Daily round—The river—Calico rinsers—Worn-out mules and horses—Mode of treating the printed calico—Imitations of marks on T-cloths—Rise of the waters of the Zend-a-Rūd—Pul-i-Kojū—Char Bagh—Plane-trees—The college—Silver doors—Tiled halls and mosque—Pulpit—Boorio—Hassir—Sleepers in the mosque—Cells of the students—Ispahan priests—Telegraph-office—Tanks—Causeways—Gate of royal garden—Governor’s garden—Courtiers and hangers-on—Prisoners—Priests—The Imām-i-Juma—My dispensary—Ruined bazaar—A day in the town—Bazaar breakfasts—Calico-printing—Painters—The maker of antiquities—Jade teapot—Visit to the Baabis—Hakim-bashi—Horse-market—The “Dar”—Executions—Ordinary—Blowing from guns—A girl trampled to death—Dying twice—Blowing from a mortar—Wholesale walling up alive—A narrow escape from, and horrible miscarriage in carrying it out—Burning alive—Crucifixions—Severity: its results.
In my early days I was in the habit of riding over from Julfa to the town of Ispahan daily; twenty-five minutes’ smart trotting brought me to my dispensary. During the summer the river was easily fordable, large banks of gravel being visible; these were occupied by the “rinsers of printed calicoes;” while the sun was out, for about half a mile the gravel banks were covered with long strips of printed calico placed closely together; at dawn the rinsers came down from the bazaars with many donkey-loads of dyed cotton cloths; the beasts used for the carriage were the lame, the halt, and the blind of the asses and mules of Ispahan. As the last use a horse is put to in Persia is to be a miller’s pack-horse, so this work seemed to be the end of the donkeys and mules.
Along the edges of the channels between the gravel banks stood rows of old millstones; in front of each stone was a rinser up to his knees in the river. Taking a piece of dyed cloth half wrung out, which had been thoroughly soaked in water, in his hands—and the pieces were at times twenty yards long—he proceeded to thwack the roll of cloth against the stone with his whole strength, keeping time to a loud song until he was out of breath. As these men worked in rows, and the cloths were full of water, the noise and splashing were something tremendous. The work was heavy in the extreme, and as they can only get to the river when low, some seven months in the year, the pay is good.
As each piece had the water thus thoroughly beaten out of it, a boy on the bank seized it and proceeded to spread it on the gravel, fixing the edges and corners with a stone; his duty was never to let the wrung cloth get dry, which he managed to do by constantly dashing water over the out-spread rows of dyed cloths with a pan. Often the process has to be repeated several times, as the cloths are sent down from the printers in the various stages. Above each furiously beating rinser rose a cloud of variously coloured spray which gradually became colourless; in every direction the sheets of water thrown by the boys glittered in the strong sun, and the loud choruses of the half-naked rinsers, and the barking of their watch-dogs—for each batch had their dogs—made a cheerful and exciting scene.
Of course the calico, cotton-cloth, or T-cloth, as it is variously termed, had to be strong and good to stand such a process; and the adulterator had little chance with the wily calico-printer, who always weighed his cloth prior to purchasing, washed and dried it, and then weighed it again; the consequence is that, save of the best quality, little cotton-cloth is sold in Ispahan. Certain brands well known for their genuineness command a high figure, such as that of the Ace of Spades, though they are soon closely imitated by unscrupulous makers. However, the calico-printer is generally quite a match for the adulterator.
Many of the rinsers make little hovels of brushwood and earth, and live altogether on the banks of gravel, and in February, when the waters suddenly rise, the scene is exciting as they collect their traps at the last moment, and a few seconds after, their huts are swept away—banks, huts, and millstones disappearing, and a furiously rushing river of muddy water taking their place. This yearly occurrence of the rise of the waters happens on the melting of the snows on the mountains. The Ispahan river (Zend-a-Rūd) usually presents the appearance near the town of a number of chains of pools of water united by a central brook just occupying the middle of a wide but dried watercourse, having a hardly perceptible stream, and as clear as crystal. No sooner, however, do the spring rains commence than the stream becomes muddy, or at all events discoloured; and when the “sale ab,” or rise of the waters, comes, the dams that have been placed to regulate the amount of water taken off by the various canals for supplying the town and irrigation—some of which are very old and really important works—are carried away, the river is seen to rise many feet an hour; at times even a large wave appears, and trees torn up by their roots come rapidly down in large numbers. The huge bridges are crowded by a shouting and excited populace, the banks and all coigns of vantage are thronged, and for a couple of days all Ispahan enjoys the sight. Then the river sinks, the stream becomes clear, and a broad and swift river is seen till May, when it gradually sinks to its normal summer insignificance, most of its waters being taken off for irrigation and the supply of the town.
THE PUL-I-KOJŪ.
During the “sale ab” the great sight is at the Pul-i-Kojū, Bridge of Kojū. This handsome structure, crossing the river from one of the ruined quarters of the town of Ispahan to the palace of Haft Dust, in which Futteh Ali Shah died, is built of brick with well-made stone piers, and is of very original construction. As through its arches for eight months in the year a small stream slowly flows, the huge piers are separated at the bottom by merely narrow channels; these are arched over, and a level causeway is the result; over this is built the second or real bridge, which has rooms on each side of it at each pier, with open doorways looking towards the waters; there are stairs and rooms too in the upper piers.
When the rise of the waters takes place, this bridge, rooms, staircases, and parapets are crowded, also the causeway. Rapidly the lower arches become filled with the roaring torrent, still more quickly it rises above them; at length it flows over the causeway of stone, which at the last moment is left by the crowd, and falls with tremendous noise into the seething flood the other side; still rising, it thunders through the large archways, and soon the curious appearance from the lower side is presented of a regular waterfall the whole width of the stream, with as many torrents as there are arches, seething out above this; above all, the double-storied bridge covered with sightseers shouting, singing, and shrieking, with the additional possibility of the whole being washed away at any moment. The upper bridges are often damaged; somewhat of the beauty of the scene, however, is detracted from by the river at these times being the colour of café au lait.
In summer, fording the river, I entered the Char Bagh (four gardens), or in winter approached it by the bridge. There are several Char Bagh in Ispahan, but the principal one extends for about a mile on either side of the river in a straight line, the centre of the line being formed by the bridge, which is quite level—a rare thing in Persia; and also a rare thing in Persia, it has many large arches; the parapet is some twelve feet high, and at each pier is a small chamber having three apertures to the river; above the parapet is ample room for foot passengers.
The Char Bagh contains a double avenue of magnificent plane-trees, some of great age—alas! too soon to disappear. As these gigantic planes decay in the inside, they are felled and become the perquisite of somebody: at times in great gales they fall with a crash, the inside being quite gone. Also whenever the Governor wants a big tree for any purpose he takes one, but nobody plants any new ones.
A high wall bounds the Char Bagh on either side; at intervals are edifices pierced by gates of from three to four stories, of no architectural pretensions; they are of brick, ornamented with barbarous designs on plaster in flaring colours, which time has happily toned down; these gates lead to what were once lovely fruit gardens, now mere enclosures sown with grain, grass, etc. The Char Bagh is some thirty yards or more wide: about half-way up on the right-hand side is the Mehdresseh, or college, the tiled dome of which, now fast decaying, is a very ornamental object for miles. The dome is surmounted by a golden ornament which is stated to be solid and of pure metal; this, I fancy, is very doubtful. The college is entered by a high gateway, and here are the celebrated silver doors—of the genuineness of these there can be no doubt; the centre plates are very handsomely made, and have been heavily gilt; the plates are not, however, very thick, and the substance of the doors is wood under thin silver. The gateway, which is in bad repair, contains nothing of interest, and is blocked up by fruit-stalls and pipe-sellers. A rough kind of orchard and a tank occupy the courtyard, a few pomegranates and roses being the principal shrubs, though there are some large trees. Several halls for instruction are seen on either side; these, like the mosque beneath the dome, are lined and roofed with one sheet of perfect tile-work, green, black, and yellow on a white ground; the whole interior of the college, too, is tiled. Taken separately, there is nothing particular about these tiles, but the tout ensemble is grand and cool in the extreme.
Of course we were not permitted to enter the mosque, as there were many idlers about, but a good view is got from the entrances and from the windows below the dome from the roof. The only furniture is the “mambar,” or pulpit. The floor is covered with coarse matting, or borio, which is made only in Ispahan; another kind of matting, which is more expensive, is in use throughout Persia, called hassir; in the manufacture of this thread is used. The borio is of reedy grass alone, strong, clean, and inexpensive. Contrary to the hassir, which is made in strips, the borio is in one piece, and here we saw pieces twenty yards by ten.
Thus there is nothing in the Persian mosque to distract the mind from the prayers, the exhortation, or religious meditation, though the coolness and dim religious gloom of the lofty halls rather incline one to sleep; in fact, being the hot part of the day, we saw many men curled up in sleep covered with their camels’ hair abbahs, or cloaks.
The mosques are at night the casual wards of Persia; there sleep those who have absolutely no home and no business, and entrance is always free to all comers. The busy use the numerous caravanserais. There were lofty minarets, from whence is made the call to prayers, and numerous little cells windowed with the old elaborate carpentry of the East, and their beautiful tracery often papered over by the inmate to render his cell warmer in winter; a bit of matting, a box, and a few books, were the contents of most of them, in the corner being a small carpet, which formed the place of honour by day and the bed at night.
The students are all either divinity or law, aged from eighteen upwards; and an Ispahan lawyer or priest, on finishing his education, is looked on by Persians as the type of hypocrisy and finesse. Many of the mūllas (priests) are not, however, bad fellows when one can break through the crust of apparent moroseness and fanaticism; they are mostly at heart freethinkers, many Deists, more Atheists, few being good Mussulmans.
Leaving the college and still proceeding up the Char Bagh, a building on the right contains the Persian telegraph-office. The office is for the local traffic, and the Persians have possession, by convention, of one of the wires of the line; they do their own local traffic, but the line is kept up by the English staff of the Persian Telegraph Department.
At intervals in the Char Bagh are large hauz (tanks), most of them in ruins, but during winter generally full of water; all down the centre runs a watercourse a yard and a half wide—alas! dry—edged by huge blocks of hewn stone and bridged at intervals.
On either side of this watercourse is a paved stone causeway ten feet wide edged by similar hewn stones; along the edges under the walls is another paved road of less width; between these causeways are wide beds once covered with flowers and fruit-trees, now only sown with clover and barley, which in the early spring gives, with the huge plane-trees, a fine coup d’œil.
The Char Bagh ends in a gateway of more lofty pretensions, but of the same style of architecture as the buildings on either side. Here, however, are a few tiles representing scenes in the chase, probably made during the Afghan occupation.
A wide paved chaussée leads to the gate of the royal garden, now merely a meadow with trees. At the entrance is the Lion and Sun daubed in staring colours on a plastered wall, and here, unless known to the sentries, one is not allowed to pass. My professional work having made me free of the place, we pass on, and leaving the Chehel Sitūn, or hall of the forty columns, crowded with the hangers-on of the minister, who here adjudicates with local grandees on minor affairs, we come, passing a huge hauz or tank full of clear water, to a wall in which are two recesses having life-sized portraits in oil of former Ispahan magnates, evidently good likenesses and not without merit. On the right is the principal entrance to the quarters of audience of the minister and various antechambers. We dismount, pass through a small door, are saluted by the sentry, and enter a well-kept Persian garden, the paved walks of which are fenced off, with telegraph wire and painted posts, from the sunken beds.
Here, too, everything is in good repair, for we are now in the outer courtyard of his Royal Highness the Zil-es-Sultan, Governor of one-third of Persia, the eldest son of the king, a man of genius, and in high favour; in fact, at present (1883) the most powerful of his Majesty’s subjects, if we except the Valliāt, or heir-apparent, a priest-ridden ascetic of weak intellect, whom the royal policy, which points to the survival of the fittest, will probably quietly remove, in which case the Zil-es-Sultan will surely reign. Here all who are expecting an audience of his Royal Highness or his people, wait; great men and their servants, merchants, artisans, priests, veiled women, wrestlers; a few well-dressed servants of the prince swagger about, while his carpet-spreaders, or farrashes, with long sticks, are present to keep order or administer the bastinado; a few executioners, dressed in red, and shunned save by the lowest, skulk in one corner, while half-a-dozen Jews gesticulate and shake their fists in each other’s faces in another.
Rooms at the side, open to the air, show mirzas in long cloaks, busily writing official letters or making out accounts. Close to the door, which is covered with a curtain, on which is painted a colossal sentry on guard, stands a sentinel, and here lounges the big moustached doorkeeper with his huge silver mace.
The farrash-bashi here, too, is waiting a summons, with two villagers in shirt and drawers of blue cotton, and felt hats: they are chained, probably on a charge of highway robbery, or a still more heinous crime in Persia, backwardness with their taxes. They don’t seem comfortable, for they know that a gesture from his Royal Highness will consign them either to the tender mercies of the executioners, or the bastinado of the farrashes, or even perhaps immediate liberty.
Many servants, with their masters’ pipes of gold or silver, and dressed sumptuously, if domestics of the wealthy, smoke or chatter. A knot of thin and forbidding-looking priests, of sourest looks, some wearing the blue turban (marking the supposed descendant of the prophet, or Syud), take as a right, hardly acknowledging it, the salute of each passer-by, and favour me, an unbeliever, with ferocious sneers, drawing back their flowing garments to avoid contact, an action which I resent by doing likewise. Here the curtain is raised, and the greatest man in Ispahan (I speak of some years ago), whose word to the priests and mob can give endless trouble to the king—the “Imām-i-Jūma,” or high priest, and head of the law, for he was both—appears, followed by two other priests of high rank. His turban is dark blue, almost black; all bend and salaam to him. I stop to give him a military salute. He is an old patient of mine; he smiles and speaks in a stage whisper, saying to the other priests what a very superior unbeliever I am. I hurry on, and, passing through many passages, come to my dispensary over the jail.
Three hours are occupied in seeing patients, then back through the ruined bazaar, “Bazaarcha baland,” a lofty but empty arcade of shops, having a second story above them, the whole roofed in and beautifully finished as to the brickwork. Cool and dim, this silent bazaar opens into the Char Bagh, and I return as I came, in the hot sun, to breakfast; then siesta, tea, afternoon ride, dinner at eight, perhaps a rubber, and so the days go on.
Or I have a day in the town, and lunch at my dispensary on bazaar food—slices of mutton off a sheep roasted whole; brilliān, i. e. chopped and seasoned meat; pillaws of rice, with various meats; kabobs, or chopped and seasoned meat roasted on skewers, and served hot with herbs between two flaps of bread, also hot; a bowl of sherbet, i. e. syrup and water, with blocks of ice in it; grapes or apricots as dessert; then my water-pipe is handed to me; the whole—and the plentiful leavings give my servant and the groom a substantial breakfast—costing a shilling.
Then, mounting, I visit the calico-printers, and see the elaborate printing by means of blocks—some of them over three centuries old—of the curtains for which Ispahan is celebrated, covered with strange pictures of peacocks, elephants, soldiers, lions, etc., in all the colours of the rainbow, and fast, too, on a white ground.
Or I sit and chat with the artists on the upper story of the caravanserai Gulshan, who each in his little room is hard at work on some bookcover or pencase, or possibly is illustrating a manuscript copy of Hafiz or Saadi, and chatting with whom I learn a good deal of the inner side of Persian life. I look over the work of my artist friends, who do not press me to buy, but who do descant on the falling off in art in Persia.
Or I take a look at Houssein Khari, who has a factory for false antiquities. Here I see, among heaps of sham, at times something real and good; but Houssein Khari does not sell the good things, only the rubbish. As I go he ironically holds out to me a jade teapot, requesting me to buy it for one hundred pounds. I see that the age of bargains is over, and retire.
Or I make a visit to my friends the Baabis. Here, however, I have to eat such a tremendous breakfast that a siesta is needed, and I only am allowed to start homewards at six, after pipes and tea have been taken, and much information extracted from me.
Or a professional visit is made, and I come across bits of Eastern life in out-of-the-way quarters of the huge and ruined town.
Or I call on the hakim-bashi, or head doctor, my friend, and hear of his troubles in ruling the Jews, editing his newspaper—for he is the editor of the Ispahan Gazette—in establishing the new or modern college, of which he is the head and the prince the patron.
Or I take a long ride through the bazaars, to the disgust of my servants, who do not care to be seen as an unbeliever’s servants in the fanatical heart of the city.
Or, riding to the maidān, I look out in the early morning for a cheap horse, which the brokers offer for sale here each day, and see the furious riding of the Persian buyer trying his steed. This maidān, or “place,” is, I think, over a quarter of a mile long by a furlong wide. In the centre is a small circular brick platform, on which is a high pole, with projecting pieces for the feet, and a pulley at top. Here criminals used to be hoisted by the feet, and then allowed, the rope being cut, to be dashed head foremost to the ground. At the foot of this pole take place the numerous executions, though the Governor of Ispahan is not fond of shedding blood.
When the new Mission at Gulhaek was being finished in the time of the late minister, Mr. Alison, he instructed the builder to make “a place for a flagstaff,” and a huge pole having been procured, it was set up, and the architect smilingly presented the work to his Excellency.
Mr. Alison looked at it and tapped his forehead, and, turning to the architect, said—
“I think I have seen somewhere something like this” (there was then an execution pole in Teheran exactly like the one in Ispahan, but with a higher and larger brick platform).
“Yes, yes,” replied the smiling Persian, of course, “the Dar” (execution pole). “I have tried to copy it exactly; very imposing, is it not? Strikes the eye at once.”
No praise came. His Excellency turned away, and the pole was earthed up over the brickwork, leaving an ornamental mound, now covered with shrubs and roses.
The ordinary way of execution is by throat-cutting; the victim, clad in shirt and drawers only, is led into the square; unless a celebrated criminal, only a few loafers crowd round; a pipe is smoked by the culprit, and he is told to kneel; he does so, and the executioner, coming behind him, cuts his throat with a short curved knife. As a rule the body lies where it falls, and the relatives, on payment of a small fee to the executioner, are allowed to remove it next morning. Blowing from a gun is a common form of death when it is wished to strike terror into the hearts of evil-doers; I have known it done once at Ispahan, the criminal being a Khan accused of rebellion. This man had been some months in prison under sentence of death; day by day he found means to bribe the minister and the Governor, and his execution was delayed; at length his funds being exhausted he was actually brought out into the maidān, and the cannon loaded in his presence; but he had still a little money left, which he paid, or rather his friends did, and he was taken back to prison; this was his last penny; the next day he was blown from a gun.
Just after my arrival in Teheran a notorious female dancer of considerable personal attractions, and only seventeen years of age, was brought before the queen-mother, who was celebrated for her intrigues, charged with visiting the houses of Europeans. The girl did not deny her crime, and, feeling her danger, became desperate, reviling the queen-mother, and saying that they were fellow-sinners. The queen-mother immediately obtained an order for the girl’s death, and caused her, to be first handed over to her own servants’ mercies, and then to be rolled in a carpet and jumped on by the farrashes till she was dead.
In the Governorship of the Zil-es-Sultan at Shiraz curiosity took me, with some of the rest of the telegraph staff, to see two men blown from guns; the roof of the doorway of the telegraph-office commanded the maidān, or square.
One man was led out and blown from a gun; a second was then brought forward, and they prepared to lash him to another gun; but as he was very short, a good deal of time was lost in getting some bricks, which were piled in a heap for him to stand on; he was then lashed to the gun, the executioner advanced with a port fire, the priming fizzled, but the gun did not go off—they had forgotten to load it; the man was unbound, the artillerymen went for more powder. I ran across the square to try and beg him off from the prince, being at that time in high favour. He kept me chatting, and in the meantime I heard the report of the gun which killed the poor fellow. About this time a man was blown into the air from a mortar by the Zil-es-Sultan’s order in the square at Shiraz.
When I was last at Shiraz twenty highway robbers were caught by the Governor, Khosro Mirza, the king’s uncle; nine escaped death by bribery, but eleven were walled up alive.
Fourteen hollow pillars, four feet high, built of mud bricks, were each built around a small hole in the ground, thus leaving a cavity six feet deep.
One morning we heard that eleven men had been walled up in them alive; it appeared that three of the fourteen men were reprieved, that the farrash-bashi (chief carpet-spreader literally), or principal of the police of the Governor, was ordered to wall up eleven men, and that, fearing a disturbance, it was done suddenly. At midnight he, with a force of some two hundred soldiers, four executioners, and numerous farrashes, marched the eleven highway robbers in irons some mile and a half through the deserted streets to a place outside the town where the pillars stood. They were accompanied by several masons whom they had impressed, and a donkey-load of plaster of Paris. It seems that the farrash-bashi had received from the friends of one of the robbers forty pounds (one thousand kerans) to allow him to escape, so on the road he seized on a poor porter, intending to wall him up and let the robber go. Day dawned ere they reached the place, and fortunately for the porter a crowd assembled; among them were some who recognized him; the farrash-bashi was forced to let him go, for had he carried out his intentions Khosro Mirza, the Governor, would not have spared him. Each robber was placed in a pillar alive, then loose earth was poured in up to his chest, then a quantity of earth was hurriedly mixed with the plaster of Paris, water was added, a kind of mortar made, and the top of each column was plastered over having the man’s head enclosed in a mass of mortar which, had there been enough plaster, would have set, at once destroying life. Unfortunately the plaster was insufficient in quantity, no more was to be had; the mud did not set, and many of the men were alive and crying for water at the end of two days. The Governor on hearing this sent the executioner to put them out of their misery, which he did by opening the top of each column and cutting their throats. As my wife and I came home from a ride we passed the columns freshly plastered; this was in 1877.
Just prior to my first arrival in Persia the “Hissam-u-Sultaneh,” another uncle of the king, had burnt a priest to death for a horrible crime and murder; the priest was chained to a stake, and the matting from the mosques piled on him to a great height, the pile of mats was lighted and burnt freely, but when the mats were consumed the priest was found groaning, but still alive. The executioner went to the Hissam-u-Sultaneh, who ordered him to obtain more mats, pour naphtha on them, and apply a light, which after some hours he did. A terrible death!
On another occasion a young slave who had shot his master’s son by accident was “crucified,”[17] lived fifty hours, and was then put out of his misery. There was no cross—the men are nailed to walls. I was passing one day the outer wall of the “ark” or citadel of Shiraz; I saw a small crowd, I rode up, the crowd made way, and I found a poor fellow, very pale, standing with his face to the wall; a horse-nail had been driven through each foot, also through each of his hands, which were extended on the wall, and three more nails had been driven through his chest into the wall; he groaned occasionally, and I was informed he had smoked and drunk water offered him by compassionate bystanders.
He lived thirty hours, and the executioner took him down then, and put him out of his misery. His crime was that he had stolen a jewelled horse necklet of the Zil-es-Sultan’s; this in the eyes of Persians is high treason.
The sentence, however, was not the prince’s, then a mere boy, but his minister’s. He is now averse to blood, although he is given to making severe examples to avoid continual executions. With some Governors there are executions weekly, and this in such a sparsely populated country as Persia, is even more sad than the occasional cruel examples made by Khosro Mirza, the late Hissam-u-Sultaneh, and the Zil-es-Sultan, to avoid continual bloodshed, which I believe to be the true reason of their occasional great severity; and this policy is successful, for in their governments crimes of violence are unusual, their severity being deterrent; and the total of their executions very much smaller than that of the so-called merciful Governors. In justice to these three Governors this must be allowed, that the cruelty is much more apparent than real.
It is to be noticed that executions are not nearly so frequent now, as on my first experiences of Persia.