DELHI: VIVIEN: A MALCONTENT
The part of Tom's diary which deals with the early days of his stay in India is too elaborate and introspective to be largely used here. But the service it has rendered to the writer of this story in enabling him to trace its somewhat labyrinthine mazes is incalculable. He has, however, other sources of information. The servants whom Chunder Singh gathered round the young heir as soon as he arrived in Bombay—intelligent men all of them, and trained to their work by that notable man, Byrajee Pirtha Raj, the late rajah of Gumilcund—have given him many useful details. He has also been in communication with the friends and acquaintances whom Tom made on the road.
Chunder Singh, after making every arrangement for his comfort, left him in Bombay and proceeded at once to Gumilcund, Tom himself having determined not to go thither until he should have acquired a far greater familiarity with the language, and some insight into the manners and sentiments of the people. This knowledge he hoped to gain by travelling.
The glorious winter of 1856-7 was just opening when, accompanied by a retinue of servants and a string of camels and carts which contained everything necessary for a long camping-out tour, he left Bombay. He had been a great success amongst the little society of that picturesque Eastern capital, and he took with him a host of introductions to English people of the civil and military orders on his route, any of whom would have received him with pleasure; but he seldom took advantage of his privileges, mixing by choice with the people of the country. Hoosanee—the bearer of the late rajah and his own principal servant—was the medium of communication. When the work of the day was over—the long march, or the patient quest into the secrets of antiquity—Brahmin priests and Brahmin beggars, old soldiers, dispossessed landowners, and native merchants both Hindu and Mohammedan, would be introduced by him into the tent where sat the English-bred youth in his Oriental dress, ready and anxious to discuss the questions that separate East and West. On these occasions Tom would sometimes surprise himself. He would sit down ignorant. He would listen to what his visitors had to say and keep silence. Then suddenly, and to himself most mysteriously, a flash of inspiration would come, so that he would speak to them—not as a young man and a foreigner—but as one who knew the land, and had authority amongst its peoples.
It was a critical moment in the history of English dominion in India. Lord Dalhousie's policy of annexation had added to the empire vast provinces, the new rulers of which, impatient to see the fruit of their labours, made, in many cases with a stroke of the pen, such changes as, in the natural order of things, it would have taken years upon years to effect.
But society remained what it had been. There was no relaxation of the tyranny of caste—no attempt to educate those in whose hands lie the influences that mould the lives of the young. The people clung to their old customs with all the more tenacity for the change in the political order.
Meanwhile to the eye of the ruler, satisfied with the good he had effected, the tranquillity seemed to be absolute. The terror which in the following year was to sweep through the land, making the enlightened mad and the mild cruel, had not begun to work. Yet, to those who had the courage and wit to look below the surface, signs of agitation were not wanting. Fiery prophets rushed through the land predicting the speedy end of the new dominion; there were curious panics amongst the people and soldiery—curious outrages, put down at once, of course, and repented in dust and ashes; while sullen-hearted men, whose claims to dominion had been set aside, moved slowly through the cities of the Punjaub and the North-West Provinces, whispering to one and another that the measure of the stranger's tyranny was full, and that the times were ripe for revolt.
One of these malcontents Tom Gregory met.
He had been spending two or three days in and about Delhi, his camp being pitched under the shadow of that glorious monument of Moslem dominion—the Kootub Minar, which is several miles distant from the city.
The season was midwinter, and the weather had been enchanting. He spent his days in exploring the tombs, temples, and palaces of the city, and in the evening he rode back to camp over the desolate plain that lies between old and new Delhi.
One evening he was later than usual. The glow of the evening had faded and the darkness of a moonless night had fallen before he reached his camp. Hoosanee came out to meet him.
'Is all well, my lord?' he said, in a voice that trembled with emotion.
'All is well,' said Tom, laughing, 'except that I am a prey to hunger and thirst and fatigue.'
Hoosanee raised a silver whistle to his lips, and in a moment all the camp was in commotion.
Smiling to find himself the centre of so much subservience, Tom went into his tent, took off the European clothes he had been wearing, bathed, put on an Oriental robe, and, having dined in some haste, seated himself at the door of his tent.
Presently there fell a deep silence upon the camp. The syces were lying down beside their tethered horses; the servants and camp-followers were asleep; only Hoosanee, the ever-watchful, sat behind his master, motionless as a bronze image, but with eyes and ears on the alert.
It was not so dark as it had been. The moon, an orange ball, was swimming into sight, slowly and mysteriously, above the rim of the silent plain, and the fields of space were strewn with the white fire of an innumerable host of stars. By their light Tom saw dimly above his head the tapering shafts of the Tower of Victory, and the glorious arched gateway close by. On the other side, and but faintly discernible in this light, was the famous mosque, once a Hindu temple, beautiful with sculptured pillars, where the Rajpoots and their followers worshipped before the foot of the Moslem trod down their holy places.
With a throbbing heart the English-bred youth gazed round him. What was this that he felt—an understanding, a sympathy, a reaching out of his spirit as if these things were not new to him, but old—nay, as if they were a very part of his being? He tried to think it out, but he was tired both in body and mind, and, try as he would, he could not keep his thoughts in order. He was entering, indeed, upon that delicious drowsiness which is the prelude of sleep earned by hard labour, when a furtive movement aroused him. Alert in a moment, he sprang up to see before him a tall, lean figure, wrapped in a ragged robe.
'Who are you?' said Tom, 'and whence do you come?'
'I came out of the darkness,' returned the figure, 'and I go into the darkness again.'
'Come in and rest,' said Tom, lifting up the curtain of his tent.
The stranger hesitated. 'You are the new rajah of Gumilcund,' he said.
'I am the heir of the late rajah. Did you know him?'
Here Hoosanee stepped forward. 'Excellency,' he said, 'I know this man, and he was known to the late rajah, my master. He is a Brahmin youth, and the adopted son of a prince.'
'Call Ganesh,' said Tom, 'to give him food and drink.'
Ganesh, the chuprassie, or steward, a man of the highest caste, was, as Tom knew, the only person in camp from whom the Brahmin stranger could accept food.
He turned to him and entreated him courteously to enter.
'My brother will rest,' he said, using the picturesque form of speech of the country, 'and food and drink shall be brought to him.'
Without a word the stranger flung himself down on a pile of cushions. He looked round him boldly; but Tom noted with compassion the wild hunger of his eyes. From under his vestment he drew a cup and platter of silver, richly wrought, which contrasted strangely with his ragged robe. These Ganesh, the stately Brahmin steward, filled, the one with new milk and the other with rice and chupatties, whereupon the stranger, having saluted his host, turned away and ate and drank in a silence which Tom preserved until the meal was ended.
'Is my brother satisfied?' he said then.
'For to-day,' said the stranger. 'But the hunger will return.'
'Come again to-morrow.'
'And the following day?'
'Come the following day also.'
'How long will your tent be here?'
'Three days and nights.'
'And then?'
'I will go on to the higher country—to Nepaul—perhaps to Cashmere—but first——'
'Go to the higher country at once,' interrupted the stranger, 'or'—he looked at his host fixedly—'become one of us.'
'What do you mean?' said Tom.
'I will answer by a question. You are an Englishman?'
'I am.'
'But you do not love your people?'
The hollow voice had risen, and the question sounded almost like a threat.
Tom was surprised, but he answered quietly, 'Of course I love my people. Why do you ask me such questions?'
'I ask because I seek to know; because you are a mystery. See! You dress as we dress. You understand our language. You know our ways. There is sympathy in your face. Twice within this hour you have called me brother—me whom the Feringhees have cast out. Why is this?'
'I have a stake in your country,' said Tom gravely. 'The Supreme Spirit, who is over us as He is over you, has decreed that I shall take up the work of a great and good man, who was of you, and who has gone out from you. I do not know all I wish to know of his ideas; but I am convinced that he loved his people, and I am learning to know them that I may love them too. I call you brother because I am of your kin. From the same great Spirit we came forth.'
The stranger bowed his head. 'And unto the same Spirit we return. My brother has spoken truly. He has spoken as a sage.'
And thereupon, without answering Tom's entreaties that he would stay or return, he rose and took his leave.
The next day a strange thing happened. Tom was busy in camp all the morning, having letters to write and the accounts of his chuprassie to examine and settle. Early in the afternoon he rode into Delhi. He rode in by the Delhi gate, and made straight for the Chandni Chowk, the principal street of the town, where he intended making one or two purchases. Here he dismounted and gave his horse to the syce, who led it behind him. The Chandni Chowk was, in its way, a beautiful thoroughfare. It was very wide, and a double avenue of trees, having a canal of flowing water between them, ran along its centre, while on either side of the street were the stalls and booths where jewellery and curiosity dealers exhibited their wares. It being a Hindu holiday the town was crowded with people dressed in all manners of colours. As Tom walked along under the trees and basked in the golden glory of the evening he enjoyed keenly the life and movement about him. A little body of fat Mohammedan merchants were following him meanwhile with anxious looks, and he was thinking that he must give himself up as a prey to one of them when he heard loud shouting. Looking round to find out what it meant, he saw a smart English carriage drawn by two spirited ponies coming at a tremendous pace along the street. He had scarcely time to see that the driver was a lady before he became aware that a man, whose head and upper limbs were wrapped in a thick chuddah, was right in the way of the horses. In less than a moment he had dashed forward, seized the man, and drawn him back under the trees. In the next moment the horses were pulled back, and he heard a high, clear voice:
'So you are the knight-errant, Mr. Gregory?'
'Miss Leigh,' he cried. 'Vivien!'
'Excuse me,' said the lady, 'Mrs. Doncaster!'
'I beg your pardon; I had forgotten that you were married.'
She laughed. 'Are you married too?'
'No,' said Tom shortly.
'What are you doing, then?'
'I am travelling.'
Mrs. Doncaster laughed, then turned her pretty head round. 'By the by,' she said lightly, 'where is the unhappy person I nearly ran over? I ought to give him something to soothe his terrors.'
'Pray don't,' said Tom, who had recognised in the scowling passenger his guest of the previous evening. 'He is not a beggar.'
'Oh! isn't he? He looks very much like one, then, and they love money, all of them, the sordid wretches.'
'Here!' she threw out a rupee, 'take that! It's all I can spare, and it will be wealth to you.'
She spoke the last words in halting Hindustani.
The man whom she addressed—he had been gazing at her fixedly for the last few moments—spurned the coin with his foot, and it fell amongst a group of misshapen, half-naked beggars, who fell upon it fiercely, fighting one with the other for its possession. The noise drew the people together, upon which two or three of the native police ran into the midst of the mêlée, shouting and striking right and left. The whole city seemed to be in commotion.
'You will be surrounded,' said Tom hurriedly. 'Whip up your ponies and drive through them!'
'Not at all,' said Vivien. 'This is a piece of fun to me.'
As she spoke the man whose action had provoked the disturbance drew himself up to his full height, gathered his chuddah about him, and having cast a glance of mingled hatred and scorn on the fair Englishwoman, took himself off.
Vivien looked after him, laughing. 'That's the best specimen of a native I've seen yet,' she said. 'I wonder who he is. Doesn't he just hate me?'
'Is it wise, do you think, to make these people hate you?' said Tom.
'Wise or not, it's amusing,' said Vivien. 'But Beauty and Prince are impatient, and those two idiot syces of mine look half dead with fear. Aren't they a handsome pair, by the by? I mean the ponies, of course—not the syces. Come and see me, Tom. I live in Cantonments. Ask for Captain Doncaster of the 3rd Foot. Anyone will tell you where it is. You are staying some time longer?'
'Three or four days.'
'Then be sure to come. I'll introduce you to my husband, and show you my serpents.'
'Serpents!' echoed Tom.
'Yes; serpents. Funny pets, aren't they? But they amuse me. I cow them, and then pinch them, and watch them hiss and spit. I have a cobra; he is grand when he's in a rage. That man reminded me of him. Wouldn't he just sting if he had the chance?'
'The crowd is thinning. Now is your chance,' said Tom, standing away from the carriage.
'Good-bye, then, till to-morrow, shall we say?' said Vivien; and she drove off, leaving Tom more disgusted than he had ever felt before.
He was thinking it all over in the evening, and wondering why he could not make up his mind never to see Vivien again, when, suddenly, the lean figure he had seen the previous night rose before him. 'My brother has come back, then?' said Tom kindly. 'I bid him welcome.'
The man did not answer, even by a sign. He stood erect and rigid in the lighted space before the tent.
'Come in and rest,' said Tom, 'and I will call Ganesh, and he shall give you to eat and drink.'
'Rest!' cried the Brahmin bitterly, 'rest is for men, and I am no man. I am a dog, a creeping thing, to be spurned by the foot of the passer-by. If you have any pity, kill me!'
'My brother is raving,' said Tom pitifully. 'Fatigue and want are breaking his heart. When he has rested and eaten he will be glad of the good gift of life.'
'Does your Excellency speak like a sage now?' said the Brahmin, with a sombre derision in his voice. 'Does he know what he says when he calls life good? I tell him that it is not good—it is evil.'
'Life need not be evil unless we make it so.'
'We!' shrieked the Brahmin. 'We! I see now that you know nothing. Look at me—this ragged robe, these wasted limbs, these eyes bright with the fever of famine, and say if I have made myself what I am. I was brought up as a prince. My father, who had no sons of his body, adopted me, and I lived in his palace, sharing his wealth and dominion, which were one day to be mine. He died, and your people denied my claim. I was not, they said, of my father's kin, and I had no right to succeed him. They would inherit for me and fulfil my duties. The fools! Can they raise up children to the departed to keep green his memory upon the earth? Can they pay to his ashes the observance that is due? The funeral feast, the oblation of water and rice, the garment to clothe the shivering spirit, and the gifts to priests and teachers to redeem it—who will give them? Will they? Can they? They know that they cannot. While I wander homeless and ragged upon earth, my father and my father's fathers are in the pit, herding with demons and unfriended spirits. Never can they be redeemed; never, through all the crores of ages that are to come, can they ascend into Swarga. By the treachery of your people must the memory of the pious die out. And when the Feringhees become masters of us all, as they intend, there will be no more offerings for the dead. Childless our great ones will depart, and the pit will be fed with the savour of their beauty, and Swarga shall be a desert, and the gods will lament.'
He stopped, breathless, the veins standing out like knotted cords from his temples, and tears, that burned as they fell, chasing one another down his cheeks. As for Tom, who had been searching for something to say, he stood silent. What comfort could there be for trouble such as this?
But the man had a comfort of his own. All at once his demeanour changed. His tears stopped; his lips set themselves together; his frame seemed to dilate, and the ragged garments which he drew about him were like the raiment of a king. 'Did I say for ever?' he cried out. 'I was wrong. I see the imprisoned spirits rise, and my flesh is stirred, and the hair of my head rises up. The hour of release is coming—it is near. On the dial of eternity it is written. In blood and fire the dominion of the stranger-race shall come to an end.'
'Hush! Hush!' cried Tom. 'You are beside yourself.'
For an instant the man glared at him fiercely, then his eyes fell. 'Take me in,' he said hoarsely, 'and give me food and drink.'
Ganesh was called, and his wants were supplied, with reverent care; he, in the meanwhile, accepting what was done for him with the docility of a child. The meal over, he lay for a long time with closed eyes on the pile of cushions. At last, night having fully come, he rose. 'Sahib,' he said to Tom, 'you saved my life to-day, and I have not thanked you. At the moment I was angry. I had said to myself, why should I live? I will die. The proud-hearted daughter of the Feringhees shall trample me under foot, and my people will avenge me. But I have thought better of it, and now I thank you. The day may come when I may give you more than thanks. In the meantime, take this.' It was a piece of parchment, inscribed with strange characters, and tied round with a crimson thread. 'Do not seek to know what it contains,' went on the Brahmin, 'but keep it with you! If trouble or danger comes, and you desire help, show it to one of our people, and ask for him to whom it belongs. And now farewell!'
In the next instant the stranger had gone, and Tom was left alone with his amulet.
'The man is certainly mad,' he said to himself; and it was in memory of a curious incident rather than from any belief in the scrap of parchment's virtue that he hung it round his neck.