the wall, holding a 
 samovar, tea-cups, a few packets of cigarettes. In the 
 middle was a large square hole, with the glowing embers 
 of a fire. Various household utensils — brushes, qaleans, 
 besides rolls of bedding — were strewn here and there. 
 Light was supplied by a small flickering chirag (earthen 
 lamp), though now and then when a fresh bundle of fuel 
 was flung on the fire the leaping flames would fill the 
 room with bright illumination, only to sink and leave 
 us in semi-darkness again, with the faces and forms 
 of my companions now seen, now lost, in the play of 
 sheen and shadow. 
 
 The above for the gay dinner-table of the night
 
 TEHERAN TO ISPAHAN 233 
 
 before ; and for the elaborate six-course dinner, 
 native unleavened bread, hard-boiled eggs, and half a 
 cold chicken, somewhat tough ! 
 
 Then out into the road once more. This time I 
 managed to make myself tolerably at ease, reclining 
 with my rugs and cushions under me to break the 
 force of that abominable jolting. The young merchant 
 aforesaid insisted on sharing his quilt with me, which 
 was more than large enough to cover the two of us 
 comfortably, and so we voyaged through the night. 
 All around stretched the desolate wastes ; the only 
 sounds that broke the stillness were the creaking of the 
 cart-wheels, the muffled stamp of the horses, and now 
 and then the sleepy ejaculations of the driver. It was 
 not unpleasant, I reflected, this driving a la belle etoile, 
 and so fell asleep. 
 
 Some time later in the night I was awakened by the 
 wagon stopping, and found ourselves halted before a 
 khawa-khana, from the open door of which came the 
 gleam of a fire, thrice welcome since I was by now 
 chilled to the bone. Only the postman had descended ; 
 the muffled figures of my other companions were still 
 slumbering around me in various attitudes of cramped 
 discomfort. Following the postman, I found him and 
 an old man — the owner of the hut — crouched over a 
 dying fire, and squatted myself in silence. No one 
 spoke a word — the three of us might have been under a 
 vow of perpetual dumbness — and there we sat until the 
 blood once more had tingled to my hands and feet, 
 when the postman made a gesture towards the door, 
 and, still in silence, we arose, passed out, clambered to 
 our seats, and drove away. 
 
 Travel memories are curious things, and while
 
 234 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 other — and much more important — incidents are 
 blurred to me, this little midnight charade is still clear. 
 Why, I do not know. 
 
 The next time I woke it was in the grey dawn, and 
 we were changing horses before a manzil. 
 
 From this time forward the rigours of the journey 
 may be said to have commenced. I found I had paid 
 for my night's rest by contracting a pain in my back, 
 just below my right shoulder, the effect of either the 
 night's cold, or a sprain brought on by the jolting. In 
 either case it was somewhat painful, and absolutely 
 forbade any further lying down. So the only repose I 
 could now obtain — beyond uneasy cat-naps in a sitting 
 position — was at the half-hour halts to change horses, 
 or when we came to some place of importance which 
 merited a stay of some duration- 
 Such a place we reached about mid-day — Kum, to 
 wit, holy beyond all the cities of Persia save Meshed, 
 and, after the immemorial custom of bast, a refuge 
 for all fleeing from the arm of the law or the hand 
 of private vengeance. Hither you will remember did 
 Hajji Baba flee from the Shah, after his tragic-ending 
 amour with Zeenab, the Kurdish slave, and here did he 
 in part expiate his sins by having to attune his pleasure- 
 loving soul to the gloomy routine of the stern ascetics 
 in the shrine. 
 
 But for me city and shrine were of far less 
 moment than rest and food — food warm and freshly 
 cooked, not the cold scraps that had been my portion 
 on the road. And both of these were forthcoming. 
 First a room, where Ismail — my servant— laid out my 
 bedding, on which I threw myself with a blessed sense 
 of rest from motion, far exceeding even that of the
 
 TEHERAN TO ISPAHAN 235 
 
 passenger just landed from a rough Channel crossing ; 
 and later, savoury Persian kabobs, with great flaps of 
 fresh-baked bread soaked in the gravy thereof. 
 
 But our halt came to an end all too soon, and once 
 again we were pounding along the road. During the 
 afternoon one of our party pointed out a spot where 
 he had two months previously been the victim of a 
 ' robbery under arms,' and related how it had happened. 
 ' W Allah, it was just here I was robbed, where you see 
 that small burje (tower) over yonder ! At the time I 
 was travelling up to Teheran there were some sarbazes 
 in it to guard the road. But just before I passed some 
 of Naib Hussain 's men had come down, taken away the 
 rifles from the sarbazes, and placed themselves in the 
 tower instead, having first made the sarbazes prisoners. 
 This was before the Hukumut (Government) had made 
 Naib Hussain a rahdar (guardian of the road). Did 
 the sarbazes fight ? Not they, the Sons of Dogs ! 
 When we neared this burje the duzddn (robbers) fired 
 over our heads as a sign for us to stop. We stopped. 
 What could we do ? We had no guard, and if we 
 had had one they would only have been sarbazes, and 
 therefore altogether useless. I am a follower of Prince 
 So-and-so, in Teheran, and I was taking up a caravan for 
 him from Kashan — mules and horses, and merchan- 
 dise of all sorts. Well — the duzddn took everything. 
 They even stripped me of my coat, the Sons of Burnt 
 Fathers ! They then led me, and the sarbazes whom 
 they had taken prisoners, off the road for about four 
 miles to the top of those hills you see over there, in 
 order that we should not give the alarm. There they 
 left us, and there we had to stay all night, not being 
 able to find our way back in the dark. It was winter,
 
 236 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 too, and I had no coat. Cold ! By Hazarat Abbas, I 
 swear to you I nearly died. Next morning we found 
 our way to that village back there, where we have just 
 drunk tea. ... I am now going down to Kashan to 
 bring the stolen property back to Teheran. The 
 Hukumut brought pressure on Naib Hussain, when they 
 made him rahdar, to give back the Prince's goods. 
 He says he has got them all collected in Kashan 
 now. Robbed again when I am returning ? Khudd 
 Meddnad (God knows).' 
 
 This may seem a very philosophical way of regard- 
 ing robbery with violence directed at oneself, but as a 
 matter of fact it is the only attitude for the traveller to 
 adopt in present-day Persia, whether the victim be a 
 Persian or a European. The robbers are not out for 
 fighting, and take very good care that there shall be 
 no chance of such an unpleasant eventuality. The 
 wayfarer — perhaps accompanied by a few sarbazes — 
 while wending his way over some wild pass, of a sudden 
 hears shots, and the unpleasant zip-zip of bullets above 
 his head. At the same time half a dozen or half a 
 score of bandits, all armed with rifles — of which all are 
 pointed at him and his caravan — appear on each flank 
 of the hillside above his head. The odds — twelve to 
 one, or, counting the sarbazes, twelve to three or four 
 — surprise, arms, and position all on the side of the 
 enemy. Some of the bandits come down the hill ; the 
 others remain en arriere, ready to open a fusillade 
 should the slightest show of resistance be made. What 
 is the wayfarer to do ? Under the above circum- 
 stances, which hitherto it has been my fortune to 
 escape, I have no hesitation in saying that I should 
 do — nothing ! And this is what the wayfarer very
 
 TEHERAN TO ISPAHAN 237 
 
 sensibly does ; while there is the more reason for this 
 course of action as the Persian brigand — if no resistance 
 is shown — has no idea of murder, or indeed of actual 
 ill-treatment as a rule. But still the victim has to put 
 up with insults, perhaps with a certain amount of 
 rough handling, and if during the process he loses his 
 temper — as is only natural — and lays about him, 
 the consequences may be serious. 
 
 The frequency of ' robbery under arms ' in Persia 
 may be gathered from the fact that, without exaggera- 
 tion, five out of ten Europeans one meets there have 
 either been robbed or have had encounters of sorts 
 with robbers. The thing is so common that it crops up 
 in casual conversation as one of the ordinary every- 
 day events. Just as elsewhere you wish a traveller a 
 comfortable journey, in Persia you wish him one free 
 from robbers, and at a journey's end the first question 
 you are asked is, ' No trouble from robbers ? ' 
 
 Then ensued another period of darkness, which 
 passed in nightmare fashion for me — crouched in a 
 semi-sitting position, dozing at intervals, only to be 
 sharply wakened by a twinge of pain if I sank back- 
 wards, or by the cold as it penetrated through my pro- 
 tection of rugs and wraps. The sole alleviations were 
 the halts at the coffee-houses, or at the manzils for the 
 changing of horses. Sometimes I would prefer not to 
 alight, and to snatch a short period of complete repose 
 while the post-carriage was at rest. 
 
 Another dawn, and by mid-day we were in Kashan, 
 the headquarters of the redoubtable Naib Hussain. 
 Here I enjoyed — as at Kum — blessed relief for two 
 hours, with more kabobs. 
 
 During the afternoon I had a peaceful passage-
 
 238 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 of-arms with one of Naib Hussain's lieutenants, the 
 commander of three or four dirty-looking rapscallions, 
 collected in a coffee-house at which we had made a 
 halt. This individual — after the manner of his class — 
 was talking big, gasconading to an admiring circle as 
 to the prowess and perfections of his lord and master, 
 of the Persian in general, and more particularly of him- 
 self. Half of all this was of course to my address. 
 
 ' Sahib, ' he concluded, in the loud and blustering 
 tone which his kidney adopt to the foreign traveller 
 whenever they meditate some extortion, ' I want a 
 present : I want rahdari. ' 
 
 The said tone invariably has an irritating effect on 
 the foreign ear, so : 
 
 ' I'm not deaf,' I said ; ' there's no need to shout. 
 And why do you want a present ? — for being such a 
 good talker ? ' 
 
 The Persian is a man of wit himself, and appreciates 
 even a clumsy attempt at it on the part of the foreigner. 
 So the ' house ' laughed, and the laugh was with me. 
 Once you have made the Oriental laugh, you have him 
 half over to your side. Travellers in very tight places 
 have got out of them safe and sound by so doing — have 
 even saved their lives thereby. Mine was of course in 
 no sense a tight place, but the lieutenant was none the 
 less impressed, and continued in politer tones. 
 
 ' No, Sahib. I want rahdari — toll for guarding 
 the road. If I and my men were not here the robbers 
 would have taken everything you had — down to your 
 boots. ' 
 
 ' And now you want to take everything I have 
 instead ? ' 
 
 ' No, Sahib ; Bejan-I-Shuma (by your life), I have
 
 TEHERAN TO ISPAHAN 239 
 
 no such evil thoughts. I only want a small present. 
 W Allah, the times are hard.' 
 
 ' Khub ; very well, here 's something to buy tobacco 
 with,' and I flicked a two-kran piece (about nine- 
 pence) across to him. He looked at it in a dissatisfied 
 way, and began grumbling. However, just at that 
 moment the postman — doubtless with intention — said 
 it was time to go, so we got on board and drove off. 
 
 Rahdari is a common nuisance on many Persian 
 roads. Bodies of local tribesmen, who may or may 
 not be recognised by the Government as guardians of 
 the road de jure, institute themselves as such de facto, 
 and levy toll on all caravans which pass. The toll is 
 merely a form of polite blackmail, as, if rahdari is not 
 given, it is taken, as well probably as the beasts, 
 goods, and personal effects of the traveller. Nor does 
 a single payment of rahdari suffice. No sooner has 
 the unfortunate traveller satisfied one band of blood- 
 suckers than another band — sometimes only a few 
 miles on — is met with, and so forth. The amount of 
 rahdari that has to be paid on some roads — the Ispahan - 
 Shiraz-Bushire route, for example — is very large, 
 and the traveller may be bled to the tune of fifty 
 tomans (about £10) and upwards, having at the same 
 time no guarantee that he may not be stripped and 
 robbed into the bargain. My modest expenditure of 
 ninepence, therefore, over a journey of about two 
 hundred and seventy miles, may be said to have been 
 very well laid out. 
 
 By evening I was afflicted by a new torture, in 
 addition to the sprained shoulder — to wit, indigestion. 
 My digestion — as indeed must be the case if the traveller 
 in the East is to travel with any degree of pleasure —
 
 240 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 is as good as when at school I could demolish a tin of 
 sardines, eke one of potted meat, plus half a pot of 
 strawberry jam, finish up with a water-melon, and 
 feel merely pleasantly replete. But this continuous 
 jolting coming hard upon such meals as I had eaten 
 at Kum and Kashan, with no time for sleep, no time 
 for rest, had done its deadly work, and my digestion 
 succumbed. 
 
 This is an age when the cry is all for new things, 
 new sensations, new experiences. If you, oh, reader, 
 are among those that cry, proceed forthwith to Persia, 
 to be particular, to Teheran, and there take the post- 
 wagon for Ispahan. At about the close of the third 
 day out you will, I guarantee, have an entirely new 
 experience, for you will know what it must have been 
 like to be broken on the wheel — that most shocking 
 of mediaeval tortures. 
 
 And broken on the wheel I was all that night and 
 all the next day, hour after hour, until about ten o'clock 
 on the following night, when — taking the opportunity 
 of a stop at a manzil — I mutinied, and refused to go 
 further unless I was given two hours' sleep. The post- 
 man consented without much demur — a few hours 
 more or less make not much difference to a post 
 whose arrival at all is something to be thankful for ; 
 and when my bedding had been spread in a corner of 
 the khawa-khana I fell into a species of torpor, from 
 which it was almost with the reluctance of one rising 
 from the dead that I dragged myself when my respite 
 was finished. 
 
 Now here is a curious point. Ismail, my servant — 
 I had procured him in Teheran where my previous one 
 had remained — was a frail old body whom, in any sort
 
 TEHERAN TO ISPAHAN 241 
 
 of trial of bodily strength, including that of long march- 
 ing, I could have defeated with the greatest of ease. 
 Yet now, when his master was laid out, more or less of a 
 wreck, Ismail himself seemed very little the worse for 
 wear. The truth is, of course, that where the Western 
 excels in active endurance, the Eastern excels in passive, 
 and when dealing with the East, and judging it by 
 Western standards, it is necessary to remember this. 
 
 At about noon the next day — our fifth from Teheran 
 — we reached Ispahan, where I found the kind hospi- 
 tality of the British Consulate open to me, and after the 
 luxury of a bath — my ablutions on the road had been 
 confined to the use of a tooth-brush — what a thrice- 
 blessed Nirvana it was to slip between cool, clean 
 sheets and slide softly into sleep, and wake again, not 
 to the torture of the wheel, but to the ineffable bliss 
 of turning over and dropping off to sleep once more.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 ISPAHAN 
 
 I had passed through two notable Persian cities — one 
 the capital — before reaching Ispahan, and in each had 
 found my pen tongue-tied. Do what I would not a 
 word would come ; as far as a record in my diary was 
 concerned, these two great cities had remained a blank. 
 
 But I had not given in thus without an effort, you 
 may be sure. I knew what was popularly due from 
 the traveller : that at places of interest and note, he 
 should also be correspondingly interested- — at any rate 
 on paper. 
 
 ' Come,' I had said stoutly to myself, ' this will 
 never do. Other travellers have found nice things to 
 say about these two " historic spots," why can't you ? 
 Sit down, light your pipe, and start away. Put 
 " Meshed " at the head of one sheet of paper and 
 " Teheran " at the head of another ; or put them both 
 in one sheet, " Meshed arid Teheran," and call it a com- 
 parison, or call it anything you like. But for heaven's 
 sake do something ! ' 
 
 But it was of no avail ! Even with the burning of 
 much tobacco I invoked the Muse in vain, and I had 
 verily begun to fear that I would leave Persia a dis- 
 credited scribbler, one who in ' historic spots ' failed 
 to be properly interested — even on paper. 
 
 242
 
 ISPAHAN 243 
 
 However, Ispahan saved my reputation in that 
 direction. For at this ' historic spot/ contrarily 
 enough, I did find myself interested, both off and on 
 paper, and — happy state for the recorder, and reader, 
 of impressions of travel — found my difficulties not in 
 what to write, but in what to forbear. . . . 
 
 It is early afternoon, and the locality the great AH 
 Verdi Khan Bridge outside the city. No city can be 
 really beautiful without its river, and though the 
 Zendeh Rud — during the greater part of the year a 
 wide sandy bed holding innumerable shallow water- 
 courses — cannot for an instant compare with the broad 
 sheet of the Jhelum at Srinagar for instance, or that of 
 the Tigris at Baghdad, still it is running water, and 
 above all gives excuse for one, nay two — for the Pul-i- 
 Khaju is but a mile farther down — of the finest bridges 
 that ever the brain of an architect conceived. Perhaps 
 even the fact that the excuse for such a bridge is so 
 slight, that it is so obvious that something much less 
 fine would have been just as useful, attracts the more. 
 It is like hearing a good musician giving of his best to a 
 small and unappreciative audience. Something much 
 less inspired would do just as well. But the musician 
 either plays his best, or plays not at all. 
 
 And it must have been in something of this spirit 
 that the great Emperor Shah Abbas and his chief 
 architect sketched out the schemes of the Ali Verdi 
 Khan Bridge. The imperial city of Ispahan had no 
 majestic river, even the king of kings himself could 
 not give it that, but, by Allah ! he could give it such a 
 bridge as no other city in the world possessed. And so 
 there it stands to this day, with its broad paved road- 
 way, its covered arcades pierced through the thickness 
 
 R 2
 
 244 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 of the walls, its open promenades along the breadth 
 thereof, its round towers, its staircases, its immense 
 and solid foundations, its innumerable arches — stately, 
 spacious, strong, and enduring. 
 
 And under it always — running water. What a 
 simple affair to grow enthusiastic about ? In other 
 and more favoured countries, perhaps, but not in 
 Persia. For Persia is not, as sometimes popularly sup- 
 posed, one vast rose garden, a land flowing with milk 
 and honey. Rather is it one vast desert, with oases 
 — singularly rich and fruitful oases some of them, but 
 still oases — scattered hither and thither over it. And 
 even when near and around these oases there is water, 
 it is carried in kanats (underground channels) far from 
 sight or sound. So to the traveller in this thirsty 
 land the sound and sight of running water — whenever 
 rarely met — becomes an irresistible lure, and on his 
 road the most inconsiderable rivulet will bring him off 
 his horse to sit awhile by its banks and listen to its soft 
 music. 
 
 Nor is the present case any exception to the general 
 rule, and so I dismount and, clambering down one of 
 the arches of the bridge, take my seat almost level with 
 the stream. There is something peculiarly mesmeric 
 to the eyes in the glittering ripples which rush past, 
 and to the ears in the gentle murmuring and crooning 
 which reaches them. And as to the charms and sug- 
 gestiveness of the stream were added the associations 
 of the old bridge above, it will be guessed that I sat 
 long, long enough at any rate to obtain kaif. 
 
 And kaif ? What is kaif ? If you look it up in a 
 Persian dictionary you will find that it means 'rest, 
 contentment,' or something like that. But it really
 
 ISPAHAN 245 
 
 means much more, and is really untranslatable. Per- 
 haps in some senses it may come near to Nirvana ; for 
 there are many kaifs, not one. There is the kaif-i- 
 tareak, — the kaif of opium, the 'just and subtle ' ; the 
 kaif-i-khabedan — that of sleep ; the kaif-i-qalean — that 
 of smoking ; and many others, among which perhaps 
 we may include the kaif of 'him who sits under old 
 bridges, listening to the sound of ancient streams.' 
 
 But kaif is only given to mortals for short periods 
 at a time, and it is better to leave it before it leaves you. 
 So again I mount and ride down the farther ramp of the 
 bridge, away to the great cemetery. Taking it in all, 
 it must be the largest in existence, for it extends for 
 miles and miles. And this size is rendered possible by 
 the fact that the Mohammedan takes little thought as to 
 the interment of his dead. Death is to him so much 
 less an important event than it is to the Christian 
 that he does not think it worth while to surround it 
 with many forms and ceremonies. Thus, except in the 
 neighbourhood of some famous shrine, as at Meshed, 
 where ground for burial purposes is considered to be 
 specially holy — and incidentally commands a good 
 price — he considers all earth to be consecrated, and 
 chooses some spot unsuitable for cultivation. Nor 
 does he surround it with a wall, nor care for the graves ; 
 and a greater contrast to our graveyard — neat, enclosed, 
 well-kept, embowered with cool green grass, under the 
 shadow of trees — than the Mohammedan cemetery, set 
 in barren land where no vegetation thrives, can hardly 
 be found. 
 
 Every now and again we pass newly-dug graves 
 with a little group of mourners around. Near one of 
 them, in the shadow of a large mausoleum, a man has
 
 246 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 set up a little khawa-khana. He is doing a fair trade, 
 and his customers are sipping tea, eating sweets, dates, 
 bread, and what not, and pulling at their qaledns 
 (pipes). 'Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow . . .' 
 
 Then back again to the bridge and across it, and up 
 the Chenar Bagh — the great avenue of Ispahan. In 
 the old days, with its water-channels falling in cascades 
 from terrace to terrace, its rows of beautiful chenar 
 trees, its flanking gardens and stately houses, in whose 
 balconies a gaily dressed crowd would collect to watch 
 the nobles and their retinues pass and repass below, 
 the Chenar Bagh was indeed as worthy of Ispahan as 
 Ispahan of it. And now ! The terraces and channels 
 are broken, most of the trees are cut down, the houses 
 have fallen to ruins ; but still in another sense — if one 
 wishes to be cynical — one can say that the Ispahan of 
 to-day and its great avenue are worthy the one of the 
 other. Yet though fallen from its high estate, the 
 Chenar Bagh is interesting of an evening, as Ispahan 
 at that hour comes out to 'eat the air,' and the Bagh 
 being the fashionable promenade one can pick out 
 many prominent types. 
 
 Three Bakhtiari horsemen clatter past ; the Persian 
 on horseback thinks more of impressing all and sundry 
 with the speed of his progress than of the safety of the 
 pedestrian, or of the hoofs of his horse, which he will 
 gallop at speed over the hardest of stony grounds. 
 All three look flushed, and the centre one sways slightly 
 in his saddle. Doubtless they are returning from some 
 gathering where they have 'looked upon the wine 
 when it was red,' for the average Persian is not as strict 
 as he might be where strong drink is concerned. 
 
 A missionary lady passes on a bicycle. This also
 
 ISPAHAN 
 
 247 
 
 is a sign of the times. Ten years ago no European 
 lady could thus have shown herself in a public place 
 without fear of insult — or worse. But now there is 
 little or no fanaticism, though there are doubtless fires 
 latent and hidden away. And here come some of the 
 class against whom, rather than against Europeans, 
 whatever displays of fanaticism there may be are 
 directed — a party of Armenians, proceeding to Julfa, 
 their quarter on the other side of the river. Then some 
 Seyyids (descendants of the Prophet), distinguished 
 by their green shawls and turbans, seated upon white 
 ambling donkeys, which still — as in Old Testament 
 days — are a sign of honour and rank. Following them 
 a party of four or five ' Young Persians ' — gentlemen 
 who wear high stiff collars and twirl canes. Perhaps 
 one of them has been to Europe. They call each 
 other Monsieur instead of Jenab, and are altogether 
 very up-to-date, progressive, and Westernised. It is 
 a question, however, whether a single uncouth tribes- 
 man, rifle in hand, is not a more vital factor in present- 
 day Persian politics than these same young gentle- 
 men. 
 
 Women, in head-to-toe enveloping shrouds of black, 
 with white veils, are everywhere. They are mostly of 
 the poorer classes, unencumbered by male belongings 
 or attendants, and are therefore by no means too strict 
 in keeping the said veils in their proper places ; rather 
 do they use those ends to coquetry, hiding but to entice 
 the more, with many a trill of laughter amongst them- 
 selves, or a whispered jest to a passing loiterer. Doubt- 
 less not a few intrigues begin in the Chenar Bagh. A 
 closed carriage whirls by, outriders before and behind. 
 Inside one catches a glimpse of female forms, heavily
 
 248 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 veiled. These are the harem of some great man, but — 
 human nature being human nature, East or West 
 — these high-born ladies probably envy their poorer 
 sisters, at any rate for the moment, the greater freedom 
 of obscurity. 
 
 By the time the end of the Chenar Bagh is reached, 
 and we plunge into the bazaars, darkness has fallen. 
 Late-night life, which plays such an important part in 
 a Western city, with its theatres, restaurants, and what 
 not, is quite wanting in an Eastern one, which some two 
 hours after sunset is like a city of the dead. . . . 
 
 If you would view, with a single sweep of the eye, 
 Ispahan, its length, its breadth, and its greatness — for 
 despite its present decay, as purely Oriental cities go, 
 it is still great — then should you climb to the top of the 
 lofty Ali Kapi gate. This forms an entrance to the 
 Royal Palace, and though now both gate and palace 
 are crumbling and decaying, in the ancient days the 
 former was sacred as well as royal, and to cross its 
 threshold even proud kings were fain to dismount and 
 proceed on foot. 
 
 But where formerly was all the pomp of a palace 
 gate, the lounging guards, the caparisoned horses, the 
 come and go of gorgeous retinues, now there is only one 
 decrepit old man, who keeps the key of the door, and 
 this — even for an unbeliever, if he have official cre- 
 dentials, and credentials unofficial in the shape of a 
 small coin — he is nothing loth to open ; and so I pass 
 upwards and upwards, and reaching the top, lean — a 
 little out of breath — against the parapet and look 
 around. 
 
 Below at a giddy depth, directly beneath one's 
 feet, the Midan-i-Shah (the Royal Square) unfolds its
 
 ISPAHAN 249 
 
 splendid spaciousness. The sight of this alone is worth 
 the climb, for it is one of the great squares of the world, 
 being some 600 yards in length by 200 in width. It 
 is surrounded by a low range of two-storied buildings, 
 the lower of which originally formed shops and the 
 upper balconies, from which sight-seers would watch by 
 day the busy scene below, when the square would be 
 covered with the booths and tents of itinerant vendors, 
 and at night— with these evicted — the shows and 
 amusements provided by acrobats, jugglers, wrestlers, 
 story-tellers, and the like. 
 
 All these long since have passed to their own place, 
 and the Midan now — whether by night or day — pre- 
 sents a half-deserted appearance, an enormous white 
 empty space in the very heart of the thronging city. 
 But it is only by imagined comparison with the past, 
 and by reason of its size — which would dwarf any but 
 the largest of crowds — that the Midan seems deserted 
 by day. Two great bazaars flow into its northern and 
 upper western ends, which are thus covered by a 
 whirlpool of black ant-like figures. From this pool 
 the stream sets again towards the southern end, but 
 trickling fainter as it proceeds, until it resolves itself 
 into single black dots moving across the glaring sun- 
 baked expanse. 
 
 Most of these dots appear to be bound mosque- 
 wards, for it is near high noon, and at the southern 
 end of the Midan the beautiful Musjid-i-Shah (Royal 
 Mosque) heaves its glittering minarets and green 
 domes into the sky. The voice of a muezzin, exceed- 
 ingly high-pitched, incredibly far-reaching, comes faint 
 across the abyss like one calling from another world. 
 The black dots increase their pace, approach, and are
 
 250 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 finally engulfed by the great doorway of the mosque. 
 The Midan, save always for that vigorous whirlpool at 
 its northern end, becomes deserted once more. 
 
 Yet though the black dots have disappeared, one 
 somewhat larger than the rest still remains. It has 
 the air after one has looked long of being some sort of 
 erection. In point of fact it is a gallows. From this 
 height it naturally has a microscopic appearance, but 
 even at close quarters it is a very poor affair, bearing 
 an exact resemblance to a pair of Association football 
 goal-posts and cross-bar. The science of the 'drop ' 
 has not yet found its way into Persia, and the con- 
 demned man is strangled by being drawn slowly 
 upwards. The bar is only some eight feet high, so that 
 when an unfortunate wretch is suspended his toes 
 must be within tantalising distance of the ground — 
 altogether an unpleasant performance, and although 
 during my stay in Ispahan I had an opportunity of 
 witnessing an execution, I did not avail myself of it 
 
 So much for the Midan itself ; and beyond lies the 
 city — a great sea of flat roofs, broken here and there by 
 minarets and cupolas, or patches of green to mark the 
 presence of some notable's garden. And beyond the 
 city again, the open plains and low foothills ; and, 
 traversing plains and foothills alike, faint lines — these 
 only to be marked by the aid of glasses — converging 
 on the city from all around the horizon. They are 
 worth watching, those faint converging lines, for they 
 are amongst the old things of the world — far older for 
 instance than the ancient city at your feet — caravan 
 tracks, to wit, and if you care to journey along them 
 in imagination, ' over the hills and far away,' they will 
 take you wherever you will : to Teheran in the north ;
 
 ISPAHAN 251 
 
 Kirman, Seistan, and the borders of Baluchistan in the 
 east ; Shiraz and Bushire in the south — if indeed you 
 be not robbed on the way, for the tribes are ' out ' in 
 Fars ; or to the west — through the Bakhtiari country 
 to Ahwaz, to Mohammerah, where you can take ship 
 back to India. 
 
 Loafing through the bazaars is as fascinating a way 
 of spending the time in Ispahan as in other Oriental 
 cities. 
 
 Here are Persian carpets, ivory and pearl bloom, 
 Tints to fill the heart of any child of man. 
 Here are copper rose-bowls, leopard skins, emeralds, 
 Scarlet slippers curly-toed, and beads from Kordofan. 
 
 And since the people are used to the sight of Europeans, 
 and there is no open display of fanaticism, this practice 
 can be indulged in without annoyance and at one's 
 ease — that is to say, except for the beggars. 
 
 I had met these gentry previously in various places 
 which are generally considered to be their happy 
 hunting-grounds — Benares, Baghdad, Damascus, and 
 Meshed, for example — but I can testify that those of 
 Ispahan, in numbers, pertinacity, and wretchedness, 
 are easily first. Doubtless the weather had something 
 to do with it. To be a beggar in the summer, and bask 
 against the sunny side of a wall — even on an empty 
 stomach — may have its compensations ; but to be a 
 beggar in winter — and it was still winter before I left 
 the city — and to cower in rags under snow, rain, and 
 the biting winds, is another affair altogether. And it 
 did not add to the enjoyment of my sight-seeing to be 
 followed by two or three miserable wretches calling 
 lamentably upon me for alms ; or worse still — on a cold
 
 252 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 evening, with the snow lying fresh on the ground — to 
 pass 'creatures that once were men,' huddled at some 
 street corner, doomed apparently to drag out the long 
 night in the open. Especially pitiable was it when 
 these creatures were women and children. 
 
 Naturally I gave backshish from time to time, 
 but what could the few coins that I was able to spare 
 do among such a welter of forlorn humanity ? More- 
 over, such giving of largesse generally ended in my 
 being quickly surrounded by a screaming, gesticu- 
 lating mob of unfortunates, who, vulture-like, had 
 scented their prey from afar, and three-quarters of 
 whom had to go away unsatisfied. On one such 
 occasion I endeavoured to single out an old blind 
 man as the recipient of my alms, and was actually 
 pressing the coin into his outstretched groping hand, 
 when a wolfish-faced neighbour with only one leg 
 promptly snatched it from him, and made off down 
 the street at an exceedingly smart pace considering 
 that his crutch had to stand him in lieu of a limb. 
 I gave another coin to the old man and went my 
 way, revolving the somewhat unpleasant thought that, 
 though it was doubtless a very degraded exhibition 
 of greed, if I had been in the place of that half-starved* 
 ragged individual with the one leg, would I not have 
 done the same ? Nice feeling, after all, may be only 
 a luxury for those of us who have full stomachs and 
 a good coat to our backs. 
 
 Another beggar incident also remains in my memory. 
 Proceeding homewards one night, I came upon two 
 mites curled up on the side of the road, locked in 
 each other's arms, alternately sobbing and imploring 
 alms in the most pitiful manner. I would indeed
 
 ISPAHAN 253 
 
 have had a heart of stone to have passed such a 
 picture of infantile misery unmoved. So I stopped 
 and presented each with something fairly substantial. 
 No sooner was the backshish safe in their grubby 
 paws, than, with elfish yells of delight, they arose 
 swiftly, displaying peculiarly plump, well-nourished 
 little bodies, and raced off, stopping only at a safe 
 distance to indulge in a final war-dance, after which 
 they disappeared into the darkness. I realised that, 
 in common parlance, I had been ' had,' but the imps 
 had managed their comedy with such realistic cunning, 
 and it was such an amusing ending to an episode 
 that at first sight had appeared very far from amusing, 
 that I think I was just as tickled as they were — if 
 not more so. 
 
 A peculiarly objectionable feature of the hunger 
 and misery observable in Ispahan was the fact that 
 it was in part due, not necessarily to bad harvests 
 and other causes which might be included under the 
 ' act of God,' but to the system of grain ' corners.' 
 This vile practice is fairly general all over Persia, 
 and indeed there is a special Persian word, ihtika, 
 for our word 'corner.' A ring of merchants corner the 
 grain and store it away in their umbars (storehouses), 
 until such time as the prices rise to their satisfaction. 
 To such an extent is this carried that sometimes the 
 grain rots, when it is thrown away into the river, 
 and the starving populace have the pleasure of seeing 
 their life-blood floating down-stream. One might 
 inquire what the local government are doing when 
 this species of rascality is rampant. Unfortunately 
 only too often it is best not to inquire too closely. 
 The high officials and the ' cornerers ' are not entirely
 
 254 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 unconnected, you understand. But the game of 
 Persian ' corners ' is not played without some risk to 
 the players. At times the hunger-maddened people 
 form themselves into a mob, rise, and take vengeance 
 on their oppressors. One such occasion occurred in 
 Ispahan, when the women of the city rose en masse, 
 seized the chief ' cornerer,' and dragged him through 
 the bazaars head downwards. By the time they 
 reached the Midan, what with one thing and another, 
 the wretch was nearly dead. The women, however, 
 proceeded to make sure of his decease in ways which 
 need not be detailed here, and finally hung up his 
 corpse in a conspicuous place, so that ' all who ran 
 might read.' 
 
 An eminent Persian merchant of Ispahan narrated 
 the above to me, whereupon I remarked, ' WAllah, 
 een bisear khub ami bud ! ' which being freely inter- 
 preted means, 'And a devilish good thing too ! ' 
 The eminent merchant looked shocked, and changed 
 the subject. Perhaps he was one of the ' cornerers.' 
 
 Yet when all is said and done, it is not perhaps 
 for the European traveller to hold up his hands in 
 holy horror at such inhumanities. Further west too 
 such things as ' corners,' ' sweated labour,' and the 
 like are not unknown, and are indulged in by various 
 intensely ' civilised ' and professedly ' Christian ' in- 
 dividuals. The pity seems to be that Persian methods 
 of correction cannot be applied to these latter gentry 
 as well as to their prototypes in Ispahan. 
 
 Another feature of interest which one encounters 
 in one's bazaar wanderings are caravanserais, of which 
 Ispahan — being a centre for many converging trade 
 routes — contains many. What the hotel is to the
 
 ISPAHAN 255 
 
 West, that the caravanserai is to the East, but striking 
 indeed is the difference between them. 
 
 On entering the latter you find yourself in an open 
 courtyard surrounded by a low building of two stories, 
 the upper containing innumerable doors leading on to 
 small cell-like chambers which are for the accommo- 
 dation of the traveller, while the lower contains store- 
 rooms and stables in which goods and animals are 
 housed in inclement weather. But if the day be fine 
 all the ' fun of the fair ' is concentrated in that same 
 courtyard. Great piles of bales lie about in splendid 
 confusion, with here and there perhaps an anxious 
 merchant, list in hand, checking and re-checking his 
 precious merchandise, or chaffering with prospective 
 buyers in loud and vehement tones ; camels, ponies, 
 or mules — from its animals you can often guess by 
 what road a caravan has come — are the special care 
 of their owners, the muleteers or camelmen, who are 
 engaged in grooming, feeding, watering, attending 
 to the ailments — sore backs, cut knees, lamenesses, 
 and the like — of their charges. Up above, through 
 half-open doors, you catch a glimpse of the portly 
 forms of the richer travellers, who with carpets and 
 cushions have made their cells most comfortable, 
 and now recline at ease after the toils of the journey, 
 puffing luxuriously at their qaledns, or sipping tea 
 fresh from their samovars. At the serai gate is some- 
 times a sort of ' general store,' where all the require- 
 ments of the traveller, from fodder for his animals 
 to bread, tobacco, and kabobs — balls of roasted mutton 
 — for himself, can be purchased. 
 
 And since it is the East, there is no organisation 
 of any sort to control this heterogeneous conglomera-
 
 256 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 tion ; and since it is the Mohammedan East, its pursu- 
 ance is entirely democratic — that is to say, after the 
 way of all democracies, each man is just a trifle better 
 than his neighbour, and has the first right to finish 
 his own business first. So the resulting confusion is a 
 sort of minor maelstrom, and each individual elbows, 
 curses, and cuffs his way towards his object, while the 
 beasts after their kinds — with bubblings, snarls, 
 squeals, shrill neighs, and bickerings amongst them- 
 selves — add to the turmoil and clamour. 
 
 And just as, when looking from that eminence 
 over the city, you saw those far-away faint caravan 
 tracks, and all the romance of Eastern travel immedi- 
 ately leapt to your mind, so it is here again at close 
 quarters. For hither have those tracks led, and 
 hither the caravans — after winning their slow and 
 tortuous progress across desert, upland, and moun- 
 tain, by peril of thirst, by peril of swollen fords, by 
 peril of the snow passes, by peril of robbers — have 
 victoriously come to rest. 
 
 During my travels in Persia I endeavoured to dis- 
 cover the first causes of caravanserais, how they 
 came into existence and how were maintained ; but 
 without much success. The Persian is apparently 
 quite content to take the caravanserai as he finds 
 it, without bothering his head about the why and 
 wherefore. 
 
 I learnt, however, that most of the caravanserais 
 in present-day Persia owe their existence to a former 
 'king of kings,' the great Shah Abbas — he who made 
 Ispahan an imperial city. This public-spirited 
 monarch showed his interest in caravanserais to the 
 extent of building up and down the length and breadth
 
 ISPAHAN 257 
 
 of the land nine hundred and ninety-nine, a much 
 more impressive number — when you come to think it 
 over — than a mere thousand. The majority of these, 
 like all the remnants of the ancient grandeur of Iran, 
 are now in ruins. 
 
 Sometimes a rich Persian, as an act of piety, will 
 build a caravanserai and leave a sum for its upkeep ; 
 or a guild of merchants, in order to attract and facili- 
 tate trade, will subscribe for the purpose between them 
 and put a serai-keeper in charge, who levies a small 
 toll for the night's lodging from the traveller. In 
 other cases no attempt at upkeep is attempted, and 
 the building is allowed to fall slowly to pieces. Until 
 this process is completed some shopkeeper appoints 
 himself serai-keeper, and makes his profit out of selling 
 supplies. In such hostels lodging is free for the true 
 (Moslem) believer, but not for the European wayfarer, 
 who — in the popular imagination endowed with great 
 riches — is expected on this, as on every other occasion, 
 to put his hand in his pocket. . . . 
 
 Some distance to the west of Ispahan are the 
 ' Shaking Minarets,' and if you, the traveller, with 
 your sojourn for rest in the city sandwiched in between 
 two long journeys, are energetic enough to spend 
 half a day of it in the saddle, they at any rate form 
 an object for a ride. 
 
 The Minarets are situated on the top of a shrine, 
 are about thirty feet apart, and the ' performance ' 
 consists in an individual ascending the right-hand 
 tower, which he causes to oscillate by swaying to and 
 fro, when the motion is carried on to the other. 
 
 There are various ingenious explanations of the 
 phenomenon — such as concealed connecting chains and
 
 258 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 the like — which, being of a mechanical nature, were 
 not of interest to me. What did appeal to me was 
 that the towers did not shake to that extent which, 
 in view of the long ride and the backshish bestowed, 
 I had the right to expect. I said as much to the holy 
 man, the incumbent of the shrine. In reply he pointed 
 to a large crack in the right-hand tower, and intimated 
 that if any more vigour was applied the whole con- 
 cern might collapse about our ears. He had somewhat 
 the air of a conjurer apologising for the failure of a 
 trick, but at the same time relying on the generosity 
 of his audience not to press the matter too far. Out 
 of sympathy for his feelings — and still more perhaps 
 from a regard for my own personal safety — I hastened 
 to profess myself more than satisfied, and breathed 
 freer when once more we were on firm ground. 
 
 Near the Minarets is the Atesh Gah (Place of 
 Fire)' — the mud-brick ruins of an old Zoroastrian fire- 
 altar, perched up on the top of a small hill. You 
 leave your horse at the bottom, clamber up — the 
 ascent is somewhat steep — sit down with your back 
 against a convenient wall — the remnants of the 
 High Holy of Holies itself perhaps — and light your 
 pipe. From the base of the hill poplar-bordered paths 
 diverge in all directions through the chequered squares 
 of green and brown cultivation, until they disappear 
 towards the distant faint blue of the city itself. On 
 the right the river — flashing in the sun — bears one or 
 two small rafts floating slowly down. Elsewhere 
 hills, not high, yet capped with snow, form the far 
 horizon. And silence is over all. 
 
 And with such surroundings it is not strange 
 perhaps that a sober melancholy steals over you.
 
 ISPAHAN 259 
 
 For the ruins in whose shadow you sit represent a 
 religion and a civilisation long since passed away, to 
 give place to those of the city you look down on, 
 which in turn is passing even now before the march 
 of others, of which you from the West are a type and 
 an example. And yours, in their turn, what of them ? 
 . . . Is all, then, ' vanity and a striving after wind ' ? 
 ... Is there nothing of permanence anywhere ? 
 nothing of certitude ? . . . Nothing which does not 
 suffer change ? . . . Ah ! but here is something 
 which in its very impermanence is eternal : Change. 
 Is this, then, the answer to that tremendous question : 
 * What is truth ? ' Perhaps. 
 
 All thoughts, all creeds, all dreams are true, 
 All visions wild and strange. 
 Man is the measure of all truth 
 Unto himself, all truth is change.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 ISPAHAN TO AHWAZ 
 
 In Ispahan I met C , a brother officer, also Gulf- 
 wards bound by the same route as myself, and so we 
 naturally agreed to travel together, for travelling in 
 company in Persia has several advantages. 
 
 For one thing, it greatly breaks the monotony to 
 have some one to talk to during the long marches, 
 and to smoke a sociable pipe with before turning in 
 at night. For another it is individually cheaper, 
 since it by no means costs double for a caravan of 
 two than it does for that of one. For a third it is 
 safer in case of accidents by the way, such as a fall, 
 a fever, or a robber attack. 
 
 C had, moreover, knocked about the East in 
 
 most places from the Balkans to Java, had indeed 
 come up to Ispahan over the very road by which we 
 proposed to go down, so neither of us was exactly a 
 tyro with regard to Eastern travel. 
 
 The first arrangement to be made was with regard 
 to our caravan, and here we were lucky enough to 
 secure the services of one Hajji Hashim — afterwards 
 known to us by the former title alone — who agreed to 
 hire us nine animals — eight mules and one pony — for 
 a very moderate sum considering the rates then current 
 on the road. Hajji himself was, moreover, vouched 
 
 260
 
 ISPAHAN TO AHWAZ 261 
 
 for by various European residents in Ispahan as a 
 first-rate man,' so we jumped at the bargain. The 
 
 more so as C in coming up from Ahwaz had had 
 
 a very lazy, truculent, and good-for-nothing lot of 
 muleteers, who had given him endless trouble. 
 
 In consequence of these experiences C had 
 
 made various notes as the points of friction came up, 
 which notes he embodied in the contract to be signed 
 by the aforesaid Hajji, who signed that document 
 with the utmost amiability. But the reason for this 
 amiability was clear when it transpired — on the very 
 morning of our start — that the redoubtable Hajji 
 had no intention of accompanying us himself — ' he 
 would send his nephew, who by God was even a better 
 man than himself ! ' 
 
 It was a typical piece of Oriental trickery this, 
 which even through our annoyance made us smil e ; 
 but as sometimes happens with Eastern cunning it 
 tripped up over its very duplicity. We had no wish 
 to submit an old man — Hajji was no longer in his first 
 youth — to separation from his home and an uncom- 
 fortable journey over a difficult road, and if only Hajji 
 had let us know a day or two previously — at the 
 commencement of the negotiations — we could have 
 made other arrangements. But to make these now 
 — which we would have been forced to do, as no one 
 guaranteed that the nephew was a ' first-rate man,' 
 and indeed our subsequent experience of him proved 
 quite the contrary — was to postpone our start for 
 another day, or two, or three, which was impossible, 
 as — allowing for a safety margin — we had only just 
 time to catch our steamer at Mohammerah. So our 
 answer to Hajji was, in the old sporting parlance,
 
 262 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 ' Pay or play.' ' Either you come with us, or you 
 go before the Governor for breach of contract.' Old 
 Hajji after much expostulation preferred to ' Play/ 
 and come with us. And in truth once this little affair 
 was firmly settled, Hajji proved himself capable, 
 cheerful, and energetic, in fact, a veritable Prince of 
 Muleteers, and if ever I travel again in Persia I trust 
 it will be under his guidance. 
 
 There was only one other matter to be arranged 
 before we could strike the road, and that was the insur- 
 ance of our baggage against ' robbery under arms. ' The 
 Ispahan-Ahwaz route is one of the safest in Persia, 
 but this safety is only a matter of comparison with 
 other routes, and we had a warning before us in the 
 
 case of B , already alluded to, who had been robbed 
 
 and ill-treated on this very road. The well-known 
 Lynch Company, who originally made the road from 
 Ahwaz to Ispahan for the Bakhtiari chiefs, do busi- 
 ness of this sort, but their local agent, an Armenian, 
 curiously enough wished to strike out this very clause 
 of ' robbery under arms.' We pointed out to him 
 that it was hardly against 'fire at sea,' or ' ship- 
 wreck,' that we wished to insure our goods, where- 
 upon he seemed to see the point, and allowed us to 
 have our own way. 
 
 So at long last we were ready for the road, and 
 one morning clattered out of Ispahan — quite a little 
 cavalcade of twelve riding animals, and as many 
 
 souls, to wit : C and myself, our two servants, 
 
 Hajji and his two assistants, three mounted Tofung- 
 chis (Persian guards), and our two dogs. But does a 
 dog come under the heading of a soul ? That depends 
 upon yourself. How runs 'My Dog ' ?
 
 ISPAHAN TO AHWAZ 263 
 
 The curate thinks you have no soul. 
 I know that he has none. But you, 
 Dear friend . . . 
 
 Personally, I disagree with the curate, and like to 
 believe, or imagine — and sometimes these two are 
 very much alike — that at any rate my dog, the one 
 and only Rags, has a doggy soul of his own some- 
 where in his little woolly body. 
 
 Thiee of our party were somewhat in the nature 
 of an unnecessary and expensive luxury : our Tofung- 
 chis, to wit. Unnecessary, because they were only to 
 accompany us for the first three days during which 
 no trouble could be anticipated, and expensive, since, 
 according to custom, they expected to get paid 
 for their services at the rate of so much per diem, 
 going and returning. The gifts of princes, however, 
 are difficult to refuse, and since this particular one 
 had been politely pressed upon us by His Excellency 
 the Governor of Ispahan, we had not liked to refuse. 
 
 There are some sensations one never loses, no 
 matter how often they may be repeated, and that of 
 starting on a journey is one of them. One feels it 
 in a less degree every morning of a long travel, and in 
 a greater when — as was now the case — after a short 
 sojourn one sets out once more on the open road. . . . 
 
 The first day's march — as it should always be, 
 when possible— was short and easy, but nevertheless 
 we thought that two or three of our mules would 
 never reach its end, so dead lame did they appear. 
 And we reproached Hajji on the subject. 
 
 ' Khatir jama bashed ' (Let not your hearts be 
 disturbed), replied that individual ; ' it is only that 
 they are a little stiff in starting. When we reach the
 
 264 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 mountains you will see that they will run like the 
 mountain sheep, W Allah.' 
 
 And the curious thing is that this was quite true. 
 The lame ones improved day by day, and when we 
 reached the mountains, if they did not ' run like the 
 mountain sheep ' they went excellently well for all 
 ordinary purposes. 
 
 And while on the subject of animals I may mention 
 
 that while C bestrode a pony — quite a handsome 
 
 little beast, and seemingly too good for such rough 
 work as the ' Lynch Road ' — I rode a mare mule. 
 She was 'a rum 'un to look at, but a good 'un to go,' 
 
 and while C cut the better figure, I was infinitely 
 
 the more comfortable. My mount, indeed, was really 
 like a ' mountain sheep ' over the most precipitous 
 
 paths, and when C had to dismount to lead his 
 
 animal — which was by no means too sure-footed — I 
 could keep my seat, leave the reins loose, and puff at a 
 pipe with an easy mind. I christened her Rosinante, 
 would feed her with bread at the end of the day's 
 march, and grew quite fond of the old thing long 
 before we reached Ahwaz. 
 
 Our manzil that night was in a village by the side 
 
 of a river, and C and I with the dogs rode on 
 
 in the dusk, and waited on the farther bank for the 
 arrival of the caravan. 
 
 The dusk turned to darkness, with the stars peeping 
 out one by one. Just below us a mill sluice roared 
 and churned. In front the bridge stretched white 
 across the river, fast flowing and sombre, save when 
 it flashed to foam in the sluice or against the arches 
 of the roadway. The scene was not without its 
 charm. It was our first night upon the road, and we
 
 ISPAHAN TO AHWAZ 265 
 
 waited patiently enough, until presently up came the 
 caravan with a jingle of bells and men's voices, filing 
 in sharp silhouettes across the bridge, to halt finally 
 in a caravanserai near by. 
 
 But it was some appreciable time later — as it 
 was the first night out — before the caravan was 
 actually at rest, all hands being strange to each 
 other, and working consequently without proper 
 organisation or right division of labour. At length, 
 however, a room having been chosen for our habita- 
 tion, the mules were unloaded and stabled, our bags 
 and Yakdans opened, their contents — cooking-pots, 
 camp-beds, folding-beds, and what not — disgorged, 
 and culinary operations set on foot. 
 
 Our beds lined the walls of the room, leaving just 
 enough space in the middle for our table — two Yak- 
 dans put side by side, and then, until food should 
 appear, we occupied ourselves in writing up our 
 diaries for the day, or in perusing such literature as 
 we had brought with us. 
 
 At length, and none too soon for the aching voids 
 within us, the evening meal was borne in — very simple, 
 merely stew with piles of fresh-baked native bread. 
 But for my share in that dish of stew, Esau-like, 
 I would have bartered my birthright willingly, or 
 I am afraid my soul, or Rags' either, if it had been 
 in the power of the Evil One to suggest such a bargain 
 at such a moment. 
 
 And following the evening meal, the best hour 
 perhaps — after that of the start — of the whole twenty- 
 four of a travelling day, given up to digestion, a feeling 
 of very pleasant fatigue, tobacco, and a study of the 
 next day's march from map and route-book.
 
 266 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 And after that — bed. 
 
 The next morning the air was cold, with a chill 
 wind, for the season — middle March — was still winter 
 and a Persian winter can be as severe, or more so, 
 than an English one. Snow had recently fallen in 
 Ispahan, and on the Bakhtiari highlands — which were 
 of a considerably higher elevation than the city, and 
 through which the first ten or twelve days of our 
 journey would lie — really inclement conditions might 
 be expected. 
 
 Our way, at first over a rolling plain, soon crossed 
 a hill pass, which was my initial experience of the 
 difficulties of the Lynch Road. Perhaps the word 
 ' road ' deceives him, though after a little experience 
 he ought to know that this expression in Persia is 
 merely a country title, but there is no doubt that 
 the impression which this particular piece of travel 
 leaves on the mind of the wayfarer is that of respectful 
 astonishment, and when accomplished, of heartfelt 
 thankfulness. For the Lynch Road now ascending 
 the steep hillsides, now descending their equally 
 precipitous counter-slopes — in either case more often 
 than not strewn thickly with great boulders, now 
 skirting the dizzy edges of ravines, or driving itself 
 over some high mountain-pass — whose passage at all 
 times is fraught with labour to the uttermost, and in 
 winter with danger of death, the Lynch Road is — 
 briefly speaking — one of the most difficult mule- 
 tracks in the world ! Two good suspension-bridges 
 have been built over gorges, here and there the track 
 has been banked up, but for the most part it has been 
 left in its pristine state, and thus it remains — even 
 in Iran' — something outstanding in the way of hard
 
 VIEW OX THE LYNCH ROAD 
 
 BAKHTIARIS
 
 ISPAHAN TO AHWAZ 267 
 
 travelling, something which when covered gives you 
 full right to consider yourself a ' blooded ' Persian 
 wayfarer. 
 
 But the present pass was nothing very formidable, 
 as passes go, on the route, merely steepish, long, and 
 
 boulder-strewn, and C and I proceeded to the top 
 
 ahead of the caravan without much difficulty, old 
 Rosin ante taking it in her stride. Every now and 
 then, halting" for a breath, we could look back on an 
 expanse of typical Persian landscape : brown rolling 
 downs merging into dun-coloured plain, sparsely dotted 
 with cultivation and rare villages ; beyond, the inevit- 
 able circle of brown bare hills, the furthermost topped 
 with snow ; near at hand, the white stony track zig- 
 zagging upwards, with our caravan toiling midget- 
 like far below ; and over all, throwing moving chequers 
 of light and shade, the hurrying clouds swept along 
 by the wind. And this wind ! Phew ! Down on the 
 plain merely pleasantly fresh, upon the hillside it cut 
 like a razor-blade, making me feel — for all my furs 
 and wraps — as nude as Father Adam before the 
 Fall. So it was in the light of a special dispensation 
 of Providence that we found— perched at the very 
 summit of the pass — a khawa-khana, where boiling 
 hot tea, and a toasting before a crackling fire, restored 
 our circulation a little. 
 
 Soon — too soon for me — we heard the stamping 
 of our caravan outside the door, and when all had 
 partaken of tea we set out once more, this time down- 
 wards, but facing the same typical Persian landscape 
 — brown downs, dun-coloured plain, patches of culti- 
 vation, scattered villages, encircling hills, white stony 
 track and all.
 
 268 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 Next day was chilly also, and that night we stayed 
 in a village at the foot of the Zirrah Pass, and could 
 watch its thin black track winding up and up amidst 
 the precipitous snows, most formidable in appearance. 
 Nor did its look belie it. For we learnt that only the 
 day before four travellers had been caught by a bliz- 
 zard while crossing and been frozen to death. 
 
 Wherefore Hajji decided that we would give the 
 pass a wide berth, and cross the range at another 
 place. So next morning found us travelling over the 
 same rolling downs with the range on our left hand. 
 
 We had been some two hours on the road when 
 we heard shots, and thought we could distinguish 
 through our glasses the figures of galloping horsemen. 
 
 ' Who be these, Hajji ? ' I said, affecting a con- 
 siderably lighter tone than my feelings warranted — 
 ' Duzddn ? ' 
 
 ' Khatir jamah bashed," 1 which was a favourite 
 expression of his ; ' these are no robbers, but may be 
 hunters, who are after gazelle. Moreover, there is 
 no one along this road who dare touch a sahib ' — I 
 
 thought of B . 'If any man even speaks to you 
 
 with a loud voice, you have only to report him to 
 the Sardar-i-Sang ' (the Bahktiari chief in charge of 
 the road) ' and he will have a thousand sticks broken 
 across the soles of his feet. Khatir jamah bashed, 
 you are as safe here as in the streets of Teheran.' 
 There crossed my mind the recollection of my journey 
 to Damascus, of a certain morning when Shamoo, 
 like Hajji, had in the course of desultory conversa- 
 tion testified with an oath to the complete and all- 
 embracing safety of our route, and of the conflict 
 with robbers which ensued within less than an hour,
 
 A SUSPENSION BRIDGE
 
 ISPAHAN TO AHWAZ 269 
 
 and therefore was considerably relieved when nothing 
 more was seen or heard of our ' gazelle hunters.' 
 
 The next few hours gave me an experience of the 
 most extraordinary piece of road I have ever traversed. 
 
 We entered a gorge on the level of a brawling tor- 
 rent, and the track — barely wide enough for two laden 
 mules to pass each other — wound steadily up the rocky 
 face of the cliff. Now we were fifty, now a hundred, 
 now a couple, and now many, many hundreds of feet 
 above the river below, and with every hundred feet 
 the track seemed to get proportionally narrower, 
 until to all outward seeming our mules were clinging 
 fly-like to the face of the gorge. On our right hand 
 the cliff upwards to the sky, on our left the drop 
 to the creaming torrent, in the midst rock-pigeons 
 wheeling in the dizzy vault. Here and there the 
 track crumbled away, doubtless only the result of 
 the wind and weather, but with the very same appear- 
 ance as if some slipping animal had made a last despe- 
 rate scramble for life. Here and there a jutting rock 
 would force our passing animals outwards until their 
 loads hung well over the edge. For the most part 
 our view was limited by the gloomy walls of the gorge, 
 but now and then at some turn in the track these 
 would open, and we would have a far, clear sight of 
 the river winding through the plain, and of distant 
 snow-covered hills. 
 
 And all the time the mules did bravely, as they 
 picked their precarious upward way with little sure- 
 footed, mincing steps. Now pulling themselves for- 
 ward, as it were, with quick jerking heads and 
 straining shoulders ; now slipping at the steeper bits, 
 but recovering marvellously with a clatter of stones ;
 
 270 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 now taking breath as opportunity offered, and scan- 
 ning the forward passage with wise-cocked heads and 
 appraising eyes. He is a half-breed is the mule, 
 obstinate, unlovely, and unlovable, but on the hill- 
 side he is a mountaineer born and bred, and there 
 your heart goes out to him. 
 
 Nor were the services of the muleteers any whit 
 inferior to those of their charges. Now they would 
 seize a tail to swing an animal round an awkward 
 corner, now standing on the edge of a precipice they 
 would adjust an overbalancing load, or a slipping 
 knot, or again would jerk a stumbling beast to his 
 feet, and ever they made the rocks ring again with 
 their shouts of encouragement or objurgation. 
 
 Yes, he is a stout fellow, the Persian muleteer, 
 from the crown of his tall conical cap to the soles 
 of his shoes. Not uncommonly a somewhat surly, 
 boorish, and disobliging individual, no more than 
 his mule can he command your liking, but you can- 
 not help giving him some sort of your admiration. 
 
 At length the track losing its head altogether — 
 as well it might at such a height — turned itself from 
 the abyss and streaked desperately up the sheer face 
 of the cliff in zigzags of summer lightning for the 
 space of three hundred yards or so. 
 
 How we accomplished that last piece of gymnastics 
 I do not rightly know. For my own part I judged 
 the time had come to trust to my own two feet rather 
 than even to Rosinante's four, and dismounting and 
 knotting the reins short on her neck left her to make 
 her own pace, which she did adequately enough with 
 the rest of the caravan at her heels, and after some 
 strenuous scrambling, shouting, hauling, shoving, and
 
 ISPAHAN TO AHWAZ 271 
 
 the like, we were over the cliff-edge on to flat ground, 
 and the passage of the gorge was accomplished. 
 
 While we took a thrice-earned rest I looked at 
 my watch. The passage of the gorge had taken us 
 four hours. It has taken you, O Reader ! seated in 
 your comfortable arm-chair, as many minutes to 
 accomplish. How inadequate and vain a thing it is 
 to attempt to reduce the sum of human effort to 
 mere written words. 
 
 The next day, after the passage of another, but 
 milder gorge, we arrived at one of the suspension- 
 bridges already alluded to, and strange and incon- 
 gruous indeed in the midst of this wild country did 
 this product of civilisation appear. It spans a swift 
 torrent with high rocky backs, and being the only 
 crossing place for miles bears much traffic, especially 
 in the spring and autumn when the great nomad 
 tribes change their grounds, seeking either the Garam- 
 sir or Sardsir (winter or summer quarters) as the 
 case may be. 
 
 It being now late winter, the first of the tribes— 
 amongst themselves the Khans arrange times and 
 orders of the tribal migrations — were on the move, 
 seeking the upper pastures, which soon would be free 
 of snow. So all day long there streamed across the 
 bridge flocks of goats and sheep ; uncouth tribesmen, 
 clad in sheepskins, with rifles slung across their backs ; 
 droves of ponies, mules, or donkeys, carrying the 
 tribal impedimenta — amongst which were the ' black 
 booths,' as common to these nomads of the hills as 
 to their Bedouin brethren of the plains ; impish boys 
 not too young to have a dagger or two stuck in their 
 belts ; young women, sometimes nursing squalling
 
 272 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 infants, to whom they gave the breast to still their 
 wails, and sometimes — perhaps fresh from their con- 
 finement, or a favourite of their lord and master — 
 borne luxuriously in panniers ; with behind all the 
 old women, withered, bent, hobbling, not unpathetic, 
 their time for the favour of men, the bearing of chil- 
 dren, for riding in panniers, long past and gone. 
 
 The Bakhtiari Khans — who are in charge of the 
 road — keep a couple of mirzas at the bridge to take 
 toll of everything which passes, and these received 
 us very hospitably in their house, giving us tea and 
 light refreshments. But for all their hospitality 
 they did not look the stuff to exact tolls from unruly 
 
 tribesmen, at least so C and I remarked to each 
 
 other. We were to learn, however, that there was 
 mettle below their clerkly exteriors. For presently 
 a hot argument arose between them and some half a 
 dozen tribesmen who were standing sulkily outside, 
 with a sheep in their midst. Both sides grew more 
 and more heated, until finally the tribesmen after 
 a volley of abuse retired, bearing the sheep with them. 
 Whereupon our friends, snatching up cudgels, rushed 
 into the fray, followed — not a little to our amusement 
 and admiration — by an urchin of about twelve, the 
 son of one of them. A good deal of indiscriminate 
 scuffling and shouting took place, the unfortunate 
 sheep being pulled this way and that as the tide of 
 battle swayed, while the aforesaid urchin hung on 
 the outskirts of the turmoil — like a ' half ' outside 
 a Rugby ' scrum ' — every now and then planting a 
 shrewd blow on the legs or posteriors of the enemy. 
 But no real damage was effected, and presently the 
 clerks returned — panting, dishevelled, but bearing the
 
 ISPAHAN TO AHWAZ 273 
 
 sheep with them as the spoils of victorious war- 
 when we learnt the cause of the uproar. To wit, 
 the mirzas — after the fashion of the Orient — took 
 good care to feather their own nests as well as those 
 of their employers, and had imposed an unauthorised 
 super-tax for themselves of one sheep or goat out of 
 every hundred that passed. This super-tax some 
 insolent shepherds had had the audacity to oppose. 
 Hence the conflict. 
 
 Of course the mirzas — though it does not detract 
 from their spirited behaviour — had the authority 
 of the Khans behind them. And this authority is 
 a fairly real one, as far as the Bakhtiaris themselves 
 are concerned, since each Khan keeps around him a 
 bodyguard of well-armed retainers— somewhat after 
 the fashion of a mediaeval baron — with which he 
 rules his fief. And indeed we heard many tales 
 from the poorer folk along our way of the tyranny 
 of the chiefs. 
 
 The next night found us in very tight quarters. 
 Arriving at a miserable hamlet after dark we found 
 but one room, which the rightful owners would 
 evacuate for our accommodation, and even this they 
 would not have done had not they known Hajji of 
 old, as indeed did every one along the road. So the 
 muleteers joined the throng next door, while we, 
 and our servants, and our kit, took possession of 
 our palatial quarters. Half of it we gave up to our 
 servants — in which to live, move, have their being, 
 and cook — the other half belonged to us and the dogs. 
 
 In such a congested area we did not think it worth 
 while to erect our camp-beds, or to unrobe unneces- 
 sarily, but laid our bedding on the floor, and, minus
 
 274 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 our boots, slept as we were, or rather dozed uneasily, 
 for though, the occupants of the room had gone they 
 had left their familiars behind them, and these — 
 rejoicing in fresh Christian flesh — like good Muslims 
 fell to and enjoyed many a hearty meal. 
 
 All night long at intervals I heard the ominous 
 sound of rain pattering on the roof, and twice felt 
 it on my face as it trickled through the cracks, when 
 I had to ' take up my bed and walk ' and seek a 
 drier spot ; and next morning, with no improvement 
 in the weather, Hajji announced that there would be 
 no travelling that day. 
 
 No travelling that day ! Another twenty-four 
 hours in that dog-hole ! ! Great Scott ! ! ! And we 
 expostulated with Hajji. But to no purpose. ' The 
 stage was a bad one. The path would be impassable 
 through mud. The mules would fall. Khatir jamah 
 bashed ; if the sun comes out to-day to dry the ground 
 to-morrow we start without fail.' 
 
 And here was another advantage of having a 
 trustworthy henchman. With an inferior character 
 as head of our caravan, we might have thought that 
 for some ulterior purpose of his own he was delaying 
 our progress, have forced him to start, and so marched 
 on disaster. But with Hajji we knew it was a true 
 bill and let it pass. 
 
 So once more into our prison and the hours dragged 
 themselves away, in writing, dozing, or smoking. 
 Though in truth there was enough smoke already 
 with us from the cooking operations of our servants, 
 and since as the day wore over this hung — there being 
 no proper outlet — in a heavy haze to within about 
 a few feet of the ground the only way to avoid being
 
 ISPAHAN TO AHWAZ 275 
 
 stifled was to assume a half-recumbent position. Even 
 so, every now and then the atmosphere would become 
 
 unbearable, and either C or I would stagger forth 
 
 — with watering eyes and a choking throat — to get a 
 breath of fresh air. I am convinced that a prolonged 
 stay in that inferno would have made me stone-blind. 
 As it was my eyes smarted for the next day or two. 
 
 No ! it was not exactly a red-letter day in my 
 diary of travel. However, 
 
 Now Zeus sends us sunshine, and now he sends us rain, 
 
 and towards the afternoon the sun came out, and 
 after another night of the Black Hole we woke to a 
 fine morning, and the road once more. 
 
 During the day's march we passed the actual spot 
 
 where B ■ had been ambushed, and personally I 
 
 scanned the hillsides with an apprehensive eye, half 
 expecting to hear the bullets of the Kuguloos zip 
 above our heads. For it was a section of this peculiarly 
 lawless tribe which had done the deed. Their country 
 lies well to the south-west of the Bakhtiari territory, 
 but on their raids a hundred miles or so is merely a 
 long step for them. It was from the Kuguloos, and 
 
 not from any of the Bakhtiaris, that C and I 
 
 might expect trouble, if trouble occurred. But as 
 the snow still blocked the south-western mountain 
 passes we were fairly safe from molestation, which is 
 about the utmost one can expect when travelling in 
 present-day Persia. 
 
 But nothing occurred, and we went peacefully on 
 our way, as might be expected, on the analogy that 
 the safest place in a battleship — during action — is 
 with one's head stuck through the last shot-hole ! 
 
 T 2
 
 276 TRAVELS IN THE MIDDLE EAST 
 
 That evening we reached another spot which 
 also had been visited by the above tribe — a caravan- 
 serai, to wit, whose half-ruined state and flame-black- 
 ened walls bore truth to the tale of its occupants that 
 in the autumn it had been gutted by the Kuguloos. 
 
 The next night we reached the second of the 
 suspension-bridges, also spanning a deep and rapid 
 torrent. And here too were tax-gatherers who took 
 toll of those crossing the bridge. 
 
 But at the head of these was no mere clerk, but 
 a young Khan — a scion of one of the chief Bakhtiari 
 families. He likewise represented in his person a side 
 of Persian life which is not without its interest for 
 the student of either the politics or sociology of Iran — 
 a Persian who had visited Europe. 
 
 The young Khan of the bridge seemed as a matter 
 of fact a very nice boy. But it was only too evident 
 how his sojourn of three years in Europe had unfitted 
 him for his present position as a tribal chief. He was 
 pathetically delighted to see us, travellers from that 
 civilised outer world for which his soul longed, and 
 — significant fact enough in itself — much preferred 
 to converse in French. His talk, moreover, was all 
 of Europe, and things and events European, where 
 a Bakhtiari of the Bakhtiaris would have discussed 
 local politics. He had under him some half a dozen 
 tribesmen, at whose head was a peculiarly ruffianly 
 looking individual, who it was not difficult to see was 
 the real Horatius — the keeper of the bridge— and who 
 from his manner and general bearing had apparently no 
 great feelings of liking or respect for his young chief. 
 
 Poor young chief, the thought of him boxed up 
 in the heart of the wild Bakhtiari hills with that
 
 ISPAHAN TO AHWAZ 277 
 
 cut-throat crew, often occurred to me on our onward 
 journey to Ahwaz, and still does, as I write, since 
 I suppose he is still there ! 
 
 It was at this halt that C and I first used our 
 
 tents. Up to now we had been able to get shelter 
 in caravanserais or in villages, but now these failed, 
 as the remaining manzils were merely camping-grounds 
 near water. 
 
 Another four days, made up of travelling such as 
 already described, brought us into the district of Ara- 
 bistan, where we found a complete change of country 
 — the rugged hills giving place to flat or undulat- 
 ing plain and desert. The people also changed with 
 the land-features, and instead of the high-capped 
 Persians we moved amongst Arabs, with their head- 
 dresses of beringed kerchiefs, their flowing cloaks, 
 and their harsh guttural Arabic speech. For Ara- 
 bistan — as its name implies — is inhabited by Arab 
 tribes, and is indeed one of the Eastern outposts of 
 those Arab peoples, who — whether in town, village, 
 or desert, whether civilised, semi-civilised, or nomadic 
 — stretch westward across Arabia, Syria, Egypt, 
 and North Africa, until from the walls of Mogador 
 they gaze upon the long rollers of the Atlantic Ocean. 
 
 Across Arabistan we travelled for some three 
 marches — and easy ones they were too after those 
 infernal hills we had left behind us. On the afternoon 
 of the 18th day after Ispahan we sighted Ahwaz, 
 and within an hour were enjoying the hospitality of 
 the British Consulate.
 
 68 
 
 Stanford's Grog- Estab*, London .
 
 ^v 
 
 A 
 
 r 
 
 r
 
 INDEX 
 
 Abdul, karawan-bashi, 135 
 Abdul Aziz, sheikh, character 
 
 of, 61-72, 78 ; his designs on 
 
 my pistol, 65-72 
 Alms, 16 
 Anazeh, 80, 81 
 Arabic, teachers in, 100 seq. 
 Arabistan, 277 
 Askabad, 205 ; Babist temple in, 
 
 206 ; railway station, 208 
 
 Babylon, impressions of, 82 
 Baghdad, arrival at, 17 ; ba- 
 zaars of, 26, 31, 32 ; dogs 
 of, 26 ; gates of, 30, 33 ; 
 lodgings in, 20 ; Khawa- 
 Khana al Jisr, 21 ff., 25; 
 music-halls in, 24 ff., 28 ; 
 bookshops in, 30 ; departure 
 from, 35 ; trams in, 33 ; East 
 and West, 33 ; return to, 54 
 
 Bahrein, 7, 8 
 
 Bakhtiaris, 272, 276 
 
 Baku, 214; anarchy in, 215-16 
 
 Bakuba, 38, 54 
 
 Bander Abbas, 7 
 
 Bedouin, tents, 64 ; rule of hos- 
 pitality, 71 ; women, 75, 76, 
 91 ; encampment, 91 
 
 Bedouins, 8, 9, 13 ; a trouble- 
 some sheikh, 61-72, 78 ; keen 
 sight of, 73 ; approaching 
 strange, 77 ; caravan attacked 
 by, 91 ff • ; in Damascus, 109 
 
 Beggars, in Ispahan, 251 ff. 
 
 Birjand, 159 
 
 Blunt, W. S., 86 
 
 Buggalows, 9, 10 
 
 Bushire, 7 
 
 Busra, 4, 11, 12 seq. 
 
 Camel, mounting a, 139 
 Camels, 36 ; my, 134 ff. 
 Camp fires in the desert, 78 
 Caravan, abandoned, 56 ; com- 
 position of, 87, 130; travel- 
 ling, pleasure and trouble of, 
 89-90 
 Cemeteries, 245 
 Christians in Baghdad, 29 
 Coffee-houses, a sahib in, 36 
 ' Corners,' treatment of, 253 ff. 
 
 Damascus, arrival at, 99 ; ba- 
 zaars of, 102 ff. ; beggars of, 
 106; cafes of, no; cook- 
 shops of, 104 ; my guide to, 
 107 ; mosques of, 112 ; 
 Straight Street, 102 
 
 Daniel, 188 ff., 194, 197 
 
 Deli -Abbas, 41 
 
 Dervishes, Whirling. See Mola- 
 wees 
 
 Desert, travel in, 56 seq. ; 
 varieties of, 60 ; wells, 60, 80 
 
 Dress of Christian women in 
 Baghdad, 29 
 
 Enzeli, 219 
 
 Escort, trouble with my, 164 
 
 Executions, 250 
 
 279
 
 280 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Fez, use of the, 102, 112 
 First journey, route of, 38, 53 
 French, how far used in Russia, 
 205 
 
 Ganesh, 3 
 
 Gendarmerie, Swedish, 217, 222 
 
 ff. 
 Gugas, 23, 32 
 Gunabad, 168 ff. 
 Gurfa, 38 
 
 Hajji Baba, 157, 234 
 
 Hajji Hashim, 260, 263 ; a 
 trusted henchman, 274 
 
 Hamun, the, 151, 154 
 
 Hassan and Hussein. See Pas- 
 sion Play 
 
 Hospitality, payment for, 47, 
 72 ; Bedouin rule applied, 71 
 
 Howa-al-ajnz, the, 55 
 
 Impressions, a traveller's, 82 
 In sha Allah, force of, 12, 34 
 Ispahan, 242 ff. 
 
 Jael, a new, 75 
 
 Jask, 5 
 
 Journalist of Baghdad, 25 
 
 Kaif, 244 
 
 Karachi, 1, 2, 3 
 
 Karbala, the tragedy of, 168 ff. 
 
 Kartepe, 42 
 
 Kazmain, 33 
 
 Kerbala, 33, 34, 37, 41, 54 ; 
 
 arrival at, 55 
 Khanikin, 54 
 Khans, 37 
 Khawa-khanas, 232 
 Khuda-dad, 131 ff., 145 ff., 
 
 160 ff. 
 Kirkook, 38, 44 
 Koweit, 8, 9, n 
 Krasnadorsk, 213 
 Kuchan, 194 
 Kum, 234 
 Kurds, 42 ; encampment of, 49 
 
 ff. ; women's curiosity, 52 ff. 
 
 Lingah, 7 
 
 Lynch Road, the, 264, 266 
 
 Maskat, 6 
 
 Meshed, first view of, 167 ; the 
 forbidden shrine of, 187 ; de- 
 parture from, 189 
 
 Minarets, the Shaking, 257 
 
 Mohammed, 9 
 
 Moharram, celebration of, 169 ff. 
 
 Molawees (Whirling Dervishes), 
 116 ff. 
 
 Mules, 269 
 
 Muleteers, 270 
 
 Naib Hussain, brigand, 231, 
 
 235 
 Nasratabad, 147, 150 
 N dutch, a, 27 
 Nayal, a Bedouin guide, 60 ; 
 
 his pledge, 57, 79, 87 
 
 Palgrave, Richard, 51 
 
 Palmyra, 83, 87 
 
 Passion Play, the Shiah (see 
 Tdzea), 169 ff., 172, 180, 185 
 
 Pearl divers, 8 
 
 Persia, only railway in, 227 ; 
 roads in, 226, 266 ; Swedish 
 gendarmerie, 217, 222 ff. 
 
 Persian Gulf, life in, 5, 7, 10 
 
 Persian postmen, 228 ; post- 
 wagon, travel by, 225 ff., 240 
 
 Pilgrims, 14 ff. 
 
 Pilot, a loyal, 11 
 
 Proverbs, local, 108 
 
 Provisions for the desert, 59 
 
 Quetta, 129 
 
 * Rags,' 131, 136, 230, 262 ; 
 
 in a Russian train, 210 
 Rail-head, impression of, 130 
 Resht, 220 
 Road guards, extortion of, 
 
 163 ff.
 
 INDEX 
 
 281 
 
 Robbery, risks of, 152, 162 ff. 
 
 See also Naib Hussain 
 ' Rosinante,' 264 
 Route, of first journey, 38 ; 
 
 change in, 53-4 ; of second 
 
 journey, 55 
 Russia, entered, 204 ; use of 
 
 French in, 205 ; travel in, 211 
 Russian woman, help from a, 
 
 195 
 
 Rustum, 145 
 
 Said, 40 
 
 Sakoska, the, 218 
 
 Salahiyeh, 38, 43, 44, 53 
 
 Sandstorm, 2 
 
 Second journey, route of, 55 
 
 Seistan, 145 
 
 Shaking Minarets, 257 
 
 Sham. See Damascus 
 
 Shiahs, 14, 33 ; burial-place of, 
 
 44 ; Passion Play of, 169 ff. 
 Sindbad the Sailor, 3, 8 
 Snow, 191 ff. ; caught in a 
 
 drift, 202 
 ' Straight,' the street that is 
 
 called. See Damascus 
 Suk-el-Arouain, 103 ff. 
 Suk-Souroudjieh, 108 
 Suleimaniyeh, 38, 43, 46 
 Sunnis, 15 
 
 Swedish gendarmerie, 217, 222 
 
 ff. 
 Syria, differing from Arabia, 98 
 
 Tadmor, the sheikh of, 86 ff . 
 
 Tazea (Passion Play), 169 ff. ; 
 story of the, 172 ; behaviour 
 of audience at, 180 ff. ; reflec- 
 tions on, 185 
 
 Teheran, arrival at, 224 ; fellow- 
 travellers to, 217 
 
 Travel, the first day of, 36 ; 
 charm of, 38, 39, 43 ; discom- 
 forts of Eastern, 88-90 ; 
 typical day in the desert, 138 
 ff. 
 
 Truffles in the desert, 74 
 
 Turkish baths, 122 ff. 
 
 Unloading on the Gulf mail, 
 9, 10 
 
 Water-skins, an episode, 78, 
 
 80 
 ' Wind of the Old Woman,' 55 
 
 Zenobia, 85-6 
 Zirrah Pass, 268 
 
 AT THE BALLANTYNE PRESS 
 
 PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE, BALLANTYNE AND CO. LTD. 
 
 COLCHESTER, LONDON AND ETON
 
 NEW FICTION 
 
 Jitny and the Boys. 
 
 By BENNET COPPLESTONE. 
 
 Crown 8vo. 5s. net 
 
 Daily Telegraph. — ' Delightful reading. An ideal volume for parents who 
 have sons in the fighting forces ; just as surely may it be recommended to the 
 fighting sons themselves.' 
 
 Glasgow Herald. — ' Our Scottish patriotism enables us to appreciate to the 
 full the finely expressed English patriotism of the author, and we only wish we 
 could write a book about Scotland and Scottish youth that would be half so 
 interesting and enjoyable as " Jitny and the Boys." ' 
 
 MRS. HUMPHRY WARD'S NEW NOVEL, 
 
 A Great Success. 
 
 Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 Pall Mall Gazette. — ' Mrs. Humphry Ward handles this sort of material 
 to perfection, and it will be no surprise if the title proves prophetic. " A Great 
 Success " is certainly what the book looks like." 
 
 Scotsman. — ' As remarkable as anything the author has done. It is sure to 
 prove as worthy of its title in an extrinsical way as it is in its own diverting and 
 refreshing pages.' 
 
 The Red Cross Barge. 
 
 By Mrs. BELLOC LOWNDES. 
 
 Author of ' The Chink in the Armour,' 
 ' The Lodger,' ' Good Old Anna,' &c. 
 
 Second Impression. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net 
 
 Spectator. — ' Mrs. Lowndes has undertaken something that would be 
 beyond the power of any story-teller who had not a precise control of the 
 material in hand. She has succeeded. She is a born story-teller ... A skilful 
 story which not only interests and touches us, but gives us a very close picture 
 of the rush of war.' 
 
 Daily Telegraph — ' Mrs. Belloc Lowndes has followed one success with 
 another. In its way it is a Red Cross epic' 
 
 London: Smith, Elder & Co., 15 Waterloo Place, S.W.
 
 New 'Publications 
 
 Second Impression. Large post 8vo. 6s. net. 
 
 Escape, and other Essays. 
 
 By Arthur Christopher Benson, 
 
 Author of ' The Upton Letters,' ' From a College Window,' &c. 
 
 Daily Graphic. — ' The essays include some deeply Interesting pages of Mr. 
 Benson's literary autobiography.' 
 
 Standard. — ' Confessions which are often charming, and reflections which are 
 frequently both fresh and significant. The book deserves to be read as an " escape " 
 in these tragic days into that serene atmosphere of faith and hope which we all 
 surely need to cultivate.' 
 
 Demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net. 
 
 The French in the Heart of America. 
 
 By John Finley, 
 
 Commissioner of Education in the State of New York. 
 Times. — ' A book of no little historical imagination.' 
 
 Large post 6vo. 6s. net. 
 
 Didascalus Patiens : 
 
 A Satire, a Medley, a Romance. 
 By J. H. E. Crees. 
 
 Saturday Review. — ' We recognise this as the real thing. Dr. Crees has written 
 with humour, knowledge, and real feeling a book that is provocative of thought.' 
 
 Scotsman — ' It is always lively, learned, and briskly controversial. It should 
 Interest and help any reader who wishes to understand how the English schoolmaster 
 stands at the present moment.' 
 
 Large post 8vo. 7s. 6d. net. 
 
 Father Payne. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 Times. — ' Payne himself is delightful. His story and his opinions make a book 
 that will interest the general reader even more than it will interest the man of letters 
 on his craftsman's side.' 
 
 Daily Graphic. — ' It has all the stimulating qualities of Mr. Benson's essays .... 
 a mellow book, rich in helpful thought expressed with deep feeling and poetry.' 
 
 Eph 
 
 With a Portrait in Photogravure. Demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net. 
 
 emera. 
 
 By Geoffrey Drage, 
 
 Author of ' The Imperial Organisation of Trade, &c. 
 
 Scotsman. — ' The book as a whole sustains the writer's contention for the im- 
 portance of self-help and self-reliance in moulding the aristocracy of service that 
 is to determine the attitude of the State to the Social and Imperial problems of the 
 future.' 
 
 London : Smith, Elder & Co., 1 5 Waterloo Place, S.W.
 
 Biography and Reminiscence 
 
 New Edition (the 7th), mostly rewritten and greatly enlarged. 
 
 With 3 Portraits, and Facsimiles of Shakespeare's known Signatures, 
 
 Small demy 8vo. 8s. 6d. net. 
 
 A Life of William Shakespeare. 
 
 By Sir Sidney Lee, D.Litt., 
 
 Professor of English Language and Literature in the University of London ; 
 
 Editor of the Dictionaryiof National Biography. 
 
 Times. — ' As a Life-Compendium which shall serve the purpose of a concise guide 
 to almost every branch of Shakespeare knowledge the present work stands upon a 
 rocky summit. A book of reference as reliable as a marine chart and as accurate 
 as a table of logarithms.' 
 
 Daily Chronicle. — ' May indeed be added to, but will never be finally super- 
 seded. The historian of the future will have to consult, first among all authorities, 
 the rich and overflowing chapters of Sir Sidney Lee.' 
 
 Second Edition. With Portraits. Demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net. 
 
 The Recollections of a Bishop. 
 
 By the Right Rev. G. F. Browne, D.D. (lately Bishop of Bristol). 
 
 Spectator. — ' We have touched on only a few chapters . . . but there is not 
 one of them which is not full of interesting matter, including a great number of good 
 stories. Can there be a better commendation for a book of this kind ? ' 
 
 Morning Post. — ' This delightful book of reminiscences. There is a rare abund- 
 ance of quotable anecdotes in a very human autobiography.' 
 
 With 6 Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 12s. 6d. net. 
 
 General PichegriTs Treason. 
 
 By Major Sir John Hall, Bart., 
 
 Author of 'The Bourbon Restoration,' 'England and the Orleans 
 Monarchy,' &c. 
 
 Scotsman. — ' Lucid and well-studied narrative. The story is romantic in itself, 
 and it has an interest not uncongenial to the present time. Historical portraits add 
 not a little to its value.' 
 
 Morning Post. — ' Good history, and as readable as any six-shilling romance . . . 
 this remarkable book.' 
 
 With 24 Illustrations in Half-tone. Demy 8vo. 1 5s. net. 
 
 Thomas Gainsborough. 
 
 By W. T. Whitley. 
 
 Burlington Magazine. — ' It is indispensable to all serious students. Mr. Whitley 
 has been able to add considerably to our knowledge of Gainsborough's exhibited 
 work .... a valuable contribution to biographical literature.' 
 
 Standard. — ' We are inclined to think that it is the best book on Gainsborough 
 that has been done, and that it will stand for a long time as a complete and trust- 
 worthy work of reference.' 
 
 London: Smith, Elder & Co., 15 Waterloo Place, S.W.
 
 Works by Sir FREDERICK TREVES, Bart., G.C.V.O., &c. 
 
 Serjeant Surgeon to H.M. The King. 
 
 Demy 8vo. 6s. net each. 
 
 With a Coloured Frontispiece, 40 pages of Half-Tone Illustrations, 
 and a Map. 
 
 The Cradle of the Deep : 
 
 AN ACCOUNT OF A VISIT TO THE WEST INDIES. 
 
 Times. — " A very attractive book . . . fresh, instructive, humorous, and 
 inspiring." 
 
 Standard. — "The best book that has been written about the West Indies since 
 Kingsley and Froude laid down their brilliant pens." 
 
 Daily Telegraph. — " Rich in touches of genuine wit and humour, and richest 
 of all in those flashes of humanity and personal sympathy which are the very life- 
 blood of literature . . . the traveller's note-book in excchis." 
 
 Daily News. — "A very attractive book, so attractive that it will probably be 
 the most popular West Indian guide book for many years to come." 
 
 With 72 Illustrations from Photographs by the Author, and a Map. 
 
 Uganda for a Holiday. 
 
 Times. — ". . . . Sir Frederick possesses a talent for observation, and, what is 
 more, the gift of describing what he observes in terse and vivid sentences." 
 
 Morning Post. — "The distinguished surgeon writes for the benefit not of big 
 game hunters, but of tourists like himself, who desire, for a change, to get beyond 
 the beaten track." 
 
 Standard. — " .... Another agreeable record of unconventional travel. . . . 
 The book is written with imagination and humour." 
 
 Daily Mirror. — " From start to finish the book brims over with good things." 
 
 With Illustrations from Photographs by the Author, and a. Map. 
 
 The Land that is Desolate : 
 
 AN ACCOUNT OF A TOUR IN PALESTINE. 
 
 Daily News. — " It sets down in entertaining and well-turned sentences those 
 things which are likely to interest the eye and the mind of a cultured and humane 
 holiday maker." 
 
 Glasgow Herald. — "Admirable illustrations reach the very highest standard 
 of amateur work. The author's pen is as remorselessly faithful as his camera. The 
 caustic humour which enlivens the book helps to make it most interesting." 
 
 Globe. — " Much of the charm that characterises Sir Frederick Treves' book 
 lies in that ironic humour which every now and then breaks forth in his descriptions 
 of cities and men." 
 
 London: SMITH, ELDER & CO., 15 Waterloo Place, S.W.
 
 Recent Publications 
 
 Crown 8vo. 5s. net. 
 
 The Spirit of England. 
 
 A Series of Papers written in 1914 and 1915. 
 
 By the Right Hon. GEORGE W. E. RUSSELL. 
 
 Author of ' Collections and Recollections,' &c. 
 
 Scotsman.—' An eminently readable book, in which many good things 
 come up by the way. It is always thoughtful and stimulating.' 
 Olobe.—' This very interesting and suggestive book.' 
 
 Foolscap 8vo. 2s. net. 
 
 The Book of Psalms : 
 
 The Prayer-Book Version Corrected. 
 
 The text prepared by the Right Hon. Sir EDWARD CLARKE, K.C. 
 
 Church Times. — ' A text of the Prayer-Book Psalms which by a few altera- 
 tions clears up obscurities and makes difficulties disappear. We commend his 
 little book.' 
 
 With a Portrait. Large Post 8vo. 7s. 6d. net. 
 
 A Bishop's Pleasaunce. 
 
 By the Right Rev. BISHOP FRODSHAM, Canon of Gloucester. 
 
 Standard. — 'A book in which honest laughter and good sense are alike 
 conspicuous. It ought to find its way, on the principle of promotion by merit, 
 into wide circulation . . . packed with capital stories and quaint sayings.' 
 
 T.P.'s Weekly.—' Gripped my attention from the first page and tickled my 
 sense of humour to the last ... a goodly human book. ' 
 
 THIRD LARGE EDITION REVISED AND ENLARGED. 
 
 With 64 Illustrations. Large Post 8vo. Is. 6d. net in paper cover ; 
 
 2s. net in cloth. 
 
 The Minor Horrors of War. 
 
 By Dr. A. E. SHIPLEY, F.R.S.. Master of Christ's College. Cambridge. 
 
 This book deals with various insect and other pests which cause disgust, 
 discomfort, and often disease amongst our troops now fighting in all quarters 
 of the globe. 
 
 Country Life.—' A book which gives a good deal of very necessary infor- 
 mation in an entertaining manner.' 
 
 London : SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 Waterloo Place, S.W.
 
 Tfecent Publications 
 
 THIRD EDITION- With 3 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d. net 
 
 The Irish Nuns at Ypres : 
 
 An Episode of the War. 
 
 By D. M. C, O.S.B. (Member of the Community). 
 
 Edited by R. BARRY O'BRIEN, Author of 'The Life of Charles Stewart 
 
 Parnell.' &c. With an Introduction by JOHN REDMOND. M.P. 
 
 Yorkshire Post. — ' No more vivid and impressive narrative of what 
 German frightfulness means to the civilian population has yet been seen. The 
 story once read will not soon be forgotten.' 
 
 Court Journal. — ' Those who are on the look out for a war book off the 
 beaten track should get this work. It is one of the most powerful yet simple 
 narratives that we have seen. It will rank when the war is over as one of the 
 most damaging pieces of evidence against the Germans and their methods.' 
 
 THIRD EDITION. With 24 Illustrations. Large Post 8vo. 5*. net. 
 
 Paris Waits : 1914. b 7 Mr,, m. e. clarke. 
 
 Punch. — ' I have seldom met a volume of more pronounced " heart interest " 
 than " Paris Waits." Not only are her pen-pictures remarkably vivid and 
 realistic, but the camera has also helped.' 
 
 Times. — ' It is a very familiar tale that is told in these pages, yet it gains a 
 new pathos, a deeper significance from the simple yet eloquent way it it told.' 
 
 Daily Mail. — ' A noteworthy book. It relates in detail the story of those 
 tragic days.' 
 
 Second Edition. Post 8vo. 3s. 6d. net 
 
 War and Lombard Street. 
 
 By HARTLEY WITHERS, 
 
 Author of ' The Meaning of Money.' ' Poverty and Waste,' &c. 
 
 Times. — ' Carried out with the same happy touch of literary simplicity and 
 wit, combined with an expert knowledge of his subject, which has given 
 distinction and popular value to his preceding books. Nothing could be clearer 
 or more enlightening for the general reader.' 
 
 Morning Post. — ' In brief but most attractive language it deals with the 
 historic financial events of the past six months. A most fascinating resume of 
 the financial events of the crisis up to date.' 
 
 Daily News — ' Mr. Withers knows all the machinery of the money market, 
 and he has a lucid style which makes matters plain normally very mysterious 
 and technical to the layman.' 
 
 Second Impression. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. 
 
 The Tollhouse. 
 
 By EVELYN ST. LEGER. 
 Author of ' The Shape of the World,' ' The Blackberry Pickers.' 
 Times. — ' An appealing and humorous picture of the life of an old fashioned 
 English village in war time.' 
 
 Scotsman.— 'This charming short novel.' 
 
 London : Smith, Elder, & Co., 15 Waterloo Place, S.W.
 
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