EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

acting in their travelling clothes. It was a pathetic little
variety show, interspersed by the howls of the mob
outside.

But Amanullah was pleased. He sat in the front row
with the leading Foreign Ministers, and his own Court
circle, and congratulated himself on his idea. Here, in
a real theatre, was the drama. His country was already
civilised. He could boast about the play, and about his
own ingenuity in importing a real Western cast. He
beamed on the dispirited efforts of the performers. He
clapped in the Western manner.

The little Cockney girl had at last played before a real
King. But nevertheless the tears streamed down her
face, for she had acted in her travelling clothes. Lesser
tragedies have reduced the stars of the theatre to loud
and lengthy tempests of weeping.

That, so far as I know, was the only performance of the
imported theatre in Afghanistan. The curtain came
down on an epoch. The crowds surged out slightly dis-
appointed but nevertheless pleased at taking part in the
making of history,

Pierri and I had supper with the cast after the show,
and listened with awe while the stalwart female leader of
the company explained in a loud voice what she would do
to a certain Afghan Minister* She was terrific in her
wrath. She clenched fists and swore wonderful oaths in
German, French, English, and Hindustani. She explained
her wrath in Dutch to her husband and detailed it in
Cockney to her daughter* The words poured out un-
interrupted. Pierri seemed entranced by the stream.

But her threats came to nothing. The German Jew
collected the property that night, and booked a lorry for
the next morning. Before Paghman had woken up, the
actors in the first and last drama to be witnessed in
Afghanistan, had left for ever.

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