That Eurasian

by Aleph Bey

It is now all passed with me except the taste of the bitter pill that I was compelled to swallow, and still this is not satisfactory considering that the pill never did me any good. Let it go, as there are so many bitter pills in life, it is best to forget them if we can, yet I trust and hope that at last there will be a permanent settlement of all of life, whether for good or ill, so that we may know that everything is settled, finished for ever.

One incident occurred that I do not like to mention, yet it comes along with my story. One night the gentleman in camp sent his head servant as a panderer to the village to get a woman. No sooner was his errand known than the women rose in a body, flogging him with sticks and pelting him with dirt. The fellow got away with his life, but not with a whole skin, nor with scarcely a rag on his body. This greatly pleased me, as I was aroused from sleep to hear what had occurred. This attitude of the women was a recompense for all the robberies that had been committed. Here were these heathen women, who had never heard the name of Jesus, and knew no more about the creed and the theology of the Christian Church than they did about the differential calculus, fighting for their virtue and their sacred rights of womanhood, while there was that English Christian gentleman who probably had been taught to pray at his mother’s knee, and often rattled off the services in church, as I had seen him do, waiting in his tent, with his thoughts bent on lust.

I was once in a dak bungalow when in the room adjoining mine was this same gentleman with an officer of a regiment, a gentleman also, as all officers in her majesty’s army are so ranked. As I was about to retire I heard the chaukedar of the bungalow inquire, “Who goes there?” A woman’s voice replied. “What do you come here for?” he asked. She answered that the sahib’s bearer had come to the bazar for her. The watchman indignantly told her to leave at once, as she had no business there for any one. Is it a wonder that the heathen do not rush to embrace Christianity when they see such worthy examples of Jesus people? I well know that this same gentleman once intrigued with the wife of a magistrate, and while the two were out riding and driving, billing and cooing, the broken-hearted husband, left alone, sought the company of the brandy bottle and killed himself with drink within a month, leaving his wife a happy widow. Was not my cousin a worthy nephew of his virtuous uncle, my distinguished paternal parent?

To show another phase of the character of this man. On one of his morning rides he had gone through the main street of a large village. He then sent back his sais to summon all the men he had passed. When they were assembled before him, sitting on his very high English horse, he said, “When I came through your street not one of you made his salaam.” Brandishing his long riding whip at them and standing up in his stirrups, he shouted, “If, when I come again, you do not salaam, I will flog every one of you.” They all salaamed profoundly to the ground, and very likely they did not forget his threat. Why should not these people respect and love their conquerors?

Home again, with its quiet and rest, was a paradise after the unpleasant scenes in the village. There was a stillness that at times was oppressive, such as happens in an up country station when there is little business; the bungalows situated in large compounds away from the roads, and where for days in the cold season scarcely enough breeze to rustle a leaf. We were seldom interrupted with callers. We did not seek them, and by most of the society circle we were on the taboo list. Yet we had a few special friends with whom we spent delightful hours.

We sometimes went to church as a diversion or as something required by good society. The Chaplain had never called. He was no doubt an excellent man in his way, and performed all the duties required of him. He was an official paid by government to minister to the members of the service, and the government, knowing how badly these people needed a religious guide and teacher, did wisely in making this provision for their wicked souls. Jesus looked after the poor, the outcasts. Discarding society, he went into the by-ways and hedges, among the lowly, but his modern followers, keeping step with the age, have reversed his practice. Perhaps the modern rich society people are the biggest sinners, so it is well, and why complain? Yet I could not help thinking at times, that as one of the outsiders I had to pay taxes to provide these reverend gentry with gowns, bread, butter, carriages and wines, we might have received a little attention out of courtesy, if nothing more. An outspoken native once suggested that if the Europeans wanted a guru or priest and fine churches, why should they not pay for the support of their religions, and not from public taxation? But he was only a heathen, and what better could be expected from him? The simplicity and ignorance of these people at times is astonishing.

One day we had a call from a missionary, a very little, pawky sort of man, yet in the gelatine stage. He wore a black stuffy coat reaching to his feet as to make up by it, what nature had stinted him in stature, and it was buttoned close to his throat, reminding me of the scabs in London who follow a similar fashion to conceal their lack of shirt. His face and head were not as good a recommendation as his clothes. He certainly was not the survival of the fittest, only an exception to it. My wife, after seeing and hearing him for a few minutes, remarked afterward, with the instinct of a woman, that he would never die of brain fever.

After seating himself he said that he had often heard of me. I felt that this was something in my favor at least, for what can happen to any mortal man worse than not to have been heard of? He said that he had never called because he had heard that I seldom attended church, and that I was, well, to state it plainly, not quite orthodox. Such a statement from such a popinjay was amusing. I gravely suggested that if he considered me the lost sheep he should have left the ninety-and-nine safe in the fold and sought after me. “Well,” said he, “I hope it is not too late, and I trust you are not as bad as they make you out to be.”

This was encouraging, and I was hopeful. I inquired in what respect I was said to be bad. I was becoming interested, as if in the presence of a fortune-teller. He did not seem to know what to say, so I asked, “Do they say I lie, steal, commit murder, gamble, slander, defraud, get drunk or run after women?” “No,” he quickly replied, “nothing of the kind. You have the reputation of being about the most upright man in the station, and very kind to the poor; that no one comes to you but finds a friend.”

He would have seen my blushes at these compliments to my virtues if nature had not enabled me to hide them. I made up my mind at once to give him a subscription to the paper I felt sure he had in his pocket.