STUDIOHEFTE 38

SOLACE OF LOVERS

TROST DER LIEBENDEN

TIROLER LANDESMUSEUM FERDINANDEUM

16.10.2020–31.1.2021

CONTENTS

ON “SOLACE OF LOVERS”

Peter Assmann

PREFACE

INTRODUCTION TO THE EXHIBITION

Yashar Samimi Mofakham, Tarlan Rafiee

COMMENTARY TO POLAK’S “THE AUSTRIAN TEACHERS IN PERSIA”

Yashar Samimi Mofakham

THE AUSTRIAN TEACHERS IN PERSIA

Jakob Eduard Polak

LIKE THE WIND IN THIS WORLD ...

Peter Leisch

FIVE REALMS OF BEING

A discourse on the Persian poetical world

Dariush Shayegan

THE PERSIAN POETIC SOUL

A brief on Iranian Art

Tarlan Rafiee, Yashar Samimi Mofakham

THE ARTISTS

Yashar Samimi Mofakham

MAZDAK AYARI

REZA BANGIZ

NARGESS HASHEMI

FARAH OSSOULI

TARLAN RAFIEE

JAZEH TABATABAI

PARVIZ TANAVOLI

APPENDIX

GLOSSARY

SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

THE PUBLICATION

THE EXHIBITION

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

IMAGE CREDITS

IMPRINT

ON “SOLACE OF LOVERS”

In any attempt – in the spirit of a “lover” – to approach a deeper cultural understanding in connection with Iran, one does well to bear in mind that the concept of the nation, especially in the European tradition, is less than helpful. Iran must rather be seen as a continent, offering an immense diversity of landscapes, temperatures, people, nationalities and even religions, but also striking aspects of a common cultural “conjoinedness”. Within this interpretation of the concept, this “continent” is based above all on a common culture of language and a deep love and reverence for its most creative aspects in the form of literature, a literature that connects the Iranian Arab on the Persian Gulf with the bazaar trader in the Iranian capital Tehran. As a matter of course they are familiar with the most prominent poets writing in Farsi, the language of Iran, which reaches far beyond the country’s present borders and is the medium of the history of spiritual and physical travel between the Far East and the Middle East. Marco Polo (1254–1324), for example, spoke Farsi and was therefore able to provide Europe in the High Middle Ages with astonishing insights into the Far East. Whether he did so on the basis of first-hand observation or well-told stories is not so important, since Iranian life is always connected in all its diverse aspects with the broadening use of the Iranian language.

Perhaps more so than any other language, the literature of Iran is intensively concerned with human relationships, including relationships between individuals, with nature and with different aspects of the divine. Again and again it is love that provides the drive, the process and also the goals for the wonderful use of language. This language as art also guides the visual arts. For centuries, the pictorial element has been a connecting experience shaped by calligraphy, which is seen as an art form in its own right, by splendid ornamentation and by illustrations as a narrative accompaniment. Notwithstanding the truly monumental aspects – a visit to the royal city of Isfahan, for example, has astonished travellers for centuries –, this is an artistic tradition in which there is a consistent link to the individual, to personal encounters, to the intimate moment, which refuses to be overwhelmed. Like so much else from Europe, Iran would have to wait until the 19th century to understand the concept of the picture as a self-contained commodity.

Significantly enough, the following lines by the poet Saadi (ca. 1213–ca. 1291/1292) from his “Rose Garden” are to be found in the lobby of the UN building in New York (translation by M. Aryanpoor):

“Human beings are members of a whole,

In creation of one essence and soul.

If one member is afflicted with pain,

Other members uneasy will remain.

If you have no sympathy for human pain,

The name of human you cannot retain.”

It was also this fascination with the compelling nature of poetic language that first enabled a European audience to gain a deeper insight into these worlds in modern times. In his “West-Eastern Diwan” (published in 1819 and again in an extended version in 1827), Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749–1832) was inspired not only in linguistic terms by the work of Hafez (ca. 1315–ca. 1390), probably the most significant poet in the Farsi language. An Austrian element in this artistic enterprise was provided by the poetess Marianne von Willemer (1784–1860), who was born in Linz and whose texts Goethe incorporated into the work without mentioning her name. On the anniversary of the death of Hafez, who died so many centuries ago, thousands of people still flock to his tomb in Shiraz every year. Incidentally, this city not only lent its name to the eponymous wine, it was also the birthplace of this drink, which even Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini (1902–1989) praised in his early poems.

The deeper their enquiry into this “continent” of Iran, the greater the number of apparent contradictions found by Western travellers, who are confronted yet again with the huge discrepancy between the propagandistic spin of Western media and the reality to be experienced on the ground. One particularly striking aspect of this is the natural hospitality, which manifests itself in so many ways. A traveller in Iran is borne by the language of love and the solace of a life on a search – an experience that has been described so vividly again and again in a wide variety of travelogues.

The mission of this exhibition organised by the Tyrolean State Museums is to communicate a little of this fascination in as direct a manner as possible. It is not the many Iranian exiles whose art is presented here, but artists who have been living in the country for decades and developed their art there. The selection deliberately includes many artists whose names are unfamiliar to even the progressive expert, and these names represent artistic positions that require careful exploration. That is the role of our exhibition and this book. Our special thanks go to the curators Tarlan Rafiee and Yashar Samimi Mofakham, whose great personal commitment has made this project possible with the very substantial support of the KLOCKER FOUNDATION. We are also grateful to the authors of this accompanying book, who have joined us as travel companions on our journey to the Iranian “Solace of Lovers”. There are still so many places to visit on the cultural “continent” of Iran.

Last but not least, this Iranian journey has also led us to our own collections: the Artuqid bowl is a highlight of the Mediaeval Collection at the Ferdinandeum, and in the Library Collection, our “Iranian eye” discovered a series of 19th century illustrations. And the journey is not over yet.

Peter Assmann

“The first creation of all things, the pearl of intellect was endowed with three qualities, three children named Beauty, Love and Sorrow. A luminosity appeared in him when the Beauty gazed upon himself, and he smiled. From that smile thousands of cherubim appeared. Love, the middle brother, was so intimate with Beauty that he could not take his eyes from him and was constantly at his side. When Beauty’s smile appeared, a consternation befell Love, who was so agitated that he wanted to move. Sorrow, the youngest, clung to him, and from his clinging the heaven and earth appeared.”

Selected text from “Reality of Love or Solace of Lovers”, an allegorical treatise by Shahab al-Din Suhrawardi (1154–1191)

PREFACE

In this publication the term “Iran” has been used to define a country with clear geographical borders, the inhabitants of which are called Iranians (just as they are in the Farsi or the Persian language). Wherever reference is made to the culture of this country, including its poetry, miniatures, paintings, carpets and other art forms, and whenever there is mention of its soul and culture, the word “Persian” has been used in order to correspond with non-Persian texts of the past. The poets of this land are called “Persian poets”, which is a more accurate translation of the expression used in Farsi even today. But in the case of its modern and contemporary artists and authors, who exist and developed their craft under a modern definition of Iranian culture and modern Iran, the term “Iranian” has been used instead. In instances where reference is made to linguistic or cultural boundaries of Iran that surpass the geographical and political borders and are known as Greater Persia, the term “Persia” has been used. For instance, the “Shahnameh” is identified as the national epic of Persia.

An attempt has also been made to avoid using standard artistic and philosophical terms, many of which are academically common. Many Persian intellectual and philosophical concepts have often been translated into their closest western equivalents. And even though we cannot offer an alternative to this practice we believe that in this process of trans lation, the Persian term is reduced in order to fit within a global terminology. In discussing philosophical points of view or schools of art, rather than relying on a common terminology we have attempted to describe the concept instead, even though it is likely that the reader will associate it with a familiar term in his mind.

One example of this is the translation of names and titles, such as the word “Sha’er”, meaning someone who writes poetry (“She’r”), as described in detail in the text “The Persian Poetic Soul”.

Another example is the word “Haqiqat”. In English, this is translated as “reality and truth”, and we were limited to using these two terms interchangeably. In Persian philosophy and mysticism (both pre- and post-Islam), however, the word “Haqiqat” can imply multiple meanings in one sentence, from something that exists but remains unseen (such as the creator) to material being.

These are difficult but exciting challenges, yet we believe we must all address this challenge in order to facilitate a clearer form of intercultural communication.

The Curators

INTRODUCTION TO THE EXHIBITION
Yashar Samimi Mofakham, Tarlan Rafiee

“The truth was a mirror that fell to the earth from God’s hand and broke into myriad pieces. Each person took a piece, saw himself reflected in it, and believed he held the truth. Yet the truth was scattered among all.”

Rumi, The Fihi Ma Fihi

The current exhibition gave us the opportunity to review travelogues from recent centuries that related to Iran in one way or another; some were written by Iranians about their various observations in their travels abroad, and others were written by foreigners travelling to Iran. Regardless of their initial intentions, all of these texts communicate a piece of the “truth” as experienced and interpreted by their authors.

And yet “truth” is an abstract concept. The reality or truth that I perceive about myself is a piece of a puzzle that defines me, shapes my relationship to my context and connects me to the surrounding world. Another piece of the truth that defines me is from the perspective of the “other”, what they see and how they perceive this depending on their own context and background.

Is it possible to reach a single definition of the truth about someone, and more generally about their society and everything that relates to them?

Travelogues are amazing resources when it comes to understanding others and ourselves, because they offer us a perspective about our life and culture that falls beyond our field of vision. But when the individuals who are the subjects of travelogues are not given the opportunity to decipher some of their complexities and explain certain things about them, then the travelogue will remain a subjective interpretation and its use as a source of reference will be problematic.

There is a story common to many cultures, and a version of this story is also found in classical Persian texts. The story describes a group of blind men – or men in a dark room – using their sense of touch to describe a creature (elephant) they have never seen before. It may be possible to gain a general understanding of the elephant by putting all of their individual descriptions together. But if each piece of information is relied upon in isolation, the unseen creature is reduced to a rug, a downspout, a column, a rope, a trumpet or a tree. Reading travelogues helps us understand how far we have succeeded in presenting ourselves to the other. Perhaps it will lead us to offer the other the piece of mirror we hold in our hands and gain a better understanding of one another by putting all these different pieces together.

Art exhibitions, and in their broader sense international art/cultural events, are more than an opportunity for experiencing works of art; they are occasions that allow us to find ourselves reflected in the mirrors of others. These events are like travelogues sans the travel. They give the viewer an opportunity to travel to another world while the hosts – who are also guests – describe their travels and the context by communicating with their visitors without an intermediary.

***

The first agreement between Safavid Persia and the Habsburg dynasty of Austria was signed in the 16th century, at a time when both countries shared certain interests against the Ottomans. Theirs was a short-lived relationship, and until the 19th century the two countries did not have any serious ties except for a few instances of diplomatic relations. During these years a number of Persian texts were translated into German in Austria, and a section in the Oriental Academy was dedicated to the study of Persia and the Persian language. But the first instance of a deep understanding of Iran and its culture and history by Austrians and other German-speaking countries can be found in the undertakings of Joseph von Hammer-Purgstall. It was through his efforts that the Persian Studies section in the Austrian Academy of Sciences gained a scientific structure that continues to exist to this day.

The first German translation of Hafez’s complete book of poetry – which is also the first instance of the translation of these poems into a western language – was by Hammer- Purgstall. This translation later inspired Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s masterpiece, “West-Eastern Diwan”.

In 1848, Naser al-Din Shah Qajar of Persia and Franz Joseph I of Austria were both crowned kings at the age of 18, at a time when Europe was in the midst of revolutions and Iran was undergoing deep transformations that would later lead to the Constitutional Revolution.

Significant relationships were formed between the two countries during the reign of these two kings. The young Persian king and his prime minister, Amir Kabir, were interested in modernising the country and believed they could shorten this path by following in the footsteps of Europe. It was thus that the first Austrian team arrived in Iran at the invitation of Amir Kabir.

Amir Kabir planned to establish Iran’s first polytechnic centre of higher education, Dar ul-Funun, and its teachers as well as a number of military trainers were to be hired from neutral European countries. It was for this purpose that, in 1851, Jan Dawud Khan (David Davidian), the Persian-Armenian interpreter of the court, was sent to Austria, a country which did not have any direct political intentions in Iran. He was sent there to consult with Heinrich Alfred Barb, the head of the Austrian Oriental Academy.

A comprehensive description of this trip can be found in Jakob Eduard Polak’s lecture, which is included in this publication under the title “The Austrian Teachers in Persia”. Every member of the visiting team performed a great service in familiarising the two countries with each other, but Polak played the most important role in this regard.

Polak can be considered the father of modern medicine in Iran. He established the first modern hospital in the country and trained the first Iranian medical students. Since Polak was interested in communicating directly with his students and other people, he learned the Persian language very quickly. Aided by his students, he also chose Persian and Arabic equivalents for many French, German and Latin medical terms, many of which are still in use today.

Polak became the Iranian king’s official physician as well as his French teacher, and for his services he received the title of “Muqarrab al-Khaqan”, one of the highest orders bestowed in the Persian court. Polak also left behind many important writings both in Farsi and German about his journey and Persian studies.

In the introduction to his travelogues Polak writes, “In this text, I have tried to come up with a description of the character, the customs and the way of living of one of the most interesting people in this world. [A description] of a people whose glory is routed in actions of a long-gone past, that has not yet aged, but is rather destined to play a not so unimportant role in the future history of the world and civilisation.”¹

Another Austrian who played an important role in Persian-Austrian relations was Albert Gasteiger Khan from Innsbruck. Albert Joseph Gasteiger learned the Persian language in Vienna, and in 1860, on behalf of the Iran government, Jan Dawud Khan hired him as an engineer in road and railroad construction, and also as a teacher at Dar ul-Funun.

Julie Haftner, Jakob Eduard Polak, 1860–1867, black-and-white photograph, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Bildarchiv, Vienna / Julie Haftner, Jakob Eduard Polak, 1860–1867, Schwarz-Weiß-Abzug, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Bildarchiv, Wien

Naser al-Din Shah Qajar, Jakob Eduard Polak, 1854, black-and-white photograph, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Bildarchiv, Vienna / Naser ad-Din Schah, Jakob Eduard Polak, 1854, Schwarz-Weiß-Abzug, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Bildarchiv, Wien

Gasteiger served in Iran for more than two decades and received the rank of “Mir-Panj” (General), as well as the titles “Khan” (a Persian nobility title) and “Mohandes Bashi” (head of engineers), for his services in building roads and training Iranian engineers. From that point on, he was known as General Albert Joseph Gasteiger Khan both in Austria and Iran.

Persian miniatures, brought to the Tyrol by Albert Gasteiger Khan, 2nd half of the 19th cent., watercolour on paper, various dimensions, Tiroler Landesmuseum Ferdinandeum, Bibliothek / Persische Miniaturen, nach Tirol gebracht von Albert Gasteiger Khan, 2. Hälfte 19. Jh., Aquarell auf Papier, verschiedene Maße, Tiroler Landesmuseum Ferdinandeum, Bibliothek

Henri Moser, a Swiss adventurer who travelled to Iran during those years, wrote the following about Gasteiger Khan: “[...] he has a box filled with medals and orders, but he never wears any on his chest. He is unlike most Europeans, who put on their European suits in Iran and adorn them with all sorts of golden medals and decorations, then convert to wearing traditional Persian costume upon returning to Europe.”²

Gasteiger Khan visited the Shah of Iran, Naser al-Din Shah, wearing local dress and a Tyrolean hat, and after learning of his capabilities, the king awarded him the title of “Engineer Officer” and hired him to teach at the military school in Dar ul-Funun.

When he returned to Austria, Gasteiger Khan donated part of his art collection from Iran to the Tyrolean State Museum Ferdinandeum. Among the pieces he donated were a number of drawings and paintings from the Qajar era, some of which are included in the current exhibition.

The Iranian constitution was signed during the reign of Mozaffar ad-Din Shah Qajar in 1906, when Hammer-Purgstall, Polak, Gasteiger Khan and other Austrians who had served in Iran were already deceased. This marked an important step towards modernisation and gaining access to civil rights (even though we still have a long way to go to reach the goals of the constitutionalists). Unfortunately, none of those individuals, who had played a great role in rebuilding and modernising Iran, were able to witness this great turning point. Nevertheless, Iranian history will always value their contributions, especially in their services to Dar ul-Funun and in introducing Persian and Austrian cultures to each other.

***

Today Iran is an entirely different country from the land the first Austrian convoy encountered. It is a country where people dress differently than before, restaurants serve different foods, garden villas have been displaced by skyscrapers and crowded freeways and automobiles have replaced horses, carriages and narrow alleyways.

But despite all these changes, under the surface Iran still has the same cultural and historical roots that its poets, authors and intellectuals have described over decades and centuries. Iran is still the land of Hafez, Saadi, Mowlana, Ferdowsi and Khayyam. Iranians’ eyes still fill with proud tears when they read Ferdowsi; they still fall in love with the poetry of Hafez; they contemplate Saadi’s verses, lose themselves in the lines of Mowlana and laugh out loud at the universe with Khayyam.

Iran is still the land of flowers and nightingales, the land of heavenly gardens and epic love stories; the people of Iran are the same people from among whom many poets and lovers have appeared throughout history.

Iran is the land where Sheikh Abu al-Hassan al-Kharaqani, the heir of Khosrowani wisdom or ancient Persian mysticism, had the following inscription on the entrance to his monastery: “Whoever knocks on this door, feed them and ask not of their faith, for if they deserved a Soul from their Creator, they certainly deserve a loaf of bread from Abu al-Hassan.”

Iran is the land of lovers and its heritage belongs to everyone.

Iran is still the land of poetry, wonders and hope; the land of beauty, love and sorrow.

The exhibition “Solace of Lovers” is an offering of fragments of a mirror. This exhibition does not claim to represent all that is Iranian art, but by bringing together seven remarkable artists from different generations, it presents a part of Iranian contemporary and modern art for non-Iranian viewers.

Each of these artists holds a piece of a mirror that represents the “truth” about Iran. They are each poets of their very own poetry, narrators of Iran’s poetical history. But despite all of this, their conversations are not limited by any geographical or linguistic borders. Even though their speech is utterly Persian, their content is universal, albeit spoken in an unknown or lesser-known dialect.

“In the land of love,

Once my heart came to rule,

It was released

From both belief

And from disbelief.

Along the way,

I learned the obstacle had always been within me.

When I moved beyond the self,

The path turned even and free.”

Mahasti Ganjavi

¹ Polak, Jakob Eduard: Persien. Das Land und seine Bewohner. Ethnographische Schilderungen, Leipzig 1865.

² Moser-Charlottenfel, Georg Heinrich: À travers l’Asie Centrale: la steppe kirghize, le Turkestan russe, Boukhara, Khiva, le pays des Turcomans et la Perse, impressions de voyage, Paris 1885.

COMMENTARY TO POLAK’S “THE AUSTRIAN TEACHERS IN PERSIA”
Yashar Samimi Mofakham

Jakob Eduard Polak’s essays and lectures are without question among the most important material of the past century describing Iran from a Western point of view.

Polak’s arrival in Iran was concurrent with the dismissal and assassination of Naser al-Din Shah’s reformist prime minister, Amir Kabir, one of the most powerful Iranian politicians of the previous century. As he mentions in his texts, Polak reached Tehran a few days after this incident and encountered a city engulfed in sorrow and fear. The King and his court, who feared Amir Kabir’s unlimited power, first deposed him from his position and later killed him, replacing him with Mirza Aqa Khan Nuri, who was the opposite of Amir Kabir in terms of his policies, ideas and actions. The King, himself a reformer, had previously supported Amir Kabir’s policies and given him total control, but now he had selected a conservative prime minister whose only condition for joining the King in governance was that his life be spared. Iran was on the path to modernism, but during the incumbency of Mirza Aqa Khan Nouri, it turned into a weak, incapacitated country that could not maintain its frontiers and lost some regions to neighbouring countries, resulting in the formation of its current borders. Evidence of such shortcomings in leading and governing the country are very prominent in the text.

Polak’s profession gave him the opportunity to travel to different parts of the country and meet different segments of society during his stay in Iran. At the same time, because of his position in the King’s court, he became one of the King’s closest companions and was naturally regarded as a member of the ruling elite by many people, including the intellectuals who chose to remain silent after Amir Kabir’s assassination. It is therefore safe to assume that any information he obtained from different sources was probably edited selectively.

On the other hand, Polak and his team had come to Iran at Amir Kabir’s invitation for a particular reason: to help modernise Iran according to European frameworks. And although Iran needed these modern frameworks in order to interact with the modern world, it was a grave mistake to ignore the ancient systems it had developed throughout history, which were still functional.

The Qajar dynasty destroyed many things left behind by previous kings and built them anew, just so it could prove that it was the only dynasty that could save Iran and transport it into the modern future – something that has unfortunately happened over and over again throughout Iran’s history. Accordingly, the information provided to Polak and his team was organised and based on this agenda. Polak’s travelogues include many examples where the information given to him about the postal system, the state of the roads, medicine, army, education, etc. was either historically inaccurate or it was collected by the European team from an orientalist perspective.

Polak’s texts convey his deep love for the country in which he spent one decade of his life, but at the same time they also include certain historical inaccuracies. The beliefs, rituals and cultures of a people within a multi-ethnic country can seem strange even to its natives, let alone visitors from abroad. And while the description of these rites and rituals can bring cultures closer together, a description that carries the weight of judgment seems unjust.

Despite everything, the study of material such as this is important because it helps us understand things from an outsider’s perspective, including information and details that seem so obvious they have never been recorded and are only noticed and documented by an outsider. These documents also show us where we have failed to create a cultural dialogue and where we have had shortcomings in representing ourselves to the “other”, resulting in decade-long or even century-long misunderstandings throughout history.

THE AUSTRIAN TEACHERS IN PERSIA¹
Jakob Eduard Polak

In the last few decades, several Austrians have lived in Persia, partly as researchers and partly as teachers. Some of them returned to their homeland years ago; some are now covered by the cool earth there, while others are still working in their profession. The question has often been asked how the teachers’ mission came about, what it achieved, whether it left behind any civilising traces and whether it was of benefit to their motherland by initiating friendly relations and providing knowledge of Persia’s resources. Since I was one of the members of the mission, I would like to paint a picture of our lives, our activities, our aspirations and achievements, our hopes and also some of the disappointments we experienced so far from home. I wish to render account, as it were, in the conviction that every country that bears the considerable costs of their education and training also has the right to require duties of its sons in foreign lands. In the course of my narrative, I will introduce people who had a significant influence on our fate and who may well be remembered by many people either from the World’s Fair or as a result of their earlier visits to Vienna.

In order to assess the achievements made, I am compelled to provide some retrospective data as a basis for comparison with what already existed. When I speak of cultural activities, one should certainly not expect such conditions to prevail as are described by knowledgeable travellers and ethnographers in the case of native peoples in Central Africa, for example, for the Persians, as an Iranian race, are highly gifted and extremely capable in all abstract and practical disciplines. A very experienced diplomat recently said to me: the Persians have a talent for everything – even honesty.

In ancient times, the country produced one of the greatest legislators, Zardusht (Zoroaster), whose statutes alone made it possible to develop a flourishing agriculture and feed a dense population in a land with so little rainfall. During the great epoch of the caliphs, Persia produced statesmen, engineers, architects and artists; indeed, it is becoming increasingly clear that the so-called Moorish style of architecture and the Moorish irrigation systems, the remains of which we can still admire in Spain, originated from Persian engineers.

A nation that created such a beautiful, richly developed, clear and melodious language and so completely absorbed the foreign Arabic elements, that produced such illustrious poets as the epic poet Ferdowsi, the lyricist Hafez, the didactic poet Saadi and others, a nation whose astronomers precisely measured the solar year in the 11th century, calculated the famous astronomical tables and built observatories in Maragheh and Baleh, a nation that maintained its own production of carpets, shawls, brocades, embroidery, weaving, horticulture and the like must have had an outstanding culture.

Nor was there any lack of geographers, historians, philosophers, lawyers and doctors; I recall, among others, Avicenna, who was something of a Humboldt, as he combined and also enriched all the knowledge of his time. Although his works are written in Arabic and he was born in Bukhara, he was Persian by birth and education. In 1853 I visited his tomb in Hamadan, where I found the simple inscription: “The scholar of scholars, the excellent of the excellent Ibn Ali Sina (Avicenna)”.

This much is certain: should the Book of Destiny determine the downfall of Persia as an independent state, the nation will leave more behind in cultural history than a few recipes and colossal human slaughter such as the Huns, Mughals, Tatars and others are remembered for.

“... old sagas recall / the heroes great and small,

whose golden hordes abroad they led / to magnitudes of human dead,”

as the song of Mirza Shafi tells us. With the invasions of the Mughals and Tatars, the nation’s heyday passed; science, art and industry declined; no matter how hard the successors of Genghis Khan and Timur Lenk (Tamerlane) tried to preserve the remains, success eluded them. It was only with the reappearance of the local Safavid dynasty (1505–1722) that the country found a new lease of life and the arts of peace were able to flourish again. Under their relatively quiet rule, with its religious tolerance, Europeans visited the magnificent capital of Isfahan with its 800,000 inhabitants. French, Spaniards, Italians, Dutch and English came to the country as missionaries, diplomats, tourists and merchants. It was through newcomers like these that the Persians first learned to make firearms. The Englishman Shirley – later Sir Robert – cast several cannons for them. They also captured about 80 from the Portuguese when they took Hormuz Island in the Persian Gulf. Some of the Portuguese cannons are still to be found in the castle of Tehran and provide asylum for malefactors². On the whole, however, heavy artillery was rare, and light camel artillery – a Persian invention – was used. On his famous march on Delhi in India, for example, Nader Shah had only 12 pieces of heavy artillery and 250 pieces of light camel artillery, but the Asian Napoleon’s genius was compensation enough for his inadequate armaments.

At the beginning of this century, the country’s military was completely reorganised. Two things made this possible: firstly, Abbas Mirza, the then Crown Prince designated by Fath-Ali Shah, was imbued with a remarkable organisational spirit and made use of some Russian defectors to lay the foundations of a new system of military drill and to learn something of their tactics himself; secondly, in 1803 Napoleon I sent General Gardane to Tehran as an envoy; he was accompanied by some very capable officers, such as Fabvier, Raboul, Lamy and Verdier. The purpose of their mission was to bolster the military strength of the country so that it could be deployed as required as a diversion against Russia or with Russia against England’s possessions in India. It must be acknowledged that these officers achieved great things in a short time; in particular, the organisation of the infantry by Verdier made rapid progress. The English, jealous of the success of the French, sent a legation from India with unprecedented pomp and inexhaustible funds. They initially encountered many difficulties, but when a daily cash payment was offered, the king’s strict attitude swayed, all the more so as Fath Ali Shah had a sensitive disposition and great poetic talent.

In a public Salaam (Royal Levee) the Shah expressed his views towards Napoleon, calling him the greatest man who ever lived, whom neither the birds in the air nor the fish in the water could resist, whose heart was as big as the ocean – but the English were offering money, and that was positive! And so the French were dismissed. They were followed by English instructors; at the time English policy was to strengthen Persia as a rampart against India, a policy that was later abandoned and has only very recently been reinstated, as advocated by Sir Henry Rawlinson. Most of these Anglo-Indian officers were exceptional and enterprising men; it is to them that Persia owes the first organisation of its artillery and the arsenal as well as major geographical, ethnographic and archaeological discoveries in the field of science. They included men like Linsay, Sheil, Rawlinson and Farrant, most of whom later represented their country in Persia as envoys. The organisers of the arsenal also included Armstrong, who was later to become famous, and it is a curious coincidence of fate that, during the last Anglo-Persian War (1856), when a few shots from an Armstrong cannon caused uproar in the entire Persian army at Mohammerah (Khorramshahr), the Persians exclaimed: “Mashallah, how well this Armstrong has learned the art of artillery from us!”

However, when plans to capture Herat and Marv were developed against the will of the British and with the approval of the Russians, and an expedition was launched, the officers resigned their posts. It was around this time (1833) that an Austrian from Friuli by the name of Colombari arrived in Persia with his mother, joined the army and rose to the rank of colonel. In the first few years, he participated in some military campaigns against the Kurds. Later he lived in Tehran and won the favour of the Grand Vizier Haji Mirza Aqasi. The most amusing anecdotes about this grand vizier still circulate today. A priest (mullah) by profession, he gained the favour of the king, who revered him not only as an infallible advisor but also as a more highly gifted being, a Murshid, although he presented himself as a blind follower (Murid).³ One of the passions of this strange old man was to be the best artilleryman in the world. His greatest concern was therefore for the arsenal in Tehran, where he spent his time casting cannons to conquer the world. Colombari was put in charge of the camel artillery. As such he did excellent service by improving the gun carriages and introducing a new manoeuvring technique. The camel artillery also includes the Naqareh-Khaneh (court wind band). Like the red tent, the red sunshade and a golden pommel on the horse’s tail, this is one of the prerogatives of the king, as are the mint and Friday prayers (Khutbah).

The instruments consist of kettledrums, cymbals, drums, pipes and Roman tubas. Every musician drums, whistles, blows and plays as he sees fit, without beat or coordination. In short, it is the official charivari, which man can doubtless endure but not a nearby horse, which will always bolt. It is well known that a man in his bivouac has greater powers of resistance than a horse.

As already mentioned, Hadji Agassi showered Colombari with medals and gifts. The latter also rendered good service by translating the memoirs of Napoleon into Persian with the help of a scribe. It is worth noting that Colombari was the first to recognise the importance of Mohammerah harbour at the confluence of the Karun and the Shatt al-Arab (Arvand Rud) rivers and to draw up a plan for the construction of a port and docks. Of course, the plans never came to fruition, although the site, as the only safe emporium at the tip of the Persian Gulf, has a great future ahead of it, but not under the Persians.

When Mohammad Shah (Qajar) suddenly died and the minister had to seek asylum in Shah-Abdol-Azim, his life also under threat, Colombari assisted him in his escape to Karbala on Turkish soil, where he died soon after. Colombari left Persia, where his good name lived on. He later resided in Paris, where he died a few years ago. His mother was also a remarkable woman: although generously supported by her son, she was driven back to Persia by impatience and boredom. At the age of 70 she made her sixth and last journey to Tehran, where she finally succumbed to the hardships. She wrote a curious little book about her adventures, which I believe was printed in Klagenfurt.

Kotschy, the famous Austrian traveller to Africa, visited Persia during the reign of Mohammad Shah. His studies on the flora of Persia, his discovery of large numbers of new species, additions made to all botanical gardens, museums and herbariums and some excellent geographical works concerning the distribution of plants ensure him a lasting memory.

In the summer of 1848 Ida Pfeiffer née Reyer passed through Kurdistan and Azerbaijan (Tabriz) on her journey from Mosul to Yerevan. Her powers of observation are exceptional, her ethnographic descriptions exemplary, which is all the more admirable as she stayed in the country for only a short time and was almost completely ignorant of the language. Her ability to make correct judgements from human physiognomies is almost incredible; one only has to read the section about the present Naser al-Din Shah (Qajar) when he was the 17-year-old heir to the throne and the horoscope she assigned to him. There are some privileged individuals who see more in one glance than others do in years; Ida Pfeiffer is one of them. Her book “Frauenfahrt um die Welt” was published in three volumes in Vienna in 1850 and appeared in English as “A Woman’s Journey round the World” in 1851.

Earlier, in 1835, the natural scientist Dr. Johann Wilhelm Helfer from Prague visited the Persian Gulf on his journey to India. The notable findings of this unusually talented and enthusiastic man were printed in Leipzig thanks to his wife, who accompanied him on his travels and in her second marriage bears the name Pauline Countess Nostitz. In addition to much instructive content, one finds in the work a noble naivety that is not unlike “The Vicar of Wakefield”.

Dr. Barb, now director of the Oriental Academy, travelled to Persia in 1846 and 1847 and became familiar with the language, country and people. He has enriched the literature with several scholarly works and still makes use of his extensive studies to the profit of that excellently managed institution.

Colombari’s presence in Persia and his acquaintance with the Armenian dignitary Dawud Khan drew the attention of Mirza Taghi Khan (Amir Kabir), a man of rare talent and Grand Vizier of the now reigning Naser al-Din Shah, to the possible recruitment of Austrians as teachers for the newly founded military academy in Tehran. Thinking that English or Russian teachers would be impossible in the event of unforeseen political complications, which could easily disrupt the lessons, the Grand Vizier decided to turn to a more neutral power for the purpose. This was Austria, because the reputation of the illustrious old dynastic house and the name of Austria had spread to the farthest reaches of Asia as a result of the Turkish wars.

In 1851, Dawud Khan came to Vienna with letters of authorisation and engaged six teachers for the new college, four from the military and two from civilian life, namely the captains Gumoens and Zatti, the first lieutenants Krziz and Nemiró, the mineralogist Czarnotta and myself for the medical classes. The contacts were established by Dr. Barb, who at the time was acting as court and ministerial principal.

It was natural that, unfamiliar as we were with Dawud Khan, his promises and contacts were received with some suspicion; but to his credit it must be said that he never knowingly deceived us in any way, and in fact he promised far less than was actually provided. I take pleasure in making this public testimony for the deceased, all the more so since the Khan was doubtless known to many readers.

To our – as I said – unjustified mistrust came another unsatisfactory state of affairs. The ministry at that time under Prince Felix zu Schwarzenberg was not particularly well disposed towards the recruitment; it was feared that imperial officers in Persia could be subjected to unworthy treatment without having any direct means of obtaining satisfaction. But a solution was found: the Imperial officers were to lose their status on crossing the national border, only to regain it when returning to the fatherland. This circumstance, as we shall soon see, had a paralysing effect on the mission.

In the late summer of 1851, we left Vienna and soon reached Constantinople. In that city I visited Professor Riegler and his clinic in Galata Serai. I mention this circumstance because it was two Austrians, Professor Riegler and Dr. Bernard, who organised scientific medical teaching in Turkey and still enjoy a good reputation there. Honour to their memory! How committed Riegler was to his profession may be illustrated by the following oral communication. He showed me the manuscript of his later work on Turkey and assured me that he had been carrying the essays around with him for five years for fear of a fire, while leaving all his other possessions in the house without worrying.

In Trebizond we found the last piece of our Austrian home in the house of the worthy Consul Ceschini; he accompanied us on the first stage of a caravan route and then drank a few bottles of champagne with us to the success of our mission. From then on we were on our own. None of us spoke a word of the vernacular languages, Turkish or Persian. We were joined by a German adventurer, whom we initially found very useful because of his knowledge of the country, but in the Armenian villages he surrendered himself so entirely to drink that we could only continue the journey with him tied to his horse, and we finally had to leave him behind as a superfluous burden. Such individuals, especially Germans and Slavs, are frequently to be encountered in the Orient; although they have a trade and do occasional work, they suffer an ignominious fate due to drunkenness, finishing up derelict in a hospital or on the bare soil of a foreign land!

In addition to the hardships of the journey, First Lieutenant Krziz and I fell seriously ill with malaria and had to endure the rigours of the ride in the most wretched condition. I still remember that, exhausted from the chills, I signalled to the guide some stops before Tehran to let me lie on the ground for a while. After a short period of unconsciousness, I mounted the horse again. When I arrived at the next station, I found that all my money, namely 25 napoleons, was missing. My colleagues tried to persuade me to return to the nearby place, but I reasoned: either I will not reach Tehran alive, in which case I do not need any money, or I will, and then I shall have to earn some.

On 21st November 1851 we arrived in Tehran. The proximity of the capital is not announced by an increase in the volume of traffic as it is elsewhere; in short, we would hardly have believed we had entered the capital had it not been for a stake near the gate with the remains of a condemned man indicating the presence of the courthouse.

We were very much surprised that no Mehmandar, i.e. official escort, was sent to meet us on Persian soil in accordance with the customs of the country and as we had been promised, that no man of rank – not even the official executioners in their red livery – was assigned to welcome us when we arrived, and that we were led to a draughty apartment without further ado and above all without any household effects.

But the mystery was soon resolved. The Grand Vizier, who had arranged for us to come from Austria and who had placed so much hope in our teaching, was no longer at the helm; he had been interned at Fin Garden near the city of Kashan and later killed by opening his veins à la Seneca. Among the Qajar rulers it is the custom – or trade practice in commercial language – to have the first grand vizier executed. This is what Fath Ali Shah did with Ibrahim Khan, Mohammad Shah with the Qa’em-Maqam (Mirza Abu’l-Qasem) and Naser al-Din Shah with the Amir (Kabir), so that a form of life insurance is granted to their successors, and it is perhaps regrettable that no European insurance company has as yet capitalised on this opportunity for life. Eight years later, I visited Fin Castle and saw where the plaster had been scraped away to eliminate the traces of blood on the ceiling.

A few days before his death, conscious of his tragic end, the Amir summoned the Dawud Khan and said to him: “I sent for the poor Nemses (Germans); I fear that they will fare badly. Do all you can to improve their lot.” This was the reason why our arrival was ignored; the Amir was now powerless, and the new Grand Vizier Mirza Aqa Khan (Nuri) was thinking of sending us home as we were an embarrassment to him.

For other reasons, however, this did not happen. Although he had executed the Amir – in self-defence, he claimed –, Naser al-Din Shah did not want any of his work, including our mission, to be interfered with. And then there was another, more material reason. In the public Salaam (a large public reception with a kind of king’s speech), the ruler liked the elephant, the giraffe and also some Europeans in their traditional attire to embellish the event, and this was all the more essential as the death of the ostrich from indigestion had greatly diminished the pageantry. A few days later we were received by His Majesty in the small throne room. The Shah was sitting on the jewel-encrusted throne captured from Delhi, from which some gems were missing, probably due to the poor quality of the settings.Through an interpreter, the king bade us welcome and ordered a mixed commission to prepare a programme for us. That was duly done. The commissioners included Hussein Khan, literally one of the biggest men in Persia. As an aside, it is worth mentioning that in 1836, on his way to England, this Khan spent some time in Vienna because of the entanglements with Herat, and he was admitted several times to the Hotel Metternich. He revered the memory of this family with special devotion and had several good Viennese miniatures of them. When I returned to Europe nine years later, he instructed me to pay his respects especially to the Princess, believing that in Europe, as in Persia, it was not a problem for a simple doctor to call at the Chancellor’s residence.

When the commission assembled, the programme was forgotten; all the dignitaries merely wanted to ask questions designed to demonstrate their own expertise. The first conference was all about pontoons and bridge construction, although there was not a single navigable river nor any timbers suitable for warfare to be found in the whole of the empire. The only practical outcome was the conclusion that each of us would do what we thought best, and that was the wisest thing in the whole consultation. We were each assigned a number of students.

Before I discuss the field of activity of each of the teachers, I would like to describe the overall impression the stay made on us. As we had no knowledge of the language and were therefore restricted to our own company, life was very sad in the beginning. A letter from Europe took about two months to arrive, and telegraph services were no more available then than they are now, hence our existence was not very different from solitary confinement. Add to that some serious acclimatisation disorders, a circumstance which had a very depressing effect on the spirit. Think of our community as being cut in half, with no female creature ever to be seen – because the veiled mummies, which are more like stuffed woolsacks or corked champagne bottles, could not reasonably be counted as women – and you will understand that we newcomers were afflicted with an indescribable melancholy. It is like the rosebush without roses and the nightingale without its song; one is sure to tire of bush and bird. In such a condition the only remedy is either work and study or the bottle. Happy is he who chooses the former!

Moreover, there was another very depressing aspect for our officers. Mindful of their rank, they assumed no other titles than those which were rightly theirs at home; they did not load themselves with gold braid and gilded themselves even less with galvanoplastic trimmings. On the other hand, every Persian of good family enters the army as a Sarhang, i.e. colonel, and so beardless boys looked down disdainfully on lieutenants and captains. As chance would have it, shortly after our arrival some Italian refugees entered Persian service, and they were prudent enough to at least claim the title of colonel and the gold braid.

In this connection I remember well an amusing episode. One day the Grand Vizier sent for me to examine a new colonel in militaribus. The minister handed him a rifle for the drill. From the position with the upper body leaning forward with outstretched arms, I saw immediately that the colonel had at best been serving the fine people of his country with firearms from behind a counter. When the minister remarked with a smile that he was not very familiar with the rifle, the colonel offered the excuse that he had previously served in the cavalry, and he was soon put to good use in that service and later brought some horses to Vienna. In this difficult situation in which some of us found ourselves, our motherland also forgot to enquire about our activities; no questions were asked about us, and no awards were made, which would have elevated everyone in the public eye, especially since the other nationals were in a much more felicitous position. I am not complaining; I merely note the situation which was bound to arise as a result of the ambiguous position of the officers without status. In the case of subsequent appointees, our government seems to have avoided such vexations, and it has not stinted with favours for the returnees, but

“What one wishes in youth,

one has in full when old.”

First Lieutenant Krziz, now Major (Ret’d), resident in Chrudim, is a competent mathematician who, in the tradition of the Austro-Hungarian artillery, took his duties very seriously. At first he had 25 students, whose number later grew to 50. Most of them are now in military service and hold senior positions in the Persian army. Although, as mentioned above, the artillery was initially organised by the British, it was Krziz who taught theory as well as practice and wrote definitive Persian-language textbooks for all disciplines, thus providing a solid foundation for future teaching. Given the limited availability of books in the Orient compared to the Occident, every book is highly esteemed; indeed they even go so far as to recognise every religion whose statutes are written down in a book as Saheb-e Ketab, meaning owner of a book, and thus legitimate, while the others are considered idolatry.

For nine years Krziz taught arithmetic, algebra, geometry, mechanics, physics, chemistry, artillery theory and so on; he performed practical measurements of peaks and valleys, supervised the construction of artillery batteries and redoubts and improved the workings of the arsenal – in short, a wealth of specialist work, which it would take too long to enumerate. I must nevertheless mention a number of notable achievements: Krziz drew a precise map of Tehran, 100 paces to the inch, and although the city has since been greatly extended to the northeast, it remains a permanent asset because the presence of so many harems meant that accurate surveying was only possible under particularly favourable conditions. He also mapped the surroundings of the city, at 1,000 paces to the inch, from the Alborz range to the ancient city of Ray in the south. The demanding work on these maps could only be completed with the help of his students. He also measured the highest peak of the Alborz Mountains near Tehran, putting its height at 12,000 feet, and performed a trigonometric survey using barometers and thermometers of Mount Damavand, one of the highest and most majestic mountains in the world, calculating its height at almost 20,000 feet.

If we look at recent maps of Persia, we find telegraph lines serving all points of the compass, one connecting with Europe via Tbilisi, Baghdad and Egypt and another with the Indian telegraph system by cable and wire via Baluchestan. These lines were all constructed in the period after 1860, but Krziz was the first to construct a telegraph line, albeit only 800 metres in length, and the interesting thing about it is that he made all the equipment himself or had it made by craftsmen in Tehran; only the wire was drawn in Isfahan. The apparatus was of the electro-magnetic type, with a Daniell cell used to supply the current. After nine years, Krziz retired from Persian service and published “Die Beschreibung, wissenschaftliche Zergliederung und Gebrauchsweise des persisch-arabischen Astrolabiums” (Greifswalde) (Description, Scientific Structure and Use of the Persian-Arab Astrolabe). This was a mathematical achievement of great significance, as Asian astronomers used this instrument for their work. His activities have left their mark on the recent cultural history of Persia and are a credit to our country.

Far more limited in their impact were the activities of the other officers. This was due partly to the disciplines involved and partly to the circumstances. In most cases they had no option but to complain that they were not being provided with the necessary men and weapons for training and drill, to which the Grand Vizier would give his standard reply: “If the salary is paid, there can be no cause for complaint.” Indeed, every European who feels the urge to achieve something must be willing to procure the materials himself; all that is officially expected of him is his presence.

Captain Gumoens, a Swiss, looked to find the orderly conditions of the Austrian army everywhere, so he stumbled at every straw and every straw caused him to fall. Mirza Shafi has words for his case:

“No-one ever lends an ear / When you start: I’m wisest here!

So if you want the men to learn / Make adaptation your concern.”

He left the service in his second year.

Captain Zatti of the Military Engineers was a capable but eccentric man who soon found himself at odds with the conditions in Persia, but he did make some significant and major improvements to the arsenal. After one year’s service, he accidentally died from carbon monoxide poisoning. It was my task to determine the cause of death by dissection – the first dissection ever to be performed in Persia, regrettably on a fellow countryman. Although First Lieutenant Nemiró had a talent for getting on well with the Persians and was a popular figure in their circles, his mission – to train a regular cavalry battalion – was difficult, if not impossible. Because of the horses, cavalry service requires punctuality, and this was simply not to be had. The Asian does not need to be fed and is content even without pay; in his frugality he finds food, wood and shelter everywhere. That does not apply to the horses; they need to be provided for on a regular basis. Their riders were often forced to pawn their steeds and weapons, and during manoeuvres had to make do with caravan nags pour l’honneur du drapeau. After his departure, the regular cavalry was dissolved again, and rightly so, for they would always cut a sorry figure compared with the excellent irregular cavalry. A few years later, Nemiró travelled to Persia for a second time but died on the outward journey. With his command of the Persian language limited to his needs in the way of food and drink, he left no books to posterity.

The mineralogist Czarnotta, who was highly expert in his field, had the misfortune to be a spiritualist; he was always plagued by mountain spirits. A deeply mistrustful person, he sought to conceal every find. He always marked them with ciphers of his own invention lest someone try to rob him of his claim to priority. He explored the mineral treasures on Mount Damavand and in August 1853 decided to climb it. Out of sheer fear of being murdered, he climbed the mountain without a guide, lost his way, and had to spend the night in a solfatare to avoid freezing to death. The villagers sent after him found him frozen stiff and carried him back down. When he recovered, he treated the harmless people as thieves and murderers and demanded that they be punished. A few months later he undertook another expedition; a broken and mentally disturbed man, he spurned the use of quinine in a severe bout of malaria and died from the fever. His extensive collection and records were all found to be in encoded form. They were sent to Europe but were lost en route without trace. A sad outcome for science!

To complete the picture, I hope I will be forgiven for saying a few words about myself. I was assigned 22 students, whom I was to train to become Hakims (doctors). I sought to discharge my duties more efficiently by quickly learning the Persian language. After eight months, I was in a position to teach without the help of an interpreter. One of my paramount duties was to establish the terminology, and I consider this arduous task to be my greatest achievement, because the right word for a particular concept is the basis for all future research and progress. It was in no way my ambition to produce fully qualified doctors; the individual is much too weak for that, and I lacked the necessary teaching materials. I merely wished to lay the foundations for an enlightened understanding of nature and to train doctors to the level of the barber surgeons formerly produced by our basic courses at home, some of whom could then continue their training at a European university, as was later the case. I taught anatomy from a skeleton, specimens, drawings and animal dissections, as well as physiology, external and internal pathology and oculistics; I also had the manuals in each subject lithographed. During the numerous operations I performed – I conducted 156 operations for stones, for example – I was attended and assisted by my students, some of whom became very good surgeons and are still frequently consulted – even by Europeans – today. I was the first in Persia to perform painless surgery using anaesthesia, to the astonishment of all.

There were no military physicians in Persia, nor were there any civil or military hospitals. In military campaigns the seriously wounded usually perish. The stuffed scalps of the enemy are placed on pikes and carried home as trophies. The fact that many a scalp of one’s own soldiers also finds its way into the collection is an excusable failing in the quest for gloire. My ambition was to build a military hospital, and after some difficulties I was successful. When the building was finished, however, I was provided with neither gowns nor straw sacks nor sheets, beds being considered unnecessary in a country where everyone sleeps on the ground in any case, and the soldiers refused to perform guard and attendant duties because they said they had only been recruited for war. After significant sacrifices of time and my own money, I had to abandon the project as an impossibility; however, as I have since heard by letter, the idea was taken up again and the first model hospital is now in use for sick soldiers. I also sent a good student to the area around Zanjan in order to improve the lot of the unfortunate lepers there. This disease, once widespread in Europe – hence the leprosariums – is still to be found in some parts of northwest Persia; the unfortunates – rightly expelled from their towns and villages – live miserable lives in wretched mud huts far from all human settlement. Here, too, I found that the food the king had arranged to be distributed to the unfortunates was charged for but never delivered. This is how Orientals are: they would never refuse a morsel of bread to the hungry, not even to a dog, even if it meant going without themselves, but they have no compunction about depriving the absent of their rights.

Upon the death in 1855 of Dr. Cloquet from the famous Cloquet family of scholars, I was appointed royal personal physician, Muqarrab al-Khaqan (Privy Councillor) and also General in partibus infidelium. My duties from then on were both difficult and simple, as one takes it, for I was not born to be a courtier. I strove to teach the otherwise healthy king and to give him a good grounding in history, geography and the like; I also taught him the French language, in which he is now quite proficient. Since, like all Austrians, I took pride in never begging for anything, the emoluments were hardly adequate in relation to the manifold services provided. Sometimes my functions were heterogeneous. When I once accompanied the king to an artillery target shooting exercise, for example, he ordered me to aim a cannon. I was so happy not to have killed any of the attendants standing around the target!

In the spring of 1860, I returned to Europe. As I had written books, had saved the lives of many poor people by operating on them, was versed in Persian calembours and had also dabbled in poetry, I left behind a memory secured through deeds and words – or so I believe.

Since that time, in addition to my practice, I have continued to occupy myself with Persia; I have acclimatised various plants, written a book about the country and its people (Leipzig 1865) and other medical and technical essays for scientific journals, because through my dealings with all social classes and my travels I became better acquainted with the country and its products than other Europeans and even natives. This made it possible for me to write a manual for participation in the World’s Fair, where I was appointed Imperial Austrian Commissioner, which was translated into Persian and sent to Tehran as a guide for the Persian delegation⁴. In addition, I sought to contribute to that global undertaking by writing the catalogue and the official exhibition report.

Finally, I would beg you to excuse many a word of self-praise, not with Goethe’s saying about modesty but with a tame xenia from the “West-Eastern Diwan”:

“Before, the boast was not your style.

Where have you learnt to boast the while?

The Orient taught me the boast’s essentials:

But now I’m back on western ground,

where to my relief I find and found

some hundreds who are Orientals.”

I would also like to say a few words about our successors, the last-but-not-leasts who were certainly not epigones but whose work was facilitated by the active support provided by the Austrian legation since established there.

Shortly after our departure, Dervish Hermann Vámbéry arrived in the country. He visited several parts of the empire and various cities as a dervish and also spent a few months in Tehran in the Turkish legation hotel in order to prepare for his long journey to Bukhara, Samarkand and Herat. The art of understanding foreign customs and circumstances may be something that Vámbéry shares with many others, but what makes him so special is his ability to adapt to foreign customs, traditions and languages so well that he can be taken for a native and can even play the part of the dervish minstrel and endure hunger, thirst, heat or the third Egyptian plague. The range of his experiences was so overwhelming that one was initially tempted to consider the reports apocryphal. Whereas the re-habilitation of Marco Polo was a process that lasted centuries, in our fast-living age a few years and confirmation from Russian and Asian witnesses – for the mountain came to Muhammad – were enough to bring the truth to light. Vámbéry is rightly regarded as the leading authority on Central Asia – including Afghanistan and its neighbouring countries – but he also has an open eye for Iran. Should a commemorative coin be struck in his honour, I would propose the following inscription by analogy with Sassanian coins: Hekim Ilan u Anilan, i.e. researcher on Iran and Turan.

In 1860, the Tyrolean engineer Gasteiger took service in Persia as a muhendis (engineer and pioneer). As is well known, there were no paved roads in Persia; the caravans followed the tracks that had been trodden for thousands of years. The mostly dry ground, the excellent quality of the horses and the limited amount of traffic made roads more dispensable than elsewhere. “If you had such good horses in Europe as we have,” the king once said to me, “you would also have poor roads.” Shah Abbas the Great did have paved roads (Khiaban) built on more difficult terrain, such as in the marshlands, on the Caspian Sea and in the Qaflankuh Mountain Range, and he also sought to facilitate transport through the construction of monumental Caravanserais, but as they have not been maintained for more than two centuries, they can hardly serve their purpose anymore. The present king has had short stretches of road built but only to serve a country retreat or hunting ground.

I myself was once a witness to such improvised road construction. We were riding with the king on a hunt in the mountains. The ascent was rough under foot and strewn with loose stones, and the king complained about the poor state of the track; when we returned a few hours later, however, about a hundred men were busy clearing the ground. The sudden appearance of all these people in such barren countryside was a mystery, but it was soon resolved: they were petitioners from the nearby villages, whom the minister had pressganged for a useful purpose in the meantime.

Soon after his arrival, Gasteiger assembled a pioneer corps of 600 men and deployed them to construct the following important roads: 1. a road across the Alborz Mountains (11,500 feet above sea level) via Shahrestanak to Aliabad on the Caspian Sea, 18 German miles; 2. a road from Qazvin to Rasht, height of the pass at Khersun 7,500 feet; 3. on the occasion of the king’s pilgrimage to Karbala near Baghdad, a road to Hamadan over the Alvand (6,000 feet) via Kangavar to the Turkish border and on the return journey from Kangavar to Qom, a total of 120 German miles; 4. a road from Tehran via Damavand city to Amol in Mazandaran Province. Everywhere in the mountains, rock had to be blasted and tunnels excavated and parapets had to be built for protection. The abundance of box trees in Mazandaran is evidenced by the fact that the parapets were often made of this precious wood. Special attention had to be paid in the mountains to installations offering protection against snowdrifts. Gasteiger was also widely involved in the construction of the Anglo-Indian telegraph, and in his book the famous General Goldsmith lavishes impartial praise on Gasteiger’s felicitous work. The latter also enjoyed full royal recognition; he was made a general and Khan, and he had the honour of accompanying the king on his journey through Europe (1873). He now lives in otium cum dignitate in Vienna. As the study of the geology of Persia has not yet made the same progress as in the case of botany, I arranged in 1873 for Dr. Tietze from our world-famous geological institute to travel to Persia, initially on behalf of Baron Reuter, the entrepreneur behind the Persian railways. Later he took royal service. Investigations in the Alborz Mountains, the Siah-Kuh, the mountain range between Kashan, Khansar and Isfahan and the discovery of rich coal and ore deposits are the fruits of his efforts, the details of which will only be fully known to the scholarly world following study of the crystals and fossils he brought back with him.

In 1874, the Royal Persian Government asked the Austro-Hungarian Government to recommend two capable men to organise the postal system and national mint. As a result of the negotiations, Postal Councillor Riederer of Linz and Councillor Pech of the Vienna Mint entered into Persian service for three years.

According to Herodotus, Persia already had an organised postal system. From station to station, a relay of couriers was placed to carry parcels day and night. According to the Book of Esther, the distances from Hind to Kush (from India to Nubia) were enormous. Like other state institutions, this one also disappeared with the decline of the Great Persian Empire and was replaced by privately employed or freelance messengers on foot or on horseback. It was not until the present king came to the throne (1848) that post houses were established with a few government horses at approximate intervals of five German miles to transport state and diplomatic parcels. Private letters were also transported depending on the circumstances, but there was no fixed postage. Also, the letters often arrived damaged and opened, so that private persons could not place their trust in such an erratic system. The speed with which the government couriers were able to reach their destination, even though there was only a change of horses and not riders, can be illustrated by the following examples: the distance from Tehran to Trebizond is about 200 German miles and to Bandar-e Bushehr a little less, and yet the former was covered in ten days and the latter in nine.

There could hardly have been a more worthy choice for organising this essential state institution than Riederer, a man of great strength and energy, with a passion to create something new. He took advantage of his outward journey to confer in Tbilisi about the connections to be arranged and to learn about the principal commercial cities and their needs with regard to services. Shortly after his arrival in the capital, he organised post offices, recruited competent officials who knew the relevant languages, had stamps printed and set the postage at a reasonable rate.

Up to now he has succeeded in running a weekly scheduled mail service with a change of couriers over a total distance of 144 German miles on the northern lines. The service is used to carry simple correspondence, registered letters, money and small consignments of valuables. He also instituted a very practical system of telegraphic communication for sending money from one city to another, with merchants paying out the sums forwarded for a charge of half a percent, thus introducing the beneficial institution of postal money orders to Asia. The confidence of the business community in these innovations has already been demonstrated by expressions of gratitude, a testimony that is all the more eloquent as the business community maintains a certain independence and does not give thanks to order. A major obstacle to proper administration will always be the fact that in oriental cities the streets have no names, the houses no numbers and the individuals no surnames, which makes it almost impossible to reach them in their homes.

Riederer has also endeavoured to link the domestic postal system with those of other countries, especially to establish a direct connection to Russia and Turkey via Trebizond. Given the mutual benefits, the remaining difficulties should soon be overcome. From the results obtained in this short period of time, it can be expected that the new Persian service will not commence before all the post houses on the main lines and the connections with Europe, Mesopotamia and India have been established (cf. Monatsschrift für den Orient, no. 12, 1875: “Das Postwesen in Persien” by Dr. J. E. Polak).

The task of establishing a mint and defining the coinage standard was entrusted to Councillor Pechan. In Persia, the gold Toman is the coinage standard; its value is somewhat lower than that of the Austrian ducat (a thousand Tomans equals 3.3048 kilograms of fine gold, the Austrian ducat 3.4906 kilograms). The alloy for the Toman also contains silver (960 parts fine gold, 30 parts silver and 10 parts other metals). The Toman is soft, pliable, prone to wear and unedged. As a result, in view of the hereditary defect of all Orientals to remove metal from the coins, one rarely finds a full-weight coin, although they all have approximately the same weight, namely 34,425 grams, when they leave the mint. The governors of many cities, such as Qazvin, Rasht, Barfrouch, Isfahan, Shiraz, Kerman and Kermanshah, have the right to mint coins. There are many counterfeit coins in circulation, which makes it necessary to check each individual Toman for its weight and pliability or to hire the services of a money changer (Sarraf) for the purpose. The situation is not much better with the silver coin, the Qiran, which has the additional drawback of a variable fine silver content and therefore, also in view of the high price of gold, is only accepted for payment in small amounts.

These evils prompted the government to purchase minting machines in France and also to recruit a mint master there. Because of the difficulty of transporting the machinery, however, the heavy components were left unprotected on the shores of the Caspian Sea for a long time and only the lighter parts arrived in Tehran. The mint master therefore spent several idle years before he finally left the capital without fulfilling his mission. Councillor Pechan first made it his business to collect the disjecta membra. Two Austrian mechanics who happened to be passing through on their way to India were hired, the machines were cleaned and assembled, and finally a large building with a steam engine was constructed for the mint. The latest news is that a mint satisfying all the requirements will be established in a very short time. Only two obstacles still stand in the way: firstly, the need to define the coin standard, which causes a great many difficulties everywhere, and secondly, the shortage of the precious metal caused by the continuing silkworm disease, which means less gold is received in payment, while the country itself has no precious metal resources. At all events, Pechan has certainly achieved as much as can be achieved under the given circumstances.

In conclusion, I believe I am entitled to say that we Austrians have contributed our share to the knowledge of the country and the dissemination of culture in Persia. Every healthy idea cast on fertile ground sprouts and bears fruit, which multiplies from generation to generation. As it says in the Bible: “For just as the rain and snow come down from heaven, and do not return there without watering the earth.”

¹ This lecture was given by Jakob Eduard Polak at the Oriental Museum in Vienna on 13 December 1876 and published in book form by Alfred Hölder in the same year. The text appears in this “Studioheft” with the kind permission of the Austrian National Library; it was produced using the digitised version available at http://digital.onb.ac.at/OnbViewer/viewer.faces?doc=ABO_%2BZ256627506 (date of access: 12.8.2020). The orthography of the original text has been modified by the editors.

² In all countries where punishment is seen as retribution, as revenge on the model of an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, there has to be room for the charitable institution of asylum. In Persia it takes various forms; for minor offences it is enough to enter the royal stable or to grip the cannons and so on, while for capital crimes there are specially designated sanctuaries, such as the temples of Shah Abdol Azim and Qom.

³ With the widespread sectarianism and secret societies of the Asians, including those of the Russians and Jews (sadikim), a relationship often develops between the teacher (murshid) and the students (murids), in which the former is regarded as a higher being, to whom blind obedience is owed and whose most insignificant items, such as saliva and rags of clothing, are kept as relics. Clear examples are provided by Murshid Shamil in the Caucasus and his warlike murids and the Old Man of the Mountain and the Assassins.

⁴ It may be of some interest to note that this was the first original work in Europe ever to be written and printed in Persian.

LIKE THE WIND IN THIS WORLD ...
Peter Leisch

“Where are we going?

Home, always home.”

Novalis (1772–1801)

TEHRAN

Shariati St. (opposite side of Arab Hosseini Blvd.), Molla Sadra St., Sharmad Dead End no. 11, fourth floor. When I wake up, I look through a large three-piece window topped by two rounded glass panes above into Tehran’s deep blue autumn sky. A crow croaks. From a distance the occasional sound of passing vehicles. A quiet quarter that falls almost silent in the evening, interrupted at times only by voices, slamming doors, sporadic noises and scraps of conversation from neighbouring buildings. On the windowsill a row of succulents and cacti, more potted plants on a wooden flower stand like a stool with long legs, a small palm tree beside the desk. On the wall hang Persian instruments, two baglamas, two Tanburs, a Kamancheh from Lorestan and a Setar. Amir’s music room, a small, intimate, light-filled room leading to a small south-facing balcony. From the fourth floor I have a good view of the quarter’s narrow alleys. When I stepped into the living room today my hosts had already gone to work, leaving the water for tea in the samovar simmering over the full flame of the gas stove. Basically very little has changed here. The scrap iron collector is still doing his rounds; the tinny sound of his constantly repeated calls reaches me from the loudspeaker mounted on the roof of his pickup. A dhikr, a prayer ritual of everyday life, which is part of the familiar soundscape of Persian cities, just like the smells of spices, wood, Sangak bread and uncertain origins, which all at once evoke so many memories in me. Sounds, scents, colours and long forgotten words in Farsi are raised from the depths of my forgetfulness so that I come to understand their meaning once more. Old faces, voices, stories of a hybrid dreamland, into which I can immerse myself again with a quite unexpected feeling of happiness, which everywhere else have long since faded beyond rescue.

“Just like the wind in this world – it blows and lifts the edge of the carpet,

and the rugs become restless and move. It whisks up waste and straws,

gives the surface of the pool the look of a coat of mail,

brings dance to trees, twigs and leaves, and extinguishes the lamps;

it brings a flare to the half-burned wood and a stir to the fire.

All these states seem diverse and different,

but from the standpoint of the object and the root and reality

they are but one as their movement comes from the wind.”

Molavi (1207–1273)

In the Tajrish Metro Station, the three extra-long, steeply rising escalators trigger a dizzying, surreal feeling of ascending into heaven: crowds of people floating upwards, all seemingly stiff as a poker. It reminds me of a scene in a science fiction film, the title of which escapes me. In the film, every human being is only allowed a certain amount of time to live, and when that time expires, an implanted crystal worn on the palm of the hand turns cloudy and dark. Then in a special, almost sacred ceremony, the candidates for death are “elevated” in a kind of coliseum; released from gravity, they float upwards into a cupola where – as if torched by a high voltage current – they are pulverised and fall away in a veritable shower of sparks.

Bombaste/Dead End, Tehran, 2019 / Bombaste/Dead End, Teheran, 2019

REND

In Persian the rend is an equivocal, ambiguous figure, for which there is no corresponding term in English. Hafez’ “Divan”, for example, includes the following passage: “If you want to visit me at my grave, you must be an impostor.” This suggests that the rend lives his life beyond the prevailing norms and obeys his own rules, which may well entail considerable risks – a free spirit, he operates between and often even against the conventions. The young Kurdish film artist Taher Saba strongly denies this interpretation; he sees the rend as someone “who is not sober, who finds the boundaries by pushing them back”. For Golzar the rend is someone who is neither clever nor wise, but both of these things at once. Afsoun says that Shams-e Tabrizi, Mowlana’s master and beloved soulmate, is a rend. “A kind of thief, but in a different, positive sense?” I ask. “Someone who has stolen Mowlana’s heart?” “Not just his heart,” Afsoun replies. It has to do with love. “A rend takes over your whole body, takes possession of you completely – in a way that is based on a higher respect.”

Calligraphy, Kharaqan/Semnan, November 2019 / Kalligrafie, Kharaqan/Semnan, November 2019

“The depth is outside. This can shake the foundations. Psychology, where are your terrors? The depth is outside. Only once we have devoured the entire contents of this esoteric bowl do we recognise the starting point of all art: drawing warmth from the object; recognising ourselves as a card dealt in a Tarock game of objects. With this, the by no means bottomless inner depth is exhausted. To the outside! Not as a completely incomprehensible process of letting it stand near; let it push in! Whether it is houses or stubborn opinions that seek to conceal their true origins – the eye sees, and at the same time it sees itself as part of the perceived image for the first time.”

Heimito von Doderer, Commentarii (1951–1956)

BASTAM/KHARAQAN

“Yek chand be koodaki be ostad shodim

Yek chand be ostadi e khod shad shodim

Payan e sokhan sheno ke ma ra che resid

Az khak bar amadim o bar bad shodim

Pour me a glass of red wine!

It will carry me there,

where I long to go –

even if only for less

than a moment.”

Omar Khayyam (1048–1131)

Roar of the oil-fired stove, outside our shoes on the icy concrete floor of the veranda, guarded by an old black-and-white watchdog that has curled up next to it. Quiet but constant scraping of Afsoun’s calligraphy reed pen as, in wide sweeping arcs, she bellies out the letters in a poem by Saadi. Ever since we left in the morning, she and Amir have been engaged in a poetic contest (Farsi: moshå éré). In a reciprocal poetic exchange, a poem is recited freely; the last letter of which must be the first letter of the following poem, which is the opponent’s response. Beginnings alternate with endings for hours, and the two pass on endings as new beginnings with playful ease. Hafez. Saadi. Mowlana. Khayyam. Bidel. Fazel Nazari. Arash Azarpek. Akhavan Sales. Forough Farrokhzad. Waw. Alif. Lam. Dal. Mim. Nun. Waw. One last word, always followed by another that is new. Mem. Re. Alif. Sefr. Hic. Alif.

ALAMUT

“We don’t master the ways, we are impostors,

we are not the game, we are the pack;

we are the brush in the painter’s hand,

we ourselves know not what we are.”

Molavi (1207–1273)

A light fall of wind-blown snow has set in; my gaze wanders over rocky ridges to small groups of poplars on the mountain slopes opposite, which are covered by patches of field. On the right the bluish-black rock face, partly overhanging, on whose narrow, elongated plateau Alamut is situated. Scree, sharp-edged fragments of stone and muddy, black earth; now and again, sparse vegetation consisting of thistles, mosses and a strange plant with thick, fleshy leaves. Several times on the way back, I start to pull off one of the leaves so that I can take it with me. But something makes me hesitate, holds me back. Is it this tenacious shape, which feels like a child’s clumsy hand, that makes it impossible for me to pull hard and pinch the leaf off with my fingernails? I have a strange feeling of wounding a living being. Would blood then flow from these strange leaves, whose shape reminds me of a tongue? I feel the same about the small shrubby willows, which are better protected with thorns. Here, too, I soon abandon what were never anything more than half-hearted attempts. The track ascends in a long arc. All is silence. A majestic calm that tolerates no interruption; even the minor gusts of wind that sweep across my face seem silent. The contours blur in the driving snow. Patches of mist and vague outlines. The world meanders and glows cold in all the slate-grey, snow-white colours of rock, leaden grounded nuances and watery highlights. In slow steps, groping carefully forward, I circle the black block of the fortress, which lingers constantly above my head. A dark ship, towering up into the grey snow cloudy sky. Then we reach the entrance, a wooden gate above which, in calligraphic ornamentation, a sign announces: “This is a house of God.”

KHORRAMABAD

“From your perspective, I’m mad,

from mine you are all sane.

So I pray that my madness increases

and your reason multiplies.

My madness comes from the power of love, your sound reason from the power of ignorance.”

Al-Shibli (8th cent. AD)

With tea and fresh dates, time passes unnoticed. At the same time, the continuous presence of a television, which, on countless channels and not unlike western media, delivers a galloping sequence of oriental imagery into my hosts’ living room. I see Turkish soaps with smart tough guys and blonde It girls, Kurdish pop channels with smiling PYD women’s battalions in combat training and fearless looking fighters with Kalashnikov rifles targeting an invisible enemy. And the stirring music that I had learned to love so much in Kermanshah. A deformed propaganda soundtrack of Middle Eastern killing fields, I now find it crude and oppressive, even in the knowledge that the Kurds are merely pawns to be sacrificed in a cynical proxy war, whose string-pullers are in turn manipulated by other puppet masters. Then, no less intolerable, advertising clips with a religious grounding from Saudi Arabia and the Emirates: a young man with black curls, rolling his eyes upward and reciting verses from the Quran to sugary synth-pop sounds and Café Mimi beats. White mountains of cloud pile up bombastically in time lapse, waterfalls plunge through jelly-green nature parks, pious hands open for prayer. Pilgrim masses move in an eerie, mesmerising circular motion around the Kaaba. An empty eye whose iris reflects a black cube. A maelstrom of millions upon millions of bodies around an impenetrable centre that startles me with an abrupt recognition of its significance – less from the everyday political context of the dissolution of old orders and borders, and more from the blatant exaggeration of religious symbolism I find revealed in these media spectacles. An obscene ride through hell that allows a vacuum, a non-place, a zombie spirituality of death to take shape, dissolving all signs of individual humanity until they disappear without a trace. The end of all stories. Chronicle of the void. Ashes of an extinguished fireplace in the icy glare of the screens. Only afterimage, empty gesture, parody. Cathode flicker. All trains terminate at the border. Ghabol nist.

How comforting it is when, later, I see an old man in a shabby suit passing by outside. He has his back turned to me and his hands clasped behind his back; gliding through his wrinkled hands are the clay beads of an old prayer chain.

ESFAHAN

“Afsus ke anche borde am bakhtanist

Beshnakhte ha tamam nashnakhtanist

Bardashte am har anche bayad bogzasht

Bogzashte am har anche bardashtanist

What misfortune that everything that befalls me

must be lost again.

Everything I thought I knew about my life

was not suitable to be taught.

I’m leaving everything behind that I should be taking on.

I accept everything that I should have left behind.”

Abu Said Abol Kheir (967–1049)

On Maydan-e Naqsh-e Jahan (Half of the World Square), the first thing you notice is a silence you would never expect in a square of this size in the middle of the city: you hear the quiet jingle of the horse-drawn carriages and see the spray of fountains raining on the surface of the pond in the middle of the square. Approaching the two-storey arcades of little shops and boutiques all around the square, you hear the gentle hammering of the coppersmiths. An atmosphere of timeless tranquillity and expansiveness makes this a place to pause, to let your gaze wander, to capture details, to savour the spaciousness and serene beauty of this architecture. None of what the traveller perceives is overbearing, shrill and obtrusive; one element combines naturally with the next to form an incomparably harmonious whole. Shah Abbas employed a succession of no fewer than five architects to create the square, one of whom made himself scarce after he had doubts about the feasibility of the structural design of the Great Mosque and the Sheikh Lotfollah Mosque. The two buildings were to support domes weighing about 60 and 30 tons respectively, and the architect’s courage failed him shortly after the foundations were laid. And yet: it all looks as if it were made in one piece; everything is consistent, nothing needs to be added; no lines, projections, extensions or superfluous decorations irritate the eye. Everything is balanced in sensitive and harmonious proportions, and even the position of the mosque at the southern end of the square, angled toward Mecca and gently retracted, forms a perfect conclusion.

Esfahan, Azadegan Teahouse, Chah Haj Mirza, 2017 / Esfahan, Azadegan Teehaus, Chah Haj Mirza, 2017

At the opposite end is the Qeysarriyeh Gate, the entrance to the Grand Bazaar, which meanders along as a dense labyrinth of twisting alleys, backyards, crossways, entrances and exits without any recognisable end. Moped riders suddenly emerge from crooked side alleys that open up to the outside, then weave their elastic way past passers-by, traders and loads transported on small handcarts, disappearing with a splutter behind lengths of fabric and wooden frames. On bales of cloth at the edge of the alley, an old man dozes under female mannequins dressed in chadors; in a tiny cage above a spice shop, a canary sings. The voices of the muezzins respond, starting up one after the other as they call to late afternoon prayer. A wave of smells from cook-shops, herbal scents and musty spice aromas, smoke from a charcoal fire, with a sooty teapot quietly simmering in the embers. With nowhere for tired feet to rest on the bumpy cobblestones, you balance between the flotsam of things that treacherously seek to block your path and unpredictable encounters from the half-light that make you miss your step. And yet it is a joyful stumbling, a stagger and forward swoop, which comes from a restlessness, a desire to reach and recognise the goal.

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