Chapter XVII: The Amîr as an Art Critic

The “villain” cook. Mental effect of a cold in the head. Portrait
of the infant Prince: a way out of the difficulty. The Amîr’s
reflection in the window. The Page boy and the Portrait. The Amîr
as an Art Critic. The tea tray. Salaams to the King’s Portrait. The
Amîr’s toilet. The start on a shooting expedition. Page boys as
riders. The mud of Mazar. A make-shift candlestick: the Armenian’s
comments. The sample case of cigars. The Amîr’s handwriting. A
sunset.

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.

[Sidenote: Effect of a Cold in the Head.]

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.

[Sidenote: The Amîr’s Reflection in the Window.]

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.

[Sidenote: The Amîr as an Art Critic.]

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.

[Sidenote: The Start on a Shooting Expedition.]

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.”

[Sidenote: The Sample Case of Cigars.]

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.