Our return journey had to be made with all possible speed, but nevertheless we were obliged to take the long road by Köhne Urgendj. We had the good fortune to join a party of travellers, of whom some were going to Köhne Urgendj, others to Khiva. All were capitally mounted, and even the horses placed at our disposal "lillah" (out of pious benevolence) were young, vigorous animals, and, as we carried no luggage except a few biscuits with a small store of provisions for our journey, we rode briskly along in spite of the heat, which even in the early morning made itself felt. Leaving the gate of the town behind us, we rode across the well-cultivated district of Kungrat, keeping always a north-westerly direction, and then crossing a barren tract of country, came to a large stagnant water, called Atyolu, which is marked out as the first stage, and is 7 farsakh long. A bridge leads over a narrow part of it, and here the road diverges in two parts, the one of which skirts a low mountain, called Kazak Orge, and, crossing the great plateau of Ustyurt, goes to Orenburg; the other leads to Köhne Urgendj. We took the latter route, and passing through forests and sandy tracts, now and then came in sight of some ruin on either side of the road, of which two were pointed out as being worthy of notice;—Karagömbez (black dome), near which a salt is found as clear and white as crystal, and the finest in the Khanat, and Barsakilmez (he who goes does not return), a dangerous spot, inhabited even at the present day by evil spirits, and where many, who went there from curiosity, have lost their lives.
After a long ride of five hours we reached the second station, called Kabilbeg Havli. It is an isolated farmstead, but, in accordance with an old custom of the proprietors, we were received and treated with great hospitality, and remembering that we had the prospect of a long ride of eight hours from here to the next stage, Kiziltchagalan, our kind host had not forgotten to provide us at breakfast with meat and bread. It was still dark when we started. Our companions were examining their weapons with the utmost care, which made me fear that we might perhaps have to pass some hostile tribe of the Turkomans; but they removed my uneasiness on this point, cautioning me at the same time that we should have to travel the whole day long in a thick forest, in which there were many lions, panthers and wild boars, which sometimes have been known to attack the traveller. They added, that although they never reached the place of danger till broad daylight, yet they invariably moved forward with the greatest circumspection, and, above all put great confidence in their horses, which no sooner prick up their ears, or begin to snort, than each and all seize their weapons. It is well known that lions and panthers in a climate like that of Central Asia are far less dangerous than their brethren in India and Africa, and therefore I did not share the fears of my young Tartar companion; on the contrary, I rather longed for adventure and the excitement of the chase. The Œzbeg, however, like a true Asiatic, possesses an excitable imagination; there was neither trace nor sound to indicate that we were near the abode of the king of animals, and we saw nothing but some herds of wild boars, who with a loud crash made their way through the thick underwood, and an immense, nay, fabulous number of Guinea-fowl and pheasants, of which we made rich spoil for our evening halt. These birds are in this part of the country of a much finer flavour than in Mazendran, the Œzbegs also understand far better than the Persians to dress and cook them. Emerging from the forest, we soon came in sight of the fortified place Kiziltshagalan, which is inhabited by Œzbegs. We arrived there in good time, and the following morning continued our road across a district inhabited by Yomuts.
Köhne Urgendj is considered the fourth station, although the journey thither does not occupy above three hours. This ancient metropolis of far-famed Kharezm, in Central Asia, is the poorest of all those cities in Asia which have shared the same fate, and however much its former splendour is extolled in word and writing, I could not help feeling at the sight of its still existing ruins, that it had been the centre of no higher than Tartar civilisation. The town of the present day is small, dirty and insignificant, although it must have been much larger in former times, to judge from the ruins that lie scattered outside the wall. These ruins are not older than the Islamitic era, and date from the reign of Shahi Kharezmian, an epoch of a higher culture. The most remarkable object here is the mosque of Törebeg Khanim (not Khan), of which I have already made mention in my "Travels," and which is larger and more splendid than Hazreti Pehlivan. The latter, nevertheless, has been considered hitherto the finest monument in Khiva, and it must be admitted that with its works in Kashi (glazed tiles), in which throughout the yellow colour predominates, it is not inferior to any architectural monument of the same kind in Turkestan. Further is seen the mausoleums of Sheikh Sheref with a high azure dome, of Piriyar, the father of the very celebrated Pehlivan, and of Sheikh Nedshm ed-din Kübera. The latter has of late been restored from decay by the liberality of Mehemmed Emin Khan. I was told that there are in the neighbourhood several towers and walls built of stone, such as Puldshoydu (money destroyed) which is distant three hours' journey. Whenever a storm ploughs up the sand-hills there, coins and vessels of gold and silver are discovered, and people who take the trouble of sifting the sand, find frequently their labour amply requited. There is also the Aysanem, or double kiosk of Aysanem and Shahsanem, the famous pair of lovers, whose romantic fate forms the subject of a collection of songs frequently sung by the native minstrels. The name appears to be a stereotyped name for any two isolated ruins, since there are Shahsanems to be found in other parts of Khiva and Bokhara, as well as in the neighbourhood of Herat, and everywhere the same legends are recorded of them with few variations.
At Köhne Urgendj the road divides, both branches running at a small distance from each other. The one less frequented runs by Porsu and Yilali, and is taken by people who travel in large parties; the proximity of the marauding tribes of the Tshaudors and Yomut Turkomans, rendering the road, at least as far as Tashhauz, very insecure. The second road, nearer the Oxus, runs with few interruptions along its banks, a tract of country strewn with farmsteads (Havlis), villages and hamlets. This road is generally taken in summer, although it is the longer of the two, and also more troublesome on account of the many ditches and canals for irrigation. Whereas, a caravan must keep together as far as Tashhauz on the former road, travellers on the latter may part company as early as at Kiptchak, and each continue his way separately.
CHAPTER X.
MY TARTAR.
I cannot conceive it possible to imagine a greater contrast than an Asiatic, and more particularly a Central Asiatic, who, as late as two years ago, wrapt in his national garb of ample width, hanging about him in loose folds, was feeding on the simple and primitive fare of a nomadic people, and who, at the present moment, booted and spurred, moves about in the closely-fitting costume of the Hungarians, and is already accustomed to the food and manners of the West; one, who, destined to lead the life of a Mollah, once spent his time in the lonely cell of the Medresse Mehemmed Emin at Khiva, absorbed either in prayer or in the doctrines of Islamism, and who is now seen turning over the large folios in the library of a European academy, acquainted with books on philosophy, or the history of the world and religion, Greek and Latin literature, and numberless authors besides; who scarcely ever had heard the name of Europe, or had heard it mentioned only in terms of the utmost abhorrence; who knew no other institutions, no other phases or aspects of men and things, but those in his own wild Eastern world, and recognised these alone as true and reasonable;—and who now is reading the leading articles of European newspapers, discussing the different politics of Western countries, and unhesitatingly making the boldest comparisons between the Eastern and Western hemispheres.
These are certainly clear and sharply-defined contrasts, and such contrasts my friend the Mollah exhibits "in propriâ personâ,"—the Hadji whom I brought with me from Central Asia, whom I met with whilst on his way to Mekka, who became my companion and associate, and who, instead of the holiest of holy cities, now lives with me in the metropolis of Hungary. How I succeeded in inducing him to form this resolution has been to many a matter of the liveliest curiosity to know; nor were their enquiries less eager as to the impression made upon him by my metamorphosis from the pious dervish into the European traveller. One fundamental error ran through all these enquiries,—namely, the strange belief that my change had been as sudden as that of the chrysalis to the butterfly. It was, on the contrary, extremely gradual, and its various phases are the more interesting, since they illustrate in a striking manner the difference between Eastern and Western life. The history of my transformation, in fact, deserves to be given in detail.
I first met my Tartar, as I mentioned before, in Khiva. A Mollah, young and animated with a desire for travelling, he was in search of a companion on his journey to Mekka, and in the full belief to find in me a Turk and a Mohamedan, the most suitable fellow-traveller, he at once attached himself to me with the utmost ardour and devotion. During the early part of our acquaintance he saw in me merely the learned Mollah, the wild zealot, whom he approached with the greatest veneration, listening most attentively to every word that fell from my lips. Such was the relation that existed between us throughout our journey to Bokhara, Samarkand, and Karshi, as far as the banks of the Oxus. Here I became more confidential towards him: occasionally I put off somewhat the disguise of my affected sanctity; we grew more and more intimate by degrees; our slender store of provisions was put into one common bag, and as he was thoroughly honest and true-hearted, his sincere and loyal friendship became a great support and comfort to me on my solitary and perilous journey. Only slowly, and with difficulty, could he accustom himself to a real and mutual intimacy; and on our begging expeditions he would take upon himself, as his own undisputed task, to collect the heavy contributions, such as wood, flour, &c., whilst he left to me the less onerous business of collecting the pence. In the evening he made it his duty to prepare the supper, and, after having served the rice on a piece of rag or a board, it was always a matter of conscience with him not to touch it until I had twice helped myself with my hands. I do not know whether veneration or conscience inspired him with this excessive respect, but, be the cause what it may, he invariably shrank from placing himself in a position of equality. Not wishing to spoil his pleasure, I therefore let him do exactly as he pleased.
On our journey from the Oxus to Herat, my feigned devoutness visibly decreased in exact proportion as the distance between me and fanatic Bokhara kept increasing. Prayers, ablutions, pious meditations—all became less frequent. My Tartar, no doubt, observed this, but it did not seem to trouble him, and he accommodated himself ungrudgingly to his master. His questions on religion were fewer, but he listened instead with more eager attention to my descriptions and narratives of the foreign land of the 'Frengi,' and the pictures I drew of those marvellous countries of the West. Such lectures as these were usually delivered during our night marches, when we were riding alone in intimate converse, and at some distance from the caravan. The pleasure I felt in being able to talk of my beloved West in a barbarous country, surrounded as I was with dangers in so doing, was not greater than my Tartar's astonishment when he heard that there were towns more beautiful than Bokhara, and countries where it was possible to travel without fear of robbers or of dying with thirst. He was especially struck when I assured him that the 'Frengis,' so far from being the savage, pitiless cannibals, such as they had been represented to him, possessed heart and feeling, and that they were infinitely superior to their reputed character in the East. Under different circumstances he might have doubted the truth of my assertions; but as I, the Efendi, his teacher and master, assured him of these facts, he placed implicit belief in all I told him. No wonder that I was pleased with his thirst for knowledge and his loyalty, and that I in return became greatly attached to my young Tartar. Moreover, he kept as much as possible aloof from the other Central Asiatics, his countrymen, uniting himself more closely to my society. As soon as I perceived—which I could not fail to do before long—that something could be made of the young man, I resolved not to let him leave me, but, if possible, to take him with me to Europe. If such was my determination long before we came to Herat, it was still further strengthened by the brilliant proofs of his attachment and fidelity which he showed to me during our residence in this town. Here, as is already known, my sufferings and privations reached their climax. Totally without means, I had not unfrequently to bear all the torments of hunger; and whenever, at this advanced season of the year, the cold prevented my sleeping during the night, it was my young Tartar who honestly shared with me his poor thin rags, in order to procure for me a warmer covering and a quiet sleep. During these six weeks that we spent in Herat we suffered, indeed, greatly; but I tried to strengthen the courage of my companion by assuring him that we should meet with certain help in Persia. The idea that a pious Sunnite should fare well in the heretical country of the Shiites, appeared to him sufficiently droll; but the child-like innocence of his heart, and his unaffected confidence in me, prevented his making any further conjectures. He looked, like myself, with intense longing to the frontiers of Iran, and the capital of Khorassan.
At last we arrived in Meshed. The hearty friendship of the English officer here, and his kindness towards me as well as my companion, were at first a great puzzle to my Tartar. He knew Dolmage was a Frengi;—what strange thoughts must have crossed his mind, in his astonishment at seeing me, the pious Mohamedan, his "chef spirituel," sit for hours in the company of an unbeliever, talking with him in a foreign language, nay, eating with him out of one and the same dish. The servants of the English officer, and indeed every one in the town, repeatedly declared to him their opinion that his master was a Frengi in disguise. He shuddered at the thought, and although he heard these suspicions with feelings of anger and indignation, yet he never questioned me on this point, and his firm faith in me remained unshaken. Moreover, his attachment to me naturally increased, from finding in me at all times a friend and protector, especially on our journey to Teheran, when, on account of his Tartar costume, he had frequently to encounter the ill-will of the vindictive Shiites. On my part, again, it was, I consider, no small risk, to travel for a whole month alone with this man, to pass whole nights alone with him in desolate spots. Let one single evil thought arise in his heart, and it would have been an easy matter for him to kill me during my noon-day slumbers on the open road, and, carrying with him my horses, weapons and money, to escape into the desert, northward to the Turkomans. But I never harboured any such suspicion. Fully confiding in him, I entrusted to his charge my musket, sword and horse; when tired and fatigued I stretched myself out upon the sand and slept soundly and securely, whilst he acted as sentinel; for at the very beginning of our acquaintance I had discovered that he had a true heart, and I cannot say that I have ever once been mistaken in this respect.
It was in Shahrud where he saw me for a second time embrace an unbeliever. He was struck by it, and said: "My master, thou art truly wise, in always associating with the Frengis; for these Persians, although they believe in the Koran and in Mohammed, are, by heaven! a hundred times worse than the unbelievers!" On this occasion he expressed to me also, after having met a second Englishman, his surprise at finding these Frengis, both "outwardly and inwardly, such agreeable persons," and yet he found it difficult to approach them. He would stare at them and scrutinize them for hours, proving clearly that, although he had partly got rid of his deeply-rooted prejudices, a certain degree of shyness and reserve was still clinging to him.
During the latter part of our march towards the Persian capital, my joyous feelings occasionally woke within me some long-forgotten song or melody. I began first to whistle, and then to sing, popular airs of certain operas. Whistling is not practised in the East, and regarded as extremely frivolous and indecorous; nevertheless, he was greatly pleased with the charming melodies from the Troubadour, Lucia, and others. He asked me with great naïveté, whether in Mekka people recited the Koran with these accompaniments, and was greatly astonished when I replied in the negative.
It was at the post station of Ahuan for the first time he heard me called by my European name. This name touched the tenderest fibres of his heart, and no doubt he struggled long and painfully before he found the courage to question me. I replied, that I would give him an answer in Teheran, and this set him at rest for a time. On my arrival in Teheran, I lodged with my old friends in the Turkish embassy. The young Efendis, who represented the Sultan, were fashionable European diplomatists, bearing the signs of Frengiism in far stronger colours than myself. This lessened his suspicions; and when I enlightened him on the modern civilization of his Sunnitic brethren in the West, he gradually became aware of the immense gulf between Stamboul and Bokhara. He was told of the continuous efforts of the Osmanlis to assimilate themselves as much as possible to the Western countries and their culture, and he could not help following this example himself. If we take into account, that he saw and heard nothing but what was good and excellent of the few Frengis whom he had hitherto had the opportunity of knowing, it was natural that his hatred and his prejudices should vanish day by day.
In Teheran he made the acquaintance of a countryman of mine, Mr. Szántó, who frequently came to see me, and with whom he was soon on terms of intimacy. Szántó told him with no small joy, that he and his master (he meant me) were the only Magyars in Persia. The Magyars, moreover, the philologizing tailor added, are the kindred of the Osmanlis,—a statement the Tartar felt surprised at, but which did not exactly disquiet him, our long intercourse and friendship reconciling him to all he saw and heard. And seeing in me more affection and kindness than in the genuine Turk, the trifling difference as to nationality troubled him very little. He roved about cheerfully in Teheran, making himself acquainted with the manners and language of the Persians, and was extremely glad, when, after a residence of several weeks, we were saddling our horses once more for our journey to Constantinople.
Hitherto no other plan had been talked of, but that he was to accompany me as far as Constantinople, and from thence go on to Mekka by Alexandria. But soon I perceived that this original plan no longer pleased him, and that he intended to do otherwise. Our life in the Turkish embassy in Teheran, where everything was arranged after the European manner, and our frequent intercourse with other embassies, had shown him a part of Western life in a very pleasant aspect, and awakened in him the desire to visit with me these wonderful countries. Nor is it difficult to understand how his original longing, to prostrate himself upon the grave of the holy Prophet, receded more and more into the background. His sound understanding was not long in penetrating this religious humbug; and, having naturally a great love for adventure, he soon resolved, instead of the illustrious Mekka, to go and visit Frengistan, a country formerly thought of with dread and detestation.
I pretended not to observe what was passing in his mind, and putting him on shore at Constantinople, I was about to take leave of him, after having amply provided him with money. The young Tartar looked at me fixedly with tears in his eyes, and in spite of the sight of the proud minaret, in spite of the crowd of orthodox worshippers who surrounded him here on every side, he felt constrained to say to me, in a voice trembling with emotion, and interrupted by frequent sobs: "Efendi, do not leave me here behind alone. Thou hast brought me from Turkestan into this strange land: I know here no one but thee. I follow thee, gladly, whithersoever thou goest!"—"What, wilt thou come with me to Frengistan?" I asked him; "from thence it is very far to Mekka; there are no mosques and public baths, no Mussulman food; how wilt thou live there?" For a moment he seemed perplexed; but after a brief silence he replied: "The Frengis are such good and kind people; I should like to see their country; and afterwards I will return to Stamboul." I required no more. Fully understanding the character of my Central Asiatic friend, I embarked with him once more on the shore of the Bosphorus, and in three days he was already upon a steamer on the Danube, surrounded by Europeans, and on his way to the not far distant capital of Hungary. On board the steamer I found him often absorbed in thought. Not yet venturing to taste European food, he gazed at everything around him with a shy timidity, but gradually he grew accustomed to the novelty of the scene, and a few days later he promenaded the streets of Pesth in Bokhara costume. During the first few days he could scarcely find words, so full was he of amazement. Everything, indeed, appeared to him like an enchantment. He admired all he saw, from the square-hewn paving stones in the streets to the lofty buildings and towers; and it can easily be imagined what singular, and at times comical, remarks he made;—he, the son of the desert, in the midst of one of the first cities in Europe. He was much struck with the quick walking of people in the streets, and the rapid movements of the vehicles; but, above all, the women arrested his attention; and he could not understand how the Frengi, clever and sensible people as they are, could allow their women-folk to appear in public in such clumsy and uncouth attire, and without any protection. In the day time I often saw him standing by the telegraph wires, listening to the sounds that passed along them. At night he would stare at the gas lamps, full of curiosity to discover whether it was the iron that was burning. At the hotel, the luxury and magnificence that surrounded him filled him with astonishment. Judging of every person he met by his dress, he regarded every one as some mighty lord or potentate, and frequently exclaimed: "Oh! this is a happy country! Here seems to be not a single poor man!" He soon grew accustomed to the looks of curiosity that followed him wherever he went. His former dread of the Frengi had entirely disappeared; he had a pleasant face for every one, and frequently entered eagerly into conversation with the first person he met, forgetting, in his characteristic manner, that no one could understand him; and he would go on talking to his heart's content, without being in the least disturbed by the surprise exhibited by those he was thus addressing.
I should most gladly have taken him on with me to London, had I not deemed it better for him to leave him for the while behind in Hungary. A friend of mine, who lived in the country, received him kindly into his house; and when, after a year's absence, I returned from England, I was not a little surprised to find my young Tartar dressed in the Hungarian costume, and, instead of the turban, with his hair nicely curled and trimmed, with a rather droll air and demeanour, and a certain stiff gravity in his manner. He had learned the Hungarian language in a very short time; he was everywhere liked and heartily welcomed, and when, for the first time, I saw him smartly dressed, and with gloves on his hands, talking most courteously and earnestly to a lady in her drawing-room, I could scarcely refrain from laughter. Two years ago a Mollah of a Medresse, he is now grown into half a dandy:—in truth what cannot be made of an Oriental? Being able to write as well as speak Hungarian, my friends kindly procured him an appointment as assistant-librarian in the Academy, which position he fills at the present moment. When I question him about his new life, and talk to him of the difference between Eastern and Western manners and habits, I find that his past life floats like a dream across his mind, which he cherishes only as a distant reminiscence, but which he would not on any account exchange for his present existence. He rarely feels any longing for his native home, and he loves our Western civilisation for the following reasons. In the first place, he is particularly pleased with the perfect security that society affords to the individual, and the absence of any arbitrary tyranny on the part of the Government. In Central Asia a man's bare life is not safe on the roads from robbers; in the towns he is threatened with constant danger from the barbarous decrees of the authorities. The frequent cruel executions, the desolating civil wars in his country, have never struck him until now, when he has become aware how thousands of persons come in daily contact with each other, without quarrels, fighting, or bloodshed ensuing—all consequences of frequent occurrence in his native country. Secondly, the comfort which Europeans enjoy, at once benefits and captivates him. He finds the house of a simple citizen better appointed than the palace of his sovereign. The cleanliness in dress and food, the reciprocal offices of kindness and courtesies of society, are magnets which attract him and make him forget his rude and uncivilised home. Thirdly, it is a special delight to him to find that the various differences of religion and nationality are scarcely ever felt here, whilst in the East they form the strongest barriers between man and man. With him at home the mere notion of visiting the country of the Frengi would have been certain death, and now he lives in the very heart of their land, not only without encountering hostility, but actually received with cordiality and affection.
With regard to his feelings on Islamism, his own speculations had already in some degree enlightened him. He observed that the nearer he approached the West, the more Mahometan fanaticism decreased, and as he, in proportion with its decrease, drew nearer and nearer to humanity and order, he could not help suspecting very soon that Islamism, or at least the Islamism he knew and confessed, was the declared enemy of civilisation and refinement of life, such as he met with in Europe. He has never yet uttered a word of aversion or reproach when referring to the doctrines of the Arabian prophet, but his subtle and speculative theories sufficiently indicate that a strong revolution has been wrought within him. Without wishing to assign the cause of this great contrast between the East and the West solely to the influence of Christianity, he has, nevertheless, arrived so far in his conclusions as to comprehend that our western culture and mode of life are incompatible with the teachings of Mahomet. He has never yet distinctly expressed to me his preference of either one or the other religion, and it will probably be long before he will venture to give expression to any thought of the kind. His allusions and fragmentary remarks, however, prove that his mind is occupied with questions of this nature, and that the great struggle with himself has begun.
Such, indeed, is the history of every Mussulman, whether Tartar, Arab, Persian, or Turk, as soon as he becomes thoroughly acquainted with our western civilisation—a complete transformation but seldom occurs. The highly important question, whether the civilisation of the East or West is the better—whether the teaching of Christ or of Mohammed is the true religion, will long remain undecided by the nations of Asia;—nay, so long, I feel inclined to say, as the rays of the sun produce with us a temperate, with them a burning, heat; so long as distance separates the east and the west. Were it possible to bring the doctrines of Christianity more into conformity with their views, by setting aside those of the Incarnation and the Trinity, and were these tenets, thus modified, put into the place of the Koran, an opportunity might be presented of a small, but only a very small, step in advance. I say advisedly a small step, since Christianity, though sprung from an Eastern soil, has long ago proved to be a plant which can only flourish in the West. And who would deny that the Koran and Vedas, created as they are by an Eastern mind and in the spirit of Eastern nations, are prized and revered by them above everything besides? Their disappearance would bring new and similar productions into existence. I venture almost to assert that the Christian tenets would, after a time, become transformed, on Eastern soil, into a sort of Koran or Vedas, in order to be the typical embodiment of oriental sentiment, and be recognised by orientals as their real and peculiar property. Are not the Nestorians, Armenians, and other followers of the Eastern Church, all disciples of Christianity? but as great as the difference is between them and their co-religionists in Europe, so little do they differ in their mode of thought, their feelings, and views of life, from their Mohammedan fellow-countrymen in the East.
CHAPTER XI.
THE ROUND OF LIFE IN BOKHARA.
"Hadji! Thou hast, I am sure, seen many countries—tell me now, is there another city in the world in which it is so agreeable to reside as Bokhara?" Such was the inquiry with which I was frequently greeted in the Tartar capital, even by men who had already several times visited India, Persia, and Turkey. My answer upon these occasions it is not of course difficult to divine. Questions of a nature so delicate are an embarrassment to the traveller when he is in Paris, London, or St. Petersburg, just as much as when he is in Constantinople, Teheran, or Bokhara. One encounters egotism everywhere.
Bokhara, the focus of Tartar civilization, possesses beyond a doubt much to remind one of a capital, particularly when a man enters it as a traveller, coming immediately from a journey of many weeks through deserts and solitudes. As for the luxury of its dwellings, its dresses, and manner of living, that hardly merits attention at all when compared with what is to be seen in the cities of Western Asia. Still it has its peculiarities, which prevent one wondering so much that habit and partiality dispose the Bokhariot to be proud of his native city.
The houses, built of mud and wood, present, with their crooked paintless walls, a gloomier appearance than the dwellings of other Mohammedan cities. On entering the court through the low gateway, one fancies oneself in a fortress. On all the sides there are high walls, which serve as a protection, not so much against thieves as against the amatory oglings of intriguing neighbours. In Bokhara, the most shameless sink of iniquity that I know in the East, a glance even from a distance is regarded as dishonouring! The number of the separate apartments varies with the fortune of the proprietor. The more important part of them comprises the harem, styled here Enderun (the inner penetralia), the smaller room for guests, and the hall for receptions. This last is the most spacious, as well as the most ornamented apartment in the house, and, like the other rooms, has a double ceiling, with a space between used as a store-room. The floor is paved with bricks and stones, and has only carpets round the sides near the walls. Rectangular stones, which have been hollowed out, are placed in a corner—a comfortable contrivance enabling the owner to perform the holy ablutions in the room itself. This custom is met with in no other Mohammedan country. The walls have no particular decorations; those, however, which are nearest to Mekka are painted with flowers, vases, and arabesques of different kinds. The windows are mere openings, each with a pair of shutters. Glass is seen nowhere, and few take the trouble to use paper smeared with fat as a substitute. Articles of furniture, still rarities throughout the East, are here scarcely known by name; but this need not excite surprise, for often have I heard Orientals who have visited Europe exclaim: "Is not that a stupid custom among the Frengi, that they so crowd their handsome, spacious rooms with such a heap of tables, sofas, chairs, and other things, that they have hardly place left to seat themselves in any comfort!" Of course meaning on the ground.
The expenditure upon the wardrobe is on a footing with the style of each house and its arrangement. Cloth is rarely met with: it serves for presents from the Khan to his officials of high rank. Different qualities of the Aladja (cotton) are employed by all classes, from king to dervish, for winter and summer. Although the Bokhariot over-garment has the form of a night-dress extending down to the ankles, still it is subject from time to time to little innovations as to cut, sleeve, collar, and trimming, in accordance with the fashion of the moment, which is as much respected in Bokhara as in Paris. A dandy in the former city takes especial care to have his turban folded according to the idea in force at the moment, as an evidence of good taste. He sees particularly to his shawl, by which he binds his trousers round the loins, and to his koshbag suspended to that shawl. The koshbag is a piece of leather consisting of several tongues, to which are fastened a knife or two, a small tea-bag, a miswak (toothpick), and a leathern bag for copper money. These articles constitute the indispensables of a Central Asiatic, and by the quality and value of each is a judgment formed of the character and breeding of the man.
Whoever may wish to see the haute volée, the fashionable world of Bokhara, should post himself on a Friday, between ten and twelve o'clock in the forenoon, in the street leading from Deri Rigistan to the Mesdjidi Kelan, or great mosque. At this time the Ameer, followed by his grandees, in great state, betakes himself to his Friday's devotions. All are in their best attire, upon their best horses; for these, with their splendid housings, serve as substitutes for carriages. The large, stiff, silken garments of staring colours are in striking contrast with the high and spurred boots. But what produces a particularly comic effect is the loose and waddling gait which all pedestrians studiously put on. Reftari khiraman (the waddling or trotting step), which Oriental poets find so graceful, comparing it to the swaying movement of the cypress when agitated by the zephyrs, and whose attainment is the subject of careful study in Persia as well as Bokhara, to us Europeans seems like the gait of a fatted goose floundering on his way home. But this is no subject for me to jest upon, for our stiff, rapid pace is just as displeasing to an Oriental eye, and it would not be very polite to mention the comparison they make use of with respect to us.
It does not excite less wonder on our part when we see the men in Bokhara clad in wide garments of brilliant colour, whereas the women wear only a dress that is tight to the shape, and of a dark hue. For in this city, where the civilization has retained with the greatest fidelity its antique stamp of Oriental Islamism, women, ever the martyrs of Eastern legislation, come in for the worst share.
In Turkey the contact with Christian elements has already introduced many innovations, and the Yaschmak (veil) is rather treated as part of the toilette than as the ensign of slavery. In Persia the women are tolerably well muffled up, still they wear the Tchakshur (pantaloons and stockings in one piece) of brilliant colouring and silken texture, and the Rubend (a linen veil with network for the eyes) is ornamented with a clasp of gold. In Bokhara, on the other hand, there is not a trace of tolerance. The women wear nothing that deserves to be named full dress or ornament. When in the streets, they draw a covering over their heads, and are seen clad in dark gowns of deep blue, with the empty sleeves hanging suspended to their backs, so that observed from behind, the fair ones of Bokhara may be mistaken for clothes wandering about. From the head down to the bosom they wear a veil made of horsehair, of a texture which we in Europe would regard as too bad and coarse for a sieve, and the friction of which upon cheek or nose must be anything but agreeable. Their chaussures consist of coarse heavy boots, in which their little feet are fixed, enveloped in a mass of leather. Such a costume is not in itself attractive; but even so attired, they dare not be seen too often in the streets. Ladies of ranks and good character never venture to show themselves in any public place or bazaar. Shopping is left to the men; and whenever any extraordinary emergency obliges a lady to leave the house and to pay visits, it is regarded as bon ton for her to assume every possible appearance of decrepitude, poverty, and age.
To send forth a young lady in her eighteenth or twentieth year, in all the superabundant energy of youth, supported upon a stick, and thus muffled up, in the sole view that the assumption of the characteristics of advanced life may spare her certain glances, may be justly deemed the ne plus ultra of tyranny and hypocrisy. These erroneous notions of morality are to be met with, more or less, everywhere in the East; but nowhere does one find such striking examples of Oriental exaggeration as in that seat of ancient Islamite civilization, Bokhara. In Constantinople, as well as other cities of Turkey, there are certain Seir-yeri (promenades), where ladies appear in public. In Teheran, Ispahan, and Shiraz, it is the custom for the Hanims, en grande toilette, and mounted on magnificent horses, to make excursions to the places of pilgrimage situate in the environs of those cities. The tomb of the Said is the place of rendezvous, and instead of prayers, reciprocal declarations of love are not seldom made. In Bokhara, on the contrary, there is not a shadow of all this. Never have I seen there a man in the company of his wife. The husband slinks away from his other half, or third, or fourth, as the case may be; and it is a notorious fact, that when the wives of the Ameer pass by any place, all men are expected to beat a hasty retreat. Under such circumstances it is easy to see how society must constitute itself, and what shapes it must assume. Where the two sexes are so separated, it can never put on an appearance of gladness and geniality; all becomes compulsion and hypocrisy; every genuine sentiment is crushed by these unnatural laws which are imposed as God's ordinances, and as such expected to be observed with the strictest obedience.
To study that part of their lives which is before the public eye, we must first pay a visit to the tea-booths, which are the resorts of all classes. The Bokhariot, and the remark applies indeed universally to all Central Asiatics, can never pass by a second or third tea-booth without entering, unless his affairs are very urgent indeed. As I before mentioned, every man carries with him his little bag of tea: of this, on his entry, he gives a certain portion to the landlord, whose business is rather to deal in hot water than in tea. During day-time, and particularly in public places, the only tea drunk is green tea, which is served without sugar, and with the accompaniment of a relish or two, consisting of little cakes made of flour and mutton suet; for the making of these Bokhara is famous. As any attempt to cool tea by blowing upon it, however urgent on account of its heat some such process may be, is regarded as highly indecorous—nay, as an unpardonable offence—the Central Asiatic is wont to make it revolve for this purpose in the cup itself until the temperature is tolerable. To pass for a man comme il faut, one must support the right elbow in the left hand, and gracefully give a circular movement to the cup; no drop must be spilt, for such an awkwardness would much damage a reputation for savoir faire. The Bokhariot can thus chatter away hours and hours, amidst his fellow tea-drinkers; for the meaningless conversations that are maintained weary him as little as the cup after cup of tea which he swallows. It is known to a second how much time is required for each kind of tea to draw. Every time the tea-pot is emptied, the tea-leaves that have been used are passed round: etiquette forbids any one to take more than he can hold between finger and thumb, for it is regarded by connoisseurs as the greatest dainty.
They seek to find amusements of a higher kind in excursions to the environs of the city. These are made sometimes to the tombs of the saints; sometimes to the convents of certain Ishans (sheiks), in the odour of sanctity; sometimes to the Tchiharbag Abdullah Khan, situate near the Dervaze Imam. The visit to a Khanka, that is to a dignitary of religion still instinct with life, is an act of more importance and involving greater outlay than the pilgrimage to a grave. The sainted men, whether departed or still living, have equally their fixed days for levées and receptions. In the former case the descendants of his Sanctity receive the tribute, in the latter a man has the good fortune to have his purse emptied by the holy hands themselves. On the occasion of these formal visits the Ishans are tuned to a higher pitch than ordinary, and as the holy eye distinguishes at once by the exterior of the visitor the amount of the offering that is to be received, so does that measure serve to fix with precision how long or how short the benediction is to be cut. Scenes of this kind, in which I performed my part as a spectator, or stood by, were always full of interest to me; and one, over which I have had many a hearty laugh, has made an indelible impression upon my mind. In the environs of Bokhara, I entered the residence of a sheikh to ask for his blessing and a little assistance in money. Upon the first point no difficulty was made, but the second seemed to stagger him. At this moment a Turkoman was announced as an applicant for a Fatiha. He was allowed to enter. His holiness made his hocus-pocus with the greatest devotion. The Turkoman sat there like an innocent lamb, and after being subjected to the influences of the sanctifying breath, energetically administered, he dived into his money-bag, from which he extracted some pieces of coin, and, without counting them, transferred them to the hand of him from whom he had received the benediction. I noticed that the latter rubbed the money betwixt his fingers, and was really astounded when he beckoned to me, and without once looking at the number of pieces, handed them over to me in the presence of the Turkoman. That was real liberality, the reader may say. I thought so myself until coming to the bazaar and seeking to make a purchase from a baker, one of the coins was rejected by him as false. I tendered the others, and they were all pronounced to be bad—valueless. The nomad, as crafty as he was superstitious, had paid for the spurious ware with spurious money, and as his holiness on his side had at once detected the cheat by the touch, he had no scruple in making it over to me.
On the occasion of their excursions to the environs of the city, persons of wealth are in the habit of taking with them their tea-things, and a servant to prepare tea. Those who are not so well off have recourse to establishments that are to be found at these places of resort. Visitors evince just as much desire to hide themselves, where possible, in the booths, as they do to avoid encamping close to the road. As it is the approved custom to invite every passer-by, be he of what rank he may, to take some refreshment of food or drink, each host entertains an apprehension, not unjustified by experience, lest those whom he accosts, not content with returning for answer the ordinary word expressive of gratitude—khosh (well)—may actually close at once with the invitation. Still, not to give it is everywhere regarded as a mean sin. Conditional acceptance only is usual in some places. These rules of hospitality so exaggerated, and at the same time so specious, operate oppressively and unpleasantly, both on him that takes and him that gives; and the confounded, I might almost say the aghast, air of the host who is taken at his word always produced upon me the drollest effect.
The spectacle which these private parties of pleasure generally afford is one of no great gladness, they rather seem to produce a deadly-lively effect. The significant joke, the peal of laughter, the loud cry are, it is true, none of them wanting on these occasions; but where the crown of society, woman, is absent, all is in vain, and never can life assume its real aspect of genuine enjoyment.
If I do not err, it is the Tchiharbag Abdullah Khan that still preserves most of the characters of a public place of entertainment. It is a spot well shaded by lofty trees; a canal flows through it, to whose banks the pupils of the numerous colleges and the young men belonging to the wealthier classes, resort generally on Friday afternoons. The inevitable tea-kettle is here again in requisition, and tea is the article for which the place is renowned; but not the only one, for the combats of rams are here celebrated also. The savageness with which these sturdy animals rush against each other when irritated, the fearful shock of their two heads, particularly when they struggle to push their antagonists back, present a spectacle very attractive to the inhabitant, not only of Bokhara, but of every part of Central Asia. What the bull-fight is in Spain, and horse-racing in England, these combats of rams are in Turkestan. The rams are trained to this sport, and it is really surprising how these brutes support with obstinacy often as many as one hundred charges. When they first make their appearance on the avenue, the bystanders begin to wager as to the number of shocks their chosen champion will support. Sometimes the weaker combatant beats a retreat; but very often the battle only ends with the entire discomfiture of one animal, consequent upon the cracking of his skull. It is a cruel spectacle; still the cruelty does not seem so great in the middle of Tartary as some of the sports in which so many civilised nations of the West still find amusement.
Let me now attempt to portray in the following slight sketch the external mode of living in Bokhara. In the morning—I mean by the term before sunrise, as by religious compulsion every man is an early riser—one encounters people, half-asleep, and half-awake, and half-dressed, hurrying one by one to the mosques: any delay in arriving not only entails reproach, but is considered as meriting punishment. The stir made by these devotees in running through the streets rouses the houseless dogs from their lairs in the out-of-the-way corners or upon the heaps of dung. These famished, horrid-looking animals—yet contrasted with their Stambouli brethren, presenting a princely appearance—are crying proofs of the miserly nature of the Bokhariots. The poor creatures first struggle to rear their gaunt frames, mere skin and bone, from sleep; then they rub their rough, hairless carcases, against the mouldering walls, and this toilette at an end, they start upon their hunt for a dejeûner à la fourchette, for the most part made up of a few fleshless bones or carrion, but very often of kicks in the ribs administered by some compassionating and charitable inhabitant of Bokhara. At the same time as the dogs, awake the hardly-better lodged Parias of the Tartar capital—I mean the wretched men afflicted with incurable and contagious skin diseases, who sit at the corners of the streets en famille, and house in miserable tents. In Persia they are met with, remote from cities and villages, on the high roads; but here, owing to the absence of sanitary regulations, they are tolerated in the middle of the city. Their lot is far the most terrible to which any son of earth can have to submit, and unhappily they are long livers too. Whilst the mother is clothing her other accursed offspring with a scanty covering of rags, the father seats himself with the most disfigured one amongst them by the roadside, in order to solicit charity and alms from those who pass. Charity and alms to prolong such an existence!
After the sun has looked long enough upon this miserable spectacle, the city in all its parts begins slowly to assume animation. The people return in crowds from the mosques; they are encountered on their way by troops of asses laden with wood, corn, grass, large pails of milk, and dishes of cream, pressing from all the city gates, and forcing their way in varied confusion through the narrow and crooked streets. Screams of alarm from the drivers, the reciprocal cries issuing from those who buy and those who sell, mix with that mighty hee-haw of the asses for which Bokhara is renowned. To judge by the first impression, it might be supposed that the different drivers would be obliged to fish out their wood from milk, their grass from cream, charcoal from corn, silkworm-cocoons from skimmed milk. But no, nothing is spilt, nothing thrown down; the drivers are wont to flog each other through in right brotherly fashion, till in the end all arrives in safety at its destination.
At an hour after sunrise the Bokhariot is already seated with his cup of Schirtschaj (milk-tea): this beverage is composed of tea made from bricks of tea in the form of Kynaster, and abundantly flavoured with milk, cream, or mutton fat. This favourite drink of the Tartars, in which large quantities of bread are broken, would be more rightly described as a soup; and although the treat was highly commended to me, I had great difficulty in getting accustomed to it.
After tea begins the day's work, and then one remarks particular activity in the streets. Porters loaded with great bales hurry to the bazaar. These goods belong to the retail dealers, who every evening pack up their shop and transport it to their own house. And then a long chain of two-humped camels that have no burdens are being led into the Karavanserai, destined to convey the produce of Central Asia in every direction. Here, again, stands a heavily-laden caravan from Russia, accompanied on its way by the prying eyes of the custom-house officials and their cohorts, for those long bales contain valuable productions of the industry of the unbelievers, and are destined accordingly to be doubly taxed. Merchants of all religions and from all nations run after the caravan; the newly-arrived wares find customers even before they are unpacked, and at such moments Afghans, Persians, Tadjiks, and Hindoos, seem to get more excited than is the case even with the heroes of the Exchange in Paris, Vienna, or Frankfort-on-the-Maine. The Kirghis camel-driver, fresh from the desert, is the quietest of all; he is lost in astonishment, and knows not whether most to admire the splendour of the mud huts, the colour of the dresses, or the crowds swaying to and fro. But the greatest source of amusement to me was to observe how the Bokhariot, in his quality of inhabitant of a metropolis, jeers at these nomads; how he is constantly on the alert to place the rudeness of the sons of the desert in relief by contrasting it with his own refinement and civilisation. Whilst the bazaar life, with all its alarm, tumult, shrieks, cries, hammering, scolding, and knocking, is in full force, the youths greedy of knowledge swarm about the numerous Medresse (colleges), there to learn to extract from their useless studies lessons of a more exalted kind of stupidity and a more grovelling hypocrisy.
The greatest interest attaches to the primary school posted in the very centre of the bazaar, and often in the immediate neighbourhood of between ten and fifteen coppersmiths' workshops. The sight of this public school, in which a Mollah, surrounded by several rows of children, gives his lessons in reading, in spite of the noise, is really comical. That, in a place where sturdy arms are brandishing hammers, hardly a single word is audible, we may readily suppose. Teachers and pupils are as red in the face as turkey-cocks from crying out, and yet nothing but the wild movement of the jaw and the swelling of the veins indicate that they are studying.[17]
In the afternoon (I speak here of summer-time, for of the winters I have no personal experience), there is more tranquillity both in bazaar and street. On the banks of the water reservoir and of the canals, the true believers are engaged in performing the holy ablutions. Whilst one man is washing his feet from their layer of sweat and dirt, his neighbour uses the same water for his face, and a third does not scruple to quench his thirst with it. Water that consists of more than one hundred and twenty pints is, according to the texts of Islam, blind; which means that filth and dirt lose themselves therein, and the orthodox have the privilege to enjoy every abomination as a thing pure in itself. After a service in the mosques, all becomes again animated; it is the second summons to work during the day, for a period by no means so long. The Mussulman population soon begin their evening holiday, whilst Jews and Hindoos still remain busy. The former, who are for the most part employed in the handicraft of silk dyers, move stealthily and timidly through the streets, their spirits broken by their long and heavy servitude; the latter run about like men possessed, and their bold bearing shows that their home is not far off, and the time not so remote when they also had a government of their own.
It is now within three hours of sunset. The élite of society betake themselves to the Khanka (convent), to enjoy a treat, semi-religious and semi-literary. It consists in the public reading of the Mesnevi, which is declaimed at that time of the day by an experienced reader in the vestibule of the Khanka. This masterpiece of Oriental poesy presents in its contemplations of terrestrial existence much elevation of thought. Versification, language, metaphors, are, in reality, full of charm and beauty; but the audience in Bokhara are incapable of understanding it, and their enthusiasm is all affectation. I often had seated at my side on these occasions a man who, in his excitement, would emit deep-drawn sighs, and even bellow like a bull. I was quite amazed; and when I afterwards made enquiry as to his character, I heard that he was one of the meanest of misers, the proprietor of many houses, yet ready to make obeisance for even the smallest copper coin. No one is at all inclined to adopt the sentiment he hears there as the rule of his life, and still it is regarded as becoming to be deeply impressed by the beauty of the expression. Every one knows that the sighs and exclamation of his neighbour proceed from no genuine emotion, and still all vie in these demonstrations of extraordinary feeling.
Even before the last beams of the setting sun have lost themselves in the wide waste of sand on the west, the Tartar capital begins to repose. As the coolness commences, the stifling clouds of dust subside. Where canals or water-reservoirs are near at hand, they are rendered available—the ground is watered and then swept. The men seat themselves in the shade to wait for the Ezan (evening prayer); that heard, an absolute stillness ensues, and soon all are seated before the colossal dish of pilau, and after they have well loaded their stomachs with this heavy and greasy meal, any desire they may have felt to leave the house is quite extinguished. Two hours after sunset all the thoroughfares are as silent as death. No echo is heard in the darkness of the night but the heavy tread of the night-watchman making his rounds. These men are charged to put in force the strictest police regulations against thieves and seekers of love adventures; they scruple not to arrest any man, however honourable his position, if his foot crosses his threshold after the beat of the tattoo has issued its order that all the world should sleep.
What in this mode of town life so pleases the Bokhariot—what makes him give so marked a preference to his own capital—is not difficult to divine. His mind has become familiarized with a simple mode of living, in which, as yet, little luxury is to be found, and which, in externals, admits not much perceptible distinction between ranks and conditions of men. A universal acquiescence in the same poverty, or to use a more appropriate expression, the absence of different degrees of visible property, makes Bokhara, in the eye of many Asiatics, a favourite residence. I once met a Persian in Teheran who had been a slave in Bokhara fifteen years. And there, in the middle of his fatherland, and surrounded by his relatives, he sighed and pined for the Tartar capital. At the outset he was delighted with the bazaars, filled with articles of European luxury; he contemplated them with childish delight; but later he saw how the wealthier alone made their purchases, and how all despised a man like him, clad in a cotton dress, the costume of the poor. No wonder his wish carried him again back to the spot where, at the time unconscious of his happiness, he was permitted to share great physical comfort, without a thorn in his eye or a pang in his heart.