At the Court of the Amîr: A Narrative

by John Alfred Gray

“What infernal nonsense it is calling me to fellows like that.”

“Yes, sir,” said the Armenian, “he is fool man. And that Hakim! he is nothing. His father cannot sit in your presence.” This was soothing, perhaps. As we were going home I met little Mahomed Omer, son of Perwana Khan, the Deputy Commander-in-Chief in Kabul. He was a bright little lad of about thirteen. His face was distinctly of the Tartar type. We grew very friendly, and he often came with his tutor or “Lala” to see me. I gave him my felt hat, and he walked about proudly with it over his ears.

A Day at Takh-ta-Pul.

Soon after this I went to Takh-ta-Pul, the place where my friend Allah Nûr had escaped to, in order to inspect the hospital there. The Commander-in-Chief sent a Captain—Seyd Hussain—a huge Afghan hillman, some six feet three inches high, to accompany me, so one morning he and I and the Armenian and some servants rode off together. Seyd Hussain was quite a friend of mine; he came very often to see me, and afterwards said such polite things, that the Commander-in-Chief used to call him my “son.” We took about an hour over our ride: it was so excessively hot. When we arrived at Takh-ta-Pul, I called upon the Commander-in-Chief, who was there for a few days, had tea with him, and was then conducted to a house prepared for me. I was shown into an upper chamber, carpeted and decorated, which overlooked the garden, a large square one with trees and flowers, and commanded a view of the town and the distant mountains.

My “son” came too, and five or six others, including the Armenian, to amuse me. They sang songs, told stories, and the captain read my future in the palm of my hand: I was surprised to find palmistry an Afghan accomplishment. He told me I should have two severe illnesses in the country, but should return to my native land in safety. We had grapes and tea, and, at about one o’clock, tiffin or lunch. There was roast mutton, I remember, exceedingly oily, which one of my servants, the groom, had cooked for me. This gentleman, whom I had picked up—or rather the Armenian had picked up for me—in Turkestan, was a Peshawuri. He had been a policeman in Burma, he said. He also said he could make a pudding; and he did, a watery rice pudding. Then a pillow was brought, and I lay on the floor and slept for an hour. After that we had more songs and stories, and at six, when the heat of the day had gone, I called again on the Commander-in-Chief and had more tea. He wished me to stay the night, but I remembered I had not inspected the Hospital yet, besides, for all I knew, the Amîr might want me. I decided therefore not to stop.

We started off for the Hospital, which was a little way out of the town. It was precisely like that of Mazar, except that there were only five or six patients in it. These were looked after by a Hakim. In the evening the Captain, the Armenian, and I rode back to Mazar, and I prepared my report for the Amîr. One thing I often regret: it is that I did not at this time act on the Armenian’s suggestion and ride to the ancient city Balkh, which was only some six or seven miles beyond Takh-ta-Pul. However, I had the feeling that I had taken a day off at Takh-ta-Pul, and must not waste any more time when there were so many sick waiting for treatment. Balkh, “the mother of cities,” is situated in a province capable of great cultivation, and was a flourishing city in the time of Alexander the Great. The population, however, was so nearly exterminated by Ghengis Khan, and again by Tamerlane and his successors, that it is doubtful whether it will ever again recover even a moiety of its former importance.

There is at Mazar-i-Sherif a great Mosque or Temple, from which the town takes its name. It is a huge ornate building with minarets, and a lofty cupola built of a shining blue stone. It is held in veneration by all Mussulmans, but more especially by the sect of Shiahs. The Mosque contains a tomb which is supposed to be that of Ali, son-in-law of Mahomed, though some European authorities consider that Ali was buried near Baghdad. Be that as it may, the Mosque possesses considerable revenues, the gifts of wealthy votaries and other pious people, which are used to feed the crowds of indigent pilgrims who, at certain times in the year, flock in great numbers to Mazar. Moreover, the remains of Ali, or whoever the gentleman may be, are capable of working miracles of no mean order. They restore sight to the blind, hearing to the deaf, and health to the sick. During one of the religious festivals which occurred while I was in Turkestan, there were no less than five men whose sight had been restored by their pilgrimage to the Mosque! I know this is true, for the Amîr told me so himself!

The Amîr’s Cool-air Pavilion.

One morning His Highness sent for me to examine his ear. He fancied he had some insect in it. This was in July, and the weather was very hot. I found His Highness seated in a small circular pavilion in the Palace garden. I had often wondered what this little building was. It was a cool-air chamber. There was a door and one window. This window was filled in with interlaced branches of an aromatic shrub; water from a gutter trickled over the lattice work, and a current of air was driven in by a paddlewheel fan, which a man outside worked with a handle. I was ushered into the semi-darkness of the room; I bowed, and a chair was placed midway between the door and the window in an awful draught. After the hot dry air of the outside this horrible little room felt like an ice well. I literally shivered, and there sat His Highness in the full draught, and, what is most unusual, without a head covering.