Character of the Yezdi—Systematised inconsistency—Loyalty to causes and individuals—Unreliability of evidence—Shame—Humour—Disregard of time—Language—Lack of initiative—Courage—The Yezdi soldier—Etiquette and manners—Triviality—Pride—Kindliness and cruelty—Dishonesty—Difficulty in obtaining anything—Tendency to fatalism—Latent strength of Persian character—Family ties—The Jus Paternum—Religious liberty—Open-handedness—Summary.

If it were not absolutely essential to the purpose of a book like this that there should be a more or less detailed analysis of the character of the Yezdi, I should certainly shirk making such an analysis. The Yezdi’s faults are numerous, glaring, and interesting. His virtues are not only fewer, but there is much less to be said about them. In the concrete man, these virtues show fairly prominently, the vices have their peculiar humour, and the whole is not unlovable. On paper, while discussing the different points of the Yezdi’s[137] character one by one, it will be almost impossible to convey the general effect made by the entire human being.

When one first becomes acquainted with the Yezdi, one is inclined to regard him as so inconsistent in matters of morals as to be utterly devoid of all principle, bad or good. There is the same uncertainty about his actions that there is about the fall of an unloaded die. But just as the fall of the die is regulated by the law of averages, so the actions of the Yezdi are more or less consciously decided by what can only be termed systematised inconsistency, a kind of law of balance which seems to him to possess the merit of a principle. When he has done a certain number of good actions, which it must be confessed is frequently the case, then it is time for him to do some bad ones; and vice versa, when he has done enough bad ones, he comes back for a time to good ones. This is partially the result of the theory of savabs; and the painful thing about it is that it makes moral trustworthiness impossible. If a man holds this pernicious theory as it was sketched in a previous chapter, then the more he has done right in the past the more he will feel justified in doing wrong in the future; and this in[138] Yezd is no mere nightmare, but the literal fact. A good many of the Yezdis are frequently fair and straight in their dealings, but I do not know a single Mussulman among them, with regard to whom it would be fairly safe to depend on his doing the right thing on any particular occasion simply because he knew it to be right. There are men whose ordinary habits are fairly good, but to a man who considers that derelictions of duty can be absolutely paid for by past or future acts of merit not necessarily involving very much trouble, the temptation to yield to slightly increased pressure is very strong, and is likely to frequently overcome the bias of habit.

On the other hand, Persians have very strong notions of loyalty both to causes and to individuals. Nothing has brought this out more than the history of the Babi movement, which has certainly exhibited the strength of Persian character. Boys and young men have in this movement willingly undergone the most terrible tortures in the service of their spiritual teachers and the common cause. It ought to be understood that the motives of the Babi martyr are not quite the same as those which have generally influenced the Christians who have died for their faith. The Christian martyrs have[139] generally died rather than do some act which they felt to be sinful, or leave undone something which they regarded as essential. A large number of the Babi martyrs on the other hand have died because they chose not to deny their faith, which according to their tenets was perfectly permissible to do. Now I know of at least one man, a Persian of high position, who was killed as a Babi, but who would have preferred embracing Christianity. What was his connection with Babiism I cannot say: he would, I believe, have embraced Christianity had it not been that he shrank from a religion where a direct denial of one’s faith must always be accounted sinful. Whatever he was, he certainly did not shrink from making his divergence from orthodox Islam dangerously plain, and in this way he met his death. My purpose in mentioning the fact is to show that it is most difficult to induce a Mussulman to accept a very hard and fast line. Of course the story is only an illustration and does not prove the point, because there must have been other considerations which made Babiism, or a degree of unorthodoxy which passed for Babiism, easier to such a man than Christianity. It is not necessary to suppose that he was only influenced by a dislike to unbending rules; for[140] the inability to ever deny his faith might have exposed him to petty insults, which would have been to him worse than death. Also his position as a Christian would have been, humanly speaking, a more solitary one. Still, when all has been said, I am convinced that the constitutional dislike to a hard and fast rule played at least some part in bringing the man to his decision, and also that this dislike is more pronounced in the Mussulman Yezdi than in the Yezdi Parsi.

A Persian who attaches himself to an individual will often prove himself very trustworthy in all matters affecting that individual’s interest; and generally speaking, attachment to a European would be likely to produce a more dependable loyalty than attachment to another Persian. The feeling that a European friend would always himself act in a certain manner frequently leads a Persian to try and act in the same way towards him. I remember a Persian servant once replying to my wife, who had expostulated with him on the subject of some egregious falsehood that he had just told in the bazaars, “Of course, Khanum, I don’t tell lies to you, for you don’t like it; but these people expect me to lie, and one couldn’t tell the truth to them.”

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Perhaps one might go further, and say that the Yezdi Mussulman frequently questions the virtue of keeping to an abstract principle, particularly when by abandoning it one might do a good turn to a friend. Impartiality is a thing which he absolutely fails to understand: indeed he considers it simply another name for disloyalty, and here it is probable that most other Easterns would agree with him.

It is impossible to treat the inconsistency of Yezdi Mussulmans as simple weakness. It is rather the absence of such principles as Westerns generally possess than the inability to keep to them; and indeed it is often the result of other principles of a peculiar kind, diametrically opposed to those to which we are accustomed. The Yezdis are a free-handed folk, and they despise a man who does not spend freely. They like to appear to live up to their incomes, and I think that some of them have a feeling of the same kind about their debit and credit account with their Creator. Also we must not forget that Persian inconsistency is not always a deviation towards wrong, but equally often a deviation towards right. Though in Persia it is never well to trust to a man’s character, it is always advisable to appeal[142] to high principles, even when dealing with apparently the most abandoned. While we were in Yezd we were brought into contact with three men in high position, whose names it is not necessary to mention, but whom I would put down as the three worst prominent men in Yezd. The first was an aristocratic official, the second a cleric, and the third an official and a nouveau riche. Now each of these three at some time or other made himself conspicuous by conduct that one was bound to commend and approve. It is impossible to always analyse motives, but in at least one case the action seemed to have been due to nothing but a disinterested and unselfish impulse. In the other cases it is more probable that expediency, or a conscious intention of paying for sins by savabs, entered into the matter.

To trace this peculiarity of the Yezdi’s character to its source is not easy. Sometimes it appears to be a species of hedging, for it is very difficult to find out the truth in Persia, and a general disbelief in everything may have led the Persian to feel that it is unsafe to stake his all on one theory of the universe. The amount of lying that is done in a town like Yezd baffles description. An Englishman when in doubt tells the[143] truth. A Persian when in doubt tells a lie. This would be more tolerable were it not that a Persian is always in doubt. In Yezd security is a thing unknown, and telling lies becomes part of the instinct of self-preservation. Then again the lies are of a new kind. Lies in England are generally told to deceive people in some particular; in Yezd they are just as frequently told in order to make the very search for truth impossible. When I have had to examine into cases of petty theft amongst schoolboys, I have found that to get at the truth is an almost superhuman task. English boys, if they do not tell the truth, will at least tell as few falsehoods as possible, if for no other reason, to avoid being found out. Persian boys will not only lie on the subject they wish to conceal, but they will tell as many untruths as they can cram into the story, so as to render any attempt at investigation futile. Of course you know that they are lying, but, as they never imagine that you will suspect them of telling the truth, they are not much deterred.

The result of this practice is that in the Yezd bazaars, taking together all statements, even the most trivial, that are made by Mussulmans, probably not less than one-third of the speeches[144] made are falsehoods. I do not think that the Persian beggar ever expects to be believed. A woman once came to the house, asking for a quilt because she had none, and her son was ill. To have no quilt, that is, to have no bed-clothes, is by no means an unbelievable state of poverty, and there is no doubt that the woman expected to have her words taken literally. It transpired that her son was quite well, but was taking sanctuary to avoid being molested for a debt. The woman had a perfectly possible quilt, but it was old and patched. She actually brought it to us the next morning, not to prove that after all they were very poor, but to show that in saying she had none she had spoken the truth. Another woman once told me in the street, that she had six orphan children and her husband was sick.

In a country like this it is not surprising that evidence is at a discount, and that there are intelligent people absolutely convinced that truth is unknowable. A man who is accustomed to act upon this theory in the ordinary affairs of life, is naturally inclined to apply the same principle to whatever religion or philosophy he possesses. So we get men who are unwilling to stake everything on anything in particular. If they have[145] previously assumed that it is most advantageous to do what is right, then it is well to perform just a few actions on the assumption that it is more advantageous to do wrong. If they have hitherto acted on the principle that it is better to do what is wrong, then it is well not to put all their eggs into that basket either. And indeed I am inclined to think that many of the Yezdis would apply the same philosophy to their non-ethical ideas. If they have based most of their opinions on the assumption that something is true, it is well to base others on the assumption that the same thing is false. This, of course, sounds to us mere nonsense, but once grant with many of the Yezdis that evidence is valueless, and truth absolutely unknowable, and it at once becomes an approximation to sense.

It is quite possible that some of my readers may ask whether this last attempt to explain the inconsistency of the Yezdis is to be taken seriously. To say that I do not know is rather a weak confession, but at the same time it is true. I certainly do not pin my faith to it, yet it seems to be the way in which the bewildering topsy-turvydom of Persia is working. Never forget that the jokes of W. S. Gilbert are the facts of Persia. For[146] instance, in an isolated place like Yezd, the laws of supply and demand operate so peculiarly that the ordinary custom of discount on quantity is inverted; you will be able to get things usually sold at three for a penny at perhaps thirty for a shilling. There was a governor in Yezd, certainly not more than twenty years ago, who had men bastinadoed for walking in the bazaars without treading down the heels of their slippers. In such a country it is very difficult to say what is in itself ridiculous and impossible. One can only judge from evidence, which is, I think, in favour of the theory I have just suggested as a possible explanation of undoubted facts. At the same time the unreliability of the Yezdi is probably due to several causes, and there is one of these causes about which one may speak with less uncertainty. This is the piecemeal appreciation of ideas and circumstances, which I have already mentioned as the result of the impression made on the Yezdi’s mind by the isolated objects which continually surround him, and which is probably heightened by a religion which was constructed under circumstances very similar to those of the Persian deserts.

Shame is the feeling of vexation consequent[147] upon the consciousness of having fallen below an accepted standard of conduct, and where such a standard is not to be found, shame does not exist. Consequently the Yezdi, who has only the faintest idea of a moral standard that ought to govern his whole life, is not susceptible to shame in this particular. He has, however, a rather stronger idea of a general standard of intelligence up to which he ought to live, so it is often a greater deterrent to him to point out that a certain action will be regarded as ignorant or silly than to show that it is less moral than his ordinary behaviour. He also possesses a very keen appreciation of what he considers to be the ethical proprieties of a particular occasion. We must remember that what he lacks in breadth of view he makes up for in power of concentration on the comparatively small field of ideas that can come simultaneously within the range of his mental vision. For example, when European missionaries have been in vain attempting to simplify a most abstruse and metaphysical doctrine by spreading it over several easy steps, they sometimes find that the Persian mind, though it utterly fails to grasp the simpler train of reasoning, can without any assistance take in[148] the more difficult idea, so long as it is expressed with sufficient brevity. In the same way the Yezdi, who seems to have little or no sense of the proprieties of a lifetime, will have an appreciation of what is right and fitting on a particular occasion stronger than that of the European. This is what makes him so dignified at times and seasons, and so undignified in his life. Although his sense of propriety does not always work, where it does work it is so far from being weak that to violate it seems to give him a sensation that is near akin to physical pain. You cannot make a Yezdi apologise: if he has done an injury, he is quite content to ignore it, or to assert that it has not taken place, which is the ordinary substitute for an apology in Persia: but the man’s sense of shame is too great to allow him to confess to such an action before the man he has wronged. He has no objection to the man knowing what has happened; but at the interview his denial must be accepted or the injury ignored. This is the only way in which he can submit to the meeting.

The Yezdi has not a very fine sense of humour, but he is easily amused. Perhaps it is worth while to instance an occasion which occurred during our[149] stay in Yezd when the natives seemed really tickled. A certain Russian doctor resident in the town, who had not a very complete and accurate knowledge of Persian, wanted to use bad language to his servant, who had in some way offended him. As he knew no suitable expressions he seized the dictionary and kept looking them out one after another, and hurled them at the unfortunate man’s head as fast as this process would permit. This story was retailed with very great appreciation by some of the better class natives. I rather think it seemed to them very much more funny than it does to us, and this for two reasons. Persians have a great respect for literature, including dictionaries, and they would hardly understand their being frivolously handled; also they are very particular in adapting their language to the occasion, and it would strike them as the height of absurdity to abuse a servant in book language, as the doctor must have done, unless indeed the Russian publication he consulted contained real specimens of colloquial abuse, which would have struck the Persians as even more funny.

The story of Mulla Nāsiru’d Dīn and his mule is a very fair instance of Persian humour at its best.[150] The Mulla, who was a notorious wit, had sent a mule to the market-place where such beasts were sold. People were suspicious owing to the Mulla’s reputation, but nobody supposed that he would let himself down by sending an unsaleable animal to the bazaars. So first of all someone examined its forelegs, and got badly pawed; then someone went to its hind-legs and got kicked; next they looked at its mouth and got bitten; finally they tried to put saddle-bags on to its back, and it threw them off immediately. Consequently when the Mulla strolled down everyone laughed at him, and asked him if he really expected anybody to buy it. “No, my friends,” said the Mulla, “I never expected any of you to buy it; but I wanted you to know what I have to put up with at home.”

One of the things that is most difficult for a European to tolerate in a Yezdi is his extraordinary disregard of time. It is not only that he does not care how long he takes over a thing, one might tell story after story on this point, but this is a malady common in the East. What I was not prepared for was that he should have no idea what time means. In Persia a clergyman’s work consists more of seeing people in[151] his own house, and less of visiting; but the great difficulty in receiving visitors is that, if one wants to see parties separately, a single reception is all one can satisfactorily arrange in an afternoon. This is what happens. Two parties send to ask when they can see you, and you reply by asking when it will be convenient for them to come. Both messengers state with the most absolute politeness that it makes no difference to their masters when you say, and that they wish you to choose the time. If you are wise you will tell one party to come two hours after noon, and the other to come at one hour to sunset, which, supposing the sun to be setting at six, will be five o’clock. They will both acquiesce, but you will have to be ready to receive the party due at two at one o’clock, and you must not consider them late if they arrive at three. Similarly you will prepare for the second party at four, and not consider them late before six. But the probabilities are that both parties will arrive at four, the favourite visiting hour, having both decided on that time before sending to ask you.[5]

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Another great difficulty is the Persian language. Persian is a pretty language with an extremely large vocabulary. What is more, every class of Yezdi, that is, of the men, uses a very large number of words. For all this it is almost impossible to accurately define an idea, for the language largely consists of synonyms, which cannot be used indiscriminately, but must be carefully selected according to the occasion. Some of these synonyms really possess accurate meanings, but if you choose your word according to the sense you wish to convey, you talk bad Persian. To give an illustration of this, suppose in dealing with the Incarnation you desired to bring out the Christian doctrine that God is not only the Friend of man but also his close Companion. I am quite certain that in ordinary Yezdi Persian there is no sufficiently appropriate term for “companion,” that could be applied to God in such a way as to bring out your meaning, without exposing you to a charge of irreverence. As a matter of fact I once tried to convey this idea in a Persian sermon, and was met with this difficulty. I afterwards tried to get three or four native Christians, one of whom was a teacher of Persian, to suggest a possible word, but the[153] only expression they could propose was the word I had used.

The words one uses in a letter in Persian, even for the commonest objects, are almost entirely distinct from the words one uses conversationally, and the words which one would use in an ordinary prose history book are again different. Then it is almost impossible to distinguish the tenses; the true future is hardly ever used, consequently the present and the future are indistinguishable; and the preterite is frequently used of action which was begun in the past but which is still continuing. Lastly, the adjective is generally indistinguishable from the substantive, and the link between an adjective and the term which it qualifies is the same as the sign of the genitive. For instance the text, “This is My beloved Son,” may be read in the Persian Bible, “This is the son of My beloved” without the slightest violence to the grammar; nor, indeed, is there any obvious way out of the difficulty. I have mentioned these peculiarities of language because I think they are greatly connected with the Yezdi’s inaccuracy of ideas, though which is the cause and which is the effect is sometimes difficult to say.

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There is no situation in which the Yezdi is so incalculable as that which seems to demand a certain amount of daring. Sometimes the people seem absolutely wanting in the power of taking the initiative, and expect to be directed like children. They have an aversion to killing animals except for food, even when there is danger to human life in allowing them to live. One day an English lady asked why a dangerous dog which had bitten several people was not killed. The answer was, “If you tell us to kill it we will do so, but not otherwise.” The fact is no one minded killing the dog, but they fancied the curse might lie with the initiator of the movement. They will go on letting things be, or allowing them to get more and more dangerous, until they have accustomed themselves to an amount of risk to incur which would be accounted by a European mere foolhardiness. In this they are largely influenced by predestinarian notions. An English lady was one day standing by an open tank in a Persian compound, into which one of the children had fallen that morning, and she remarked on its extreme danger. “Yes,” said the mother, “I have lost three children in that tank.” To build[155] a small wall round such a tank would be in Persia exceedingly easy. Perhaps the little power of initiative that is left them by their predestinarianism is destroyed by the insecurity of the country. People get in the way of making as few improvements as possible, and of never exposing their capital more than they can help. In fraudulent business, however, there is a great deal of audacity, sometimes combined with a good deal of ingenuity. They are exporting at present to China a quality of so-called opium in which there is absolutely no morphia. The stuff is really an entirely different substance, and very cheap, and it is tied up in bags steeped in a solution of opium. It is, I believe, more harmful to smoke than the real article.

Passive courage the Yezdi possesses to a very high degree, but he must have a cause for which he cares sufficiently, if this courage is to be called out. If the terrible Babi massacres that have taken place from time to time in Persia have proved nothing else, they have at least shown that there is grit somewhere in Persian character. The way in which mere lads in Yezd went to their death in that ghastly summer of 1903 was wonderful. There was one boy whom they tried very[156] hard to spare, for sometimes the mob were moved by something akin to pity. They took him to the mujtahid first, and told him to recant, and he would not. Then they took him to the open square, and held him up to give him one more chance, if he would curse the Behāu’llah and the Behāīs. “The curse be on yourselves,” was all he said; and then they tore him in pieces. The early Babis showed good fighting qualities in the north of Persia, as well as passive courage, and, as they were chiefly townsmen, we may presume that there are military possibilities in the Persian people, even amongst those who dwell in cities. But to look for military feeling in the kind of soldier that we get in Yezd is not fair. He is, I believe, collected by a sort of conscription from certain localities. When collected he is taught about as much of the ordinary elements of drill as is considered necessary in England for the national schoolboy. He is also assigned a wage of a toman a month, which if punctually paid would be insufficient to cover anything but the barest food expenses. This mistake is, however, generally remedied by his superior officers, who usually intercept so much of his wages that he is bound to look for other means of support.[157] In this he is not discouraged. If he has a little ready cash he usually sets up as a money-lender, his official position and possession of a bayonet assisting him to collect his debts. Otherwise he steals shoes, or takes up some other similar form of employment which does not demand an extensive capital; sometimes he even makes shoes. Once a year he is supposed to be supplied with a uniform, but, though the uniforms are probably not worth more than a few shillings, they are very seldom regularly supplied. He is, however, free to add to his uniform as well as to his pay, and at certain times of the year there is very little left of the original outfit except an old cap with a metal badge, and possibly a belt. When on sentry duty he amuses himself by planting a small garden, four inches by two, in front of his station, and he keeps a heap of rose-heads to press into the hands of passers-by on the chance of extracting odd halfpence.

During the latter days of the Babi massacres, a guard of four men, a sergeant and three privates, was placed at the doors of the European houses by the Governor. Every soldier came to us with a thing that looked like a gun and certainly had a bayonet attached to it; but we heard that at[158] one house it became necessary to send down an extra weapon which would shoot for the common use of the party. Of course the gun that would shoot was withdrawn at the earliest possible opportunity. The higher officers of this extraordinary force are surprisingly numerous, but as there are among them, I believe, boys of about twelve who hold the title of Field-Marshal, there is some excuse for a reduplication of officers. It is only justice to add that some of these soldiers are in their way very good fellows: the guard sent to our house were by no means a bad lot; and I shortly afterwards met a military officer whom I would class with the best Persians I know.

Nor does the courage of Persia come out very strongly in the high official class, though here too there are honourable exceptions. Still, as a general rule, amongst those who claim nobility there is very little apprehension of the maxim “noblesse oblige.”

Of course there is in Yezdi manners and customs much that strikes the outsider as intensely funny. For instance, the etiquette is distinctly peculiar, and although very ceremonious, it does not always appear to the European to be characterised by great politeness. When you[159] come into the room the first two minutes will be spent in phrases intended to convey an exaggerated respectfulness. In upper middle-class houses your host will take upon himself the menial offices of service, not only making your tea himself, but going out of the room every two minutes to supplement the crockery, or to fetch another lump of sugar. If you have a servant with you, your host or his other visitors will discourse freely with this man before your face as to your most trivial personal affairs, and if there is a pause in the conversation they will make side remarks to one another on the number of your virtues, and when they have discovered a certain consensus of opinion, they will turn to you and give you the benefit of it directly, by telling you that you are a very good man. From this you must not infer that Persian friendliness is hollow: all that can be said is that the etiquette is artificial. Even so it means something; for when a man is anxious to pay you proper respect he adheres to it closely, unless he has reason to suppose that you would like him to adopt something of European manners, which some Persians dealing with Europeans try to do. However the etiquette is too elaborate and artificial for universal use, and generally[160] speaking it is not much used except in matters relating to visits and to letter-writing. On other occasions Persians who have no intention of impoliteness are often a little off-hand as compared with other Easterns, and those who intend to be rude find plenty of opportunities for being so.

There is, I suppose, between the Persian and the European a difference of opinion as to what constitutes puerility. One of the Governors of Yezd once boasted to an English resident that it was no good trying to hide things from him, as he knew what every European in the town had for dinner. Then there is the custom of making absolutely worthless presents with the most superb empressement. Once when I was in a big village near Yezd with my wife and baby and mirza, a woman whom my wife knew came in, and after greeting us presented us with four very crumpled lettuce leaves, selecting the leaves according to her ideas of our exact precedence with the utmost care and circumspection, and having in the whole transaction very much the air of a maiden aunt giving a tip to a schoolboy. Nor must it be supposed that these customs only obtain amongst the women. A European[161] banker once told me that if one of his brokers gave him anything, the others always followed his example; and that once at the bank one of them presented him with a rose-head, the second at once plunged his hand into his pocket and produced an old sweet, the third fumbled among his treasures, and at last found something which looked like a lump of gum. He could not quite remember what the fourth presentation was, but he fancied it was another sweet. Sometimes, particularly in Parsi houses, presents of this sort will be elaborately handed about, somewhat after the fashion of a round game, everybody giving something to everybody, and finishing with exactly the same amount as they had at the beginning. This game, however, is generally played on a special occasion, and the presents of fruit and sprigs of myrtle have a certain symbolical significance which gives grace and dignity to the performance. Of course the interchange of presents which although trifling have a positive value is one of the most striking features of the social intercourse of Persia. This is a custom which needs to be understood, and which soon degenerates into extravagance, but essentially it is a good custom. A higher value is always placed[162] on what are called saughāts or travellers’ presents, and Europeans either travelling or residing in Persia should remember that a certain number of these will be expected of them. When a Persian has done you a real civility, he feels that to a certain extent he has introduced you to his home, and any little European thing which you may give him he takes as a graceful introduction to your separate life, and he values it from this point of view much more than would be otherwise possible. The custom, however, has its drawbacks; for it is the fashion in Persia always to present anything which a visitor has admired, and this becomes a peculiarly hollow piece of etiquette. Occasionally big Persians in dealing with inferiors use this custom as a means of enriching themselves, but this of course is exceptional.

When all has been said I think that we must admit that for some reason or other the Persian is willing to expend his energies upon things which seem to us to be absolute trifles. This was curiously illustrated on one occasion by one of the Yezdi gentlemen who is supposed to have advanced most in civilisation and culture. I was calling at his house at the time, and he handed me a most[163] elaborate atlas with charts and diagrams illustrating all sorts of out-of-the-way things. Some of these I did not feel myself competent to explain, but everything that I could explain he understood at once, and he had obviously before my arrival discovered the meaning of many of the diagrams. We passed on from this to discuss several of the great inventions of the age, including wireless telegraphy. In everything he showed a most intelligent interest, and great quickness of perception. Finally, he produced a photograph of a man who had been shown at an exhibition, I think at Paris. The man had an enormous beard, some twelve feet long. My Persian friend made no difference at all in his manner, but discussed this peculiar phenomenon in exactly the same way. I cannot remember all the details of this interview, or the exact amount of smile which my host allowed himself when we were discussing the photograph, but I have attempted to faithfully convey the general impression left on me by his manner. I think I am right in saying that it all points to the fact that the great difference between Persia and Europe is that the Persian tends to take things piecemeal, and the European to regard ideas in their relation to[164] others. At the same time this is not always at once obvious. A European is firmly convinced of the value of scientific knowledge, and will decorate a man who has discovered all that is to be discovered about a black beetle. Here the Persian will laugh at the European, as he also will when the European rewards highly extreme excellence in the practical trivialities of life. But it is obvious that these exceptions are more apparent than real. The Persian is like a man who has got a pair of glasses that give him a very clear view of a very small field of vision. He does not view things absolutely piecemeal, but he generally regards only a very small area at a time. A man who picks up shells with an idea of adding to the general store of human knowledge is to him an imbecile; but he is only willing to pay the same attention to an invention like Marconi’s that he would to an improved hair-wash. The consequence is that the Yezdi very soon adapts himself superficially to circumstances, and it is very easy to veneer him, but he does not easily assimilate fresh principles of action. In dealing with Persians it is well to realise this, and not to build too much on their adaptability.

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A Persian visitor, when he is behaving according to strict etiquette, depreciates not only himself but all his belongings. It has been suggested that the admiration which is frequently expressed for foreign customs and ideas is really due to this etiquette, and similarly that the belittling of Persia as a country that has gone to pieces is due to the same cause. This suggestion is, I believe, entirely incorrect. A Yezdi will belittle himself, his house, his relations, and the country of Persia, because he regards the first three as purely personal, and does not care the least bit about the fourth; but if he belittles his town, his etiquette, or the foundations of his creed, he will make it very plain that he expects you to understand that he simply does it out of civility. There is one thing that a Yezdi puts before everything, and that is the water-supply of his town. I personally got on very well with the Yezdis, although I had to own that I did not admire Mohammed or his religion. But another European, who openly stated that he did not approve of their water, succeeded in absolutely alienating their affections. These exceptions show that Yezdis are willing to exhibit their pride in what they really love. They[166] are also very proud of their literature, their language, and their intelligence. As a matter of fact, considering their extreme ignorance, they are not a conceited people, and their willingness to adopt foreign things more or less points to the same conclusion. Some of them, and these are generally the most ignorant, are insufferably conceited, but as a rule their comparative freedom from this vice makes them peculiarly likeable.

The nearest approach to a moral principle that I can find amongst the Persians is their commendation of simple acts of kindness. As I have before mentioned the idea of savabs covers many actions which have no ethical point, and it fails to cover in the Persian mind many actions of a moral character where the benefit is not at once apparent. But Yezdis are brought up to admire simple and direct acts of kindness, and to enjoy doing them. Generally speaking, they are very good-natured, and in nothing is this so obvious as in their conduct towards children. Of course cases of gross cruelty to children come to one’s notice occasionally, but they are after all the exception and not the rule, and the children are more often spoilt by weak indulgence. The Yezdi’s conduct towards animals very well[167] illustrates his character. I believe that there is less wanton cruelty, particularly towards wild animals, than you would find in a European town. On the other hand, the cruelty towards working beasts is beyond description, there being in this case an ulterior object. Again, the dogs in the street, which are more or less under the ban of the Mussulman religion, are treated in the most extraordinary way. They are made the recipients of little acts of good-natured kindness, perhaps under the impression that a savab, even to a dog, cannot do any harm, perhaps because a Yezdi is often better than his ideas. They are also treated on occasions with the most fearful cruelty, and the cruelty in this case has no point but the satisfaction of a religious prejudice. This is, after all, exactly the way in which the Yezdi Mussulman treats the human being whom he considers unclean. He has alternative principles which he chooses according to his mood and circumstances. Sometimes the prejudice against killing animals gives rise to very great cruelty. It is generally considered a sin to kill an animal except in self defence or for food, but you may do anything to it short of extinguishing life with your own hand.

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To sum up, in the case of offences against the person Yezdis have an inkling of an ethical principle, which is frequently at issue with the more explicit teaching of their religion. This seems to me to be one of the most hopeful points in Persian character, and one which the missionary ought to most carefully study, trying to make it in many cases the basis of his appeals. But we have to beware of trading too much upon this very rudimentary principle. When we come to offences against property, we shall find it applied much less frequently, and working with much less force. There is no inclination to honesty in a Mussulman’s character to correspond with the inclination to kindly action. If you want to find anything of this kind you must go to the Parsis. On the contrary, there is nothing that gives the Yezdi Mussulman such intense satisfaction as the feeling that he has scored by his wits. He would much rather steal one kran than earn two by the same expenditure of effort. A certain amount of dishonesty is recognised, and is not in any way resented. The servants, for instance, expect to make a certain profit upon all transactions. The extent of their profit is by custom left entirely to the conscience of the servant, but[169] everybody would confess that taking more than a certain amount was wrong. You will frequently catch less trustworthy servants trying to make over fifty per cent., and sometimes over a hundred. As to the morality of this custom when the lowest possible percentage is drawn I can only say that I am not wholly convinced, as it appears to me that servants who are trying to live a straight life never ask for it to be sanctioned, and sometimes certainly give it up, at any rate in its direct form. But the point is that wages are generally arranged on a scale that allows for a man taking very much more than the minimum percentage. Nor is this sort of allowance for dishonesty only made in servants’ wages. One day the cook of one of the Europeans went to the bazaars for meat, and after the usual haggling the price was fixed at twelve krans a man’ (thirteen pounds), “But,” said the cook, “you have got your thumb on the scale.” “And do you think,” retorted the butcher, “that I am going to give you meat at twelve krans a man’, unless I keep my thumb on the scale?” This shows you something of Persian business principles, and indeed trickery is regarded by all Persians as part of the ordinary routine of life. Our servant once asked the milkman if he[170] could sell us some cream, and the man replied quite gravely, “No, if I take off the cream they will complain of the milk.” He obviously thought that the natural way to supply us with cream would be to skim the milk he sold us.

Passing to the merchant class the opium trade affords a good instance of the most barefaced type of wholesale fraud. Indeed, the fraud of a Persian town is beyond conception. We had a neighbour in Yezd who was considered a fairly respectable man, and whose sole business was the forging of seals. But the fact is that every class, from the highest to the lowest, is thoroughly permeated by the leaven of dishonesty.

There is so little security for property in Persia that men do not consider it worth their while to amass wealth by ordinary means. Everybody in a town like Yezd is trying to effect a coup, either a big one or a small one, and one of the results is the most extraordinarily rapid shifting of social positions. In Persia the road from beggary to princedom is a very short one, and the road from princedom to beggary is not very lengthy; only in this return journey it is somewhat difficult to prevent being assassinated, for when a big man is disgraced his life is in extreme danger.

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This inattention to ordinary and petty business enterprise has curious results. When I first went to Yezd I found it almost an impossibility to get the things I wanted from the bazaars. The European has to deal with the bazaar through his servants, and it took my men about three days to get the commonest articles other than necessary provisions. Articles which I knew would need a little hunting for were sometimes, if I insisted, procured within the month. This is absolutely without exaggeration; and, although I believe I was unfortunate, other residents and travellers in Persia have confessed to similar difficulties. You may go into a town where the chief occupation is weaving, and declare that you want some of the woven articles which it is their principal business to make, and it is very possible that you may be unable to procure them, or only able to get the most inferior specimens, if you are passing through quickly. This is rather less true of the larger places on the main roads, like Tehran and Isfahan, but in towns like Yezd there is the greatest difficulty in getting what you want.

In an emergency it is frequently almost impossible for a European to get what is needed, if the things required are not such as he has been[172] accustomed to buy at other times. To offer rather more than the price one usually gives is not of much use, and frequently has the very reverse effect to what is intended; for the seller in such a case may decide to forego the profits of legitimate trading for the chances of effecting a coup. But the real difficulty is rather that the retail trading of Yezd is totally devoid of ordinary enterprise. When the trader moves out of the ordinary rut of his every-day commerce he prefers to be fraudulent. In his customary business the shop-keeper makes a fair profit, and although his dealings may not be very extensive, there is always the chance of something really good coming his way. Meanwhile he has a position very much more dignified than that of the English shop-keeper. In Yezd the seller, not the buyer, is the conferrer of the benefit, and so far as the relation is concerned, the superior. When he sells very small quantities, he often charges less than the usual price. When he sells large quantities, he frequently charges something extra. Europeans in an ordinary way have not much difficulty in getting regular supplies when they become well known, though they have to pay more for them than the natives do. An[173] Armenian also has to pay more than a Yezdi, but less than a European. I am inclined to think that the poorer natives suffer from the difficulty of procuring on emergencies things which they do not ordinarily buy quite as much as ourselves, though probably the richer Persians have more facilities. This is just one specimen of the inertia of Yezd. In matters of transport one is even more in the hands of other people. It is extremely difficult to find transport at less than three days’ notice, and one can seldom get off on a journey within two hours of the time arranged. During the journey there is the same difficulty in controlling affairs. Under such circumstances people naturally get a tendency towards fatalism, and undue persistence even gets to be regarded as a sin. Probably this has some effect on the religious conceptions of the people, for, if a man who sticks to his point is not to be admired, it is difficult to understand why we should consider unchangeableness of purpose a necessary attribute of the Deity. Whatever may be the orthodox doctrine of Islam upon the subject, there is no doubt that the Yezdi fails utterly to understand why there should be any persistence or consistency in the[174] view taken by the Deity of human sin, for the Yezdi himself would hardly feel justified as a father, or person in authority, in taking a similar firm stand. One of the consequences of this doctrine is that weakness is hardly accounted a sin at all. I remember two conversations with Babi mullas in which this came out very forcibly. They tried to argue that taqīya, that is, the custom of denying one’s faith under the stress of danger, was sanctioned in the gospels by the story of Peter’s denial. I have also found other Persians who have disputed the sinfulness of Peter’s action, on the ground that he was the victim of compulsion. But the most curious suggestion with regard to the defensibility of weak conduct was made by another party of Babi mullas, who considered that the difference between the forbearance of Christ towards His enemies and the impatience exhibited by Mohammed was fully accounted for by the respective lengths of their ministries.

One finds the marks of this want of persistence everywhere. I have seldom seen a tombstone in Yezd that has been finished accurately, and there is scarcely a building that has not got a rough, unfinished corner. Similarly every one[175] who has seen a Persian carpet knows that the design is almost always broken in at least one place.

I suppose the prima facie conclusion is that the Yezdi is the weakest of weak beings, but I am very doubtful whether this conclusion is true. Repose and weakness are two different things, and although we seldom find the Yezdi putting out his strength, the condition of the country is hardly such as to rouse him. Certainly in the sphere of morals the Yezdi’s religion gives him very little inducement to a consistent life. “The Light That lighteth every man that cometh into the world” is not wanting in Persia. Sometimes it makes Mussulmans superior to their creed, but, if I may be allowed to express an opinion, I think this Light operates more in calling men out of Islam than in guiding them in it.[6] I should hesitate to make a similar statement about the Parsis. It is not my intention to discuss Zoroastrianism at length, but although it is a religion without a gospel, almost all the essential ideas[176] about God, and right and wrong, and the bases of human action are undoubtedly true so far as they go.

If one wants to know whether the Yezdi Mussulman is strong or weak, one must examine his conduct when he is sure of his cause. I think he is worthy of some praise for the self-restraint he habitually shows when he is conforming to the by no means easy restrictions of an established and elaborate etiquette. But, as I have previously said, the thing which has opened people’s eyes to the enormous strength of Persian character under partially favourable moral conditions, is the way in which the Babis have exposed themselves to martyrdom, and have stood firm to their beliefs and cause under tortures too horrible for description. It has been mentioned that, although Yezdis, while they remain Mussulmans, do not show any great enthusiasm for a distinction between right and wrong, they still possess the greatest powers of loyalty both to causes and to individuals. In their affection for those for whom they care they are anything but weak, and when they really attach themselves to Christianity and realise the personal presence of Christ, they develop an unexpected strength of character.[177] We must, however, beware of expecting an utter change of constitution to take place at the time of conversion.

A Yezdi’s personal attachments do not run so closely along the lines of duty and relationship as might be expected by people coming to Persia from other Eastern countries. The family tie is not always a very strong one, though it is sometimes exceedingly strong. Perhaps one reason for this is the extreme looseness of matrimonial relations. A Shiah may have four regular and permanent wives. When he marries, a settlement is made on the woman, who may be divorced at any time if he cares to pay the settlement. The woman may also divorce her husband, if she cares to forfeit the settlement, that is if she is sufficiently mistress of her own movements to be able to make the necessary arrangements. There is no limit to the number of divorces and re-marriages, so long as no man possesses at any time more than four wives. Besides these he may have as many temporary wives as he likes. It is true that these wives are theoretically only slaves, but this, after all, is simply a legal quibble. They can be married either for a few days or for a few years. Babis may only have one wife, and[178] divorce is discouraged, though amongst the less respectable Babis in Yezd divorce is as common as anywhere. Some of the more respectable Mussulmans in Yezd openly profess a belief that monogamy is the more respectable state, and among the better Yezdi merchants it is very common. Girls are sometimes married extremely young, for instance at nine or ten, but there is a growing feeling that to marry a very young child is not altogether respectable, and some of the better class merchants prefer not to let their girls be married before fourteen. Of course this is an unsatisfactory state of things, but one must not fly to the conclusion that there is no affection in Persian marriages. One of the missionaries had a lad of about eighteen in his employment, and there had been talk of a marriage between him and a child of ten or twelve. Going home one evening for his night off, he found that he had landed in the middle of his own marriage ceremony, which took place that night. He was a good-natured lad, fond of children, and the little wife was devoted to him and was terribly distressed at his not coming home the next night, for she had got everything ready for him, and would not believe he was not coming. When[179] one of the ladies from the missionary’s house went to call on her some days after she came very close up and whispered that she wanted her husband to come home every night.

The women of the highest official class are kept very close in Yezd, perhaps only going out once in six months, except to the bath; but the merchants’ wives have considerably more liberty, and the commoner women go about freely. Sometimes there is a great deal of real affection in the home, at other times exceedingly little, especially when there is more than one wife, and sometimes there is the grossest cruelty. The fact is that Persians are led by impulse in these matters. They are very slightly constrained by any feeling of principle. As a class perhaps the old mothers are the worst treated, and an old woman generally prefers going to her daughter rather than to her son. One of the richest merchants in Yezd had an old mother who was very ill, and he refused even to buy a chicken to make the broth the doctor had ordered. At last a favourite black slave wheedled one out of him, and made the broth for the old woman. Slaves in Persia are very valuable and are generally well treated. On the other hand,[180] another well-known merchant and landowner, whose old mother-in-law was very ill, thought nothing too good for her; he insisted on her having all she wanted promptly, and came himself to her room at least once a day to enquire after her health. The same man took a personal interest in seeing that every provision was made for the comfort of his old cook when she was past work, and the general tone of the household was one of affection and consideration. Another big merchant, whose old mother had fallen off a roof, showed the very greatest solicitude for her comfort in every possible way, spending hours with her, and himself lifting her most carefully. At the same time the old women as a class are not well treated, and in the better class houses it is often difficult to distinguish them from the servants. The poorer classes are generally no better. I remember that at one time my wife was trying to explain to one of my servants’ wives what ingratitude meant. The woman was very fond of her children, so my wife asked, “Would you not think it very ungrateful, if, when you were old and poor, your boy refused to do anything for you?” “No,” she said, “of course that is what I expect. Our[181] boys are always like that. We only say, ‘It is the will of God.’” Several women present joined in the laugh at my wife’s ignorance.

Of course a great deal of cruelty goes on in the less respectable Persian households, and the use of poison is not uncommon. It should be explained that in Persia people who are not even professedly respectable are to be found in every class, and in a commercial town like Yezd status goes largely by wealth, and carries with it no obligation to keep up even a superficial reputation. The organisation of the household is very largely outside the operation of the ordinary law. I do not know what is the exact legal limit of the jus paternum, but I am quite sure that it is very difficult to bring to book the head of a household for murdering any member of his family. Also in the case of a member of the family leaving Islam, the matter would probably be primarily left to the head of the household, although if the case was flagrant the matter might also be taken up by outsiders. It is very necessary to understand this when discussing the possibility of religious liberty in Persia. Religious liberty, proclaimed by a firman of the Shah, would not have the enormous value which is sometimes[182] supposed. Indeed it would be almost entirely without immediate value, unless the Persian government were considerably strengthened, and a limitation put on the jus paternum. A decision by leading mujtahids that it was expedient to give such liberty either to the individual or to the family, would probably have more immediate effect, but, even were such a thing possible, it would be difficult to say how long such a decision would remain unchanged if advantage was really taken of it, and the precedent of the decision would on the whole be rather a bad one.

Another conceivable form of religious liberty is that the right of making converts from Islam should be secured by treaty to the European missionary. This, however, would not put a stop to the persecution of converts. There is so much injustice that is done in Persia as a matter of course, that it would be very difficult to prove that Persian subjects who were converts had been interfered with for religious reasons. One of the difficulties that missionaries experience at present, is that converts are always bringing forward instances of injustice which they themselves believe to be due to their profession of Christianity, whereas the missionary, who has considerable[183] doubts on the subject, is often afraid of calling down real persecution by using his influence on their behalf.

The subject of religious liberty is a very difficult one, and although some people feel that an extension of treaty rights would be a good thing, and others, that a firman of the Shah giving religious liberty to his subjects would help the growth of sound and civilised ideas in his domain, there can be no doubt that the primary want is strong and good government. I have tried in this chapter not to discuss the government of Persia more than is absolutely necessary. It is of course far from perfect. At the same time, during my stay in Yezd, the governors of the town, and notably the Jalālu’d Daula, showed great friendliness to the whole European colony, and great fairness in their attitude towards the mission. The strengthening of the Persian government is a clear gain to the missionary, and seeing that strong government without religious liberty could certainly do for us infinitely more than religious liberty without strong government, I personally feel that the strengthening of the Persian government, central and local, is at present the main desideratum. At the same[184] time, with God all things are possible, and I should hesitate to press this view on other people.

One or two instances of the lengths to which crime can go in Persian houses without arousing much notice from the authorities might be recorded. There was in Yezd one man who stabbed his own child in its mother’s arms, and remained absolutely unpunished. He was still flagrantly ill-treating his wife and children while we were in the town. In the Isfahan district, a man murdered his child-wife by pouring paraffin over her and lighting it. The child died in the Julfa hospital. If any punishment was inflicted it was a very light one. There was another woman in Yezd dangerously stabbed by her son-in-law, but as she did not die, even her family took very little notice of the matter. These are a few typical specimens of the way in which the family is allowed to manage, or mismanage, its own affairs.

SQUARE OUTSIDE GOVERNOR’S RESIDENCE IN YEZD.

Generally speaking, Yezdis are open-handed. They have not the least shame about begging, and will show the greatest meanness in money-getting, but this does not prevent their being themselves generous at times. The fact is, that they regard beggary as a bargain; one man gets[185] a coin, and the other a savab. They accept kindnesses of any sort in this manner, and consider that they give as good as they get, particularly if they are Seyids; but for all this, they are frequently ready to take the other side in the game. Probably not less than ten per cent of the population are professional beggars, and as they do not starve, we may conclude that a great deal of money is given away. But the open-handedness of the Yezdi takes other forms besides the mere giving of money to those who ask for it. He spends money freely upon his own pleasures: considering his poverty he lives well: this is true of all classes: finally, he really enjoys showing hospitality.

There is in Persian hospitality a great deal more than the observance of etiquette. Even the inquisitiveness of the Yezdi is a kind of attempt to get into real touch with his guest. In a word, he is essentially human. Most Europeans who have lived in Persia find it rather difficult to explain why they like the people. In the Yezdi there is certainly much to lament, but there is something to admire, and very much more to like. A people who are open-handed, good-natured, affectionate, not always extravagantly[186] conceited, and above all, intensely human, are a people one cannot help getting to like when one lives among them for any time. At the same time, their inquisitiveness, unpunctuality, intense dishonesty, frequent ingratitude, and absolute want of principle in everything, are, to say the least of it, very trying. As to their exact position in the scale of civilisation, my personal opinion of them greatly changed after living through the Babi massacre of 1903. To find men, and women too, who had been to a certain extent influenced by contact with Western ideas and standards, and who prided themselves on representing the section of Persian Society most advanced in civilisation and refinement, openly gloating over horrors that would pollute these pages if I were to write them, seemed to us to be an indication of a more radical difficulty than was evidenced by the horrors themselves. At the same time, the behaviour of the Babis under persecution was sufficient to convince any one that there is plenty of strength in the Persian character, if only it can be called out.

My conclusion is that it is unfair to the Yezdi’s character to in any way depreciate the evil effects of the circumstances among which he lives. His want of principle, his ferocity, and other similar[187] points in his character can most of them be traced to a religious system which was forced upon him by the sword; for we must remember that he is four-fifths a Parsi, and only one-fifth an Arab. The good points in his character are much less easy to trace to his religion. He is not indisposed to reform, a fact which is proved by the success of the Babi movement, the possibilities of which have been discussed already.

Under these circumstances one can hardly imagine a country where the call to Christian missionary work was so peremptory, both because of the need and because of the peculiar opening afforded. Missionary work must, of course, be based rather upon the direct commandment of the Saviour than upon human judgment. However, there is no doubt that God sometimes accentuates His written commands by placing peculiar circumstances before our eyes, and I cannot conceive places appealing more strongly to the intelligent student of the missionary field than these isolated towns of Persia, one of which I have attempted to describe.