The next morning I woke up as usual about six, opened the windows of the inner room and the top sash of one of the outer windows, to let in the light and air. I could hear Hafiz, the compounder, who was a Priest, reciting aloud his prayers in the servants’ room. It took him, as a rule, an hour and a half to two hours to say his prayers in the early morning. During my illness I had had the Armenian sleep on the floor of my room, and the noise I made in opening the windows woke him.
“Sir, how do you do?” said he.
“I open the windows,” I said. “That is how I do.”
“Sir, why you not call me? I open windows.”
“Open them, then,” I said.
“Sir!” said he, “my wish is not I get up.”
I went to the door of the servants’ room. Hafiz stopped his prayers to say, “Sir?” I told him to bring me some tea. He boiled the water, and brought me some tea in a very short time, then went on with his prayers.
I wanted to continue a letter home, but it was too dark to see till half-past seven. Outside it was snowing fast: there was a dull and leaden looking sky, and it was bitterly cold. The weather had been very changeable. We had had rainy muggy days, hot sunshiny days, snowy days, and bitterly cold, dull, windy days, one after another. The result was that people went about sneezing or coughing. At eight I had my breakfast, hot bread and milk, and then went off to the Prince’s house to see that his arm was progressing satisfactorily. From there I went on to the Palace. It had ceased snowing, and the clouds had broken.
The First Sitting for the Amîr’s Portrait.