Tamerlane’s tomb is on the threshold of Samarkand, and is but the prelude which introduces the travellers to wonder upon wonder. The whole of the first day we devoted to it, so as to come with a prepared mind and yet quite fresh to the wealth of beauty that lies within the city. A fine avenue of poplars leads from the tomb to the imposing citadel, dipping into a deep ravine (where a wood market is always going on); as one mounts the hill the citadel seems to tower above the city. Its one relic of interest is the Keuk-Tash, a grey stone, ten feet long and four feet broad, said to have been originally brought from Broussa. This formed the seat from which Tamerlane dispensed judgment—one cannot say “justice”—and which in later days was used by the Amirs of Bokhara for the same purpose. A number of bazaars line the road, giving the impression of a busy, flourishing town, and the road is thronged with carriages, men on horseback, and carts. What a fascinating crowd it was. I must briefly describe its chief elements. The population is principally Sart, but there are Persians, Afghans, Kirghiz, and others. Some of their horses are splendid proudly-stepping creatures, and it is a marvel to see their trappings, handsomely embroidered cloths on which the equally handsomely decorated antique saddles rest. These are either painted or inlaid wood, and have a high peak in front; the stirrups are equally decorative, but fastened so short that the knees are always bent. The Sarts invariably ride unless extremely poor, and it is astonishing to see how fine some of them are, who yet have to carry home their purchases from the market, a somewhat incongruous effect being produced by these gorgeous creatures having an armful of vegetables. If too poor to ride a horse, the Sart may at least be able to afford a donkey. Some of them have a closely veiled woman riding pillion; others will have their young sons riding before and behind them on the same horse. The Sarts wear long flowing cotton or silk robes of brilliant colours, especially affecting stripes, and high leather boots. On their heads they wear little gaily-embroidered caps, surrounded by a turban of dazzling whiteness, with ends coquettishly hanging down by the left ear on to the shoulder. A poor man may be only able to afford two or three yards of coarse white cotton for the purpose, but the rich man will have twenty or thirty yards of the finest muslin. Round the waist the men wear ornate belts, into which are stuck the knife with gold or silver jewelled handle in its sheath of leather, and in another case a comb, toothpick, and other et ceteras. Among the foot-passengers are a certain number of women dressed in long, grey-blue cloaks from head to foot, only just showing the wide trousers fastened in at the ankle; there is but the smallest peep-hole through a horsehair veil like a meat sieve. They are mere chattels, and are kept strictly secluded. The children in their gay clothes form a delicious contrast, and are as bright and merry as birds, full of mischief and fun; we had a good opportunity of watching them while sketching, and they were delightful neighbours for the most part, despite being rather distracting.

The first building that arrests the attention at the entrance to the town is the citadel, but it has been transformed into Russian barracks, so that the exterior is the main thing of interest. It boasts in modern times of having been the scene of a stirring episode when the Russians first took possession in 1868. A small garrison having been left there while the main army went in pursuit of the Amir of Bokhara, found itself surrounded by 20,000 men, and for five days succeeded in holding the position until relieved by the timely arrival of a corps from Tashkent. Then a terrible vengeance fell upon the doomed city, which was given over for three days to pillage as in the days of Tamerlane. What grim irony to call Samarkand la bien gardée, when through all the centuries it has been desolated, beginning from the conquest of Alexander the Great, more than twenty-two centuries ago, down to the present time. Under the Arab Sámánids in the eighth century it became a great centre of learning, and was renowned throughout the world; then Genghiz Khan fell upon it in 1219, and although it is said to have been defended by 110,000 men, he took the city and let loose his ferocious hordes upon it. When they left the city the population had been reduced to one-fourth of the size it had been, but even then it was said to boast 25,000 families. In the days of Tamerlane it rose again to 150,000, and at the present day the native city covers a great area, being enclosed within a low wall of nine miles in extent.

The next group of ancient buildings which meets the eye is the great market square, the Righistan, three sides of which are surrounded by madressahs or colleges, the fourth side being bounded by a row of small native shops. The four sides are quite separate from one another, a street passing along the north side of the square in front of the Tilla-Kari Madressah. It would be impossible to describe the magnificent effect of these buildings due to their great height, simplicity of design, brilliancy of colour, and the noble space which they enclose. The square is more than two centuries later in date than the days of Tamerlane, but it is the harmonious continuation and completion of his work. The eastern building is the oldest of the madressahs, called after its builder, Uleg Beg (A.D. 1420 approximately); he was the grandson of Timur, a great patron of art and science. He made a table of the fixed stars, agreeing pretty closely with that made by the celebrated Danish astronomer, Tycho-Brahé, more than a century later. It is the smallest of the three madressahs, containing accommodation for only fifty students, but attached to it was the world-renowned observatory and school of mathematics. Uleg Beg used the quadrant, the radius of which, says d’Herbelot, equalled the height of St. Sophia. A description of one madressah will suffice for the three, as they are all built on the same plan. The front of the quadrilateral building is about 100 to 150 feet in height, with an immense porch nearly extending to the top of it; the porch is mostly filled in with beautiful tiles, but contains a small window in the upper part and a wide door below, with smaller ones on either side. The broad spaces of masonry flanking the porch are subdivided into three sections, which are all differently and richly decorated with tiles, in which blue is the predominating colour. The two small doorways lead into a paved court surrounded by buildings, in the centre of each of which is a pointed porch called “pichtack,” similar to that of the façade, but on a much smaller scale, and generally of finer workmanship. This is surrounded by arcades, the central one being a hall for prayer, decorated with suitable inscriptions cut in hard stone or marble slabs in the walls. The courtyard corresponds to our cloister of the West, and trees cast a pleasant shade in it where the studious Mohammedans spend so many weary hours, for the university training lasts from twenty to twenty-seven years. One of the students showed us his tiny cell with its store of books—a very limited one. As we entered another student or Mullah stood praying just within the porch at the top of his voice, and in shrill and dolorous accents: the Sunnites adopt this tone in order that there may be no suspicion of tune or melody. The studies are by no means confined to religion, however, for they embrace all the faculties, and men are here trained to fill every office of Church and State. The Koran and its commentaries are considered fundamentals, and when one reflects that Mohammedanism owes its widespread success no less to the proselytising spirit of its merchants and soldiers than of its religious teachers, one is forced to admire the wisdom which requires that such thorough teaching be given to the educated classes. We were told that the students have to observe strictly certain rules throughout the whole course of their university career; married men are allowed to spend two nights a week in their own homes, but the remaining five must be spent in the madressah. The length of the course is a heavy strain on the resources of a family, but many of these people, living in mean surroundings and with no outward pomp, are possessors of considerable wealth. In Tashkent the Government is offering free education for boys in the Russian schools, in order to attract the Sarts to send their sons to them, and the lessons are given both in Russian and in Sart, half and half. This is done for political purposes, and with a view to getting more into touch with the native population: at present there is a great gulf fixed between them.

To return to our subject—the architecture of the schools. On the right and left of the central façade there are side wings, originally covered with tiles, but now somewhat injured by time, and at their outer end rise lofty cylindrical towers of great height and entirely covered with tiles; they are now quite out of the perpendicular, and it is impossible to do anything to preserve them from the effects of the violent earthquakes which are continually destroying the priceless monuments of Samarkand.

The madressah of Shir Dar (“the lion bearing”), built in 1601, faces that of Uleg Beg, and the only difference of importance between the two is that the former has two domes rising from the side wings of the façade, namely, between the porch and the towers. It is the largest of the three madressahs, and contains rooms for one hundred and twenty students. Its name is due to the heraldic figures of lions (only they are more like tigers) on the façade. Most of the designs on all the architecture at Samarkand are arabesques, inscriptions, or geometrical figures, but there are occasionally animals introduced, such as lions, griffons, and dragons. As regards colour, in the later architecture, black, green, and gold are added to the blues and yellow characterising the earlier tiles, but there is comparatively so little other colouring than blue, that it passes unnoticed without close inspection.

From the summit of the northernmost tower criminals used to be hurled, we were informed, in the “good old days,” into the square below called “the Gluttonous Place”; this was the case at Bokhara only last century: they were trussed up like fowls. Visitors are usually taken by the professional guide up this madressah to look over the city, from the platform upon which the cupolas rest. It is perhaps desirable to warn ladies visiting Samarkand to beware of this guide, as he bears an unsatisfactory character. Our unofficial guide took us to the top of the Tilla Kari (“dressed in gold”) façade, which is much loftier, and from which a fine view of the mountains is to be obtained. The ascent was steep, rough, and perilous, but well worth not only the effort, but also the resultant stiffness of many days. The vision that burst upon our view as we emerged from the dark staircase was that of a city gleaming among a wealth of trees, stretching far across the plain to the distant, snow-capped mountains. Far below the motley crowd looked like ants; the vivid colouring of their robes was almost indistinguishable, and only a hushed murmur rose to our ears from the busy throng.

In the Tilla-Kari Madressah (built in 1618) there is room for fifty-six students. It has an important mosque, of which the inside walls were not only decorated with blue tiles, but also with fine marble slabs handsomely cut and bearing gilded inscriptions, but the gilding was somewhat dimmed by time. Evidently there was a large and costly carpet on the floor, for our feet sank noiselessly into the soft pile, but it was covered with a drugget, and we were only allowed to see a small corner. This madressah has no flanking towers, and a less ornate façade, which probably gave rise to the idea that it was the oldest, whereas it is the most recent of the three.

Our evident delight in the beauty of the place was obviously a source of no little gratification to the people; our only regret was that we were unable to talk to them. Few people know the Sart language, or even know of its existence, but in the mosques and bazaars Persian as well as Arabic is current. The people to whom the glories of the place are like a twice-told tale, watched our expression with some wonder, but keen appreciation; when they had further inquired as to our nationality, it seemed as if we were admitted into a sort of friendly intimacy.

We started one day from our hotel with a pleasant old man as droshky driver; to him our host gave elaborate instructions as to where we should go and what we should see; but in the old city he picked up a picturesque native in white turban and wine-coloured robe, who forthwith constituted himself our guide. Our inability to talk or even to understand his language was a slight bar to our enjoyment, yet in the course of the morning we gathered a certain amount of information about the city, and felt that we had missed seeing nothing of real importance.

One of the finest ruins is the madressah of Bibi Khanum, the daughter of the Chinese Emperor, and favourite wife of Tamerlane. She is said to have built this not only as a school, but also as a mausoleum for her remains; its greatness and beauty, however, were such that she offered it instead to her lord and master (no doubt a wise policy on her part), and built instead for her tomb what is known as the little Bibi Khanum, an unimposing structure overlooking the grain market.

The Spanish historian, Clavijo, gives a vivid picture of the lady taking part at a great feast in honour of the wedding of Tamerlane’s grandsons. He says: “When the people were all arranged in order round the wall which encircled the pavilion, Cano, the chief wife of this lord, came forth to be present at the feast. She had on a robe of red silk, trimmed with gold lace, long and flowing. It had no waist, and fifteen ladies held up the skirt of it to enable her to walk. She wore a crested head-dress of red cloth, very high, covered with large pearls, rubies, emeralds, and other precious stones, and embroidered with gold lace. On the top of all there was a little castle, on which were three large and brilliant rubies, surmounted by a tall plume of feathers.... Her hair, which was very black, hung down over her shoulders, and they value black hair much more than any other colour. She was accompanied by 300 ladies, of whom three held her head-dress when she sat down, lest it should tilt over. She had so much white lead on her face that it looked like paper, and this is put on to protect it from the sun, for when they travel (evidently Clavijo suffered in the same way as modern travellers when seeking information) in winter or in summer all great ladies put this on.” The palace one may very well believe, from what we can see of its remains, was a fitting background to such a gorgeous company. Its vast height and the brilliancy of the tiles make it one of the most impressive sights in Samarkand. The magnificent cupola is sadly broken, but the remains show that it is different from other cupolas in Samarkand, which were fluted and ovoid in shape, with blue tiles decorating them in fine contrast to the pearly whiteness of the remainder of the structure. The Bibi Khanum cupola is dome-shaped and entirely covered with the turquoise blue tiles so characteristic of Chinese architecture (in Shansi especially), and one likes to fancy it as a reminiscence of the princess’s native land. It is the most glorious note of colour, and at a distance, where the other tiles lose all their effect, it glows with undimmed beauty. It added value and charm to the various shades of blue in the great archway below it. In my sketch of the city I have tried to give this effect. The walls of the palace are sadly ruined, and it is to be feared that soon little will remain; the majestic archways can still be traced, and some fluted twisted columns of vivid blue are almost perfect, terminating below in an elegant design some feet above the ground. Hard by, but outside the precincts of the palace, another lofty tower stands erect, entirely covered with blue arabesques. Surely such a wealth of beauty can be found nowhere else in the world.

In the centre of the main courtyard, under the shade of the trees, is a great marble lectern, richly carved, on which the gigantic Koran of Othman was placed, which, it was alleged, the Chinese princess used to read from a neighbouring window. It is certainly difficult to see how it could be read otherwise than from some elevation, except by a giant. The natives believe in its miraculous efficacy in cases of spinal diseases, if the patient can bend sufficiently to creep underneath it.

There is still one octagonal tower covered with tiles which is fairly complete, and also a portion of one of the immense round towers similar to those in the Rigistan. In the interesting volume of Messrs. Durrieux and Fauvelle, called Samarkande la bien gardée, there is a true and suggestive comparison of these buildings, the Rigistan still comparatively complete and perfect, but degraded from its former greatness by its present inhabitants, the Bibi Khanum an absolute ruin, but glorious with the imperishable beauty of the past. The Chinese lady founded the largest of any of the schools of Samarkand.

As I was trying somewhat hurriedly to sketch a few architectural details, the whole being far too vast to attempt, except from a considerable distance, a lamentable whining arose almost at my feet, and a litter of puppies crawled out from some brushwood. Our guide began looking about, and soon discovered an empty old tin, which he got a lad to fill with water. He next hailed a man in the bazaar and bought bread; when he had crumbled it up the puppies fell upon it like starvelings. The buying of the bread brought to light the fact that a different coinage is current here from that used in the Russian city, and explained why our tips were looked on with evident suspicion.

From the palace we went to the grain market close by, and found a scene, the picturesqueness of which beggars description. Indeed an apology is due to the reader for the number of adjectives and superlatives used in this chapter (I believe these are quite antiquated grammatical terms, but I am ignorant of the new names which are later than my day); the fact is that this is the most wonderful city I have yet come across in my wanderings, and no words seem adequate, so I trust to be forgiven. Here one could escape from European anachronisms, and the place was filled with a gay, bustling throng of men and beasts. The water-carrier was busy quenching man’s thirst from an unappetising-looking skin slung over his shoulder, which still retained the shape of the animal to whom it originally belonged. Another man provides the smoker with a whiff of tobacco from a general pipe. We pushed our way gently through the throng, treated with utmost courtesy by young and old. We climbed up to Bibi Khanum’s tomb, an excellent point of vantage from which to look down on the busy scene. Immediately below us was the grain market, to the right a busy traffic in green grass used for fodder; beyond that was a space specially devoted to camels, where the beasts knelt in long rows, tranquilly surveying the scene. Further away was a large enclosure full of horses, and another space devoted to the sale of fuel. All round the market were low buildings, or booths, for all sorts of things, and a row of busy blacksmiths and harness makers. Blocks of rock-salt from Hissar, sweetmeats, tobacco, and green snuff found plenty of purchasers, while itinerant vendors plied a busy trade in all directions. Every day that we were there seemed equally busy, and in the bazaars they sell not only native goods, but large quantities of Russian silks, especially those made in Moscow. Cotton goods from Manchester were not lacking, and it is to be feared that competition is killing to a large extent the native industries. They no longer make the wonderful carpets of ancient times, and we were warned that it is risky to buy old ones on account of infection. Some of the silks are attractive, but majenta is a favourite colour, and the curious designs would not look well transplanted from their local setting.

Leaving the market we passed through a little valley on the eastern side, and to our surprise a picturesque native suddenly stepped into the carriage and sat down opposite to us. Our self-constituted guide was seated on the box, so he turned round to explain that it was quite right, for we should require the man’s services directly. In point of fact we stopped in less than two minutes in front of a gateway, the entrance to which was blocked by a pole placed across it. We passed through a side gate on foot into a shady park, where numbers of people were seated in parties under the trees, and sweetmeat sellers were plying a brisk trade. There are many different trees at Samarkand, but the chief of them are the white poplars and the black Turkestan elms; the latter are the national sacred tree—the karagatch. The people are great gardeners, and the water-supply is excellent; indeed it is being drawn increasingly from the river which supplies Bokhara, to the detriment of that city.

As we strolled along the shady paths veiled women eyed us furtively. A few minutes’ walk brought us to a short flight of steps leading down to a fine blue-tiled gateway. As we entered it a vista of great beauty, a masterpiece of art, was revealed, which had previously been completely hidden from view. Forty gleaming marble steps lead upward to a fine gateway, surmounted by domes. A flowering shrub hung over the wall on the right, and a cluster of scarlet poppies had forced their way between the slabs of marble. In the porch sat a typical group of natives, and our guide presented us with some ceremony to the Mullah, who was apparently in charge of the buildings—the Hazréti Shah Zindeh, or summer palace of Tamerlane. The palace is called after a saint, Shah Zindeh, whose tomb is one of the buildings; in fact it would never occur to any one that this was a palace, but rather a collection of shrines and tombs. The saint is expected to rise again some day. On reaching the top of the steps we came into a little flagged lane, with the most brilliant archway standing up against the sky (the one in the sketch), such a blaze of scintillating colour that the blue heaven looked dull and opaque in comparison. Here the tiles are finer than any of the others; they are modelled in relief and in open work, unlike any that we saw elsewhere. The designs were of an infinite variety, and it seemed a grievous pity that the little hall within was dirty and befouled by birds nesting there; all the walls within, as well as without, were covered with various kinds of tiles. Opposite this was another hall, quite different in its decoration. A little further down the winding lane were another pair of halls, also surmounted by domes, and with yet other designs on the walls; there are altogether seven of them, the remaining three being grouped together at the extreme end of the lane, and forming the termination of it. The innermost shrine is a little mosque, consisting of two rooms, a sort of holy of holies. On the wall I noticed a rough colour print of the Kaaba, and named it to our guide. He was greatly interested, and asked if I had ever been to Mecca, and I fancy reckoned me at once one of the faithful.

We were shown the great Koran, a gigantic volume to suit the size of the lectern in Bibi Khanum’s madressah. The famous original was carried to St. Petersburg after the taking of Samarkand by the Russians, but this is said to be a fine sixteenth-century copy of it. There were relics of the saint pointed out to us behind a screen, but we could not make out what they were, and we were shown the beautiful carpet, a fine specimen of those made in Turkestan. Banners of red, blue, and green hang over these treasures, and under them the guardian of the shrine sat down, intimating that he was now prepared to receive a gift. To judge by his attitude he thought it would be a lordly one, but there is always a strange discrepancy in the East between the magnitude of the gift and the air with which it is received. In various nooks and corners people lay curled up asleep, or were drowsily repeating their prayers. While I sketched our two guides were evidently discussing our merits, and at last one inquired if we were Russians, and on hearing that we were not they wanted to know whether we liked the Russians, making it abundantly plain that they did not. Nevertheless they acquiesce without much apparent feeling to the yoke of the foreigner, no doubt accepting it as “Fate.”

One of the interesting points to visit outside Samarkand is the tomb of the prophet Daniel, whom the people insist on considering to be the hero of Scripture history. We drove to it through the town, passing out of the market up a steep dusty road. A mosque dominates the city from the brow of the hill, and around it is a large cemetery of dreary, neglected graves. It was from this point that I sketched the city, and while doing so was somewhat startled by finding a large tortoise at my side, which had crawled out of the grass. The road is primitive, but no one expects anything else, and constant carriage exercise no doubt is good for the inhabitants in lieu of any other kind. The way leads through sandy, hillocky ground (suggestive of dunes by the seashore) for about a couple of miles, and then the road abruptly ends. We got out of the carriage and the driver led us on foot down a ravine to the tomb. It is the longest tomb one would suppose that could be found anywhere, being about 25 yards in length (Edouard Blanc says), and is finely situated on a rock terrace, with crags rising above it and plenty of trees below it down to the edge of a river. The legend which accounts for the extraordinary length of the tomb is that, owing to some miraculous quality, it grows a few inches every year, and that by the time it has stretched round the earth Islamism will dominate the whole world.[7] However, the Russian governor decided the miracle should cease, and ordered a building to be placed over it, an inconspicuous erection with five little cupolas along the top and surmounted by the usual standard, tuft of hair and rams’ horns; this last is the usual offering made by Sarts at a saint’s shrine, and which we saw again on the tombs outside Bokhara.

Strolling down the steep hill-side into a grove of trees below, we came to a busy scene. The trees rise out of a large terrace, where handsome carpets were spread on the ground, on which were seated parties of devotees engaged in conversation or in prayer, while their horses were tethered hard by in the shade. Close at hand servants were busily preparing food at various fires under a shed, and it looked as if it were some picnic instead of a religious exercise. Evidently the worshippers were going to make a day of it, and they looked highly picturesque with their many-coloured robes and white turbans.

The valley was a charming one, full of lofty poplars and elms. A mill was built over the river lower down, and there were many houses nestling among the trees. The yellow soil, called toprach, is extremely fertile when sufficiently watered, and the Sarts have a saying, “Plant a stick in the toprach, give it a trickle of water, and next year you will have a tree.”

There are other excursions worth making in the neighbourhood, and we greatly regretted that lack of time prevented our doing them. One in particular we thought would have been attractive, namely, a ride to the snow-covered mountains, whence there is a fine view over the plain to the city. There are ruins called Aphrosiab all round the city, and interesting coins of the Græco-Bactrian period have been found there. Till within the last few years the madressah of Timur Malik, ten kilometres distant, was still standing, but it has been laid in ruins by an earthquake. There are other mosques in the city worth visiting, especially that of Zemreh Khodja, the mausoleum of Khodja ben Khaddra, and the madressahs of Ishrak Khaneh and Khodja Akhrar.