Though Poor, However (So Far As Cash
And Valuables Are Concerned), The General Condition Of The Labouring
Classes Is Not So Bad As Might Be Supposed.
In a country so vast
(550,000 square miles) and so thinly populated (5,000,000 in all), a
small and sufficient supply of food is easily raised, especially with
such prolific soil at the command of the poorest.
At Shiraz, for
instance, there are two harvests in the year. The seifi, sown in
summer and reaped in autumn, consists of rice, cotton, Indian corn,
and garden produce; the tchatvi, sown in October and November, and
reaped from May till July, is exclusively wheat and barley. A quantity
of fruit is also grown - grapes, oranges, and pomegranates. Shiraz is
famed for the latter. The heat and dust, to say nothing of smells,
prevented me from often entering the city; but I walked through the
bazaar once or twice, and succeeded in purchasing some old tapestries
and a prayer-carpet. The merchants here are not so reserved and
secretive as those of Teheran and other cities, and are, moreover,
civil enough to produce coffee and a kalyan at the conclusion of a
bargain, as at Stamboul. The best tobacco for kalyan-smoking is grown
round Shiraz. Some, the coarser kind, from Kazeroon and Zulfaicar,
is exported to Turkey and Egypt, but the most delicate Shiraz
never leaves the country. The pipe is on the same principle as the
narghileh, the smoke being drawn through a vessel of water. The tube,
a wooden stalk about two feet long, is changed when it becomes tainted
with use; for the people of the East (unlike some in the West) like
their tobacco clean.
Manufactories are trifling in comparison with what they were in former
days. Where, a century since, there stood five hundred factories owned
by weavers, there are now only ten, for the supply of a coarse white
cotton material called "kerbas," and carpets of a cheap and common
kind. Earthenware and glass is also made in small quantities, the
latter only for wine-bottles and kalyan water-bowls. All the best
glass is imported from Russia. A kind of mosaic work called "khatemi,"
much used in ornamenting boxes and pen-and-ink cases, is turned out in
large quantities at Shiraz. It is pretty and effective, though some of
the illustrations on the backs of mirrors, etc., are hardly fit for a
drawing-room table. Caligraphy, or the art of writing, is also carried
by the Shirazis to the highest degree of perfection, and they are said
to be the best penmen in the East. To write really well is considered
as great an accomplishment in Persia as to be a successful musician,
painter, or sculptor in Europe; and a famous writer of the last
century, living in Shiraz, was paid as much as five tomans for every
line transcribed.
My favourite walk, after the heat of the day, was to the little
cemetery where Hafiz, the Persian poet, lies at rest - a quiet,
secluded spot, on the side of a hill, in a clump of dark cypress trees
a gap cut through which shows the drab-coloured city, with its white
minarets and gilt domes shining in the sun half a mile away. The tomb,
a huge block of solid marble, brought across the desert from Yezd, is
covered with inscriptions - the titles of the poet's most celebrated
works. Near it is a brick building containing chambers, where bodies
are put for a year or so previous to final interment at Kermanshah
or Koom. Each corpse was in a separate room - a plain whitewashed
compartment, with a square brick edifice in the centre containing the
body. Some of the catafalques were spread with white table-cloths,
flowers, candles, fruit, and biscuits, which the friends and relations
(mostly women and children) of the defunct were discussing in anything
but a mournful manner. A visit to a departed one's grave is generally
an excuse for a picnic in Persia.
Hard by the tomb of Hafiz is a garden, one of many of the kind around
Shiraz. It is called "The Garden of the Seven Sleepers," and is much
frequented in summer by Shirazis of both sexes. A small open kiosk, in
shape something like a theatre proscenium, stands in the centre, its
outside walls completely hidden by rose and jasmine bushes. Inside
all is gold moulding, light blue, green, and vermilion. A dome of
looking-glass reflects the tesselated floor. Strangely enough, this
garish mixture of colour does not offend the eye, toned down as it is
by the everlasting twilight shed over the mimic palace and garden by
overhanging branches of cypress and yew. An expanse of smooth-shaven
lawn, white beds of lily and narcissus, marble tanks bubbling over
with clear, cold water, and gravelled paths winding in and out of the
trees to where, a hundred yards or so distant, a sunk fence divides
the garden from a piece of ground two or three acres in extent, - a
perfect jungle of trees, shrubs, and flowers.
Here, from about 4 p.m. till long after sunset, you may see the
Shirazi taking his rest, undisturbed save for the ripple of running
water, the sighing of the breeze through the branches, and croon of
the pigeons overhead. Now and again the tinkle of caravan-bells breaks
in upon his meditations, or the click-click of the attendant's sandals
as he crosses the tiled floor with sherbet, coffee, or kalyan; but
the interruption is brief. A few moments, and silence again reigns
supreme - the perfection of rest, the acme of _Dolce far niente._ From
here my way usually lay homewards, through the dusky twilight, past
the city gates and along the now deserted plain. A limestone hill to
the south of Shiraz bears an extraordinary resemblance to the head of
a man in profile. Towards sunset the likeness was startling, and the
nose, chin, and mouth as delicately formed as if chiselled by the
tools of a sculptor.
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