That Eurasian

by Aleph Bey

Our wedding day was fixed at an early date and we were to try “the terrible test of wedlock” as Carlyle hath it. We were married already in heart and mind, but to conform to the usages of society there was an outward ceremony required. The father and mother were invited from their home in Ireland. I had not yet met them in this new phase of affairs and had some considerable curiosity about our first meeting. I had no fear of them as I had outgrown that. To be really truthful I had but little regard for them such as a man should have for his prospective parents-in-law. They had cruelly treated me as well as their daughter. Worse still, they had insulted me and deliberately. However it may tell against me, I must confess that I can never forget an insult. I can forgive it, and treat the offender with civility and all that, but I can never regard him as if he had not injured me. This lapse of propriety shows the nature and make-up of the man and I am always on my guard lest he should wound me again. My former respect and friendship has gone and I doubt if anything he might ever do would restore him again to me as he was. I know that some say they can forget as well as forgive and act as if nothing unpleasant had ever occurred, yet I doubt if they have really analyzed and understood their feelings. I have not been made of that elastic kind of material and each one must act for himself.

The parents received me most cordially and made no reference to the past. Very prudent in them, as I was in a position to first throw down the gauntlet or to take up their’s at the slightest hint from them. It was not long before the wedding was referred to and I do not know just why, but I could not help suggesting that I hoped there would be no shooting or burying this time. I would have rather lost a year’s income from my villages than to have missed the blushes and confusion of the pair at this remark. “O no,” said the mother. “I have left my pistols at home, Mr. Japhet.” “And I,” said the father, “have no intention of becoming a sexton.”

The daughter enjoyed this intensely, and when the laughter had subsided, remarked, “I married once wholly to please you, now I am going to marry to please myself.” No reference was ever made to this subject again.

We were married and the bonds duly ratified by some sovereigns to the high priest of the occasion. For further particulars read the society papers in which it was stated that an Indian Prince had made a captive of one of Albion’s fairest daughters. I could not help forgiving and blessing the ignorance of the penny-a-liners, for if they had told the truth that I was not an Indian Prince but only the son of a —, and my wife was not of Albion, but of the Emerald Isle, the paragraph would have appeared with a different kind of aurora about it.

If the real truth were known and told about people and things, what a different appearance they would make! The gloss of the world is like the apocryphal mantle of charity, covering a multitude of defects and sins.

We were extremely happy, as might be supposed, and everything wore a roseate hue as is usual in such cases, so there is no need of going into any ecstasies of description. I recall what a great English writer has said, “Of all actions of a man’s life his marriage does least concern other people, yet of all our life ’tis most meddled with by other people.” So I will act upon his suggestion, be wise for once, and not give people a chance to meddle with what does not concern them. We had passed the giddy stage of life and had not reached that, when it could be said of either of us, “There is no such fool as an old fool.”

Of course we had to visit the parents and they treated me so kindly that I was tempted to forget, as I had forgiven them, their former outburst of anger towards me. What rather modified my feelings was the remark of the mother to her daughter in the privacy of her bed chamber, that if she had known Mr. Japhet was such a fine man, a real gentleman, indeed, she would never have objected to him. This my wife related to me with much satisfaction, as it was a compliment to her former good judgment, as well as to myself. They accepted the inevitable with such good grace and kindness that I almost fell in love with my mother-in-law, and that is saying all that is necessary.

We visited various places of interest, in “Ould” Ireland and I was delighted with the quaint manners, and charmed with the open hospitality of its people. One incident I will relate. One day at Larne I took a stroll alone and then fell in with a couple of foreign gentlemen from a steamer for New York that was laying to for the day. We sauntered out towards the country and passing by a field where there were some beautiful cows grazing in clover, I suggested that we go to the house and ask for a cup of milk. The gentlemen expressed surprise that I should think of such a thing. I saw no harm in it as I proposed to pay for what we received, so we would not be beggars, and as I persisted, they said they would follow me. I accosted a man raking the yard and made my request. He replied that he would see the maister, and soon the latter appeared and invited us by the front door into his drawing room, beautifully furnished. He then called a maid and she soon brought a large glass pitcher of creamy yellow milk, that was a sight to me from India where we have to be happy with dudh pani, but with more pani than dudh. She also brought a large plate of biscuit and glasses. Our host handled the pitcher and served us with generous hospitality. We meantime had a delightful chat. He had just returned from the continent and was full of fresh incidents of his trip and asked many questions about India. He then took us into his garden where he showed, and also gave us some of his ripe gooseberries large as pigeon eggs, that he was reserving for the Annual Fair, stating that the year previous he had taken thirty-two prizes for various exhibits. All this greatly interested me. He then took us to his raspberry bushes laden with ripe fruit and bade us help ourselves while he picked liberal handfuls for us, we all the while keeping up a running talk. On leaving we thanked him again and again, and especially I, who had been the leader in this foray. I handed him my card and received his, when he informed us that the place was the Manse and he was the Presbyterian minister. He pressed us to call again when we came that way and stated that he would always remember us with pleasure. I could not help making a comparison between him and our Indian padris. It is true they have no gooseberry or raspberry bushes or such cream, and yet—but as comparisons are odious to those on whom they reflect, I will cease my mental meanderings. My two foreign comrades, the one from Vienna, the other from Berlin thanked me most courteously for the treat I had given them. I doubt if they knew that I was an Eurasian and do not believe it would have made any difference to them as they were real gentlemen.

My wife and I went to the huts of the poor, as I was anxious to see this phase of life. The status of a country is shown by the condition of its poor people and not by that of its few grasping rich. The glamour of India in its great cities and scenery in the cold season, seen by the racing globe-trotters, no more conveys an idea of the real condition of its vast millions, than a peasant’s holiday attire does of his everyday clothing and impoverished life. We heard the stories of poverty and oppression, and they were not Irish exaggeration for the one fact alone of the exorbitant rents they had to pay, was proof sufficient of the truth of their stories. Yet with all their poverty, ignorance and superstition, the Irish are said to be the most virtuous race on the earth. This to me will atone for all their other sins.

We never entered a hut, however poor the inmates, but they offered us some token of their kindness, even if it were only a roast potato raked from the ashes. If there is anything that makes tears come into my heart, it is the generosity of the poorest poor, sharing their needed mouthfuls with others. How often have I thought with moistened eyes, of those famine stricken people in that old court of my childhood, sharing their scanty grains of rice with me and my little sister, and of that old faqir.