The Amîr’s Reflection in the Window.
One day after a sitting, when luncheon was brought, I happened to notice His Highness moving his head from side to side. I wondered what he was doing; then he turned to me with a smile, and said he saw his reflection in the glass of the window, but was surprised to find that it did not move as he moved. He could not understand it for a moment. Then he saw the explanation. The portrait was standing on its easel in the room, and it was the reflection of his effigy, not of himself, that he saw. I thought this was a very good sign; it seemed to show that, at any rate, I had caught the attitude and general look of the Amîr.
After lunch His Highness withdrew, and I put the easel and picture at one end of the room and sat down at the far end with a cigar, to take a comprehensive look at the thing. It happened to be standing in exactly the place where the Amîr usually sits. Presently there came running in a little Page boy with a message from the Harem serai. He turned to the picture at once, and said, “Sahib, Salaam aleicoum.” Then he saw what he had done, for everyone laughed. He seemed very much taken aback and ran out of the room.
The Amîr as an Art Critic.
His Highness often gave me the benefit of his criticisms, and although he did not profess to be a painter, his remarks were so redolent of common sense, that they were well worth listening to. A painter staring at his picture, day after day as it grows under his hand, may completely overlook faults that are obvious even to an untrained eye. Hence, I always listened to the Amîr’s remarks with interest. He could tell me when a thing struck him as in some way not true, though he could not tell me exactly what was wrong, nor in what way to remedy the defect. These I puzzled out for myself. As an example: he said one day that the paint had become rubbed, showing the canvas through, and he pointed to the spot—on the end of the nose. It was not the paint rubbed off, but I had put a touch of high light on the spot indicated, and the Amîr’s remark showed me that my “high light” was too white and too strong, or it would never have caught his eye. I altered it.
Another day, looking at the picture, he said it needed something, he hardly knew what. Suddenly, he sent a Page off to another room and the boy returned with a Russian tea-tray which had a picture on it—a gorgeous sunset behind some mountains.
“Bibín,” said the Amîr, “See! something like that is needed.”
I was nonplussed for a moment: the tea-tray was too awful for words. Then I saw what His Highness meant.
“Sahib! shuma rast megoyèd,” I said, in admiration. “Sir! you speak truly. I will remedy the fault.”
In a few minutes I had put in a shadow behind the head, which threw it up wonderfully. I had not noticed, till the Amîr pointed it out, that the head had rather the look of being cut out and stuck on the canvas. His Highness saw there was a want of harmony somewhere, and his tea-tray showed me where.