Tailors. “The Railway Guard.” Costume of the Kabuli townsmen.
    Personal effect of the Amîr on costume. Drug shops.

One day soon after I arrived in Kabul the Governor of the city--the
notorious Naib Mir Sultan--of whom I shall have more to say later,
sent to say he was very ill. He had been suffering for days from an
agonizing toothache. I was advised not to visit the Naib because he
was not in favour with the Prince. I therefore sent him some medicine
and directed the Armenian interpreter to go, and if he found a decayed
tooth to introduce a small pellet of cotton wool soaked in creosote. A
day or two after, as I was returning from the hospital, I met the Naib
in one of the bazaars. He was surrounded by a guard of the military
police, whose Chief he was, and by a great crowd of servants. At that
time he was execrated in Kabul. He did not, however, look very evil. He
had a dark skin but not a disagreeable face. I enquired how he was, and
he said the pain had entirely left him. He dismounted, and I examined
the tooth in the street. It was decayed and the socket inflamed. I
wanted to pull it out there and then with my fingers, but he would not
let me touch it.

[Sidenote: The Appearance of the Kabul Bazaars.]

The bazaar in which I met the Naib is a modern one built by the present
Amîr, the street is wider and the shops are better built than those of
the other bazaars.

There are three chief bazaars or streets of shops in Kabul. Two lead
from the direction of the workshop gorge eastward through the town.
One running near the foot of the mountains to the Bala Hissar, and the
other near the middle of the town. These two are for a considerable
distance broader, better paved, and more carefully roofed than the
others. In the best part the houses are two stories high. They are flat
topped, and beams supporting a roof to the bazaar extend across from
house to house. In other parts, where the houses are but one story,
the bazaar is not roofed in. The other chief bazaar extends from a
strong wooden bridge over the Kabul river, southward through the middle
of the town. This too is roofed over in a part of its course, but it
is neither so broad nor so carefully built as the others. There are
a few smaller bazaars and many narrow streets or passages striking
off in different directions from the others. They are badly paved,
undrained, and exceedingly dirty. The shops are small and open, like
stalls, with no front window. The floor of each is raised three or four
feet above the street, and the shopkeeper sits cross-legged among his
goods. At night he closes his shop with shutters, fastening the last
shutter with a chain and a curious cylindrical padlock. Some parts of
the bazaars are reserved for the sale or manufacture of particular
articles. There is, for instance, the shoe bazaar. This is in the
street leading from the wooden bridge south. The Afghan shoes are of
heavy make, are sewn with strips of leather and have the pointed toe
turned upwards. Some are elaborately embroidered with gold. The women’s
shoes or slippers are generally green in colour, and are made with a
high heel. They are almost sandals, having an upper only at the toe.
They are awkward things to walk in, I have noticed, for they drop at
the heel at every step. The native shoes are those most on show, but
one can buy English boots of all kinds, from the elaborate patent
leather of Northampton to the three-and-sixpenny army boot. There are
also long Russian boots made of beautifully soft leather: these are
the fashion among the highest class; and a cheaper Turkoman boot of a
similar shape with a high heel that cavalry soldiers who can afford
the luxury invest in. A shopkeeper is, however, none too ready to show
you his best goods. He does not exhibit them in the shop, for the
Government officials have a way of buying anything that takes their
fancy at their own price.

I noticed in the boot bazaar that in the three-foot space under the
floor of the shop the poorer men, the cobblers, did their business.
There was just room to sit, and there the cobbler sat stitching, with
his nose on a level with the knees of the passers by. A customer with a
shoe to mend squats down beside him and gives his orders. Cobblers who
can’t afford to rent even such a “shop” as this, sit by the roadside
in the shade of a wall or a tree and carry on their business.

[Sidenote: Copper Workers: Tinning of Copper Pots.]

There is a copper bazaar. Though copper is found in Afghanistan, most
of that used comes from India. This bazaar is in the street running
east through the middle of the city. Here, there is shop after shop
of men hammering out copper into the different shaped utensils: the
long necked vase for the chillim, or hubble-bubble pipe: bowls and
pots for cooking kettles: water vases with long neck and handle and
tapering curved spout. The shapes are all those made by their fathers
and forefathers; there is no new design invented. The pots used for
cooking are tinned over inside and out. Supposing the tin has worn off
your cooking pots, you send to the bazaar for one of these men. It is
interesting to watch how he sets to work.

He brings a pair of hand-bellows with him and a stick of tin. Settling
himself on the ground in the garden he digs a shallow hole six or seven
inches across. This is to be his furnace. From it he leads a little
trench about six inches long, which he covers over with clay, placing
his finger in the trench as he moulds each piece of clay over it.
Thus he has a pipe leading to his furnace. The nozzle of his bellows
is fitted into the distal end of the pipe. He begs a little lighted
charcoal from the cook with which to start his “furnace,” piles it
over with black charcoal, blows his bellows, and soon has what fire he
wants. A small boy with him having cleaned the pots with mud and sand,
he places the first one, supported on three stones, over his furnace.
When it is at the proper heat he rubs it round with a rag smeared with
wood ashes, touches it with the stick of tin, then rubs it round again
with his wood ashes, and the pot is tinned. If you are watching him he
may make it extra superfine with another touch of tin and another rub
with the wood ashes, and so he goes on till he has finished them all.

[Sidenote: Tobacco Smoking by the Royal Family.]

Supposing the pot to be tinned is a large one, the small boy, having
thrown in the mud and sand, stands inside the pot, and jerking it round
and round with his hands, cleans it with his bare feet. Describing the
way that the “furnace” is made reminds me that I have seen men prepare
an impromptu tobacco pipe the same way. The principle is exactly the
same, only instead of blowing air through the pipe they suck the smoke
from the tobacco which they have lit with a match. To lie on your
face on the ground in order to get a smoke seems rather excessive,
but if a man has tobacco, a match, and cannot get a pipe, this is one
way out of the difficulty. I have also seen a soldier use his bayonet
for a pipe. He filled the cylindrical part that fits on the muzzle of
the rifle with tobacco, and having put a lighted match on the top, he
fitted his two hands round the lower end and sucked the smoke between
them. Most Afghans are inveterate smokers. The tobacco they smoke is
not the American tobacco that we have. It grows in Kabul, Kandahar,
Herat, and many parts of Afghanistan, but the best comes from Persia.
The leaf is paler, apparently uncured and is not pressed, nor cut,
but simply broken up. I have smoked it, but it is very hot in a short
pipe. It smokes best in the chillim. The Amîr himself when he smokes,
which is not often, generally has a Turkish cigarette. The eldest
Prince, Habibullah, smokes cigars from India. Prince Usuf, the Amîr’s
uncle, one of the younger sons of Amîr Dost Mahomed, smokes American
birdseye tobacco. He is a courtly old gentleman, dresses exceedingly
well, and is of the bluest of the blue blood, and it strikes one as
very incongruous to see him puffing away at a short clay pipe; he never
smokes anything else.

There is the cotton and silk bazaar in the street leading from the
gorge to the Bala Hissar. The shops here are mostly kept by Hindus.
Every Hindu in Kabul, and there is quite a colony of them, has to pay a
poll tax, and is not allowed to wear a blue turban. It must be either
yellow or red--generally they wear red.

Besides the rolls of silk from India and Bokhara, and the plain and
printed cotton goods which come from India, there are many English
undergarments to be seen: for English clothing of every kind is very
fashionable among the upper classes in Kabul. There are cotton and
merino vests, socks, and handkerchiefs hanging on strings across the
little shops. The Hindu shopman in Kabul strikes one as oppressively
civil, he “salaams” so low with the hand on the forehead. The Afghan
trader does not. You can buy or not as you please. If he has a piece
with a yard or two more than you want, often he will not cut it for
you. You can take the lot or leave it, he is not particular. But Afghan
and Hindu alike ask you a much higher price than they will afterwards
take.

If you want to buy anything, you send for a shopkeeper to your house
and ask his price. He tells you. You smile derisively, and offer him
just a third. He is pained, he is indignant, the thing is absurd, he
gave a great deal more than that himself. You say, “Good morning.”
Then he says--Well, he will do what he can, for you are a friend to
the poor, but it will be a dead loss to him; and he knocks a little
off his price. You say, “No,” but add a little on to yours, and so
it goes on for a variable time, derision and sarcasm on your side--a
pained indignation on his. Finally, he takes less than half of what he
asked originally, and is well paid then; but when he goes away you feel
rather as if you had swindled the poor man.

Though shopkeepers in Kabul selling similar goods tend to congregate
in the same bazaar, they do not do so to the same degree as in some of
the towns of India. You find boot shops in other streets than the chief
boot bazaar; and so with other goods for sale.

In the tea-drinking shops you see a large samovar, about three feet
high, in one corner, where water is kept boiling hot by the glowing
charcoal in the centre pipe. Men drop in and seat themselves,
cross-legged, for a chat and a cup of tea. The shops will hold some
three or four. The Afghans like their tea very hot, weak, very sweet,
and flavoured with cardamoms, which are put unpowdered into the teapot.
They pay a pice, that is a little less than a farthing, for a cup of
tea. If a man has some tea with him, and he often has, he can always
send to one of these shops for a teapot and hot water. He pays a pice
for it. There is also a preparation they call “kaimagh-chai,” but this
is comparatively expensive, and is drunk only at festivals or times of
rejoicing. It is a mixture of tea, sugar, cream, soda, and cardamoms.
It is thick, curdy, pink, and very sweet--not at all bad to taste, but
very “rich.” The teapots, cups, and saucers in use are generally from
Russia. Some of the richer men have them from China or Japan.

[Sidenote: The Kabul Restaurant.]

Besides the tea-drinking shops there are the eating-houses. These have
no marble-topped tables or velvet-covered chairs. The shop is the same
as any other shop, except that it looks rather dirtier, probably from
the amount of fat or oil used in the cooking. The customer carries his
lunch away with him, or stands outside to eat it. The space inside
the shop is taken up by the cook and the cooking pots. They sell
kabobs--little cubes of meat skewered on a long stick and grilled over
charcoal. A stick of kabobs, with some bread, is uncommonly good if you
are hungry; you tear the meat off the stick with your fingers. They
have also meat, finely minced and mixed with fat, which they squeeze in
their hand round a thin stick and cook over charcoal. It looks rather
like sausage, I don’t know what it is called. They use any kind of meat
for this--mutton--or, failing that, the flesh of the camel or horse
that age or infirmity has rendered unfit for further service. There
are many kinds of pilau too. Rice, boiled skilfully till every grain
is soft without being soppy, is piled over the meat, stewed to such
tenderness that you can easily tear a piece off with the fingers. There
are chicken pilau, mutton pilau, sweet pilau with raisins in it, and
so on. Kourma is another dish--meat stewed in small pieces and eaten
with stewed fruit.

For his pudding the Afghan goes to another shop, the confectioner’s.
Here there are sweets of many kinds: sugared almonds, “cocoa-nut
ice,” sweets made in the shape of rings, sticks, animals, or men;
gingerbread, soft puddings made of Indian corn, much sweetened. In the
summer different kinds of iced sherbet, lemon, orange, or rose are sold
in the street.

In the bread shop, the baker squatting on the floor kneads out the
dough into large flat cakes and claps it in his oven. The oven is a
large clay jar about three feet across and three feet deep, with the
neck a foot in diameter. This is buried beneath the shop, the mouth
being level with the floor, and is packed round with earth. It is
heated by making a fire inside. When the heat is sufficient, and the
fire has burnt out, the baker puts his hand in the mouth and flaps the
flat doughy cake against the wall of the oven, where it sticks. When
baked, it generally brings away some grains of charcoal or grit with
it. You pay two pice (a little less than a halfpenny) for a cake of
bread a foot and a-half long, a foot wide, and an inch thick.

Flour is ground in a water mill. A hut is built by the side of some
stream which has a sufficient fall. The water pours down a slanting
trough over the water wheel, and turns two circular flat stones which
are arranged horizontally in the hut. The miller, squatting down,
throws the grain into an aperture in the upper wheel and scoops up the
flour as it is ground away from between the stones on to the floor.
The bread made from the flour varies very much in grittiness, some is
hardly at all gritty. The Afghans are very particular about eating
their bread hot, they don’t care to eat it cold unless they are on a
journey. One of their proverbs is, “Hot bread and cold water are the
bounteous gifts of God,” “Nan i gurrum wa ab i khunuk Niamati Illahist.”

[Sidenote: The Butcher’s Shop.]

Butchers’ shops are not very common; meat is an expensive luxury.
Mutton is the usual meat eaten. By very poor people other meats are
sometimes eaten, especially in the form of mince. In the latter case
it is impossible to say what the meat is, so the impecunious Afghan
assumes it to be mutton. If there is any meat in the mince that is
unclean--on the shopkeeper’s head be it for selling anything “nujis” to
a True Believer.

There is very little meat to be seen hanging in the shops, for the
climate being a hot one and flies numerous, the meat will not keep more
than a few hours. What the joints are it is impossible to say, for
they cut the sheep up quite differently from an English butcher. At
one time I used to try and puzzle out when the joint came to the table
what it was: I gave up the attempt afterwards as futile. The mutton is
excellent in quality and very cheap. I wished to give a dinner one day
to a dozen Afghans--the Amîr’s palanquin bearers. I bought a sheep for
4s. 6d., some rice, butter, bread, and firewood, and the whole cost
less than 6s.

Kabul is famous all over Central Asia for the manufacture of the
postîn or sheepskin pelisse. While riding along the bazaar running
from the wooden bridge south, I used to wonder at one place what the
faint disagreeable smell was due to. I found on enquiry that there
was a manufactory of postîns there. I have not seen the whole process
of tanning. The skin of the sheep or lamb with the wool on it is
cleaned and scraped, then soaked in the river and pegged out in the
sun to dry; afterwards it is tanned yellow with pomegranate rind. The
leather is beautifully soft, and it is usually embroidered artistically
with yellow silk. The wool is, of course, worn inside. The better
ones are trimmed at the collar and cuffs with astrakhan. There are
several different kinds of sheepskin postîns. The long one reaching
from shoulder to ankle, with ample folds that you wrap yourself up in
on a winter night: there is nothing more cosy and warm to sleep in.
The sleeves are very long and are more for ornament than use. These
are but little embroidered, they cost from fifteen to thirty rupees.
There is a short one with sleeves, which is elaborately embroidered.
This is worn in the winter by the soldiers--cavalrymen, for instance,
if they can afford the necessary ten or fifteen rupees. Similar but
cheaper ones with less beautiful wool and no embroidery, can be bought
for four or five rupees. There is the waistcoat postîn of lamb’s
wool, which is made without sleeves, this costs two rupees six annas
Kabuli, or half-a-crown English. These waistcoat postîns and the long
sleeping postîns are used by all classes, rich and poor. The others
are used only by the poorer classes, the peasants and the soldiers. A
gentleman or a man of position would no more think of putting one on,
were it ever so beautiful and elaborate in its embroidery, than would
a resident of the west of London think of appearing in the “pearlies”
and velvet embroidered coat of the coster. The rich men wear, in the
winter, coats of cashmere, velvet or cloth, lined with beautiful furs
from Bokhara and other parts of Asiatic Russia.

[Sidenote: Furs: Their Cost.]

The most valuable fur that is imported I have not seen, only the Amîr
wears it, and he rarely; from the description they gave me I conclude
it is sable. The next most valuable is the “Khuz,” a species of Marten.
There are two kinds, the Khuz i Zulmati, which is dark, and the Khuz i
Mahtabi, which is much lighter and of an inferior quality. These can
be bought sewn together in the sheet, either with or without the tails
of the animals attached. There were twenty-four skins in the sheet I
bought. The shopman asked £10 for it, but he let me have it the next
day for £6.

Then there is the “Altai,” a beautiful fur taken from the inner side
of the leg of the red fox. A sheet consists of many pieces, each with
a deep black centre surrounded by a dark red margin. I bought one in
Turkestan for £6, which I was told was cheap. Squirrel fur made into
the sheet, with or without tails, either grey or grey and white, is
very popular. It is called “Sinjab,” and is less expensive than the
others. There are several other cheaper furs--a white one they call cat
skin--though of what cat I do not know, the fur of it soon rubs off;
and a short brown fur, the name of which I never heard. Astrakhan, of
which the Amîr has the monopoly, is exported largely to Russia and in
small quantities to India. It is used chiefly to cover the round or
straight-sided Russian hats that Afghan Colonels and Captains wear. It
is difficult to get hold of any in the Kabul bazaars.

In the ironmongers’ shops are nails, hammers, locks, knives, and
horse-shoes. The last are made broad, flat, and rather thin, in the
Russian style. I was told that this pattern is considered to protect
the frog of the horse’s foot from the numerous stones and pebbles he
has to go over on a journey. Shoes in the English pattern are more
expensive. I heard that the Amîr had imposed a small tax on the sale of
them.

[Sidenote: Weapons: Their Nature.]

In the “arms” shops are swords, guns, and pistols of various kinds.
There is the curved “shamshir,” or scimitar, with a cross hilt. Most
of these come, Mr. Pyne told me, from Birmingham, some, I suppose,
from Germany. They can be tied in a knot if necessary. The Armenian
interpreter one day brought me a sword to examine; he was thinking of
buying it for eight rupees. It looked like an English sword, and was
brightly burnished. I put the point on the ground and bent the sword to
try its spring. It seemed easy to bend. I raised it up and it remained
in the position to which I had bent it.

“Wah!” said the Armenian, “and he is English sword!”

“Oh, no,” I said, “German.”

Then I had to explain where Germany was. But I don’t know, it may have
been English; I hope not. I advised him not to buy it for eight rupees.
He said, “I not have him at one pice.”

There is the straight-pointed Afghan sword, the blade of which broadens
to three inches at the handle. The back from point to handle is
straight and thick. There is no handguard. The best of these are made
in Khost, a frontier district south of the Kurram valley. The blades
are often beautifully damascened, and the handles of ivory or horn are
carved and inlaid with gold or silver or studded with jewels. They
are very sharp, the steel is of good quality, and they are rather
expensive. For one of good quality without a scabbard, and which was
not elaborately ornamented, I gave sixty rupees. I had a scabbard made
in Kabul. The scabbard is made of two long pieces of wood thinned and
hollowed out to receive the sword; these are fastened together and
covered with leather. Formerly they were covered with snake skin. Mine
was covered with patent leather and mounted with silver. I weighed out
rupees to the silversmith, and when the mounts were finished he weighed
them out to me before they were attached to the scabbard. The scabbard
is made longer than is usual in England, for it takes the handle
all but about an inch, as well as the blade of the sword. In these
shops are also rifles for sale--the native jezail with a curved stock
ornamented with ivory, and with a very long barrel fastened on with
many bands. The Afghan hillmen and the Hazaras make these, and they
are good shots with them. They make their own powder also. There are
old-fashioned English rifles, flint locks and hammer locks: some very
heavy, with a two-pronged support hinged on to the barrel, presumably
to rest on the ground and steady the rifle when taking aim; native
pistols and old English pistols of various kinds; old shirts of chain
mail and small shields with bosses on. These are not used now except
for ornament. Lance or spear heads, old Indian and English helmets,
firemen’s helmets; powder flasks made of metal or dried skin; and heavy
tough very strong wooden bows, with a straight handpiece in the middle
of the bow: these were used in the time of Dost Mahomed. I never saw
any arrows, and the bows were sold merely as curiosities. Boys and
lads, now-a-days, use a bow with two strings which are kept apart by a
two-inch prop. They use it to kill birds, shooting small stones from a
strip of leather attached to the two strings.

The silver and goldsmiths make native ornaments similar to those one
sees in India: broad, thin perforated bracelets; studs for the nostril,
that the hillwomen wear--this custom, however, is not so common as
among the Hindus; necklaces of coins and discs, amulet boxes, belt
buckles, and so on. Nothing original or peculiar to Afghanistan seems
to be made.

[Sidenote: Turbans and Caps.]

In the cap shops there are rows of small conical caps, hanging on pegs
and on bars across the top of the shop. The Afghan turban is wound
round the cap which is jammed on the back of the head. If put more
forwards the weight of the turban causes a painful pressure on the
forehead.

There are several different kinds of caps. The Kabul cap is thickly
quilted with cotton-wool. Inside, at the top, a little roll of paper
enclosed in silk is sewn. This is supposed to have a sentence from
the Koran written on it to protect the wearer from harm. I opened a
roll one day to see what was written, but found the paper blank. The
best caps are embroidered all over with gold thread from Benares. Some
are but little embroidered, have simply a star at the top, and others
not at all. Some are made of velvet, and some of cloth. Those from
Turkestan are not quilted. They are not so heavy as the Kabul caps, are
of very bright colours, and are worn indoors or at night. The caps are
of all prices, from three or four pice to fifteen rupees. The lungis,
or turbans, are also of many different kinds: the commonest being
cotton dyed blue with indigo--these are of native make: or of white
cotton or muslin from India. A better kind are of blue or grey cotton,
embroidered at the ends with gold thread, in wider or narrower bars,
according to the price. These come from Peshawur, and they look very
handsome on a tall dark-skinned Afghan. Others are from Cashmere, most
beautifully embroidered, and are fawn-coloured, turquoise-blue, black,
green, or white. The ordinary length of a lungi is nine yards; the
cashmere, being thicker, are not so long. The only white cashmere lungi
I ever saw was the Amîr’s. He gave it me one day; but that is a story I
will relate further on.

In the cap shops are also Kabul silk handkerchiefs for sale. They are
of beautiful colours--purple, crimson, and green. I do not know what
dyes are used, but they are not fast, they wash out; and the silk is
of poor quality, not to be compared with English or French silk. In
these shops, too, are gold brocades of various kinds, mostly from Delhi
or Agra. Some, however, are made in Kabul, the design being copied
from English or European embroidery that has been imported. Many of
the workers imitate European embroidery with wonderful exactness,
though they do not seem to be able to originate any new designs. If one
bolder than the rest attempts to do so, the design is greatly wanting
in beauty of outline. The brocades are used for tea-cloths, and by the
Amîr and richer men for table-covers. The skill of these men is also
called into use to decorate the dresses of ladies, and the tunics of
pages and gentlemen.

In the grocer’s shop the most prominent things to be seen are the big
loaves of white sugar from India and Austria. The native sugar is made
in small conical loaves--about a pound each. It is very sweet, but
not so white as European sugar. The loaves of native sugar are always
wrapped round with coloured paper--pink, red, or blue--so that the shop
looks quite smart. The tea for sale is chiefly green tea from Bombay.
It is brought by koffla--camel and donkey caravan, from Peshawur
through the Khyber Pass, by the travelling merchants or carriers. Many
of the rich men of Kabul own trains of camels, which they hire out for
carrying purposes. There is black tea also, but in small quantities and
expensive. It is said to be brought from China through Asiatic Russia
and Turkestan. The Afghans always call black tea “chai-i-famîl.”

[Sidenote: Lamps, Candles, and Soap.]

The candles are of two kinds, tallow and composite. The tallow are of
native manufacture--dips--with cotton wick. They are not used very
much, as they gutter and melt away very quickly. There is a much better
tallow candle made in Afghan Turkestan, thicker than the Kabul candle,
which burns exceedingly well. The composite candles are much more
popular, and are not very expensive. They come from Bombay or Peshawur,
and are used largely by the Amîr and the richer men. The poorer people
use an oil lamp, very much the shape of the old Roman lamp. It is of
clay or terra-cotta, saucer-shaped, with or without a handle, and with
a spout. The cotton wick floats in the oil, and extends a quarter of
an inch beyond the spout, where it is lighted. The oil they use is, I
believe, almond oil: it is called “Têl-i-kûnjit.” It has a smoky flame,
and gives a poor light. Some lamps on the same principle are larger,
elaborately made of brass, and hang by chains from the ceiling; they
have four or five wicks. Others, also with three or four wicks, are
made of tinned iron; they stand on the ground supported on an upright
about a foot high. Paraffin oil from Bombay can also be bought, and
some of the richer men occasionally use cheap paraffin lamps “made in
Germany.”

Soap is both native and imported. The native is in saucer-shaped lumps.
It is not used for washing the hands and face--an Afghan rarely uses
soap for this purpose; but for washing clothes or harness. It is rather
alkaline and caustic. A soap “plant,” with its tanks, has been erected
in the workshops, and doubtless when the working of it is better
understood the soap will be of usable quality. At present it does not
sell. Other soap in the form of tablets is imported from India, Russia,
and Austria. By what route it comes from Austria I do not know, unless,
like so many cheap German goods, it comes through India. Russian soap
is the cheapest and worst, it crumbles up in your hands the second time
you use it. Next is the Austrian, which is not at all bad; the best and
most expensive is the English. The native salt--powdered rock salt,
pinkish in colour--is not very good. You have to use so much before you
can taste it. I don’t think any salt is imported. Spices of most kinds
can be bought--pepper, nutmeg, cloves, and so on; but these are bought
at drug shops.

Fruit shops are in great numbers, for fruit and vegetables form
important items in the diet of the poorer people: in the summer fresh
fruit and vegetables, and in the winter dried fruits, particularly the
mulberry, are largely used. The fruit shops are, as a rule, arranged
very tastefully. Grapes of different kinds are in great quantities and
exceedingly cheap--a donkey load for a rupee. Melons and water melons,
apples, quinces, pomegranates, pears, and various kinds of plums,
nectarines, peaches, and apricots. Dried fruits, almonds, roasted peas,
pistachio nuts, dried mulberries, apricots, and raisins, are sold by
the grocers. Fresh fruit, as soon as it is ripe, and even before, is
eaten in large quantities, far more than is good for the health of the
people.

The Englishmen in Kabul had to be exceedingly careful in eating fruit.
Unless taken in very small quantities it produced, or predisposed to,
troublesome bowel affections. The natives, though, as a rule, not so
susceptible as the English, were affected in the same way, sometimes
dangerously, occasionally fatally.

[Sidenote: Tailors. “The Railway Guard” Costume.]

In a tailor’s shop you see one man sitting on the ground hard at
work with a sewing-machine, another cutting out or stitching. There
are no ready made clothes in a tailor’s shop, these are to be bought
elsewhere. A rich man has, as a rule, a tailor attached to his
establishment. Those less rich having procured their material send
for a tailor from the bazaar. He cuts out the material in front of
the employer and takes away the garment to his shop to make up. This
is a check upon the tailor, so that there can be no purloining of
material. Ready-made clothes, new or secondhand, are for sale in many
shops. English coats of all kinds sell readily, especially old military
uniforms. One day a man walked into the hospital evidently thinking
himself rather smart. For the moment I was startled: I thought he was
an Englishman. He was dressed in the complete costume of a railway
guard.

The costume of the hillmen and peasants is the same as that worn by
the Khyberi Pathans, which I have described. An Afghan in typical
native town costume--say a mirza, or clerk--is dressed somewhat more
carefully than the Pathan. He wears the loose oriental trousers, or
pyjamas, gathered in at the waist and hanging in multitudinous folds
draping from the hip to the inner side of the knee and ankle, the band
at the ankle fitting somewhat closely. The native shoes with turned
up pointed toes are worn without socks, that is, unless the wearer
is wealthy. The embroidered camise, or shirt, falls over the pyjamas
nearly to the knee. A waistcoat with sleeves is worn reaching a little
below the waist and slit at the hip. Finally, a loose robe or coat
worn unfastened and with long sleeves, reaches midway between the knee
and ankle. The waistcoat is of velvet or cloth, quilted and generally
embroidered with gold. The coat is of thinner material, and, as a
rule, of native cloth. The townsmen, however, generally, though not
always, modify the native costume with European innovations. As a rule
the higher they rise in the social scale the more Europeanized they
become--in costume if in little else. The Afghans, though invariably
spoken of as religious fanatics, are far less “conservative” than the
Mahomedans of India. You never see one of the latter with an English
hat on: a very great many refuse to adopt even European boots. In
Afghanistan the readiness to become Europeanized, at any rate in
appearance, probably depends upon the personal influence of the Amîr.
After European weapons and knives--these are readily adopted by all
who can afford them--the first thing taken is the belt with a buckle,
instead of the cummerbund or waistshawl. It is, however, open to
question whether this innovation is an improvement, for in a climate
with such great variations of temperature as that of Afghanistan the
cummerbund is an excellent protection to the abdominal organs. Socks
are readily adopted even by the conservative. Then come European
coats, which are worn by a great many of the townsmen. After the
coats, European boots. Trousers are worn, as a rule, only by the
upper classes, including the court pages and by some of the soldiers.
They are made somewhat loosely and are worn over the pyjamas. When
a gentleman or Khan arrives at home after the business of the day
is finished, he throws off his European garb and appears in native
costume. First, the belt and tunic are removed, and he dons the loose
robe. Then his boots and trousers, and he can curl his legs up under
him once more in the comfortable Oriental way, as he sits on his carpet
or cushions on the floor. To sit on a chair for any length of time
tires an Oriental very much more than a European can realize.

Finally, English felt hats, or solar helmets, are worn by the more
liberal minded, or those who are more ready to imitate the Amîr.
Russian astrakhan hats, semiglobular shape, and those wider at the
top, have been worn for many years by gentlemen and officers in the
army. This was not such a striking innovation, for the somewhat similar
Turkoman hat of astrakhan has been familiar to the Afghan for ages.

[Sidenote: Drugs.]

In the drug shops are native drugs for sale. Some few English drugs can
be bought: quinine, of which the Afghans are beginning to realize the
value; and chloral hydrate, of which some are beginning to learn the
fascination. The native drugs are such as manna, camphor, castor oil,
and purgative seeds of various kinds.

CHAPTER VII.

ETHICS.

    Sir S. Pyne’s adventure in the Kabul river. The Tower on the
    bank. Minars of Alexander. Mahomedan Mosques. The cry of the
    Priest. Prayers and Religious Processions. Afghan conception of
    God. Religious and non-Religious Afghans. The schoolhouse and the
    lessons. Priests. Sêyids: descendants of the Prophet. The lunatic
    Sêyid. The Hafiz who was fined. The Dipsomaniac. The Valet who
    was an assassin. A strangler as a Valet. The Chief of the Police
    and his ways. Danger of prescribing for a prisoner. “The Thing
    that walks at night.” The end of the Naib. Death-bed services.
    Graves and graveyards. Tombs. The Governor of Bamian. Courtship
    and weddings among the Afghans. The formal proposal by a Superior
    Officer. The wedding of Prince Habibullah. Priests as healers of
    the sick. The “faith cure.” Charms. The “Evil Eye.” Dreadful fate
    of the boy who was impudent. Ghosts.

[Sidenote: Adventure in the Kabul River.]

When we had been in Kabul about a fortnight, His Highness the Amîr
nearly lost the services of Mr. Pyne. It occurred in this way. We
were riding along the lanes around Kabul, accompanied by a guard of
troopers, and Mr. Pyne was lamenting that he had drank _water_ for
lunch. “There it was,” he said, “still deadly chill.” He certainly
had water enough and to spare very shortly after. He had galloped
on a little ahead towards the river, and when we turned the corner
expecting to catch sight of him, he was nowhere to be seen. The Kabul
river, swollen by rains and melting snow, was roaring and foaming by. I
galloped along the bank expecting to see him. Hearing a shout, I looked
back and saw one of the sowars, who was some yards behind me, jump off
his horse and run to the bank, which was here some three or four feet
above the river. I sprang off my horse and ran up just in time to see
Pyne dragged out, dripping, by the lash of the soldier’s whip.

He was galloping, he said, along the path on the river bank when
he came to a place where the bank was lower and the river partly
overflowed it. Never thinking but what there was firm bottom he did not
stop, and down his horse sunk till Pyne was up to his armpits in water,
icy cold. The next minute the current swept him off, and he found
himself under water near his horse’s heels, with the animal striking
out violently in its endeavour to swim out. He came to the surface and
tried to swim to the bank, but his arm caught in the rein and he and
his horse were swept together to the middle of the stream. He got clear
of the rein by sinking, and struck for the bank again, but found the
current turned his head up stream. Meanwhile, his riding boots became
filled with water, and his turban and clothes soaked. The current swept
him along, but by violent exertion he reached the bank, here four or
five feet high, caught at a root and shouted. The root was torn out,
and again he was swept into midstream: things now seemed to be getting
serious. He saw two men wrestling on the bank, and a priest on a tower
calling people to prayer, but no one would look round at him. With the
heavy turban weighing him down, and wet clothes impeding his action, he
could with difficulty keep his head above water. His breath was going,
and his muscles aching when he once more got under the bank. He saw me
go galloping by, and shouted. The sowar who was near heard the shout,
saw him, jumped off his horse, and threw him the lash of his whip.

Just under the bank his feet touched the bottom, and he stood up to his
neck in water, holding on to the whip and panting to get enough breath
to scramble up the bank. He was hauled out, dripping, and then we
looked round for the horse. The poor brute was struggling and snorting,
and being rapidly carried along midstream. Pyne ran along the bank and
called to him. The animal turned his head, pricked up his ears, and
struck vigorously for the shore. He reached the bank, and with two or
three violent plunges scrambled up to dry land.

Pyne did not tell me all this on the river bank, for we mounted at
once and galloped off to the workshops, so that he could get into dry
clothes; then I heard the whole story.

No evil resulted, but the soldiers of the guard were informed that if
Mr. Pyne had been drowned, their lives would have been forfeited--a
strong inducement to a “guard” to be watchful and attentive.

I mentioned a “priest on a tower calling people to prayer.” There are
several towers round about Kabul, mostly to the north-west of the city.
They are not of great height, and I doubt if they were built originally
for religious minarets, for they are not attached to any mosque or
musjid. Probably they were originally watch-towers put up by the
peasants to guard their crops and herds from local marauders. On the
mountains near Kabul one sees stupendous minars which were built, it is
said, by Alexander to mark the road through Afghanistan to India. One
of these may be seen from Kabul on the distant peak of a mountain to
the east of the Kabul valley; another can be seen west of Kabul, from
the elevation of the Paghman hills.

[Sidenote: Mahomedan Mosques.]

Mosques, or, as they are called, musjids, are numerous in Kabul. Some
are comparatively large, with a courtyard and a domed roof with a
minaret on each side. These have either a stream of water near, or a
tank or well, for the use of those who come to pray: for Mahomedans
invariably wash hands, feet, and face before they pray, and cleanse
also the nostrils and mouth. There is a rush matting on the floor, and
the worshippers leave their shoes outside, as they do when entering any
house. Inside, the musjid is very empty and bare.

In the west wall is the niche, or mihrab, marking the direction of
Mecca: or the Kibla, so called because of the Kibla or stone of Mahomed
in Mecca, and towards this the worshippers turn their faces when they
pray. In the larger musjids there is also a pulpit or platform with
three steps, called a Mimbar, from which the Imām or preacher recites
his Sabbath oration, Friday being the Sabbath. The Amîr’s new rupee is
stamped on one side with a decorative representation of a musjid with
a three-stepped pulpit inside. At early dawn, and at four other times
during the day, the priest mounts the minaret, and, standing upright,
with his thumbs in his ears and his hands spread out, he utters in a
penetrating falsetto voice the call of the faithful to prayer, “Allah
akbar! Allah akbar, Mahomed Ressul Allah!” and so on. “God is great,
God is great, Mahomed is the Prophet of God. Come to Prayers, Prayers
are better than sleep. Come to salvation, God is great. There is no
god but God.” Then a few people begin to gather in, ten or twelve to a
musjid.

They stand in a row, their faces towards Mecca, and the priest, having
descended, stands in front of them with his face in the same direction.
The priest recites the prayers, standing, or stooping with his head
bent, kneeling or prostrating himself with his forehead touching the
ground, according to the law of the ceremony. The people imitate the
priest in his motions. They are supposed to repeat the prayers to
themselves, but the prayers are in Arabic, which very few Afghans
understand: so that if they have learnt them by heart they repeat them
simply as a parrot does.

The smaller musjids have no courtyard, they are flat-roofed and open
on one side, the roof being supported on that side by carved wooden
pillars, and the musjid is raised three steps above the street. These
have the mihrab, or altar, but no pulpit, and the minaret is replaced
by a block of stone about a foot square outside the musjid, on which
the priest stands to utter the call to prayer. These, too, have a
stream, a well or tank, or some other water supply for ablution.

So far as I could judge the majority of people do not go to a musjid to
pray except when there is some national calamity, such as a visitation
of cholera. On these occasions they go in procession with bands of
music and flags. I once saw a procession in the distance, but though I
felt some curiosity to see it nearer, I did not thrust myself unduly
forward. There are drawbacks to doing so when Mahomedans are in a
state of religious enthusiasm, for there is the possibility that one of
them, overcome by excess of zeal, might obtain Paradise for himself by
putting a knife into a Feringhi. It was not my ambition to be, in this
way, a stepping-stone to Paradise.

Ordinarily such Afghans as profess religion go through the ceremony of
prayer just where they happen to be when the time of prayer arrives.
There are five periods appointed in the day. The first, just before
sunrise; the second, just after midday; the third, an hour before, and
the fourth, just after sunset; and the fifth, when they can no longer
distinguish a white from a black thread. If they happen to be at Durbar
they withdraw a little from the presence of the Amîr--for His Highness
sits towards the west of the audience chamber--spread their cloaks
or coats in lieu of “praying carpets,” and turning towards the west,
or Mecca, go through their prayers. The Amîr’s two eldest sons pray
regularly at the appointed times, and if they happen to be in Durbar at
the time some of the chief officers join them.

His Highness the Amîr does not pray, at least so far as I know. I have
never seen him do so openly, though it may be he prays in his heart.
I have noticed that some of the greatest scoundrels at the Court are
those who openly pray, or go through the form of prayer most regularly.

[Sidenote: Afghan Conception of God.]

God, as conceived by the Afghans, seems to be an All-powerful Being,
towards whom it is necessary to behave with the greatest politeness;
for if one detail of etiquette be omitted God will be offended--and
then what harm He can bring upon the offender! It is far less dangerous
to offend against a fellow-man by annexing his property or taking his
life than to insult God by omitting to bow down to Him on one of the
five appointed times.

There are many, however, who do not trouble to be religious. I do not
know how they look at things: whether they think too much is required
of them, or that they will probably be able to gain Paradise in the end
by killing some unbelievers, or whether they simply don’t care. When
attending medically any man of education, I had always to be careful in
enquiring whether he were “religious” or not; for if I gave a tincture
(containing spirit) to any “religious” man, I got into trouble--he
evidently considered that I wished to injure his prestige with God.
With the uneducated, or poorer people, I had no trouble of that kind.
They swallowed anything I liked to give them unhesitatingly. I never
found the “religious” Afghan a whit less ready to “do his neighbour in
the eye” than a non-religious one.

[Sidenote: The Languages Learnt in Afghanistan.]

The musjid is also the schoolhouse, and is presided over by the priest.
A learned priest will get a good many pupils, but an unlearned one
none. I have often seen boys from eight to thirteen years of age
seated in a row in the musjid with the moolah, or priest, opposite
them. Their open books are propped on an =X= shaped support, and the
boys sway backwards and forwards as they drone out in a monotonous
voice whatever they are committing to memory. The education of the
majority seems to be of the very slenderest. They learn to read parts
of certain books and to write a little. With some, education is
carried further, particularly among those who are intended for priests
and mîrzas. Some of the latter study Persian sufficiently to write
a well worded and flowery letter: they learn, too, a certain amount
of mathematics--arithmetic and Euclid. The moolahs learn some Arabic
because the Koran is written in that language: otherwise, foreign
languages are not taught. The Court pages seem to be taught rather more
than other boys; some of them learn the different languages of the
country--Pushtu and Turki--as well as Persian. The Amîr’s eldest son,
Prince Habibullah, was learning English when I was in Kabul, though
I never heard of anyone else learning the language. I have heard the
Amîr speak Persian, Pushtu, and Turki. He told me he could speak Arabic
also. Of Russian he said he knew two words only, I have forgotten what
they were; and of English he knew two words: “tree,” he said, meant
“dirakht,” and “gown” meant a lady’s dress.

The income of the priests is derived from their fees for performing the
ceremonies of marriage and of burial, and from charitable donations.

A priest who is a Sêyid, or a direct descendant of the Prophet,
is hereditarily a beggar. He can demand from anyone he pleases a
sufficient sum of money for his wants. The Sêyids in Afghanistan do not
seem to have the exclusive right of wearing green turbans: in fact, I
never saw one with a green turban on, though I have often seen page
boys and others not Sêyids wearing them. One of my servants, the mîrza,
or secretary, was a Sêyid. He was a good sort of man in his way, and I
quite liked him. However, he used to smoke Churrus, or Indian hemp,
and it affected his intellect. At times he behaved like one insane. He
never attempted any violence towards me; in fact, though I was warned
against him, I think he was too attached to me to do me an injury: but,
perhaps, I am wrong in this; however, he never did do any harm. If he
were upset he would cover his face with chalk and walk about shaking
his head in a dejected way, muttering, “Tobah, tobah,” Alas! alas! One
day he removed all his clothing, and went out into the street with his
beggar’s wallet only. I sent one of the military police to fetch him
back, and asked him if he were not ashamed to behave in that manner. He
said he was tired of work. I said, “You are earning an honest living
and are able to send money to your wife and children in Jelalabad.” He
said, Yes, but he had to write when he didn’t want to write. It was
better that he should go out with nothing and beg for his few wants. As
for his wife and children, God would take care of them. There seemed a
certain amount of “method” in this. Occasionally, however, he was very
violent, though not with me, and I could hear him raving like a madman.

[Sidenote: The Hafiz who was Fined.]

One of the compounders at the hospital was a Hafiz and a moolah; a
Hafiz is one who from memory can repeat the whole Koran. He was a tall
handsome young man with courtly manners. He lived at my house, and at
daybreak I was often dreamily roused by his fine tenor voice as he
was chanting his prayers. Once his early prayer was of considerable
worldly service to me and the neighbourhood, for he found that the
bathroom of my house was on fire; the beams were already alight. He
summoned assistance, the fire was soon put out and the matter ended.
If the house had been burnt the affair would have reached the ears
of the authorities, and the neighbours would have had a fine imposed
upon them unless they could produce the incendiary! This young man had
asked permission to live at my house because he could do so cheaply.
He was saving money to pay off a debt incurred in Peshawur, his native
town. I thought, What an honest worthy young man! but I found the money
had been borrowed to pay off a fine imposed upon him for a murder he
committed in Peshawur. He escaped hanging because there was an element
of doubt in the case, and possibly for the reason that his elder
brother had been some years in the British service. He admitted to me
that he had stabbed the man, but he did not regret it. The man was a
“bad man” and had injured him.

“Surely the Koran does not tell you to commit murder,” I said.

“No,” said he, “the Koran is God’s book, but we are all sinners.”

One of the hospital assistants, a Hindostani, working under me, was
also a Hafiz and a priest. He was a very gentlemanly man of about
forty-six, and well educated. He had been in the Bengal cavalry. I
liked him very much, but, unlike most Mahomedans, he was a dipsomaniac.
For a fortnight or so he would be miserably drunk. He drank the native
spirit made from raisins, methylated spirit, or any kind of intoxicant
he could get hold of. He explained his condition to me by saying that
“Shâitan” came to him occasionally and said, “You have drunk no shrâb
for so long, now is a very good time to drink,” and so he listened to
Shâitan and drank. He afterwards gave up alcohol and took to chloral
eating and opium smoking. I was very sorry for the man. I think he was
not such a scoundrel as some of them.

When I first entered the service I picked up a man in Kabul who could
speak a little English, and had him to look after my clothes and wait
upon me--my valet. He was a short thick-set man, with a shaven head,
on which he always perched a little red fez. He was wonderfully gentle
with sick children, who were brought to me to prescribe for. He was
very lazy, but was cowed at once if I were angry. I found he was a
hired assassin who had escaped from Peshawur into Afghanistan. When I
discharged him he made a large sum of money by gambling in the bazaar,
and then returned to Peshawur. The last I heard of him was that he had
been apprehended and was in jail.

At one time, after I returned from Turkestan, I used often to go
and dine at the workshops with the other Englishmen, and two of the
military police who guarded my house came at ten o’clock with a lantern
to escort me home. My interpreter did not like my doing this at all,
because I had to ride through some narrow winding streets and across
the large orchard or garden before I reached the shops. He said, “It
is known that you often come home at that time of night, and you might
easily be shot, and there be no possibility of finding the man who
fired at you. In that case your guard would be killed, and probably I
as well for not warning you.” However, it was too depressing to be
always alone, and no one ever shot at me. One of these soldiers who
came for me was a big, very handsome man, but he had a curious furtive
look in his eyes. He used to pull my riding-boots off when I got home,
and put out the candle. I remarked once upon the curious look in his
eyes, and was told that all in his particular profession had that look.

[Sidenote: A Strangler as a Valet.]

I enquired what he did besides guarding my house. They said, “Have
you not noticed that on some nights another man takes his place?” I
had noticed it. I was then informed that he was one of the official
executioners, whose duty it was to strangle certain of the prisoners in
jail. The unfortunate is told one day that he will have the privilege
that night of sleeping in a separate room. He is conducted there, and
finds there is one other occupant of the room. As soon as he is asleep
the other occupant--my friend!--secretly placing a noose round the neck
of the sleeper, suddenly draws it tight and throws his whole weight
upon the chest, striking the victim violently over the heart.

The late Governor of Kabul and chief of the police, Naib Mir Sultan,
whom the Amîr hanged recently for his iniquities, largely employed this
means of getting rid of prisoners. An anxious woman would come to him
with perhaps a thousand rupees, and implore his intercession on behalf
of her husband who was in jail. The Naib would say, “Yes, he would do
what he could, he knew the case was coming on directly, but it was an
expensive business; if she could bring another thousand perhaps the
thing could be done.” And he would keep her dangling on some time,
squeezing out of her all the money he could get, and then she would be
informed officially that her husband had died in jail of an illness!

Sometimes a prisoner who was sick would ask permission to see the
doctor, and he would be brought to me at the hospital with chains round
his ankles, in charge of a soldier with fixed bayonet. But I was very
careful about prescribing for a prisoner, for the Naib was an adept
in the use of poisons as well as of stranglers, and a death might be
imputed to me. Another way he had of removing objectionable men who
were not prisoners. Some night two of the police knock loudly at a
man’s door, saying, “Get up at once, Amîr Sahib calls you.” This is
quite likely to be true, for His Highness often continues at his work
late into the night, and the man hurries on his clothes and goes out
with the police. He is never seen again; but some days afterwards his
head is found in one place and his body in another. Then the widow in
great distress goes before the Amîr and tells her story.

The Amîr naturally enquires, “Who is your husband?” The woman explains,
saying, “Amîr Sahib sent for him on such and such a night.” The Amîr,
of course, tells her that he did not, and enquires if she can identify
the soldiers who came for her husband. She cannot, for it being night
and she a woman, she has never seen them. The natural conclusion is
that some enemies of her husband have personated soldiers and murdered
him.

I have, however, heard other explanations of these incidents.

[Sidenote: The End of the Naib.]

The Naib was not a bad-looking man: he had a dark skin, but rather
an agreeable expression than otherwise. He never dared go out without
a large guard of his police, the townspeople would have torn him to
pieces. Prince Habibullah disliked him even when I first entered the
service in 1889, and, finally, his iniquities were proven to the Amîr.
I forget what the particular charge against him was, but he was fined,
they said, a hundred lacs of rupees to begin with, somewhere about half
a million! He paid it, and another fine was imposed which necessitated
his selling up everything. Brought before the Amîr soon after this, he
was insolent, and His Highness in exasperation seized him by the beard
and struck him in the face. The soldiers then hurried him away to a
tree outside. Someone suggested his praying. “Pray!” he said, with a
laugh, “after a life like mine? No, I’ll die as I have lived;” and they
hanged him on the tree.

This is the story as I heard it at the time. I did not see him hanged,
for there was a cholera epidemic in Kabul, and I was there. The Amîr
was at Paghman in the mountains.

Though Friday is the Sabbath, the shops are open on that day as well as
on other days in the week. Somewhat less work is done, especially at
the time of the priests’ oration in the principal musjids, about two
in the afternoon. In Kabul the Amîr’s workshops are closed, and the
Out-patient Hospital also. The Amîr himself, too, does less work on
that day, otherwise there is no great difference between the Sabbath
and other days in the week.

I spoke just now of fees to a priest for a “burial” service, but,
perhaps, that is hardly a correct term to apply, for I never saw any
service or ceremony performed at the actual time of burial. However, it
is possible there may be, though I never saw one, but I have seen the
service performed at a death bed.

When I was in Turkestan a young officer, a cousin of the Sultana’s, was
ill. The Hakims, who were attending him, not knowing the use of the
stethoscope, could not diagnose the case, and after some days I was
sent for. I found that he had had Pneumonia, or Inflammation of the
lung, and that instead of clearing up, the inflamed lung had become
tubercular, and a cavity could be detected in it. He had developed
consumption. I did what I could, but it was too late for any permanent
relief to be afforded him.

He became worse, and one day when I called, he was manifestly dying. I
found several men sitting on the ground by the bedside reciting prayers
continuously. I enquired why they were doing so at this time, and was
told they would continue praying till he died, for he was then passing
to Paradise over the narrow bridge whose edge was sharper than a razor,
and that the continuous prayers kept away the evil spirits who were
endeavouring to drag him down into the abyss.

The men praying were his nearest relations, and with them was a priest;
for although it is the Mahomedan custom for the nearest relatives to
recite the prayers on this occasion, a priest is generally sent for
also.

[Sidenote: Royal Tombs.]

The graves of the richer Afghans have upright headstones of marble
or slate carefully shaped and ornamented. The writing on them is in
relief, the stone being chipped away from the letters. The tomb of an
illustrious man is bricked round, about two feet high, and covered with
a slab of marble. Occasionally one is surrounded by a fence: trees
and flowers being planted in the enclosure. The grave of the Amîr’s
father near Kabul is cared for in this way. Others have a sort of small
mosque or musjid built over them; and the deceased, when his name is
forgotten, becomes a holy man and a saint.

The grave of a poor man has a flat stone, the largest his friends can
find, planted upright to mark the place of burial: many have no mark at
all, but the collection of mounds is not to be mistaken. The graveyard
is not walled in or enclosed. The tombs of the kings are, some of them,
imposing. That of Timour Shah in Kabul (son of Ahmed Shah, founder of
the Durani Empire) is a very fine piece of brickwork. A huge central
dome is surrounded by a series of flat-roofed rooms, the ground plan
of the structure being octagonal. No care is taken of it, and it is
becoming dilapidated by time. The tomb of Babur Shah, just outside
Kabul, is also becoming dilapidated. It is smaller and of marble, in
the style of the smaller musjids, with pillars to support the roof.
Another tomb just outside Kabul is built in the shape of a musjid. It
is that of a grandson of Amîr Dost Mahomed. I knew his son very well,
Sirdar Abdul Kûdus Khan. The latter once was of great service to the
Amîr. In one engagement, by a brilliant charge, he completely turned
the fortunes of the day. Success was too much for him, and he became
presumptuous. He was accordingly ordered into honourable confinement.
Some time afterwards he was allowed to appear at court, but for many
years no appointment was given to him. Quite recently, he received
office, being made Governor of the province of Bamian.

[Sidenote: The Proposal of Marriage.]

The marriage ceremony differs very much from ours in England. Firstly,
the young Afghan does not see his sweetheart till she becomes his
wife--at any rate he is not supposed to. He hears that such a man has
a very pretty daughter, and that she is likely to have so much dowry.
He therefore sends his mother or sisters on a visit to the harem. The
ladies, properly veiled, are conducted there by their servants in a
closed palanquin. On their return they give their opinion, and all the
information they have managed to glean. If everything is satisfactory
to the young man, he approaches the father or guardian, and makes his
proposal. If he is accepted as a suitor, an opportunity is given to the
young lady to see the swain herself, unobserved. She can, if she like,
refuse him, and if she be a girl of strong character, may be successful
in her refusal: but I know that sometimes considerable pressure is
brought to bear, if her wishes are contrary to those of her father or
guardian. Sometimes the young man, if he holds a subordinate position,
will prevail upon his superior officer to make the proposal for him
to the father or guardian. It may have more weight. I once had this
onerous and pleasing duty to perform. I marshalled all my servants,
and rode off with as much ceremony as possible, to the house of the
young lady. I had a vague sort of an idea I might see her; but I did
not: she saw me, which was not so satisfactory. When I arrived at the
house, I was conducted through the courtyard into an upstairs room,
where the guardian--her brother in this case--received me. A party of
gentlemen were in the room, and they all rose as I entered. After the
usual salutations a chair was offered me: the rest seated themselves
cross-legged round the room. I made a formal proposal in the name of my
subordinate, and a discussion followed. I was surprised at the free and
open way in which they said the man for whom I was making the proposal
was a rascal and a liar, and that he had not the money he said he had.
There was no delicate hinting that, perhaps, they had erred in assuming
his fortune was such and such. I naturally anticipated a refusal; no,
out of respect for me, he was accepted! Then a large tray of loaf sugar
broken into pieces was brought in, and first I and the guardian, then
the others, ate a little, and the rest was given to the servants. After
that we had tea, and I rode off home again, where the anxious lover was
waiting for me. I said,

“They called you very bad names.”

“That matters little;” said he, “did you eat the sugar?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Ah! then all is well! the other is a custom.”

The actual ceremony of marriage is performed at the house of the
bridegroom, though there is often a reception at the bride’s house
afterwards--not that you see the bride or any other ladies. The father,
guardian, or brothers receive you.

At the marriage ceremony the amount of dower is first discussed
and settled, and then the priest formally enquires, first of the
bridegroom then of the bride’s legal representative, whether they each
agree to the marriage. On receiving an answer in the affirmative he
pronounces a few short prayers and blessings, remaining seated while
he does so, and the ceremony is concluded; sometimes, also, rings are
exchanged. Then comes the reception of guests at the bride’s house.

I was invited to the wedding of Prince Habibullah. I did not see the
ceremony, where the priest blesses the union, but I attended the
reception at the house of the bride’s father. It happened to be in
the suburbs, near where I was living, and I walked there escorted
by my servants and guard. I was shown into a large flower-garden
where several tents were erected. A great many guests had arrived,
but not the Prince. Presently, I heard the “Salaam-i-Padshah”--the
representative of our National Anthem--being played by a brass band.
It is a solemn and slow chant, reminding one of a dead march: it is
very impressive and by no means unmusical. I was told it was composed
by an Englishman--who he was I do not know. Then the Prince rode into
the garden, followed by his brother, Nasrullah Khan. Both were dressed
in scarlet and gold uniforms. Prince Habibullah wore a military helmet
with plumes, and Nasrullah Khan a grey astrakhan hat. I bowed as
the Prince went by, and he pulled up to enquire why I had not taken
possession of the tent prepared for me, and he pointed out a very gay
one. There were people in it, but they turned out at once. The Prince
gave orders to one of the chamberlains for tea and cigarettes to
be served for me there, and then rode on to another tent, where he
dismounted. Taking his seat he received the salaams of the assembled
guests. I sat in my tent, and people came in and chatted, and then went
on to other tents. I drank tea, ate fruit, and smoked, while musicians
and nautch women went through their performances. Then large trays of
sweetmeats and sugar were brought to each of the tents, and when I had
eaten a little I departed, for it began to rain. The servants of each
of the guests carried away their master’s tray of sweets, for it was
the fast of Ramazan, when Mahomedans cannot eat nor drink till night.
The father of the bride was the Shaghassi, or Master of the Ceremonies
in Mazar, and when we left there he was made governor of Turkestan.
Soon after we left, however, he had sunstroke--mania, the hakims
said--and the Amîr recalled him to Kabul.

I found my horse waiting for me at the gate of the garden. In spite of
the rain, the streets were crammed with people, and I had some trouble
in the crowd, for my horse was restive, and plunged; however, we got
home without accident. I went also to the wedding of Prince Nasrullah,
but I will describe that later.

[Sidenote: The Faith Cure.]

Some of the priests have gained a certain amount of reputation as
healers of the sick; not by the administration of medicines, for
that is a privilege reserved for the hakims and doctors, but by the
employment of the “faith cure.” It is an axiom in the Mahomedan
religion that to utter the name of God a great number of times is
of inestimable benefit to both body and soul; also that if a part
of the body be diseased, it is an efficient cure to bind on it the
written name of one of the attributes of God, “the Merciful,” “the
Compassionate,” “the Restorer.” The sick, therefore, go first to
the priest for help, and by the payment of a fee obtain the written
scroll. This is rolled up in silk or leather, or, if the patient be
wealthy enough, is enclosed in a little cylindrical box of silver made
for the purpose, and bound on the diseased part of the body. If the
patient recover, great credit is given to the priest, and other sick
people seek his aid. If recovery does not ensue, either the patient is
resigned, considering that his “Nasîb” is thus written in the book of
fate, or else by the payment of a larger fee he engages the medical
skill of the hakims, or native physicians.

Every patient with chronic disease of any kind who came to me had one
of these little packets fastened by a string round his arm or neck.

[Sidenote: The Evil Eye.]

Many of the children, even those in good health, have similar charms
fastened to them. I noticed that the Sultana, or her women, fastened
one in a gold cylindrical box on the arm of the little Prince Mahomed
Omar, soon after he was born. This was to protect him from accident
or other evil. Sometimes, for the same purpose, a piece of string
only, over which a few prayers have been recited, is tied round the
child’s limb. This is done by the poorer people. Against the “Evil
Eye”--which, as far as I could understand, is the eye of “envy, hatred,
and malice”--something blue is a great protection. Men wear turquoise
rings, children and woman turquoise ornaments or blue beads. When a man
buys a new horse the servants at once fasten a blue bead or ribbon
among the hairs of his tail. It is not necessary for the blue to be
seen: it is just as sure a protection when it is hidden. The Evil Eye
is a dangerous weapon, so many possess it, and it works silently and
secretly. Paralysis, wasting, rickets in children, impotence, and
sudden death, the illness of cattle and horses--all these are imputed
to the evil eye.

Just outside the house I occupied, after my return from Turkestan to
Kabul, there was an open space with a small pond in the middle; this
was a favourite playground for the boys of the neighbourhood. I rode
through it as usual one morning on my way to the hospital. When I had
finished my work and returned home again, my interpreter, who seemed
rather upset about something, said to me--

“Sir, I very sorry you kill that boy to-day.”

“What do you mean?” I said; “I’ve not killed any boy.”

“Oh, yes, sir; you remember he called you Feringhi this morning.”

I remembered then that while riding through the playground, one of the
boys, a good-looking lad of about twelve, had attracted my attention
by calling out something, and he laughed as he ran away. I looked up
carelessly and then rode on, thinking no more about it. I said--

“I remember a boy saying something, but I didn’t hear what it was.”

“Sir, he very fool boy to call you Feringhi, but he is dead now.”

“That is very sudden! What did he die of?” I asked.

“Oh, sir, I poor man--what I know? You looked at him, and he died;
perhaps trouble come for us.”

“Nonsense,” I said, “he must have died of something. Boys don’t die
because you look at them.”

“Sir, in this country often it is they do!”

I indignantly said, “What do you mean! _I_ haven’t got the evil eye!”

He looked at me meaningly, then looked on the ground and shook his head
dolefully: I couldn’t persuade him that the thing was a ridiculous
impossibility. As there is a kind of vendetta in Afghanistan I rather
wondered what would happen next. I told my interpreter to make
enquiries and find out what the boy really died of. He said,

“Why for we make enquiries? Better it is we keep quiet for a few days
and say nothing.”

I never heard what was the cause of death, and the matter blew over.

[Sidenote: Ghosts.]

Besides the evil eye the Afghans believe in other forms of magic; in
certain days of the week being lucky, and others unlucky; in ghosts,
and jins, or devils. A man told me one day that the house he lived in
was formerly occupied by the three sisters of one of the kings, Shah
Shujah, I think it was, and that they were evil women. One night on his
return home, just as he entered the house he heard sound of women’s
laughter in the bath-room on the ground floor. Wondering who could be
there, he opened the door. Three women, whom he did not recognize,
sprang up and rushed, laughing, through the further door into the
inner bath-room. He slammed the door to, and fastened it, and hurried
upstairs, where he found his wife and the women of the household. He
enquired who were the women in the bath-room. They said there could be
no women. The house was of the usual kind--only one door leading from
the street into the courtyard, and every one entering could be seen.
Lights were procured, and he descended to the bath-room, unfastened the
door, opened it, and peeped in--no one was there. He went across to
the further door and found it fastened with a chain and padlock on the
outside in the usual way. He thought, “The women cannot have fastened
themselves in.” He took the key from his pocket, unlocked the door and
looked in: this room also was empty. He is convinced he saw the wraiths
of the women who formerly occupied his house.

Almost every house in Kabul has its ghost or jin. The house I had on
my return from Turkestan had a reputation. The soldiers who were put
to guard it in the winter while I was at the Palace at last refused to
sleep in one of the ground floor rooms. They said it was haunted, that
jins and devils came and pinched them, and moved their rifles and belts
from where they had placed them. So in spite of the intense cold they
moved out into the porch of the big gate opening from the courtyard
into the street, and there they took up their quarters permanently. One
day, just before sunset, after I had returned, the syce came out of
the stable, which was under the room I occupied, and called one of the
other servants. The latter came to me afterwards and said that just as
it was beginning to get dusk he went to look into the stable, as the
syce had called him. To his astonishment he saw what seemed to him to
be two small children running round the legs of the bay horse, and
jumping on its neck and off again. He went forward to gain a clearer
view, and the children, or jins, as he called them, disappeared. He
searched the stable thoroughly, and found nothing out of the way,
except that the bay horse was trembling and covered with sweat.

Many similar stories were related to me at different times, but though
for months I slept alone in the “haunted wing” I never saw any ghost,
jin, or devil--except those clothed with flesh and blood; doubtless it
was a privilege reserved for “True Believers.” There was, however, one
incident; but I will relate that by and bye.

CHAPTER VIII.

AFGHAN SURGEONS AND PHYSICIANS.

    Accidents from machinery in motion. The “dressers of wounds” in
    Afghanistan. Their methods of treating dislocations, fractures, and
    wounds, and the awful results of the same. The “Barber surgeons.”
    Tooth drawing and bleeding. The Hindustani “Doctors.” “Eye Doctors”
    and their work. The Hakims or Native Physicians. Treatment of
    disease by the People. Aspect in which European Physicians are
    viewed by the different Classes.

[Sidenote: Machinery Accidents.]

One morning soon after our arrival in Kabul, when I was at the Erg
hospital, a messenger arrived in a great hurry to say a man had been
injured at the Workshops. I jumped on my horse, which was waiting, and
galloped off. Just outside the Workshop garden, on the road by the
river bank, I saw the heavy portable engine with a crowd of people
round it. Mr. Pyne was there in the middle of the crowd, and a man, one
of the Afghan workmen, was lying on the ground. I examined the patient
and found he was dead. Mr. Pyne was very upset and at first refused
to believe it. He sent off a man to the shops for whisky, and begged
me to send someone to the hospital for ammonia. I did so, though, of
course, it was useless. They were moving the engine to the Salaam Khana
or Durbar Hall to work the dynamo for the electric light there, but no
one in the crowd seemed to have seen how the accident occurred, whether
the man was crushed under the wheel or whether he had been struck on
the head. There was no inquest, and post mortem examinations were not
viewed with favour.

Later on, when the machinery was put together and some of it was in
working order, accidents and deaths were, as might be expected, of
frequent occurrence. In stepping over the shafting which ran across the
entrance to one of the shops, about a foot above the ground, the long
sheepskin postîn or coat would catch, and the wearer be whirled round
and killed. Familiarity breeds contempt, and in spite of accidents it
took a long time to educate the ordinary Afghan, after he had got over
his first awe, up to the point of learning that machinery in motion
should be approached with circumspection.

They had a way of putting their fingers under the punches of the
cartridge machines, forgetting that the punch would inevitably come
down at its appointed moment. It took one man in the palm, I remember,
and I had to amputate his first and second finger and his thumb.
Another got his hand between some steel rollers in motion, and but for
the fact that Mr. Pyne was on the spot and at once threw the machine
out of gear, the arm would have gone too. As it was, the skin was taken
neatly and cleanly from the wrist and turned backwards like a glove
over the finger tips. The bones of the hand were crushed, and I wished
to amputate in the lower forearm; but the man, who was brought to the
hospital, refused to have the hand taken off because he could move the
fingers a little. I pointed out the danger he was running of further
serious results, but he would not consent.

As he refused the only treatment that I felt was suitable, I could not
undertake to treat him, and he was removed to his home in the city.
I do not know who attended to his hurts, probably one of the native
“dressers,” but four or five days afterwards he sent a friend to beg
that I would come and remove the hand. Unfortunately, it was too late;
“tetanus,” or lockjaw, had set in.

[Sidenote: Afghan Treatment of Dislocations.]

The “dressers” of wounds in Afghanistan are a body of
men--natives--whose duty it is to dress wounds and ulcers, set broken
limbs, and probe for bullets. They have no knowledge of even the
groundwork of their profession. Never having dissected, nor studied
anatomy, they are quite ignorant of the position and shape of the
bones, to say nothing of the course and distribution of the larger
arteries of the human body, so that the abscess knife and the scalpel
put into the hands of one of these men work grievous harm. They carry
about with them a flat tin box, with partitions inside, something
like a paint box; and in it is a collection of most filthy looking
ointments of different colours. These they plaster on indiscriminately;
if one does not cure an ulcer perhaps another will. For dislocation
of joints a mixture of flour and yolk of eggs smeared on is a certain
specific; they have no idea of reducing the dislocation. For a broken
bone, flour and yolk of eggs again comes in. Say the bone of one arm
is broken between the shoulder and elbow, the following treatment is
adopted. Some narrow strips of calico, smeared with the flour and egg
mixture, are bound tightly round the limb at the seat of injury; thus
breaking the first law of surgery, that no bandage be put on under
a splint. Over this bandage are arranged longitudinally four or five
narrow pieces of wood about five inches long, very like those you buy
in a bundle for firewood, and utterly useless as splints, and another
bandage is wound firmly over these; there is no padding with cotton
wool. The patient is then left. The result is, of course, that the limb
below the bandages becomes exceedingly swollen and painful.

When the pain has reached such a pitch that it is no longer bearable,
the patient releases his arm from the bandages, and the dresser is
sent for to readjust them, so that the unfortunate limb is relieved
for a time before it is tortured afresh. In spite of the dresser the
bone sometimes unites, usually at a more or less obtuse angle; but
not uncommonly, especially in compound or comminuted fractures, the
pressure is taken off too late, and the whole limb mortifies. The
patient, after months of suffering, may or may not recover. I have had
them brought to me with the broken end of the bone protruding from a
hanging mass of stringy and sloughing muscle and tendon, the rest of
the limb being hidden from sight by unclean rags.

Such “dressers” as I could get hold of I put through an examination at
the hospital, to try and find out what they knew, and endeavoured to
teach them some elementary facts in anatomy and one or two common sense
rules in surgery, but only one of them would even pretend to learn, and
he was a humbug. They all knew better than I did how to treat wounds
and ulcers, and set broken limbs, and they received any suggestions of
mine in offended silence. I showed up one or two, pointing out the
disastrous results of their treatment, but it did no good. I only had
an extra enemy or two to consider, for they were very venomous.

[Sidenote: The Barber Surgeons.]

Besides the comparatively modern “dressers,” there is another body
of men in Kabul who practise the noble art of surgery, namely, the
“barbers.” The line they specially take up is that of bleeding and
tooth drawing. They have very rough forceps for the latter operation,
and when, as not infrequently happened, they snapped the crown of a
tooth off instead of extracting it, they passed the patient on to me.
It is annoying for a surgeon to have to extract broken but firmly-fixed
fangs from an injured and bleeding jaw. It is not a pretty operation at
all.

For fevers, dyspepsia, gout, headache, or any feeling of malaise, the
barbers bled their patients--but besides these, which may be called the
_irregular_ bleedings, there are regular bleedings every spring and
autumn. These are generally done out of doors by the road side. The
barber, squatting down by the side of his patient, makes his incision
at the bend of the elbow: fortunately, not into the vein immediately
over the great artery of the arm, the one usually bled from in England,
but into one adjoining. The patient holds out his arm and allows the
blood to drip on to the ground till he thinks enough has run away.
There is not the slightest attempt made to measure the quantity of
blood lost. The only precaution taken is to avoid drinking any water
for twenty-four hours afterwards, lest it should mix with the rest of
the blood in the vein and make it thin; or if they do drink any they
hold the wounded arm above their heads to prevent the water running
into it! Wet cupping, too, is performed by the barbers and dressers,
and is a very popular means among the townsfolk of getting rid of
their blood. It is a common thing to see an Afghan scarred all over
the shoulders and loins. Cupping is employed generally as a remedy for
muscular rheumatism. The custom was introduced some years ago by the
Hindustani hospital assistants, who, after having had in India some
slight training in the European system of medicine, found their way
into Afghanistan under the guise of “doctors.” The majority of these
were unqualified men, and were quite unfit to be anything but hospital
assistants. Let loose upon the people they have worked as much havoc
among the sick as a similar number of the hakims could have done.

[Sidenote: Eye Doctors and Hakims.]

There are also native “eye doctors!” These may do good sometimes by
accident, though I never heard of a case, but they do an incredible
amount of harm: for eye diseases, on account of the glare and the dust,
the absence of proper treatment and ordinary care are very common in
Afghanistan.[1]

[1] The commonest affections I met with were granular lids, chronic
entropion, corneitis, nyctalopia, and cataract.

Finding out that I sometimes used sulphate of copper--an astringent
and caustic--of which there was plenty to be had in the bazaars, they
would put this powdered into any eye--say, of a child who had ulcer of
the cornea! The Hindustani hospital assistants were not much wiser, for
they sometimes used solutions of sulphate of zinc, a similar remedy,
for the same purpose. The eye being irreparably damaged the patient is
then handed on to me, and the Hindustani, like the dresser, smugly says
that “If _he_ couldn’t cure the patient, neither could the Feringhi.”

However, the people and the Amîr judged, I found, according to general
results. I remember in Turkestan a soldier getting leave of absence,
travelling down to Kabul, and bringing his old mother on a donkey the
two hundred odd miles over the mountains, for me to cure her eyes. They
were past all hope.[2] The painful part of the affair was that they
would not believe I _could_ not, but that I _would_ not restore her
eyes; and the old woman went down on her knees to implore.

[2] Entropion, with nebulous and vascular cornea in an old woman of
seventy.

There was one old fellow, an “eye doctor,” in Kabul, whom I used to
notice on my way to the hospital. He sat in a hut of rushes and mud by
the roadside, with his medicines in little packets before him. I often
wished he would come and have a little elementary instruction in the
“eye.” But he had such a sour expression when I went by, and he never
would look at me, that I did not suggest it to him.

The hakims--the physicians of Afghanistan--practise purely as
physicians; they do not use the knife surgically, rarely even for
bleeding. When they find it necessary to treat an abscess, they apply
an irritating ointment which causes ulceration of the skin. Since the
introduction of European drugs into Afghanistan some of the hakims have
made use of them; but as they do so in ignorance of their therapeutic
properties, the results are rarely satisfactory, and, in some cases,
are disastrous. They have great faith in the healing properties of a
purge, but do not consider it has had any effect unless it acts at
least twenty times. The way is prepared by administering every day for
a week a large bowl of laxative mixture; afterwards, one or more bowls
of a drastic purge are given. Some of the people seem to establish
toleration of this class of medicine, and require a large dose before
they are acted on; but with a vast number this mode of treatment,
combined with the custom of eating largely of ripe and semi-ripe fruit,
certainly predisposes them to the obstinate and often fatal bowel
affections that are such a scourge in the spring and autumn.

These bowel troubles, according to a popular native idea, are caused
by drinking tea immediately after having eaten fruit, particularly
mulberries. There is no doubt, however, that some of the cases are
due to the debilitated and enfeebled state of the digestive organs,
produced by the malarial poison, the immediate exciting cause often
being the sudden change in temperature experienced when climbing a
mountain after a residence in the hot valleys. Other cases are due to
the presence of minute intestinal parasites, the ova of these being
ingested during the drinking of impure water, a common custom among the
careless Afghans.

[Sidenote: Treatment of Disease by Hakims.]

The hakims practise, I was informed, according to the Yunani or ancient
Greek system of medicine. The only books I could obtain on this system
were written in Arabic, and this was an obstacle to my studying them;
but, whatever the teaching of their books may be, the hakims I found
knew nothing whatever about anatomy, physiology, or pathology. Their
treatment of disease is entirely empirical. They act according to
“authority.” Studying disease, not in the living subject, but in their
books only, they have made no progress whatever upon the teaching of
their ancestors. A sick man is brought to them, and some prominent
symptom forces itself upon their notice. This is at once diagnosed as
the disease. For instance, pain in the abdomen is to them “colic.”
It is described in their books and a certain line of treatment is
directed. They do not examine their patient, or attempt to find a cause
for his pain; nor do they differentiate between different forms of
colic, for they have not noticed that pain in the abdomen is sometimes
unconnected with the bowel. As an example, Perwana Khan, the Deputy
Commander-in-Chief in Kabul (“Dipti Supersala”), was for some weeks
attended by the hakims, who, reporting him to be suffering from colic,
administered purge after purge. As, however, he did not seem to be
getting any better, the Amîr desired me to examine him. I found he
had acute pain in the left loin, shooting downwards; the attacks of
pain came on, he said, after he had been riding on horseback, and he
had other symptoms, all pointing unmistakably to stone in the kidney.
I administered suitable medicine for the relief of the pain, and he
was overjoyed, imagining himself cured. I explained, however, to His
Highness what was wrong.

To the hakims dropsy is a disease, and can be cured by the treatment
set forth in their books. No attempt is made to discover the cause
of the dropsy--whether it is due to kidney disease, heart, liver,
lung or blood disease--it is simply an accumulation of gas (bâd) in
the tissues! In diseases of the chest, they do not, of course, employ
auscultation with a stethoscope, nor percussion; and bronchitis,
pneumonia, and phthisis are classed together under the name of sûrfa,
or cough. This, they say, is due to an accumulation of “slime”
(balgham) in the body. In some cases the sûrfa is accompanied by dard
i sîna, or pain in the chest, and occasionally blood as well as slime
is coughed up: these are recognized as bad cases. I have related the
case of the young brigadier in Turkestan, cousin of the Sultana, whom
the hakims were treating for sûrfa, and who was dying of an improperly
treated pneumonia, which had, eventually, become tubercular. As I did
not want to have the credit of killing him, I sent in my report to the
Amîr at once. The hakims did not in the least mind my being sent for to
their cases, after they had become hopeless; for, like the dressers,
they said, “Behold, the Feringhi doctor cannot cure them any more than
we.”

Malarial fevers are diagnosed as “cold fever” or “hot fever” (tap i
larza--tap i gurrum), according to whether there is a shivering stage
or not. They are treated by copious bleedings and purgings, and by
very low diet. Malarial fever, however, being due to the presence in
the blood corpuscles of a microscopic animal, an amæba, the treatment
that the hakims adopted was not likely to be very successful. Quinine
in sufficient dose destroys this organism, but the hakims would rarely
give it, or if, following my plan, they did so, they gave it in doses
so small as to be useless, for they said, “Quinine is _hot_, and,
therefore, bad for fever.”

What they meant I do not know.

The hakims divide not only malarial fevers into “hot and cold,” but
they arrange all diseases into these two classes, and I was asked of
almost every disease that came under my notice whether it were hot or
cold; for instance, whether dyspepsia were hot or cold. The reason for
the classification in the case of malarial fevers is obvious enough,
but for the other diseases I never was able to find out upon what they
founded their conclusions. It certainly was not simply whether the
patient had fever or not.

It was particularly embarrassing when the Amîr asked the question, and
I once told His Highness that in Europe we did not speak of diseases
as being either hot or cold, that it was often impossible to consider
them as either one or the other. His Highness was quite indignant at
my denying what apparently seemed to him such a self-evident fact, so
much so that he doubted if my interpreter had translated what I had
said correctly. After that, when I was asked, I told the interpreter
to class the disease as hot or cold, according to the custom of the
country.

[Sidenote: Treatment of Disease by the People.]

In the distant villages, where there is no hakim, and the priest’s
amulet has failed to cure, the people either go untreated or treat
themselves. A popular mode of treatment for diseases of bones and
joints, and also for almost any pain in the chest, abdomen, or back,
is the employment of the “actual cautery.” A piece of live charcoal is
placed against the skin until a deep burn is produced; this is done in
two or three places, the scars, of course, remaining till the end of
the patient’s life.

Another custom, mostly for diseases accompanied by fever, is to kill a
sheep, skin it rapidly, and at once wrap the patient in the hot skin.
I do not know that it does any harm. The Amîr himself, when suffering
from gout, and when the hakims had failed to relieve him, employed this
essentially Afghan mode of treatment for his leg and foot. Afterwards
he sent for me.

For wounds, ulcers, or abscesses the villagers bind on either a piece
of fresh sheepskin, which they leave on till it stinks, or a piece
of an old water bag (mussack), which they soften afresh by soaking.
Sometimes they plaster on mud or clay. In the case of ulcers, the
fact that they _never_ heal under these circumstances does not seem
to strike the Afghans, and they continue in the old custom. If the
discharge oozes from under the clay they plaster on a little more.
Cover a sore, get it out of sight, is the golden rule of hakims,
dressers, and people. The condition of the ulcer when the clay is
removed is indescribable. In some cases the only possible treatment is
the removal of the limb.

[Sidenote: The Feringhi as a Healer.]

I noticed that the richer and more educated Afghans did not seem so
ready to avail themselves of European medical aid as the poorer people,
and it struck me there were two reasons for this. First, that the
hakims took the trouble to explain to the richer people, from whom
they expected to receive fees, that Europeans use deadly poisons in
their medicines, which are just as likely to kill as to cure. A certain
amount of weight attaches to this by the often unfortunate results
of medical treatment by the Hindustani hospital assistants. The other
reason seems to be due, not to the hakims, but to the influence of
the priests. The more religious of the Afghans apparently look upon a
European as one who, by the help of the Powers of Evil, has in this
world the gifts of knowledge, skill, and wealth, but who in the next
life must inevitably be consigned to eternal torment. Doubtless with
his deadly poisons he can cure diseases if he wish, but it is not wise,
and, indeed, is scarcely lawful, for a sick man to make use of him.

They feel it will offend God less if, before they traffic with the
evil one by employing a Feringhi doctor, they use all lawful and right
means to become well, such as trying the efficacy of prayer, or the
wearing of amulets and charms: should these fail, by placing themselves
under the care of their hereditary physicians, the hakims, who attended
their fathers and their fathers’ fathers. They can always call in the
Feringhi as a last resource.

The peasants and the hillmen, the soldiers and the poorer townsfolk--in
fact, all those who are but occasionally under the influence of the
priests, and from whom the hakims can expect a small, if any fee--these
are ready enough to trust themselves, when sick, to European medical
skill. They take advantage of that which seems to them good, as an
animal might, without entering upon the deeper question whether it is
religiously right or wrong--in fact, they even look upon a doctor as
one to be classed with Dewanas or madmen, and prophets, who are all
more or less sacred.

It must be a powerful reason, such as the fear of being poisoned or
damned, that prevents the richer Afghans from employing European
medical aid, for they have to pay the hakims, whereas at the hospital
no fees or presents were received, and it is not the nature of an
Afghan to pay for a thing if he can get it for nothing.

CHAPTER IX.

THE MARCH TO TURKESTAN.

    Jealousy and its results. Sport among the Afghans. The Prince
    hawking. The “Sportsmen” among the mountains. Wild-fowl shooting.
    Order to join the Amîr in Turkestan. Preparations. The start.
    Camp at Chiltan. The Banquet. The Nautch dance. Salaams by the
    Villagers. Among the Hindu Kush mountains. The camp in the Hazara
    country. The dismal night. Courtesy of Jan Mahomed. The hungry
    morning. Mountain paths. Iron spring. The underground river and
    the Amîr’s offer. The Red mountain and the Deserted City. Camp in
    the Valley of Bamian. The English prisoners of 1837. The Petrified
    Dragon. The Colossal Idols: their construction and probable origin.
    The Cave-dwellers. The Pass of the “Tooth breaker.” Ghuzniguk.
    Story of Ishak’s Rebellion. Fording the River. Tash Kurghán: the
    Shave and the Hospital. “The Valley of Death.” The Plains of
    Turkestan and the heat thereof. The Mirage. Arrival at Mazar. The
    House. Story of the death of Amîr Shere Ali.

[Sidenote: Jealousy: Revenge.]

About a month after our arrival in Kabul an incident occurred which,
though gruesome in its details, I cannot refrain from relating on
account of the light which it throws upon the nature of the Afghan.

One of the soldiers had made a favourite of a boy in the town. Some
time afterwards the boy was seen to associate with another man in the
cantonment. At once the jealousy of the soldier was aroused. He taxed
the boy with it, and in a moment of jealous anger he drove his knife
into him, killing him instantly.

Forthwith the mother of the lad appealed to Prince Habibullah for
justice and revenge. She claimed the life of the murderer. The Prince
heard the case in detail, and, according to the Afghan law (an eye
for an eye and a tooth for a tooth), granted the woman’s request. The
soldier was hurried off to the execution ground, close to the hospital
where I was. His hands were fastened behind him, and he was tied in a
sitting posture in a chair. A knife was handed to the woman: she seized
the man’s beard, wrenched his head back, and with a cry of “Allah,
akbar,” cut his throat. Then, flinging down the knife, she plunged her
hands in the spirting stream, and lapped the blood into her mouth.

On Friday, the Mahomedan Sabbath, there being no work in the workshops,
Mr. Pyne and I went for a ride along the beautiful lanes fringed with
poplars, which lie between the fields around Kabul.

We saw in a large field among the young green corn some seven or eight
horsemen sitting silently on their horses. Presently I recognized the
slender form of Prince Nasrullah. We rode up to salute His Highness,
and he informed us he was hawking for partridges. The bird used was, I
believe, a species of falcon, though I am not sufficiently skilled an
ornithologist to say what species. The bird is carried, hooded, on the
wrist, and is unhooded and cast off when the prey is sighted. For large
game the bigger female falcon is used.

The group of riders made quite a picture as they sat: the gold
embroidery of their military uniforms sparkling in the sun; the black
of the astrakhan hat, the long waving mane and tail of the horses,
all sharply distinct against the background of soft spring green and
distant shadowy mountains.

[Sidenote: Mountain “Sportsmen.”]

As a nation the Afghans are fond of sport. Game of many kinds
is plentiful in the country. A short time ago, the sport of all
sports--for the excitement of great possible gain came in--was the
picking off of unwary travellers and annexing their belongings. Here
was not only sport but the indulgence of a passion so dear to the
Afghan, that of gambling.

A sportsman on the hills saw trudging along the road a traveller with a
burden on his shoulders. From the distance he examined him with care.

“To my eye this traveller has rupees and much gold in his pack. Without
doubt he is a rascal Hindu usurer, who, journeying to Kabul, is about
to plunder the Faithful. Soul of my father! Shall this be?” And the
bullet sped on its way. Springing from rock to rock, with agility born
of a mountain life, the sportsman was soon on the road. Quickly he
opened the pack and--out rolled a melon.

His arms sunk to his sides, his head drooped, and he stood the picture
of despair. For his sins he was thus punished. “Tobah! tobah! alas and
alas!” he groaned; “my cartridge, my good cartridge is gone, wasted,
for ever lost; and I, what have I? a melon! Wai! wai!” and he wept.

But, nowadays, since the great king, Amîr Abdurrahman, has occupied the
throne, this form of sport is less popular than it was. Possibly it may
be due to the fact that consequences far from pleasing to the sportsmen
and their friends are apt to follow indulgence in this pastime.
Imprisonment has occurred; the being compelled to work in chains on the
roads or in the workshops; ignominious death even, as by hanging, or
by being thrust into an iron cage and left thirsting on the high peak
of a mountain. So, therefore, as I said, it is becoming less popular.

There are, however, many other forms of sport. Wild-fowl shooting in
the marshes around Kabul is a favourite pastime.

Sometimes the sportsmen go in a body on horseback, ride into the
marsh where it is shallow, disturb the duck and fire into the flight.
Sometimes they go singly, conceal themselves and use a decoy. In the
plains they stalk the deer or use a body of beaters to drive the game
to certain points. In Turkestan, tiger, wild pig--which they shoot--and
bear are to be obtained. Duck shooting in the autumn and winter, and
hawking in the spring are, perhaps, the sports in which the Royal
Family most frequently indulge.

[Sidenote: The Start for Turkestan.]

Not very long after our arrival in Kabul it was rumoured that the Amîr
needed my services in Turkestan, and a month and a-half afterwards
the official order arrived. I was to accompany Jan Mahomed Khan,
the Treasury Officer, who was about to convey a supply of bullion
to Turkestan for the use of His Highness. Accordingly, as soon as
I received the order, I engaged some servants: a Peshawuri--the
“assassin,” whom I have already referred to--as valet, and a Hindustani
cook, whom I found in Kabul. I was fortunate in being able to obtain
a cook, as hitherto Mr. Pyne and I had shared one between us. The man
I engaged had been cook in the family of Sir Louis Cavagnari. The
other servants were Afghans. After some extra cooking pots, dried
fruit, salt, and various other things, which the cook said he must
get from the bazaar, were obtained, and the baggage was packed, Mr.
Pyne accompanied me to the house of Jan Mahomed Khan. We were received
in a large room, which was crowded with people standing. We seated
ourselves at the end and drank tea with Jan Mahomed. Then a bottle of
champagne was opened, complimentary speeches made, and, finally, about
midday we started. We stopped at the Palace, dismounted, and went in to
take leave of His Highness, the Prince. When we remounted we were met
outside the Palace by Perwana Khan, the Deputy Commander-in-Chief, and
Naib Mir Sultan, the Governor of Kabul, each with their attendants, so
that with our own crowd of servants, and a guard of sixty soldiers, we
made a large cavalcade. A crowd of people on foot accompanied us part
of the way, running by the side and in front of the horses. The sun
shone brightly; the dresses of the officials--crimson, and purple, and
green--were brilliant with gold embroidery. The glitter of the gold
and silver ornaments on belt, scabbard, and bridle, the blue and gold
turbans of the attendants, the black sheepskin busbies of the soldiers,
horses caracoling, and the look of bustle and excitement, made an
artistic and interesting picture.

We rode by the bank of the Kabul river westward, past the workshops and
through the gorge between the Sher Durwaza and Asmai mountains out into
the Charhardeh valley.

The first day’s journey was short, for we went only a few miles across
the valley to a place called Chiltan, where on a hill Jan Mahomed has
a “country residence.” The house was pretty, and well built, in the
style of a bungalow with a verandah; around it were flower gardens with
a small fountain. Down the hill and around the foot of it were vines
and fruit trees, and the view from the house was over the cornfields
and vineyards of the beautiful Charhardeh valley, circled with
mountains.

The Governor of Kabul did not accompany us to the house, but the rest
of us sat down to dinner together, in the Mahomedan fashion, that is,
on the ground. Pyne and I were accommodated with cushions. As we were
not able to double our legs up in the Eastern fashion we “reclined.”
It was my first “native” dinner, and I enjoyed it immensely, for the
ride and excitement had made us hungry. With the fruit, champagne was
brought, and afterwards sweets and tea. Then when we lit our cigars
nautch girls and musicians were introduced.

[Sidenote: The Nautch Dancer.]

I can speak of the wild barbaric music from seithar, rubarb, and drum;
of the passionate Oriental love song pealing forth in unison from
strong male voices; of the unveiled girl dancers undulating to the
music; of the glances cast by the dark eyes, the waving of arms, the
clinking of bangles, and the tinkling of bells on their ankles, as the
dancers stepped daintily on the carpet.

I can also speak of the indescribable ear-splitting din, without
either time or tune, which was torn from the tortured instruments and
hurled at us as “music;” of the harsh voices roaring till they were
hoarse something which we did not understand; of the attempts of the
singers to produce a trill by shaking the head; of the utter absence of
modulation or feeling in their singing; of the dancing women shuffling
about, clapping their hands and throwing themselves into uncouth and
to us unmeaning postures; and I thought, “Oh, for an hour of Augustus
Druriolanus to open the eyes of these Easterns.”

We turned in at midnight, Pyne and I sharing a room, and he broke my
only egg cup with his heel. We started next morning at eight, said
good-bye to Pyne, who returned to Kabul to superintend the workshops,
and then rode on. On the way villagers came out and lined the road to
salaam Jan Mahomed and offer him presents. As they stood in a row they
held out their hands, palm upwards, muttered a prayer, and stroked
their beards--that is, those who had beards: the young men and boys who
had not, pretended to do so. At some places they slung a string across
the road with a Koran fixed in the middle of it, and as we passed under
it we held out our hands, palm upwards, muttered a prayer, and stroked
our beards. At other places they killed a bullock or a calf by cutting
its throat. I do not know the significance of the operation.

It rained somewhat when we got among the mountains, and Jan Mahomed,
who had on a purple velvet tunic, put up an umbrella to protect
himself. I found he had brought his little son, four years old with
him. The youngster was seated in a little chair, which was securely
fastened on the back of a steady horse, an attendant holding a leading
rein. I was not on very good terms myself with my horse. He was a
very showy creature, and had been given me by the Prince, but he had
evidently not been ridden lately, and was very fresh. A march is a
fatiguing function at the best of times, and my horse was not up to
the quick shuffling walk which is so restful. He would do anything
else--buck, kick, gallop, or trot. Finally Jan Mahomed ordered one of
the soldiers, an iron Afghan, to change with me, and I was at peace
again.

Sometimes we stopped at a village and put up in the different houses;
other times the tents were pitched near a stream. When we got among the
Paghman offshoot of the Hindu Kush mountains we had pelting rain and
sleet for hours; a violent storm of thunder and lightning; then had to
ford a wide roaring stream with a stony irregular bed, and, finally, to
camp outside a Hazara fortified village in the sloppy melting snow.

[Sidenote: Courtesy of Jan Mahomed.]

The village (Kharzar) was too filthy inside for us to enter, and too
cramped in space to accommodate us, if we had entered. I went to
look--for my tent had not arrived. For food the villagers were too
ill provided themselves to be able to sell us anything, and hungry,
wet, and tired, it seemed likely we should have a cheerless night.
When Jan Mahomed’s tent was ready he kindly invited me to enter it. I
took off my soaked ulster, sloshed and slipped into the dusk of the
tent, sat on a stool, and shivered miserably. Nothing else seeming to
be forthcoming, a pipe was the only resource, and with shaking hand I
tried to light it. Match after match fizzed in the damp and went out.
The pipe chattered in my teeth, and, woe is me, I felt that the cold
and the wet and the hungry emptiness would last for ever. But it did
not. Jan Mahomed Khan noticed presently that I seemed uncomfortable.
He rose from the camp stool on which he was sitting enveloped in the
voluminous folds of a huge sheepskin postîn, came across the tent,
slipped the postîn from his shoulders and threw it around me. I tried
to refuse; but he insisted. He said nothing, for he could not speak
English nor I Persian, then he smiled, bowed and sat down again. I felt
very grateful, and at the same time rather ashamed at having robbed
him, but presently a soldier brought him a cloak in which he wrapped
himself.

Meanwhile, the attendants, having succeeded in obtaining some straw,
scattered it thickly inside the tent and spread carpets over it. Then
they endeavoured to light a fire in a large iron pot outside, and when
there was a feeble glimmer of a flame they brought it in. We gathered
round it joyfully, but soon a dense fog of smoke from the damp wood
filled the tent. Though I still shivered under the postîn, I had
managed to light my pipe, and I sat puffing away with the smarting
tears trickling down, finally the smoke fog became so dense that I was
compelled to sit with my eyes shut. Neither Jan Mahomed nor any of the
Afghans seemed to mind it in the least. Jan Mahomed himself is not an
Afghan. He is a Samarcandi whom the Amîr purchased as a boy. He was the
Amîr’s faithful attendant when in exile in Russian Turkestan; and when
His Highness came to the throne Jan Mahomed was put into a position
of trust, finally becoming treasury officer, or “Chancellor of the
Exchequer.”

The tent, by-and-bye, became warmer, and I took off my solar helmet
which I had worn during the rain storms. The Afghans, however, attach
great importance to keeping the head warm, and they all insisted upon
my putting on that or some other head covering at once; otherwise, they
said, I should take fever. The fire began to blaze up brightly and
the smoke to disappear, when an iron vessel was brought, containing
a few pints of milk with water added to eke out the quantity. They
put it over the fire and, when it boiled, a handful of tea was thrown
in. There was enough for all in the tent to have a teacupful; I,
the guest, and Jan Mahomed, received two each. By-and-bye, an iron
camp bedstead was prepared for my host, and he retired; one of the
attendants kneading and massaging the limbs till he slept. My bedding
not having turned up I threw a buffalo rug over my feet, and lay down
on the carpet enveloped in the folds of the sheepskin. It was not a
comfortable bed, but I was tired and slept more or less, waking up
occasionally with aching bones.

The morning was bright: the rising sun in the clear sky lit up the
white snow all around, and a keen wind was blowing. My interpreter,
the Armenian, appeared. He said he had had fever in the night, and had
found shelter in one of the huts inside the Hazara fort. He brought me
a small piece of dry bread which the cook had found among the baggage
when my tent arrived. Some hot tea was made, and I munched my crust
with great satisfaction. They told me we should have a cold march that
day, by Hajiguk, and the Armenian said:--

“Sir, you not wear the long coat; he is wet, and fever come for you.”

“I must wear something,” I said.

“Another you have,” said he, and off he went. He presently returned
with my dressing-gown. I objected; but, no, there was nothing
extraordinary in it; in fact, it was very like an Afghan robe. I wore
it, therefore, though it did not seem a very suitable riding coat.

[Sidenote: Mountain Climbing.]

It was a cold march as we crunched along through the snow, in spite of
the fact that the sun was shining brightly. We were at an altitude of
over sixteen thousand feet, and had to make long detours, for the road
was in places blocked or rendered unsafe by the snow. In some of the
detours where there was no path, we scrambled up and down terrifying
slopes. My saddle, a hunting one, could not be kept in place, and we
had to extemporize a breast-plate with string. In one ravine where
we halted, trying to find a way out, there was a sudden crack and a
splash. We had stopped over a stream crusted with ice and covered with
snow, and the horse of one of the soldiers went through. The stream,
however, was shallow, and only the man’s feet were wetted. There was a
laugh as he urged his horse out.

We descended from the region of snow into valleys where the air
quivered with heat, and one’s face was nearly blistered. In one, where
we stopped for lunch, I put a clinical thermometer for a moment against
my coat sleeve. The mercury shot up to the top at once. I was glad when
we moved on again. We passed a spring bubbling up near the road, whose
waters were impregnated with iron, the ground all round being stained
brown. Jan Mahomed said the water contained copper and was poisonous.

I remember one narrow but wild rocky ravine, with a river foaming and
roaring down it. The road ran along a few yards above the water. There
was a natural bridge of rock, over which the road ran, and just beyond,
a waterfall of some depth, where, at the bottom of the fall, the water
rushed under an arch of rock and was lost to sight. It reappeared, I
was told, in a valley about two miles off, and they said His Highness
the Amîr one day, when travelling by, offered a prize of a hundred
rupees to the man who would plunge in and explore the underground
river. A duck had been put in and had reappeared alive in the valley.
A soldier undertook the adventure at once, and was preparing for his
perilous journey when the Amîr forbad it. His Highness said, “If he is
drowned I lose a man of courage, and if he succeed what gain is there?
Give him the rupees.”

[Sidenote: Camp in the Bamian Valley.]

We were now about ninety miles from Kabul. For the first forty miles we
travelled due west, after that north-west, till we entered the ravine
I spoke of, which led nearly due north. As we rode on, the ravine
descended and opened into a large and very fertile valley. The mountain
at the west of the gorge was red in colour, quite different from those
we had been travelling among. Looking up with some interest at it, I
distinguished battlemented walls and towers leading up the mountain,
and, at the top, clusters of ruined houses and walls. There was no
sign of life. The city was deserted. They told me the place was called
Zohàk-i-Marhan, and was built a thousand years ago (“hazar sol”) by
the Emperor Alexander (“Sekunder”).

I did not, however, in the style of architecture see anything that
could lead one to suppose the buildings were of Greek origin. It
is interesting to note that there is in Afghanistan a tribe called
Zohàk, which is a division of the Ushturyani (the Stauri of Pliny),
who formerly occupied the district west of Bamian. Zohàk is stated by
Dr. Bellew to be the same as Zàk and Sàk, and stands for the ancient
inhabitants of Sistàn and Makràn, Assyrian subjects of Nimrod, king of
Babylon.

We descended into the valley and camped not far from the red mountain,
near the village of Topchi.

It was the month of May, the sun shone brightly, and the fields around
were green. Jan Mahomed had brought the musicians--but not the dancing
girls--with him. We luxuriated after the bitter winds and sleet of the
mountains, and the heat and weariness of the stony valleys. When lunch
was over Jan Mahomed sent me some sweets and a bottle of champagne. I
found that my servants, though Mahomedans, felt they were justified
after their fatigues in finishing the bottle. The musicians sat playing
in Jan Mahomed’s tent, and as I lay in mine reading a novel, the quaint
music, softened by the distance, was more pleasing than I had supposed
possible. For years afterwards the twang of the rubarb, the irregular
thud of the drums, and the monotonous sound of the singing, brought
back vividly to me that day in the Bamian valley, when I was a new
comer in the country.

The Bamian valley extends from Topchi nearly ten miles in a westerly
direction, and is about eight thousand feet above the sea. It is
interesting to know that Lady Sale, Lady MacNaughten, and six other
English ladies, who were taken prisoners in the first Afghan war in
1837, were conducted over the road we traversed to this very valley.
Lady Sale, relating their adventures, says that though they suffered
hardship, privation, and much anxiety concerning their future fate,
they were treated with kindness and consideration by the villagers
on the way. The order was that they were to be conducted to Khulum,
a hundred and twenty miles further on among the mountains toward
Turkestan, there to be delivered over to the Governor. This would have
meant to them a hopeless captivity. Happily, Sir Robert Sale, after the
defeat of the Afghans by Pollock, hurried on, and was able to rescue
the party in Bamian. Lady MacNaughten, less happy than Lady Sale, had
seen her husband, diplomatist and Oriental scholar, murdered before her
eyes in Kabul.

While we were in this valley Jan Mahomed went some miles out of the
road to show me a petrified dragon, or as my interpreter put it, “a
stone cow.” Akbar Mahomed had slain this dragon in single combat, and
Allah had changed it into stone. “Why _cow_?” I asked the Armenian,
some time afterwards. “It is a snake or a dragon.”

“I not know English word snake and dragon; I must say some animal, and
‘cow’ came into head, therefore I say _cow_.” The dragon I found to be
a curious shaped rocky hill formed in the course of ages by the deposit
of carbonate of lime from a spring that was still bubbling there.

[Illustration: COLOSSAL FIGURE, “SA-MAMA,” IN THE BAMIAN
VALLEY.

  _From a photograph by Arthur Collins, F.G.S._]

[Sidenote: The Colossal Figures.]

This valley was full of surprises, for the next day we came up with
three colossal figures, cut in relief on the face of the mountains (the
Hindu Kush range) on the north side of the valley. These figures, they
said, were statues carved by order of Jelaluddin Shah, of himself,
his wife and son (Jelaluddin lived about the year 1230). Away on the
other side of the valley we could dimly see on the heights the ruins
of a deserted city--“the city of Jelaluddin.” We were too far off to
see anything characteristic in the ruins, but it is possible that
the city belongs to the same era as that of Zohàk-i-Marhan, a few
miles further down the valley. The figures, it is probable, are of
Buddhist origin, and date back to the time which preceded the Mahomedan
conquest of Afghanistan, when Buddhism was the dominant religion of
the country. The largest of the three figures, which has the local
name of “Sa-mama,” is 173 feet in height. The smaller, “Sul-sol,” 120
feet, and the smallest not more than 80 feet. They resemble in style
other figures of Buddha. The drapery, moulded and fastened on with
pegs, shows no sign of classical influence, arranged, as it is, in
stiff conventional folds. These are in places broken away, showing
the peg holes. To give an idea of their relative size, I saw a man on
horseback ride up to one figure--he and his horse together were not so
high as the toe. The figures are hollow, and there are steps leading
up to chambers inside the body and head. These are used by the Amîr
as storehouses for grain. On the wall of the chamber, in the head of
the largest figure, are the indistinct marks of a fresco painting, of
which Mr. Collins, the geologist, managed, some years afterwards, to
get an imperfect photograph. It is, however, impossible to make out the
subject, and I heard no story as to when or by whom it was painted. In
the face of the mountain, by the side of the figures, are chambers or
caves hollowed out of the rock. Some of these are beautifully cut, with
domed roofs--to use the words of Mr. Collins, who examined them--in
“hard conglomerate rock, and are coated with a layer of lustrous
bitumen.” Doubtless, they were used as temples and dwelling-places for
the Buddhist priests. Many of the other caves are in “soft sandstone
and conglomerate.” These could be easily cut, the hard conglomerate
forming a natural roof for rooms dug in the softer sandstone beneath.
Presumably they are of later origin than those cut in the harder
material. Narrow, almost impossible staircases lead up to the caves,
and there dwell the poorer Hazara agriculturists of the Bamian valley.
There are cave-dwellers in many parts of Afghanistan, and it is men of
this kind, who combine the professions of agriculturist and warrior,
who would be likely to cause more trouble to an invader of Afghanistan
than would the regular army of the Amîr. During the last Afghan war the
English were at first much puzzled by the rapidity with which thousands
of armed men would appear, and, if occasion required, the equal
rapidity with which they would vanish. All that could be found was here
and there a peaceful peasant hard at work in the fields with his
mattock--the rifle was left at home.

The furniture of one of these rock dwellings is simple enough. The
most prominent feature is the great ornamented earthen jar, in which
grain and provisions are stored: a strip of carpet occupies the place
of honour in the centre of the floor: a few copper cooking utensils, a
“chillim,” an Afghan “samovar” for tea, and a rough “charpoy,” complete
the establishment.

In the Bamian valley, fertile, full of interest and with a delightful
climate, we travelled deliberately, taking two days to traverse the
ten miles or so. As we rode, my Armenian told me many stories. I do
not know what they were about; I didn’t then. One only I understood.
He said that once on a march, utterly wearied, he went to sleep on
horseback. “It is thrown out,” said he, meaning himself; and pointing
to his forehead, with a mild smile, he said, “He is broke, and blood
is come.” I laughed, and asked what happened next. “I got him upstairs
horse, but I not go to sleep again.”

[Sidenote: The Pass of the “Tooth-breaker.”]

Then we turned north, and the next day was wearisome: not so much
from the length of the march, it was only thirty miles, as from the
incessant climbing. We had a mountain to cross, to which all that we
had hitherto seen was a mere joke. The Afghans call the mountain the
“Tooth-breaker” (Dandan shikan). I don’t mind trifling adventures,
such as riding along the tops of walls, or foot-wide bridges, but when
it comes to riding an iron-shod horse along smooth rock, slanting to
a precipice of unknown depth--well, it is past a joke. We had to do
it, and then descend a horrible “zig-zag.” I don’t call it a path,
because the predominant features were boulders, smooth tilted slabs,
and rolling pebbles. You lean back in the saddle, leaving your horse to
make his own arrangements. He picks his way warily, lower and lower,
and you thank Heaven you have got so far, when, just as you reach the
end of one “zig,” and your horse’s nose is over the edge, there is a
crunching slip of his hind feet: you catch in your breath and--think.
But he does not make a plunge over the edge, he pivots round on his
four feet, and goes down the “zag.” This is repeated frequently, and
at last, after many years, you arrive with your nerves in a shattered
condition at the bottom. The next time I came over this road, a year or
two later, there were accidents; but that I will speak of later.

We travelled on, day after day, through valleys and over
mountains--sometimes putting up at villages, sometimes camping in our
tents. Rain and hail alternated with scorching heat. To blacken you
properly, you want a dry scorching heat, alternating with icy winds and
hail. Some of the soldiers looked exactly as if they had been smoked:
the eyelids and creases of the face being white--the rest black.

[Sidenote: Story of Ishak’s Rebellion.]

We often had music when we camped, and one evening I played chess with
Jan Mahomed. He beat me. We were then at Ghuzni guk, the valley where
the armies of the Amîr and of his cousin Sirdar Ishak Khan met and
fought. The story I heard was this: His Highness the Amîr and Ishak
had always been friends, and when the Amîr ascended the throne, Ishak
was made Governor of the Turkestan provinces. All went well for some
years. Suddenly, news arrived in Turkestan that His Highness had had
an attack of gout, and had succumbed.[3] Ishak called his officers
around him, and discussed what steps to take. The chiefs urged him to
seize the throne. He, however, was a nervous man, not a warrior by
nature, and he hesitated. The chiefs seeing this, broadly hinted that
unless he seized the moment while he could, they would place another on
the throne, and Ishak, much against his will, was constrained to do as
they wished. He sent his women-folk and children across the Oxus into
Russian Turkestan, and marched with his troops and chiefs for Kabul.
They had not advanced many days’ journey when news was brought that
the Amîr was very much alive, and that his army was marching under
Gholam Hyder, the less, to meet them. Ishak knew now that he must meet
his Great Cousin, and in fear and distrust he posted relays of horses,
so that, if the worst came, he could escape across the frontier. They
met in this valley a few miles beyond Kamard. It is said that Ishak’s
army at the outset had the best of it--the men knew they were fighting
for their lives--but Ishak, neither Mahomedan nor Christian, did not
wait to see the end of the day. He made use of his horses, and rapidly
escaping across the frontier into Russia, he left his unfortunate
followers to bear the brunt of the Amîr’s terrible vengeance. It
appears that the rumour of the Amîr’s death had some foundation: His
Highness had been seized with a sudden attack of syncope, in which he
fell insensible to the ground.

[3] The news reached India. It was the first thing I saw in the papers
when I arrived there to enter the Amîr’s service, Sept. 1888.

One Sunday we had a very long march, thirteen hours, with two rests of
an hour each. Going one pace all the time is tedious, and one’s bones
ache abominably. We got into a ravine with a rapid stream roaring
along it, and part of the path was undermined and slipping. We had to
dismount and skip across on foot, the soldiers getting the horses over.

The ravine narrowed, curved to the right, and opened out into a
valley. The river roared round the corner, figure =S= shape, in some
places cutting away the path completely. Our horses had to plunge, and
stumble, and splash through that river three times in twenty yards,
before we could get out into the valley. It is at times like this that
the beautiful song “One More River to Cross” becomes full of meaning. A
mile or two more of hill and vale, and soon after dark we reached “Tash
Kurghán,” or “Khulum,” the place where Lady Sale and her companions in
captivity were to have been taken.

We put up at the citadel or fort, which is built on a rocky hill in the
middle of the town. We rested here all day Monday, and I enjoyed the
luxury of a hot bath. The Armenian waxed philosophical. He said, “It is
good to rest a little. Tired is go away, and hungry is go away.” Also
he suggested that a shave might commend itself to my judgment.

“But who is to shave me?” I said.

[Sidenote: The Wounded Soldiers in Tash Kurghán.]

“There is bolber in the town.” He called it barber afterwards. They
fetched the barber, and I wondered if it were dangerous for him to
shave me, for I had heard that Afghans were treacherous fanatics.
He did not destroy me. He merely rubbed some oil on my chin and