That Eurasian

by Aleph Bey

“Charles! I would rather a thousand times be you than such a man. You can become a true man; he never can. He has lost his manhood and God himself cannot restore it; and he never can make atonement for the wrongs he inflicted on your mother, on you, and on your sister. He committed an infamous crime; worse than murder. But we must find the sister.”

I then told him of my visit with the munshi to the girls’ orphanage: that the sister had been taken away, and I mentioned the name of the lady and gentleman who took her. He wrote letters addressed to the gentleman, but they were returned, uncalled for. He wrote to friends, but they knew nothing, and it seemed that the little sister was forever lost to me.

On each Sunday morning Mr. Percy held his religious service. The crowd had greatly increased, but each received the usual share. There was a great scarcity of food in the district, on account of the slight rainfall, and Mr. Percy, foreseeing this, had purchased a large quantity of grain, and this he called the “Widow’s Fund.” On other days he held what he called his morning service, when the widows came, most of them with children. He had a careful list made out, so as to be sure that they were really widows in need. To some of them he sold the grain at the price he paid for it, and at half the bazar prices. To those who had no means of purchasing he gave, so that all were supplied. The low price at which he sold the grain greatly offended the bunyas in the bazar, as they had a large supply on hand, which they had taken from the poor cultivators in return for the seed and money advanced at an enormous profit to themselves.

One morning Mr. Percy called these bunyas to his bungalow and gave them such a scoring about their rapacity and robbery of the poor that they all agreed to lower their prices. It was through fear of him only that they did this, as one might as well expect pity from a tiger toward an animal he has caught, as leniency from a bunya to the poor whom he has in his power.

One day, toward evening, we were walking in the garden and came to one of the benches, when we seated ourselves. Some reference was made to the orphanage where I had been placed. I then told him that I had overheard him tell the Padri that he would not take me away until I was larger. I related my experience in bending all my energies to increase my growth; how I fed myself, exercised, how I hung by the arms and chin from the pole, measured my height each Sunday, by marks on the wall, and thought of tying weights to my legs at night, as I was determined to be released from the place as soon as possible. He listened without a word, with a questioning smile playing over his face, until I had finished, and then he unbent with laughter. He laughed till the tears came, and I had to laugh too, for I couldn’t help it, and Cockear, who had been gravely listening, broke out with his dog laugh. And why shouldn’t we laugh? If the man who hath no music in his soul is fit for treason, stratagems and spoils, what might be said of the man who never laughs? Beware of him.

I never felt the least embarrassment from Mr. Percy’s laughter, even when it was caused by some nonsense of my own, for it was always so good-natured, joyous and spontaneous. It was rather an incentive to me to tell him something laughable. Had his laugh been coarse or sarcastic, which was impossible, it would have shut me up at once. He was as open and free with me as if I was an intimate friend, so that I had no hesitation in telling him everything, even my mistakes and follies. There are few people we can trust in talking truly from our hearts, and how few parents are the confidants of their children, when they should be first of all in their hearts and lives. But why should I, now an old man, a unit—and a very insignificant one among the wise millions of the world—talk of such things? I have to constantly remind myself of the habits of old people to run into tedious details, and so, often check myself, or I shall never finish my history.

This vacation passed, others followed, and the years at school continued with great improvement, I think to myself and to the satisfaction of my teachers and above all to the great pleasure of my best friend, Mr. Percy. His letters seemed to have more breadth and to grow better as I grew older. He wrote me on all kinds of subjects. Each one of them was an incentive to study for I had to read up or think on the many things referred to in them. Frequently when the boys were at their games, and I dearly loved play, I felt in honor bound and from love to Mr. Percy that I must think over his letters and see what I could say in reply to them. Our library was nearly as empty as a church’s poor box and the few books in it were of little use for the reason that they were donated, and it often happens that benevolent people give away what is useless to themselves or anybody else. Whether the recording angel gives a credit mark for this kind of charity I have my doubts. I was thrown mostly on my own resources and had to think for myself, which probably was much better than if I had borrowed from somebody. I think this correspondence was the best part of my school education. The most of our school duties was to commit to memory and repeat continually rules and definitions, and we had so much of that to do that we had no time to think. The main object seemed to be, not to make us think and reason, but to pass our exams. What a thing this Government system is! and the men who concocted it. But I suppose we should have charity for them as they could not act otherwise than within the circumference of their own capacities.

I must relate an incident that occurred during one of my later vacations. There was a holiday. Mr. Percy had been all the morning writing a judgment on one of his court cases. I had entered the library to get a book and seeing him at his desk, I begged his pardon for interrupting and was turning to leave when he said, “Don’t go, Charles, I have finished my work and am now ready for a holiday.” So we sat and chatted. I was looking toward two photographs on the mantel that I had seen there ever since I entered his house. I never asked about them, and in fact I never questioned him about his life. He had told me many things and I felt that he would tell me all whatever he wished me to know and that I ought not to make inquiries. I was conscious that he had some secrets that were sacred to himself. Everybody should have such secrets. I have a kind of pity for those who will tell all their family affairs, to every gossip who comes along, and a contempt for those who besmirch their own relatives, for in doing so they are throwing dirt on their own faces. Hearing a man talk of his brother as a liar and thief, one cannot but suspect that some of the same blood may run in the veins of the narrator. Some may say before I finish this narrative that I do not practice what I teach; but who does? Truth is truth at all times and everywhere, no matter if people do often stretch it beyond its power of tension. I am laying down a rule in general, “Don’t do as I do, but as I tell you.” Besides my excuse for my course in this narration that, as I am stating facts, I am compelled to make my face still blacker by telling the truth about my own existence, which I regret and lament as much as any mortal man can regret anything. These, however, are thoughts of my later life, and not at all referring to Mr. Percy.

As he saw me looking toward the photographs, he said, “I have never told you about them.” Then taking one of them down. “This is a picture of my mother, my own dear mother. She has been my star of destiny. Her teachings, her example, and the remembrance of her, have fashioned and guided my life. The best gift under heaven is a good mother.” I could have cried as he said this. “My mother! my own darling mama! Why had fate or destiny or the brutality of a man deprived me of such a gift?” He had continued while I thought. He described his mother, beautiful, intelligent, refined, accomplished and more particularly, how her soul was wrapt up in her boy, her only child and she a widow. Above all things she wanted him to be pure and true. I then knew why he had talked to me as he did about such things. She had been my mother too, through him. He told of her waiting supper for him to return from school three miles away, to which he went and returned each day on foot. As they sat together she talked with him about his lessons and he told her the incidents of the day, and she inquired what new ideas he had received. So they chatted, and I have no doubt there was laughter too, for he must have been full of roguish fun, and those eyes of hers, one could not mistake, for they were full of mirth. He said the recollection of those cozy table chats always brought the image of his mother fresh before him, for they occurred just before he left home to go into the world never to see her again. He said they had no secrets from each other. They lived with one heart, one soul and one ambition and all of her was centered in him.

Could I doubt when I heard this, the cause of his being so pure, honest, candid, frank and free? His mother.