CHAPTER XXII.
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.