نسخة مذيلة من "بلاد فارس والشأن الفارسي" بقلم جورج كرزون، مع أوراق مدرجة [و‎‎٤‎٧‎٤] (١٨١٤/٩٥٨)

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! 0 N THE ROAD TO ISPAHAN.
, ii»'—
THE ETHICS OF HORSE-STEALING.
(from our special correspondent.)
ISPAHAN, Sept. 10.
Happy is the owner of the horse that has no
history. I had hoped that the admiration of
Nayib Hussein’s men for mine would have no
further consequence, but I had scarce finished
writing you an account of it when excited
servants brought me news that the tale was not
yet ended. Nayib Hussein’s men had come into
Kashan, and had by hap or design put up at
the same caravanserai as housed my coveted
horse and the mules of my caravan. All day
they had laid ineffectual siege to my servants
in the matter of the horse, but finally it appeared
that they had despaired of compassing its
acquisition from a Sahib, and had consoled
ara’yfls
he latter course. For it came to my mind that
this, which is now the home of a robber chieftain,
must be none other than the royal garden oi
hiq where Sir John Malcom was entertained
I during his stay at Kashan, on his famous
embassy to the Court of Fath *Ali Shah above
ICO years ago. Malcom found beauty in most
things Persian, but Kashan he damned in one
comprehensive sentence ; it is “ on the verge of
a desert, and no city can present a more un
inviting aspect.” But in the excellent garden of
Fin he found a clear stream and a small but
delightful royal residence, and held- learned
discourse with his Persian friends as to whether
there was truth in the legend tha t the venemous
scorpions of Kashan, partaking of the Persian
spirit of hospitality, refrain from stinging
strangers !
There was a sudden difficulty about findine:
_ : ~i j i *i tt> • -» ■ ’i "i * . °
ON THE ROAD TO ISPAHAN.
THE ETHICS OF HORSE-STEALING.
(from our special correspondent.)
ISPAHAN, Sept. 10.
Happy is the owner of the horse that has no
history. I had hoped that the admiration of
Nayib Hussein’s men for mine would have no
further consequence, but I had scarce finished
writing you an account of it when excited
servants brought me news that the tale was not
yet ended. Nayib Hussein’s men had come into
Kashan, and had by hap or design put up at
the same caravanserai as housed my coveted
horse and the mules of my caravan. All day
they had laid ineffectual siege to my servants
in the matter of the horse, but finally it appeared
that they had despaired of compassing its
acquisition from a Sahib, and had consoled
themselves by taking possession of two yahoos,
or pack ponies. The ponies were not part of
my caravan,but they belonged to my muleteer’s
brother and partner, who was carrying goods
to Ispahan for the Lynch Company, and had
sociably attached his caravan to mine. It
seemed from the conversation of my servants
that _ in some mysterious way I was deeply
implicated. The muleteer was a poor man, and
he had established a kind of relationship.
There was a clear hint of opinion that while
the loss of the ponies would mean ruin for him,
it would also leave an indelible stain upon my
honour. What was I going to do about it ?
What indeed ? To appeal to the Governor
against Nayib Hussein w r as, from all I had
heard, worse than useless. He is a Bakhtiari
with a small body of tribesmen,and by studiously
avoiding any interference with Nayib Hussein
he is contriving to acquire some w r ealth for
himself in the familiar fashion. Moreover, time
pressed. The sun was setting with the incon
venient rapidity of the East. My caravan was
already being led out, and my horse was saddled
for the night ride of 28 miles to the next stage.
The stolen ponies had been taken to the Bagh-i-
Fin, a distance of six miles in the opposite
direction, the headquarters of Mashallah Ivhan,
most powerful of Nayib Hussein’s sons, who
styles himself Sardar, and, now that his father
has reached his 80th year, has become the chief
of this family of robbers.
Clearly there was nothing to be done but to
sacrifice the ponies and accept the supposed
slur upon one’s name, or else to prefix a 12-mile
ride to one’s horse’s long niecht ma.i-on, take the
i«'-+ e Oiie’-o own hands, and seek an inter
view with Mashallah Khan, who was reputed
to be not insensible to the influence of
Europeans. The mention of the Bagh-i-Fin
offered mo some compensation for deciding on
the latter course. For it came to my mind that
this, which is now the home of a robber chieftain,
1 must be none other than the royal garden of
'"in, where Sir John Malcom was entertained
during his stay at Kashan, on his famous
embassy to the Court of Fath ‘Ali Shah above
100 years ago. Malcom found beauty in most
things Persian, but Kashan he damned in one
comprehensive sentence ; it is “ on the verge of
a desert, and no city can present a more un
inviting aspect.” But in the excellent garden of
Fin he found a clear stream and a small but
delightful royal residence, and held- learned
discourse with his Persian friends as to whether
there was truth in the legend that the venemous
scorpions , of Kashan, partaking of the Persian
spirit of hospitality, refrain from stinging
strangers !
There was a sudden difficulty about finding
a guide, though Fin must be as well known in
Kashan as Hampton Court in London. It
seemed that the horses of those who knew the
way were lame and their relatives were ill ; but
at last a guide was found, with whom I went to
the Bagh-i-Fin. A man with a lantern imme
diately emerged from the crowd of retainers at
the entrance lodge and conducted roe to
Mashallah Khan. Through the long garden
we went, and even in the dim light I could see
that it is still “ excellent,” and that the cool
stream still runs over blue tiles. How i has
fallen into the hands of Mashallah Khan I do
not know, but doubtless by no honest means.
I found him on a rich rug in the verandah,
transacting a mixture of business and merri
ment with his “ khans ” and secretary, and
smoking an after-dinner water pipe. He is a
man of less than middle age, with a striking,
face, which indicates the possession of far more
than average Persian initiative or energy.
Strong, curly black hair, powerful eyes, and a
short curving nose add zest to the theatrical
air of brigandage that many weapons and
doubled cartridge belts on waist and shoulder
give to all these ruffians of the road. But, as
Shelley says, in Peter Beil, “ sometimes the
Devil is a gentleman,” and it would be un
becoming to say more in criticism of Mashallah
Khan, for to me he was the very flower of
gallant courtesy. We exchanged compliments
and cigarettes, and I got quickly to the business
in hand. Then it appeared that it was all an
unfortunate mistake. In the first place, he had
not known that the muleteer was poor. In the
second place, he had not realized that the mule
teer was connected with my caravan, and that
the removal of the ponies would in any way
inconvenience me. Thirdly, he had desired to
buy the ponies, and had merely had them
removed for examination. To-morrow he
proposed to send the money for them ; and in
proof of this a large bag, heavy with silver krans,
was produced and handed to me, that I might
realize what a good price would have been paid.
This very bag was to have been sent to the
muleteer, and was it not enough ? Such
ocular demonstration must have convinced
the most sceptical. I agreed that it was indeed a
weighty price, and regretted that circumstances
prevented the muleteer from selling at so
handsome a profit. Well, then, the ponies -were
mine and would be brought round at once, and
an escort of four cavaliers should accompany
me back to Kashan. So within a quarter of an
hour of rhy arrival I took the road again, and
with my muleteer’s ponies and a protecting
force of banditti clattered back triumphantly
to Kashan.
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