He Had Lost His Way Twice, And Had
Almost Given Up All Hopes Of Reaching Rustemabad Till Daylight, When
My Fire, The Only Light In The Place, Shone Out Of The Darkness.
The
poor fellow was so stiff and numbed with fatigue and cold that I had
to lift him off his horse and carry him into the post-house.
He was
a sorry object, but I could not refrain from smiling. My companion's
usually comical, ruddy face wore a woebegone look, while long
icicles hung from his hair, eyebrows, and moustaches, giving him the
appearance of a very melancholy old Father Christmas.
Morning brought a cloudless blue sky and brilliant sunshine. My first
thought on awaking was for the pelisse. Summoning the old postmaster,
I confided the precious garment to him, with strict injunctions to
take it outside, beat it well with a stick, and bring it back to me to
brush. In the mean time, we busied ourselves with breakfast and a
cup of steaming cocoa, for a long ride was before us. It was still
bitterly cold, with a strong north-easter blowing. The thermometer
marked (in the sun) only one degree above zero.
Rustemabad, a collection of straggling, tumble-down hovels, contains
about four or five hundred inhabitants. The post-house, perched on
the summit of a steep hill, is situated some little distance from
the village, which stands in the centre of a plateau, bounded on the
south-west by a chain of precipitous mountains. The country around is
fertile and productive, being well watered by the Sefid Roud (White
River). Rice is largely grown, but to-day not a trace of vegetation is
visible; nothing but the vast white plain, smooth and unbroken, save
where, here and there, a brown village blurrs its smooth surface, an
oasis of mud huts in this desert of dazzling snow.
An exclamation from Gerome suddenly drew my attention to the
postmaster, who stood at the open doorway, my pelisse in hand. I was
then unused to the ways and customs of the Persian peasantry, or
should have known that it was but labour lost to make one spring at
the old idiot, and, twining my fingers in his throat, shake him till
he yelled for mercy. Nothing but a thick stick has the slightest
effect upon the Shah's subjects; and I was, for a moment, sorely
tempted to use mine. The reader must own that I should have been
justified. It was surely enough to try the patience of a saint, for
the old imbecile had deliberately walked down to the river, made
a hole in the ice, and soaked the garment in water to the waist,
reducing it to its former condition of liquid slime. This was _his_
method of getting the mud off. I may add that this intelligent
official had _assisted me in the drying process up till midnight_.
There was no help for it; nothing to be done but cut off the damaged
portion from the waist to the heels - no easy matter, for it was frozen
as stiff as a board. "It will make a better riding-jacket now," said
Gerome, consolingly; "but this son of a pig shall not gain by it," he
added, stamping the ruined remains into the now expiring fire.
The village of Patchinar, at the foot of the dreaded Kharzan Pass, was
to be our halting-place for the night. The post-road, after leaving
Rustemabad, leads through the valley of the Sefid Roud river, in
which, by the way, there is excellent salmon-fishing. About six miles
from Rustemabad is a spot called by the natives the "Castle of the
Winds," on account of the high winds that, even in the calmest
weather, prevail there. Although, out on the plain, there was a
scarcely perceptible breeze, we had to literally fight our way against
the terrific gusts that swept through this narrow gorge. Fortunately,
it was a fine day, but the fine powdery snow whirled up and cut into
our eyes and faces, and made travelling very unpleasant.
These violent wind-storms have never been satisfactorily accounted
for. They continue for a certain number of hours every day, summer
and winter, increasing in force till sunset, when they abate, to rise
again the following dawn. On some occasions horses, and even camels,
have been blown over, and caravans are sometimes compelled to halt
until the fury of the storm has diminished.
Crossing a ridge of low hills, we descended into the valley of
Roudbar, a quiet and peaceful contrast to the one we had just left.
The wind now ceased as if by magic. Much of the snow had here
disappeared under the warm sunshine, while before us, nestling in
a grove of olive trees, lay the pretty village, with its white
picturesque houses and narrow streets shaded by gaily striped awnings.
It was like a transformation-scene, this sudden change from winter,
with its grey sky and cold icy blast, to the sunny stillness and
repose of an English summer's day. We rode through the bazaar, a busy
and crowded one for so small a place. A large trade is done here in
olives. Most of it is in the hands of two enterprising Frenchmen, who
started business some years ago, and are doing well.
We managed to get a mouthful of food at Menjil while the horses were
being changed.
Colonel S - - had especially warned us against sleeping here, the
Chapar khaneh being infested with the Meana bug, a species of camel
tick, which inflicts a poisonous and sometimes dangerous wound. It is
only found in certain districts, and rarely met with south of Teheran.
The virus has been known, in some cases, to bring on typhoid fever,
and one European is said to have died from its effects. For the truth
of this I cannot vouch; but there is no doubt that the bite is always
followed by three or four days' more or less serious indisposition.
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