On the appointed day I accompanied Jan Mahomed Khan to the Palace, to be presented to His Highness the AmÎr. Mazar is a much smaller town than Kabul, and as we had so short a distance to go we walked. The bazaar and the streets bear a strong resemblance, in their squalor and narrowness, to those of the larger town; we, however, were on the outskirts where the roads were wide and the houses at intervals.

We reached the outer garden of the Palace, where we had dismounted on our first arrival in the town, and word was at once taken in to His Highness. After waiting a few minutes the sentry at the gate admitted us, and we entered the inner garden. This appeared to be extensive, and was so filled with almond and other fruit-trees as almost to resemble a wood. Along by the paths were planted sweet-smelling flowers. There were page boys and other officials walking about, and presently we came in sight of the Palace. In front was a large open space free from trees and flowers, and protected from the sun by a crimson and white awning. This was in place of a “Hall of Audience,” where congregate those who have petitions to offer or disputes to settle.

Between the open space and the Palace ran a stream of water about six feet wide, which meandered through the garden. The Palace was small. It resembled in style a bungalow, such as one sees in India. There was a broad and high verandah supported on carved wooden pillars, a high sloping roof, and large windows on each side of the centre door: the one on the left reaching nearly to the ground.

We drew nearer, everyone making way, and we saw, surrounded by pages and courtiers, that remarkable man who, had he lived a century ago, would in all probability have been, not the petty prince of a half-barren country, but the great conqueror of the East—“AmÎr Abdurrahman, AmÎr of Afghanistan.”

He sat, a swarthy heavily-built man, with broad white forehead and piercing eyes; his stooping attitude, with head advanced, showed little of grace, but seemed the personification of watchful strength; as the full-lipped mouth and square jaw betokened the inflexible will.

Almost Persian in type, with the aquiline semi-Jewish features and coal-black hair of his race, he added to the courtesy of the Oriental something of the bluff heartiness of an Englishman.

We had crossed the stream by a foot-bridge, but had paused at a little distance from His Highness. Jan Mahomed receiving a sign, went quickly forward, knelt at the feet of the AmÎr, kissed his hand and pressed it to his forehead and eyes; then, rising, he presented me to His Highness.

The AmÎr welcomed me to his country, and courteously expressed a hope that I was not fatigued by the long and trying journey. A chair was placed, and His Highness, desiring me to be seated, asked me many questions as to my medical experiences. In particular, he asked what opportunities I had had of studying the disease, Gout—“neqris.” I said that in Europe “gout” was called the “English disease,” and that as all my professional life had been spent in London, I had had many opportunities of studying and treating this complaint. His Highness then described to me the symptoms that he suffered from, and showed me where the pain seized him. He traced out exactly the course of the sciatic nerve, and I saw that, whatever else he might suffer from, there was no doubt whatever that he had chronic sciatica. He asked also many questions in Science and Natural History, with the object, presumably, of testing one’s general knowledge. He did not, however, enquire concerning my Degrees or Diplomas in Medicine, though he well knew of the existence of such things.

His Highness’s words were translated by an Interpreter at the Court—a Hindustani who spoke English exceedingly well. I confess I was glad the Armenian was not, at that time, called upon to perform this duty, or I am afraid my answers would have been less to the point. However, later the Armenian became very fluent, and I learnt to understand him.

Seated some little distance from the AmÎr was another European, Captain (now Major) C. L. Griesbach, C.I.E. This gentleman, I heard, had been with the AmÎr some two years as Geologist. When my “examination” was satisfactorily over, permission was given us to retire, and I accompanied Captain Griesbach to his house and dined with him. The Captain informed me he was not remaining much longer with the AmÎr, but was returning to India to continue his service under the British Government. After dinner he sketched the character of the AmÎr, and gave me a good deal of information as to the life in Turkestan. He had heard of the terrible punishment that had been inflicted on the rebel followers of Sirdar Ishak and their unfortunate families. One form of punishment appeared to have been introduced from Russia. Men were described as being tied, in the bitter winter of Turkestan, naked, to a post; water was thrown over them, and they were left to freeze: a strong man would last two days. Girls had been fastened to the earth and tortured; women and children sold as slaves—and much more.

I came away in anything but a cheerful state of mind.

By whose orders had these things been done? I asked myself. Who was responsible for them? The Prince, whose service I had just entered? He whom I was to attend in sickness; to the preservation of whose health I was to devote all my knowledge and skill? I tried to believe not; that the deeds had been done without his knowledge; that the stories were exaggerated: anything than that they were true; but the horror of it all remained with me long. As the months went by, however, I perceived that to view the conduct of an Asiatic ruler over a turbulent country from the standpoint of Western nineteenth century civilization, is to commit not only an error, but an injustice. It is an error, for it leads one to quite wrong conclusions as to the character of the chief actor: the AmÎr was simply proclaiming, in language that Asiatics understand, his determination of being king in Afghanistan. It is an injustice, for education and civilization cannot advance with such strides in an isolated Eastern country as in Europe; and without the progress of knowledge the sons cannot learn better than their fathers. Again, the Mahomedan religion—does it uphold forgiveness, long-suffering, pity, and humility, as virtues? On the contrary, it claims an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. It tends rather to encourage cruelty, for it spreads its very tenets by slaughter. With what justice, then, could I view these things from our Nineteenth century standpoint, seeing that less than two hundred years ago, with our religion, similar deeds were committed among us.

A fortnight after my arrival, Captain Griesbach departed for India. He was accompanied by the Interpreter who had translated for me before the AmÎr: His Highness had desired the Interpreter to remain in his service, but the man refused.

During the interview when I was presented, His Highness had directed me to take charge of the military hospital in Mazar. Remembering the men in Tash KurghÁn, I wondered what I should see. Early in the morning I rode off, accompanied only by the Armenian. His Highness had decided that in Turkestan it was unnecessary for me to be followed everywhere by a guard of soldiers. He was my guard, he said, “and the Mazaris are little likely to injure one for whose arrival they have been anxiously watching.” One or two precautions he directed the Armenian to take. He was not to conduct me out on the plains more than a mile from the city—this on account of Turkoman highwaymen; nor near a gang of prisoners, for they were dangerous men, and in spite of search carried concealed weapons; nor near a regiment of soldiers with fixed bayonets—for as he significantly put it, “They have attempted even my life!”

The way to the hospital was through the narrow, covered bazaar or market-place. This was crowded with people, and caravans of camels and pack-mules from Kabul and Bokhara.

The rough roofing of the bazaar forms a grateful shelter from the scorching sun. The shops are similar to those of Kabul. After the bazaar come winding streets among the houses. Space here is not so limited as in Kabul, and though the streets are no wider, the houses are less lofty. In style they differ much from the Kabul houses; generally, the rooms are square, eight or nine feet high, with a domed brickwork roof. One, two, or more rooms, side by side, for master, servants, and horses, constitute the house. Often there are no windows, light being admitted through the door and through an aperture in the centre of the domed roof. This last acts also, when a wood fire is lighted, as a convenient chimney. The sandali, however, is generally used in the winter. The houses stand in an enclosed yard or garden, but since the domed roofs of the houses are not used for the promenade as are those of Kabul, the garden-walls have no need to be more than seven or eight feet high. This style of house is peculiar to Turkestan, though there are, in the suburbs of Mazar, many houses precisely like those of Kabul. The walls, built of sun-dried bricks and coated with mud, become painfully white and glaring in the summer sun.

We reached one of the gates of the town and rode out. Here, in the suburbs, are the summer gardens of the richer men. Far away are the mountains, blue in the distance. Mazar lies on a malarious, almost desert plain in Turkestan, nine miles east of the ancient city Balkh, and thirty miles south of the Pata Kesar ferry, on the Oxus river, so that we were near the Russian frontier.

The plain is desert, because of the absence of water. When the snow melts in the warmth of the spring, the plain becomes a blaze of red flowers, wild tulips—poppies, my Interpreter said: but these shrivel up and die in the summer. The gardens of the town, and the fields immediately around it, are irrigated by an artificial canal, made, I was told, by the AmÎr’s father during the few months he reigned. They said the water was brought south from the Oxus, but I fancy it must come from the mountains towards Malmul.

The hospital, a short distance out of the town, was once the suburban house and garden of a wealthy man.

The patients lay in the garden: some were under the trees, others were protected by long thatched roofs supported on poles. None were in the house. In Tash KurghÁn the patients with festering wounds were shut in a house when they should have been out in the open. Here they were out in the open, lying on the earth, and dying by scores from malarial fever. They should have been in the house, which was cool, and raised four or five feet above the earth.

There were about three hundred patients when I arrived, most of them down with severe Remittent fever. The Hakims were treating the fever by bleeding, purging, and starvation. Had they left the men untreated some of them might have recovered: as it was, the victims were being carried out five and six a day. In spite of their want of success, the Hakims continued blindly and persistently with their mode of treatment.

I walked round examining the patients and determining what I would do. Evidently it was useless taking the poor fellows who were already drained of their blood by the Hakims. I must take the new comers if I was to succeed in the essential object of medical treatment, that of curing the patient. I therefore directed that all new comers—and they poured into the hospital—should be taken to the inner garden and their beds arranged in the vacant rooms of the house there. A sentry was posted at the gate of the inner garden, with orders to shoot any Hakim attempting to enter.

One room contained a heterogeneous collection of European drugs and surgical instruments. In a small room on the roof lived a Hindustani hospital assistant—the gentlemanly dipsomaniac whom I have already introduced. There were two other Hindustani assistants, but they were utterly and hopelessly ignorant. These men happily had spared the patients. They had done no work at all.

I had, therefore, the first day seven or eight new cases secluded from the rest under my own hands, and, excluding bribery, beyond the reach of Hakims. After some months, when I had become known, I found whom I could trust, and did not take such stringent precautions.

I made a preliminary round of my cases with a note-book, for, at that time, distinguish Mahomed Akbar from Mahomed Hassan, and him from Mahomed Hussain or Gul Mahomed, I could not. I then made a second round with medicines, which were administered before me; for the possibility of bribery occurred to me, and I knew the Hakims would shrink from nothing to bring discredit upon a Feringhi interloper. My wards filled rapidly, and for a week I had no deaths, the fever yielding readily to quinine. The difference in the mortality after European and after native treatment was naturally striking, and the news spread far and wide, especially among the soldiers, the poorer townsfolk and the peasants, so that I soon had far more work before me than I could possibly get through in the day.

The way my time was allotted may be interesting.

After a light breakfast I galloped off to the hospital at daybreak, to escape the intense heat. Having completed my rounds there I returned home about eleven, washed and changed, putting on a dry suit of flannel; then, lying on a couch in the inner room, with all the doors and windows shut to keep out the heat, I munched some of the most delicious fruit—peaches, grapes, and melons—that it has ever been my good fortune to taste. At this time I had not become saturated with malaria, and I could eat fruit without any evil resulting. I slept for an hour, had lunch, and at two o’clock repaired to an underground room, which was comparatively cool, to see the patients, townsfolk, and soldiers who had been gathering in crowds round the house. I continued attending to them till six in the evening and then ceased, whether there were many or few remaining. After dinner I saw the one or two favoured ones who had obtained from the AmÎr a special order for me to visit them at their homes.

I had at first some little trouble with the Hindustanis. Work was uncongenial to them. Only one of them, my friend the drunkard, had any medical knowledge, even such preliminary attainment as the use of the stethoscope. Of the other two, one I made a compounder, and the other a dresser of wounds.

Having one day to amputate a thumb, I desired the dresser to remain at the hospital and administer chloroform. He objected, saying he had finished his work for the day. He did not understand English, but spoke in Hindustani, in which language my Armenian was fluent. I said several things, more or less severe, which my interpreter translated, but the Hindustani went on his way. Had I then been acquainted with Afghan customs I should at once have ordered a soldier to thrash him, but such a procedure would have been unprecedented in a London hospital, and I did not do so. Instead, I wrote to His Highness to enquire if I had authority over the Hindustanis or not. His Highness answered that I had authority over all the Hindustanis and Hakims in the kingdom, with the exception of three men—one Hindustani and the two chief Hakims. He added, that if there were any insubordination I was at liberty to order the offender to be whipped or put in irons.

The Hindustani over whom I had no authority was a qualified man, who had been hospital assistant in the British Army, but who, accused of murdering his superior officer, an Englishman, had escaped into Afghanistan. The AmÎr found him a beggar by the wayside and took him into his service, appointing him to attend to the slaves of the harem. He was at the time of which I am writing, in Kabul. The Hakims who were excepted were two old men who had attended the AmÎr’s father. One, the Mirza Abdul Wahid, was an interesting old man, with wrinkled face of a Roman type. I read of him in a Russian book that Captain Griesbach lent me. For a Hakim he was an intelligent man, and I had a respect and a liking for the courtly old fellow. He died while I was in Turkestan, and I went to see him shortly before his death. With a courtesy that pained me he rose from his sickbed and ordered tea and sweetmeats to be brought.

The other Hakim, Abdul Rashid, was a fat old fool, pompous and ignorant, with many words. He came to see me—but I will relate that presently. The chair he sat on never recovered. It was rickety ever afterwards.

I knew now what my powers were. The Hindustanis did not openly rebel again, but they hatched a plot which, had they been more careful, might have led to unpleasant results. First, as I afterwards heard, one of them, the one whom I had made compounder, appealed to the AmÎr for protection. I was his enemy, he said. His enemy! But the AmÎr waited and watched. It might be true, India is a conquered country. His Highness appeared to take but little notice of me. He was courteous as always, and allowed me to be seated in his presence; but he spoke very little to me. The Hindustani, however, marred his own plot, for, not content with opposing me, he needs must quarrel with his countrymen instead of standing by them. He made a false accusation against the “dresser,” who, on his part, made a countermove. They were arrested and brought before the AmÎr, each swearing a contradiction to the other. They were both put to the torture—the “wedge and post”—and the compounder, screaming with fright, gave in at once and confessed. He was dismissed the service.

He knelt, imploring pardon and permission to stay; but the AmÎr said, “I send you away for your own good. Twice you were taken in adultery, and, as a foreigner, I spared you. Now you falsely accuse and endeavour to ruin your own countryman. Go, before I kill you.”

I think I have not described the “wedge and post.” It is a simple thing. There is an upright post in the earth. The criminal is seated on the ground and his feet lashed to the post; wedges are inserted between the sole of the foot and the post, and are hammered home. It is a painful process, they say, but a dogged Afghan will sit till the bones of both feet are crushed, before he will utter a sound.

The Hindustani before he departed came to take leave of me—his enemy! the coachman is not an enemy to the horses. I gave him some tea and sent him away, but I noticed he did not limp; he must have given in soon at the post.

Then the other one, the dresser, linked the drunkard with him, and they aimed, not at me, but at the Armenian. They would cut him off. Now this fellow had been honest according to his lights. Every piece of advice he gave me I found to be sound: he instructed me in the customs of the country, described what should be done at festivals, what at visits of condolence; told me who were the dangerous men and who the true servants of His Highness; prevented my servants robbing me, and though he was rough and unpolished he had showed to me in a hundred minor ways a careful thought almost amounting to affection. Added to this, his dry humour and his yarns in broken English had whiled away many a dull hour when, as a newcomer, the sense of utter loneliness had oppressed me. He seemed my one friend. Was I to go back on him?

The Hindustanis wrote to His Highness accusing the Armenian, among other things, of translating the AmÎr’s words to me falsely—a most serious matter. But how could they know the Armenian translated falsely if they did not understand English? The drunkard understood, though he spoke “book English,” and haltingly; hence the necessity of him in the plot.

I saw the Armenian one day looking very dejected, and I asked him what was the matter. He told me of the accusation that had just been made against him.

“Perhaps AmÎr Sahib kill me,” he said.

Wishing to cause him as much distress as possible, the Hindustanis had shown their hand. It was a weak thing to do. The original conception was crafty, for I saw at once how difficult a thing it was to rebut; and then, too, it was just the idea to “catch on” in the mind of an Oriental monarch. How could I say the Armenian translated correctly when I understood little or no Persian?

If anything was to be done it must be done promptly. I determined, therefore, to carry the war into the enemy’s camp, and I sat down at once and wrote to His Highness in English.

I said it had come to my ears that these men—mentioning their names—had accused my Interpreter of translating falsely; that I had no reason to believe the accusation was true, for I found the accusers unworthy of trust. I then proceeded to explain why; describing the drunkenness of the one and the ignorance of the other; and pointed out their neglect of duty, naming a man of position as witness in each case that I brought forward. I was, fortunately, able to do this, for in two or three surgical operations that I had had to do, when they showed themselves neglectful and incompetent, there had been men of position, military officers, who witnessed the operation. I sent for the secretary of Col. Attaullah Khan, then British agent with the AmÎr, who understood English, asked him to translate for me, mentioning in the letter that he had done so, and at once sent the translation in to His Highness.

That night the AmÎr sent for the witnesses and examined them. The next morning a messenger arrived with a written order from the AmÎr that I was to bring the Armenian before him on the following day; the Hindustanis were to be accompanied by one of their countrymen, or rather a Kashmiri, who spoke English fluently. This man was a civil engineer who had served the AmÎr for some eight years—a clever man, well known at the Foreign Office in India.[7]

I felt some amount of nervous disturbance, wondering what turn the affair might take. I had not been long in the country, and I did not know what were the possibilities of the case. The whole story of the Hindustanis is, in itself, unimportant. What does it matter whether they rebelled against me or not? But it brings forward one trait of the AmÎr’s character—his sense of what is fair—and for that reason I have related it.

The morning came.

The Armenian, with a white face, silently walked with me to the Palace. It was a sunny warm morning, the fruit-trees in the garden were in full bloom, and I remember the scent of the flowers, as we walked along the path. How is it, I wonder, that slight external impressions dwell for ever in one’s memory when the mind is busily turned inwards? The awning was not up, and we took our stand, the Armenian and I, in the sun on the open space opposite the Palace. The two Hindustanis came up looking very yellow, accompanied by the Kashmiri, who was an intelligent looking man, with a dark skin. We waited a few minutes without speaking, and then His Highness with some attendant pages came from the Palace, and took his seat on an arm-chair on the verandah, opposite to us. The natives “salaamed,” I bowed, and His Highness touched his hat in acknowledgment. His Highness then addressed the Kashmiri engineer in Persian. The engineer turned to me, he had my letter in his hand; and he said in a severe manner:—

“I have here a letter purporting to be from you. I notice that it is not dated.”

“Confound your impudence,” I thought, but I said nothing; I bowed.

“You know,” said he, approaching nearer and altering his manner, “that this Armenian fellow cannot speak English, you had very much better——”

“Who asked for your advice, sir!” I said, turning on him suddenly. “His Highness ordered you to enquire whether that letter were mine or not.” This was a shot, for when His Highness spoke, I understood only two words, “letter” and “doctor.”

The engineer appeared startled, and he said:—

“A learned man like yourself, the most scientific in Afghanistan, and one on whose shoulders a grave responsibility rests, should have his words translated exact in every detail. If you expressed a wish to that effect, I am sure His Highness would engage from India at a large salary, an interpreter——”

At it again, I thought.

“That is my letter, sir. Inform His Highness.” There appeared nothing more to be said, and he turned to the AmÎr and addressed him in Persian.

Then His Highness burst forth. I did not understand his words, but there was no mistaking his manner—the knitted brow, the flashing eye and the low rumble, lashing up to a roar. The storm descended upon the heads of the two Hindustanis. They stood shivering, and from yellow became green. They knew, and I afterwards had frequent opportunities of observing, that in moments like this the AmÎr is dangerous; men’s lives tremble in the balance. A clever man who has the entrÉe of the Durbar, and who happens to be in favour, may sometimes on these occasions, by dropping a word here and edging in a sentence there, gradually turn the current of the AmÎr’s thought. If he can also by some appropriate witticism bring about a relaxation of the muscles of that grim face, causing a smile or perhaps a laugh, then a man’s life is saved. They, however, more often employ their wits in adding fuel to the fire.

The Hindustanis crept away, and I was about to bow and retire, when His Highness signed to me to stop. I was then informed that breakfast was prepared under the almond trees in the garden, and His Highness desired my company.

This was the first occasion on which the AmÎr showed me any act of familiar kindness, and my relief from suspense was such, that in attempting to describe the breakfast I can hardly do full justice to the situation. The air was balmy, as we sat in the shade of the blossoming trees. Sweet-scented flowers were at our feet, and I sat sipping tea and munching macaroons in the luxurious enjoyment of living. The Armenian stood silently behind my chair, and I fancy he too, though in a more realistic sense than I, felt the luxurious enjoyment that mere life could afford.

His Highness spoke to me for some time, though I remember but little of the conversation, except the more full description His Highness gave of his bodily ailments. He did not yet ask me to prescribe for him.

When we reached home, I found my neighbour opposite, the Mirza Abdur-Rashid, had a guest. They were drinking tea together in the garden, and invited me to join them. The guest was a tall, very handsome man, plainly dressed in grey military tunic and astrakhan hat. He had very considerable dignity of manner, and was, I found, the Sirdar Gholam Hussain, a relative of His Highness, of the same clan. It is the duty of this gentleman to wait upon the AmÎr at dinner, and to take charge of all food laid before His Highness. It is an honourable and also an onerous task in a country where the danger of poison is ever before the King. The drinking water of His Highness is in charge of a trusted page, the foster-brother of one of the Princes, and when, some time after this, I was attending His Highness medically, this page it was who was entrusted with the keys of the medicine cabinet.

As we chatted over our tea, a blind boy came into the garden to sing. He would have been much improved by a few lessons on voice production, but for all that we listened to him with pleasure. His voice was soft and sweet, with a pathetic ring in it.