The Philosopher of Parachan
side where the snow impedes its flight. One would have
thought that, with so many idle winters behind them, the
people of these mountain villages might have invented some
means of locomotion like skis or snowshoes to break their
prison; but nothing of the kind has been done, and I spent the
evening trying, in very inadequate Persian, to describe the
elements of winter sports.
The Philosopher who runs Parachan was an old man with a
venerable dignity and an ample dark blue turban, which he
wore as a member of the sect of Huseini, an ultra-Shi'a con-
fraternity fairly widespread in all this country. He lived in a
tiny house raised high on a mud floor off the steep street, and
littered about with female objects, cradles, distaff, and white
flocks of wool for the spinning. His daughter-in-law, called
Flowering Bud, ran the house for him, a fresh and buxom bride
pleasant to look on and very friendly, though her language was
of no use for conversation, being a local dialect. The Philoso-
pher too was cordial, as much so and a little more so than he
felt he should be to anyone so dangerous to religious prestige
as a member of the female sex. The disabilities of my position
were brought home to me, for having come with hardly any
luggage, I relied on my host for things like bowls and basins,
and found that though he would stretch a point and let me
drink out of the household vessels, he did not feel he could
risk his salvation by letting me wash.
I resigned myself to dirtiness with a good grace and an
understanding of these nicer points which evidently
gained his heart, for he soon invited me from the inferior
society of the harem to a seat on the tea-carpet among the
Elders, where we discussed the politics of Parachan while the
whole village population passed in queues before the open
door, taking a look in turns. They had never seen a European
woman, they told me, nor did they remember a man, though
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