Philanthropic Work in Cabul—Dr. Owen’s Hospital—Prejudices gradually
Overcome—The Attendance of Women—The Hospital Wrecked by
Fanatics—The Place Re-established—A Visit to the Wards—Gratitude of
the Patients—Treatment of Men Wounded in Action—Confidence in the
Surgeon’s Skill—Life in Sherpur—Freedom of Criticism upon Current
Events—The Sherpur Club—Amusements of the Garrison—The First
Theatre—The Pleasures of Skating and Sliding—A Snow Fight on Bemaru
Heights—“How they Live in Cabul”—Zenana Life—Prevalence of
Intrigues—Shopping—A Cabul Interior—A Lady’s Dress—Cabuli
Children—Character of the Citizens of Cabul—The Sirdar—Ambition and
Sensuality—A Sirdar’s House—The Rites of Hospitality—The Cabul
Trader—His Manner of doing Business.
_22nd January, 1880._
As there seems to be an impression gaining ground, at least in England,
that our army of occupation have adopted the Russian plan of settling a
country—the institution of a Reign of Terror—it may be worth while to
describe fully the means which we have taken for drawing the people
towards us. After the capture of Cabul in October, it was found that
there was a vast amount of disease and suffering among the poorer
inhabitants of the city, and that native surgery never attempted to cope
with these, except in the rudest way. With the benevolence which
generally characterizes our commanders in the field, Sir F. Roberts
ordered a charitable dispensary and hospital to be opened in Cabul; and
Dr. Owen, Staff Surgeon, was placed in charge of the institution. The
Kotwal’s house, vacant by reason of the execution of that official for
complicity in the Massacre, was turned into a hospital, and work was
begun at once. The rooms were cleaned and put in order, wards for men
and women arranged, the tottering walls shaken by earthquakes made safe
and sound, and then patients were invited to attend. On November 21st,
Dr. Owen was first “consulted,” twelve wretched beings, suffering from
various ailments, coming to him for treatment. They were carefully
treated, and although, on account of the scarcity of English drugs in
camp, no elaborate prescriptions could be made up, the best bazaar
medicines were freely given. The news of the Sircar’s latest
eccentricity soon began to spread throughout Cabul, and for several days
the place was visited by little crowds of persons, who were either sick,
or had sick friends who needed treatment. With the suspicion always at
work in Afghan minds, that every act of the stranger has some obscure
tendency to harm them, the citizens were full of mistrust. They could
not appreciate the generosity of their conquerors, and argued that it
was absurd to suppose that men who had come to destroy Cabul would sink
their ideas of vengeance, and, instead of taking life, would save life
and make it worth living. Gradually their ideas changed; they believed
in the disinterestedness of the English _hakeem_ (who, by the way, was
more than once mistaken for Sir Louis Cavagnari, risen to life again,
Dr. Owen slightly resembling our dead Envoy). The number of patients
increased; but, with customary jealousy, no women were permitted to seek
relief: there might be a plot to invade the sanctity of the Afghan
household. But attentions of this sort were not thrust upon the
citizens, and some women also were found waiting at the hospital doors.
A room was set apart for them in which they could wait without fear of
being molested; a middle-aged woman, a Cabuli, acted as matron, and
re-assured them, when their fears overcame their desire to be made
whole.
By the 11th of December the daily attendance had risen to 118, of whom
fully two-thirds were women, and Dr. Owen’s services were sought after
by well-to-do citizens, in whose _zenanas_ were sick wives or favourite
concubines pining under mysterious ailments. Just when attendances were
daily growing more numerous, came the rush of Mahomed Jan’s host upon
Cabul. The city was occupied, and in the stupid madness which prompted
the ghazis to destroy all marks of our occupation, the dispensary was
looted and partly wrecked. Fortunately, the few cases of instruments,
which Dr. Owen had to leave behind, were taken away by one of the
attendants and buried in a neighbouring house. But the bottles of
medicines still on the shelves were broken; chairs, tables, and
partitions smashed to pieces; and even doors and windows pulled out.
This was in the outer courtyard of the late Kotwal’s house; the rooms
grouped about the inner yard were not much interfered with, as they bore
but few signs of the stranger’s hand. When on Christmas Day, Dr. Owen
once more visited the place, nothing but empty rooms greeted him, and
these so filthy, that they could scarcely be entered. However, those in
the outer courtyard were soon cleaned, and on the following morning
patients were again found waiting at the doors. There were only eighteen
on that particular day; but as peaceful times were more assured, the
list soon grew to its old proportions; and yesterday, when I visited the
hospital, there were 207 patients on the books. The disease most
prevalent in Cabul is ophthalmia, caused by dirt and exposure; while
cataract and other serious affections of the eye are also only too
common. The type is very much the same as that found in Egypt; and
partial, or complete, blindness from neglect follows almost as a matter
of course. Luckily for the Cabulis, Dr. Owen is a skilled oculist, and
already his operations are bruited about the city as marvels that cannot
be easily understood by the people.
My visit yesterday was made with Dr. Owen a little before noon; a sharp
walk from cantonments, past the ruins of the forts of Mahomed Sharif and
Mahomed Khan and over the Cabul river, bringing us in a quarter of an
hour to the western skirts of the city, not far from the Bala Hissar.
Through a narrow, winding lane, so filthy and muddy that a Cologne slum
could not compare with it, and then into the Char Chowk Bazaar, just
where it tapers off towards the Peshawur Gate: along this for a few
yards, and over a doorway on the right, a wooden board catches the eye,
with the words “Charitable Dispensary,” painted upon it, with the
Persian translation below. As we passed through the doorway into an open
courtyard, where thirty or forty wretched poshteen-clad men were
squatting under a rude verandah, a Ghoorka guard of four men stood to
attention on the sunny side of the yard. The squatting figures rose up
and made their salaam abjectly, as poverty ever does; they were the
poorest of the poor—Hazara coolies, Mahomedan beggars, lepers, the
blind, the halt, the maimed—all whom wretchedness and disease have cast
out as a hideous fringe upon healthful life. Apart from the general
crowd were solitary men, whose appearance showed them to belong to the
shopkeeping class—an influential section in the busy life of Cabul. Two
or three women, veiled from head to foot, resembling nothing so much as
Sisters of Charity, followed us in, and, with faces carefully covered by
their _yashmaks_, passed quickly into a closed room, the door of which
opening for an instant showed other white-robed figures grouped
together. There are three rooms on the right of the courtyard—a small
one, in which stores are kept and an attendant lives; a second, which
serves as dispensary, surgery and consulting-room; and a third, the
_zenana_, the room in which the women wait in quiet seclusion. Around
the inner yard, which is reached by an open passage, are the wards
proper of the hospital, wherein surgical cases, or those involving
nursing and supervision, are treated. The rooms are warm and
comfortable, and the terraced roof is well adapted for convalescent
patients, who can “sun” themselves in comfort, that process which does
so much to restore strength after a weary illness. A room on the roof is
being fitted up for operations, as it is light and airy, and the
operator will not be liable to be disturbed by the curious crowd which
often collects now in the outer courtyard. Among the in-patients the
most noticeable was a man suffering from severe bullet wound in the leg.
He had been shot by us during the investment of Sherpur, and now, to his
surprise, found himself being treated kindly, and cured of a wound that,
if untended, would have caused his death. He seemed very grateful for
the attention paid to him: to be given comfortable quarters, food, and a
skilful surgeon by the Sircar against whom he had fought, was so
unexpected, that his mind had not quite grasped the whole idea. No
doubt, in time, he will see that it was done with no more evil intent
than to prove that we bear no malice, and are only anxious to conciliate
the people. Other wounded men have also been treated, and notice has
been sent round to all the villages about that any one suffering from
hurts received in the fighting will be admitted freely into the
hospital, and, when cured, will he allowed to depart without
molestation. Our “Reign of Terror” must surely be of the mildest when
our benevolence plays so chief a part in our policy.
After seeing the wards in which the patients were lying covered with
blankets, and with their feet thrust towards the middle of the room,
where was placed a wooden frame guarding a pan of live charcoal, the
heat of which is retained by thick, wadded quilts placed over the frame,
we returned to the dispensary where the “out patients” are dealt with.
_Place aux dames_: the women were first treated, two native doctors (one
a Cabuli educated in the Punjab) taking their tickets and dispensing
medicine, while Dr. Owen rapidly examined them. There were many
eye-cases, ophthalmia being most frequent, and the eagerness with which
the women pressed forward showed their faith in their newly-found
friend. They were nearly all old, wrinkled, and hideous; but their veils
were as carefully drawn until they were face to face with the surgeon,
as if they had been still youthful and attractive. Two or three children
were also brought. One bright-eyed little fellow, with a fractured arm,
which had been set a few days before, crying out with pain until it was
found that the sling in which the limb was carried had been carelessly
tied by his helpless mother, who had not understood the instructions
given to her. In a few minutes all was set right again, and the brave
little man bore the pain without a murmur. When the worst cases had been
seen, Dr. Owen went out to visit one or two patients in the city,
leaving the native doctors to deal with such trifling ailments as were
sought to be relieved. Medicines are given gratuitously; and though
patients with diseases of years’ standing expect to be cured in a few
days, everything done to relieve their suffering is gratefully accepted,
and belief in the _hakeem’s_ skill is a cardinal article of faith among
all of them, as only one death has occurred since the hospital was
opened. Dr. Owen is now freely admitted even to houses where Afghan
exclusiveness is most severe, and thus imperceptibly an influence is
being gained over the minds of the people which cannot fail to do great
good. The jealousy of Mahomedans where their women are concerned is
quite disarmed when they see how entirely devoted the English surgeon is
to his profession, and how little it affects him whether his patients
are street beggars, in the lowest depths of misery, or ladies of the
_zenana_, surrounded with every comfort.
I have described one phase of our rule in Cabul, and it will be seen
from it whether our policy, however defective it may be in its
indistinct outlines and indefinite aims, deserves the title of
“Russian.” When wounded ghazis are in our “charitable hospital,” our
vengeance must surely be of the most harmless kind. We have troubled
waters enough in Afghanistan, but we have also our pool of Siloam.
------------------------------------
I give here two articles written a few weeks later, descriptive of our
life in Sherpur, and also of native life in Cabul:—
“HOW WE LIVE IN SHERPUR.”
We are a self-contained colony here, and a self-possessed one, too, for
the matter of that, but we are by no means self-satisfied. Every man
among us believes that if his advice had only been asked, the Afghan
difficulty would have been settled months ago, and we should now be
enjoying the delights of furlough in England, or revelling in the
fascinating gaieties of the cold season in the plains. A Briton without
his grumble would be unworthy of his country, and so we growl and swear
against the Powers that be, and ask why, in the name of all that’s
wicked, the wire-pullers in India and England do not make up their minds
to settle the matter. We are so conscious of our own unrecognized powers
as politicians and diplomats, that we laugh to scorn the idea that
affairs cannot be put on a footing that would satisfy even the
staunchest believers in a scientific frontier. The army in the old days
was merely a machine which, once set in motion by the hand of a
minister, ground out its life for years and years, without anything more
than an occasional groan when its wheels were not properly lubricated.
But, now, things are changed: every soldier is not only a fighting
machine, but a thinking machine, digesting rumours and theories with
marvellous voracity, and reproducing patched and piebald opinions of his
own, which will intrude themselves into prominence. There can be in our
ranks no “mute, inglorious” Wellingtons—or Wolseleys (for, in the eyes
of many purblind people, the terms are synonymous); an officer can now
through many channels criticize and smash up the strategy of a campaign,
and calmly sit upon the heads of his seniors while his comrades applaud
most heartily. Even the private soldier in the ranks knows full well
that if he only pulls the long bow sufficiently in a letter home, some
sympathizing party journal will accept his view of the situation, and
upon it draw with no uncertain hand the outlines of a new policy. If the
flood of criticism which is now surging about Sherpur could only be
collected in one stream, and be poured upon the devoted heads of the
clever politicians who hold our destinies in their hands, these
gentlemen would never stand high and dry again; they would be
overwhelmed once and for all. A shower bath braces the system; a
waterspout drowns all upon whom it falls; and if there were not a
feeling that our blundering along here, without a guiding light to show
General and soldier what to do, were now coming to an end, such a
phenomenon as a waterspout might arise in Sherpur. But I have before
sketched this phase of an existence here: if I said “life,” my own might
be endangered by the indignant army of Philistines, who only “exist;”
and it is useless to revive the cry of “Loot, Love, and Liberty,” for
not one of these blessings is forthcoming.
And yet from day to day we continue our being, and the days are not so
long as at first sight might be supposed. We have one panacea for all
the evils with which we believe ourselves beset: we make the best of
everything. Given the fine, bright weather which delighted us only a few
days ago, and Gymkhana meets, pony matches, polo and dog-hunting delight
our hearts and strengthen our digestions. Given a snow-fall and a rapid
thaw, when the ground underfoot is merely a quagmire: our rooms and
mess-houses, snug and warm, seem to invite us to a quiet rubber or an
earnest study of books and papers. And then there is our Club; it is an
accomplished fact, and, what is more, is an “institution.” It was
conceived in the calm which preceded the stirring events of December
11th to 24th, but its birth came not until a fortnight ago. It is not of
the imposing kind that was first intended, but still it suffices for all
our wants, and is made a rendezvous by all who care for some other
society than the familiars of their own messes. From Bemaru village,
where the Guides are encamped, and the choice spirits of the Transport
Department hold high revel occasionally on that spot sacred to the
memory of that foolish virgin who died _be-maru_ (without husband)—from
Bemaru to the quarters in the western wall is nearly two miles; and it
was not to be wondered at that friends at either end of cantonments saw
little of each other when there was no gathering-point. One might pay a
visit and, after tramping through slush and snow, find one’s friend
absent. To accept an invitation to dinner meant braving pitfalls and
watercourses in the darkness, or helplessly wandering about in the
darkness on the return journey, uncertain in what direction one’s home
lay. But now the Club is a recognized centre, about which, in the
evening, when work is over and dinner not yet on the table, many of us
gather. The excuse is a “nip” before dinner; the reason our sociable
instincts. A witty Frenchman has said:—“Wherever three or four
Englishmen are congregated, _voilà un club_!” It is so: there is nothing
to be ashamed of in our love of companionship. And our Club has the
charm of novelty, both in situation and design. It is the first
established under the shadow of the Hindu Kush, on historic ground; and
its architecture is a mixture of the nomadic and Public Works styles. We
pitched a large tent: we were nomads; we took down the canvas
side-walls, and built in their place walls of mud and bricks, pierced
with windows and doors, and with chimneys springing out above the canvas
roof. The structure was complete. From nomads we became clubmen. Could
civilization further go? And here we meet and exchange views upon things
in general and Afghanistan in particular, subaltern and Colonel
shouldering each other in true club style, the mixed crowd being
flavoured generally with a Brigadier or two, while the darlings of the
Staff air their gold-lace in a more congenial atmosphere than their
stuffy quarters, which are office, dining, and sleeping rooms all in
one. Certainly our Club is a success.
In the shape of indoor amusements, Christy minstrel bands are springing
up, and one theatre has already had a short season—three nights. The
72nd Highlanders have rigged up in the ditch near their quarters a
number of _pals_ resting against the stout mud wall, and in this a
first-class stage has been built with act-drop, scenery, footlights, and
all complete. On the opening night the 5th Ghoorkas, old friends of the
72nd, felt that their patronage was indispensable; and when two little
“Ghoorkis” struggled into the pit and tried to peep over the heads of
the crowd, a dozen eager hands hoisted them shoulder-high, and amid
great applause they were carried to the front and placed in the first
row. Here they smiled their thanks as only Ghoorkas can smile—from ear
to ear—and when the curtain rose, they watched the performance
critically and with unbounded satisfaction.
The severe weather that has declared itself during the last few days has
added new sources of amusement. A week ago the owners of skates were
disgusted with the non-appearance of hard frost; now skating goes on
nearly all day long, and the science of sliding is also being
cultivated. Europeans and natives alike indulge in a “slide;” and to see
half a dozen Guides contentedly coming croppers on the ice, and rising
again with immense satisfaction, only to sit suddenly down the moment
afterwards, would make Timour himself smile benignantly. Once on the
slide, every man seems but a child of larger growth, and right gleefully
the game is kept up until tired nature gives in, and various points of
our bodies remind the most hardy that bruises are painful when
excitement dies out. With the fall of snow on Monday came a
battle-royal, which will always live in the annals of our occupation. To
tell the story with due solemnity: at noon word was brought to the 72nd
Highlanders that the enemy (the 67th Foot and 92nd Gordon Highlanders)
had occupied the strong fort on the eastern end of the Bemaru Heights.
Without delay the regiment fell in 500 strong, and, reinforced by the
9th Lancers and some artillerymen, marched with banners flying and drums
beating to the attack. (The banners were those lately captured on the
Takht-i-Shah Peak and the Asmai Heights; the drums were various
cooking-pots.) On nearing the enemy’s position, the attacking force was
joined by a detachment of the 5th Ghoorkas under their British officers;
skirmishers were thrown out, and the bugle sounded the assault. The
storming party were headed by the standard-bearers, the cry of “Ghazis
to the front!” being answered by a rush of these reckless men up the
hillside. They were met by such a terrific fire, the air being darkened
by snowballs, that the assault seemed hopeless. But amid the din the cry
of their leader, “Ghazis to the front!” rang out—
“Ho! Ghazis to the front! Ho! Ghazis bear the brunt
Of the battle waged on snowy Bemaru!
Let not the stinging ball your fiery hearts appal,
But hurl the Kafirs down! Allah-hu!”
The despatch says:—
“A desperate resistance was made, but a bugler with the 72nd succeeded
by a _ruse_ in turning the fortunes of the day. He crept round in the
enemy’s rear and sounded the regimental call of the 92nd, followed by
the ‘cease fire’ and ‘retreat;’ the 92nd fell back and the attacking
party carried the position. Many prisoners were taken and the usual
atrocities committed—one gallant Highlander having three men sitting on
his chest at once; while others, equally gallant, were buried alive in
the snow. The conduct of all concerned fully bore out the estimate
previously formed of the splendid fighting powers of our men, and
several 'V.C.s’ are to be awarded. The number of wounded was unusually
great, but all are now doing well. The defeat of the enemy was so
complete that they at once sued for peace, and a treaty was signed at
the Club later in the day by the principal leaders. In consequence of
the ink being frozen, curaçoa and brandy were substituted.”
It will be seen from the halting sketch here drawn, that with all our
growling discontent at being left in the dark as to the future, we
manage to smooth away the rough edges of our life which so much gall us,
and that our petulance never grows into sulkiness. That we have to fall
back upon rough horse-play occasionally is not surprising: there is no
softening influence to keep our spirits at an equable temperature. We
are a colony of _men_—chiefly young men; and Cabul society is so very
select that we have not yet gained an entrance within its sacred limits.
If we were to make ceremonial calls upon the _zenanas_, we should
probably be confronted by some buck-Afghan, with a knife in his hand and
an oath in his mouth. Love and war do not go hand in hand now in Cabul,
although they did forty years ago; so we must sigh in vain for a glimpse
of that beauty which the _yashmaks_ hide so jealously when the Cabul
ladies flit by us in the narrow streets of the city. When a more than
usually coquettish white-clad figure passes, we turn hastily about; but
what can be seen?—
“Nought but the rippling linen wrapping her about.”
And what is she like in the seclusion of the _zenana_? Ah, that lies
apart from our life in Sherpur; but perhaps I may be able to partly
answer the question. “How we Live in Sherpur,” can only have as its
companion picture—
------------------------------------
“HOW THEY LIVE IN CABUL.”
It is not an attractive life, that which we have come upon in Cabul; but
it has its lights and shades and a certain robustness of its own, which
is now more than ever apparent. The reaction after the excitement of the
siege of Sherpur was terribly depressing for a time in the city, as
every Mahomedan citizen felt that a heavy punishment might fall upon
him, and in most cases justly. But these ignorant fanatics did not know
that the Government of England is a limited monarchy tempered by Exeter
Hall. Now they have fully realized that we were in earnest in offering
an amnesty to all who would return peacefully to their homes, and have
renewed their trading with a vigour which shows their appreciation of
our new rupees. As in every Oriental city, the life led by men and by
women runs on very different lines; the concerns of the bazaar and the
affairs of the _zenana_ are as distinct as day and night; the one is all
energy and strife, the other dulness and monotony. Woman has no place in
the creed of Mahomed beyond the base one of continuing the Mussulman
race; she is an inferior creature, to be shut up and kept from mischief
within the four walls of her master’s harem. If she loves her lord—or
some part of him, as she generally shares his affection and bodily
presence with other wives or slaves—she dutifully brings forth a son to
continue the race, and then her mission ends. She is a piece of
furniture, a belonging of the _zenana_; and if nature has not gifted her
with a love of intrigue, she must be content to vegetate in seclusion
until, in the ripeness of years, she drops out of life. She knows she
has nothing to expect beyond the grave; does not her creed teach her
that her lord will lie in the lap of _houris_ steeped in eternal sensual
bliss? Perhaps in her wildest flights of imagination, she may gain hope
from some such mad idea as that she and her fellows will be blended into
one great mass, from which will spring millions of _houris_ to people
the heavens, and wait with open arms for the souls of the faithful. May
not she, in _houri_ form, fall to the lot of the man she loved on earth,
who despised her as something too trivial for much consideration? Such a
belief may comfort her; let us hope it does.
But woman in Cabul has fewer restrictions placed upon her than in other
Oriental cities, and the semi-freedom she enjoys has been the theme upon
which travellers in old days delighted to enlarge. Cabul is declared by
them to be the city of intrigue. This belief arose from the practice of
women, closely veiled from head to foot, being allowed to pass
unmolested along the public streets, unattended and with no restrictions
upon their movements. One enthusiastic writer, speaking no doubt from
experience, asserts that the mind of an Englishman cannot imagine the
extent to which intrigues are carried on in this forward city. Wife,
daughter, or mother, could, according to his account, pass from the
_zenana_ into the narrow thoroughfares about, and with perfect
confidence visit any lover upon whom her eyes had fallen. Every figure
loses its identity in the folds of the white drapery which completely
envelopes a woman from head to heel, and the _yashmak_ covering the face
blots out the features more thoroughly than a mask. Undoubtedly this
freedom of action does exist, in appearance at least, still; white-robed
figures flit about the bazaars and the by-streets, and no one pays
regard thereto; but they are women of low degree, with no charms to
guard, and probably with but little thought of pleasure in their minds.
If finest linen, a gold embroidered boot, a coquettish mincing step,
attract the attention of a Kafir, the latter will invariably find that
the lady is attended by some duenna, or more probably by two or three
male domestics, who clear a way for their mistress through the motley
crowd. The Afghans are said to be peculiarly jealous of their women:
witness the proclamation issued to our soldiers before Kushi was
left!—and though love laughs at locksmiths, it seems incredible that any
sirdar or well-to-do citizen should allow the inmates of his _zenana_
liberty to wander about at will, with no eye to watch their movements.
We are rather at a disadvantage in Cabul; for a Kafir to explore the
_penetralia_ of the gloomy high-walled houses is next to impossible. We
have a Club, it is true, but it is not on the deliciously free
principles of the Orleans; and if we were to institute five-o’clock tea,
and send out cards of invitation to Madame Shere Ali and Madame Yakub
Khan, and harem, or any other ladies of distinction in Cabul, there
would be no chance of the invitation being accepted. The ladies might
rise to the occasion, but their grim guardians would baulk their
intentions with a vengeance. To make calls of ceremony would be equally
impossible, for there are no grass-widows in Cabul with whom to enjoy a
cosy _tête-à-tête_. If, by some lucky combination of the stars, a Kafir
were fortunate enough to gain the sacred ground of the _zenana_, its
simple-minded inmate would probably lisp out in fluid, but passionless,
Persian:
“I do not seek a lover, thou Christian knight so gay;
Because an article like that has never come my way.”
In fact, a stranger in the harem would be a very indefinite article
indeed in Cabul, for it is not every one who can hope for the good
fortune of a McGahan, who, in the Khanate of Khiva, wandered into a
_zenana_, and was treated with hospitality and caresses by its inmates.
But it may be as well to be more definite in dealing with the life of
women in Cabul; and I will endeavour to describe, in all fairness, what
I have personally seen. To take the commonest figures seen in the
bazaar: It is not unusual for women to do their “shopping” in public,
though they lack the confidence of Western ladies, who parade their
men-kind on such important occasions.
A Cabul lady stops before a stall in the bazaar, puts out a small fair
hand, richly ringed, and touches any article she needs: generally a
piece of Bokhara silk or English linen. The shopkeeper, sitting
cross-legged among his goods, names his price; the customer quietly
pulls the silk, say, towards her, bows her head, and, raising her
_yashmak_ an inch, looks critically upon the article. The seller stares
over her head at the busy life about him, says not a word till the
examination is at an end, and finally, after a little bartering, sells
the silk, or throws it back into its place. In either case he cannot
have any idea of the identity of the customer, though from her jewellery
he may make a shrewd guess as to the length of her purse. Not every
woman’s fingers are circled by rings, or her _yashmak_ secured with
loops of gold. And so the lady passes on, pausing, perhaps, at other
stalls, but never for long. To loiter before the goods which may charm
her eye seems no part of her business, even when a more than usually
brilliant display of silk or embroidered shoes attracts her. Her walk is
hurried, her time, perhaps, is precious, and she glides among the crowd
quietly, and as if shunning attention, though no one, unless he be a
Kafir, pays the least regard to her presence. Finally, she turns off
into some side-street, and disappears in a narrow gateway leading, one
supposes, to her home. The majority of such women shrink from any chance
contact with a Kafir of any kind; though such little bits of comedy have
been acted as one of our gallants peering into doors and gateways only
to find an unveiled face turned towards him, and that face generally
very plain and unprepossessing. Such dames are of an uncertain age, and
are not coy in thus rewarding attention or admiration, though such
reward never goes beyond unveiling for an instant.
I had occasion quite lately to visit the house of a merchant in Cabul, a
Mussulman of some little standing, and by a lucky accident got a glimpse
of the home life of such a woman as I have described shopping in the
bazaar. My companion and guide—who or what he was matters not—led me
through tortuous streets, so filthy, that to tread them was alone a
trial, until at a nail-studded door he stopped and knocked twice or
thrice with the large iron “knocker” on its centre. All was still and
silent inside for a moment, and then a picturesque-looking ruffian, no
doubt the Afghan serving man of the period, suddenly withdrew a bolt
inside, after examining us through the wicket. We stumbled along a
passage dark enough to make the few holes about more treacherous than
holes ever were before, and then suddenly came a stream of light and we
were in an open courtyard. It was commonplace enough: there were no
“murmuring fountains, orange trees, or shady nooks,” such as Eastern
travellers love to dwell upon; simply a brown square plot of ground with
rooms, two storeys high, surrounding it on all sides. On the left,
facing the south, were the quarters of the owner; his reception-room and
_zenana_, side by side; with a narrow doorway, screened by a _purdah_
(in Western phrase, a _portière_), leading from one to the other. The
rooms were open to the air on the courtyard side, elaborately-carved
woodwork in the shape of sliding panels being the only screen from the
sun. The interior was comfortable enough: the floors were covered with
carpets, over which was laid clean white linen; the walls were either of
carved wood or plaster, painted in gay colours. The interior of the
_zenana_ I could not see while in the reception-room, but from it
presently appeared a bedizened youngster, who made friends at once. The
sound of whispers behind the _purdah_ came clearly enough into the room;
and I would not be sure that we were not being examined by feminine
eyes, while our host courteously served tea in beautiful little bowls
that would have delighted a china-maniac. In an inner room, divided from
the reception-room by light wooden pillars, were carved recesses, in
which was a wealth of china: teapots from Russia, howls from Kashgar and
China, and others of a nondescript kind, covered with richly-coloured
designs in yellow, green, and chocolate, the three colours most in
favour among Cabulis.
Our visit was a short one, but as the master of the house led the way to
the door, I lingered behind, and was rewarded by a glimpse into the
_zenana_. It differed but little in appearance from the other room; the
carpets were guiltless of any linen-cover, the walls were more
brilliantly painted, cushions and pillows were scattered about, and the
three inmates were on tiptoe of expectation as we passed. Two faces I
saw; one old and wrinkled, the other young and pleasing. “An old wife
and a younger rival” was the conclusion I arrived at, and their dress
bore out this idea. The elder wore nothing but pure white; the younger
was gorgeous in green and crimson silk. Just a glance, and it was over:
the child I have mentioned was being caressed by the third wife, whose
back was towards her companions, and another child was lying asleep
among the pillows. But for the presence of the children, it would have
seemed dulness personified, as signs of occupation or amusement there
were none. So much for the bit of quiet home life in Cabul: how
monotonous it must be, none can tell, except, perhaps, those who have to
endure it!
The dress of the Afghan women, especially those whose husbands have rank
or wealth, is extremely picturesque. A short, tightly-fitting bodice of
green, blue, or crimson silk, confines the bust, but buttons so closely
up to the throat, that one can only guess at the proportions of
shoulders and bosom. The bodice is generally embroidered with gold, and
then becomes so stiff and unyielding, that it is virtually a corset. In
this cold weather the short arms of this _sari_ are continued down to
the wrist, and the vest itself is padded with wool for the sake of
warmth. Trousers _à la Turc_, baggy and flowing as Fatima’s, and tightly
fastened at the ankles with gold or silver bands, a broad silk
_kummerbund_ of almost endless length about the waist, with the ends so
disposed that they become skirts; dainty white socks and a tiny slipper
or shoe, gold-embroidered—such is the indoor dress of a Cabuli lady;
while covering and hiding all save feet and ankles is the voluminous
white garment drawn over the head and face, and falling to the heels.
These veiled beauties wear jewellery alike about the forehead, hands,
wrists, arms, ankles, and ears; while handsome gold loops secure the
_yashmak_ at the back of the head; the hair being drawn from the
forehead and tied tightly into a knot, Grecian fashion. The length of a
silk _kummerbund_, which encircles a lady’s waist, is sometimes
astonishing: one I saw must have been 12 yards long by 18 inches broad,
and the end was even then not forthcoming. The slippers and shoes are of
Cabuli make, and are very pretty. On a pale green ground beautiful
patterns are worked with gold and silver thread and particoloured silk,
until the effect is more like that of a fairy slipper than one for daily
use. When a stout leathern sole is put on with high heels rudely bound
with iron, the work of art is complete. The stalls in which these
slippers and shoes are made are the gayest in the whole bazaar. A Cabuli
lady’s foot is small, almost to deformity, and the baggy trousers by
contrast make them appear exceedingly _petite_.
From the few faces seen, being chiefly those of old or _passée_ women,
it is difficult to judge of the famed beauty which the Cabulis are said
to boast. The children are certainly, as a whole, the prettiest I have
ever seen. Their complexions are red and white, with a tinge of olive
pervading the skin, eyes black and lustrous, well-shaped features, teeth
to make a Western beauty envious, and bright, intelligent looks, that
sadly belie the race to which they belong. Their mothers _must_ be
beautiful, for their fathers are generally villanous-looking: the men
losing all the pleasing traits which they possessed as boys. The lady I
have described as seen in the _zenana_ for a moment was certainly
handsome, and was far lighter in complexion than a Spaniard; her eyes
were really worthy of the praises sung by Hafiz, but the sensuous lips
were a little too full and pouting. It was just such a face as one
imagines in a harem, and would be in keeping with the langourous life of
a voluptuary, to whom sensuality is a guiding star. Such faces always
lack character, and would soon prove insipid in the eyes of the West.
The Cabuli lady, when journeying, is either carried in an elaborate
wicker-work cage covered with the inevitable flowing linen, or rides,
Amazon-fashion, on a pony behind her lord. At times she is coquettish
enough to throw warm glances at Kafirs, behind her husband’s back, and
is no doubt delighted at the admiration bestowed upon her
daintily-slippered feet.
What the mission in life is of such women, in such a country as this,
may be summed up in a few words. She must play the part of a mother,
rather than a wife, for her sympathies go all with the children left to
be brought up in the _zenana_, and not with their father, whose course
lies in different lines in the busy scheming world outside. That some
women of strong character occasionally share their husband’s ambition,
and aid him by advice and suggestions, is quite true. The mother and
wife of Yakub Khan are both women of exceptional ability, influencing
and guiding men, and well versed in state intrigues. But the exceptions
are few, and only prove the general rule obtaining in all Mahomedan
countries, that woman is a cypher outside the four walls of the
_zenana_.
The life of her master is a most difficult subject. To fathom the
motives of an Afghan, or to explain his actions, would be a task for a
Machiavelli, and I must deal with it in such manner as I can. It has
always been held that the distinguishing features of a Cabuli are
turbulence and treachery, and late events have only confirmed men in
this belief. The arrangement of the city into quarters, each securely
shut off from its neighbours by strong walls and fortified gateways, the
part played by the Bala Hissar as a citadel dominating the tower below,
and affording a refuge for the sovereign during bloody _émeutes_, proved
to travellers in past days that the life of the populace was far from a
peaceful one. Even now, though the old subdivisions of the city exist
but in name,—except the Kizilbash quarter, which has still the means of
cutting itself off from outside by strong gateways,—it is apparent that
the Amirs never trusted their lives and property to the tender mercies
of their citizen-subjects. When our army arrived at Cabul, the Bala
Hissar was still a fortress capable of resisting successfully any attack
made without artillery, and within its walls were the palace of the
Amir, his harem, and his arsenal. Our Envoy, too, was lodged in the
fortress, as the fanaticism of the Cabulis might have prompted an attack
upon the Residency, if it had been in the heart of the city, with its
bazaars re-echoing to the prayers of the _moollahs_ and the cries of
_fakirs_. That safety was not found even in the Bala Hissar, was due
rather to the weakness of Yakub Khan and his contemptuous treatment of
an exasperated soldiery than to any independent action of the populace.
It is true that the city rabble joined in the attack upon the Embassy,
but that was only when military discipline was at an end, and the men
who should have guarded the lives of the Amir’s guests were in the full
cry of mutiny. Again, the building of Sherpur, with its range of
barracks and new fortress upon Bemaru (planned, but never executed) was
due to Shere Ali’s dread of Cabul and its armed mob. With the Bala
Hissar on one side and Sherpur on the other, he was sanguine enough to
hope for peace and quietness in his capital; and these he would no doubt
have secured if he had not foolishly quarrelled with the Indian
Government, whose subsidy gave him the wherewithal to raise and equip a
large army and rear the walls of his new fortress.
Every Afghan is a soldier, and the Cabulis are no exception to the rule.
Their stalls are to them what homesteads are to the mountain tribes and
peasants; and when extortion or taxation grows in their opinion
excessive, they are ready to turn out armed to the teeth, and by open
menace to intimidate their rulers. A tyrant alone can hope to keep them
in due subjection; and, as a rule, Cabul has been under the influence of
tyranny for many centuries. As a natural result, when turbulence
occasionally subsides, treachery flourishes; and the history of the city
is full of instances of treacherous plots, and successful if bloody
intrigues. Coming as we have done in the guise of an avenging army, we
have greatly modified the normal appearance of things in the city, our
proclamation forbidding the carrying of arms having destroyed the
picturesque ruffianism which used to stalk through the bazaars armed
with gun, shield, and knife, and ready for all emergencies. Not a weapon
now is seen except in an armourer’s shop, or on the person of some armed
retainer of a Sirdar who has thrown in his lot with the British. It is a
change for the better in our eyes; but when the people see our soldiers
passing along with Martini or Snider slung over the shoulder, they must
long to ruffle it again, and bring out from their hiding-places their
own rifles and matchlocks. But it is not to be _yet_; though, when we
again leave this “God-governed country” to its own devices, the good
people of Cabul will once more be able to resume their old habits.
The influential citizens of Cabul are broadly divisible into two
representative classes—the Sirdar and the trader; and in taking one from
each of these sections, I shall be able fairly to sketch the general
life led by the more orderly of the Cabulis. There are, of course, a
mass of men: artizans, street-hawkers, retainers, and hangers-on
generally, who furnish the rabble which has often made mob-law supreme
within the walls; but these may be left to themselves for a little. The
Sirdar has always been a prominent figure in Afghan history; he is to
all intents a feudal chief, and answers very much to the Baron who, in
the Dark Ages, had so much to say in the government of Western
countries. He is generally of royal blood, a cousin (some twenty times
removed) of the Amir; but this relationship with the sovereign is not
advantageous if the Sirdar is at all ambitious of power. There are so
many revolutions of the wheel in the Barakzai dynasty, that the
assumption of dignity by a subordinate is always jealously watched by
the Amir, and promptly nipped in the bud just when it bids fair to
become dangerous. Ties of kin are but little regarded in a country where
continually father is arrayed against son, brother against brother; and
where human life is held so cheaply that scarcely a man reaches middle
age without having blood upon his hands. The Sirdar has either to muzzle
his ambition and wait patiently for a chance of suddenly acquiring
power; or to accept a colourless life of ease, with nothing to trouble
his mind except the caprices of a favourite slave-girl, or the loss of a
valuable horse. It is not surprising, then, that in Cabul there are
Sirdars perfect in dissimulation and adepts in intrigue; and others mere
slaves of their sensuality, to whom the world means merely _pillaus_ and
pillows, cakes and concubines. Such men are those loved by Cæsar:
... “men that are fat;
Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o’ nights.”
And the easy-going Sirdar answers so fully to this description, that it
would seem as if the cares of life sat very lightly upon him. Such men
are too characterless to repay observation; and though we see many of
them here, we pass them by contemptuously, except when a mountain of
flesh more than usually formidable looms upon us in cantonments. They
are not men given to fighting or political intrigue; and such as we have
now among us are anxious only as to their allowances which the “Great
British Government” guarantees to them while they are faithful to its
interests. If they are time-servers, it is simply because they have no
idea beyond the present one of comfort and quietness; if we were
defeated they would probably make their obeisance to the new rulers, and
would settle down calmly to their daily enjoyment of the fat of the land
in their well-stocked harems. There were such men among our own
hard-headed Barons ages ago, who watched their more ambitious compeers
make and ruin dynasties, and lived placidly through all the turmoil
without even being partisans.
But the other type of Sirdar is a very different person: he holds that
to be powerful is the salt of life, and his aim from youth to old age is
to seek power in all its forms. He is generally rich and a lover of
show; valuing money for the advantage to which it can be turned in many
ways, and estimating pomp at its real worth—to impress the ignorant and
humiliate the inferior. His life as now made up is not to outward
seeming one of much importance, but not one of us can hope to penetrate
beneath its surface, and examine the many schemes which pass through his
mind. He lives in one of the large, high-walled houses which are studded
about the city, though he has a “villa” or two in pleasant Koh-Daman, or
one of the near valleys. If one visits him, the courtesy with which he
receives a guest is that of a polished gentleman, flavoured, perhaps too
highly, with the Eastern affectation of humility. His house is reached
through byways and along covered-in streets, so dark and noisome that
one expects to meet a ghazi at every turn. But all is quiet, and finally
a bit of blue sky is seen overhead, a narrow doorway is passed through,
and the square courtyard of the house gained. A few horses, saddled and
bridled, are standing in a sunny corner; a dozen picturesque-looking
ruffians are lounging about; the great man is at home. We find him in a
long room squatting on an ottoman with a dozen friends and associates
about him, to whom he has doubtless been expounding some new and
brilliant idea that has occurred to him. He is politely anxious about
his visitor’s health, thanking God that it is well with him, and
inquires if “the General” also is well. His conversation is guarded, but
he makes up for his reticence by his hospitality: it would be derogatory
to his dignity if the rite were not duly honoured; and in a few minutes
trays bearing little cups of sweetened tea, sweetmeats, nuts and grapes,
are being handed round by two or three of the loungers we passed in the
courtyard. This tea is a mystery to me; it is always ready; it is always
_good_, and one can sip cup after cup with an enjoyment that positively
increases with indulgence. The Sirdar’s friends are mostly notable men:
that grey-bearded old gentleman on his right is a tribal chief of some
importance, who has come from his distant village to see how things move
in Cabul after the late _jehad_; that dark-visaged man is a Bokhara
trader, whose mind holds news of the White Czar and of the changing
fates of the Central Asian Khanates; while his counterpart is another
trader returned from Hindustan, where he has, perhaps, seen and learnt
much that may shape the Sirdar’s views in future. Behind the Sirdar is a
richly embroidered _purdah_ veiling the entrance to the _zenana_,
wherein the quiet life of the women slowly moves. Our conversation is
short and purely ornamental, and we take our leave, pleasantly impressed
with the courtesy shown, but pondering over the depth of Afghan
duplicity which is so cunningly hidden. The Sirdar passes his morning
among his friends, and in the afternoon he will probably visit General
Roberts or Major Hastings, the Chief Political Officer, to learn much,
but to impart little. How far he can be trusted no one knows, not
excepting even himself. If by serving us he can make his position
secure, he will “sell” his nearest friends; if he thinks his interests
are safe with men opposing us, he will thwart our projects with all the
skill he possesses. His life now is not so restless as in old days, as
our army has broken up all settled government, and the prospect is so
hazy, that to dabble too openly in dangerous schemes might land him in
distant Calcutta, to bear Daoud Shah company. Our Sirdar has lakhs of
money hidden away in his house or buried in some secret spot; but he is
cunning enough to swear that he lost greatly when Mahomed Jan held
Cabul, and asks the British Government to recoup him, as he has always
been faithful to its interests. The new influences at work upon his life
are not so welcome to him, as they are novel and not to be easily
understood; and he would far prefer the old order of things, when he
could pit himself against some rival and gain his ends by crooked ways
that he knows we should not countenance. If his chances just now of
being shot or stabbed are not so great as formerly, he does not, with
his fatalistic ideas, appreciate the change; and at times he grows
sullen, and is discontented with our temporary rule.
The trader is a very different personage: he has seen men and cities,
and his chief aim is to amass wealth, which he believes to be the
keystone of happiness. His vocation now in Cabul is to make fabulous
profits out of the British army of occupation which has invaded the
sanctity of the city, and cowed its fanatical populace. In his heart of
hearts the trader hates us sincerely; but he will endure curses from the
Commissariat, or hard words from under-strappers, for the sake of the
few lakhs of rupees he hopes to pocket. He will take contracts for
anything, from sheep to _charpoys_, and will fleece everyone dealing
with him with such calm self-assurance, that one is inclined to adopt,
once for all, the theory that the Afghans are, indeed, the lost tribes
of Israel. He is a power in the city, for he has money always at his
command; and though he may have suffered grievously from extortion, he
is shrewd enough to know that complaints are useless. He will visit our
friend the Sirdar, and will gain his countenance and help in some
nefarious transaction, perhaps such as “bearing” the money market,
cutting off our sheep supply, or raising the prices of articles suddenly
in demand. He may play the part of political spy in return for the
Sirdar’s help, or become a principal in some scheme that requires
delicate working. The trader has his house, which also serves as a
store-house for his goods, in some filthy corner of Cabul; and some near
relative acts as a partner, and does the dirty work of retailing his
goods from a narrow stall in the bazaar. Should a big transaction be
coming off, with some merchant from the Khanates, in silks, furs, or
precious stones, the trader has the universal tea-drinking, to which he
invites the stranger, and he spends days in ceaseless chafering until
the prices are duly fixed and the bargain concluded. In the bazaar
itself but little trade on a large scale is carried on, the travelling
merchants storing their goods in one or other of the large _serais_,
while they let it be known from stall to stall that they have
merchandise on sale. The trader is naturally of a peaceable disposition,
and as his house is usually stored with rich goods, and his hoards of
money are buried beneath the ground in his courtyard, he dreads an
outbreak by the populace, who may levy contributions upon his effects.
But he has within him the Afghan instinct of sturdy resistance to all
assailants. With his iron-studded door closed against intruders, with
half a dozen servants armed _à la Cabul_ with gun pistol, and knife, he
is no mean antagonist to deal with. He would scarcely join in a tumult
except when his fanaticism overcame his better judgment, for there are
too many risks to be run when once a populace like that of Cabul has
broken free from all control. The trader in this respect is considerably
removed from the mere stall keeper, who is always ripe for riot, and is
never better pleased than when turning out fully armed. We have seen a
great deal since our occupation of the trader, and he does not improve
upon acquaintance. He is cringing and subservient when a tight hand is
kept upon him, but beneath his plausibility is a fund of cunning, which
carries him triumphantly through all his knavery. Like the Sirdar, he is
an instrument we are forced to use in this unprofitable country, but
which is to be thrown away without compunction when done with.
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