“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!