Chapter XVI: The First Sitting

Morning prayers. Early tea. The weather. Breakfast. The first
sitting for the Amîr’s portrait: difficulties to contend with.
The Courtier’s criticism. The Amîr’s rebuke. The Deputation.
Conversation with the Amîr: the climate of England and Australia:
differences in the time of day: the cause of clouds. Awe of the
Courtiers. The favourite Page-boy’s privileges. The newspaper
paragraph: the Amîr’s comment. Serious incident at a sitting. The
Captain’s toothache. Present of a rifle from the Amîr. The shooting
expedition and its dangers. Courage of the “Burma policeman.”
The eccentric rider. The singing Afghan. The scenery of Mazar.
Salutations in the market place. The meeting with Prince Amin Ullah.

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.

[Sidenote: The First Sitting for the Amîr’s Portrait.]

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.

[Sidenote: The Amîr’s Comment on the Paragraph.]

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.

[Sidenote: The Shooting Expedition and its Dangers.]

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.

[Sidenote: The Scenery of Mazar.]

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.”

[Sidenote: Prince Amin Ullah.]

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.