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.
[Illustration]