At the Court of the Amîr: A Narrative

by John Alfred Gray

Cholera had died out, but small-pox invaded Kabul, and in its train came erysipelas.

In Paghman I was located in a khirgar—the Turkoman wigwam I have described. It was also my studio, the light being obtained by moving a flap of canvas from the top.

Before I commenced the portrait Her Highness the Sultana sent me a present of sweets and cashmere embroidery, and when all my preparations were complete the little Prince, accompanied by his tutor and Page boys, came for the first sitting. He asked me to make a sketch of him on paper before I began the painting. I did so, and handed it to him. It seemed to amuse him highly, for he threw back his head and laughed heartily. Whether the act was a childlike mimicry of his father or not I cannot say, but it reminded me most strongly of the Amîr. After that when he came for a sitting he was always merry and bright, and I managed to get a really expressive likeness of him. He was dressed in a gold-embroidered military tunic, hussar fashion, trousers, high boots, and a fur busby. On the breast was an emerald surrounded by pearls. The belt was profusely adorned with diamonds, as was his watch chain; and on the busby was a large emerald. His sword hilt and scabbard were of gold. He was seated in a tall chair, made especially for him; over the knees, as the weather was cold, was a beautiful fur rug. On one side of the chair stood his “Commander-in-Chief,” Mahomed Omer, son of Perwana Khan, and on the other a Page boy—a slave taken in war, who had a singularly pretty face. This boy, however, had not the intelligent expression of the Prince, nor had his eyes the brilliancy of his master’s. It was simply a pretty, weary, mournful face, and therefore in the picture it did not take from the beauty of the Prince’s face. The “Commander-in-Chief,” though intelligent looking, was plain, so that in looking at the picture the eye was caught immediately by the Prince’s face.

Prince Mahomed Omer and his Commander-in-Chief
from a photograph by Arthur Collins, F.G.T.

One day the Prince presented me with a slave boy, telling me to choose which of his Pages I preferred. It was rather an embarrassing offer, for one cannot refuse a gift from a member of the Royal Family, nor in fact from any Afghan, without offending the giver. Of what use was a small slave boy to me? True, I could sell him, or give him away, but my principles were not in accordance with that line of action. I therefore told His Highness that I was busy just then with the painting, but that I would consider the matter and let him know in the course of a day or two which boy I preferred. His Highness forgot all about it, as I hoped he would.

A Lesson in Courtesy.

Another time he heard one of the Page boys speak of me as “the Feringhi.” It was remarkable to see the Prince’s look of indignation and anger, it so exactly resembled the Amîr’s. He called the boy up and spoke very severely to him, ordering him in the future to address me as “Doctor Sahib.” As a punishment he made him bow to all the other boys and call them “Sahib.” The Prince was a little over three years of age at this time.

As there were three portraits instead of one to paint I was some time at Paghman, and became skilled in the art of eating pilau and kourma with my fingers, and eschewing forks and knives, for the Sultana had insisted upon my being the guest of the Prince. I brought with me, beside my guard, the Priest Compounder, who knew some English, and only one servant, an Afghan. Accommodation for servants was limited in Paghman, and though one could allow an Afghan servant to sleep on the ground in one’s tent, one could not have a Hindustani in the same position. In the evenings, after dinner, the Prince’s “Commander-in-Chief,” little Mahomed Omer, came in. He sat on the ground and chattered away, eating grapes while I smoked and aired my Persian.

While the painting was in progress Mr. Pyne visited Paghman to hold an interview with the Amîr; he came and stayed with me. It was snowing when he arrived, and I found he had fever. As he sat shivering, unable to get warm, I recommended the “sandali,” which he had never yet tried. The charcoal was brought all glowing in the brazier; the wooden framework and the quilt were arranged, and we sat on the carpet amidst the large pillows, drawing the quilt over our knees. There is no need to be shaking with fever in order to appreciate a sandali: nevertheless, when one is in that unfortunate position a sandali seems one of the wisest inventions of man. Mr. Pyne thought so at the time. I would not, however, say that a sandali is to be recommended when more sanitary means of becoming warm are to be procured. A dose or two of quinine and Mr. Pyne was soon all right.