CHAPTER X

THE NIGHTMARE PARLIAMENT—FROCK-COATS IN THE WILDS
—A FAMOUS HAT—MODERNISATION BY ORDER

EVEN the dawn, that morning, seemed charged
with the omens of what was to come. Certainly
there were enough reminders for the ear that
this was a day of days. I woke to the shivering blast of
trumpets. Not the orderly, prescribed tunes of British
bugles, laid down by tradition; these notes, that
seemed to come from right under my bedroom window,
were wild, excitable, hysterical. In every key and
every cadence the rival bands of the Afghan Army
were heralding, to whomsoever might hear, the Day of
the Celebration of Independence*

The valley of Paghman was swirling in mist. The
hills were invisible. Even the violent pink and red of
the new cinema could not be seen through the mist.
Yet the sun was already strong, and its heat could be
felt. But the old heights of the Hindu Kush were
loath to part with the coverings of night, and up there
beyond the last tree and the last green thing, they must
be mysterious, cold, and damp for the hillmen who
scorned to venture down below into the pleasant valley.

There were sounds of awakening life in the hotel as
well. Next door, the Russian family was employed in
the sickening business of getting up. One after the
other, it seemed, collected his or her liquid resources
before the early morning process of expectoration. One by
one they indicated, audibly and shamelessly, that this was
morning and the time for satisfying and lengthy yawns.

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