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Methods of Research into the
Unconscious

The psychoanalytic unconscious is a slippery set of phenomena to pin down.

There is not an accepted standard form of research, outside of the clinical
practice of psychoanalysis. In this book a number of non-clinical methods for
collecting data and analysing it are described. It represents the current situation
on the way to an established methodology.
The book provides a survey of methods in contemporary use and development.
As well as the introductory survey, chapters have been written by researchers who
have pioneered recent and effective methods and have extensive experience of
those methods. It will serve as a gallery of illustrations from which to make the
appropriate choice for a future research project.
Methods of Research into the Unconscious: Applying Psychoanalytic Ideas to
Social Science will be of great use for those aiming to start projects in the general
area of psychoanalytic studies and for those in the human/social sciences who
wish to include the unconscious as well as conscious functioning of their subjects.

Kalina Stamenova, PhD, FHEA, is a research fellow and a lecturer at the

University of Essex. Her research interests involve psychoanalytic research
methods, psychoanalysis and education, and psychoanalysis and organisations.

R. D. Hinshelwood is a British psychiatrist and psychoanalyst who has always

had a part-time commitment to the public service (NHS and universities) and to
teaching psychoanalysis and psychotherapy. He has written on Kleinian psycho-
analysis and on the application of psychoanalysis to social science and political
themes. He has taken an interest in and published on the problems of making
evidenced comparisons between different schools of psychoanalysis.
This page intentionally left blank
Methods of Research into the
Unconscious

Applying Psychoanalytic Ideas to

Social Science

Edited by Kalina Stamenova and

R. D. Hinshelwood
First published 2018
by Routledge
2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN
and by Routledge
711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017
Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an Informa business
© 2019 editorial matter, introductory and concluding chapters, Kalina
Stamenova and R. D. Hinshelwood; individual chapters, the contributors
The right of Kalina Stamenova and R. D. Hinshelwood to be
identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of
individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with
sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act
1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or
reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic,
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including photocopying and recording, or in any information
storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from
the publishers.
Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be
trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for
identification and explanation without intent to infringe.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
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Library
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Contents

Notes on the editors and contributors viii

Acknowledgements xiii
Foreword by Michael Rustin xiv

Introduction 1
KALINA STAMENOVA AND R. D. HINSHELWOOD

PART I
An overview of qualitative methodologies 17

1 A psychoanalytic view of qualitative methodology:

observing the elemental psychic world in social processes 19
KARL FIGLIO

PART II
Psychoanalytic methods in data collection 41
Interviewing 42

2 The socioanalytic interview 43

SUSAN LONG

3 Psychoanalytic perspectives on the qualitative research

interview 55
NICK MIDGLEY AND JOSHUA HOLMES

4 Psycho-societal interpretation of the unconscious dimensions

in everyday life 70
HENNING SALLING OLESEN AND THOMAS LEITHÄUSER
vi Contents

5 Using the psychoanalytic research interview as an

experimental ‘laboratory’ 87
SIMONA REGHINTOVSCHI

OBSERVATIONS 105
6 Psychoanalytic observation – the mind as research instrument 107
WILHELM SKOGSTAD

7 The contribution of psychoanalytically informed observation

methodologies in nursery organisations 126
PETER ELFER

PART III
Psychoanalytic methods in data handling and data
analysis 143
Visual methods 144

8 Social photo-matrix and social dream-drawing 145

ROSE REDDING MERSKY AND BURKARD SIEVERS

OPERATIONALISATION 169
9 Is it a bird? Is it a plane?: operationalisation of unconscious
processes 171
GILLIAN WALKER AND R. D. HINSHELWOOD

10 Comparative analysis of overlapping psychoanalytic concepts

using operationalization 183
KALINA STAMENOVA

NARRATIVE ANALYSIS 197

11 Psychoanalysis in narrative research 199
LISA SAVILLE YOUNG AND STEPHEN FROSH

12 Researching dated, situated, defended, and evolving

subjectivities by biographic-narrative interview:
psychoanalysis, the psycho-societal unconscious, and
biographic-narrative interview method and interpretation 211
TOM WENGRAF
 Contents vii

PSYCHO-SOCIETAL ETHNOGRAPHY 239

13 Psychoanalytic ethnography 241
LINDA LUNDGAARD ANDERSEN

Conclusion 256
R. D. HINSHELWOOD AND KALINA STAMENOVA

Index 259
Notes on the editors and contributors

Linda Lundgaard Andersen, PhD, is professor in learning, evaluation, and social

innovation in welfare services at Roskilde University; director, PhD School of
People and Technology, and co-director at the Centre for Social Entrepreneur-
ship. Her research interests include learning and social innovation in welfare
services, psycho-societal theory and method, ethnographies of the public sector,
democracy and forms of governance in human services, voluntary organisa-
tions, and social enterprises. She is a founding member of the International
Research Group in Psycho-Societal Analysis (IRGPSA).
Peter Elfer is principal lecturer in early childhood studies at the School of
Education, University of Roehampton. He is also a trustee of the Froebel Trust and
a vice president of Early Education. His research interests concern under-threes,
their wellbeing in nursery contexts, and the support that nursery practitioners need to
facilitate that wellbeing. He is currently investigating the contribution of work
discussion groups, underpinned by psychoanalytic conceptions, as a model of
professional reflection for nursery practitioners.
Karl Figlio is professor emeritus in the Department of Psychosocial and Psycho-
analytic Studies, University of Essex. He is a senior member of the Psychoanalytic
Psychotherapy Association of the British Psychoanalytic Council and an associate
member of the British Psychoanalytical Society. He is in private practice. Recent
publications include Remembering as Reparation: Psychoanalysis and Historical
Memory (Palgrave Macmillan, 2017); ‘The Mentality of Conviction: Feeling
Certain and the Search for Truth’, in N. Mintchev and R. D. Hinshelwood (eds),
The Feeling of Certainty: Psychosocial Perspectives on Identity and Difference
(Palgrave Macmillan, 2017, pp. 11–30).
Stephen Frosh is professor in the Department of Psychosocial Studies (which he
founded) at Birkbeck, University of London. He was pro-vice-master of Birkbeck
from 2003 to 2017. He has a background in academic and clinical psychology
and was consultant clinical psychologist at the Tavistock Clinic, London,
throughout the 1990s. He is the author of many books and papers on psychoso-
cial studies and on psychoanalysis. His books include Hauntings: Psychoanalysis
 Notes on the editors and contributors ix

and Ghostly Transmissions (Palgrave, 2013), Feelings (Routledge, 2011), A Brief

Introduction to Psychoanalytic Theory (Palgrave, 2012), Psychoanalysis Outside
the Clinic (Palgrave, 2010), Hate and the Jewish Science: Anti-Semitism, Nazism
and Psychoanalysis (Palgrave, 2005), For and Against Psychoanalysis (Routle-
dge, 2006), After Words (Palgrave, 2002), The Politics of Psychoanalysis
(Palgrave, 1999), Sexual Difference (Routledge, 1994), and Identity Crisis
(Macmillan, 1991). His most recent book is Simply Freud (Simply Charly,
2018). He is a fellow of the Academy of Social Sciences, an academic associate
of the British Psychoanalytical Society, a founding member of the Association
of Psychosocial Studies, and an honorary member of the Institute of Group
Analysis.
R. D. Hinshelwood is a fellow of the British Psychoanalytical Society, and a fellow
of the Royal College of Psychiatrists. After 30 years working in the NHS, he was
subsequently professor in the Centre for Psychoanalytic Studies at the University
of Essex. His academic interest developed towards comparative methodologies
for investigating psychoanalytic concepts, and he published Research on the
Couch (2013) on the use of clinical material for this research.
Joshua Holmes is a child and adolescent psychotherapist working in the NHS. His
book A Practical Psychoanalytic Guide to Reflexive Research: The Reverie
Research Method was published by Routledge in 2018. He is a former winner
of the Journal of the American Psychoanalytic Association new author prize.
Two people who have inspired him are Thomas Ogden and Thierry Henry.
Thomas Leithäuser was professor for developmental and social psychology (1973–
2004) at the University of Bremen, director of the Academy for Labor and
Politics in Bremen (1996–2009), and is now honorary professor at Roskilde
University, Denmark. He holds guest professorships in the Netherlands, Brazil,
and China. His research focuses on the consciousness of everyday life, ideology
and political psychology, and working with qualitative methods: theme-centred
interviews/group discussions, psychoanalytically orientated text interpretation,
and collaborative action research. His published works are both fundamental
studies in psychosocial methodology and present results of major empirical
research projects on topics including the consciousness of everyday life in
workplaces and cultural institutions; the anxiety of war, stress, and conflict
resolution; violation in public space and the experience of technology.
Susan Long, PhD, is a Melbourne-based organisational consultant and executive
coach. Previously professor of creative and sustainable organisation at RMIT
University, she is now director of research and scholarship at the National
Institute for Organisation Dynamics Australia (NIODA). She also teaches in the
University of Melbourne Executive Programs, INSEAD in Singapore, Miecat and
the University of Divinity. She has been in a leadership position in many
professional organisations: president of the Psychoanalytic Studies Association
of Australasia (2010–2015), past president of the International Society for the
x Notes on the editors and contributors

Psychoanalytic Study of Organizations and inaugural president of Group Relations

Australia. She has published eight books and many articles in books and scholarly
journals, is general editor of the journal Socioanalysis and associate editor with
Organisational and Social Dynamics. She is a member of the Advisory Board for
Mental Health at Work with Comcare and a past member of the Board of the
Judicial College of Victoria (2011–2016).
Rose Redding Mersky has been an organisational development consultant, super-
visor, and coach for over 25 years. She offers workshops in various socioanalytic
methodologies, such as organisational role analysis, social dream-drawing, orga-
nisational observation, social photo-matrix, and social dreaming. She is an
honorary trustee of the Gordon Lawrence Foundation for the Promotion of
Social Dreaming. She has been a member of the International Society for the
Psychoanalytic Study of Organizations (ISPSO) for 30 years and served as its
first female president. Her publications have focused primarily on the practice of
consultation and the utilisation of these methodologies in both organisational and
research practice. She is currently writing a book on social dream-drawing, a
methodology she has developed, extensively trialled, and evaluated. She lives
and works in Germany.
Nick Midgley is a child and adolescent psychotherapist and a senior lecturer in the
Research Department of Clinical, Educational and Health Psychology at Uni-
versity College London (UCL). He is co-director of the Child Attachment and
Psychological Therapies Research Unit (ChAPTRe), at UCL/the Anna Freud
National Centre for Children and Families.
Henning Salling Olesen is professor at Roskilde University, affiliated with the
doctoral programme Learning, Work and Social Innovation, Department of
People and Technology. He was formerly prorector and acting rector of the
university, and founder and director of the Graduate School of Lifelong Learning.
He was for 15 years the chair of the European Society for Research in the
Education of Adults (ESREA), and is now co-editor of the European Journal of
Adult Learning and Education (RELA). Henning Salling Olesen holds an
honorary doctorate at the University of Tampere, Finland, and serves as advisory
professor at East China Normal University, Shanghai. He led a major methodo-
logical research project on the life history approach to adult learning, and has
developed methodology for psycho-societal empirical studies of learning in
everyday life (Forum for Qualitative Social Research, 2012/2013, thematic
issue). His work on policy and implementation of lifelong learning is focusing
on the transformation of local and national institutions and traditions in a
modernisation process perspective, and the interplay between global policy
agendas and local socio-economic development.
Simona Reghintovschi is a psychoanalyst, member of the Romanian Society of
Psychoanalysis. She studied physics and psychology in Bucharest, and received a
PhD in psychoanalytic studies from the University of Essex. She is lecturer in
 Notes on the editors and contributors xi

projective methods and applied psychoanalysis at Titu Maiorescu University in

Bucharest, and psychology/psychotherapy series editor at Editura Trei.
Burkard Sievers is professor emeritus of organisational development at the
Schumpeter School of Business and Economics at Bergische Universität in
Wuppertal, Germany. His research and scholarly publications focus on
unconscious dynamics in management and organisations from a socioanalytic
and systemic perspective. As organisational consultant, he has worked with a
whole range of profit and non-profit organisations. He brought group rela-
tions working conferences to Germany in 1979, and has been a staff member
and director of conferences in Australia, England, France, Germany, Hun-
gary, and the Netherlands. He was president of the International Society for
the Psychoanalytic Study of Organizations from 2007 to 2009. He has held
visiting appointments at universities in Australia, Austria, Brazil, Canada,
Chile, Colombia, Finland, France, Hungary, Poland, Russia, Sweden, Swit-
zerland, the Netherlands, the UK, and USA. Building on his work with
Gordon Lawrence on the development of social dreaming, he developed the
social photo-matrix, which is an experiential method for promoting the
understanding of the unconscious in organisations through photographs
taken by organisational role-holders. He is an honorary trustee of the
Gordon Lawrence Foundation for the Promotion of Social Dreaming. His
last article is ‘A photograph of a little boy seen through the lens of the
associative unconscious and collective memory’: https://link.springer.com/
article/10.1057%2Fpcs.2016.3
Wilhelm Skogstad is a psychiatrist and psychoanalyst, and training analyst of the
British Psychoanalytic Society. He worked for a long time as consultant and later
clinical lead at the Cassel Hospital, a hospital for psychoanalytic inpatient
treatment of patients with severe personality disorder. He is now in full-time
private psychoanalytic practice. He is one of the founders and organisers of the
British German Colloquium, a bi-annual conference of British and German
psychoanalysts that has been running since 2006. He teaches and supervises
regularly in Germany. He has published widely, in English and German, on
psychoanalytic observation of organisations (including a book, co-edited with
Bob Hinshelwood), on inpatient psychotherapy and on psychoanalytic practice.
Kalina Stamenova, PhD, FHEA, is a research fellow at the Centre for Psycho-
analytic Studies (now Department for Psychoanalytic and Psychosocial Studies)
at the University of Essex. Her research interests involve psychoanalysis and
education, social trauma and psychoanalysis, and politics, and she has presented
at numerous conferences.
Gillian Walker originally trained as a general nurse, becoming a nurse specialist in
burns and trauma, and subsequently taught biology and psychology to student
nurses. She is currently a psychoanalytic researcher with a specific interest in
Freud’s theory of masochism.
xii Notes on the editors and contributors

Tom Wengraf was born in London to a nineteenth-century-born father (b.1894)

from Freud’s Vienna, and he has always had, as Melanie Klein would say, a
love–hate relationship with psychoanalysis. Along with intermittent psychoana-
lyses and therapies, he has also done a lot of studying on their workings. The
breakup of his first marriage stimulated a lot of what he now sees as psycho-
societal thinking, as has the breakup of planetary stability. He originally read
modern history at Oxford, and sociology at the London School of Economics,
and researched newly independent Algeria in post-colonial struggle. Teaching
mostly at Middlesex University, he has been involved in left-wing political
journals such as New Left Review and The Spokesman, and with the Journal of
Social Work Practice, as well as the International Research Group for Psychoso-
cietal Analysis and the new UK-based Association for Psychosocial Studies.
Specialisation in sociology and qualitative research led to his interest in bio-
graphic-narrative interpretive method (BNIM) in which, with others, he has been
training and exploring for the past 20 years.
Lisa Saville Young is an associate professor at Rhodes University in Grahamstown,
South Africa, where she practises, teaches, and supervises trainee psychologists,
primarily focusing on psychoanalytic psychotherapy. Much of her research has
involved developing methodological/analytic tools that draw on psychoanalysis
alongside discursive psychology in qualitative research. She has used this
methodology to investigate the negotiation of identity in relationships, including
adult sibling relationships, researcher–participant relationships, and, more
recently, parent–child relationships in the South African context.
Acknowledgements

KS:
The idea for the book evolved from my research at the Centre for Psychoanalytic
Studies at the University of Essex, which has formed me as a researcher open to
diverse studies and applications of psychoanalysis, and I am deeply indebted to
both Bob Hinshelwood and Karl Figlio as well as my many colleagues at the Centre
for fostering such a culture of rigorous enquiry. And working with Bob on this book
has been a truly satisfying and enriching experience. Trying to map a constantly
changing and evolving diverse field is both a challenging and immensely rewarding
task, so my deepest gratitude to all those who agreed to participate in the endeavour
and who have helped us on the way – the contributors to the book and the numerous
colleagues who commented, critiqued, and provided invaluable suggestions – Mike
Roper, Mark Stein, Lynne Layton, and Craig Fees, among many others.
My son Marko and my daughter Anna have shared with me the various stages
of the book’s progress, and their affection and cheerfulness have helped me
tremendously along the way. Finally, yet importantly, I thank Rositsa Boycheva,
Raina Ivanova, and Emil Stamenov for their unflagging support.
RDH:
I am first of all grateful to the Centre for Psychoanalytic Studies at the University of
Essex, where I spent 18 years learning to be an academic. And in particular, I thank
the Director, Karl Figlio, for taking the risk and giving me the opportunity. But of
course the biggest opportunity for learning about academic research methods came
from the two dozen or so doctoral students I supervised. I must acknowledge too
the editors of journals and publishers of books, who have given me the experience
of entering the cut and thrust of enduring debate. Perhaps I should also recognise
the important contribution of the field itself to my life, career, and this book, as it is
responsible for the absorbing fascination of all those hardly solved obstacles to
researching the human unconscious and human subjectivity. Lastly, I express my
gratitude to Gillian for tolerating my fascination and who has in the process
suffered a serious infection of that fascination as well.
And beyond lastly, thank you, Kalina, for being such a willing accomplice, in
seeing this book through to its completion together.
Foreword
Michael Rustin

In the past twenty or so years, there has been a great deal of attention given to
research methods and methodologies in the social sciences, as a distinct area of
reflection and study. One early impetus for this was the wish to establish the
legitimate range of social scientific methodologies, and in particular the value of
qualitative and interpretative methods, in opposition to a previous hegemony of
quantitative and ‘positivist’ approaches in the social sciences. Whereas for some
disciplines, such as psychology, legitimacy had been sought primarily through
proximity to the methods of the natural sciences, others, notably sociology,
anthropology, and cultural studies, had come to emphasise the distinctiveness of
human and social subjects as objects of study, and the specific forms of
investigation that followed from that. Research methods have since became a
substantial field of publication (see, for example, the extensive series of Sage
Handbooks on social research) and a specialism in their own right.
Psychoanalysis and psychoanalytic research have until recently had only a
very limited place in these debates. Psychoanalysis has throughout its history
been mainly conducted as the work of a profession, rather than as an academic
discipline. In particular, this has been as a clinical practice, outside the
university system and the context of formal scientific research. In so far as the
field did engage in the discussion of methods, these were more often clinical
methods, or ‘techniques’, than methods of academically recognised investiga-
tion. But this situation is now changing, following the academic accreditation of
programmes of psychoanalytic education and training in Britain, in a significant
number of universities. One of these is the University of Essex, where the
Centre for Psychoanalytic Studies, now the Department of Psychosocial and
Psychoanalytic Studies, has been one of the leading centres for this work, and
from which this book has come. (Others include University College London,
Birkbeck College, the University of the West of England, and the University of
East London through its partnership with the Tavistock Clinic in the UK, as
well as a number of European universities with psychoanalytically oriented
departments and programmes, such as Roskilde University in Denmark, the
University of Milan-Bicocca in Italy, the University of Vienna in Austria, and
the University of Jyväskylä in Finland.)
 Foreword xv

Psychoanalytically informed social and historical research has for many years
been conducted at the University of Essex, for example, in the work of the late
Ian Craib, Karl Figlio, Matt ffytche, Robert Hinshelwood, and Michael Roper.
Hinshelwood has been deeply involved in the development of a doctoral
research programme, and much of this book represents one of its significant
outcomes.
Its editors, Kalina Stamenova and Robert Hinshelwood, came to the view that
it was now time for the issues of method involved in undertaking psycho-
analytic research to be systemically reviewed, and the field surveyed. This
mapping by the editors provides the organising frame for the collection of
methodological papers of which the book is composed. The resulting chapters
are diverse in their topics. In this, they reflect, as its editors acknowledge, the
fragmented state of what is still a new field of social research. Two essential
dimensions of research method – those of data collection and data analysis – are
properly assigned substantial sections in the book. The crucial issues explored
here are those involved in capturing unconscious phenomena – individual and
social states of mind and feeling – in accountable ways. Different approaches to
the essential processes of interview are outlined. The implicit argument of the
book is that only if such valid and reliable methods of research can be
developed can the field of psychoanalytic social research achieve a coherence
comparable to that which has been achieved within different traditions of
psychoanalytic clinical practice – a connectedness that Hinshelwood has
demonstrated in several earlier books. The contributors to this volume include
many researchers, such as Karl Figlio, Stephen Frosh, and Susan Long, who
are authorities in this field, as well as other writers who have recently made
important and original contributions to it.
The range of research methods set out in this book is wide, including, for
example, the socio-photo matrix and social dream-drawing, the psychoanalytic
dimensions of narrative approaches, and the biographical narrative method, but
it also devotes attention to some important topics which had been explored in
earlier work by Hinshelwood and his colleagues. For example, attention is given
here to the methods of psychoanalytic institutional observation, the subject of
his and Wilhelm Skogstad’s earlier influential book Observing Organisations:
Anxiety, Defence and Culture in Health Care Institutions (2000). Chapters on
the problems of ‘operationalising’ psychoanalytic concepts, and of testing
specific psychoanalytic hypotheses in a rigorous, empirical way, develop the
arguments that Hinshelwood set out in his recent book on this topic, Research
on the Couch: Single Case Studies, Subjectivity and Psychoanalytic Knowledge
(2013). This new collection of chapters is given a valuable focus through its
development of these debates and through the work of the psychoanalytic
research PhD programme at the University of Essex, which is represented in
this book.
There are now many actual and prospective doctoral students in the field of
psychoanalytic social research who are in need of guidance in regard to issues
xvi Michael Rustin

of research method. Gaining a clear understanding of methodological questions

is an essential requirement of academic study in every social science, all the
more so in a new field like this one in which research methods have so far been
little discussed or defined. Stamenova and Hinshelwood’s Methods of Research
into the Unconscious should be of great value both for its mapping and for
referencing of this emerging field, and for its presentation of a valuable and
diverse range of specific research methods.
Introduction
Kalina Stamenova and R. D. Hinshelwood

This book was conceived following the research done by Kalina Stamenova in
the course of a PhD at the Centre for Psychoanalytic Studies (CPS; now the
Department of Psychosocial and Psychoanalytic Studies, DPPS) at the Univer-
sity of Essex, and under supervision from R. D. Hinshelwood.

Some thoughts to bear in mind for a reader

Psychoanalytic research is a hybrid; it exists between the clinical practice of
psychoanalysis from which nearly all psychoanalytic knowledge has come, and
on the other hand, social science. A clear qualitative methodology for psycho-
analytic studies does not exist, but has been debated over many years at the
CPS. The problem for psychoanalytic research is that it is about the ‘uncon-
scious’ in human beings and their social groups. Obviously, the unconscious, by
definition, cannot be known consciously. However, the assumption that
conscious awareness is sufficient is made in most social science research,
where interview and questionnaire methods seek conscious answers from
samples of subjects! If you ask a conscious question, you get a conscious
answer. It is assumed that the object of research is a ‘transparent self’. In
psychoanalysis, instead, the unconscious has to be inferred. This is not the
particular problem, since science in general is a body of inferences about
what cannot be seen. No-one has ‘seen’ an atom, but we know quite a lot
about it from using special tools and instruments to generate data from
which fairly firm inferences can be made. So too with inferences about the
unconscious. The problem with the psychoanalytic unconscious is not the
problem of knowledge by inference.
There are, however, several problems with accessing knowledge about the
human unconscious from outside the clinical setting, which are specific to
psychoanalytic studies. They need to be kept in mind while progressing through
these chapters. The first of these problems is to understand what the uncon-
scious is, and there is debate about that, a debate reflected across the chapters in
this book. The second which reverberates also throughout the chapters is some
concern with the nature of the instrument of observation.
2 Kalina Stamenova and R. D. Hinshelwood

The nature of the unconscious

If psychoanalytic studies are a small corner of psychosocial studies, then we gain
our concepts from two different sources, one psychological and one social. Many in
the field of psychosocial studies tend to insist on the social origins of psychological
phenomena (Frosh, 2007; Parker, 1996). This does not fit well with Freud’s
attempts to generate explanations of social phenomena from psychological ones –
for instance, his book Totem and Taboo (Freud, 1913). And later he wrote:

In the individual’s mental life someone else is invariably involved, as a

model, as an object, as a helper, as an opponent: and so from the very first
individual psychology, in this extended but entirely justifiable sense of the
words, is at the same time social psychology as well.
(Freud, 1921, p. 69)

Freud’s easy elision of two disciplines is not very convincing. And indeed, it did
not convince social scientists (e.g., Malinovski, 1923; Smith, 1923; River, 1923; and
Jones’ response, 1925). The dichotomy, even bad feeling, between the two disciplines
reflects the difficulty in translating individual experience into social dynamics, and
vice versa. The art of a psychoanalytic version of the psychosocial would be to
integrate the forces from different directions (Hinshelwood, 1996). The fact that Freud
notes the basic tendency for human beings to be object-related does not mean
psychoanalysis is a social science, as we would understand it now. It is important to
recognise the distinction between the impetus to behave that arises in bodily states –
stimulus of the erogenous zones, as Freud (1905) would say – and, on the other hand,
the ‘associative unconscious’, as it is called in some of the chapters in this book.

The associative unconscious

The idea of the associative unconscious is that we are all part of a matrix of
relations in a social group, where certain ways of perceiving reality are
impressed on the individuals without a proper conscious awareness of that
influence. It is an idea (originally described in Long and Harney, 2013) that
comes from the notion of a field of relations in which one emerges as an
individual being, so that one’s sense of self and being is formed in that context
of a matrix external to the person. This has been developed by Foulkes and his
followers (Schlapobersky, 2016), and may owe something to Jung’s idea of the
collective unconscious, a set of bedrock templates for thinking that we share
from the outset with everyone else (Jung, 1969, called them ‘archetypes’).

Structure in language
This associative unconscious is sometimes seen as a product of the verbal
representation humans have used to create civilisation. In the form of discourse
 Introduction 3

analysis, it is possible to discern the way language instils assumptions into the
individual mind without awareness. There is an unthought level of ‘knowing’
that informs our perceptions, thought, and behaviour. It is literally embedded in
the syntax. This approach often seeks support from Jaques Lacan, a maverick
psychoanalyst who drew upon Ferdinand de Saussure’s theories of linguistics
(de Saussure, 1916). Lacan saw the invisible influence of language as the
ultimate source of the unconscious, rather than the Freudian unconscious arising
in affective states. It is the case that Freud did indeed regard the conscious mind
as capable of thought only in so far as its contents are verbalisable:

The system Ucs. contains the thing-cathexes of the objects, the first and
true object-cathexes; the system Pcs. comes about by this thing-presentation
being hypercathected through being linked with the word-presentations
corresponding to it.
(Freud, 1915, pp. 201–202)

Saussure’s linguistics is a relational one; meanings come from the relations

between words. For instance, we are accustomed to using personal pronouns
that indicate gender – ‘he’ and ‘she’ – but when we want to generalise, we use
the male pronoun, as if the standard type is always male of which female is
merely a variant. This implicit valuation of gender comes from the customary
(and apparently arbitrary) relations we use between ‘he’ and ‘she’. This is of
course more pronounced in French, the language of Lacan (and de Saussure), in
which there are no words for the neutral English pronouns ‘it’ or ‘they’.
These implicit assumptions embedded in the customary use of language are a truly
unconscious influence in the sense that they are unthought, and not consciously
intended necessarily – merely that we have to use language, and cannot avoid what is
hidden there. These influences become consciously intended by customary use – at
least until a feminist polemic displays them. This kind of hidden syntactical influence
is prevalent in languages in general. It is a social mechanism that was also held to
support class differences, in an unthought way. Georg Lukács (1923) termed it a
‘false consciousness’, and saw it embedded in the culture, so that the class positions
were socially constructed, as a product of the natural order, as it were, and not
amenable to change. Lukács saw this influence as not primarily embedded in
language, but in the dominant mode of industrial production. This was an idea taken
up by Western Marxism (a form of Marxism that did not die with Soviet Marxism).
But it is transmitted and instilled by its usage in customary relationships.
This idea of hidden social influences crops up in various places in social
thinking. The prevalent social relations come to be accepted via an unthinking
osmosis, via language or other forms of transmission. Despite Freud’s emphasis
on language, he did know that visual representations are important, and psycho-
analysis started really from his discovery of the ‘syntax’ of visual dream symbols
rather than verbal ones (though words have their place in dreams too). The syntax
of visual representations we construct is the syntax of spatial relations.
4 Kalina Stamenova and R. D. Hinshelwood

These modalities of hidden influence from social sources have deeply internal
effects. However, they do not have the dynamic structure of the psychoanalytic
unconscious; that is quite different, and depends on the anxiety–defence
dynamic – condensation and displacement in the mind, on one hand, and, on
the other, the distance in social space between classes, genders, races, and so on.
The inner dynamic influence is an affective structure dealing with painful
experience and not, as the associative unconscious, a conceptual structure
dealing with categories of perception and the relations between those categories
(Hinshelwood, 1996). This distinction between two different forms of uncon-
scious dynamic influence needs to be held in mind as we read these chapters.

The instrument of observation

Just as de Saussure described linguistics as moving from a study of the isolated
word to the relations between words, so it is necessary to put aside the notion of
the unconscious as a static thing to be studied. It is a ‘thing’ in relation to other
similar ones. There is a constant unconscious-to-unconscious communication
going on. We cannot study an unconscious mind without its being in relation to
others. In particular, it is in relation to the researchers’ unconscious minds.
There is therefore a continuous process of unconscious communication flowing
around the research setting.
This creates a problem for psychoanalytic studies research (probably for other
studies in the human sciences as well, but that is not the issue here). There is a
clear problem that if unconscious influences and communication go on in the
research setting, then the research is not, as it is said, ‘controlled’; that is, it is
not consciously controlled. Influences impact on the researcher and team with-
out their awareness. This makes psychoanalytic studies seem unscientific where
the intention is to control all the variables. So by the admission of unconscious
communication, we allow influences and variables that are not consciously
known. The standard response to that problem has been to attempt a reduction
to so-called objective research methods. In that pursuit, there is a move towards
quantitative and standardised data, which can be shown to have validity and
reliability. In other words, the aim is to reduce and exclude uncontrolled
unconscious influences. However, there is, on the surface at least, a paradox in
excluding the very thing one is studying: the activity of the unconscious on
others. This is perhaps the single most important reason why it has been so
difficult to establish a standard method for psychoanalytic studies research.
It remains a fact that the instrument for the investigation of the human
unconscious can only be another human unconscious. As Freud put it, the
analyst’s mind has to be a delicate receiving apparatus. The awareness that the
research may be invalidated by the impact on the research of the very thing that
is being researched is unfortunate and paradoxical. We need, however, to
confront it. As mentioned earlier, it is not a problem that we must infer our
data and results; most scientists do not immediately perceive what they make
 Introduction 5

conclusions about. However, we have to make inferences about the unconscious

mind making inferences itself about the researcher’s mind. It is the very impact
on the unconscious mind in the research that we have to allow and of which we
have to take notice. What you will find in many of these chapters is an
awareness of this kind of problem and then a turn to finding ways of capturing
the workings of this hidden interaction.
One of the important strategies for picking up the unconscious effects is to
consider process in the research activity in contrast to the thematic analysis of
what appears on the surface. Freud’s dream analysis was thematic, picking up
common threads in the various streams of associations that led from the
different elements of the dream. Instead, moments of surprising process can
occur, like the sudden emergence of avoidance that Hollway observed (Hollway
and Jefferson, 2012) indicating a ‘defended subject’, who had, unconsciously, to
skirt around a topic. The skirting around is the indicator and is picked up by the
observing unconscious as a hiatus, an unexpected move that leaves a gap or a
jump in continuity. It is not the new topic that is jumped to, but the fact of the
jump itself. Variations in this method by which the unconscious both indicates
and avoids itself will be found.
But the unconscious does more than mark a change of direction, it signifi-
cantly affects the mind of the interviewer or observer. There has been a good
deal of discussion in the literature of what has been, loosely, called ‘counter-
transference’, in parallel perhaps to the clinical literature, where countertrans-
ference has, also loosely, been discussed frequently in recent years. The term
means now the collection of affective responses the clinician feels whilst in the
context of working with his or her patient. It is indeed believed to be a product
in the clinical setting of an unconscious communication. The issue, not yet
decided perhaps, is whether the conception can be validly applied to the
research setting. There are significant differences. In particular, in the clinical
setting, the unconscious communication resulting in an affective position in the
analyst is a communication made in the interests of some aim of the patient –
either insight or a defensive enactment. In the research setting, does the subject
engage unconsciously for the same purposes? The patient in analysis needs
something from his or her analyst; in the research setting, the researcher needs
something from his or her subject. The relations of need and power are
reversed. Does this make a difference to what can be inferred from the data
that the ‘instrument’ (the researcher’s unconscious) is producing for analysis?
An easy kind of expansion of the term ‘countertransference’ within the
clinical setting has not necessarily been helpful for academic/professional
communication. Whatever the answers, the focus in psychoanalytic studies is
the feeling states of the researcher, and the process by which they come about.
So we must be wary of the impact on who is motivated for what.
An increasing number of social science research studies have tried to
elaborate many of these aspects and challenges of using countertransference.
Devereux (1967) early on called our attention to the use of countertransference
6 Kalina Stamenova and R. D. Hinshelwood

to better understand what might be happening in research. A number of current

studies discuss how countertransference might be used to discover previously
unrecognised material (Hansson and Dybbroe, 2012; Roper, 2003, 2014; Theo-
dosius, 2006; Morgenroth, 2010; Whitehouse-Hart, 2012; Price, 2005, 2006;
Garfield et al., 2010; Martinez-Salgado, 2009; Arnaud, 2012; Franchi and Molli,
2012; Khan, 2014). Jervis (2012) points to the importance of the use of
countertransference in research supervision, and Rizq (2008) discusses the use
of both transference and countertransference in qualitative research paradigms.
The studies of Froggett and Hollway (2010) and Hollway (2010) focus on the
researcher’s emotional response. There have also been certain critiques on the
use of transference and countertransference in research (Frosh and Baraitser,
2008; Frosh, 2010), emphasising the danger of attributing researchers’ feelings
to research subjects and observational fields.

The current field

Social science has been engaged with psychoanalysis, and indeed social
research studies making use of such psychoanalytic conceptualisations have
been steadily developing over the last decade in various countries across the
world. In preparation for the book, KS has conducted a scoping review to
systematically map the existing studies by using a combination of web search,
the electronic database PEP Web, twelve peer-reviewed journals in the area of
applied psychoanalysis and qualitative methodology searched separately, as well
as by contacting editors and researchers in the field. The results were then
organised into categories of subfields, and we have tried to include studies that
have particularly focused on and elaborated how they have used psychoanalytic
thinking in developing their particular methods within the last ten to fifteen
years. The review is intended for researchers and research students to survey the
field of opportunities when they are choosing the method for their own projects.
A growing number of psychoanalytic anthropology and ethnography studies
has used psychoanalysis as a complementary method in their discussions,
ethnographic cases, and interpretations. Psychoanalytically oriented anthropolo-
gists adopt a wide range of psychoanalytic methods and practices to examine
symbols, and relational and interactive processes. Mimica (2006, 2014) studies
dream experiences, speech, and knowledge among the Yagwoia people of the
Papua New Guinea highlands; Elliot et al. (2012) investigate identity transitions
of first-time mothers in an inner-city multicultural environment; Chapin (2014)
uses the analysis of researchers’ dreams as a key to analysis of children’s
response to indulgence; Rae-Espinoza (2014) considered both a dynamic culture
and a dynamic psyche and defence mechanisms in their study of children’s
reactions to parental emigration; Rahimi (2014) investigated the meaning and
political subjectivity in psychotic illness; Prasad’s (2014) field research explored
how neo-colonial sites may significantly change researchers’ conceptions of self
and other; Stanfield (2006) studied the transformation of racially wounded
 Introduction 7

communities and the role of psychoanalytic ethnography; Khan (2014) utilised

psychoanalytic conceptualisations in an anthropological study of extreme vio-
lence in Pakistan; Ramvi (2010, 2012) elaborated how a psychoanalytical
method can illuminate the collected data when researching school teachers as
well as the need for anthropologists to remain open to the experience; Devisch
(2006) advocated a type of post-colonial and psychoanalytically inspired anthro-
pology in the study of poverty-stricken Yaka people in Congo. Martinez-
Salgado (2009) discussed how a critical psychoanalytical perspective shapes
the study of poor urban families in southern Mexico.
Studies using narrative methods have also integrated psychoanalysis. A major
development in the UK is the free association narrative interview (FANI), also
discussed by Nick Midgely and Josh Holmes in this book (Hollway, 2008, 2009,
2010; Hollway and Jefferson, 2012). Additionally, there have been various
applications of the method. Urwin (2007) discussed its use in a study of
mothers’ identities in an inner London borough, while Lertzman (2012) used it
alongside in-depth interviews exploring environmental awareness, and Garfield
et al. (2010) and Whitehouse-Hart (2012) investigated the necessity of super-
vision in using FANI as well as the dynamics between supervisees and super-
visors. Ramvi (2010) used the method to elicit stories about teachers’
relationships and challenging situations.
Other studies have also used psychoanalytic methods alongside, for instance,
biographic narrative methods, such as BNIM, presented in this book as well
(Chapter 12). Aydin et al. (2012) employed psychoanalytic understanding in
their narrative analysis of cancer patients; Tucker (2010) used BNIM and Bion’s
ideas of containment to understand the stresses on school head teachers;
Schmidt (2012) integrated psychoanalytic thinking to understand the inter- and
intrasubjective tension between interviewers and interviewees in narrative inter-
views. Alford (2011) used psychoanalytic conceptualisations in his analysis of
recorded interviews with survivors of the Holocaust, and Hoggett et al. (2010)
integrated a dialogic approach to observe the effects of interpretations in the
interview process.
Psychoanalytically informed methods have also been used in discursive
analysis and psychology. Parker (2013) discusses the role of psychoanalysis in
psychosocial research; Hook (2013) elaborates on the contributions of Lacanian
discourse analysis to research practice, a type of psychoanalytic discourse
analysis focused on trans-individual operation of discourses; Taylor (2014)
offers conceptualisation of psychosocial subjects within discursive analysis
which draws on psychoanalysis; Gough (2009) advocates the use of both
discursive and psychoanalytic perspectives in facilitating the interpretation of
qualitative data analysis. Glynos and Stavrakakis (2008) explore the potential of
subjectivity in political theory and psychoanalysis in their study of fantasy to
enhance the understanding of organisational practices.
Organisational studies have used a number of psychoanalytically informed
methods. In addition to major developments such as socioanalytic methods (Long,
8 Kalina Stamenova and R. D. Hinshelwood

2013) and social defence systems methodologies (Armstrong and Rustin, 2014),
Arnaud (2012) provides an overview of the application of psychoanalysis in
organisational studies. Stein (2015, 2016) has used psychoanalytic conceptuali-
sations to study trauma and fantasies of fusion affecting European leaders as
well as rivalry and narcissism in organisations in crisis. Tuckett and Taffler
(2008) study financial markets, and Fotaki and Hyde (2015) examine organisa-
tional blind spots as an organisational defence mechanism. Clancy et al. (2012)
develop a theoretical framework on disappointment in organisations informed
by psychoanalysis; Nossal (2013) discusses the use of drawings as an important
tool to access the unconscious in organisations. Kenny (2012) uses psycho-
analytically informed interpretations and analysis of data in the study of power
in organisations. Numerous studies in organisations have also used Lacan’s
ideas (Driver, 2009a, 2009b, 2012).
Despite the initial suspicion towards integrating psychoanalytic understanding in
sociology, more and more fruitful connections and integrations have occurred. Rustin
(2008, 2016) reflects on the relations between psychoanalysis and social sciences.
The contributors to Chancer and Andrews’ (2014) edited book look into a variety of
ways psychoanalysis can contribute to sociology. Clarke (2006) elaborates the use of
psychoanalytic ideas around sociological issues and research methodology informed
by psychoanalytic sociology, and Berger (2009) integrates psychodynamic and
sociological ideas to analyse social problems. Theodosius (2006) studies the uncon-
scious and relational aspects of emotions and emotional labour.
There have been a number of developments in historical research as well, such as
studying Holocaust survivors and trauma (Alford, 2011; Rothe, 2012; Frie, 2017,
2018; Kohut, 2012); in oral history projects (Roper, 2003); and in researching
totalitarian states of mind (Pick, 2012; Wieland, 2015). Scott (2012) has argued
about the productive relationship between psychoanalysis and history.
Another growing research field is in the application of psychoanalytically
informed methods in education studies. A number of studies have used mod-
ifications of infant observation methods to study various aspects of educational
life (Franchi and Molli, 2012; Datler et al., 2010; Marsh, 2012; Adamo, 2008;
Bush, 2005; Kanazawa et al., 2009).
Other studies in education have used various psychoanalytic conceptualisa-
tions to study hidden complexities. Price (2006, 2005) used projective identifi-
cation, transference, and countertransference to study unconscious processes in
classrooms, and Ramvi (2010) to study teachers’ competency in the area of
relationships. Archangelo (2007, 2010), Ashford (2012), and Mintz (2014)
employ Bick’s and Bion’s conceptualisations in educational research. Shim
(2012) studies teachers’ interactions with texts from a psychoanalytic perspec-
tive. Vanheule and Verhaeghe (2004) use Lacanian conceptualisations to inform
their research on professional burnout in special education.
Different educational research questions and areas have also been studied.
Carson (2009) explores the potential of psychoanalysis to broaden understanding
of self in action research on teaching and cultural differences in Canada. Lapping
 Introduction 9

and Glynos (2017) study the dynamics affecting graduate teaching assistants, and
McKamey (2011) researches immigrant students’ conceptions of caring.
The chapters of the book have been selected out of this review using the
following criteria:

1. The studies elaborate the use of psychoanalysis as a method of data

collection and/or analysis in social science research.
2. The research methods are innovative and developed by pioneers in the last
ten to fifteen years.
3. Wherever possible, research methods from different subfields were selected
to map the existing field.

The outline of the book

The book is arranged in three parts. Part I presents an overview of the field. Part
II puts on the map methodologies that have used psychoanalysis mainly in the
data collection phase of research, and Part III presents methods that have used
psychoanalysis mainly in the data analysis. As with most qualitative methodol-
ogies, it is not always possible to draw a strict differentiating line between the
data collection and the data analysis of a study, but for the purposes of
classifying the existing methods, we have divided them into methods that have
used psychoanalysis mostly in the data generation and collection phase of a
research project and methodologies that have used psychoanalysis predomi-
nantly in the data analysis stage of research. To that end, we have adapted the
classification model developed by Beissel-Durrant (2004).
The book starts with an introductory Chapter 1 by Karl Figlio in which he
emphasises that the psychoanalytic object has its place in social science, the
process of sociation is permeated by the psychic level, and individual actors
are under the influence of unconscious irrational processes. We could also
observe, he argues, social-level forces impinging on the psyche through a
social superego, which could be socially embedded but structured by internal
objects.
Part II of the book presents psychoanalytic methods used predominantly in
the data collection part of the research investigation.
Chapter 2 on socioanalytic interviewing by Susan Long examines the concept
of the associative unconscious (originally described in Long and Harney, 2013),
the nature of socioanalysis, and the application of socioanalytic ideas to
interviewing, mainly in studying organisations. A central feature of the thinking
is the importance of the social field (similar to the concept of Foulkes), whereby
the individual is constructed, in part, by the field of relations. Long describes
the socioanalytic interview as giving access to the associative unconscious of
the organisational system as a whole, which is the object of the research, and
which could emerge and be observed through transference and countertransfer-
ence between interviewers and interviewees.
10 Kalina Stamenova and R. D. Hinshelwood

Chapter 3 by Nick Midgley and Joshua Holmes provides an extensive

overview of current developments in psychoanalytically informed qualitative
interview methods such as free association narrative interviews (FANI) and
theme-centred interviews, scenic understanding, and the use of notions of the
defended subject, transference, and countertransference in the process of data
collection/interviewing. The authors present an additional method of reverie-
informed interviewing based on a concept of the unconscious matrix formed
by the transference–countertransference interactions between interviewer and
interviewee.
Chapter 4 by Henning Salling Olesen and Thomas Leithäuser discusses the
use of psychoanalytic understanding of unconscious aspects of social life
alongside a theory of subjectivity and interpretation methodology based on
hermeneutic experiences from text analysis. The conceptualisations of scenic
understanding, in which free-floating attention and emotional associations of the
researchers are used during text analysis, and thematic group discussion, in
which participants are encouraged to explore experiences in relation to a theme,
including those that are not conscious, are elaborated.
The final chapter in this section, Chapter 5 by Simona Reghintovschi, presents
another innovative methodology by applying Ezriel’s conceptualisations of the
psychoanalytic clinical interview as an experimental situation in which three
types of relationships between interviewer and interviewee can be tested. She
presents a study demonstrating the possibility to observe and pinpoint uncon-
scious sources of chronic conflicts affecting psychoanalytic organisations them-
selves through psychoanalytically informed interviews combining hermeneutic
and causal perspectives to test different psychoanalytic concepts.
The next two chapters discuss how psychoanalytic thinking and ideas can be
applied in psychoanalytically informed observational studies.
Chapter 6 by Wilhelm Skogstad presents an overview of the method of
psychoanalytic observations of organisations and examines the links with the
clinical practice of psychoanalysis and the method of infant observation as well as
the theoretical concepts of the anxiety/defence model, splitting, projection and
projective identification, transference and countertransference, and psychosocial
culture underpinning this observational method. He emphasises the use of the
observer’s subjectivity in the data collection and elaborates the specific conditions
for conducting systematic observations.
Chapter 7 by Peter Elfer continues the exploration of the anxiety/defence
model of psychoanalytic observations as applied to nursery research. He argues
that psychoanalytic observation methods based on Bick’s model of infant
observation offer a means to access the unspoken aspects of the mind. Psycho-
analytic observation draws from direct observation of behaviour from which
unconscious communications can be inferred. Peter Elfer discusses the potential
of the method for use by non-clinically trained observers as a research tool in
data collection and also for enabling the exploration of current issues related to
nursery organisation and practice.
 Introduction 11

Part III of the book presents methods that have used psychoanalysis pre-
dominantly in the data analysis stage of a research project.
Chapter 8 offers an exploration of integrating psychoanalytic thinking with
visual methods for data collection. The chapter by Rose Mersky and Burkard
Sievers presents two action research methods – social photo-matrix (SPM) and
social dream-drawing (SDD) – that are part of the larger group of socioanalytic
methods, and the chapter outlines their theoretical underpinnings. The methods
can be used to access the hidden complexities in organisations, and they make
use of research participants’ dreams and free associations to photographs as raw
material that allows for unconscious processes to resurface and become avail-
able for thinking and further analysis.
Chapter 9 by Gillian Walker and R. D. Hinshelwood discusses the possibility
to operationalise psychoanalytic concepts. The chapter presents the steps needed
to define operational features and illustrates how the operationalisation of the
container–contained conceptualisations is used in empirical research.
Chapter 10 by Kalina Stamenova presents comparative analysis of over-
lapping psychoanalytic concepts by using operationalised sets of criteria of
envy and frustration. The operationalisation allows for establishing differentiat-
ing features, first at a theoretical level, and then the two sets of observable
criteria can be used to identify occurrences of such mental states in educational
observation research.
Lisa Saville Young and Stephen Frosh advocate the integrated application of
psychoanalysis alongside narrative methods in Chapter 11. The authors demon-
strate how psychoanalytic understanding can enhance narrative analytic
accounts of interview material by considering affective elements expressing
interpersonal and societal interconnected subjectivities. The methodology allows
for the analysis of continuously entwined interpersonal, intersubjective, and
social and socio-political processes while at the same time allowing for reflexive
space for the research project itself.
Chapter 12 by Tom Wengraf presents biographical narrative interview method
and interpretation (BNIM). The narrative expression of the biographical subject
situated in a social culture and an historical period can be analysed to illuminate
both conscious anxieties and also unconscious cultural, societal, and historical
tendencies. The chapter demonstrates how a twin-track case interpretation
methodology can be used to avoid focusing exclusively on the inner world of
the research participants or on the social world only, thus fostering a genuine
psycho-societal understanding of situated subjectivities.
The final chapter, Chapter 13 by Linda Lundgaard Andersen, develops the
tradition of using a psychoanalytic eye to analyse ethnographic records. She
works in a psycho-societal tradition, which considers research data in relation to
specific political-ethical attitudes of the contextual society that envelope the
social entity focused on.
We hope readers will find the chapters informative, inspiring, and helpful
with their own research endeavours.
12 Kalina Stamenova and R. D. Hinshelwood

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Another random document with
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bottle—a fault common with the wealthy in Persia—no vices such as
are usual in the Persians of towns.
We stayed with him four days; the first morning some fifty horses
were paraded for our inspection, for our host bred very fine animals,
and among other taxes had to find yearly three fine beasts fit for the
royal stables. As we sat at a window just raised from the ground, the
entire string were led or ridden past us; but as the clothing was on,
one could not see much of them.
This clothing consists of a perhan (shirt) of fine woollen blanketing,
which envelops the whole body of the animal, being crossed over the
chest, but all above the withers is bare. Over this is the jūl, or day
clothing; this the horse wears summer and winter, save during the
midday time in summer, when he is either naked or has only the
perhan on. The jūl is of the same shape as the perhan, but is of
coarser texture and lined with felt. Over the jūl is the nammad,[13] or
outer felt.
This is a sheet of felt half or three-quarters of an inch thick, and so
long that it can be drawn over the horse’s head and neck while the
quarters are still well covered, thus completely enveloping the animal
in a warm and waterproof covering, and enabling him to stand the
cold of winter in the draughty stables of the caravanserai, or even, as
is frequently required, to camp out. (During all the summer months in
Persia the horses sleep outside.)
This nammad is held in its place by a long strip of broad cotton
webbing, which is used as a surcingle, and usually, except at night,
the part of the nammad used to cover the neck is doubled down over
the animal’s body.
As the procession went by we gave free vent to our admiration; as
Pierson acknowledged, he had never seen such a collection of
horses. I, too, was surprised. Some dozen of the finer animals were
stripped, and as we admired each, the usual empty compliment of
“Peishkesh-i-shuma” (“A present to you”) was paid us.
The quail-shooting was good fun; we marched through the green
wheat in a row of some ten, horses and servants following, and the
birds got up in every direction, a very large bag being made, though
probably as many more were lost in the high wheat. The peculiar cry
of the bird resounded in every direction.
Several princes were among the guests of Mahommed Houssein
Khan, and he and his sons showed us and them the greatest
kindness and attention.
In the afternoon suddenly arrived Suleiman Mirza (literally Prince
Solomon), a near relative of the king, who was returning from a
pilgrimage to the burial-place of the saints at Kerbela, near Baghdad.
This man was quite a Daniel Lambert, moving with difficulty, very old,
but of a very merry disposition; a good deal of joking took place after
his arrival.

PERSIAN BAND.

After an apparently interminable Persian dinner, which consisted

of some hundred plats, among which may be favourably mentioned
the pillaws of mutton or fowls, boiled and smothered in rice, in rice
and orange-peel, in rice and lentils, in rice and haricots, in rice and
“schewed,” a herb somewhat resembling fennel; the fizinjans of fowls
and boiled meats; also partridges boiled and served with the
concentrated juice of the pomegranate and pounded walnuts;
kabobs of lamb and antelope; a lamb roasted whole, stuffed with
dates, pistachios, chestnuts, and raisins; salt fish from the Caspian;
extract of soup with marrow floating in it; dolmas, or dumplings,
made of minced meat and rice, highly flavoured and wrapped in vine
leaves and fried; rissoles; wild asparagus boiled; new potatoes,
handed round cold, and eaten with salt; while roast quails,
partridges, and doves were served with lettuces, drenched with
honey and vinegar.
Each guest was supplied with a loaf of flat bread as a plate, and
another for eating.
We sat on the ground, some twenty in all, round a huge tablecloth
of red leather, if I may use that expression, for a large sheet of
leather laid on the ground. Suleiman Mirza, as the king’s relative,
occupied the place of honour. On the other hand of our host sat
Pierson, and I next him, while Abu Seif Mirza, as a prince, took his
position by right on the other side of the great man, and was by him
punctiliously addressed as prince, and generally treated as one.
Huge china bowls of sherbet were placed down the centre of the
sūfrah (tablecloth), and in each bowl was an elaborately-carved
wooden spoon, which were used indiscriminately; these spoons held
a gill, and were drunk from, no glasses being used.
During the time the dinner was progressing little conversation took
place, everybody being engaged in eating as much of as many
dishes as possible. But a band of villagers played the santūr, a sort
of harmonicon; the tūmbak, or small drum, played on with the tips of
the fingers—there were two tūmbak players; the neh or flute, or,
more properly speaking, reed; and the deyeereh, literally circle, a
kind of large tambourine, played, like the tūmbak, with the tips of the
fingers.
As soon as every one had (literally) eaten his fill, Suleiman Mirza,
the king’s relative, rose, and we all got up.
 In lieu of grace each man said, “Alhamdillilah!” (“Thank God!”) and
from politeness most of the guests eructated, showing that they were
thoroughly satisfied.
This ceremony is common through the East, and it is considered
the height of rudeness to the host to abstain from it. Coffee was now
handed round, and pipes were brought. A singer, too, commenced a
ditty, which he shouted as do costermongers when crying their wares
in England; he put his hand to the side of his mouth to increase the
sound, his face became crimson with his efforts, the muscles and
veins stood out in relief on his neck, and his eyes nearly started from
their sockets. He frequently paused to take breath, and ceased amid
loud applause. The singing and music were kept up till a late hour.
Politeness prevented our retiring, but we longed for rest; and on
Pierson’s being tormented into a long disquisition on magic, he
seized the opportunity to get away by stratagem. Telling the fat
prince that, as he insisted on seeing the magic of the West, he would
gratify him, he placed the old gentleman on a mattress, and putting
four princes (he insisted on royal blood), standing each on one leg at
the four corners, with a lighted lamp in each hand, he gravely
assured them that we should retire and perform an incantation,
while, if no one laughed or spoke, on our return the lights would burn
blue. We got to bed, barricaded ourselves in our room, and tried to
sleep. After some few minutes, loud shouts announced the discovery
of the ruse, and a party arrived to bring us back, but too late, for we
had retired.
Next morning I was asked to see some of the ladies of the family.
So little does this village khan observe the Mahommedan rule of
veiling the women, that I was allowed to pass my whole morning in
his anderūn. My host’s wife, a huge woman of five-and-forty in
appearance, but in reality about thirty-five, was intent on household
cares; she was making cucumber-jam. The cucumber having been
cut into long slices the thickness of an inch, and the peel and seeds
removed, had been soaked in lime-water some month; this was kept
frequently changed, and the pieces of cucumber were now quite
transparent. They were carefully put in a simmering stew-pan of
strong syrup, which was placed over a wood fire, and, after cooking
for a quarter of an hour, the pieces of cucumber were carefully laid in
an earthen jar, and the syrup poured over them, spices being added.
I fancy that about a hundredweight of this preserve was made that
morning. When cold the cucumber was quite crisp; the result
satisfied our hostess, and she presented me with a seven-pound jar.
Our host’s young son, a youth of seventeen, caused considerable
commotion among the two or three negresses by his efforts to get
his fingers into the cooling jam-pots; while his two sisters, nice-
looking girls of fifteen and sixteen, tried to restrain his fancy for
preserves in vain. We all laughed a great deal, and mother and
daughters were full of fun, while the grinning negresses thoroughly
enjoyed the noise and laughing.
Not having seen a woman’s face for three months, these girls
seemed to me perhaps better looking than they really were, but I
confess returning to the outer regions of the berūni with regret; and
Pierson envied my good fortune in having, as a medico, had a
glimpse of Persian home-life which he could never hope for. Really
the patient was, as it often is, a mere excuse for entertaining so
strange a being as a Feringhi, and getting thus a good look at him.
We went out twice after antelope, which we hunted with relays of
dogs; but as we were not successful, there is little to tell. We
returned to Hamadan, regretting the end of a very pleasant visit.
On our arrival a grateful patient among the Armenians sent me
eighty kerans (three pounds ten) in a little embroidered bag. As the
woman could ill afford it, I told her that I would accept the bag as a
keepsake, and returned the money. So unheard-of a proceeding
astonished the Armenian community, and the priest, a wealthy old
sinner, saw his way, as he thought, to a stroke of business. I had
treated him, too, and he brought me a similar sum in a similar bag.
Great was his disgust when I thanked him for the money and politely
returned the bag, and he confided to my servant that, had he thought
this would have been the result, he would never have paid a farthing.
One day a villager brought us two large lizards, some three feet
from snout to the tip of the tail, and we secured them for a couple of
kerans. They ran about the place for a week or two, interfering with
no one, but did not get tame. The dogs chased them when they were
not on the face or top of a wall, and they at first used to bolt; but after
a time they stood still, allowed the dog to get within range, and then
—thwack—the tail was brought down with tremendous force, and the
dog retired howling. After a day or two no dog would go near the
lizards. They were uninteresting as pets, and as Pierson once got a
severe blow on the shin from one he stumbled over in the dark, we
sent them away. They were huge beasts, of a yellow-ochre colour,
and lived on flies and chopped meat; they were never seen to drink.
I purchased about this time a talking lark: he seemed the ordinary
lark such as we see in England; “torgah” is the Persian name. The
bird never sang, but said very plainly, “Bebe, Bebe Tūtee,” which is
equivalent to “Pretty Polly”—being really “Lady, lady parrot;” he
varied occasionally by “Bebe jahn” (“Dear lady”). The articulation
was extremely clear. There are many talking larks in Persia. The
bazaar or shopkeeper class are fond of keeping larks, goldfinches,
and parrots, in cages over their shops.
Sitting, too, on our roof, we could see the pigeon-flying or kafteh-
bazi. A pigeon-fancier in Persia is looked upon as a lūti (blackguard),
as his amusement takes him on the roofs of others, and is supposed
to lead to impropriety; it being considered the height of indecency to
look into another’s courtyard.
The pigeons kept are the carrier, which are very rare; the tumbler,
or mallagh (mallagh, a summersault), and the fantail, or ba-ba-koo.
The name exactly represents the call of the fantail. It was this bird
which was supposed to bring the revelations to the prophet
Mahommed, and consequently keeping a fantail or two is not looked
on as discreditable. They are never killed. These fantails do not fly
with the rest, keeping in the owner’s yard and on the roof. The yahoo
is the other ordinary variety, and is only valued for its flesh, being
bred, as we breed fowls, by the villagers. It has a feathered leg, and
will not fly far from home.
The pigeons are flown twice a day, in the early morning and
evening, and it is a very pretty thing to watch.
 The owner opens the door and out fly all the pigeons, perhaps
thirty, commencing a circular flight, whose circles become larger and
larger. The fancier watches them eagerly from his roof, and when he
has given them a sufficient flight and there are none of his rival’s
birds in view, he calls and agitates a rag affixed to a long pole. This
is the signal for feeding, and the weaker birds generally return at
once to their cupboard, the stronger continue their flight, but lessen
the diameter of the circle, and one by one return, the best birds
coming back last. As they come over the house they commence to
“tumble” in the well-known manner, falling head over heels as if shot;
some birds merely make one turn over, while others make twenty. It
is a very curious and a very pretty sight. The birds are extremely
tame, and settle on the person of the fancier.
Hitherto there has been nothing more than a flight of pigeons, but
in the afternoon, about an hour or two hours before sunset, the real
excitement commences. Up goes a flight of some twenty pigeons,
they commence to make circles; no sooner does their course extend
over the house of a rival fancier than he starts his birds in a cloud, in
the hope of inveigling an outlying bird or two into his own flock; then
both owners call, whistle, and scream wildly, agitating their poles and
flags.
The rival flocks separate, but one bird has accompanied the more
successful fancier’s flight. As it again passes over the house of the
victimised one, he liberates two of his best birds; these are mixed
with the rest, but ere they have completed half a circle they, with the
lost one, rejoin their own flight. Their delighted owner now calls down
his birds, and in a few moments envelops a pair of his rival’s in a
crowd of his own.
Then again commence the cries, the whistlings, the agitating flags,
and the liberation of single or pairs or flights of birds. As one of Mr.
A.’s birds is being convoyed towards B.’s roof with a pair of his, Mr.
C. envelops the three in a cloud of pigeons, and the whole flock
alight—C.’s flight in his own dovecot, and A.’s bird and B.’s pair, as
timid strangers, on a neighbouring wall; A. and B. vainly screaming
while their two flocks keep circling high in air. C., B., and A.
simultaneously run over roofs and walls to get near the birds. But B.
and A. have a long way to travel, while happy C. is close by; he
crouches double, and carrying in one hand a kind of landing-net,
makes for the birds; in his bosom is a fantail pigeon, in his left hand
some grain. Artful B. throws a stone and his two birds rise and fly
home, and with a fancier’s delight he watches C.; but A. is too far off
for this manœuvre, and hurries over roof after roof. Too late! C. has
tossed his fantail down near A.’s bird, the fantail, struts about calling
“Ba-ba-koo, ba-ba-koo!” The prize has his attention taken and stoops
to peck the seed that C. has tossed over a low wall. As he does so
C.’s landing-net is on him, the fantail flies lazily home, and C.,
shouting and brandishing his capture, makes the best of his way to
the roof of his own premises.
Then the flights begin again, rival fanciers from distant roofs
liberate their flocks, flags are waved, and the drama, with endless
variations, is repeated. Once a fancier always a fancier, they say.
A. repairs to C.’s house to buy back his bird at six or more times
its intrinsic value, for to leave a bird in the hands of a rival fancier
might cost the man his whole flock on a subsequent occasion, the
captured birds, of course, acting as the best of decoys.
The favourite birds are ornamented with little rings or bracelets of
silver, brass, or ivory, which are borne like bangles on the legs (the
mallagh, or tumbler, has no feathers on the leg) and rattle when the
bird walks; these bangles are not ransomed, but remain lawful prize.
As the colours of the birds are very different, one soon recognises
the individual birds of one’s neighbours’ collections, and the interest
one feels in their successes and defeats is great. Our high roof,
towering over most others, made us often sit and watch the pigeon-
flying; and the circling birds as they whirred past us, flight after flight,
against the blue, cloudless sky near sunset, was a sight worth
seeing. The fanciers were many of them old men, and some actually
lived on the ransom exacted from the owners of their captives.
These pigeon-fanciers had a slang of their own, and each
coloured bird had a distinctive name. So amused were we that I
ordered my groom to buy a flight of pigeons and commence
operations; but Syud Houssein, the British Agent, pointed out that it
would be infra dig. to engage in a practice that was considered
incorrect. It is strange that sporting, or what is called sporting,
generally leads, even in the East, to blackguardism.
Card-playing, too, is only indulged in by the less reputable of the
community; there is only one game, called Ahs an Ahs; it is played
with twenty cards—four kings, four soldiers (or knaves), four queens
(or ladies), four latifeh (or courtesans), and four ahs (or aces). This
latter is shown generally by the arms of Persia, “the Lion and Sun.”
The lion is represented couchant regardant, bearing a scimitar, while
the sun (“kurshid,” or head of glory) is portrayed as a female face
having rays of light around it; this is shown as rising over the lion’s
quarters. There is only this one game of cards played with the
gungifeh (or cards); they can hardly be called cards, as they are
made of papier-maché an eighth of an inch thick, and elaborately
painted. As much as ten tomans can be given for a good pack.
European cards are getting generally used among the upper
classes, who, under the name of bank or banco, have naturalised
the game of lansquenet. But as Persians have an idea that all is fair
at cards, like ladies at round games, they will cheat, and he who
does so undetected is looked on as a good player (“komar-baz
zereng,” clever gamester).
Chess (“shahtrenj”) is much played by the higher classes, but in
the Indian manner, the pawn having only one square to pass and not
two at the first, as with us. Backgammon, too, is in great vogue; the
dice, however, are thrown with the hand, which leads to great
“cleverness,” an old hand throwing what he likes; but as the usual
stakes are a dinner or a fat lamb, not much harm is done.
The lower orders have a kind of draughts played on a board
(marked somewhat similar to our Fox and Geese), and at each angle
of which is placed a mor (seal), i. e. piece. This game is generally
played on a brick or large tile, the board being chalked, the pieces
stones; they are moved from angle to angle. I never could fathom
how it is played, the rules being always different and seemingly
arbitrary.
 Another game is played on a wooden board or an embroidered
cloth one; this is an ancient one called takht-i-pul. I have a very old
embroidered cloth forming the board, the men being of carved ivory,
given me by Mr. G⸺, of the Persian Telegraph Department, but I
never could find two Persians who agreed as to the rules. Pitch-and-
toss is constantly engaged in by the boys in the bazaar.
Rounders (a bastard form of it) are played by the Ispahan boys,
and they also play at a species of fives. Marbles are unknown, but I
have seen the primitive game of “bonse,” which is played by our
boys with “bonses” (large marbles), large pebbles being the
substitutes for the bonses in Persia, as they are with street-boys
here.
Wrestling is in great favour; the gymnasia (Zūr Khana) are
frequented by the youth and manhood of all ranks, who meet there
on an equality. Wrestling bouts are common among the boys and
youths on every village maidān.
In each gymnasium (Zūr Khana, literally “house of force”) the
professional “pehliwan,” or wrestlers, practise daily; and gymnastics,
i. e. a course of attendance at a gymnasium, are often prescribed by
the native doctor. Generally an experienced and retired pehliwan
acts as “lanista,” and for a small fee prescribes a regular course of
exercises. Dumb-bells are much used; also a heavy block of wood,
shield-shape, some two feet by three, and three inches thick, with an
aperture in the middle, in which is placed a handle. The gymnast lies
on his back, and holding this in one hand makes extension from side
to side; a huge bow of thick steel plates, with a chain representing
the string, is bent and unbent frequently.
But the great and most favourite implements are the clubs (what
we call Indian clubs); these the professional athlete will use of great
size and weight; and after going through the usual exercises will hurl
them, together or alternately, to a great height, and unfailingly catch
them.
The wrestling is carried on, as a rule, good-temperedly; but when
done by professionals for reward, awkward tricks are employed,
such as suddenly thrusting the fingers into the eye of the adversary,
and others still more dangerous.
As a preventive against these, the wrestler always wears knee
breeches of stiff horsehide, some of which are beautifully
embroidered with blue thread; all above the waist and below the
knee being bare. A good deal of time is, as a rule, lost in taking hold
and clappings of hands, and then generally the bout commences
with one hand grasping the adversary’s, while the other clutches the
body. The object is not a clean throw, but to make the knees of the
opponent touch the ground, and consequently agility tells more than
strength and size. The pairs are always made with regard to skill,
size and weight being little considered.
The gymnasia are merely darkened rooms (for coolness), with a
sunken ring in the centre, where the wrestling takes place. The floor
is nearly always of earth only, to render falls less severe.
A Persian has no idea of the use of his fists. When a street-fight
takes place, the combatants claw and slap at each other, and end by
clutching each other’s “zūlf” (long love-locks, which most wear), or
beards, or clothing. Then comes a sort of wrestle, when they are
generally separated.
Every great personage retains among his favoured servants a few
pehliwans or wrestlers; and among the artisans many are wrestlers
by profession, and follow at the same time a trade.
 CHAPTER IX.
KERMANSHAH.

Leave for Kermanshah, marching—Detail of arrangements—Horse feeding—

Peculiar way of bedding horses—Barley—Grape feeding—On grass—
Nawalla—Colt, Anecdote of—Horses, Various breeds of—Turkomans—
Karabagh—Ispahan cobs—Gulf Arabs—Arabs—Rise in price of horses—
Road cooking—Kangawar temple—Double snipe—Tents—Kara-Su River—
Susmanis—Sana—Besitūn—Sir H. Rawlinson—Agha Hassan—Istikhbal—
Kermanshah—As we turn in another turns out—Armenians—Their reasons for
apostatising—Presents of sweetmeats.

On Pierson’s return to Hamadan, I gladly prepared to start with

him for Kermanshah. My traps were not numerous—a folding-table,
four chairs, a tressel bedstead, and two bullock-trunks, formed one
load; and my bedding in a case, made of carpet, bound with leather,
and surmounted by my head-man, another; my groom was perched
on a third, sitting on the clothing of the two horses, and carrying their
head and heel ropes and the stable spade, with which their bed of
“pane” (dried horse-dung) is prepared at night, and the copper
bucket for watering them.
The cook, with all his batterie de cuisine, had the fourth, and
Ramazan and the contents of the dispensary took two more. I think
another was charged with bottled beer, and of course we each rode
our horses. The stages were:—

Farsakhs.
Assadabad or Seydabad 7
Kangawar 5
Sana 6
Besitūn 4
Kermanshah 6
Or miles, 112; farsakhs, 28.
 An hour’s riding took us clear of the vineyards of Hamadan, and
we passed over grassy downs with patches of desert till we got to
the commencement of the Seydabad Pass. This, though it would be
looked on as a tremendous matter in England, is nothing difficult to
get over when there is no snow, and an hour’s smart climb brought
us to the top.
The descent on the other side was much longer, and we made the
seven farsakhs, about twenty-eight miles, in nine hours’ continuous
marching. The road was very bad, being full of loose stones the
whole of the way from the commencement of the ascent. We put up
at the “chupper-khana;” as this was my first experience of marching,
I may as well detail our arrangements.
As soon as we had cleared the top of the pass, the servants
pushed on with those loads that it was needful to unpack, while we
came on slowly with the mules; the grooms, too, went on as smartly
as possible; my fellow had my other horse led in a halter. As it got to
nearly sunset (we had started very late, as is always the case in a
first stage), we cantered gently in to the post-house.
Our grooms were at the door ready to take our horses, and we
found the dirty little mud room swept, carpeted, a fire lighted, and the
entrance curtained with a tent door; the chairs and table had been
put out, and the kalians got under weigh. Our servants had tea
ready, and we were quite prepared to rest and be thankful. Our
books and pipes had been put handy in our bedding, and were laid
out for us.
Half-an-hour after sunset the groom came to say he was going to
feed the horses. We go into the yard, into which our room opens,
and find Pierson’s stud of Gods on one side, my two on the other,
each tethered by double head-ropes to a mud manger, which is
constructed in the wall, and secured by heel-ropes of goats’ hair tied
to pins of iron a foot long, firmly driven into the ground.
The horses had been carefully dry-rubbed and clothed, the
nammads, or felt coverings, drawn over their necks, for it was chilly,
and the beds of “pane” laid for them.
 The Persians use no straw for making beds for their horses, as it
is too valuable; but they utilise the dung, which is carefully dried in
the sun and then stored, as bedding; this is very dry, clean, and soft,
and quite without smell. When thus dried, it is called “pane.” It is laid
a foot deep all round the standing of the horse, and the edges
carefully smoothed (as a gardener in England smooths his flower-
beds) by the grooms.
The horses, well aware that it is feeding-time, and having been
watered some ten minutes before (they had been walked about for
half-an-hour to cool them on arrival—a thing a Persian never omits),
now commenced neighing, playfully biting and letting out at each
other as far as their heel-ropes would permit. Pierson’s head-groom
measured out in handfuls the allowance of barley for each beast,
and it was poured into a nosebag filled with “kah,” or chaff, and then
affixed to the animal’s head, that not a grain might be lost. When we
had seen this done, and noticed that each horse fed well, we left, our
place being taken by the head-servant, who stayed till the barley was
eaten; for in those days we could not trust our grooms, who would
always steal the barley if they could.
Oats are not used in Persia, though there are many salt-marshes
in the country where they would grow well. Barley is the only food for
horses, the allowance being from seven to ten pounds of barley for
the animal’s two feeds; generally seven pounds are not exceeded. (It
must be remembered that the general run of animals is much smaller
than that of English horses, fourteen hands being the usual height,
and fifteen being an unusually large beast.) This allowance is divided
into two feeds, five pounds at night and two in the morning. This,
with as much as he chooses to consume of wheat or barley straw,
broken in pieces two inches long (“kah”), is all the animal has from
one end of the year to the other; no hay is given, but for a month the
horse is put on an entire diet of young green barley-grass, of which
he will eat two hundred and fifty pounds a day. Prior to being put on
this diet, which is termed full grass, he has a larger and larger
proportion administered with his chaff; this mixture is called “teleet.”
The barley-grass is cut by the grooms, by tearing handfuls of it
against a curved toothed sickle fixed upright in a piece of wood, and
is given from two to four inches long. As the horse is given “teleet,”
his grain is diminished, and, when he is on full grass, stopped
altogether; as he gets more and more grass, his teeth get blunt, and
do not break the grain, and on leaving off grass his barley has to be
soaked.
A horse on grass cannot do any serious work, and the gentlest
canter will put him in a lather. Of course it is very difficult to march a
horse when on grass, and in Persia it can only be had in the spring;
and unless he is going from a country where the season is early to
one where it is late, the animal has to do without grass altogether, or
even to march on “teleet”—a very dangerous thing, as he will often
break down. The Persians are very fond of seeing their horses fat,
particularly the townsmen, so that these latter will keep their beasts
on entire grass for two months, and on “teleet” seven months in the
year, giving clover, too, mixed with the “kah,” when they can get it.
The result is an animal bursting with fat, very irritable and restive, but
who can do no work.
To old horses “nawallah,” or balls of dough made of barley flour
and water, are given; the animals take to this, which is the usual
camel food, and will look fat and work well when they have not a
tooth in their heads.
During the only grape season that I was in Hamadan, the fruit was
so cheap that we put our horses on a diet of it for a week. Hasseens,
or earthen pans of tile, were affixed to the wall in the mangers, and
the horses grew extremely fat on a diet of grapes alone.
Persian horses, like Persian women, age early; possibly they are
ridden too young; the two-year-old is often put to hard work, and an
animal of nine is an old horse.
The young colt of two is termed a no zin, or newly fit for the
saddle. On one occasion I had removed a tooth for the Zil-es-sultan,
the Governor of Ispahan (the king’s eldest son). As it came out at
once he was much pleased, and gave me an order on his master of
horse for an “asp-i-no zin,” “a horse just ready for the saddle,”
meaning a two-year-old.
 I sent over the order, and to my disgust got back an eight-months-
old colt. This, of course, was of comparatively little value. I did not
like to complain, for “one must not look a gift-horse in the mouth,”
and the master of horse was an acquaintance, and the prince’s
maternal uncle.
I had recourse to stratagem, being put on my mettle by ironical
questions from my Persian friends, as to whether I had ridden my
horse, etc.
The prince was about to review the troops, and I sent a polite
message to the master of the horse, asking the loan of a Persian
saddle, for, said I, “I want to ride out on my new horse, and to thank
the prince for his present.” This brought the master of the horse
(“mir-achor,” or “lord of the manger”) to my house to call on his dear
friend the English doctor. Pipes were smoked, tea drunk, and then I
was asked why I wanted a Persian saddle.
“You see, the prince’s present has been probably only used to a
Persian saddle, having been just broken in, and I have none.”
“But, dear doctor sahib, he is not fit to ride, he is eight months old.”
“Oh, my friend, you, as the mir-achor, are far too good a servant of
his Royal Highness to give me other than his order said, a horse fit
for the saddle—the order said so, so he must be fit for the saddle. I
ride him out to the review to-morrow, and shall thank the prince.”
The mir-achor sighed, and with a half-wink said, “I see you don’t
like the colt, I shall send you another; in fact, some to choose from.”
“Many, many thanks, let them be good, or I shall surely ride out on
the one I have; and in case I don’t take any of those you send, don’t
forget the saddle.”
The mir-achor left, and in an hour sent me over three full-grown
but worthless brutes to choose from.
I sent them back, telling his servants that I would send for the
saddle their master would lend me.
The grooms returned with a full-grown horse of considerable
value, which I took, and returned the worthless eight-months-old colt.
I was duly felicitated on my action by my Persian friends, and was
told that I had behaved in a very diplomatic way.
The horses most in use in Persia are, in the north, the Turkoman,
rarely seen south of Teheran, and despised in Fars—a tall, ungainly
animal, sometimes over sixteen hands, with no barrel, heavy head,
but great stride and endurance.
These Turkomans, when one is on them, give the idea of riding on
a gate, there is so little between the knees. They will get over, at a
jog or loose canter, one hundred miles a day, and will keep it up for
ten days. Their gallop is apparently slow, but, from the length of
stride, they get over a great deal of ground.
They are, however, not sure-footed, and quite useless on bad
roads and hilly country, having a tendency to fall. I have never seen
a Persian of condition ride a Turkoman horse himself, though many
great personages keep several for show, on which they mount
servants. In their own plains, and for the long expeditions for plunder
(“chuppaos”) made by the Turkomans, they are doubtless invaluable;
they are able to go without water for three days, and to subsist on
the hardest and scantiest fare, and after the severe training they
undergo previous to these expeditions, they will get over an amount
of ground that no other breed could hope to cover. Their paces are
rough and uncomfortable. They vary in price from kerans three
hundred to kerans five thousand; the usual price is four hundred to
six hundred for a good one. The mane is in some cases almost
wanting, and what there is is generally removed by a knife, and the
stubble burnt off by a hot iron, or by means of gunpowder or
depilatory. This gives the breed an unearthly and incomplete
appearance. The tail, too, is very slenderly provided with hair.
The “Karabagh”—also used in the north and towards the Caspian;
he is seldom seen south of Teheran—is a miniature edition of the
English hunter: big-boned and clean-limbed, he stands fourteen and
a half to sixteen hands; the latter is, however, an unusual size; he is
generally evil-tempered, but is up to hard work, and always has a
black mark running from the mane to the insertion of the tail; his
mane is thick, so is his tail; his head is heavy. Many big horses are
produced in Teheran from the mixture of the Turkoman and
Karabagh, but they are leggy, and retain the tendency of the
Turkoman to fall on stony ground. They are called “Yamūt;” the price
is two hundred and fifty to five hundred kerans. There is an
underbred look about both species.
Ispahan produces a peculiar kind of cob, with great weight-bearing
powers, short-legged, big barrelled, never exceeding fourteen hands,
often less. These animals are taught to amble, and are capable of
carrying heavy men or heavier loads. The neck is generally very
short and thick. Often very full of go, they are seldom fast, but have
much bottom, are very hardy, and stand exposure and hard work.
They have a clumsy appearance, enormous manes and tails, and
often a good deal of long hair under the jaw; all have huge ears and
coarse coats; the colour is generally grey; their appetites are
enormous, and they eat more than larger horses. Price, from one
hundred and twenty to four hundred kerans. This, I am convinced, is
the natural horse of Persia.
The horses of Shiraz, or “Gulf Arabs” as they are called in India,
because they are shipped from the Persian Gulf for the Indian
market, are the result of cross-breeding from big Persian mares by
the smaller and better-bred Arab horse. They are practically the best
horses in the country, quite free from vice, fast, and with most of the
good points of the Arab, particularly the small head. In the good ones
the forehead (brow) is always very convex, never flat. The ears are
small and carried well. The tail is carried, as the Persians put it, like
a flag, the tail-bone very short and straight. Among the natives, if the
tail is carried at all on one side, and not well up, it considerably
detracts from the animal’s value. They frequently dock the tail-bone,
but the hair is never shortened. Grey is the usual colour; though
there are many chestnuts and bays, I never saw a black. The barrel
and chest are very large, and the body short and compact; they have
magnificent shoulders, and are full of bottom. The better ones are
not at all goose-rumped, which all other breeds in Persia, except
Arabs, are, while the hoofs are large and healthy. These horses are
always full of spirit, and willing, their faults being that they are a little
delicate, and dainty feeders; they are very sure-footed, going at full
speed over the roughest ground or loose stones. They all pull, and,
from the severe nature of the Persian bit, are hard-mouthed, till they
have been ridden on the snaffle for some months. Many have a
tendency to shy, but no other vices; they stand fourteen and a half to
fifteen hands, and cost from five hundred to two thousand kerans.
The real Arabs, which come from Baghdad and the frontier, in the
Kermanshah Province, are too well known to need description, and
are all that the heart could desire, save as to size. They stand
thirteen three to fourteen two, seldom more, and cost from five
hundred kerans up to anything.
In the last fifteen years the price of horses has gone up from fifty
to eighty per cent.; this is due to the steady drain for the Indian
market, and also to the famine, when thousands were starved to
death and thousands more killed and eaten, and to opium-growing in
lieu of corn.
When I first came to Persia a fair yabū, or pony, could be got for
one hundred and twenty kerans; they cost now (1883) two hundred
to two hundred and forty. Horses in proportion. But the Gulf Arabs
are very cheap in Teheran, which is by far the best place to buy
horses in.
To return. We have smoked and chatted till eight o’clock, when our
dinner is put on the table—soup, tinned fish, a leg of mutton,
potatoes, a custard-pudding; these have been properly cooked, and
are served hot.
Save the eggs and the milk for the custard, we brought all these
good things from Hamadan, and the cook deserves great credit, for
his kitchen has been merely a corner of the post-house yard, his
range three or four bricks, and he has roasted his leg of mutton in a
saucepan, and sent it to table with delicious gravy; and thus we fare
daily while on the road. Some men, even when marching, insist on a
hot breakfast on the road itself, of three or four courses, but this is
only needful when there are ladies. Dinner over, kalians and coffee
are brought. Our beds are made one on each side of the fireplace,
but not on the ground, for we have tressel bedsteads, and ten sees
us fast asleep.
 A fertile plain brings us, next morning’s stage, to Kangawar, a
large and prosperous village. Here the climate grows warmer. It is a
very well-watered district, and the people seem well-to-do. In fact, in
Persia, wherever there is water there is prosperity.
There is the ruin here of a temple said to have been erected to
Diana; nothing seems to be known about it, and it is only memory
that tells me that some authority gives it as a temple to Diana.
However, the four stone columns, minus their capitals, are still
standing; they are united by a mud wall, and form part of a villager’s
house.
In the swamp in front of the village we go out for snipe; Pierson
gets three brace and one double snipe. I manage to get a teal, which
I pot from behind some reeds, the snipe being as yet too much for
me. I also shoot several snippets, but am disappointed when Pierson
tells me to throw them away. I have one cooked in defiance—it is
uneatable.
We stop two days in Kangawar, and live in a tent. This is a very
comfortable one, with double walls, the property of Government,
made, so a label on it says, at the school at Jubbulpoor. It is
constructed, so another label tells me, for two subalterns. It has a
passage a yard wide between the walls, which keeps it cool in
summer. We find it chilly at night, and as we have no stove we are
unable to light a fire. The second day Pierson gets several double
snipe, and I get very wet.
On our next march we come upon the Kara-Su (black water) River,
and see a valley teeming with bird-life—herons, ducks, geese, what
appear to be black swans, cormorants, cranes of various colours,
from the big white “leg-leg” with black wings, to small and graceful
ones of pure white; mallards, teal, and widgeon. They unfortunately
are on the other side of the river, which is unfordable here, in a
swamp which extends for miles.
As we near Sana we see a man and woman seated on a mound
commanding the road, under a big green cotton umbrella, near a
grove. The woman, gaily dressed, with her face painted and without
any veil, her hair in long tails, strung with coins, importunately