It will be understood, therefore, that when the last sitting was given and the last touch made, I felt a certain amount of—nervous excitement, while I was waiting for His Highness’s dictum.
The portrait was placed in a good light. His Highness called for a large mirror, which was placed by the side of it, and he sat for some time comparing his reflection in the glass with the picture.
Presently he said that the only fault he could find was that I had, perhaps, given a little too much colour to the cheeks. He said he had that colour when he was younger, but that now he was forty-six (this was in 1890), and his face struck him as being somewhat paler. This did not take long to remedy, and it was shown him again.
“Darust! darust!” said he—“Right!” and the only fault now was that the picture did not speak! He told me that Her Majesty, our Queen, had sent him a photograph of himself, but that, in his opinion, it was not good: that such a likeness as the one I had painted had never before been seen in Afghanistan. This I thought to be quite likely, and yet not be very great praise. Altogether, he was, without doubt, pleased with the portrait. As regards my own opinion: the technique or handling was very amateurish, not that it mattered very much, for no one knew any more about “technique” than I did. It was like the Amîr, certainly; but I often wondered afterwards how I could have painted a strong head so weakly. The only explanation I had was that the diffused light—reflections from white walls and snow—were factors that I ought to have considered more, and in some way or other guarded against.
When the portrait was brought to my house to be varnished, there happened to be a crowd of patients outside, and several people, soldiers and townsfolk, waiting inside for treatment. The picture was escorted by a guard of soldiers: the crowds outside murmured “Salaam aleicoum!” as a lane was made for the procession to enter; those inside sprang to their feet and salaamed also.
A message came, ostensibly from the Sultana, that the portrait was to be conveyed to the Harem for her to see.
The Armenian, with a boldness that surprised me, refused to allow it to leave the house unless a written order from “Amîr Sahib” could be produced—none arrived. Possibly, this may have been a test on the part of the Amîr to see what I should do: for he guards his personal dignity with jealous care.
The Start on a Shooting Expedition.
When the last sitting was over we had lunch at the Palace, and I was informed that, afterwards, His Highness intended to go out shooting. Accordingly, when lunch (or breakfast) was over the Amîr’s shooting costume was brought by the Chamberlain and Pages. The Amîr’s toilet is generally a more or less public function, and I was not required to withdraw. The coat was of olive-green cloth, lined and trimmed with astrakhan, and ornamented like a Hussar’s coat with gold embroidery and shoulder knots. The boots were in the pattern of Russian boots, long ones of soft leather that can be wrinkled down: they were made in Kabul.