“He was with me in Samarcànd, and for a little thing he turned and cursed me. These were his words”—and the Amîr repeated the curse. “Is this so?” he said to Nassir. The old man hung his head in shame.
“He cursed me; he half drew his sword on me, his master. What is this man worthy of?”
There was a dead silence: the shield was forgotten, for behold Nassir’s day had come. It had; but not in the sense anticipated.
“Give him the shield,” said the Amîr. “He was with me in Samarcànd.”
I should finish the story by saying Nassir treasured the shield as the apple of his eye, and shewed it me with honest pride—but no, he sold it next day for what it would fetch. Afghanistan!
When I went to see him he was suffering from lumbago. He was a courtly old man, and he gave me black tea to drink, in a Russian tea-glass.
I saw him at the Court, some time afterwards, and he came up to speak to me. He had a stoop in his shoulders, and the tailor had not cut his tunic properly, so that he had unbuttoned the top two or three buttons to release his throat. It was a gorgeous tunic, richly embroidered with gold; his sword-belt and scabbard were loaded with plates of solid gold, and he had an old-fashioned bowler hat, too large for him, on the back of his head. I was sorry. It took so from the dignity of his appearance; at least in my eyes: not so in the eyes of the Afghans, to them it was quite en règle.
Shortly after my visit to the general, I developed, from being constantly among the sick, a “Hospital throat,” and had to stop at home for a day or two. His Highness sent me a very kind message of condolence; and while I was at home there was brought to me, from the Post Office, a post card written in French and addressed to the “Postmaster-General, Afghanistan.” The Amîr wished to know what was written. I found the card came from the Postmaster of some small Belgian town. It was a proposal on his part to the Postmaster-General of Afghanistan to exchange “stamps.” He was, he explained, a “stamp collector.” With the help of the Armenian I sent a Persian translation to His Highness. The Amîr directed me to write and enquire what was the colour of the stamps the collector required: on receipt of his answer they would be forwarded to him. I imagine His Highness considered that the collection was more for artistic effect than on account of the intrinsic value of the stamps. The Belgian received his stamps in due time.
Just at this time, too, I received a letter from the Editor of one of the Indian papers asking me to contribute a series of articles on Afghanistan. As, however, I was in the service of the Amîr I did not feel justified in doing so, and was compelled to leave the letter unanswered.