Besides this trio of reformers—Reshid, Ali, Fuad—only very few have distinguished themselves since that time in the field of home and foreign politics. The only exceptions are Mehemmed Kibrizli Pasha and Mehemmed Rushdi Pasha. The former, a Cypriote by birth, who had long been ambassador in London, was as enthusiastic about England as the latter was about France. Kibrizli's wife was an Englishwoman, and it would seem that he concluded this marriage anticipating the future annexation of his native island by the British Empire. In his politics he has given many proofs of independence, and was not nearly so amenable at court as his successor in the Grand-Vizierate. Rushdi Pasha, generally called Müterdjim (the interpreter), showed himself a Liberal even in my days, and afterwards, in concert with Midhat Pasha, took a prominent part in the dethronement of Sultan Aziz. I had access to the Konak of both, but because of my frequent attendance at the houses of Fuad and Ali they observed a certain degree of reserve with regard to me, without, however, being able to hide the tendency of the ruling spirit there. Of some importance were, even at that time, Aarifi Effendi, Safvet Effendi, and Server Effendi, who properly belonged to Ali's clique, and afterwards attained to the highest dignities. They were all zealous adherents of the reform party, fairly well advanced in Western civilisation, but none of them made of the stuff of which political leaders are formed. To the political amphibia belonged the then Minister of Finance, Hassib Pasha—a blind tool of the court faction who allowed Sultan Abdul Medjid large sums of money far beyond the fixed Civil List; and when Fuad Pasha called him to book about this he replied, "The bank-note press was just in operation, and I thought a few millions more or less would make no difference." Then there was the War Minister, Riza Pasha, I might say, next to Fethi Pasha, the Grand Master of Artillery, the most powerful and influential man of his time, as he was related to the court, and moreover extremely rich, for he is said to have purloined enormous sums of money. Last, but not least, there was Mahmud Nedim Pasha, afterwards called Nedimoff because of his Russian sympathies. In his house I occupied for two years the position of French master to his son-in-law, slept there three nights a week, and even in those days took a dislike to this man who afterwards caused such harm to Turkey. He was a genuine specimen of the true Oriental, minus the goodly qualities which characterise the Turks. During his drinking-bouts, which lasted till long after midnight, he practised composing Sharkis (love-songs), and while he wrote down his verses under the inspiration of the Castalian Raki, his Mewlewi-Dervish had to play a suitable accompaniment on the flute. These songs were afterwards much liked by the ladies of the Imperial harem, and have probably contributed to his later influential position. As a politician he was nowhere, for his ignorance of Western affairs was boundless; and when once I had to be interpreter on the occasion of a visit from Lord Stratford Canning to the villa at Bebek, where he was acting as substitute for the Minister of Foreign Affairs, I positively blushed when I had to translate his ignorant geographical remarks about the Suez Canal—the point under discussion. No wonder that Ignatieff could afterwards so easily gain this monster over to assist Russia in the overthrow of Modern Turkey.
Besides the above, I enjoyed the confidence and hospitality of Damad Kiamil Pasha, a worthy Turk of the old stamp, immensely rich, who, notwithstanding his hesitation between West and East, applied himself in his advanced age to the study of French, and was fond of me because in his attempts to translate Fénelon's Télémaque I had served him instead of a dictionary. He led a contemplative life in his villa on the bay of Bebek, and took great delight in my recitations of Turkish poems.
It would lead me too far to mention all the Turkish statesmen with whom I had personal intercourse and whose friendship I enjoyed. I had also made the acquaintance of the literati of the day—the historians Shinassi Effendi, Djevdet Effendi, and Khairullah Effendi, who very kindly assisted me, perhaps not so much on my own account as because of the high repute which the house of Rifat Pasha, and, later, of his son Reouf Bey, of which I was then a member, enjoyed with the Porte. I love to think of those days. In spite of the threatening clouds of State bankruptcy and the general impoverishment, chiefly caused by the last Turko-Russian war, the Turkey of the fifties enjoyed a certain reputation in Europe; and as in our financial world the youngest member in the European Concert had received loan upon loan, Turkish society was rich, and on the strength of foreign money luxury grew apace. It was a period of childish carelessness and abandonment, in which both nation and ruler were plunged. Sultan Abdul Medjid, the true prototype of those days, was a kindly monarch, who gladly relinquished the cares of the State to his dignitaries, while he himself enjoyed all the pleasures of court life, and was a willing tool in the hands of the reform trio already mentioned, honestly trying, in outward form at any rate, to copy the European sovereigns. When at diplomatic dinners he handed his Havannah cigars to the European ambassadors, or offered his arm to a European princess who happened to be his guest, or when at solemn audiences he shook hands with the foreign representatives, he did so with all the grace of a perfect gentleman, and one could scarcely credit that only two generations ago the European ambassadors entered the audience chamber clad in a long kaftan, with a servant walking at each side of them holding their hands. His father, Sultan Mahmud, still wore on State occasions a richly braided coat of Hungarian make, such as may still be seen among the costumes in the treasure-house. But Sultan Abdul Medjid dressed in a simple black suit made by Dusetoy in Paris, and when he appeared on horseback in the streets of the city, graciously acknowledging the greetings of the multitude with his white-gloved hand, no one would have recognised in him the earthly representative of Mohammed, the Khalif of all true believers, and the mighty autocrat of an empire still extending over three continents. In spite of all his refined manners, however, he remained the Oriental despot and autocrat. Whenever he showed himself in this light before Fuad or Ali Pasha the two statesmen made private comments about it in their own intimate circle. The Sultan's angry outbursts were faithfully reported, and once Fuad Pasha told how, when he had gently remonstrated with him in regard to advances from the public exchequer, the Sultan had accosted him with, "Am I not the true Osmanli ruler of this land, and owner of all its possessions?" Of course foreigners had not to fear such outbursts—towards strangers Abdul Medjid was always most courteous, and I like to remember the audience I once attended when, by order of the Grand-Vizier, Kibrizli Pasha, I acted as interpreter to an Englishman and an Italian, who came to offer for sale a supposed autograph letter of the Prophet, which had been found in Upper Egypt, and for which questionable relic they received a large sum of money. The Sultan was seated at about five feet distance; he spoke in a low voice, and asked me whether all Hungarians could speak Turkish so easily. Most touching was his intercourse with Lord Stratford. He called him Baba (father), and was always willing to follow his advice.
A detailed narrative of all my experiences in Constantinople would fill several volumes. Suffice it to say that I had the satisfaction of knowing that in the diplomatic circles of Pera I was recognised as the only foreigner familiarly acquainted with the Porte and with Turkish family life. So I might well be satisfied with my lot. My income had considerably increased, and after the everlasting struggle with poverty, misery, and loneliness I had a proportionate degree of wealth, comfort, and fame; but, strange to say, I could not make up my mind as to my future career, and did not know in which direction I really wanted to go. For some time it had been my great desire to be an interpreter at one of the European embassies: to be an interpreter like those whom I saw honoured and feared at the Porte, riding on a high horse attended by servitors, and enjoying a certain amount of distinction in the Pera circles. But I never tried very hard to realise this ambition, for I knew that such a position could only be obtained through official connections with the Governments concerned. It would have been far easier for me to get an appointment with the Porte itself, especially as I had been employed for some considerable time in the translation bureau of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and through my connection with the highest dignitaries might have accomplished something, like, for instance, my former colleague, Murad Effendi (Werner), who, as is well known, ended his career as Ottoman ambassador at the Hague. I cannot tell why, but an official career in Turkey, an appointment in a State which was merely tolerated in Europe, had no attractions whatever for me. State officials are irregularly paid there, and absolutely dependent upon the whims of their superiors; advancement is not in any way dependent upon personal merit, and altogether such State service had no charm for me.
Possibly similar motives would have made me object to service in Europe also, for we too suffer from the same disease which has thrown Turkey on its deathbed; but because of my origin and lack of means I had never dared to think of any diplomatic appointment at home; and besides, I should probably soon have tired of even the greatest success in this department, for in the first place my unbounded sense of freedom could not in the long run have brooked any interference or subordination, and in the second place I was, and ever shall be, an incorrigible enthusiast and visionary, only delighting in the extraordinary; a man who, running helter-skelter after empty phantoms, does not come to his senses and never knows what he really wants or can do. Perhaps some will say that these are the very people called upon to accomplish extraordinary things, and that with more reflection I might have shrunk back from many a mad enterprise. True; but one must not overlook the faults and mistakes of such ill-weighed, badly arranged steps; and the effects of these faults and mistakes I have often experienced during my travels and during my after-life!
The only consolation and refuge in all my complicated ambitions and aimless endeavours was, and remained always, a steady progress in my studies and the conviction that, true to my principle, accepted in early life, "Nulla dies sine linea," I had not one lost day to record. While I was perfecting myself in the acquisition of certain peculiar linguistic niceties, which only practice on the spot and constant intercourse can teach, and thus gradually becoming an accomplished Effendi, I had from the very commencement of my sojourn in Turkish houses set myself to the reading of Turkish manuscripts, and I had thus overcome the great difficulty of deciphering such manuscripts and also made rapid progress in the knowledge of Ottoman history. I had access to the libraries, and in the historical works which formerly I knew only by name I found so much that had reference to the history of Hungary that I intended to begin my literary career by translating these. Besides this I made a study of the conversational language, and a Germano-Turkish pocket dictionary containing about 14,000 words, which was published in Pera, 1858, by Georg Köhler, was the first work with which I appeared before the public. It was also the first German book printed in Constantinople. To this purely scientific occupation I soon added public writing, as my constant and intimate intercourse with the political circles of the high Porte enabled me to obtain accurate information about the political questions of the day. Stambul, although only separated from Pera by the Golden Horn, is quite cut off from this centre of European life on account of the strong line of demarcation between the Turkish circles and Pera; and when on my daily visits to the European quarter I came into contact with politicians and journalists, I was looked upon and sought after as a source of information for the latest news and disclosures. I was surprised to see how little the Pera world knew of what was going on in Stambul; I hastened to enlighten the world by correct information, and became in this manner, without seeking or desiring it, reporter and journalist. I gained my first journalistic spurs with the Augsburger Algemeine Zeitung, through its correspondent, a Prussian officer named Reiner. I sent in a few notes, which he inserted in his Correspondence. Later on I wrote letters under my Turkish name, "Reshid," for the Pesti Naplo in Budapest, and instead of an honorarium I received only patriotic acknowledgments. When Vienna's attention had been drawn towards the originality of my Hungarian correspondence the Wanderer appointed me as regular correspondent. Amongst these many-sided occupations of teacher, historian, Softa, and linguist my studies regarding the origin of the Magyars were always uppermost. The mysterious origin of the Magyar nation and language, which to this day has not yet been explained, was a subject which ever since I began my linguistic studies had particularly interested me. It had taken hold of my youthful fancy also, because at school many tales and legends had been told us in explanation of it. The campaign of the warlike ancestors of the present Hungarians had at all times awakened in the hearts of the Magyars a peculiar interest in and sense of the poetic charm of lands of the interior of Asia, and behind the curtain which as yet hid the Steppe region of Central Asia (the supposed cradle of the Ural-Altaians at the time of the great migration to Europe) from the gaze of Europeans, the most wonderful pictures of national romance and inspiration were faintly discerned. When I beheld the grotesque Orientals of the interior of Asia this curiosity became naturally still more lively. The beautiful colouring of their ample robes, the stores of ammunition in their girdles, and their proud, dignified bearing must necessarily increase the desire to claim relationship with these old-world types; and when I realised that the similarity between the Magyar and Turkish languages increases as we advance farther into the interior of Asia I could not help being convinced in my innermost mind that the terra incognita of Central Asia held quite unexpected surprises for me.
The real impulse for inquiring into the ancient history of the Magyar nation dates back to my boyhood. It was in the year 1849. I was sitting with my playfellows in a maize-field. It was harvest-time and shortly after the surrender of Fort Komárom. Some straggling Honvéds, mournful and of broken-down appearance, were on their way home after the conclusion of the War of Independence, and stopped their march in the field where we were, to tell us of their struggles, and their stories made us all feel very sad. An old peasant, the owner of the field, comforted us and said, "It will all come right. Whenever our nation is in trouble the old Magyars from Asia come to our rescue, for we descend from them; they will not fail us this time, you may be sure." "So there are old Magyars," I thought to myself, and ever since that time the idea has stuck to me. Whether it was an old tradition or a later historical legend is impossible to say, but it is a very remarkable fact that this old-world story after many centuries still lives in the national mind; the peasant who told it to us could neither read nor write and could only speak from hearsay.
It followed as a matter of course that as an outcome of my studies in comparative philology I hoped to find in Central Asia a few rays of light to guide me through the dark regions of primitive Hungarian history. The language of Central Asia, i.e., Chagataic or East Turkish, was in those days known to us in the West only by the works of the French Orientalist, Quatremère. Judging from the relationship between the written and the spoken language of the Osmanlis, I hoped and expected to find among the idioms of the Steppes and of the town-dwellers on the other side of the Oxus linguistic elements which would show a pregnant resemblance and relationship with the Magyar language, and that in consequence I could not fail to make important discoveries and considerably help the solution of the origin question. The idea of a journey to Central Asia had been in my mind for many years; I thought of it incessantly and always tried to get into contact with the Mecca pilgrims who came to Stambul from the various khanates of Central Asia. On the other hand, I greedily devoured every scrap of Chagataic writing; and when I was admitted to the private library of the celebrated Ali Pasha, which was rich in this subject, my joy knew no bounds. The Turks themselves looked upon this curiosity of mine as a kind of literary madness. They could not understand how I, without position and without means, living from hand to mouth, could be so enthusiastic about such an abstract, useless, ridiculous thing, and as the witty Fuad Pasha tried to cool my ardour by the remark already mentioned, other Turks kept reiterating, "Allah akillar versin," i.e., "God grant wisdom," in order that I who have none may also obtain a little. The Turks, whose national feeling has only begun quite lately to show itself, content themselves with a queer mixture of Arabic and Persian. Real Turkish does not suit them at all; it is even considered plebeian, and of the relationship between their Turkish mother-tongue and the sister dialects of inner Asia they have but a very faint notion, if any at all. Curious as my study of the Turkish language seemed to them, my desire to travel in these remote and unsafe parts in order to gain more knowledge was absolutely incomprehensible to them. They simply thought me a maniac who, instead of soliciting the favour of influential and great men, so as to lead a pleasant and comfortable life, preferred to throw myself into the greatest dangers and privations, and who would certainly not escape them. Many shook their heads and looked compassionately at me; they even began to fight shy of me, and when my friends saw me in company with the ragged, half-naked pilgrims from Central Asia who often came to Stambul they turned away from me and declared that I was irretrievably lost.
I need hardly say that these deplorable signs of ignorance and absolute lack of higher ideals did not in the least disturb me. My adopted Turkdom, my pseudo-Oriental character and nature were, after all confined to external things; in my inmost being I was filled through and through with the spirit of the West, and the deeper I penetrated into the life and thoughts of Asiatic society the more passionately and warmly did I cling to Western ideas, for there alone did I find the aspirations worthy of mankind, there alone could I see what was really noble and exalted. My resolve to tear myself away from the life at Stambul, which threatened to emasculate me, remained immovably fixed, and my plans were only somewhat delayed until the necessary travelling means should have been procured. The Hungarian Academy of Sciences had at that time, in acknowledgment of my literary work, made me a corresponding member of the institution; and when, after an absence of four years, I returned to Pest in 1861 to deliver my entrance address to the Academy, I told Count E. Dessewffy, the president, of my plans, and asked him whether the Academy would be able to give me some assistance for the journey. The Hungarian Academy was at that time not particularly well off, but fortunately one thousand florins had been put aside for scientific travels, and Count Dessewffy, an energetic, unprejudiced man, decided at once that I should have them on condition that I went into the interior of Asia to investigate the relationships of the Magyar language. His decision was at first objected to by some of the members on account of my bodily defects and delicate looks, also perhaps because of the small sum at my disposal. They opposed in public session, but the Count remained firm; and when an enthusiastic craniologist wanted to commission me to bring some Tartar skulls for comparison with Magyar skulls, the Count replied, "Before all things we would ask our fellow-member to bring his own skull home again; thereby he will best fulfil the charge entrusted to him."
Little as was known in Europe of Central Asia in those days, my learned compatriots had not the remotest conception of these distant parts; finally, however, the national side of the undertaking carried the victory, and although most of the members considered it a great risk, they consented to it. They took leave of me with the warmest protestations of friendship, and in order to protect me against any danger they gave me the following letter of safe-conduct written in Latin:—
"Magyar Academia.
Academia Scientiarum Hungarica sub Auspiciis Potentissimi et Inclitissimi Principis Francisci Josephi II. Austriae Imperatoris et Hungariae Regis vigens.
Lecturis Salutem.
Socius noster Vir ingenuus honestissimusque Arminius Vambéry Hungarus eo fine per nos ad oras Asiae Tartaricas mittitur; ut ibidem studio et disquisitioni linguae et dialectorum Turcico-Tartaricarum incumbat et sic nova perscrutandae linguae nostrae popularis Hungaricae, familiae altaicae cognatae adminicula scientifica procuret.
Omnes igitur Viros Illustres, qui literas has nostras viderint, quive, vel Rei Publicae administrandae in Imperiis Summorum Principum Turciae et Persarum praesunt, vel Legationibus Principum Europaeorum funguntur, aut secus amore literarum tenentur, rogamus obtestamurque, ut eidem Socio nostro Arminio Vambéry in rebus quibuscunque, quae ad promovendum eius scopum literarum pertinent, gratiose opitulari eumque benevola protectione sua fulcire velint.
Datae Pestini in Hungarica, die 1 Augusti anno mdccclxi.
Baro Josephus Eötvös
(Acad. Sci. Hung. V. Praeses).
Dr. Franciscus Toldy,
(Acad. Sci. Hung. Secretarius perpetuus)."Seal.
The good gentlemen at home hoped that I should find this letter of commendation useful with the Khans in Turkestan and the Turkoman chiefs. It would have meant at least the gallows or the executioner's sword if I had shown this infidel writing either in the Steppe or on the Oxus!
Full of glorious expectations, I left Pest in 1861 to go to Constantinople for the second time. There I wanted to make the necessary preparations to enable me to start in the early spring on my wanderings through Asia Minor and Persia. The rate of exchange being so preposterously high, the thousand florins in Austrian bank-notes had dwindled down to seven hundred, and a stay of several more months in Constantinople further reduced my little stock of ready money. When in March, 1862, I went on board the Lloyd steamer Progresso to Trebizond, the girdle which I wore next to my skin contained only enough to take me as far as Teheran. Truly a risky undertaking, perhaps a mad trick, the danger of which I hardly realised just then. It was somewhat hard to part with all my kind Turkish friends in Stambul. These noble people did all they could to help me, and to postpone my certain destruction, as they thought, as long as possible. They advised me to go for the present only to Persia; and as the plenipotentiary and Turkish ambassador at the court of Teheran was at that time Haidar Effendi, an intimate friend of my patron, Reouf Bey, I received, besides the official commendation of Ali Pasha, also a collective letter from several distinguished officials of the Porte, in which they commended me, the poor demented one, to his kind care. Of my European descent, of the aim and object of my journey, not one word. I had to be Reshid Effendi only, and comport myself so as to tally exactly with my letter of introduction. I durst not do anything else, for it was imperative that I should pass for a real Turk, an Effendi from Constantinople.
As for my state of mind when the critical moment of departure arrived, I was so excited that I hardly knew what I was doing. The dreams of my childhood, the visions of my youth, the Fata Morgana which had played before my eyes through all my rambles in the literatures of Eastern and Western lands—all were now nearing realisation, and my eyes were to behold all these wonders in bodily form. Anticipation drowned the voice of reason and common sense within me. What indeed could have made me afraid? After all, the dangers before me were but of a material nature—privation, fighting the elements, risk of health, sickness. Failure and death never entered into my speculations. And what were all these sufferings to me, who had had my measure full of them in my early years? Hunger I suffered in Europe till my eighteenth year. Insufficient clothing had been my portion from earliest youth. And as for sneering and scoffing, the poor little Jew boy had had to bear plenty of that with many other insults from his Christian playmates. Where was the difference between their derisive "Hep! Heps!" and throwing of stones, and the insults of the fanatical Shiites, or the suspicion of the Central Asiatics?
Human whims and weaknesses were indeed well known to me, and experience taught me that, whether in the rough garb of the Asiatic or in the refined dress of the Westerner, men are much the same everywhere; nay, more, I have found more compassion and kindness of heart with the former than with the latter, and the terrible pictures which literature gives us of barbarian customs and dealings need not have discouraged me too much. There is only one thing which strikes me as rather remarkable in my firm decision to carry out my intention, and this is, that having once emerged from the school of misery and wretchedness, and having tasted the pleasures of good cheer and comfort, I should voluntarily return to the former. For in Constantinople, as already mentioned, I was getting on well the last few years—very well, in fact. I had a comfortable home, plenty to eat, even a horse at my disposal; and now I was going to exchange all that, of my own free will, for a beggar's staff. This perhaps is the only thing that can be counted to my credit.
But to what can not the sting of ambition spur us! And what is our life worth where this impetus, this source of all energy, does not exist or has become weakened? Material comforts, distinctions and dignities are but particoloured toys which fascinate us only for a time. True satisfaction lies in the consciousness of having rendered if only the smallest service to mankind in general; and what in all the world is more glorious than the hope of being able to enrich the book of intellectual life which lies open before us, if only with one single letter! Such were my thoughts and feelings, and I found strength therein to face a thousand times greater dangers, difficulties, and privations than had hitherto fallen to my lot. I have often asked myself the question whether, apart from these higher, ideal aims, the thought of material advantages, i.e., my future welfare, never crossed my mind. There would certainly have been no harm in this, but if material welfare had been my object its realisation would have been far less difficult and more certain of success if I had followed an official career at Constantinople, where I had influential patrons, and where I could have settled down in quiet pastures. No; my scheme was the outcome of my heated fancy, a mighty longing for the unknown and an insatiable thirst for adventure.
My Second Journey to the East
As I have published several books about this my second journey to the East, and as these, being translated into various languages, have become public property over the civilised world, I intend in these memoirs to touch only upon such points as are of a purely personal character, and could therefore find no place in the general accounts of my travels written for the world at large. And I want to lay particular stress upon such details as led to the gradual transformation of the Stambul Effendi into the confirmed Asiatic and the mendicant Dervish. In their light my many strange adventures will appear but the natural outcome of my career. This I consider the more necessary as it will enable my readers to note both the psychical transitions and the ethical and social influences to which the constant and intimate intercourse with the natives necessarily subjected me. It will help to show how, in a comparatively short time, changes were effected which even I myself cannot quite account for.
After leaving the hospitable roof of Emin Mukhlis Pasha, the Governor of Trebizond, I continued my journey to Persia in the company of a small trading caravan. As I laboriously climbed up the Pontus mountain slope, and watched the sea gradually receding in the distance, a feeling of anxiety came over me, and for the first time I experienced that internal struggle between the craving for adventure and a sickening dread of the uncertainty and perilousness of my undertaking. It was springtime. The glorious scenery and the charms of nature all along the road as I ascended the Propontic mountain had well-nigh dispersed these dark forebodings, and my enthusiasm had almost gained the day. But when at night I had to put up at a dirty, loathsome caravansary, and after spreading my carpet on the bare floor, tired out as I was with my first ride, had to prepare my own frugal evening meal, the cold gravity of my position overwhelmed me, and I realised for the first time the awful difference between dark reality and rose-coloured imagination. My rice was burnt, the fat rancid, and the bread one of the worst kinds I had ever tasted in Turkey. My bed on the cold floor was anything but comfortable, and when, in spite of all, I fell into a heavy sleep, I had only the exhaustion after my first ride to thank for it. That first long ride left its painful effects for two or three days. The stretch between Trebizond and Erzerum, a foretaste of the long ride to Samarkand, was altogether the most painful I have ever experienced; for in the first place I had to ingratiate myself with my fellow-travellers, mainly consisting of raw, dirty, fanatical mule-drivers, and, worst of all, I had to get used to the vermin with which every night's lodging swarmed. Arrived at Erzerum, where I enjoyed the hospitality of my former principal, Hussein Daim Pasha, who here occupied the position of military governor, I enjoyed a good rest. The kind-hearted man, an enthusiastic religious mystic, was firmly convinced of the pious motives of my journey to Bokhara, and both he and his adjutant, Hidayet Effendi, instructed me for hours in the mysteries of the various orders, and especially of the Nakish Bendi, to the grave of whose founder I was to make a pilgrimage. It was during my stay at this house that I witnessed quite an original use of superstition in the service of the law. One day the Pasha lost a valuable diamond ring, and as he had not been out of the house one might justly suppose that the ring would be found, unless one of the numerous servants of the establishment had made away with it. As all investigations were fruitless, Hidayet Effendi sent for a celebrated wonder-working Sheikh, who squatted down in the middle of the great entrance-hall, where all the servants were assembled. I impatiently waited the issue of events. At last the Sheikh, sitting cross-legged, produced from under his mantle a black cock, and holding it in his lap he invited all the servants, each in turn, to come up to him, stroke the cock softly and straightway put his hand into his pocket; then, said the Sheikh, the cock, without any more ado, will declare who is the thief by crowing. When all the servants had passed in turn before the Sheikh and touched the cock, he told them all to hold out their hands. All hands were black, with the exception of one, which had remained white, and whose owner was at once designated as the thief. The cock had been blackened all over with coal dust, and as the thief, fearing detection, had avoided touching him, his hand had remained white, and consequently his guilt was declared. The servant received his punishment and the Sheikh his reward.
My sojourn in the house of the Pasha and in Erzerum generally, was very pleasant and comfortable, but hardly a good preparation for my further journey over the Armenian heights to the frontier of Persia, one of the most troublesome étapes of Asiatic travel. The poor Armenian houses, mostly underground holes, looking from the outside more like molehills than anything else, consist of one apartment in which the inmates live, crowded together with from ten to twenty buffaloes, and the first night I spent in company with these evil-smelling animals, tormented by smoke and heat and vermin, will ever remain vivid in my mind. The crisp morning air of the high Armenian plateau acted like a tonic upon my weakened nerves. I felt supremely happy and drank in the pure, keen air with delight. One would like to shout for very joy if it were not for the constant dread of an attack by the Kurds who make their home in these Körogly passes, and are ever more keenly on the watch for small caravans than even for single travellers.
It was here on the Dagar mountains that I had my first encounter with the Kurdish robber hordes. It was my baptism of fire, but instead of filling me with enthusiasm, a deathly cold shiver came over me when at the request of my Armenian fellow-travellers I took up my pistol to act the protector. The precious bales of goods of the Armenian merchants had already been unloaded by the Kurds, and we stormed up the steep incline to call the robbers to account. Bravery, quick decision, and contempt of death are noble virtues, but one is not always born with them; they have to be learned and practised. The bold front, the keen eye, and the blood coursing wildly through one's veins are all symptoms of valour, but they may also be those of a more or less reckless temper. Since that first episode on the Dagar I have in my subsequent travels often been exposed to attacks and surprises of various kinds, until at last I learned to face all dangers boldly, and had no more fear of death. But I still hold to my opinion, that heroes are not born but made, and that the most timid home-lover can by a gradual process of compulsory self-defence become a very lion of strength and valour. Thus and thus only is produced that much-exalted virtue of personal courage and heroism. The pressing need of self-preservation is the real source of all heroism, and in the physically strong this psychological quality can hardly fail to show itself.
As I crossed the Persian frontiers at Diadin, and actually found myself in the land of Iran—the land which hitherto I had only viewed in the light of poetic fancy—the bare and barren wilderness which met my eyes added to my physical and mental sufferings, rudely tore away the last vestige of the glamour which my imagination had woven round this blissful spot. I was thoroughly disillusioned. Here I was, an Effendi, the greatest monster in the eyes of the Shiite Persian, in virtue of my antecedents, subject to scornful remarks, derisive laughter, and continually exposed to gross insults; for the Persians on their native soil are bold and audacious fanatics. As if I had not suffered enough of this in my early youth! The Hydra of religious fury now attacked and tormented me in a new form, and the "Segi Sunni!" ("Sunnitic dog!"), a variant of the "Hep! Hep!" of former days, resounded day and night in my ears. The villainy and knavery of the Persian merchants and Mollas were not less offensive than the stones thrown by the Christian street-boys and the invectives of the Catholic college instructors. But this trial also I learned to overcome. Patience and endurance disarm the bitterest opponent, and when in a melodious voice and with strict Shiite modulation I recited a Sura from the Koran, or a passage from the Mesnevi, the sacred books common to both sects, their anger subsided and my fanatical fellow-travellers comforted themselves by saying, "He is not quite lost yet, he may yet grow to be a good Mussulman," i.e., a Shiite. As will appear from the following pages of this work, it was for the most part religion, the product of Divine inspiration and the supposed means for ennobling and raising mankind, which made me feel the baseness of humanity most acutely; and from my cradle to my old age, in Europe as well as in Asia, among those of highest culture, as well as amid the crudest barbarism, I have found fanaticism and narrow-mindedness, malice, and injustice emanating mostly from the religious people, and always on behalf of religion!
Arrived on Persian soil, my material troubles and struggles were further enhanced by physical sufferings. I shall never forget the impression made upon me by the furtive looks of anger and disdain cast upon me by the Persians I met in the streets or in the bazaar of Khoi. The national language is Turkish there, but as soon as I opened my mouth my pure Stambul accent at once betrayed my Sunnitic character. This ill-will is a retribution for the insults and the chicanery to which the Shiite strangers in Turkey are exposed, but I could not help asking myself, "What have I done to these people? Have I in any way aided in preventing Ali from succeeding to the Prophet?" But all speculations and arguments were useless. I came in the character of an Effendi, and the profound disgust which this word awakens in the Shiite mind accounted quite sufficiently for all the insults I had to bear. Even for money these fanatics would scarcely sell me anything. The question arose whether Sunnites, like Christians, were to be accounted nedjis, i.e., unclean, whom to touch is a sin; and it was only after prolonged and violent discussions that I could pacify their scruples on this point. If there had been a livelier intercourse between Turks and Persians I should probably have had less to suffer, but I was the first private Osmanli who, for many years, had travelled in Persia, and therefore I must take weal and woe into the bargain. I was surprised to find that the women were far more vehement in their expressions than the men; many spat at me as they passed me on the road, giving expression to their hatred by pithy oaths. Truly woman everywhere is more passionate than man! Thanks to my excellent health and vigour, still further improved by abnormal physical exertions, I was able to cope with these mental distractions. I even enjoyed the excitement of them; and when at Tebris, in the Emir caravanseray, I had for several days been an attentive spectator from within my little cell, of the mad carryings-on of the Persian traders, craftsmen, beggars, Dervishes, buffoons, singers, and jugglers, I felt that I was gradually being transformed into an Oriental, and that my existence as a poor traveller was quite bearable. Exchanging my semi-European dress, piece by piece, for the long, wide Persian garments, I gradually accomplished the metamorphosis of my outward appearance; I was no longer conspicuous in a crowd. Once, as I was loitering about in the courtyard of the caravanseray, I noticed among the bargaining groups collected round the loaded and unloaded beasts of burden a European, who while unpacking his bales was evidently at a loss for a Turkish word. Impatiently he turned over the leaves of a small octavo volume, and I was not a little amused to recognise in it my own Turkish pocket dictionary printed in Pera many years ago. When the merchant (he was a Swiss, a Mr. W., commission agent at Tebris), after a fruitless search, put the little book impatiently aside with no very complimentary remarks, I suddenly addressed him in German, remarking that the writer of his little dictionary was not exactly a fool, only that he had been looking in the wrong place. To be addressed in German by a ragged semi-Turkish, semi-Persian individual in the bazaar at Tebris was a little too much even for the equanimity of this son of Mercury. We exchanged a few words, reproaches and irritation were followed by apologies, and the end of the comical intermezzo was an invitation to his house and lavish hospitality for a few days. Amusing adventures of a similar nature befell me on other occasions, and it was always and everywhere my linguistic skill, and the ease with which I could reproduce foreign accents, intonations, and constructions, and in many instances quote suitable maxims and passages of the Koran, accompanied with the usual gesticulations, that took with my audience, and made me pass for a native in spite of my foreign physiognomy.
I had noticed this with pleasure on the banks of the Bosphorus, and more still on the first part of my journey in the interior of Asia. I could not say that I was proof against all suspicion, for the typical expression of the face always excited doubt, and was detrimental to me, but in the variegated national mosaic of the West Asiatic world, where types and races of all zones meet and mix in ever-varying amalgamation, there language is everything and looks nothing; and when this language, moreover, expresses respect for Allah and the Prophet, one becomes incorporated de jure et de facto in the all-encompassing bond of religious community, and one ceases to be a foreigner.
And so my stay at the caravanseray of Tebris was full of curious impressions and incidents. Sitting in my poor, bare little cell, I watched for hours together the confused bustle of the bartering, wrangling, shouting, singing, begging crowd in the court. Sometimes I went out among them, spoke to one or another, talked about trade in its various branches, and in the evening hours when it was comparatively quiet in the caravanseray, sometimes, when I could not get out of it, I joined in the conversation about sectarianism, politics, and other matters. The merchant of the East is always a man of the opposition, for he has much to suffer from anarchy and the régime of absolutism, and his open criticism has often surprised me.
After a prolonged stay in Tebris, I found myself at last in the saddle again on the way to Teheran. The future appeared more hopeful, and the success of my undertaking somewhat more certain. Instead of travelling in the usual caravan I had joined a company of travellers who, although natives of Sunnitic lands, Kurds and Arabs, wandered all over Iran in Shiite disguise. Religion was their business—that is to say, they travelled from village to village singing elegies (Rouzekhan), and daily shed bucketfuls of tears in the commemoration of the tragic fate of the martyrs Hasan and Husein, and then, after pocketing the shining gold pieces, the disguised Sunnites laughed in their sleeve. Another kind of these religion-traders occupied themselves with the expediting of Persians, both living and dead, to the holy shrine at Kerbela. To the former they served as guides on their pilgrimage, getting as much as they could out of them, and secretly conniving with the marauding Beduins, who attacked and stripped them of all they possessed. The latter, i.e., the departed faithful worshippers of Ali, are transported by them between four planks to Kerbela and Nedshef. In my Wanderings and Experiences in Persia I have attempted to describe such a funeral caravan. It is the most awful and gruesome spectacle imaginable, but it is a profitable trade; and when I travelled in company with these gentlemen expeditioners, elegy-singers, and Kerbela-pilgrims, I came to the conclusion that the juggling of the pious in East and West, amongst Christians and Mohammedans, is all the same. Here as there the maxim holds good: "Mundus vult decipi—ergo decipiatur," only that the felicity of being deceived is in Asia far more intense than with us in Europe.
In Asia the light of civilisation and revelation has as yet illumined but a few. Scepticism has always been timid in the world of Islam, even in the time of its glory, and now that poverty and misery reign supreme, and the struggle for existence is almost the only thing thought of or cared for, there is but little desire for metaphysical speculations; people have no time for meditation, and conform with cold apathy to the old prescribed forms of faith.
In spite of the oppressive July heat, in spite of occasional nightly attacks, or rather intimidations by robber bands, I arrived full of good courage in the Persian capital; and after I had somewhat recovered from the fatigues of the journey at the Turkish Embassy in the cool valley of the Shimran mountains, no one was happier than I when the cooler weather set in, and, leaving luxury and comfort behind, I was able to resume my adventurous route to South Persia, i.e., to Ispahan, Shiraz, and Persepolis. This journey formed, so to speak, the second course of my preparation for the expedition into Central Asia, and if I had not gone through this course I don't know but that my perilous expedition into Turkestan would on the whole have been a failure. When I arrived in Teheran I was greeted with the discouraging news that a journey to Bokhara was fraught with gigantic and unconquerable dangers, and not by any means so easy as I had imagined, and, moreover, that in the North-East of Persia, because of the war between Dost Mohammed and Ahmed Shah, the journey viâ Meshed and Merv or viâ Herat had become perfectly impossible. So I was obliged, in order to avoid further inactivity, to find another opening and a new field of labour. As the study of the Aryan languages was not at all in my programme, there seemed no object in my going to South Persia. But I durst not break off the hardening system I had commenced, and I had already grown so fond of the excitement of venturesome expeditions that the dry saddle, dry bread, and dry soil were more to my taste than all the luxury, riches, and wealth of the hospitable Turkish Embassy. The kind reception I had met with there secured for me, in the Persian capital, the half-official character of an attaché to the Embassy. I gained admittance to the houses of the aristocracy, and was also presented to the King, and when ready to start for South Persia the Persian Government gave me the following letter of commendation:—
"The State officials of the glorious residence as far as Shiraz are hereby notified that the high-born and noble Reshid Effendi, a subject of the Ottoman Government, who has come to travel in this land, is now on his way to the Province of Fars. On account of the friendly relations between the two States, and also because of the harmony prescribed by the common Moslem religion, all officials of those regions are hereby instructed to see that the traveller above mentioned receive all due honour and respect; to protect him on the journey and at the different stations against all injuries and molestations.
"Mirza Said Khan
"(Minister of Foreign Affairs)."Teheran, 24th Safar, 1279."
Considering the very small consideration which even the very highest official commands receive in the provinces, I did not attach overmuch importance to this letter. It has, however, protected me occasionally against suspicion.
In Ispahan and Shiraz I could, in my character of Stambul Effendi under State protection, obtain a much more intimate knowledge of the land and the people of Persia than falls to the lot of any other European. I particularly enjoyed my stay at the house of Imam Djumaa of Ispahan, the Shiite high priest at that time, to whom I was a regular problem, and who tried in vain to penetrate my incognito. This cunning and most skilful man, who exercised great influence, gave himself much trouble to convert me to the Shiite sect. Evenings for disputations were organised, in which learned Shiite Akhondes (priests) and Mollas unpacked all the paraphernalia of their sectarian learning for my benefit; they entered into the minutest details to prove the correctness of Shiite dogmas and rites, they marshalled a whole army of arguments to prove the usurpations of the first Kalifs, Abubeker, Osman, and Omar, and Ali's irrefutable right of succession. As I had often been present at similar discussions in the opposite—that is, in the Sunnitic—camp, I was not afraid to put in a word to the point here and there; but when, very closely pressed, I was at a loss for an answer, my opponents rejoiced, and in overcoming me, the disguised European, they fancied they had conquered all the Sunnites. Poor fools! what would have been their feelings if they had known that through contact with a Frenghi they had become Nedjis, i.e., unclean, and that they had taken all this trouble over a declared enemy of all positive faith. In my intercourse with the lower classes these discussions were not carried on in quite so pleasant a manner. During the long caravan journey I was never free from their impertinent questions; whether on the march, resting, eating or drinking, they challenged me, and left me no peace. Even in the coolness of the night, when I had fallen asleep seated on my slowly-trotting donkey, I was often roughly roused and accosted with such remarks as, "Now, then, do you mean to say that this mangy dog, called Omar, this hideous, infernal beast, this stinking vermin, was not a usurper? Answer, Effendi, for I tell you I have a great mind to send you down to the infernal regions after your dirty patron-saint."
Thirteen hundred years have passed away since first the spirit of mastery and boastfulness began to wage this barbarous, destructive war in the name of religion—a war which has led to the shedding of oceans of blood, and cost mountains of wreck and ruin. And here was I, a harmless wayfarer, a follower of Voltaire and David Strauss, rudely roused from my peaceful slumbers and forcibly dragged into stupid arguments! It was too bad!
Indeed, my visit to South Persia, with all its glorious monuments many thousand years old, with the graves of Hafiz and Saadi, cost me very dearly. In my book about Persia I did not mention a tenth part of all the sufferings, all the privations I had to bear, and yet, in spite of all, I experienced intense joy during this expedition. Every modulation of the beautiful South Persian dialect, the sight of the glorious monuments of Iranian antiquity, made my bosom swell and wrapt me in a world of delicious dreams. Never shall I forget the night of my arrival at the ruins of Persepolis. It was bright moonlight, and I stood for hours, transfixed in silent wonder, gazing at the gigantic monuments of ancient culture. Then the evenings spent in company with Persian literati, at Hafiz's grave, with music and song and the pearly goblet in our hands, or the solemn moments of pious meditation in Saadi's mausoleum, shall I ever forget them?
Apart from these intellectual enjoyments of a peculiar nature, the journey to and from Shiraz, which lasted for several months, had considerably hardened me, and given me a quite extraordinary elasticity. I could brave wind and rain, heat and cold, without the slightest risk; I slept in the saddle as on the softest bed, I rode on any kind of saddle-beast over hill and dale; nay, I took special pleasure in horsemanship—a thing which, considering my lame leg, is now incomprehensible to me. I swung myself into the saddle of a horse in full gallop, I mounted high-loaded mules and camels as if I had been brought up with rope-dancers, and I felt safe in company with the roughest specimens of humanity as if I had lived all my life with vagabonds and robbers. Under these conditions it is not surprising that, on returning from South Persia, I stuck to my resolution to undertake the journey to Bokhara, if necessary viâ Herat and right through the Turkoman Steppes, and that all the words of advice, warning, and intimidation of European and Turkish friends at Teheran were fruitless, and left me perfectly unmoved. I thought to myself, "What can befall me worse than what I have gone through already?" I had long since discarded the character of the poor Effendi in which I had commenced my travels, and, without being conscious of it, I had adopted the part of a roving Dervish, for Dervish is the name applied to all Orientals who have not run after earthly goods, but lead a roaming life in search of adventure, with religion as their signboard. Now, whether I begged my bread in Persia, in the character of a Dervish, in the daytime wandering about in tatters, and at night in the Tekke (convent) singing hymns, to while away the time, or whether I did the same in Middle Asia, came to much the same thing. On the contrary, I thought in the latter portion of the Islamic world, where I can move more freely and probably get on better as Osmanli amongst Sunnites and Turks, better days may (possibly) be in store for me; instead of torments and insults and scorn, I may find honour and liberal hospitality; and so strong was my confidence in the success of my undertaking that I began to have a perfect longing for Central Asia. It was rather amusing to see the way in which the Europeans at Teheran viewed my resolution, and how the opinion gained ground that I had fallen into a fatal delusion, and that, unconscious of danger, I was hurrying on to certain destruction. The tragic end of the English officers, Conolly and Stoddart, who died a martyr's death at Bokhara, was then fresh in everybody's mind. Monsieur de Blocqueville had not long since returned from his Turkoman captivity, and the frightful details of his experiences as prisoner under the Tekke still resounded in our ears. Stories were told of the mysterious death of an English officer, Captain Wyburn, who had suddenly disappeared on the Turkoman Steppes, and not a trace of whom could be found. Other imaginary atrocities were conjured up, and it seemed only natural that everybody did his best to dissuade me from my purpose, and to paint a journey into the very centre of Moslem fanaticism in the most glaring colours. Curiously enough, my friends at the English Embassy discouraged me less than any; and, pointing to the travels of Burnes and Dr. Wolff, Mr. R. Th. thought that I might have a chance of success. Count Gobineau, the French Ambassador, himself a literary man and Orientalist, gave me but little hope; my success would not please him, for he was filled with envy and jealousy. They were most put out at the Turkish Embassy, where I had been so warmly recommended by the Porte, and where they were really anxious about my fate.
I was not at all loath to leave Persia; what charm could a longer sojourn in Iran have for me? A description of the political and social conditions of this land, already sufficiently well known even in those days, offered no special attraction to my literary vanity. True, the instructive and classical works of Dr. Polak and Lord Curzon of Kedleston had not appeared yet, but I could not have written anything absolutely new about Persia. In my intimate intercourse with the people of the land I was principally struck with the more intensely Oriental character of the Government and society, and all that I saw strengthened me in my conviction that Persia was at least a hundred years behind Turkey, notwithstanding the greater intellectuality of the people, and would certainly take longer to extricate itself from the pool of Asiatic thought. Of the West and Western culture they had but very vague notions in Persia. The young king, Nasreddin Shah, was instructed by his court physicians, Cloquet, Polak, and Tholozan, in many points of our Western culture, and he took a good deal of trouble to mould his surroundings upon their suggestions. The prudish conservatism of the Orientals, supported by the national pride and boundless vanity of the Persians—who, recollecting the age of the Sasanides and the glorious period of Shah Abbas II. always try to minimise the triumphs of our civilisation, or even hold it in derision—hindered all healthy and vigorous progress. Even the heads of the administration very seldom knew French. In my frequent intercourse with Mirza Said Khan, then Minister of Foreign Affairs, a native Persian of the old school, I often received amusing proofs of this ignorance and obstinacy. He lacked even the elementary knowledge of the geography and history of Europe, and all that I told him of the power and might of some of the European States was nonsense in his eyes, and he used to say reproachfully "If Europe is really so great, why does it want to enrich itself by commerce with Persia, and why does it force itself upon us?" Mirza Yahya Khan, the first adjutant of the king, who knew French and was somewhat enlightened by his travels in Europe, used to laugh aloud at the ignorance of the minister; but even he allowed the West but few prerogatives, and always boasted of the greater intellectual endowments and sagacity of the Persian people in general. With the scholars and literati I could not get on at all. Referring to their truly beautiful literature of antiquity, they used to speak with poetic ecstasy about the superiority and unequalled beauty of Eastern thought, and were especially proud of their philosophers. "If your thinkers are really so great and sublime," I was often told, "why then do you translate our Sadi, Hafiz, and Khayyám? We have no desire for your classics." These people are happy in their Persian microcosm, and I well recollect the disputations I used to have with the Akhondes (learned). These thickly turbaned priests struck me as being remarkably liberal-minded in religious matters. They spoke about Mohammed and his doctrine without any fanaticism, from a purely historical point of view, and did not appear shocked at the most daring hypothesis or suggestion, which surprised me very much, for amongst the Sunnites of Turkey and Central Asia such discussions would have been called blasphemous.
Looked at from this point of view Persia was highly interesting to me, and if I had not had my mind full of plans for travel I could perhaps have turned the advantage of my incognito to better account by a comparative study of individual Oriental nations. But it was no good, I was compelled to go forward; and while in this excited frame of mind I accidentally made the acquaintance, at the Turkish Embassy, of some Tartar pilgrims on their way back from Mecca to Central Asia. When I acquainted the members of the Turkish Embassy with my intention to travel in company with these frightful-looking people, half-starved, tattered zealots, covered with dirt and sores, one can imagine the surprise of those kind-hearted folks. The ambassador, Haidar Effendi, a particularly high-minded man and extremely tolerant in matters of religion, was quite upset about it. He threatened to use force; but when he saw that all his expostulations had not the slightest effect upon me, he did his utmost to minimise the danger of my undertaking. He called the leaders of the beggar-band before him, gave them rich presents and recommended me to their special care and protection; he also gave me an authorised passport, bearing the name of Hadji Mehemmed Reshid Effendi, with the official signature and seal. Seeing that I had never been in Mecca, and had therefore no legal right to the title of Hadji (pilgrim), this official lie may be viewed in various lights. But it saved my life, and I owe my success to it; for this pass, in the critical moments of my journey incognito, supplied the necessary documentary evidence. The official document bearing the Tugra (Sultan's signature) is at all times an object of pious veneration to the Turkomans. They recognise in the Osmanlis their brethren in the faith, and the simple children of the Steppes came from far and near to behold the holy Tugra, and after performing the prescribed ablutions, to press the sacred sign against their brow. In Khiva and in Bokhara, where the official sign was better known, it elicited still more respect. In fact, I may honestly say that I owe my success to this passport; and when one considers the magnanimous tolerance which must have prompted these Mohammedan dignitaries and representatives of the Sultan to describe a European and a freethinker as a Mussulman pilgrim, I think the deception may be condoned. An official of humane Christian Europe would scarcely have shown as much generosity to a Mohammedan! After Haidar Effendi, I found another kind friend in Dr. Bimsenstein, an Austrian by birth, who acted as physician to the Legation at Teheran. He seemed much concerned about me, but when he saw that even his fatherly advice was of no avail, and that the prospect of a martyr's death did not frighten me, he called me into his dispensary and gave me three pills, saying, "These are strychnine pills. I give them to you to spare you the agonies of a slow martyr's death. When you see that preparations are being made to torture you to death, and when you cannot see a ray of hope anywhere, then swallow these pills; they will shorten your agony." With tears the kind-hearted man gave me the fateful globules, which I carefully hid in the wadding of my upper garment. They have been my sheet-anchor, and many a time when in moments of danger I felt the little hard protuberances in the wadding, I have derived comfort from them. My valuables consisted of a silver watch, the face of which had been transformed into a Kiblenuma, i.e., a compass, or more correctly, an indicator or hand to show the position of Mecca and Medina, and a few ducats, hidden between the soles of my shoes, which I only had occasion to extricate twice during the whole of my journey. "Cantabit vacuus coram latrone viator." So I was safe against the greed of my fellow-travellers and any other robbers. I wore my very oldest Persian clothes, and in every respect made myself as much as possible in outward appearance like my beggarly companions. So I started on my adventurous expedition with a cheerful mind, and turning my back upon Teheran, the last connection with European memories, I set my face towards the Caspian Sea.
And now in the evening of my life,—the glow of enthusiasm vanished, and heart and head cooled down almost to freezing-point,—looking back upon this wild folly of my younger days, I cannot but condemn the whole affair as absolutely unjustifiable and opposed to all common sense. The first part of my plan and its execution were not matters of calculation and premeditation, but a leap in the dark, a rushing forward at random. I quite forgot to consider whether my physical strength would hold out in the unusual struggle, and whether with my lame foot I should be able to get over large distances per pedes apostolorum. Also I had not sufficiently taken into account the suspicion of Central Asiatic tyrants, and forgot that Bokhara was not only a hotbed of hyperzealous fanaticism, but also of the most consummate villains in the world. I had not the faintest idea that I should be watched day and night by numerous spies, reporters, and officious hirelings, who followed me in the lonely Steppes, in the bazaars, the streets, the mosques, and the convents, and took note of every word, every movement of mine. I never thought that my European features would at once attract attention among the masses of pure Ural-Altaic and genuine Iranian type, and form a permanent suspicion against me; and least of all did I think that, notwithstanding my versatility, my well-tempered nervous system, and my experience in the morals and customs of Islam, prying eyes were always busy trying to look through my incognito. I had had no idea of the fiendish cunning and subtilty of the Bokhariots, and the frightful crudeness of the Osbeg court at Khiva. How could I have known all this, seeing that these countries and people, cut off for centuries from the other Islamic States, and perfectly unknown to Western nations, still continued in the stage of ancient almost primitive culture and ignorance, and had nothing in common with the civilisation of the Turks, Persians, Kurds, and Arabs, with whom I was familiar? With every step I took into this strange world my astonishment and surprise and also my fear grew. I realised that I had entered into a perfectly strange and unknown world of ideas, that I had undertaken a most risky thing, that my former experiences would avail me nothing here, and that I had to gather up all my strength to escape the dangers on all sides. The preservation of my incognito was a tremendous mental and physical exertion. As for the former, I could not and dare not relax for one moment during the whole of my journey; by day or by night, asleep or awake, alone or in company, I had always to remember my rôle, be ever on my guard, and never by the slightest mistake or neglect betray my identity. I used mostly at night, when all were asleep round me, to practise certain grimaces and contortions of eyes and face, I tried to imitate the gesticulations which in the daytime I had observed from my travelling companions; and so great is human adaptability to foreign customs and habits that within two months I was in fashion, manners, and speech a faithful copy of my Hadji companions, and in the eyes of ordinary Turkomans passed for a regular Khokandian or Kashgarian. Of course my poverty-stricken and dirty appearance greatly assisted the delusion. In the seams and cracks of the face sand and dirt had collected, and formed quite a crust, which could not be removed by the prescribed ablutions, for the simple reason that as we were often short of water in the Steppe, I had to take refuge in Teyemmun, i.e. (a substitute), washing with sand. My beard grew rugged and coarse, my eyes rolled wilder, and my gait in the awkward full garments, perhaps also because of my frequent and long rides, had become as unwieldy, waddling and uncomfortable as if I had lived from early youth with Mongol and Turkish tribes. I cannot and need not hide the fact that at first these physical discomforts were very irksome to me, and cost me many a pang. To dip one's fingers into a pot of rice, which for want of fat is cooked with tallow-candle, and in which the Tartars plunged their filthy, wounded fists, cannot exactly be described as one of the most pleasurable methods of feeding, nor is it a treat to spend the night squeezed in among a row of sleeping, snoring beggars. Both are equally undesirable, but when in these predicaments I recalled the sufferings and privations of my early life, the comparison made me realise that the European mendicant has much the advantage over his Central Asiatic comrade, for the sufferings of hunger, thirst, and vermin are far worse in Turkestan than they ever could be in Europe.
What I had to suffer from this last evil, the lice, which multiply in the most appalling manner in Central Asia, passes all description, and, objectionable as the subject may be, I must try to give some idea of the manner in which I endeavoured to rid myself of this pest, if only for a short space of time. With the Dervish the catching of these insects forms part of the toilet, and is also looked upon as a kind of after-dinner enjoyment. One begins by using the thumb-nails as a weapon of defence against these intruding guests; and the picture of various groups engaged in search and slaughter was sometimes intensely ludicrous. In the second stage of the cleansing process the garment under treatment is held over the red-hot cinders, and the animals, stunned by the fierce heat, die a fiery death with a peculiar crackling noise. If this auto-da-fé is not procurable, the garment is strewn all over with sand, and exposed to the scorching rays of the sun. The vermin are thus invited to exchange their lower cooler quarters for the upper warmer ones, and once there they can easily be shaken off. When neither fire nor sand is available the garment is placed near an anthill, and the troublesome insects are left to the mercy of the ants, who soon make their way into the smallest crevices and apertures and carry off their prey. Curiously enough, this pest is far worse in winter than in summer, for when, on my journey between Herat and Meshed, I lay huddled up in one corner of my bed, these creatures, always in search of heat, collected wherever the heat of my body was greatest, and no sooner had I turned from the right on to the left side, than these detestable animals at once instituted a formal migration and took possession of the heated portion of my body. Now I understood for the first time why in the Jewish Holy Scriptures the plague of lice is mentioned second after that of the water turned into blood. Next to this plague I suffered much from the fatigues of the journey. First of all there was the scorching heat on the plain of the Balkan mountains up to the Khiva oasis, where the thermometer, as I learned afterwards from the reports of Colonel Markusoff, rises fifty and fifty-two degrees Réaumur, and where the lack of drinkable water causes the traveller unheard-of sufferings. One inhales fire, so to speak, the skin shrivels visibly, and one is almost blinded by the vibrations of the air. From eight o'clock in the morning till three or four in the afternoon it is like being in a baker's oven, and the torture is aggravated when one has to sit huddled together and cross-legged in the Kedjeve (or basket) on the back of a camel, stinking of sweat and sores. Sometimes, when the poor beast could go no farther through the thick sand, I had to climb down from my perch and go for long distances on foot. On account of my lame leg I had to lean on a stick with my right hand, and on one of these tramps my right arm became so terribly swollen that I suffered great pain for several days. Apart from these inconveniences, I enjoyed excellent health, which rather surprised me, as the half-baked bread freely mixed with sand, the best we could make in the Steppes, was apt to be somewhat indigestible. So much for the magic effect of an outdoor life and the excitement of an adventurous expedition!
And yet all these physical sufferings were light as compared with the mental and nervous strain I underwent. Every look, every gesture, every sign, no matter how innocent, and even in the circle of my most intimate friends, I viewed with apprehension, lest it might contain some hidden allusion to my incognito. I tried to hide my anxiety behind the mask of exuberant hilarity, and generally managed to lead the conversation on to some irrelevant subject. But I found out afterwards that these harmless folks never dreamed of unmasking me. In their absolute ignorance of Europeanism they had never for a moment doubted the genuineness of my Effendi character. Fortunately, precautionary measures were only necessary when I was in a town, in Bokhara or Samarkand, for amongst the country folks and the nomads, the latter of whom had never seen a European face to face, they were quite superfluous. The successful preservation of my incognito among these simple children of Nature made me indulge in the wildest flights of fancy. I remember one mad idea, the impracticability of which did not at all strike me at the time, but which must now seem ridiculous to everybody, even to myself. I had reached the height of my reputation with the Turkomans of the Gorghen and the Atrek. They looked upon me as a saint from distant Rum (the west); young and old flocked round me to receive a blessing, or even a sacred breath, as a preservative against diseases. One day an old greybeard, who had spent his whole life in plunder and murder, discreetly advanced towards me, and in all earnest made me the following proposition: "Sheik-him (my Sheikh)," he said, "why do you not place yourself at the head of a great plundering expedition? Under your blessed guidance we might organise an attack on a large scale into heretic Shiite (Persia). I am good for 5,000 lances; steeled heroes and fiery horses could do much with Allah's help, and assisted by a Fatiha (prayer) from you." Now the reader will naturally suppose that I treated this proposal as a huge joke. Nothing of the kind. The words of the old Turkoman wolf did not sound at all absurd to me; they only required a little consideration. I thought of the unexampled cowardice and state of confusion of the Persian army, and knowing the wild impetuosity, the rapaciousness, and the audacity of the Turkomans, one of whom was a match for ten Persians, the thought flashed through my brain, "Stop, why not undertake this romantic exploit? All the way from Sharud the Persian frontiers are exposed; 5,000 Turkomans can easily take the field against 10,000 Persians and more. And where will the Shah find so many soldiers all in a hurry? In Teheran I shall find some adventurous Italian and French officers who will probably like to join me. In any case an attack upon the capital can be successfully accomplished, and who knows, I might possess myself of the Persian throne if only for a few days!" The fact that it would be no easy matter to keep 5,000 Turkomans within the bounds of discipline, and that in the face of European politics my success would at best be but a midsummer night's dream—all this troubled me not one whit; so deeply had I plunged into the atmosphere of mediæval life around me, and so far did my heated fancy carry me back into the regions of past ages!