ETHICS.
Sir S. Pyne’s adventure in the Kabul river. The Tower on the
bank. Minars of Alexander. Mahomedan Mosques. The cry of the
Priest. Prayers and Religious Processions. Afghan conception of
God. Religious and non-Religious Afghans. The schoolhouse and the
lessons. Priests. Sêyids: descendants of the Prophet. The lunatic
Sêyid. The Hafiz who was fined. The Dipsomaniac. The Valet who
was an assassin. A strangler as a Valet. The Chief of the Police
and his ways. Danger of prescribing for a prisoner. “The Thing
that walks at night.” The end of the Naib. Death-bed services.
Graves and graveyards. Tombs. The Governor of Bamian. Courtship
and weddings among the Afghans. The formal proposal by a Superior
Officer. The wedding of Prince Habibullah. Priests as healers of
the sick. The “faith cure.” Charms. The “Evil Eye.” Dreadful fate
of the boy who was impudent. Ghosts.
[Sidenote: Adventure in the Kabul River.]
When we had been in Kabul about a fortnight, His Highness the Amîr
nearly lost the services of Mr. Pyne. It occurred in this way. We
were riding along the lanes around Kabul, accompanied by a guard of
troopers, and Mr. Pyne was lamenting that he had drank _water_ for
lunch. “There it was,” he said, “still deadly chill.” He certainly
had water enough and to spare very shortly after. He had galloped
on a little ahead towards the river, and when we turned the corner
expecting to catch sight of him, he was nowhere to be seen. The Kabul
river, swollen by rains and melting snow, was roaring and foaming by. I
galloped along the bank expecting to see him. Hearing a shout, I looked
back and saw one of the sowars, who was some yards behind me, jump off
his horse and run to the bank, which was here some three or four feet
above the river. I sprang off my horse and ran up just in time to see
Pyne dragged out, dripping, by the lash of the soldier’s whip.
He was galloping, he said, along the path on the river bank when
he came to a place where the bank was lower and the river partly
overflowed it. Never thinking but what there was firm bottom he did not
stop, and down his horse sunk till Pyne was up to his armpits in water,
icy cold. The next minute the current swept him off, and he found
himself under water near his horse’s heels, with the animal striking
out violently in its endeavour to swim out. He came to the surface and
tried to swim to the bank, but his arm caught in the rein and he and
his horse were swept together to the middle of the stream. He got clear
of the rein by sinking, and struck for the bank again, but found the
current turned his head up stream. Meanwhile, his riding boots became
filled with water, and his turban and clothes soaked. The current swept
him along, but by violent exertion he reached the bank, here four or
five feet high, caught at a root and shouted. The root was torn out,
and again he was swept into midstream: things now seemed to be getting
serious. He saw two men wrestling on the bank, and a priest on a tower
calling people to prayer, but no one would look round at him. With the
heavy turban weighing him down, and wet clothes impeding his action, he
could with difficulty keep his head above water. His breath was going,
and his muscles aching when he once more got under the bank. He saw me
go galloping by, and shouted. The sowar who was near heard the shout,
saw him, jumped off his horse, and threw him the lash of his whip.
Just under the bank his feet touched the bottom, and he stood up to his
neck in water, holding on to the whip and panting to get enough breath
to scramble up the bank. He was hauled out, dripping, and then we
looked round for the horse. The poor brute was struggling and snorting,
and being rapidly carried along midstream. Pyne ran along the bank and
called to him. The animal turned his head, pricked up his ears, and
struck vigorously for the shore. He reached the bank, and with two or
three violent plunges scrambled up to dry land.
Pyne did not tell me all this on the river bank, for we mounted at
once and galloped off to the workshops, so that he could get into dry
clothes; then I heard the whole story.
No evil resulted, but the soldiers of the guard were informed that if
Mr. Pyne had been drowned, their lives would have been forfeited--a
strong inducement to a “guard” to be watchful and attentive.
I mentioned a “priest on a tower calling people to prayer.” There are
several towers round about Kabul, mostly to the north-west of the city.
They are not of great height, and I doubt if they were built originally
for religious minarets, for they are not attached to any mosque or
musjid. Probably they were originally watch-towers put up by the
peasants to guard their crops and herds from local marauders. On the
mountains near Kabul one sees stupendous minars which were built, it is
said, by Alexander to mark the road through Afghanistan to India. One
of these may be seen from Kabul on the distant peak of a mountain to
the east of the Kabul valley; another can be seen west of Kabul, from
the elevation of the Paghman hills.
[Sidenote: Mahomedan Mosques.]
Mosques, or, as they are called, musjids, are numerous in Kabul. Some
are comparatively large, with a courtyard and a domed roof with a
minaret on each side. These have either a stream of water near, or a
tank or well, for the use of those who come to pray: for Mahomedans
invariably wash hands, feet, and face before they pray, and cleanse
also the nostrils and mouth. There is a rush matting on the floor, and
the worshippers leave their shoes outside, as they do when entering any
house. Inside, the musjid is very empty and bare.
In the west wall is the niche, or mihrab, marking the direction of
Mecca: or the Kibla, so called because of the Kibla or stone of Mahomed
in Mecca, and towards this the worshippers turn their faces when they
pray. In the larger musjids there is also a pulpit or platform with
three steps, called a Mimbar, from which the Imām or preacher recites
his Sabbath oration, Friday being the Sabbath. The Amîr’s new rupee is
stamped on one side with a decorative representation of a musjid with
a three-stepped pulpit inside. At early dawn, and at four other times
during the day, the priest mounts the minaret, and, standing upright,
with his thumbs in his ears and his hands spread out, he utters in a
penetrating falsetto voice the call of the faithful to prayer, “Allah
akbar! Allah akbar, Mahomed Ressul Allah!” and so on. “God is great,
God is great, Mahomed is the Prophet of God. Come to Prayers, Prayers
are better than sleep. Come to salvation, God is great. There is no
god but God.” Then a few people begin to gather in, ten or twelve to a
musjid.
They stand in a row, their faces towards Mecca, and the priest, having
descended, stands in front of them with his face in the same direction.
The priest recites the prayers, standing, or stooping with his head
bent, kneeling or prostrating himself with his forehead touching the
ground, according to the law of the ceremony. The people imitate the
priest in his motions. They are supposed to repeat the prayers to
themselves, but the prayers are in Arabic, which very few Afghans
understand: so that if they have learnt them by heart they repeat them
simply as a parrot does.
The smaller musjids have no courtyard, they are flat-roofed and open
on one side, the roof being supported on that side by carved wooden
pillars, and the musjid is raised three steps above the street. These
have the mihrab, or altar, but no pulpit, and the minaret is replaced
by a block of stone about a foot square outside the musjid, on which
the priest stands to utter the call to prayer. These, too, have a
stream, a well or tank, or some other water supply for ablution.
So far as I could judge the majority of people do not go to a musjid to
pray except when there is some national calamity, such as a visitation
of cholera. On these occasions they go in procession with bands of
music and flags. I once saw a procession in the distance, but though I
felt some curiosity to see it nearer, I did not thrust myself unduly
forward. There are drawbacks to doing so when Mahomedans are in a
state of religious enthusiasm, for there is the possibility that one of
them, overcome by excess of zeal, might obtain Paradise for himself by
putting a knife into a Feringhi. It was not my ambition to be, in this
way, a stepping-stone to Paradise.
Ordinarily such Afghans as profess religion go through the ceremony of
prayer just where they happen to be when the time of prayer arrives.
There are five periods appointed in the day. The first, just before
sunrise; the second, just after midday; the third, an hour before, and
the fourth, just after sunset; and the fifth, when they can no longer
distinguish a white from a black thread. If they happen to be at Durbar
they withdraw a little from the presence of the Amîr--for His Highness
sits towards the west of the audience chamber--spread their cloaks
or coats in lieu of “praying carpets,” and turning towards the west,
or Mecca, go through their prayers. The Amîr’s two eldest sons pray
regularly at the appointed times, and if they happen to be in Durbar at
the time some of the chief officers join them.
His Highness the Amîr does not pray, at least so far as I know. I have
never seen him do so openly, though it may be he prays in his heart.
I have noticed that some of the greatest scoundrels at the Court are
those who openly pray, or go through the form of prayer most regularly.
[Sidenote: Afghan Conception of God.]
God, as conceived by the Afghans, seems to be an All-powerful Being,
towards whom it is necessary to behave with the greatest politeness;
for if one detail of etiquette be omitted God will be offended--and
then what harm He can bring upon the offender! It is far less dangerous
to offend against a fellow-man by annexing his property or taking his
life than to insult God by omitting to bow down to Him on one of the
five appointed times.
There are many, however, who do not trouble to be religious. I do not
know how they look at things: whether they think too much is required
of them, or that they will probably be able to gain Paradise in the end
by killing some unbelievers, or whether they simply don’t care. When
attending medically any man of education, I had always to be careful in
enquiring whether he were “religious” or not; for if I gave a tincture
(containing spirit) to any “religious” man, I got into trouble--he
evidently considered that I wished to injure his prestige with God.
With the uneducated, or poorer people, I had no trouble of that kind.
They swallowed anything I liked to give them unhesitatingly. I never
found the “religious” Afghan a whit less ready to “do his neighbour in
the eye” than a non-religious one.
[Sidenote: The Languages Learnt in Afghanistan.]
The musjid is also the schoolhouse, and is presided over by the priest.
A learned priest will get a good many pupils, but an unlearned one
none. I have often seen boys from eight to thirteen years of age
seated in a row in the musjid with the moolah, or priest, opposite
them. Their open books are propped on an =X= shaped support, and the
boys sway backwards and forwards as they drone out in a monotonous
voice whatever they are committing to memory. The education of the
majority seems to be of the very slenderest. They learn to read parts
of certain books and to write a little. With some, education is
carried further, particularly among those who are intended for priests
and mîrzas. Some of the latter study Persian sufficiently to write
a well worded and flowery letter: they learn, too, a certain amount
of mathematics--arithmetic and Euclid. The moolahs learn some Arabic
because the Koran is written in that language: otherwise, foreign
languages are not taught. The Court pages seem to be taught rather more
than other boys; some of them learn the different languages of the
country--Pushtu and Turki--as well as Persian. The Amîr’s eldest son,
Prince Habibullah, was learning English when I was in Kabul, though
I never heard of anyone else learning the language. I have heard the
Amîr speak Persian, Pushtu, and Turki. He told me he could speak Arabic
also. Of Russian he said he knew two words only, I have forgotten what
they were; and of English he knew two words: “tree,” he said, meant
“dirakht,” and “gown” meant a lady’s dress.
The income of the priests is derived from their fees for performing the
ceremonies of marriage and of burial, and from charitable donations.
A priest who is a Sêyid, or a direct descendant of the Prophet,
is hereditarily a beggar. He can demand from anyone he pleases a
sufficient sum of money for his wants. The Sêyids in Afghanistan do not
seem to have the exclusive right of wearing green turbans: in fact, I
never saw one with a green turban on, though I have often seen page
boys and others not Sêyids wearing them. One of my servants, the mîrza,
or secretary, was a Sêyid. He was a good sort of man in his way, and I
quite liked him. However, he used to smoke Churrus, or Indian hemp,
and it affected his intellect. At times he behaved like one insane. He
never attempted any violence towards me; in fact, though I was warned
against him, I think he was too attached to me to do me an injury: but,
perhaps, I am wrong in this; however, he never did do any harm. If he
were upset he would cover his face with chalk and walk about shaking
his head in a dejected way, muttering, “Tobah, tobah,” Alas! alas! One
day he removed all his clothing, and went out into the street with his
beggar’s wallet only. I sent one of the military police to fetch him
back, and asked him if he were not ashamed to behave in that manner. He
said he was tired of work. I said, “You are earning an honest living
and are able to send money to your wife and children in Jelalabad.” He
said, Yes, but he had to write when he didn’t want to write. It was
better that he should go out with nothing and beg for his few wants. As
for his wife and children, God would take care of them. There seemed a
certain amount of “method” in this. Occasionally, however, he was very
violent, though not with me, and I could hear him raving like a madman.
[Sidenote: The Hafiz who was Fined.]
One of the compounders at the hospital was a Hafiz and a moolah; a
Hafiz is one who from memory can repeat the whole Koran. He was a tall
handsome young man with courtly manners. He lived at my house, and at
daybreak I was often dreamily roused by his fine tenor voice as he
was chanting his prayers. Once his early prayer was of considerable
worldly service to me and the neighbourhood, for he found that the
bathroom of my house was on fire; the beams were already alight. He
summoned assistance, the fire was soon put out and the matter ended.
If the house had been burnt the affair would have reached the ears
of the authorities, and the neighbours would have had a fine imposed
upon them unless they could produce the incendiary! This young man had
asked permission to live at my house because he could do so cheaply.
He was saving money to pay off a debt incurred in Peshawur, his native
town. I thought, What an honest worthy young man! but I found the money
had been borrowed to pay off a fine imposed upon him for a murder he
committed in Peshawur. He escaped hanging because there was an element
of doubt in the case, and possibly for the reason that his elder
brother had been some years in the British service. He admitted to me
that he had stabbed the man, but he did not regret it. The man was a
“bad man” and had injured him.
“Surely the Koran does not tell you to commit murder,” I said.
“No,” said he, “the Koran is God’s book, but we are all sinners.”
One of the hospital assistants, a Hindostani, working under me, was
also a Hafiz and a priest. He was a very gentlemanly man of about
forty-six, and well educated. He had been in the Bengal cavalry. I
liked him very much, but, unlike most Mahomedans, he was a dipsomaniac.
For a fortnight or so he would be miserably drunk. He drank the native
spirit made from raisins, methylated spirit, or any kind of intoxicant
he could get hold of. He explained his condition to me by saying that
“Shâitan” came to him occasionally and said, “You have drunk no shrâb
for so long, now is a very good time to drink,” and so he listened to
Shâitan and drank. He afterwards gave up alcohol and took to chloral
eating and opium smoking. I was very sorry for the man. I think he was
not such a scoundrel as some of them.
When I first entered the service I picked up a man in Kabul who could
speak a little English, and had him to look after my clothes and wait
upon me--my valet. He was a short thick-set man, with a shaven head,
on which he always perched a little red fez. He was wonderfully gentle
with sick children, who were brought to me to prescribe for. He was
very lazy, but was cowed at once if I were angry. I found he was a
hired assassin who had escaped from Peshawur into Afghanistan. When I
discharged him he made a large sum of money by gambling in the bazaar,
and then returned to Peshawur. The last I heard of him was that he had
been apprehended and was in jail.
At one time, after I returned from Turkestan, I used often to go
and dine at the workshops with the other Englishmen, and two of the
military police who guarded my house came at ten o’clock with a lantern
to escort me home. My interpreter did not like my doing this at all,
because I had to ride through some narrow winding streets and across
the large orchard or garden before I reached the shops. He said, “It
is known that you often come home at that time of night, and you might
easily be shot, and there be no possibility of finding the man who
fired at you. In that case your guard would be killed, and probably I
as well for not warning you.” However, it was too depressing to be
always alone, and no one ever shot at me. One of these soldiers who
came for me was a big, very handsome man, but he had a curious furtive
look in his eyes. He used to pull my riding-boots off when I got home,
and put out the candle. I remarked once upon the curious look in his
eyes, and was told that all in his particular profession had that look.
[Sidenote: A Strangler as a Valet.]
I enquired what he did besides guarding my house. They said, “Have
you not noticed that on some nights another man takes his place?” I
had noticed it. I was then informed that he was one of the official
executioners, whose duty it was to strangle certain of the prisoners in
jail. The unfortunate is told one day that he will have the privilege
that night of sleeping in a separate room. He is conducted there, and
finds there is one other occupant of the room. As soon as he is asleep
the other occupant--my friend!--secretly placing a noose round the neck
of the sleeper, suddenly draws it tight and throws his whole weight
upon the chest, striking the victim violently over the heart.
The late Governor of Kabul and chief of the police, Naib Mir Sultan,
whom the Amîr hanged recently for his iniquities, largely employed this
means of getting rid of prisoners. An anxious woman would come to him
with perhaps a thousand rupees, and implore his intercession on behalf
of her husband who was in jail. The Naib would say, “Yes, he would do
what he could, he knew the case was coming on directly, but it was an
expensive business; if she could bring another thousand perhaps the
thing could be done.” And he would keep her dangling on some time,
squeezing out of her all the money he could get, and then she would be
informed officially that her husband had died in jail of an illness!
Sometimes a prisoner who was sick would ask permission to see the
doctor, and he would be brought to me at the hospital with chains round
his ankles, in charge of a soldier with fixed bayonet. But I was very
careful about prescribing for a prisoner, for the Naib was an adept
in the use of poisons as well as of stranglers, and a death might be
imputed to me. Another way he had of removing objectionable men who
were not prisoners. Some night two of the police knock loudly at a
man’s door, saying, “Get up at once, Amîr Sahib calls you.” This is
quite likely to be true, for His Highness often continues at his work
late into the night, and the man hurries on his clothes and goes out
with the police. He is never seen again; but some days afterwards his
head is found in one place and his body in another. Then the widow in
great distress goes before the Amîr and tells her story.
The Amîr naturally enquires, “Who is your husband?” The woman explains,
saying, “Amîr Sahib sent for him on such and such a night.” The Amîr,
of course, tells her that he did not, and enquires if she can identify
the soldiers who came for her husband. She cannot, for it being night
and she a woman, she has never seen them. The natural conclusion is
that some enemies of her husband have personated soldiers and murdered
him.
I have, however, heard other explanations of these incidents.
[Sidenote: The End of the Naib.]
The Naib was not a bad-looking man: he had a dark skin, but rather
an agreeable expression than otherwise. He never dared go out without
a large guard of his police, the townspeople would have torn him to
pieces. Prince Habibullah disliked him even when I first entered the
service in 1889, and, finally, his iniquities were proven to the Amîr.
I forget what the particular charge against him was, but he was fined,
they said, a hundred lacs of rupees to begin with, somewhere about half
a million! He paid it, and another fine was imposed which necessitated
his selling up everything. Brought before the Amîr soon after this, he
was insolent, and His Highness in exasperation seized him by the beard
and struck him in the face. The soldiers then hurried him away to a
tree outside. Someone suggested his praying. “Pray!” he said, with a
laugh, “after a life like mine? No, I’ll die as I have lived;” and they
hanged him on the tree.
This is the story as I heard it at the time. I did not see him hanged,
for there was a cholera epidemic in Kabul, and I was there. The Amîr
was at Paghman in the mountains.
Though Friday is the Sabbath, the shops are open on that day as well as
on other days in the week. Somewhat less work is done, especially at
the time of the priests’ oration in the principal musjids, about two
in the afternoon. In Kabul the Amîr’s workshops are closed, and the
Out-patient Hospital also. The Amîr himself, too, does less work on
that day, otherwise there is no great difference between the Sabbath
and other days in the week.
I spoke just now of fees to a priest for a “burial” service, but,
perhaps, that is hardly a correct term to apply, for I never saw any
service or ceremony performed at the actual time of burial. However, it
is possible there may be, though I never saw one, but I have seen the
service performed at a death bed.
When I was in Turkestan a young officer, a cousin of the Sultana’s, was
ill. The Hakims, who were attending him, not knowing the use of the
stethoscope, could not diagnose the case, and after some days I was
sent for. I found that he had had Pneumonia, or Inflammation of the
lung, and that instead of clearing up, the inflamed lung had become
tubercular, and a cavity could be detected in it. He had developed
consumption. I did what I could, but it was too late for any permanent
relief to be afforded him.
He became worse, and one day when I called, he was manifestly dying. I
found several men sitting on the ground by the bedside reciting prayers
continuously. I enquired why they were doing so at this time, and was
told they would continue praying till he died, for he was then passing
to Paradise over the narrow bridge whose edge was sharper than a razor,
and that the continuous prayers kept away the evil spirits who were
endeavouring to drag him down into the abyss.
The men praying were his nearest relations, and with them was a priest;
for although it is the Mahomedan custom for the nearest relatives to
recite the prayers on this occasion, a priest is generally sent for
also.
[Sidenote: Royal Tombs.]
The graves of the richer Afghans have upright headstones of marble
or slate carefully shaped and ornamented. The writing on them is in
relief, the stone being chipped away from the letters. The tomb of an
illustrious man is bricked round, about two feet high, and covered with
a slab of marble. Occasionally one is surrounded by a fence: trees
and flowers being planted in the enclosure. The grave of the Amîr’s
father near Kabul is cared for in this way. Others have a sort of small
mosque or musjid built over them; and the deceased, when his name is
forgotten, becomes a holy man and a saint.
The grave of a poor man has a flat stone, the largest his friends can
find, planted upright to mark the place of burial: many have no mark at
all, but the collection of mounds is not to be mistaken. The graveyard
is not walled in or enclosed. The tombs of the kings are, some of them,
imposing. That of Timour Shah in Kabul (son of Ahmed Shah, founder of
the Durani Empire) is a very fine piece of brickwork. A huge central
dome is surrounded by a series of flat-roofed rooms, the ground plan
of the structure being octagonal. No care is taken of it, and it is
becoming dilapidated by time. The tomb of Babur Shah, just outside
Kabul, is also becoming dilapidated. It is smaller and of marble, in
the style of the smaller musjids, with pillars to support the roof.
Another tomb just outside Kabul is built in the shape of a musjid. It
is that of a grandson of Amîr Dost Mahomed. I knew his son very well,
Sirdar Abdul Kûdus Khan. The latter once was of great service to the
Amîr. In one engagement, by a brilliant charge, he completely turned
the fortunes of the day. Success was too much for him, and he became
presumptuous. He was accordingly ordered into honourable confinement.
Some time afterwards he was allowed to appear at court, but for many
years no appointment was given to him. Quite recently, he received
office, being made Governor of the province of Bamian.
[Sidenote: The Proposal of Marriage.]
The marriage ceremony differs very much from ours in England. Firstly,
the young Afghan does not see his sweetheart till she becomes his
wife--at any rate he is not supposed to. He hears that such a man has
a very pretty daughter, and that she is likely to have so much dowry.
He therefore sends his mother or sisters on a visit to the harem. The
ladies, properly veiled, are conducted there by their servants in a
closed palanquin. On their return they give their opinion, and all the
information they have managed to glean. If everything is satisfactory
to the young man, he approaches the father or guardian, and makes his
proposal. If he is accepted as a suitor, an opportunity is given to the
young lady to see the swain herself, unobserved. She can, if she like,
refuse him, and if she be a girl of strong character, may be successful
in her refusal: but I know that sometimes considerable pressure is
brought to bear, if her wishes are contrary to those of her father or
guardian. Sometimes the young man, if he holds a subordinate position,
will prevail upon his superior officer to make the proposal for him
to the father or guardian. It may have more weight. I once had this
onerous and pleasing duty to perform. I marshalled all my servants,
and rode off with as much ceremony as possible, to the house of the
young lady. I had a vague sort of an idea I might see her; but I did
not: she saw me, which was not so satisfactory. When I arrived at the
house, I was conducted through the courtyard into an upstairs room,
where the guardian--her brother in this case--received me. A party of
gentlemen were in the room, and they all rose as I entered. After the
usual salutations a chair was offered me: the rest seated themselves
cross-legged round the room. I made a formal proposal in the name of my
subordinate, and a discussion followed. I was surprised at the free and
open way in which they said the man for whom I was making the proposal
was a rascal and a liar, and that he had not the money he said he had.
There was no delicate hinting that, perhaps, they had erred in assuming
his fortune was such and such. I naturally anticipated a refusal; no,
out of respect for me, he was accepted! Then a large tray of loaf sugar
broken into pieces was brought in, and first I and the guardian, then
the others, ate a little, and the rest was given to the servants. After
that we had tea, and I rode off home again, where the anxious lover was
waiting for me. I said,
“They called you very bad names.”
“That matters little;” said he, “did you eat the sugar?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Ah! then all is well! the other is a custom.”
The actual ceremony of marriage is performed at the house of the
bridegroom, though there is often a reception at the bride’s house
afterwards--not that you see the bride or any other ladies. The father,
guardian, or brothers receive you.
At the marriage ceremony the amount of dower is first discussed
and settled, and then the priest formally enquires, first of the
bridegroom then of the bride’s legal representative, whether they each
agree to the marriage. On receiving an answer in the affirmative he
pronounces a few short prayers and blessings, remaining seated while
he does so, and the ceremony is concluded; sometimes, also, rings are
exchanged. Then comes the reception of guests at the bride’s house.
I was invited to the wedding of Prince Habibullah. I did not see the
ceremony, where the priest blesses the union, but I attended the
reception at the house of the bride’s father. It happened to be in
the suburbs, near where I was living, and I walked there escorted
by my servants and guard. I was shown into a large flower-garden
where several tents were erected. A great many guests had arrived,
but not the Prince. Presently, I heard the “Salaam-i-Padshah”--the
representative of our National Anthem--being played by a brass band.
It is a solemn and slow chant, reminding one of a dead march: it is
very impressive and by no means unmusical. I was told it was composed
by an Englishman--who he was I do not know. Then the Prince rode into
the garden, followed by his brother, Nasrullah Khan. Both were dressed
in scarlet and gold uniforms. Prince Habibullah wore a military helmet
with plumes, and Nasrullah Khan a grey astrakhan hat. I bowed as
the Prince went by, and he pulled up to enquire why I had not taken
possession of the tent prepared for me, and he pointed out a very gay
one. There were people in it, but they turned out at once. The Prince
gave orders to one of the chamberlains for tea and cigarettes to
be served for me there, and then rode on to another tent, where he
dismounted. Taking his seat he received the salaams of the assembled
guests. I sat in my tent, and people came in and chatted, and then went
on to other tents. I drank tea, ate fruit, and smoked, while musicians
and nautch women went through their performances. Then large trays of
sweetmeats and sugar were brought to each of the tents, and when I had
eaten a little I departed, for it began to rain. The servants of each
of the guests carried away their master’s tray of sweets, for it was
the fast of Ramazan, when Mahomedans cannot eat nor drink till night.
The father of the bride was the Shaghassi, or Master of the Ceremonies
in Mazar, and when we left there he was made governor of Turkestan.
Soon after we left, however, he had sunstroke--mania, the hakims
said--and the Amîr recalled him to Kabul.
I found my horse waiting for me at the gate of the garden. In spite of
the rain, the streets were crammed with people, and I had some trouble
in the crowd, for my horse was restive, and plunged; however, we got
home without accident. I went also to the wedding of Prince Nasrullah,
but I will describe that later.
[Sidenote: The Faith Cure.]
Some of the priests have gained a certain amount of reputation as
healers of the sick; not by the administration of medicines, for
that is a privilege reserved for the hakims and doctors, but by the
employment of the “faith cure.” It is an axiom in the Mahomedan
religion that to utter the name of God a great number of times is
of inestimable benefit to both body and soul; also that if a part
of the body be diseased, it is an efficient cure to bind on it the
written name of one of the attributes of God, “the Merciful,” “the
Compassionate,” “the Restorer.” The sick, therefore, go first to
the priest for help, and by the payment of a fee obtain the written
scroll. This is rolled up in silk or leather, or, if the patient be
wealthy enough, is enclosed in a little cylindrical box of silver made
for the purpose, and bound on the diseased part of the body. If the
patient recover, great credit is given to the priest, and other sick
people seek his aid. If recovery does not ensue, either the patient is
resigned, considering that his “Nasîb” is thus written in the book of
fate, or else by the payment of a larger fee he engages the medical
skill of the hakims, or native physicians.
Every patient with chronic disease of any kind who came to me had one
of these little packets fastened by a string round his arm or neck.
[Sidenote: The Evil Eye.]
Many of the children, even those in good health, have similar charms
fastened to them. I noticed that the Sultana, or her women, fastened
one in a gold cylindrical box on the arm of the little Prince Mahomed
Omar, soon after he was born. This was to protect him from accident
or other evil. Sometimes, for the same purpose, a piece of string
only, over which a few prayers have been recited, is tied round the
child’s limb. This is done by the poorer people. Against the “Evil
Eye”--which, as far as I could understand, is the eye of “envy, hatred,
and malice”--something blue is a great protection. Men wear turquoise
rings, children and woman turquoise ornaments or blue beads. When a man
buys a new horse the servants at once fasten a blue bead or ribbon
among the hairs of his tail. It is not necessary for the blue to be
seen: it is just as sure a protection when it is hidden. The Evil Eye
is a dangerous weapon, so many possess it, and it works silently and
secretly. Paralysis, wasting, rickets in children, impotence, and
sudden death, the illness of cattle and horses--all these are imputed
to the evil eye.
Just outside the house I occupied, after my return from Turkestan to
Kabul, there was an open space with a small pond in the middle; this
was a favourite playground for the boys of the neighbourhood. I rode
through it as usual one morning on my way to the hospital. When I had
finished my work and returned home again, my interpreter, who seemed
rather upset about something, said to me--
“Sir, I very sorry you kill that boy to-day.”
“What do you mean?” I said; “I’ve not killed any boy.”
“Oh, yes, sir; you remember he called you Feringhi this morning.”
I remembered then that while riding through the playground, one of the
boys, a good-looking lad of about twelve, had attracted my attention
by calling out something, and he laughed as he ran away. I looked up
carelessly and then rode on, thinking no more about it. I said--
“I remember a boy saying something, but I didn’t hear what it was.”
“Sir, he very fool boy to call you Feringhi, but he is dead now.”
“That is very sudden! What did he die of?” I asked.
“Oh, sir, I poor man--what I know? You looked at him, and he died;
perhaps trouble come for us.”
“Nonsense,” I said, “he must have died of something. Boys don’t die
because you look at them.”
“Sir, in this country often it is they do!”
I indignantly said, “What do you mean! _I_ haven’t got the evil eye!”
He looked at me meaningly, then looked on the ground and shook his head
dolefully: I couldn’t persuade him that the thing was a ridiculous
impossibility. As there is a kind of vendetta in Afghanistan I rather
wondered what would happen next. I told my interpreter to make
enquiries and find out what the boy really died of. He said,
“Why for we make enquiries? Better it is we keep quiet for a few days
and say nothing.”
I never heard what was the cause of death, and the matter blew over.
[Sidenote: Ghosts.]
Besides the evil eye the Afghans believe in other forms of magic; in
certain days of the week being lucky, and others unlucky; in ghosts,
and jins, or devils. A man told me one day that the house he lived in
was formerly occupied by the three sisters of one of the kings, Shah
Shujah, I think it was, and that they were evil women. One night on his
return home, just as he entered the house he heard sound of women’s
laughter in the bath-room on the ground floor. Wondering who could be
there, he opened the door. Three women, whom he did not recognize,
sprang up and rushed, laughing, through the further door into the
inner bath-room. He slammed the door to, and fastened it, and hurried
upstairs, where he found his wife and the women of the household. He
enquired who were the women in the bath-room. They said there could be
no women. The house was of the usual kind--only one door leading from
the street into the courtyard, and every one entering could be seen.
Lights were procured, and he descended to the bath-room, unfastened the
door, opened it, and peeped in--no one was there. He went across to
the further door and found it fastened with a chain and padlock on the
outside in the usual way. He thought, “The women cannot have fastened
themselves in.” He took the key from his pocket, unlocked the door and
looked in: this room also was empty. He is convinced he saw the wraiths
of the women who formerly occupied his house.
Almost every house in Kabul has its ghost or jin. The house I had on
my return from Turkestan had a reputation. The soldiers who were put
to guard it in the winter while I was at the Palace at last refused to
sleep in one of the ground floor rooms. They said it was haunted, that
jins and devils came and pinched them, and moved their rifles and belts
from where they had placed them. So in spite of the intense cold they
moved out into the porch of the big gate opening from the courtyard
into the street, and there they took up their quarters permanently. One
day, just before sunset, after I had returned, the syce came out of
the stable, which was under the room I occupied, and called one of the
other servants. The latter came to me afterwards and said that just as
it was beginning to get dusk he went to look into the stable, as the
syce had called him. To his astonishment he saw what seemed to him to
be two small children running round the legs of the bay horse, and
jumping on its neck and off again. He went forward to gain a clearer
view, and the children, or jins, as he called them, disappeared. He
searched the stable thoroughly, and found nothing out of the way,
except that the bay horse was trembling and covered with sweat.
Many similar stories were related to me at different times, but though
for months I slept alone in the “haunted wing” I never saw any ghost,
jin, or devil--except those clothed with flesh and blood; doubtless it
was a privilege reserved for “True Believers.” There was, however, one
incident; but I will relate that by and bye.
[Illustration]