I became conscious that I was not shaven, and that my collar was an old one and frayed. I had one, among my much-tattered linen—the Afghan washermen dash your linen on a stone to wash it, and starch it with flour—I had one, carefully saved for this very event, but, alas! it was in a portmanteau!
The Armenian said, “Sir, you not care it. Highness know you ill. Other men, who is!”
There was no help for it, and we reached the top of the hill. Here, under a large awning, was a circle of Orientals, in their robes and turbans, seated on the ground. They were the Maleks and Chiefs from the Kabul province. At one side of the circle seated on chairs were His Highness’s two eldest sons, the Princes Habibullah and Nasrullah. I got out of the palanquin and walked feebly into the middle of the circle and bowed to the Princes.
They enquired politely after my health, and Prince Habibullah, turning to the Armenian, said in Persian, “He looks very ill, what is the matter?”
The “High Garden.”
Then he gave orders for me to be taken to the “Baghi Buland,” or “High Garden,” on a hill close by. Accordingly I was carried there. This was where the reception of His Highness was to take place.
The Reception.
There was a temporary pavilion erected, gaily adorned with hangings of crimson and white, and with large bouquets of flowers. It was furnished with carpets, couches, tables, and chairs. There was a part raised some three steps, which commanded a view from the window of a little artificial waterfall, a fountain, trees, and the lovely Baghi Shah Valley. This valley lies outside Kabul, just north of the Chahar Bagh Valley, and separated from it by the Asmai Mountains.
A few people were collected in the Pavilion, and the Armenian brought a chair for me. I knew no one, and felt rather out of it. Presently Malek, the Amîr’s favourite Page, entered, and everyone stood to receive him. He took no notice of anyone, but rushed up to me and enquired how I was. At once the manner of those in the Pavilion altered. When a European in Kabul has become of interest to the Amîr, every one bows the knee—metaphorically speaking—and he has a good time. But once let His Highness’s interest wane, and, as it struck me then, the said European would be likely to have a very middling time.
A crowd began to collect on the Baghi Buland Hill, some entering the Pavilion.