“That is my letter, sir. Inform His Highness.” There appeared nothing more to be said, and he turned to the Amîr and addressed him in Persian.
A Courtier’s Influence.
Then His Highness burst forth. I did not understand his words, but there was no mistaking his manner—the knitted brow, the flashing eye and the low rumble, lashing up to a roar. The storm descended upon the heads of the two Hindustanis. They stood shivering, and from yellow became green. They knew, and I afterwards had frequent opportunities of observing, that in moments like this the Amîr is dangerous; men’s lives tremble in the balance. A clever man who has the entrée of the Durbar, and who happens to be in favour, may sometimes on these occasions, by dropping a word here and edging in a sentence there, gradually turn the current of the Amîr’s thought. If he can also by some appropriate witticism bring about a relaxation of the muscles of that grim face, causing a smile or perhaps a laugh, then a man’s life is saved. They, however, more often employ their wits in adding fuel to the fire.
The Hindustanis crept away, and I was about to bow and retire, when His Highness signed to me to stop. I was then informed that breakfast was prepared under the almond trees in the garden, and His Highness desired my company.
This was the first occasion on which the Amîr showed me any act of familiar kindness, and my relief from suspense was such, that in attempting to describe the breakfast I can hardly do full justice to the situation. The air was balmy, as we sat in the shade of the blossoming trees. Sweet-scented flowers were at our feet, and I sat sipping tea and munching macaroons in the luxurious enjoyment of living. The Armenian stood silently behind my chair, and I fancy he too, though in a more realistic sense than I, felt the luxurious enjoyment that mere life could afford.
His Highness spoke to me for some time, though I remember but little of the conversation, except the more full description His Highness gave of his bodily ailments. He did not yet ask me to prescribe for him.
When we reached home, I found my neighbour opposite, the Mirza Abdur-Rashid, had a guest. They were drinking tea together in the garden, and invited me to join them. The guest was a tall, very handsome man, plainly dressed in grey military tunic and astrakhan hat. He had very considerable dignity of manner, and was, I found, the Sirdar Gholam Hussain, a relative of His Highness, of the same clan. It is the duty of this gentleman to wait upon the Amîr at dinner, and to take charge of all food laid before His Highness. It is an honourable and also an onerous task in a country where the danger of poison is ever before the King. The drinking water of His Highness is in charge of a trusted page, the foster-brother of one of the Princes, and when, some time after this, I was attending His Highness medically, this page it was who was entrusted with the keys of the medicine cabinet.
The Blind Singer.
As we chatted over our tea, a blind boy came into the garden to sing. He would have been much improved by a few lessons on voice production, but for all that we listened to him with pleasure. His voice was soft and sweet, with a pathetic ring in it.
