... “men that are fat; Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o’ nights.”
And the easy-going Sirdar answers so fully to this description, that it would seem as if the cares of life sat very lightly upon him. Such men are too characterless to repay observation; and though we see many of them here, we pass them by contemptuously, except when a mountain of flesh more than usually formidable looms upon us in cantonments. They are not men given to fighting or political intrigue; and such as we have now among us are anxious only as to their allowances which the “Great British Government” guarantees to them while they are faithful to its interests. If they are time-servers, it is simply because they have no idea beyond the present one of comfort and quietness; if we were defeated they would probably make their obeisance to the new rulers, and would settle down calmly to their daily enjoyment of the fat of the land in their well-stocked harems. There were such men among our own hard-headed Barons ages ago, who watched their more ambitious compeers make and ruin dynasties, and lived placidly through all the turmoil without even being partisans.
But the other type of Sirdar is a very different person: he holds that to be powerful is the salt of life, and his aim from youth to old age is to seek power in all its forms. He is generally rich and a lover of show; valuing money for the advantage to which it can be turned in many ways, and estimating pomp at its real worth—to impress the ignorant and humiliate the inferior. His life as now made up is not to outward seeming one of much importance, but not one of us can hope to penetrate beneath its surface, and examine the many schemes which pass through his mind. He lives in one of the large, high-walled houses which are studded about the city, though he has a “villa” or two in pleasant Koh-Daman, or one of the near valleys. If one visits him, the courtesy with which he receives a guest is that of a polished gentleman, flavoured, perhaps too highly, with the Eastern affectation of humility. His house is reached through byways and along covered-in streets, so dark and noisome that one expects to meet a ghazi at every turn. But all is quiet, and finally a bit of blue sky is seen overhead, a narrow doorway is passed through, and the square courtyard of the house gained. A few horses, saddled and bridled, are standing in a sunny corner; a dozen picturesque-looking ruffians are lounging about; the great man is at home. We find him in a long room squatting on an ottoman with a dozen friends and associates about him, to whom he has doubtless been expounding some new and brilliant idea that has occurred to him. He is politely anxious about his visitor’s health, thanking God that it is well with him, and inquires if “the General” also is well. His conversation is guarded, but he makes up for his reticence by his hospitality: it would be derogatory to his dignity if the rite were not duly honoured; and in a few minutes trays bearing little cups of sweetened tea, sweetmeats, nuts and grapes, are being handed round by two or three of the loungers we passed in the courtyard. This tea is a mystery to me; it is always ready; it is always _good_, and one can sip cup after cup with an enjoyment that positively increases with indulgence. The Sirdar’s friends are mostly notable men: that grey-bearded old gentleman on his right is a tribal chief of some importance, who has come from his distant village to see how things move in Cabul after the late _jehad_; that dark-visaged man is a Bokhara trader, whose mind holds news of the White Czar and of the changing fates of the Central Asian Khanates; while his counterpart is another trader returned from Hindustan, where he has, perhaps, seen and learnt much that may shape the Sirdar’s views in future. Behind the Sirdar is a richly embroidered _purdah_ veiling the entrance to the _zenana_, wherein the quiet life of the women slowly moves. Our conversation is short and purely ornamental, and we take our leave, pleasantly impressed with the courtesy shown, but pondering over the depth of Afghan duplicity which is so cunningly hidden. The Sirdar passes his morning among his friends, and in the afternoon he will probably visit General Roberts or Major Hastings, the Chief Political Officer, to learn much, but to impart little. How far he can be trusted no one knows, not excepting even himself. If by serving us he can make his position secure, he will “sell” his nearest friends; if he thinks his interests are safe with men opposing us, he will thwart our projects with all the skill he possesses.