to remount the bicycle while surrounded by this evidently
mischievous crew; there are about twenty of them, and
it requires much self-control to prevent a conflict,
in which, I am persuaded, somebody would have been
hurt; however, I finally manage to escape their undesirable
company and ride off amid a fusillade of stones.
This incident reminds me of Yusuph Effendi’s
warning, that even though I had come thus far without
a zaptieh escort, I should require one now, owing to
the more lawless disposition of the people near the
frontier. Near dark I reach Hassan Kaleh, a
large village nestling under the shadow of its former
importance as a fortified town, and seek the accommodation
of a Persian tchai-khan; it is not very elaborate
or luxurious accommodation, consisting solely of tiny
glasses of sweetened tea in the public room and a shake-down
in a rough, unfurnished apartment over the stable;
eatables have to be obtained elsewhere, but it matters
little so long as they are obtainable somewhere.
During the evening a Persian troubadour and story-teller
entertains the patrons of the tchai-khan by singing
ribaldish songs, twanging a tambourine-like instrument,
and telling stories in a sing-song tone of voice.
In deference to the mixed nationality of his audience,
the sagacious troubadour wears a Turkish fez, a Persian
coat, and a Eussian metallic-faced belt; the burden
of his songs are of Erzeroum, Erzingan, and Ispahan;
the Russians, it would appear, are too few and unpopular
to justify risking the displeasure of the Turks by
singing any Eussian songs. So far as my comprehension
goes, the stories are chiefly of intrigue and love
affairs among pashas, and would quickly bring the
righteous retribution of the Lord Chamberlain down
about his ears, were he telling them to an English
audience. I have no small difficulty in getting
the bicycle up the narrow and crooked stairway into
my sleeping apartment; there is no fastening of any
kind on the door, and the proprietor seems determined
upon treating every subject of the Shah in Hassan
Kaleh to a private confidential exhibition of myself
and bicycle, after I have retired to bed. It
must be near midnight, I think, when I am again awakened
from my uneasy, oft-disturbed slumbers by murmuring
voices and the shuffling of feet; examining the bicycle
by the feeble glimmer of a classic lamp are a dozen
meddlesome Persians. Annoyed at their unseemly
midnight intrusion, and at being repeatedly awakened,
I rise up and sing out at them rather authoratively;
I have exhibited the marifet of my Smith & Wesson
during the evening, and these intruders seem really
afraid I might be going to practise on them with it.
The Persians are apparently timid mortals; they evidently
regard me as a strange being of unknown temperament,
who might possibly break loose and encompass their
destruction on the slightest provocation, and the
proprietor and another equally intrepid individual
hurriedly come to my couch, and pat me soothingly