persian pictures: from the mountains to the sea

PER

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TRAVEL / LITERATURE / MEMOIR

‘Are we the same, I wonder, when all our surroundings, association, acquaintances are changed?… I conclude that it is not the person who danced with you at Mansfield St that writes to you today from Persia. Yet there are dregs, English sediment at the bottom of my sherbet, and perhaps they flavour it more than I think … I write to you of Persia: I am not me, that is my only excuse. I am merely pouring out for you some of what I have received in the last two months.’

When Gertrude Bell’s uncle was appointed minister in Tehran in 1891, she declared that the great ambition

of her life was to visit Persia. Several months later, she did. And so began a lifetime of travel and a lifelong enchantment with what she saw as the romance of the East, which evolved into a deep understanding of its cultures and people. This vivid and impressionistic series of sketches, her first foray into writing, is an evocative meditation that moves between Persia’s heroic past and its long decline; the public face of Tehran and the otherworldly ‘secret, mysterious life of the East’, the lives of its women, its lush, enclosed gardens; from the bustling cities to the lonely wastelands of Khorasan.

‘Her remarkable intellectual abilities and masculine demeanour make Persian Pictures, her first publication on an Eastern subject, all the more interesting.’– Geoffrey Nash

Gertrude Bell

15mm 129mm129mm

198mmPersian

PicturesFrom the Mountains to the Sea

P1: KNP Trim: 129mm × 198mm Top: 30pt Gutter: 15mm

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Gertrude Bell (1868–1926) – scholar, linguist, archaeologist,traveller and ‘orientalist’ – was a remarkable woman in male-dominated Edwardian society. She shunned convention by es-chewing marriage and family for an academic career and theextensive travelling that would lead to her major role in MiddleEastern diplomacy. But her private life was marred by the tragedy,vulnerability and frustration that were key to her quest both fora British-dominated Middle East and relief from the torture ofher romantic failures. Through her vivid writings, she brought theArab world alive for countless people as she travelled to some ofthe region’s most inhospitable places.



‘In British diplomatic group photographs of the early twentieth-century Middle East, amid the plumes and uniforms and the calmparaphernalia of an empire going to hell in a bucket, there is oftena solitary female. The woman is slim, with a head of luxuriant hair,and neatly dressed in billowing muslins or in the pencil silhou-ette and cloche hats of jazz-age Baghdad. The woman is GertrudeBell.’ James Buchan, Guardian

‘Her remarkable intellectual abilities and masculine demeanourmake Persian Pictures, her first publication on an Eastern subject,all the more interesting.’ Geoffrey Nash

Tauris Parke Paperbacks is an imprint of I.B.Tauris. It is dedicated to publishingbooks in accessible paperback editions for the serious general reader within awide range of categories, including biography, history, travel and the ancientworld. The list includes select, critically acclaimed works of top quality writingby distinguished authors that continue to challenge, to inform and to inspire.These are books that possess those subtle but intrinsic elements that markthem out as something exceptional.

The Colophon of Tauris Parke Paperbacks is a representation of the ancient Egyp-tian ibis, sacred to the god Thoth, who was himself often depicted in the formof this most elegant of birds. Thoth was credited in antiquity as the scribe ofthe ancient Egyptian gods and as the inventor of writing and was associatedwith many aspects of wisdom and learning.



PERSIAN

PICTURES

Gertrude Bell

T P PT P PTA U R I S PA R K EP A P E R B A C K S



New paperback edition published in 2014 by Tauris Parke PaperbacksAn imprint of I.B.Tauris and Co Ltd6 Salem Road, London W2 4BU175 Fifth Avenue, New York NY 10010www.ibtauris.com

Distributed in the United States and Canada Exclusively by Palgrave Macmillan175 Fifth Avenue, New York NY 10010

The text of this edition was first published in 1947 by Ernest Benn Ltd

Copyright preface c© A. J. Arberry, 1947

Cover images: View of the Courtyard of the Mesdjid-i-Shah, Isfahan, from ‘ModernMonuments of Persia,’ engraved by Bachelier, 1856 (litho), Coste, Pascal Xavier(1787–1879) (after) / Private Collection / The Stapleton Collection / TheBridgeman Art Library. Portrait of Gertrude Bell, Photographic Archive,Department of Archaeology, University of Newcastle upon Tyne

All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in a review, this book, or any partthereof, may not be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, ortransmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

ISBN: 978 1 78076 692 8

A full CIP record for this book is available from the British LibraryA full CIP record is available from the Library of Congress

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: available

Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Cox & Wyman, Reading, RG1 8EX



Contents

Preface vii

I. An Eastern City 1II. The Tower of Silence 13

III. In Praise of Gardens 19IV. The King of Merchants 29V. The Imam Hussein 35

VI. The Shadow of Death 45VII. Dwellers in Tents 55

VIII. Three Noble Ladies 63IX. The Treasure of the King 73X. Sheikh Hassan 83

XI. A Persian Host 95XII. A Stage and a Half 103

XIII. A Bridle-Path 111XIV. Two Palaces 123XV. The Month of Fasting 135

XVI. Requiescant in Pace 145



vi Persian Pictures

XVII. The City of King Prusias 157XVIII. Shops and Shopkeepers 165

XIX. A Murray of the First Century 175XX. Travelling Companions 185


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I

An Eastern City

The modern capital of Persia lies in a plain ringedhalf-way round by mountains, which on the north-

ern side touch with frozen summits the regions of eter-nal snow, and on the east sink into low ranges of hills,stretching their naked arms into the desert. It is the chiefcity of a land of dust and stones – waste and desolate,Persia unfolds her monotonous length, broken only byridges of hills even more barren than the plain itself,southward from the gates of Tehran. There is a certainfine simplicity in a landscape from which the elementof water, with all the varied life it brings in its mur-muring train, is entirely absent. The empty world lookslike a great room cleared for the reception of somesplendid company; presently it will be filled by a vastpageant of men or angels: their lance-heads will flashback the dazzling rays of the sun, their banners will float



2 Persian Pictures

out many-coloured against the sombre background, thepeal of their trumpets will re-echo from mountain tomountain. But no! day after day rises upon the samesilence, the same solitude, and at length the watcherturns away impatiently, with the conviction that he hasbeen gazing with futile expectation upon the changelessfeatures of the dead. The pageant has long since sweptover the land – swept onward. Mother of human en-ergies, strewn with the ruins of a Titanic past, Persiahas slipped out of the vivid world, and the simplicity ofher landscape is the fine simplicity of death. ‘Alas, poorYorick!’ says Hamlet, yielding, in an exceptionally un-premeditated moment, the natural tribute of pity fromthe living to the dead. Persia in such an aspect may bepitiful enough, but it is not admirable.

To the north of Tehran, however, the lower slopesof the Shimran range are clothed with gardens andcorn-fields, as though the dense vegetation which, by astrange freak of nature, stretches its belt of green alongthe southern shore of the Caspian, between the shiftingsands of the Oxus and the black, naphtha-saturated earthof Baku, had sent its roots through the very heart of themountains and found a foothold for its irrepressible lux-uriance even among dust and stones. The capital itself,as you approach it from the west, presents the appear-ance of a wood rather than of a city – nor minaret, nortower, nor dome forms a landmark above it, the trees



An Eastern City 3

of its gardens conceal its stunted buildings, and it is notuntil the traveller finds himself under its very walls thathe can say, ‘Here is Tehran!’ It owes its life to the snowmountains, from whence its water flows; the ground be-tween them and the town is undermined by a networkof passages, vaulted over with stone, and ventilated byair-holes at intervals of about fifty yards, each hole beingprotected by a mound of earth. Within, these arteriesof the city are the width of a man’s shoulders, andscarcely high enough to allow him to walk upright; hestumbles, knee-deep in water, along the uneven bed,bending himself double where the vault drops lower,squeezing past narrow corners cut out of the solidrock. On either side black apertures open into morepassages, bringing in tributary streams from right andleftward, and at intervals the darkness is broken by theray of sunlight which strikes through one of the air-holes,burying itself, like an ill-directed spear, deep into theearth. No other form of irrigation remains, no storage ofwater, in a country where these arts were probably fa-miliar to the far larger population which dwelt in formerages at the foot of the mountains. The present system isclumsy and laborious. Constant watchfulness is neededto keep the Kanats from falling into disrepair and frombecoming blocked by masses of roots, and if this wereto be relaxed, Tehran would in a few years cease toexist.



4 Persian Pictures

To what merit it owes its position of capital remains amystery. It is the seat of no native industry; arid desertsand narrow mountain-passes, traversed only by caravansof mules, cut it off from all convenient intercourse withthe west. Isfahan is invested with the traditions of aformer importance; about Shiraz linger the vestiges ofa still mightier antiquity; Casvin lies a hundred milesnearer to the Caspian; Tehran is only a modern seat ofGovernment called to importance by the arbitrary willof the present race of sovereigns.

Many gates lead into the city, breaking the level ofthe mud walls, with their arches and turrets, which aredecorated with tiles of faı̈ence set into patterns and pic-tures and inscriptions. The space enclosed by the wallsis a large one, but it is not by any means filled withhouses. Passing through one of the western gateways,you will find yourself at first in desolate tracts of sand,stretching between unfinished or ruined buildings; occa-sionally the open doorway in a long mud wall will revealto you a luxuriant garden full of tanks and fountains andflower-beds, under whose plane-trees stands the houseof some rich man who can afford himself a weeklysufficiency of water to turn the wilderness into fertilepleasure-grounds; further on you will come upon widestreets, very empty and silent, fringed by low, mud-built houses; gradually the streets narrow, the slopingcounters of shops present their wares to the passers-by:



An Eastern City 5

fruit and vegetables, and the broad thin flaps of Persianbread; here and there a European shop-window, behindwhich the goods are more miscellaneous than tempt-ing; here and there the frontage of some Governmentbuilding, with a doorway gaily patterned in colouredbricks. As the streets grow narrower, they becomemore crowded. A kaleidoscopic world of unfamiliar fig-ures passes to and fro beneath the white mulberry-treeswhich spring out between the cobble-stones of the pave-ment: grave elders holding their cloaks discreetly roundthem, dervishes with a loin-cloth about their waists anda brilliant scarf bound over their ragged locks, womenenveloped from head to foot in loose black garments, alinen veil hanging over their faces and making them looklike the members of some strange religious order, ne-gro slaves and white-robed Arabs, beggars and loiterers,and troops of children pressing in and out between thehorsemen and the carriages. Sometimes a beggar willaccost you – a woman, perhaps, drawing aside a cornerof her veil and imploring alms in a sweet high voice.If you turn a deaf ear to her prayers she will invokecurses on your head, but a copper coin will purchaseyou every blessing known to man, including the disap-pearance of the lady in question, who would otherwisehave followed you with unblushing persistence, shout-ing, ‘Pul! pul! Pul!’ – Money! money! money! – in yourear.



6 Persian Pictures

At a street corner a group of soldiers are shaking thebranches of a mulberry-tree, and eagerly devouring thesickly fruit which falls into the dust at their feet. Judgingfrom the appearance of the Persian army, a foreignerwould be tempted to conclude that it subsisted entirelyupon white mulberries, and was reduced to a state ofstarvation when the summer was over. The hands ofpaymasters are adhesive in the East; but a small propor-tion of his earnings reaches the common soldier, andmulberries, flavoured with dust, have at least the meritof furnishing him with an inexpensive meal. His outwardman is not calculated to inspire much alarm in the breastof his enemies. His gait is slouching, his uniform torn anddiscoloured; not infrequently he wears his shirt outsidehis trousers, and the ragged flounce of brownish-greylinen hanging below his tunic lends him an air anythingbut martial. His temperament seems to be childlike andpeaceable in the extreme. He amuses himself while he ison guard with foolish games, constructing, for instance,a water-mill of tiny wheels, which the stream in frontof the palace will set a-turning, and whose movementwill delight his eyes as he passes up and down. It is evenrelated (and the tale is scarcely past credence) that on acertain occasion when a person of importance was vis-iting a southern fortress, he found one of the men whoguarded the gateway engaged in knitting stockings, andthe other turning an honest penny by the sale of apples.



An Eastern City 7

Nevertheless, the Shah is proud of his army. He spendshappy hours devising new uniforms for his men – uni-forms which are the strangest jumble of European rem-iniscences and an Oriental love of bright colour.

Bearing towards the north-eastern quarter of the city,you will enter a broad square which is looked upon as thene plus ultra of municipal magnificence. It is here thatthe Shah causes his part in the annual Feast of Sacrificeto be performed, and here the inhabitants of Tehranassemble in great numbers to witness the slaughter of acamel by the mollahs in token that his Majesty has notforgotten, amid the cares of State, how Abraham boundIshmael upon the altar (for the Mohammedans assertthat it was the son of Hagar who was the hero of thelegend) in obedience to the command of God.

Immediately after the camel has fallen he is cut up bythe knives of the mollahs, and the nearest bystanders,pouncing upon some portion of the victim, make offwith it at full speed to the palace, where the first comerreceives a large reward.

It must be confessed that in spite of its size, the squaremakes no favourable impression upon the mind of thesophisticated European. The gates leading into it areadorned with ugly modern tiles, the buildings roundit lack all trace of architectural merit. Their stuccoface is questionably embellished by a fresco of lions,exceedingly ill drawn, each animal looking nervously



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round at the sun disc with its spiked circle of rays, whichrises from behind its shoulders. Nor does it containany press of human activity to atone for its lack ofbeauty. About the gate which leads into the Ark, wherethe palace is situated, there are indeed some signs oflife – groups of soldiers are diversified by the figures ofservants of the palace, clad in brilliant scarlet uniforms,and mounted on horses wearing bits and collars of solidsilver, and by the fantastic liveries of the Shah’s runners,whose dress closely resembles that which is depicted ona court-card, and whose headgear partakes equally ofthe nature of a beadle’s and of a jester’s; but for therest this square is comparatively empty, and the windsweeps the dust-clouds round the park of antiquatedcannon which stands in its midst.

More narrow, squalid streets bring you to the bazaar,where, though little really beautiful or precious is to befound, the thronging Oriental life is in itself an endlesssource of delight. Ride through it on a summer morning,when its vaulted coolness will offer you a grateful shelterfrom the sun, and before its activity has been hushed bythe heat of mid-day. In the shadow of the entrance therestands a small merchant, posted on the doorstep likean emblem of Oriental commerce – a solemn, long-robed child, so little that his mother’s heart must haveached when she trusted the dear turbaned head out ofher sight. This morsel of humanity has brought some



An Eastern City 9

bunches of flowers to sell, and has spread them out ona large stone in front of him. In his improvised shophe stands, motionless and imperturbable, watching thecomers and goers, and waiting in dignified patience tillone of them shall pause and buy. Wish him good luckunder your breath (for he would resent the blessings ofunbelievers), and pass on beneath the dark arches of thebazaar.

Here, at any rate, is bustle enough; trains of ladenmules and donkeys shoulder your horse into the gutter,paying small heed to your cries of ‘Avardah!’ – Makeroom! – skilful housewives block the narrow way, driv-ing hard bargains under the protection of their veils;groups of hungry men cluster round the roasters ofkabobs anxiously awaiting a breakfast. The shopkeep-ers alone are unmoved by the universal haste, but sitcross-legged among their wares, smoking the morningkalyan. On either side of the street arched doorwayslead into caravanseries and high market-places. In oneof them the sellers of cotton goods have establishedthemselves, their counters laden with piles of cheapprinted stuffs, bearing the Manchester stamp in onecorner; next door is the booksellers’ court, and a cer-tain air of scholastic leisure pervades it; here are a row offruit-shops, where the blue earthenware bowls of curdsstand among heaped-up grapes and melons; there youmay buy narrow-necked bottles of rosewater; further



10 Persian Pictures

on you find yourself in a street of metal-workers, wherethe bright mule-bells hang in festoons over the coun-ters; round the next corner the fires of smithies gleamon half-naked figures, labouring with strained musclesat their anvils. The whole bazaar resounds with talk,with the cries of the mule-drivers, the tinkling bells ofthe caravans, and the blows of the smiths’ hammers.The air is permeated with the curious smell, half musty,half aromatic, of fruits and frying meats, merchandiseand crowded humanity. The light comes from the topthrough a round hole in each of the countless tiny domesof the roof; through each hole falls a shaft of brilliantsunshine, cutting the surrounding darkness like a sword,and striking the hurrying multitude in successive flashes,white turban and bright-coloured robe gleaming – fad-ing, gleaming – fading, in an endless sequence of sunand shadow, as their wearers pass to and fro.

So you may ride through street after narrow crookedstreet till your ears are full of sound, and your eyes ofcolour, and your mind of restless life, and before youhave had time to recover your composure, you will findyourself in the sunny square, filled with stacks of hay andtenanted by disbanded armies of mules, which lies withinthe Meshed Gate. Here, too, the town is afoot. Like aswarm of bees the people jostle one another throughthe archway. Peasants are driving in their donkeys ladenwith roped bundles of grass from the meadows of



An Eastern City 11

Shah Abdul Azim, strings of camels file through thegate, bringing in the produce of the great cities of thesouth and east, busy officials are hurrying Tehranwardsin the early morning about their affairs, sellers of saltednuts have established themselves under the trees, beg-gars are lying by the roadside, pilgrims returning fromMeshed hasten their step as the homeward goal comesinto sight.

With the impression of the deserted western roadsstill fresh in your memory, the appearance of the bazaarsand of this eastern gate will fill you with surprise.Tehran, which from the west looked almost like a cityof the dead, cut from all intercourse with the outerworld, is alive after all and in eager relationship with aworld of its own. Here in the dust and the sunshine is anepitome of the living East, and, standing unnoticed insuch a doorway, you will admit that you have not trav-elled in vain. But as the wonderful procession of peoplefiles past you, too intent upon their own affairs to giveyou more than a contemptuous glance, you will realizewhat a gulf lies between you. The East looks to itself; itknows nothing of the greater world of which you are acitizen, asks nothing of you and of your civilization.

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