At the Court of the Amîr: A Narrative

by John Alfred Gray

Visit to Prince Hafiz Ullah.

After the inevitable tea, I took leave of their Highnesses and departed. On the way home, I saw the tutor of Prince Hafiz Ullah at the window of his Prince’s house. He smiled and beckoned me to come in. There was a sentry at the door, and the Armenian and I went in. The house was not so good as that of the Baby Prince, nor was it as good as mine.

Prince Hafiz Ullah was seated on the ground on a leopard skin, and as there were no chairs I also sat on the ground on a sort of mattress. The Armenian went off to my house, which was quite near, for some cigarettes, and I stayed with the Prince for about an hour and a-half, till the heat of the afternoon was less. His Highness courteously said that I was not a servant in Afghanistan, but his friend and his brother. He asked if I would go again with him to the park to see the wrestling, as the sports were not over.

As this was my first visit to little Hafiz Ullah Khan, he asked me to accept a present: a leather pocket-book, a pocket-knife, and a walking-stick, the best he had.

I have often been somewhat surprised at the inability of most Afghans to distinguish a genuine article from an imitation. Merchants make a harvest in the country, by taking advantage of this want of knowledge.

At half-past four we started for the park. The wrestling and dancing were a repetition of the exhibition of the day before. The Turkomans still carried all before them. They were not all such hugely tall men, though they were all excessively muscular. There were no Kabuli wrestlers this day, but, as I happened to say I thought the Kabulis were specially good wrestlers, the Prince gave orders for a display of Kabuli wrestling for the morrow.

We got home at half-past seven in the evening, and I sent some photographs to the Prince—I had nothing else to give him—one of our Queen, one of the Prince of Wales, and two or three more that I had. He was pleased, as he is fond of pictures, and he was particularly interested in the portraits of the Queen and Prince of Wales.

The next day was Friday, the Sabbath, and the Prince sent me an invitation to lunch with him in the Palace Gardens. His Highness, the Amîr, was away out on the plains shooting, and there was no garden attached to the Prince’s house. Two soldiers came to escort me—not with fixed bayonets, for I was not a prisoner, at any rate, not nominally, though perhaps actually; for the position was, with all its interest, not very far removed from honourable confinement.

The sun shone brilliantly, and we sat under the almond trees. The Prince, in native costume, sat on a sort of divan with carpet and cushions. I had a chair and table. The tutor and others were there, and the guards were posted around under the trees. I smoked cigarettes and talked. It was very pleasant, surrounded as we were by flowers and grass, and there were so many trees that we seemed almost in the heart of a wood. I actually saw the Prince laugh!—for the first time. He was a dignified and polished little man, and has, the Amîr says—with one other son—the “Royal manner.”