About Midday The Wazir Made His Appearance To Conduct Me To The
Palace.
He was a fat, paunchy old man, with beady black eyes and a
shy, shifty expression, very unlike my
Cheery little friend at Beila.
After the usual preliminary questions as to who I was, my age,
business, etc., he anxiously inquired after the health of Mr.
Gladstone, and somewhat astonished me by asking whether I was a
Liberal or Conservative. "You have some Beila men with you, I see,"
said the Khan's adviser, who spoke English perfectly. "Don't let
his Highness see them." I could not, after such a speech, allow my
faithful escort to enter the city without warning. But it had little
effect. "Let the dogs do what they like," was the reply. "We shall not
let the sahib go alone."
Tea and cigarettes discussed, a start was made for the palace. The
Wazir, on a wiry, good looking bay horse, and attended by half a dozen
mounted Afghans, led the way, and I followed on a pony borrowed of
the telegraph clerk. My costume was, if not becoming, at any rate
original: high boots, flannel trousers, and shirt, an evening
dress-coat, and astrakhan cap. Gerome's wardrobe being even less
presentable, I deemed it prudent to leave him behind. The Beila men
brought up the rear of the procession some distance from the Afghans,
who, to my anxiety, never ceased scoffing and jeering at them the
whole way. Every moment I expected to hear the crack of a pistol-shot,
followed by a general _melee_. Arrived at the Mastung Gate, we
dismounted, and, leaving our horses in charge of the guard, slowly
proceeded up the steep narrow streets to the citadel.
The entrance to Kelat is not imposing. There had been a good deal
of rain, and the streets of the lower part of the town were perfect
quagmires of mud nearly knee-deep. It was more like crawling into
a dark passage than entering a city. Many of the thoroughfares are
entirely covered over with wooden beams plastered with mud, which
entirely exclude light, and give them more the appearance of
subterranean passages than streets. The upper part of the town is the
cleanest, for the simple reason that all filth and sewage runs down
open gutters cut in the centre of the steep alleys, until it reaches
the level of the plain. There is no provision made for its escape.
It is allowed to collect in great pools, which in long-continued wet
weather often flood the houses and drive their wretched inhabitants
into the open, to live as best they may, further up the hill.
Kelat is, for this reason only, very unhealthy. Small-pox, typhoid, and
typhus are never absent, though, curiously enough, cholera visitations
are rare. The filthy habits of the inhabitants have, apparently, a
good deal to do with the high death rate. I saw, while walking up
the hill, a native fill a cup from an open drain and drink it off,
although the smell was unbearable, the liquid of a dark-brown colour.
A very common and - in the absence of medical treatment - fatal disease
among the inhabitants of the suburbs (chiefly Afghans) is stone in
the bladder, the water here, though pure and clear in the suburbs,
containing a large quantity of lime.
The bazaar, through which we passed on our way to the Mir, does not
seem a very busy one. Although not a public or religious holiday,
many of the stalls were closed. Kelat was once the great channel for
merchandise from Kandahar and Cabul to India, but the caravan trade is
now insignificant. There is in the season a considerable traffic in
dates, but that is all, for the roads to Persia and Afghanistan are
very unsafe. Only a few weeks previous to my visit, a Kelat merchant,
proceeding with a large caravan to Kerman, in Persia, was robbed and
murdered in the frontier district west of Kharan. Few now attempt the
journey, most of the goods being sent to Quetta, and thence by rail to
various parts of India, by sea to Persia.
Art and industry are, as well as trade, practically at a standstill in
the Khan's city, though a handsome embroidery, peculiar to Kelat, is
made by the women, and fetches high prices in India, while some of the
natives are clever at brass work and ironmongery. Noticing a Russian
samovar in one of the shops, I entered and inquired of the owner
(through the Wazir) how it had reached Kelat. "From Russia," was
the reply, "_via_ Meshed, Herat, and Kandahar. There is a good
caravan-road the whole way," added the Baluchi, taking down a small
brass shield from a peg in the wall. "This came from Bokhara, _via_
Cabul, only ten days, ago; but trade is not what it was." "Would there
be any difficulty in making that journey?" I asked. "For you - an
Englishman - yes," said the man, with a queer smile, and was
continuing, when "The Khan will be growing impatient," broke in the
Wazir, taking my hand and leading me hurriedly into the street.
An Afghan guard of honour was drawn up at the entrance of the palace,
wearing the nearest approach to a uniform I had yet seen - dark-green
tunics, light-blue trousers, and white turbans, clean, well fitting,
and evidently kept for state occasions. Each man carried a Berdan
rifle and cavalry sabre. It struck me as a curious coincidence that
the former rifle is in general use throughout the Russian army.
Leaving my escort with strict injunctions to keep their tempers, and
under no circumstances to allow themselves to be drawn into a quarrel,
I followed the Wazir and his attendants into the Mir. The entrance is
through an underground passage about forty yards long by seven wide,
ill-smelling and in total darkness. Arrived at the end, we again
emerged into daylight, and, ascending a flight of rickety wooden
steps, found ourselves in the durbar-room - a spacious apartment, its
walls decorated with green, gold, and crimson panels, alternating with
large looking-glasses.
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