CHAPTER XIX.
I had not forgotten scarcely an incident in my past life. I often went back, in memory, to that little court where I first found myself. Everything appeared before me as if placed upon a canvas by some realistic painter. The old, dilapidated gate-way, with some of its bricks ready to tumble out on some passer’s head, the very color of the bricks, that wall at the back, with its little narrow door, the mud huts at either side, the women sitting in front of their doors preparing their scanty food, then the narrow stair against the back wall, the two little rooms above, and the narrow veranda in front, as clear to my mind as if I were standing there, and seeing it all. And that little mother, with the sad face! O, how sad! Her lustrous eyes looking, staring, until they became like glass. This was more than painted, rather engraved in my memory, on my very soul, every line and point so indelible as never to be erased.
I frequently thought of going to this place, but was repelled from doing so. It gave me a chill, or kind of shock to think of it. I had often read of the anxious desires of people to revisit the lands of their birth, the places of their youth; of the Swiss, when absent, pining for a sight of their mountain homes.
In my maturer years I reasoned about this apparent prejudice of mine against the place of my childhood, and called myself foolish for allowing it to influence me. Such thoughts gradually removed my objections, and I resolved that I would visit the court. The opportunity soon occurred. I had some business in Lucknow, and this being finished, I took a stroll, and soon reached the old place, guided by directions I received on the way. There was the old gate-way, the mud huts, and the two little upper rooms in the back corner, all the same as they were years ago, but in a worse condition, if that were possible. The poor were there, for they are always with us, and will be, until men learn the great lesson of humanity to their fellow-creatures, and while might makes right, and avarice makes men stony-hearted and cruel.
I obtained permission, and went up into the little rooms, and seating myself on a charpoy, gave way to a host of reflections. I went back to my beginning, to the clinking sound of those rupees. I saw again that monster sahib. I heard the cries and laments of the dear mother, and then on—but why tell of it? I thought till I cried, yes cried, I am not ashamed to say it. Tears, blessed tears, they are the shower to cool the burning heat of the heart!
How long I sat I know not. I did not measure the time by tears, as they did in the olden times by drops of water. Recovering myself, I had a desire to learn if any one remembered me, or could tell me anything of that dear mama, but the older people had gone where my questions could not reach them. The others had not known, or had forgotten. They had miseries enough of their own without burdening themselves with those of other people. I went from one to another to get, if possible, one remembrance. Had any one given me the slightest recollection, I could have embraced him with tears of joy. It is so sad to be entirely forgotten, to have passed away into nothing, not to be able to find one who remembered seeing or hearing anything about you. This made me inexpressibly sorrowful. At last one said that there was living near by, a Le Maistre Sahib, an old man who might tell me something. This gave me a gleam of hope, and in gratitude for this hint, apparently of so little value, and out of kindness for these poor, where I had once been so kindly treated by their kindred, I gave the crowd around me some rupees, to their great joy.
I at once made my way to the bungalow of the sahib. He received me with great courtesy. That he was of French descent, on his father’s side, at least, I knew from his name. And more, he had that suavity of manner and genial “bonhomie” that distinguishes French people wherever you may meet them. I told him my name was Japhet, and I could not help adding playfully that I was in search of my father. He replied, “Yes, he is a wise son that knows his own father.” We chatted about various things, and then I said I supposed I was born in the muhalla over there, that I had been taken away when a child, and never again saw the place till that day, when I had come to Lucknow on business. I told him that I was an Eurasian, that I must have had a father.
“Yes,” he interrupted, “The most of us have had fathers.”
I continued, that very likely my father was a European, but I never knew him, and did not even know his name—that as he had resided in Lucknow for a long time, he probably could give me some information.
He replied, “My father was a Frenchman of good family, and was in the service of the old King of Oude. He married a native woman, and we were a happy family, yet I cannot but regret that my father had not married one of his own race, but I was not in a position to give him any advice on the subject. At my father’s death he left considerable property, so I have stuck here ever since.” This and more of his biography he gave me.