PERSIAN CARAVAN SKETCHES 



451 



curses for its unconcerned rider ; then 

 you are pushed against the oozing side of 

 a goatskin bag which the migrating hu- 

 man soda fountain of Persia carries (see 

 illustration, page 369), the seller of 

 "drinking" water for half a penny a cup- 

 ful and freshly drawn from the — but I 

 spare you. 



Color, movement, shouts, brayings, 

 smells — all through a jazz of dust — such 

 is the heart of a Persian metropolis ! 



The labyrinth of bazaar streets in any 

 large city covers several square miles. 

 The various trades are concentrated in 

 wards. In the cloth bazaar I remember 

 seeing, beside some of those charming 

 "Persian prints" (cloth decorated with 

 pen-drawn designs of grotesque men and 

 beasts, or pressed by hand - cut wood 

 blocks with quaint flower figures), great 

 piles of cheap Manchester or Birming- 

 ham cloth in blatant European patterns. 



In the section of confectioners' shops 

 a large variety of odorous fly-covered 

 sweetmeats was spread out on sloping 

 shelves to catch the eye of the crowd, and 

 incidentally dust. In the middle of the 

 side street, over a four- foot copper plat- 

 ter, seven men, stripped to the waist, 

 pulled out a huge mess of thick taffy to a 

 chorus of shouts and laughter. 



Around the corner was a Persian 

 "Quick Lunch" : mud - plastered seat 

 along the wall of a smoky recess ; samo- 

 var and many liqueur glasses from which 

 to sip tea ; open fire, over which on a 

 metal spit Persian "hot dogs," called 

 khobobs (minced meats), were being 

 roasted to the tremulous delight of only 

 Persian nostrils (see illustration, p. 370). 



These bazaar details are but snap- 

 shots, blurred, distorted. In the murky 

 whirl of the bazaar posed pictures would 

 be out of place. Of verbal snap-shots I 

 could fill endless pages, for this is the 

 market-place, school, movie, ball field, 

 and home for most city Persians. 



And those one-eyed maidens ? In the 

 gold and silver bazaar were gold filigree 

 ear-rings and jeweled brooches which 

 buckle a woman's face cloth at the back 

 of her head, and silver armlets which are 

 amulets, or prayer holders. There were 

 also many engraved miniature silver pots 

 for khol. or lampblack, with which Per- 

 sian women underline their eyes and as- 



sist their eyebrows to meet over their 

 nose "like the horns of a gazelle," and 

 rouge, even rouge, without which no 

 well-bred lady of the harem would be 

 content. 



Most of the customers here were 

 figures completely shrouded in baggy, 

 formless blue or black gowns, which 

 propelled themselves with unseen feet, 

 guided by unseen eyes. As a Persian 

 poet sang of his fair one, "She has a face 

 like a full moon, but she waddles like a 

 goose !" 



Oh, full moons of Persia who have at- 

 tained that zenith of praise for a Mo- 

 hammedan beauty, let the silken clouds 

 continue to veil your pride, lest we find 

 those languorous eyes, the "Cheshum- 

 khoomar" of the Persian poets, rule but 

 the nights of our imaginations ! Oh, 

 tender, painted faces, lurking under white 

 lace-worked veils, veils that you lift sur- 

 reptitiously to get a better look at us as 

 we pass, disclosing one furtive eye, one 

 lonesome eye escaped from the darkness 

 of an unknown harem ! Oh, one-eyed 

 maidens of Persia, half moons of mys- 

 tery, beware, lest too much be revealed 

 and our vision of delight fly from us, lest 

 beauty be stolen with the veil ! For such 

 is present-day Persia : a land of hidden 

 treasures for our dreams, but of appal- 

 ling disillusions when we are confronted 

 with realities, when our expectations are 

 brought into the light. 



RETAINING AND REGAINING A THRONE 



By the end of a week at Ispahan we 

 had secured a muleteer, four mules, and 

 a donkey with which to negotiate the 

 next 300 roadless miles to Shiraz. 



Naturally, the day we were to start and 

 sat waiting on our baggage our muleteer, 

 true to his race rather than his many- 

 times sworn promise, did not turn up. 

 So we philosophically reflected on what 

 Persia would become without the hope 

 of "tomorrow," and had another day to 

 wander through the miles of bazaars, 

 gaze at the vanishing mural paintings on 

 the ruined walls of the great palace of 

 Shah Abbas, and search vainly for the 

 much-sung "Roses of Ispahan." 



Riding on a mule Persian style is about 

 as exciting for the novice as a first trip 

 on six-foot stilts. Each mule will carry 



