Yezd (continued)

IN the last chapter I have spoken chiefly of the Zoroastrians; in this I propose to say something concerning my dealings with the Bábís of Yezd, of whom also I saw a good deal. And first of all a few words are necessary as to the relations subsisting between the votaries of these two religions, the oldest and the newest which Persia has produced. Their relations to one another are of a much more friendly character than are the relations of either of them towards the Muḥammadans, and this for several reasons. Both of them are liable to persecution at the hands of the Muḥammadans, and so have a certain fellow-feeling and sympathy. Both of them are more tolerant towards such as are not of their own faith than the Muḥammadans, the Zoroastrians, as already said, regarding “the virtuous of the seven climes” as their friends, and the Bábís being commanded by Behá to “associate with men of all religions with spirituality and sweet savour,” and to regard no man as unclean by reason of his faith. Moreover the Bábís recognise Zoroaster as a prophet, though without much enthusiasm, and are at some pains to conciliate and win over his followers to their way of thinking, as instanced by the epistles addressed by Behá from Acre to certain of their number; while some few at least of the Zoroastrians are not indisposed to recognise in Behá their expected deliverer, Sháh Bahrám, who, as Dastúr Tír-andáz informed me, must appear soon if they were to be rescued from their abasement, and “the Good Religion” re-established. The Dastúr himself, indeed, would not admit that Behá could be this promised saviour, who, he said, must come before the next Nawrúz if he were to come at all; but others of his co-religionists were less confident on this point, and in Kirmán I met at least one who was, so far as I could ascertain, actually a Bábí. The marked predilection towards the Bábís displayed by Mánakjí, the late Zoroastrian agent at Ṭeherán, at whose instigation the Táríkh-i-Jadíd, or “New History” of the Báb’s “Manifestation,” was written, must also have re-acted powerfully on his Zoroastrian brethren11I have already remarked on the hatred with which the Zoroastrians regard the Arabs, and the fact that the Bábí movement was entirely Persian in origin no doubt inclines them to look favourably on it. One of them said as much to me; the Semitic peoples, he added, were comparable to ravening beasts of prey, and the Aryan races to the peaceful and productive animals. An unmodified Semitic religion, he maintained, could never be really acceptable to Aryans..

I may here mention a very absurd fiction, which I have more than once heard the Zoroastrians maintain in the presence of Musulmáns or Bábís, namely, that Zoroaster was identical with Abraham. The chief argument whereby they seek to establish this thesis is as follows: “You recognise five ‘nabí-i-mursal’” (prophets sent with new revealed scriptures, as opposed to prophets merely sent to warn and preach repentance, who are called “nabí-i-mundhir”), say they, “to wit, Abraham with the Ṣuḥuf (‘Leaves,’ ‘Tracts,’ or ‘Epistles’), Moses with the Tawrát (Pentateuch), David with the Mazámír (Psalms), Jesus with the Injíl (Gospel), and Muḥammad with the Ḳur’án; and you believe that the book of each of these five, and a remnant of his people, shall continue in the world so long as it lasts. Now of each of the last four the book and the people exist to our day, but where is the Ṣuḥuf of Abraham, and where his followers? Does it not seem probable to you that the Ṣuḥuf is our Avesta, that Abraham is but another name for Zoroaster, and that we are his people?” As further proof of this contention, Ardashír declared that mention was made of Baráhím, who was evidently the same as Ibráhím (Abraham), in the Sháh-námé; and I think he strove to connect this word with Brahman and Bahrám, for he was capable of much in the way of etymology and comparative philology. I do not suppose that in their hearts many of the Zoroastrians really believe this nonsense, but it has always been a great object with them to get themselves included amongst the ahlu’l-kitáb, or people to whom a revealed book recognised by the Muḥammadans has been vouchsafed, inasmuch as these enjoy many privileges denied to the pagan and idolater.

My first introduction to the Bábís of Yezd I have already described. The morning after I had taken up my quarters in Ardashír’s garden I received a message from Ḥájí Seyyid M—— about 6 a.m., inviting me to take my early tea in a garden of his situated close at hand. Thither I at once repaired, and, after a while, found myself alone with the Bábí poet ‘Andalíb.

“How was it,” he began, “that the Jews, although in expectation of their Messiah, failed to recognise him in the Lord Jesus?”

“Because,” I answered, “they looked only at the letter and not the spirit of their books, and had formed a false conception of the Messiah and his advent.”

“May not you Christians have done the same,” he continued, “with regard to Him whose advent you expect, the promised ‘Comforter’? May He not have come, while you continue heedless? Within a few miles of Acre is a monastery of Carmelite monks, who have taken up their abode there to await the return of Christ, because their books tell them that He will return there. He has returned there, almost at their very door, yet they recognise Him not, but continue gazing up to heaven, whence, as they vainly suppose, He will descend.”

“Consider the parable of the Lord of the vineyard,” he resumed after a while, “which is contained in your gospel. First, He sent servants to demand his rights from those wicked men to whom the vineyard was let; these were the prophets before Christ. Then He sent His own Son, whom they killed; this was Christ Himself, as you yourselves admit. And after that what shall the Lord of the vineyard do? ‘He will come and destroy the husbandmen, and will give the vineyard unto others.’”11Mark xii, 9.

“Do you then regard Behá as the Lord of the vineyard, that is to say, as God Himself?” I enquired in astonishment.

“What say your own books?” he replied. “Who is He who shall come after the Son?”

“Well, but what then say you of Muḥammad?” I demanded, “for if you accept this parable and interpret it thus there is no place left for him, since he comes after the Son and before the Lord of the vineyard.”

“He was a messenger sent to announce the advent of the Lord of the vineyard,” replied ‘Andalíb.

“Then,” said I, “he was less than the Son.”

“Yes,” answered ‘Andalíb, “he was.” He then spoke of other matters; of the devotion of the youth Badí‘, who came on foot from Acre to Ṭeherán, there to meet a cruel death, with Behá’s letter to Náṣiru’d-Dín Sháh; of the martyrs of Iṣfahán, and the miserable end of their persecutors, Sheykh Báḳir and the Imám-Jum‘a; of the downfall of Napoleon III, foretold by Behá in the epistle addressed to the French Emperor when he was at the zenith of his power, and read by himself four years before the accomplishment of the prediction. Concerning Badí‘ he remarked, “Even Christ prayed that, if possible, this cup might pass from Him, while this lad joyfully hastened with unhalting and unswerving feet over many a weary mile of desert and mountain, bearing his own death-warrant in his hand, to quaff the draught of martyrdom.” As we were leaving the garden he took me by the hand and besought me to go to Acre and see Behá for myself. “How noble a work might be yours,” he said, “if you could become assured of the truth of his claim, in spreading the good news through your country!”

Next day I received a visit from a sarhang, or colonel, who filled at that time a rather responsible post at Yezd, whence he has since been transferred to another important town in the south of Persia. He too proved to be a Bábí, and conversed very freely about the new Manifestation. “In accordance with the injunction ‘address men according to the measure of their understanding,’” said he, “it behoves every divine messenger to impart to his people only so much spiritual knowledge as they are capable of receiving; wherefore, as mankind advances in education, the old creeds necessarily lose their significance, and the old formulæ become obsolete. So, if a child were to ask what we meant by saying that knowledge was sweet, we might give it a sugar-plum and say, ‘It resembles this,’ so that the child, liking the sugar-plum, might desire knowledge; though, as a matter of fact, the two have nothing in common. To rough uncultivated men, such as the Arabs with whom Muḥammad had to deal, the pleasures of Divine Love cannot be more clearly symbolised than as a material paradise of beautiful gardens and rivers of milk and wine and honey, where they shall be waited on by black-eyed maidens and fair boys. Now we have outgrown this coarse symbolism, and are fitted to receive a fuller measure of spiritual truth and wisdom from him who is the Fountain-head of wisdom and the wisest of all living men, Behá.”

Two days later I was invited by Ḥájí Seyyid M—— to spend the day with him and his friends in one of his gardens situated outside the town, on the road to Taft. He kindly sent his servant with a horse to convey me thither, and I had lunch and tea there, returning home about sunset. There were a good many guests (all, so far as I could make out, being Bábís), including ‘Andalíb and a very vivacious little merchant on whom, in consideration of the very humorous manner in which he impersonated, for our amusement, the venal conduct of a certain eminent mullá of Yezd on the judgment-seat, the title of “Sheykh” was bestowed. The garden, with its roses, mulberry-trees, pomegranates in full blossom, syringas (nastarjan), cool marble tanks, and tiny streams, was like a dream of delight, and I have seldom spent a pleasanter day anywhere. I conversed chiefly with ‘Andalíb, who read me some of his own poems, and also wrote down for me one of the beautiful odes attributed to the Bábí heroine and martyr Ḳurratu’l-‘Ayn11The text of this, with a translation into English verse, will be found at pp. 314–16 of vol. ii of my Traveller’s Narrative.. He talked a good deal about the identity of all the prophets, whom he regarded as successive Manifestations or Incarnations of the Divine Will or Universal Reason.

“If that is so,” I urged, “how can you speak of one Manifestation as more perfect than another, or one prophet as superior to another?”

“From our human point of view,” he replied, “we are entitled to speak thus, although from the standpoint of the Absolute it is incorrect. It is the same sun which rises every day to warm and light us, and no one for a moment doubts this; yet we say that the sun is hotter in summer than in winter, or warmer to-day than yesterday, or in a different sign of the zodiac now from that which it occupied a month ago. Speaking relatively to ourselves this is perfectly true, but when we consider the sun apart from accidents of time, place, environment, and the like, we perceive it to be ever one and the same, unchanged and unchangeable. So is it with the Sun of Truth, which rises from the horizon of the heart, and illuminates the Spiritual Firmament.”

“Is it not strange, then,” I asked, “that different prophets should advance different claims, one announcing himself as the ‘Friend of God,’ another as the ‘Interlocutor of God,’ another as the ‘Apostle of God,’ another as the ‘Son of God,’ and another as God Himself?”

“No,” he answered, “and I will strive to make it clearer by means of a parable. A certain king holding sway over a vast empire desired to discover with his own eyes the causes of disorders which prevailed in one of his provinces, so that he might take effectual measures to remedy them. He determined, therefore, to go thither himself, and, laying aside his kingly state, to mix with the people on terms of intimacy. So he wrote a letter, declaring the bearer of it to be an officer of the king’s household, sealed it with the royal seal, and, thus provided, went in disguise to the province in question, where he announced that he was an officer sent by the king to enquire into the disorders prevailing amongst the people, in proof of which he produced the royal warrant which he had himself written. After a while, when order had been in some degree restored, and men were more loyally disposed, he announced himself to be the king’s own minister, producing another royal warrant in proof of this. Last of all he threw off all disguise and said, ‘I am the king himself.’ Now, all the time he was really the king, though men knew him not; yet was his state and majesty at first not as it was at last. So is it with the Divine Will or Universal Reason, which, becoming manifest from time to time for our guidance, declares Itself now as the Apostle of God, now as the Son of God, and at last as God Himself. We are not asked to acknowledge a higher status than It sees fit to claim at any particular time, but the royal signet is the sufficient proof of any claim which It may advance, including that of the Supreme Majesty itself. But, as Mawláná Jalálu’d-Dín Rúmí says:—

Later on I asked Ḥájí Seyyid M—— what he considered to be the difference between the Ṣúfí saint who had attained to the “Station of Annihilation in God,” wherein, like Manṣúr-i-Ḥalláj, he could cry, “I am the truth,” and the prophet. “What, in short,” I concluded, “is the difference between the ‘I am God’ of Manṣúr, and the ‘I am God’ of Behá? For, as your own proverb has it, ‘There is no colour beyond black.’”

“The difference,” said he, “is as the difference between our sitting here and saying, ‘See, this is a rose-garden,’ and one saying, ‘I am such-and-such a rose in that garden.’ The one reaches a point where, losing sight and cognisance of self, he wanders at will through the World of Divinity (‘Álam-i-Láhút); the other is the throne on which God sits, as He Himself saith, ‘He set Himself upon the Throne’ (istawá ‘ala’l-‘arsh)11Ḳur’án vii, 52; x, 3 etc.. One is a perfect reflection of the sun cast in a pure clear mirror; the other is the sun itself.”

A few days later, after the month of Ramaẓán had begun, I paid another visit to Ḥájí Seyyid M——’s house, where three of my Zoroastrian friends presently joined me. ‘Andalíb, as usual, was the chief spokesman, and, amongst other things, laid down the dogma that faith and unbelief were the root or essence of the whole matter, and good or bad actions only branches or subsidiaries. This position I attacked with some warmth.

“Suppose a Jew and a Christian,” said he, “the former merciful, charitable, benevolent, humane, pious, but rejecting and denying Christ; the latter cruel, selfish, vindictive, but accepting and reverencing Him. Of these two, which do you regard as the better man?”

“Without doubt the Jew,” I answered.

“God forbid!” replied he. “Without doubt the Christian. God is merciful and forgiving, and can pardon sin.”

“Can He not then pardon unbelief?” I demanded.

“No,” he answered, “from those who do not believe is taken the spirit which once they had, to which the present wretchedness and abasement of the Jews bears witness.”

As it did not appear to me that the nations professing the Christian religion had suffered much abasement on account of their rejection of Muḥammad, I said, thinking to get the better of the argument, “Do you consider that every people which rejects a new Manifestation must be similarly abased?”

He did not fall into my trap, however. “No,” he answered, “not unless they have been guilty of some special act of hostility or cruelty towards the bearer of the new gospel.”

“What, then,” I demanded, “of the Muḥammadans? Can one conceive of greater hostility or cruelty than they showed towards the Báb and those who followed him? Shall they too be abased?”

“Yea, verily,” he answered, “and grievous shall be their abasement! Look at these poor guebres” (pointing to my Zoroastrian friends), “how miserable is their condition! And why? Because of the sin of Khusraw Parvíz, who tore up the letter which the Apostle of God sent to him, inviting him to embrace Islám. Yet had he some excuse; for he was a great king, belonging to a mighty dynasty which had ruled for many generations; while the letter was from an unknown member of a despised and subject race, and was, moreover, curt and unceremonious in the extreme, beginning, ‘This is a letter from Muḥammad, the Apostle of God, to Khusraw Parvíz.’ What shall we say of the king who not only tore up the letter, but slew with the most cruel torments the messenger of one greater than Muḥammad, the letter being, moreover, written in the most courteous and conciliatory tone? But the Christians never acted thus towards Muḥammad, and some, such as the Abyssinian Najáshí, did all in their power to succour and protect those who, for their belief in him, had become wanderers and exiles.”

I tried to ascertain ‘Andalíb’s beliefs as to the future life, a subject on which I have always found the Bábís singularly reticent, and he told me that, according to their belief, the body, the vegetable soul, and the animal soul—all the lower principles, in fact—underwent disintegration and redistribution, while the “luminous spirit” (rúḥ-i-núrání) survived to receive rewards or punishments, whereof the nature was unrevealed and unknown. He then turned upon the Zoroastrians and upbraided them for their indifference in matters of religion. “For all these years,” he concluded, “you have been seeing and hearing of Jews, Christians, and Muḥammadans: have you ever taken the trouble to ascertain the nature of their beliefs, or of the proofs and arguments by which they support them? If for a single week you had given half the attention which you devote to your worldly business to a consideration of these matters, you would, in all probability, have attained to certainty. What fault can be greater than this indifference and neglect?”

A few days after this I returned the Sarhang’s visit. He received me very kindly in his house, situated near the mosque of Mír Chakmákh, and, though it was Ramaẓán, gave me tea, and himself drank a little hot water. The conversation at once turned on religion. He began by discussing the martyrdom of Imám Ḥuseyn, “the Chief of Martyrs,” and of ‘Abbás, ‘Alí Akbar, and the rest of his relatives and companions, at Kerbelá, declaring that had it not been for the wrongs suffered by these, Islám would never have gained one-tenth of the strength it actually possesses. From this topic he passed to the Bábí insurrection, headed by Áḳá Seyyid Yaḥyá of Dáráb, which was put down with great severity in the summer of 1850.

“Two of my relatives were in the army of the malignants,” he began, “so I know a good deal about what took place, and more especially how God punished them for their wickedness. When orders came from Ṭeherán to Shíráz to put down the insurrection, my maternal grandfather, the Shujá‘u’l-Mulk, received instructions to march against the Bábís of Níríz. He was somewhat unwilling to go, and consulted two of the clergy, who reassured him, telling him that it was a jihád, or holy war, and that to take part in it would ensure him a great reward in the future life. So he went, and what was done was done. The malignants, after they had slain 750 men of the Bábís, took the women and children, stripped them nearly naked, mounted them on camels, mules, and asses, and led them forth through an avenue of heads severed from those who had been their husbands, brothers, fathers, and sons, towards Shíráz. When they arrived there they were lodged in a ruined caravansaray just outside the Iṣfahán gate, opposite to an imámzádé, near to which the soldiers encamped under some trees. There, exposed to all manner of hardships, insults, and persecutions, they were kept for a long while, during which many of them died. And now hear how God took vengeance on some of those who were prominent as persecutors of his saints.

“My grandfather, the Shujá‘u’l-Mulk, when stricken down by his last illness, was dumb till the day of his death. Just at the end, those who stood round him saw his lips move, and, stooping down to hear what he was whispering, heard him repeat the word ‘Bábí’ three times. Immediately afterwards he fell back dead.

“My great-uncle, Mírzá Na‘ím, who also took part in the suppression of the Níríz rising, fell into disgrace with the Government, and was twice heavily mulcted—10,000 túmáns the first time, 15,000 túmáns the second. His punishment did not stop here: he was made to stand bareheaded in the sun, with syrup smeared over his face to attract the flies; his feet were crushed in the Ḳájár boot; and his hands submitted to the el-chek, that is to say, pieces of wood were inserted between his fingers, round which whip-cord was tightly bound, and on the whip-cord cold water was poured to make it contract. Nor were these the worst or most degrading torments to which he was subjected11Tukhm-i-murgh-há-yi garm dar maḳ‘ad-ash firú kardand..

“I will tell you another instance of Divine Vengeance. There was in Shíráz a certain Sheykh Ḥuseyn, who bore the honorific title of Náẓimu’l-‘Ulamá, but who was generally known, by reason of his injustice, as ‘Z̤álim’ (‘Tyrant’). He was not only concerned in the events I have described, but manifested a specially malignant hatred towards the Báb. So far did this hatred carry him, that when the Báb was before Ḥuseyn Khán, the Governor of Fárs, he drew his penknife from his pen-case, and cried, ‘If you will not order his execution, I will kill him with this.’ Later on, when the Báb had gone to Iṣfahán, he followed him thither, declaring that he would not cease to dog his footsteps till he had enjoyed the satisfaction of carrying out the death sentence on him; till at last the Governor of Iṣfahán sent him back to Shíráz, telling him that whenever that time came the mír-ghaẓab, or executioner, would be ready to do his duty. Well, after his return to Shíráz, he became affected with a scrotal swelling, which attained so enormous a size that he could hardly sit his horse, and had to be lifted into the saddle. Later on, before he died, his face turned black, save that one side was flecked with white spots; and thus he lay in his bed, loathsome alike to sight and smell, smearing his countenance with filth, and crying upon God to whiten his face on the Last Day, when the faces of others should be black. So he died.”

A few days after this I again paid a visit to Ḥájí Seyyid M——’s house. ‘Andalíb, of course, was there, and took tea with me, explaining that as his throat was sore he was not fasting that day. He had found the passages, occurring in Behá’s epistle to one of the Turkish ministers who had oppressed him, wherein the catastrophes impending over the Ottoman Empire were foretold. The first (which was in Arabic) ran as follows:—

The second (in Persian) ran thus:—

It was a pretty sight to see Ḥájí Seyyid M—— with his little child, to which he appeared devotedly attached, and which he would seldom suffer to be long out of his sight. When I had read the passage above translated, he took the book from me and held it out to the little one, saying “Kitáb-rá mách kun” (“Kiss the book”), which, after some coaxing, it was prevailed upon to do. A baby Bábí!

On the following afternoon I again visited the Sarhang. Another man, to whom he did not introduce me, was with him when I arrived, but soon left. The Sarhang upbraided me for wishing to leave Yezd so soon, saying that he had not seen nearly as much of me as he would have liked, and then asked me whether I had attained any greater certainty in the matter of the Bábí religion. I stated certain difficulties and objections, which he discussed with me. He also showed me some Bábí poems, including one by “Jenáb-i-Maryam” (the sister of Mullá Ḥuseyn of Bushraweyh, the Báb’s first convert and missionary), written in imitation of a rather celebrated ode of Shams-i-Tabríz. While we were examining these, a servant entered and announced the arrival of “Khudá” (“God”), and close on his heels followed the person so designated—a handsome, but rather wild-looking man—whose real name I ascertained to be Ḥájí Mírzá Muḥammad, commonly called “Díváné” (“the Madman”). The Sarhang introduced him as one controlled by Divine Attraction (“majdhúb”), whose excessive love for God was proof against every trial, and who was deeply attached to the words of Christ (especially as recorded in the Gospel of St Matthew), which would move him to tears. The “Madman,” meanwhile, had taken up one of the volumes of Bábí Alwáḥ (Epistles) which the Sarhang had brought out, and began to read from it in a very melodious voice. “If you could understand all the beauties of these words,” he said, as he concluded his reading and laid down the book, “you would at once be firmly convinced of the truth of the New Manifestation.”

I tried to put some questions on religious matters to them, but at first they would hardly listen to me, pouring forth torrents of rhapsody. At length, however, I succeeded in stating some of the matters on which I wished to hear their views, viz. the position accorded by them to Islám in the series of Theophanies, and the reasons for its lower standard of ethics and morality, lower ideal of future bliss, and greater harshness of rule and practice, as compared with Christianity. The answers which they returned made me realise once again how widely separated from each other were our respective points of view. They seemed to have no conception of Absolute Good or Absolute Truth: to them Good was merely what God chose to ordain, and Truth what He chose to reveal, so that they could not understand how anyone could attempt to test the truth of a religion by an abstract ethical or moral standard. God’s Attributes, according to their belief, were twofold—“Attributes of Grace” (Ṣifát-i-Jemál or Luṭf), and “Attributes of Wrath” (Ṣifát-i-Jalál or Ḳahr): both were equally divine, and in some dispensations (as the Christian and Bábí) the former, in some (as the Mosaic and the Muḥammadan) the latter predominated. A divine messenger or prophet, having once established the validity of his claim by suitable evidence, was to be obeyed in all things without criticism or questioning; and he had as much right to kill or compel, as a surgeon has to resort to amputation or the actual cautery, in cases where milder methods of treatment would be likely to prove inefficacious. As for the Muḥammadan paradise, with its jewelled thrones, its rivers of milk and wine and honey, its delicious fruits, and its beautiful attendants, it fulfilled its purpose; for every people must be addressed in words suited to the measure of their intellectual capacity, and the people to whom the Prophet Muḥammad was sent could not have apprehended a higher ideal of future bliss. They could see nothing immoral or unsatisfactory in a man’s renouncing pleasures forbidden in this life so as to enjoy them everlastingly in a future state.

Wishing to ascertain the views of the Sarhang and his friend “Díváné” on Ṣúfíism and its saints, I briefly described to them certain phases of thought through which I myself had passed, and certain conclusions as to the relation and significance of different religions which its teachings had suggested to me. “In a well-known aphorism,” I concluded, “it is said that ‘the ways unto God are as the number of the souls of the children of men.’ Every religion is surely an expression, more or less clear and complete, of some aspect of a great central Truth which itself transcends expression, even as Niz̤ámí says:—

Thus in Islám the Absolute Unity of God is above all insisted upon; in the Dualism of the Zoroastrians the eternal conflict between Good and Evil, Light and Darkness, Being and Not-being, the One and the Many, is symbolised; while the Christian Trinity, as I understand it, is the Trinity of the Sun, the Sun-beams which proceed from the Sun, and the Mirror, cleansed from every stain, wherein these falling produce (neither by Absorption of the Mirror into the Sun, nor by Incarnation of the Sun in the Mirror, but by Annihilation of the Mirror-hood of the Mirror in the Sun’s effulgence) a perfect image of the Sun. Even Idolatry subsists only by virtue of a truth which it embodies, as Sheykh Maḥmúd Shabistarí says:—

So in every religion there is Truth for those who faithfully and earnestly seek it; and hence we find amongst the followers of religions apparently most divergent, living in lands and times so widely separated as to preclude all possibility of intercommunication, men who, led by that Inner Light which lighteth every one who cometh into the world, have arrived at doctrines practically identical. Is not this identity a sign of their truth? Is it not, moreover, far more consistent with God’s universal mercy to reveal Himself thus inwardly to every pure soul than by a written scripture confided only to a comparatively small section of the human race? If salvation is only for the people of the Ḳur’án, then how hard is the lot of my people, to most of whom no more than its name, if so much, is known! If, on the other hand, only the people of the Gospel are to be saved, what possible chance of eternal happiness has been given to the great bulk of your fellow-countrymen?”

From a Ṣúfí I should have confidently expected a cordial endorsement of these views, but not from a Bábí; and I was therefore surprised by the acclamations with which both of my companions received them, and still more so by the outburst of wild enthusiasm which they evoked in “Díváné,” who sprang from his seat, waving his arms and clapping his hands, with cries of “You have understood it! You have got it! God bless you! God bless you!”

“Well, then,” I continued, “what do you consider to be the difference between a prophet and a saint who by purification of the heart and renunciation of self has reached the degree of ‘Annihilation in God’? For, as your own proverb says, ‘There is no colour beyond black.’”

“The difference,” they replied, “is this. The saint who has reached this degree, and can, like Manṣúr the wool-carder, say, ‘I am the Truth,’ has no charge laid on him to guide and direct others, and is therefore not bound to be cautious and guarded in his utterances, since the possible consequences of these concern himself alone, and he has passed beyond himself; while the prophet is bound to have regard to the dictates of expediency and the requirements of the time. Hence it is that, as a matter of fact, most of the great Ṣúfí saints were put to death, or subjected to grievous persecutions.”

I did not see “the Madman” again, but the Sarhang paid me a farewell visit on the morrow, and brought with him another officer, who, as I was informed, belonged to the ‘Alí-Iláhí sect, and was, like many of that sect, very favourably disposed towards Bábíism, concerning which the Sarhang spoke freely before him.

Meanwhile the time of my departure was drawing near, and it was in some degree hastened by the kindly-meant but somewhat irksome attentions of the Prince-Governor. He, as I have already mentioned, had set his heart on my visiting a certain waterfall in the mountains, without which, he declared, my journey to Yezd would be incomplete. As I had no particular desire to see this waterfall, and was anxious to avoid the trouble and expense in which the mounted escort which he wished to send with me would certainly have involved me, I determined to parry his proposals with those expressions of vague gratitude which I had already learned to regard as the most effectual means of defence in such cases, and meanwhile to complete my preparations for departure, and quietly slip away to Kirmán with a farewell letter of thanks and apologies, to be despatched at the last moment.

There was no particular difficulty about obtaining mules for the journey, but it appeared to be impossible to hire a horse for myself to ride. Personally, I was quite indifferent as to whether I rode on a horse or a mule, but my friends, both Bábís and Zoroastrians, were horrified at the idea of my entering Kirmán on the humbler quadruped: “it would be so undignified,” they said, “so derogatory to my state, so incompatible with the idea of distinction!” At first I was disposed to deride these notions, pointing out that the well-known Arabic proverb, “Sharafu’l-makán bi’l-makín” (“the dignity of the dwelling is in the dweller”) might fairly be paralleled by another, “Sharafu’l-markab bi’r-rákib” (“the dignity of the mount is in the rider”); but they evidently felt so strongly on the subject that, seeing that I had received much kindness at their hands, and was the bearer of letters of recommendation to their friends at Kirmán, I finally gave way, and asked them what they advised.

“I advise you to give up the idea of going to Kirmán altogether,” said ‘Andalíb; “you will get no good by it, and you see the difficulties that it involves. Go to Acre instead; that will be easily done on your homeward journey, and therefrom far greater blessings and advantages are likely to result.”

“But,” said I, “I am in some sort pledged to go to Kirmán, as I have written to Shíráz and also to my friends in England stating this to be my intention.”

“You are quite right,” said Ardashír, “and I for my part advise you to adhere to your plan, for to change one’s plans without strong reason is to lay one’s self open to a charge of indecision and lack of firm purpose.”

“Well,” I rejoined, “if I am not to go there on a mule, and cannot hire a horse, what am I to do? Shall I, for instance, walk, or would it be more ‘dignified’ to go on a camel?”

“Post,” said one.

“Buy a horse,” said another.

“As for posting,” I said, “I have had enough of that. I never understood the force of the proverb, ‘Es-safar saḳar’ (‘Travel is travail’11Literally, “travel is hell-fire.” Between Safar and Saḳar there exists that species of word-play technically termed tajnís-i-khaṭṭí, or “linear pun”; that is to say, the two words, as written in the Arabic character, are identical in outline, and differ only in diacritical points. This play is ingeniously preserved in Sir Richard Burton’s translation or paraphrase of the proverb, which is here given in the text.) till I posted from Shíráz to Dihbíd. But as for buying a horse, that is a more practicable idea, supposing that a suitable animal is forthcoming at a moderate price. A friend of mine at Ṭeherán told me that he kept a horse so as to be able to enjoy the luxury of going on foot; because, so long as he had no horse, it was supposed that the cause of his walking was either parsimony or poverty; but when it was known that he had one, his pedestrian progress was ascribed to eccentricity. Now I do not wish to be regarded as poor, still less as parsimonious; but I have no objection to being credited with eccentricity, and I should greatly enjoy the liberty of being able to walk as much and as often as I please.”

After my guests had gone I talked the matter over with Ḥájí Ṣafar, who was strongly in favour of my buying a horse. Although he continued to recur with some bitterness to the fact that he had entered Yezd riding on a donkey, he was good enough to make no difficulties about riding a mule to Kirmán.

Next day Bahman came bringing with him the muleteer who was to supply me with the two mules I needed for my journey. He also brought a horse belonging to a Zoroastrian miller, who was willing to sell it for eighteen túmáns (nearly £6). It was by no means an ill-looking animal, and both Ḥájí Ṣafar and myself, having mounted it and tried its paces, liked it well. However, with a view to forming a better idea of its capacities, I had it saddled again in the evening and went for a short ride outside the town, from which I returned delighted, with a full determination to buy it. Shortly after my return the owner came to the garden, and the bargain was soon concluded to the satisfaction of all concerned. Ḥájí Ṣafar was especially delighted.

“You will have to give me three or four túmáns a month more now,” he said, “to look after your horse.”

“Or else engage another servant,” I suggested. His face fell.

“Don’t be afraid,” I continued: “I have enough trouble with you already. You shall have the groom’s wages in addition to your own, and you can either look after the horse yourself or engage someone else to do so; only, in the latter case, please to understand clearly that the selection, appointment, payment, and dismissal of the groom is to be entirely in your hands, and that in no case will I listen to any complaints on either side, or mix myself up in any way in the quarrels you are sure to have.”

Ḥájí Ṣafar was so elated by this arrangement that he launched out into a series of anecdotes about one of his former masters, named Ḥájí Ḳambar, who had held some position of authority (that of chief constable or governor, I believe) in Ṭeherán, some fifteen years previously. Although his own morals do not seem to have been beyond reproach, he punished the offences of others with great severity. He ordered a dervish who had got drunk on ‘araḳ to be bastinadoed for three hours; and even Seyyids were not protected from castigation by their holy lineage, for which, nevertheless, he would profess the greatest respect, causing the dark-blue turbans and sashes which were the outward sign thereof to be transferred to a tree or bush, to which he would then do obeisance ere he bade his farráshes beat the unlucky owner of the sacred tokens within an inch of his life. “One evening,” continued Ḥájí Ṣafar, “I and three others of his píshkhidmats (pages) were taking a stroll in the town when we noticed in a coffee-house a man accompanied by what we at first took to be a very handsome youth, round whose kuláh a handkerchief was tied in Kurdish fashion, so as to conceal the hair. On looking more attentively, however, we were convinced that this seeming youth was really a woman in disguise, so we arrested the two, and brought them to Ḥájí Ḳambar’s house. Then I went to him, and said, ‘Master, we have brought something to show you.’ ‘And what may that be?’ he asked. ‘Come with me,’ I said, ‘and I will show you.’ So he followed me into the room where our prisoners were waiting. ‘A nice-looking boy, is he not?’ said I, pointing to the younger of the two. ‘Well, what have you brought him here for?’ demanded my master. ‘And nicely dressed too,’ I continued, disregarding his question; ‘look at the pretty Kurdish handkerchief he has wound round his kuláh,’ and as I spoke I plucked it off, and the girl’s hair, escaping from constraint, fell down over her shoulders. When the Ḥájí discovered that our prisoner was a girl dressed in man’s clothes he was very angry, reviled her in unmeasured terms, and ordered her to be locked up in a cupboard, on which he set his seal, till the morning. In the morning she was taken out, placed in a sack, and beaten all over by the farráshes, after which her head was shaved, and she was released.”

I had not yet bought my horse or completed my preparations for departure, when I was again sent for by the Prince-Governor. This time I had not to go on foot, for one of my Bábí friends insisted on lending me a very beautiful white horse which belonged to him. I tried to refuse his kind offer, saying that the Dastúr was to accompany me to the Government House, and that as he could not ride I would rather go on foot also.

“In our country,” I said, “we are taught to respect age and learning, and the Dastúr is old and learned, for which reason it appears to me most unseemly that I should ride and he walk beside me. He is a Zoroastrian, I am a Christian; both of us are regarded by the Musulmáns as infidels and unclean, and, if they could, they would subject me to the same disabilities which are imposed on him. Let me, therefore, walk beside him to show my contempt for those disabilities, and my respect for the Dastúr and his co-religionists.”

“If you desire to better the Zoroastrians,” replied my friend, “it is advisable for you to go to the Prince with as much state and circumstance as possible. The more honour paid to you, the better for them.” The Dastúr himself took exactly the same view, so there was nothing for it but to acquiesce.

Half an hour before sunset the horse and servant of my friend came to the garden, and immediately after them the usual band of Government farráshes with a large lantern. I had arrayed myself in a new suit of clothes, made by a Yezdí tailor, of white shawl-stuff, on the pattern of an English suit. These were cool, comfortable, and neat; and though they would probably have been regarded as somewhat eccentric in England, I reflected that no one at Yezd or Kirmán would doubt that they were the ordinary summer attire of an English gentleman. Ḥájí Ṣafar, indeed, laughingly remarked that people would say I had turned Bábí (I suppose because the early Bábís were wont to wear white raiment), but otherwise expressed the fullest approval.

The first question addressed to me by the Prince on my entering his presence was, “When are you going?” On hearing that I proposed to start on the next day but one, he turned to the Dastúr and enquired whether he intended to accompany me. The Dastúr replied that he could not do so, as one of the Zoroastrian festivals, which necessitated his presence in Yezd, was close at hand, and that as it lasted a week I could not postpone my departure till it was over. Hearing this, the Prince wished to rearrange my plans entirely. I must go on the morrow, he said, to visit the waterfall and the mountains, remain there five days, then return to the city to see the Zoroastrian festival, and after that accompany the Zoroastrians to some of their shrines and holy places. Protestations were vain, and I was soon reduced to a sulky silence, which was relieved by the otherwise unwelcome intrusion of a large tarantula, and its pursuit and slaughter. After conversing for a while on general topics, and receiving for translation into English the rough draft of a letter which the Prince wished to send to Bombay to order photographic apparatus for his son, Minúchihr Mírzá, I was suffered to depart.

I now determined to carry into effect my plan of taking French leave of the Prince; and accordingly, my preparations being completed, on the very morning of the day fixed for my departure I wrote him a polite letter, thanking him very heartily for the many attentions he had shown me; expressing regrets that the limited time at my disposal would not suffer me either to follow out the programme he had so kindly arranged for me or to pay him a farewell visit; and concluding with a prayer for the continuance of his kindly feeling towards myself, and of his just rule over the people of Yezd. This letter I confided to the Dastúr, who happened to be going to the Government House, together with the English translation of the order which the Prince wished to send to the Bombay photographer.

I now flattered myself that I was well out of the difficulty, and returned with relief to my packing; but I had reckoned altogether without my host, for in less than an hour I was interrupted by the Prince’s self-sufficient píshkhidmat, who brought back the letter to the Bombay photographer with a request that I would write a literal translation of it in Persian. This involved unpacking my writing materials, and while I was engaged in this and the translation of the letter, one of the servants of my Bábí friends came with a horse to take me to their house. Towards this man the píshkhidmat behaved with great insolence, asking him many impertinent and irrelevant questions, and finally turning him out of the room. At length I finished the translation, and, to my great relief, got rid of the píshkhidmat, as I hoped, for good. I then proceeded to the house of my Bábí friends, bade them a most affectionate farewell, received from them the promised letters of recommendation for Kirmán, and the names of the principal Bábís at Núk, Bahrám-ábád, and Níríz, and returned about sunset to the garden. Here I found the Dastúr, Ardashír, and Bahman awaiting me, and also, to my consternation, the irrepressible píshkhidmat, who brought a written message from the Prince, expressing great regret at my departure, and requesting me, if possible, to come and see him at once. As the hour of departure was now near at hand, and I was weary and eager for a little rest before setting out on the long night-march to Sar-i-Yezd, I would fain have excused myself; but, seeing that my Zoroastrian friends wished me to go, I ordered my horse to be saddled, and set out with the píshkhidmat. We rode rapidly through the dark and narrow streets, but in crossing the waste ground in front of the Government House my horse stumbled in a hole and fell with me, luckily without doing much harm to himself or me. The Prince was greatly concerned on hearing of my fall, and would hardly be persuaded that it was of no consequence; indeed, I was rather afraid that he would declare it of evil augury for my journey, and insist on my postponing my departure. However, this, my farewell interview, passed off as smoothly as could be wished, and I sat for about an hour smoking, drinking sherbet, and conversing. He paid me many undeserved compliments, declaring that the letter I had written to him was better than he could have believed it possible for a European to write, and that he intended to send it to the prime minister, the Amínu’s-Sulṭán. I, in return, expressed the genuine admiration with which I regarded his just, liberal, and enlightened rule; prayed that God might prolong his shadow so long as the months repeated themselves and the days recurred; and finished up by putting in a good word for the Zoroastrians. So we parted, with mutual expressions of affection and esteem; but not till he had made me promise to accept the escort of a mounted tufankchí or musket-man, and further placed in my hands a letter of recommendation to the Prince-Governor of Kirmán. Of this, which was given to me open and unsealed, I preserved a copy, which, as it may be of interest to the curious, I here translate, premising only that the terms in which Prince ‘Imádu’d-Dawla was kind enough to describe me, exaggerated as they appear in English, are but the commonplaces of polite Persian.

“In the Abode of Security of Kirmán. May it be honoured by the august service of the desirable, most honourable, most illustrious, nobly-born lord, the most mighty, most puissant prince, His Highness Náṣiru’d-Dawla (may his glory endure!), governor and ruler of the spacious domain of Kirmán.

“On the fourteenth of Ramaẓán was it despatched. 246811This mystic number, corresponding to the word Badúḥ, is generally written under the address on a letter to ensure its safe arrival. Redhouse says it is the name of an angel who is supposed to watch over letters, but I never succeeded in obtaining a satisfactory explanation of it..

“May I be thy sacrifice!

“Please God [our] religious devotions are accepted, and the care of God’s servants, which is the best of service, on the part of the desirable, most honourable, most illustrious, most mighty and eminent prince (may his glory endure!) is approved in the divine audience-hall of God; for they have said—

“At all events, the bearer of this letter of longing and service is my respected and honoured friend, of high degree, companion of glory and dignity, Idúárd Barúm Ṣáḥib, the Englishman, who, having come to visit this country, and being now homeward bound, hath set his heart on Kirmán and the rapture of waiting upon the servants of the nobly-born prince. Of the characteristics of this illustrious personage it is needless for me to make any representation. After meeting him you will be able to appreciate his good qualities, and the degree of his culture, and how truly sensible and well informed he is, for all his youth and fewness of years. The laudable traits which he possesses, indeed, are beyond what one can represent. Since he has mentioned that he is setting out for Kirmán, my very singular devotion impelled me to write these few words to the Blessed Presence. I trust that the sacred person of Your desirable, most illustrious, most mighty, and eminent Highness may be conjoined with health and good fortune. More were redundant.”

(Sealed) ‘Imádu’d-Dawla.

It was two hours after sunset when I returned to the garden, and finally got rid of the Prince’s píshkhidmat with a present of two or three túmáns. Ḥájí Ṣafar said that he should have had a watch or some other gift of the kind rather than money, which, he feared, might be refused or taken amiss. However, I had no watch to spare; and I am bound to confess that he was condescending enough to accept the monetary equivalent with grace if not gratitude. The farráshes having likewise been dismissed with presents of money, I was left in peace with my Zoroastrian friends, who, after drinking a farewell cup with me, departed, with the exception of Bahman, Ardashír’s confidential clerk, who remained behind to give me a statement of my finances, and to pay over to me the balance still to my credit. The amount for which I had brought a cheque from Shíráz was 147½ túmáns (nearly £45), of which I found that I had drawn 45 túmáns during my stay at Yezd. The balance of 102½ túmáns I elected to receive in cash to the amount of 32½ túmáns and a cheque on a Zoroastrian merchant of Kirmán for the remaining 70 túmáns, both of which Bahman, who was as business-like, careful, and courteous as any English banker could have been, at once handed over to me, receiving in return a receipt for the whole sum with which I had been credited at Yezd.

Little now remained to be done but to eat my supper, put a few finishing touches to my packing, and distribute small presents of money to some of those who had rendered me service. They came up in turn, called by Ḥájí Ṣafar; old Jamshíd the gardener received 12 ḳráns, his little son Khusraw 6 ḳráns, another gardener named Khudá-dád 12 ḳráns, and Ḥájí Seyyid M——’s servant, 20 ḳráns. The farewells were not yet finished, for just as I was about to drink a last cup of tea, two of my Bábí friends came, in spite of the lateness of the hour, to wish me God-speed. Then they too left me, and only Bahman was present to watch the final departure of our little caravan as it passed silently forth into the desert and the darkness.