The Prince was a bright-eyed healthy-looking little fellow, with a skin slightly darker than that of an English baby. He was very much swaddled-up in clothes. Over his head was thrown a square of white cashmere, which was held back from the face and kept in position by a band round the head. A chair and a little table were placed for me, and the inevitable tea was brought.

The Hakim and nurses sat on the ground again. The Armenian remained standing.

Presently, I said to the Armenian, “I am quite ready now to vaccinate the Prince.”

It was broad daylight by this time, and I had my lancet and vaccine lymph with me.

The Armenian spoke to the Hakim Abdul Wahid, and he directed the nurse to undress the child sufficiently to expose the upper arm. The nurse commenced to unfasten the innumerable strings and bandages in which the Prince was bound up. As this operation needed both her hands, of course it was not her fault that the shawl fell back from her face. She was really a very pretty girl. She had a little crimson jacket, a long white camise reaching to the knee, loose oriental trousers, and a little gold-embroidered cap, like a polo cap, put coquettishly on one side: the embroidered cashmere shawl draped from the head over the shoulders. As she sat with the child on her knee and the early sun shining on them, it struck me what a picture they would make for the Madonna and Child.

The two old ladies were not so smartly dressed. They had dark-grey shawls and a sort of hood on the head. They looked like nuns and acted as a “foil” to the nurse.

When the little Prince’s arms were free, he waved them about and crowed joyously. As he lay on the nurse’s lap I was obliged to sit on the ground to vaccinate him. The operation did not take many seconds. He looked somewhat astonished when he felt the first prick of the lancet: possibly it was the first sensation of pain he had ever experienced, and he gave a little whimper before I had quite finished. Then his arm was bound up and he was dressed again.

When we came away, the portly Abdur Rashid took a ceremonious and courtly leave, but Abdul Wahid walked part of the way home with me. He did not talk. He was dressed in pure Afghan costume of the plainest kind. A loose brown coat or robe reaching to the knee, plain blue turban and a thin brown cloak, or lungi, of camels’ hair draped in classic folds over his shoulders.

I never saw anyone who could throw the end of the cloak over the left shoulder so negligently, and yet have it fall in such folds as he could.

The old Hakim departed on his way home, and we met the “Master of the Carpets,” Bai Mahomed Khan. He apparently had been lying in wait for us, and he begged me to come to his house and vaccinate his infant son. As I had plenty of lymph we went on to his house to do so. We waited in the porch while he went in to drive all the women away; consequently, the child had to be undressed and held by a man-servant. In the afternoon, two of the little Prince’s Kaffir slave boys were sent to my house to be vaccinated; and on succeeding days several more were sent for the same purpose.

Many people, even those not attached to the Court, came and asked, as a favour, that I would vaccinate their children. Some cases I was, of necessity, obliged to postpone until I could get a further supply of lymph. In Kabul, I saw many people suffering from the frightful results of that dread disease, Small-pox, when it seizes upon those unprotected by vaccination. In England, where vaccination is so universal, it is rare to see a bad case.

I visited the Prince every day for about a fortnight. Abdul Wahid generally met me at the house. He and I were to attend to the Prince’s health and up-bringing. Abdur Rashid did not appear after the first visit. I did not vehemently press European innovations after the first day or two, for the Armenian said, with useful sagacity:—

“Sir, suppose you take away bandages and head coverings, and curtains, and Shahzada Sahib take cold, blame come upon you. Better you let the women do in Afghan custom, then no harm come for you.”

I took his advice, and the more willingly, because none of my suggestions had, hitherto, produced the slightest effect. For immovable obstinacy there is nothing to match the conservatism of an Eastern woman.

I soon became friendly with the little Prince, and trotted him on my knee, or walked about the room with him in my arms. I never kissed him, for I thought it better to consider the religious scruples of the Sultana. Being a Feringhi there was always a chance that I might have eaten pig.

One day he was very merry, and was laughing when I said good-bye and left the room. Immediately one of the old nurses followed me out and begged a hair from my head, so that no evil should result from my having left him while he was laughing. The hair was burnt with due ceremony.

This old lady asked me one day if I were not very “dek”—ennuié—living alone in a strange land. She said,

“Why do you not buy a little Kaffir girl with a white skin, and make her your wife?”

I said I was betrothed to an English girl.

“England!” she said, “that is a far journey from here. Take to yourself a wife in Afghanistan, and your English wife can remain in England.”

You wicked old lady! I thought. I said,

“It is not the custom of my country, and is forbidden by our religion.”

She laughed.

I began to get afraid of this old lady.

Another day the younger nurse volunteered a remark. She asked me—Were there in England any women as beautiful as she, with skin as white and eyes as dark.

The old ladies remarked that her question was exceedingly ill-bred, and one likely to cause offence to me.

The Armenian told her that she, and such as she, were not fit to carry the shoes of an English lady. I said he was quite right: so she was snubbed all round. However, she did not seem to mind, for she sat and smiled to herself.

Meanwhile, I was continuing my Persian lessons, whenever Munshi Amin Ullah, the Agent’s secretary, could spare an hour to visit me. One day I persuaded him to read “Bret Harte” aloud to me. It was delicious to see this highly-educated Mahomedan—he was an excellent fellow—sitting cross-legged on the ground, solemnly declaiming the “Heathen Chinee.”

As I laughed, I said, “By Jove! it is funny!”

He said he thought it was very difficult and very incorrect English. I told him that was just where the joke came in. He smiled politely, and asked why I said “By Joe!” He had often heard Englishmen use the expression, and knew that Joe was an abbreviation of Joseph, though why we should say “By Joe,” or who Joe was, he had not heard. I explained the origin of the expression, and described Jove as the god of the Romans.

I asked him if he had considered the Christian Religion. He told me he had studied the Jewish Bible and the Christian Testament. He could not understand how a race so intellectual as the English could accept the—to him—incomprehensible idea of three Gods. I said that Christians believed in one God only, and I endeavoured to illustrate the Trinity in Unity by describing the trinity that exists in every man: of will, intellect, and deed. To do anything one must first have the wish, or will, from that is begotten the thought how to do it, then comes the deed. He did not discuss the point.

He said another thing that puzzled and surprised him considerably was the custom among the English of selling their wives. I said,

“But Englishmen do not sell their wives.”

“Yes,” he said, “and, moreover, it is published in the newspapers when they do so.”

“What on earth do you mean?” I asked.

“I mean this: an English woman becomes wearied of her husband, and prefers another to him. The man who is preferred is called a ‘co-respondent.’ Straightway they go before the Kasi—the Magistrate, and, after much discussion, it is decided at what price the co-respondent shall buy the woman. The money is then paid to the husband.”

This gave me a sort of shock.

“People of my race,” he continued, calmly, “do differently. When a woman prefers another to her husband—they kill her.”

I asked if he were married. He said “No.”

“Do you,” I said, “consider that a plurality of wives is to be desired?”

“Among people of my race,” he replied, “a plurality of wives is lawful; but that which is lawful is not always expedient.”

“In what way is it inexpedient?” I asked.

“Firstly, there is the question of expense. Secondly, a plurality of wives is a source of constant annoyance and anxiety. One wife will live in peace with her husband; but with two or more, there is no peace: for ever they are quarrelling.”

CHAPTER XVI.
The First Sitting.

A day or two after the vaccination of the Prince, His Highness sent word that he would be prepared to give me a sitting for his portrait on the following day.

Paint-box, canvas, and easel were therefore taken to the Palace at once.

The next morning I woke up as usual about six, opened the windows of the inner room and the top sash of one of the outer windows, to let in the light and air. I could hear Hafiz, the compounder, who was a Priest, reciting aloud his prayers in the servants’ room. It took him, as a rule, an hour and a half to two hours to say his prayers in the early morning. During my illness I had had the Armenian sleep on the floor of my room, and the noise I made in opening the windows woke him.

“Sir, how do you do?” said he.

“I open the windows,” I said. “That is how I do.”

“Sir, why you not call me? I open windows.”

“Open them, then,” I said.

“Sir!” said he, “my wish is not I get up.”

I went to the door of the servants’ room. Hafiz stopped his prayers to say, “Sir?” I told him to bring me some tea. He boiled the water, and brought me some tea in a very short time, then went on with his prayers.

I wanted to continue a letter home, but it was too dark to see till half-past seven. Outside it was snowing fast: there was a dull and leaden looking sky, and it was bitterly cold. The weather had been very changeable. We had had rainy muggy days, hot sunshiny days, snowy days, and bitterly cold, dull, windy days, one after another. The result was that people went about sneezing or coughing. At eight I had my breakfast, hot bread and milk, and then went off to the Prince’s house to see that his arm was progressing satisfactorily. From there I went on to the Palace. It had ceased snowing, and the clouds had broken.

His Highness asked, Where should he sit? I found I had considerable difficulties to face. There was no platform to raise my sitter level with the eye, nor any way in which I could get a suitable top light which would cast some shadow under the eyebrows and chin. I had to do the best I could with the ordinary light from a large window. The most serious obstacle was the reflection upwards from the snow outside.

His Highness sat exceedingly well, and the Courtiers and Pages clustered in a group round, as I made my charcoal sketch of His Highness on the canvas. It came very well—I can draw a good deal better than I can paint—and the Courtiers said, “Wah! Wah!” One of the chief secretaries, however, ventured a criticism on the drawing of the eyebrow. When he had finished what he had to say, I bowed and offered him the charcoal to continue the drawing. He seemed rather taken aback, and said—No, no, he could not draw. The Amîr told him not to make a fool of himself before an Englishman.

I thought the “drawing in” would be enough for one sitting, and when I had just finished, a Deputation of citizens from one of the neighbouring towns arrived; they waited upon His Highness to petition him concerning a tax that had been imposed. I did not understand all the details, but His Highness told them to dig for gold on the banks of the Oxus. There is alluvial gold there: for I afterwards bought several hundred pounds worth.

When the Deputation had departed lunch was brought in, and afterwards, while I was smoking, His Highness asked me much about the climate of England, and compared it with that of Australia. He spoke of the difference in the time of day in those two countries at any one given moment. He also discussed the cause of clouds in the sky, and the Courtiers listened in awed astonishment.

I came away about half-past three in the afternoon, and Malek, the favourite Kaffir Page boy, came out with me. I had a rough whitethorn walking-stick in my hand, that a friend had cut out of a hedge and saved for me in England. Malek asked why I carried such a stick, and I explained. He thought it a poor stick for a gentleman to carry, and ran in and brought me out one of His Highness’s walking-sticks. I said to the Armenian:—

“Is this correct?”

“Yes,” he said, “Malek can do so.”

I haven’t the stick now, for someone “annexed” it a few months afterwards.

The next day one of the Hospital assistants got into trouble. He gave a patient too much strychnine: however, he was not punished.

During a sitting shortly after this, His Highness told me of a report he had had from his Agent in Calcutta, concerning a paragraph in a newspaper there. It stated that I had given an opinion to the effect that His Highness was suffering from gout in the stomach, and could not live more than five years. As a matter of fact, I had given no such opinion. His Highness told me not to allow my mind to be distressed, as he considered either the report or the paragraph to be false.

At another sitting an incident occurred which might have given rise to a serious mishap. It occurred in this way: I was working at the watch chain, but presently His Highness moved and the chain became disarranged. Without thinking where I was—for I was absorbed in the painting—and acting as if he were an English gentleman and not an Oriental Prince whose life had already been attempted, I walked suddenly up to the Amîr to re-arrange the chain. There was a dead silence, though I hardly noticed it at the time, but I saw that the Amîr looked very hard at me. Then with a bow I went back to my work. Nothing was said.

When we reached home the Armenian told me that he and every one else in the Court were exceedingly startled by my walking suddenly up to His Highness. He was just as likely to have shot me as not. It was contrary to etiquette to approach near uninvited; and the suddenness was so very suggestive of evil designs. However, His Highness was not seriously annoyed. He saw at once that I meant no evil, nor any disrespect.

When I went to the Prince’s one morning, I was informed that the Sultana wished me to paint her little son’s portrait. He was not to be painted as a baby four or five months old, but sitting upright with a tunic and busby on, like his father, the Amîr. The tunic and busby were then being made. This seemed likely to be a difficult task.

I was accompanied back to my house by the Captain of the Prince’s guard, who had had a very severe toothache for some days, and he came to have the tooth out. He was a very large Afghan, much taller than I, but he was very nervous about the operation. I sat him in the chair, selected my forceps, put my arm firmly round his neck and pushed the forceps well home.

He screamed, slid down in the chair, and kicked violently. It was no use, however: I had him firmly, and the tooth too. He thanked me very profusely when the operation was over.

At the next sitting, His Highness asked if I were fond of shooting. The Armenian at once answered, that it was the one particular delight of my soul. His Highness said he would send a rifle to my house, so that I might ride out on the plains and have some antelope shooting. Accordingly, the next afternoon, when the rifle arrived, the Armenian and I, accompanied by a servant, started on our expedition. We rode through the city, my horse going beautifully, as quiet as a trotting camel, till we reached the plain. Then, suddenly, he gave a scream, sprang up in the air, flung out his heels, and——but he did not have me off. No! I was not just convalescent from fever then, and he went quietly again. But I was on the watch, for I knew his ways. Four times he tried that buck. I am not a bold rider, I much prefer a quiet horse: but, it was the best I had.

I thought I would try the rifle, and I dismounted and put in a cartridge. The gun was a Martini-Henry pattern, made in Mazar, and I felt myself rather a dare-devil sort of fellow in venturing to fire it off. I aimed at a crow and pulled the trigger: there was a violent explosion. I did not hit the crow, but the gun kicked very much and cut my lip and made my eyes water. I determined that this should not occur again, so, therefore, I held the rifle very tight, shut my eyes, drew my head away, and fired. But I did not hit the mark. I asked the Armenian if he were sure that the gun was sighted right. He said he did not know.

I said, “You had better try it.”

He said he had a pain in his arm: so we rode on a little further.

By-and-bye, the Syce (the Burma policeman) summoned up courage and said he thought he could shoot.

I said, “Very good. There’s a crow over there: you may shoot it.”

He was a long time getting ready, for he felt it was a dangerous thing to do, and he turned very white. Then he fired, but he did not hit. Evidently, the gun was faulty.

Then we thought we would come home. On the way back, we saw a man on a young horse. He kept jumping him about the road, first one side then the other. The Armenian turned on him in anger and told him he was a woman.

The young man seemed indignantly surprised, and stoutly affirmed that he was not a woman.

The Armenian rode up to him, caught him by the coat and shouted, “You are a woman.”

He shouted back, “I am not a woman.”

They looked very fierce, and I thought they were coming to blows. But the young man snatched his coat away and went off at a gallop. The Armenian followed him a little way, then came back looking satisfied.

My horse went back very quietly, but I felt sure his feelings were hurt at not being able to run away when he wanted to. He did not often want to run: he much preferred walking, as a rule.

That evening, the Armenian went out to dinner to the Page boy’s, next door, and a creature came in the evening to sing in the servants’ room. How I loathed him! He had a frightful voice. I told them to shut all the windows, but it was no use; I could hear him. He delighted in prolonging an upper note on the vowel e-e-e-e. Imagine it! He indulged copiously in the trill, which he produced by shaking his head. Then he took a run down the scale, slurring one note into the other. When I first came to Mazar, he wanted to sing to me frequently; but I thanked him and said that, not being fond of music, I would pay him a trifling sum not to sing to me. Then he wanted to play to me on the “Rhubarb.” Why the instrument—it is a sort of mandolin—should have the same name as that particularly nasty vegetable, I don’t know. It has a harsh and penetrating sound and I begged to be excused.

Among the natives, however, the “Rubâb” is a very popular instrument: it is played with the plectrum, a piece of ivory held between the finger and thumb. There is another instrument resembling the Rubâb, which is played with a bow. A third, the “Seithar,” resembles a banjo with a four-foot arm; it has three strings and is played with the fingers. The “Tom-toms” or drums are the same as in India.

Every military camp is provided with a bronze gong on which the hours are struck day and night, the time being taken from the noonday gun, which is regulated by the Amîr’s repeater. In Turkestan I was for a long time charmed by the sound of the gongs: it resembled so exactly the distant church bells of England.

As a residential spot Mazar had its drawbacks. The utter absence of the picturesque; the bare monotonous plain with scorching poisonous summer and icy winter; the hopeless colony of those unhappy outcasts the lepers; these surroundings, in spite of the novelty of the situation, had of necessity a depressing effect on the health. There were, however, certain counteracting elements, for besides the homelikeness of the distant bells, there was the goodwill shown by the townsfolk. These were mild and inoffensive people who exhibited considerable kindliness and courtesy. Riding home one day from the Hospital I perceived a small boy “who put his thumb unto his nose and spread his fingers out.” In astonishment I pulled up to look at him. He at once added his other hand, thumb to finger.

“Behold this youth!” I said to the Armenian severely, “he reviles the stranger that is within his father’s gates.”

“No, Sir,” said the Armenian, “he give it you very great salaam.”

“My son, it behoves not the King’s Interpreter to deceive with specious words.”

“Sir, truly I speak: this is Mazari salaam.”

I perceived then that the boy’s thumb was at the root of the nose between the eyebrows, and that the hands were horizontal. As we rode on I noted with considerable interest other salutations in the market-place. The Mazari peasants salaamed as did the boy. By others, we were greeted by the dignified bow and the “salaam aleicoum” of the Afghan. We returned the bow, allowing a polite smile to irradiate our countenance and answered “W’aleicoum salaam.”

Ere reaching our own house we perceived Prince Amin Ullah, aged three, accompanied by his tutor. Stopping his palanquin the Prince responded to our bow by touching, in the military fashion, his astrakhan hat. After politely enquiring each other’s health—we made no reference to the state of the weather, as is the custom in Occidental cities—we courteously took leave of one another, saluting in the same manner as when we met. The young Prince has the privilege of possessing considerable personal beauty, and, added to that, he is very precocious—added to that he shows—he exhibits, a discernment and wisdom far beyond his years. Many are the wise sayings attributed to this Royal Child (I have forgotten what they were, but they told me he was very clever) so that he is indeed a true son of his august Papa—Sire (I should say).

Then we rode in at the porch of our house, and dismounting from our wearied but sprightly steed, we ascended the steps and sought the privacy of our own apartments. I think that winds it up all right.

CHAPTER XVII.
The Amîr as an Art Critic.

The next day I had an awful cold in my head, so that after I had seen my patients and had visited the Prince I stayed in. I made a sketch of the Armenian, in which he looked precisely like a Salvation Army captain. I don’t know why, for he certainly had not that look himself. Then the Armenian went for a ride. He asked if I wished to go, but I said no. I did not feel up to encountering the eccentricities of my steed.

I had taken back into service the cook whom I had discharged for swindling, and presently he came in. He brought lunch, and I thought I might as well eat it as not: it was something to do. I hoped he would not speak to me, for I knew if he did I should pour all the fragments of languages I had learnt on his head, and then he would say, “Bôt achcha, Sahib”—“very good, sir.” Then I should have sprung up and withered him with a look.

He was wise, and did not speak; but he irritated me with his nervous servility. One would think that I was violent—I am not. I never kicked him, nor threatened to shoot him, or anything. Moreover, I even went so far as to tell the Armenian to explain to him, for he could not speak English, that I should not tear him into small pieces and grind his bones to powder, unless he tried to cheat me again. He pretended to smile, but I do not think he believed me.

The roast fowl was tough: but, no, I did not tell him. What was the good? There is no satisfaction in saying: “In murgh bisyar sakht ast.” But if I had flung down my knife and fork with much noise on to my plate, turned round on him suddenly—how he would have jumped—and said, “Behold! Oh thing, born in iniquity; this fowl is as tough as leather.” There would have been something satisfying in that; but I did not. He would not have understood, and would have said, “Bôt achcha, Sahib.” So I breathed a sigh through my clenched teeth, and ate a macaroon.

I thought I would have a cigarette after tiffin, and I reached to the fireplace for a piece of charcoal: of course, I picked it up by the hot end, that is just what anyone would do when he had a cold.

Then the Armenian came back from his ride, and, because it was an impossibility for me to get any more revolver cartridges, he had been firing off my revolver. But that was not all; he must needs add insult to injury.

“This revolver is not good,” he said.

I asked, with deadly calm, “Perhaps you would be kind enough to explain why this revolver is not good?”

“It does not make noise enough,” he said.

“If you expect a revolver to make as much noise as a home-made rifle that nearly kicks its owner off into space, all I can say is, your expectation exceeds your intellect.”

But I don’t think he followed me in this line of delicate sarcasm, because he merely said, “I shot at a crow.”

“Did you?” I said; “I hope you apologised.”

Then that cook brought some wood for the fire; but he crept cautiously to look through the doorway and see if I was quiet before he ventured in. I saw him, the villain. I am not a wild beast. Am I a wild beast?

He came in again, and he tried English this time. “Sahib, I want tea?” he said, in a trembling voice. The maniac wished to inquire whether I wanted tea. I thought, “Shall I?—shall I chill his marrow, and make his flesh creep?” but I didn’t. I merely said “Yes.”

My cold disappeared after a day or two, and I made several sketches of the infant Prince in my note-book. When the little tunic and busby were finished, I borrowed them, and brought them home with me. I buttoned up the coat and stuffed it with cotton wool, arranging the sleeves with care, and placed the little fur busby in a suitable position. Then I set to work to paint them. When I had finished, I painted in the little man’s face from my sketch-book. It was an odd-looking little painting—a man’s costume and a baby’s face.

I took it to the Durbar and showed it to His Highness. He seemed pleased with it, and declared the eyes were exactly like his own. I said they were:—in fact, I intended they should be when I was painting them. I did another portrait of the little Prince some years afterwards that was much more interesting; I must speak of that later.

His Highness, the Amîr, could not, of course, spare time to give me a sitting every day, so that often a considerable interval elapsed between the sittings. However, the portrait gradually progressed towards completion.

As a painting, technically speaking, it might have been better: but as a likeness it was not at all bad.

One day after a sitting, when luncheon was brought, I happened to notice His Highness moving his head from side to side. I wondered what he was doing; then he turned to me with a smile, and said he saw his reflection in the glass of the window, but was surprised to find that it did not move as he moved. He could not understand it for a moment. Then he saw the explanation. The portrait was standing on its easel in the room, and it was the reflection of his effigy, not of himself, that he saw. I thought this was a very good sign; it seemed to show that, at any rate, I had caught the attitude and general look of the Amîr.

After lunch His Highness withdrew, and I put the easel and picture at one end of the room and sat down at the far end with a cigar, to take a comprehensive look at the thing. It happened to be standing in exactly the place where the Amîr usually sits. Presently there came running in a little Page boy with a message from the Harem serai. He turned to the picture at once, and said, “Sahib, Salaam aleicoum.” Then he saw what he had done, for everyone laughed. He seemed very much taken aback and ran out of the room.

His Highness often gave me the benefit of his criticisms, and although he did not profess to be a painter, his remarks were so redolent of common sense, that they were well worth listening to. A painter staring at his picture, day after day as it grows under his hand, may completely overlook faults that are obvious even to an untrained eye. Hence, I always listened to the Amîr’s remarks with interest. He could tell me when a thing struck him as in some way not true, though he could not tell me exactly what was wrong, nor in what way to remedy the defect. These I puzzled out for myself. As an example: he said one day that the paint had become rubbed, showing the canvas through, and he pointed to the spot—on the end of the nose. It was not the paint rubbed off, but I had put a touch of high light on the spot indicated, and the Amîr’s remark showed me that my “high light” was too white and too strong, or it would never have caught his eye. I altered it.

Another day, looking at the picture, he said it needed something, he hardly knew what. Suddenly, he sent a Page off to another room and the boy returned with a Russian tea-tray which had a picture on it—a gorgeous sunset behind some mountains.

“Bibín,” said the Amîr, “See! something like that is needed.”

I was nonplussed for a moment: the tea-tray was too awful for words. Then I saw what His Highness meant.

“Sahib! shuma rast megoyèd,” I said, in admiration. “Sir! you speak truly. I will remedy the fault.”

In a few minutes I had put in a shadow behind the head, which threw it up wonderfully. I had not noticed, till the Amîr pointed it out, that the head had rather the look of being cut out and stuck on the canvas. His Highness saw there was a want of harmony somewhere, and his tea-tray showed me where.

It will be understood, therefore, that when the last sitting was given and the last touch made, I felt a certain amount of—nervous excitement, while I was waiting for His Highness’s dictum.

The portrait was placed in a good light. His Highness called for a large mirror, which was placed by the side of it, and he sat for some time comparing his reflection in the glass with the picture.

Presently he said that the only fault he could find was that I had, perhaps, given a little too much colour to the cheeks. He said he had that colour when he was younger, but that now he was forty-six (this was in 1890), and his face struck him as being somewhat paler. This did not take long to remedy, and it was shown him again.

“Darust! darust!” said he—“Right!” and the only fault now was that the picture did not speak! He told me that Her Majesty, our Queen, had sent him a photograph of himself, but that, in his opinion, it was not good: that such a likeness as the one I had painted had never before been seen in Afghanistan. This I thought to be quite likely, and yet not be very great praise. Altogether, he was, without doubt, pleased with the portrait. As regards my own opinion: the technique or handling was very amateurish, not that it mattered very much, for no one knew any more about “technique” than I did. It was like the Amîr, certainly; but I often wondered afterwards how I could have painted a strong head so weakly. The only explanation I had was that the diffused light—reflections from white walls and snow—were factors that I ought to have considered more, and in some way or other guarded against.

When the portrait was brought to my house to be varnished, there happened to be a crowd of patients outside, and several people, soldiers and townsfolk, waiting inside for treatment. The picture was escorted by a guard of soldiers: the crowds outside murmured “Salaam aleicoum!” as a lane was made for the procession to enter; those inside sprang to their feet and salaamed also.

A message came, ostensibly from the Sultana, that the portrait was to be conveyed to the Harem for her to see.

The Armenian, with a boldness that surprised me, refused to allow it to leave the house unless a written order from “Amîr Sahib” could be produced—none arrived. Possibly, this may have been a test on the part of the Amîr to see what I should do: for he guards his personal dignity with jealous care.

When the last sitting was over we had lunch at the Palace, and I was informed that, afterwards, His Highness intended to go out shooting. Accordingly, when lunch (or breakfast) was over the Amîr’s shooting costume was brought by the Chamberlain and Pages. The Amîr’s toilet is generally a more or less public function, and I was not required to withdraw. The coat was of olive-green cloth, lined and trimmed with astrakhan, and ornamented like a Hussar’s coat with gold embroidery and shoulder knots. The boots were in the pattern of Russian boots, long ones of soft leather that can be wrinkled down: they were made in Kabul.

His Highness’s horse was waiting outside, a steady strong-looking nag, with a padded saddle and a gold-bedecked bridle. Two other led horses were in readiness, each with cloth of gold thrown over the saddle. There was a small guard of foot-soldiers and several mounted men. One carried the Amîr’s rifle; another a lance and shield—why, I do not know; another, the chillim or hubble-bubble, the vase of which was in a leather case slung to the saddle. This was for the use of the suite, as the Amîr rarely, if ever, smokes the chillim, and only occasionally a cigarette. There were several Page boys mounted: they were good riders, keeping their seat chiefly by balance. Like most boys, they were rather reckless, and were ready enough to exhibit their skill for the benefit of onlookers.

His Highness came from the Palace. The guard saluted, a stool was placed, and His Highness mounted; the bystanders murmuring “Kaìri Allah!” just as he reached the saddle.

It was a pretty sight seeing them all start, for the day was bright and sunny: it had been pouring with rain all the day before.

The Armenian and I went for a ride also, but we did not see His Highness. The mud! In some of the narrow lanes, where the sun shone for only a few minutes in the day, it was like floundering through a bog, and you came every now and again to a seemingly bottomless hole—you did not know there was one till you were in it. Out on the plains it was all right; the sun had dried the surface hard.

We took “the rifle” with us, but did not get a shot at anything. I proposed shooting at a horse that was grazing, just outside the city, on the scrubby grass that the rain had brought up, but the Armenian seemed to think there was just an off chance that I might hit it, and if so I should have to disemburse lucre for same.

In the evening I was sitting comfortably on the ground in front of the fire, leaning against an inverted chair. I found I was safer so: my chairs were portable ones, and sometimes shut up when it was neither necessary nor desirable. The one reliable one had never recovered after Hakim Abdur Rashid sat on it. On a box at my elbow I had two nice tallow candles, one in a brass candlestick and one in a bottle, and I was peacefully smoking and trying to learn Persian. Quite suddenly the Armenian pounced on one of my candles, the one in the bottle, and hurried it out of sight.

“Hullo!” I said, “what’s up?”

“Sir, nothing up, but somebody coming.”

“You need not take my light if they are.”

“Oh, sir!” he said, reproachfully, “you King’s doctor, and people see you have candle in bottle! Shame come for you!”

“Where does the shame come in?” I asked.

“Sir, you not know: men of Afghanistan very fool men, a little they talk if they see.”

The arrival turned out to be a messenger from the Palace with a letter and a parcel from His Highness. The parcel was a sample case of cigars, and the letter, in the Amîr’s handwriting, directed me to smoke and choose: I was to let His Highness know which were the best, and he would order a supply of them.

The Amîr’s writing is peculiar. He uses a steel pen, not the native reed pen: like many other illustrious men, he cannot be considered a good penman.

The next day was dull and rainy, but we had a glorious sunset. The sky, in its depth, was a perfect blue, which grew fainter and faded to primrose as it neared the mountains half hid in the piled up clouds. The summits, huge and rugged, had torn through the layers of cloud and shone red in the sun: their bold and rigid outlines, casting deep purple shadows, were cut off from the calm of the sky by the heavy clouds piled up behind them. These great masses, though seemingly almost as solid as rock, had softer outlines than the rugged peaks, and they showed great billowy waves of red light and deep shadow. Below the peaks the clouds hung in drawn-out layers, the lights and shadows becoming lost in grey and brown: lower, all was lost in a depth of deep purple blue, which mingled with the rich green brown of the darkened and foreshortened treeless plain. Sharp against all this depth of purple and green were the leafless branches and myriad branchlets of the trees of Mazar, red gold in the sun.

CHAPTER XVIII.
The Levee on New Year’s Day.

March 21st is the Mahomedan New Year’s Day. On New Year’s Eve one of the Chief Secretaries was announced. He entered, accompanied by some servants carrying two trays with cloths over them. After the usual salutations the Secretary gave me a letter. It was from His Highness requesting my acceptance of the accompanying presents.