—I have been fortunate enough to find a person on board who can help me in my Persian and Sanskrit studies. He is, or seems to be, a pure Indian, by name Chunder Singh, such a handsome fellow, tall, well put together, with a face whose fine cast and quiet dignified expression, impress one at once! This afternoon I saw him looking at me with interest, whereupon I spoke, and finding he understood English well, talked with him for some time. I have spoken about him to the Captain, who says he is needy, and will, no doubt, be glad to give me lessons.
—Chunder Singh has met my advances with a gentleness and benignity that have charmed me inexpressibly. He was so princely in his manners that I felt half ashamed of offering him money for the help which he seemed so ready to give me; but when, with English awkwardness, I blurted out that, if he gave me lessons he should be adequately paid for them, he accepted my offer with a grace and dignity that caused me to blush over my own hesitation. This morning we met for the first time over my books with the crabbed characters to which I am extraordinarily glad to return. Chunder Singh, I am sure, will prove an admirable teacher.
—We are in the Bay of Biscay. There has been a considerable swell on all day, and the decks have been empty of passengers; but Chunder Singh and I have kept our feet. I like him more and more as the days go by; but I confess he puzzles me exceedingly. I think he is more than a professor of Eastern languages. His conversation, although free from any sort of bombast, leads me to believe that he has occupied a superior social position, and he has certainly mixed with men of mark. Then I fancy I can detect in his manner a peculiar anxiety about me—an interest, in fact, stronger than our respective positions and the period of our acquaintanceship seems to warrant.
I mentioned this to Colonel Trent—an intimate friend of General Elton's—who is travelling with us, and I put down his answer because it may be useful to me hereafter. I must be on my guard, he says, against inferring too much from manner in the East. The educated Asiatic has a courteousness far exceeding ours. We, when we wish to be friendly, speak to our companions about ourselves. He waits for his friend's confidences, and listens to them with the most courteous attention, which generally, however, is mere manner.
'I have spent twenty-five years in the East,' said Colonel Trent. 'I am not without acuteness, and I believe I know the Asiatic better than most Europeans. Well! I don't know him at all. That's just the difference between me and those others. They think they do, I know I don't. Between us and the native there is a great gulf fixed. I defy any man living to bridge it. Yes, it is so. You may see them in their hosts. You may have, as you suppose, friends amongst them. You may study their history, their language, their ways; but are you any the nearer to understanding them? Take one of the men whose characteristics you have been studying. Look into his eyes! Have you any distant idea about his thoughts? Watch his ways! There is not an antic he performs—not a word he lets slip unconsciously—that will not be a mystery to you. I would venture to lay a heavy bet that in a year that man would give you so many surprises and shocks that you would give up thinking you knew the native mind.'
This is certainly not encouraging from a man of so much experience; but I reserve myself. I shall find out more presently. In the meantime, and in the light of this conversation, it was no little curious to hear what Chunder Singh had to say on the relations between England and India. Our conversation took place this evening; in fact, as I have only just come down from the hurricane-deck, which we have pretty nearly to ourselves, every word of it is fresh in my mind.
'The situation is a strange one,' said the Indian meditatively. 'I doubt if the world has ever seen a stranger. You have come to us—not as a great nation that conquers another by the resources of a higher civilisation—but as a company of traders. Money-making—that was your object. Yet you sent us of your best—great soldiers, high politicians, men of lofty will and noble aims. And we, Asiatics, who adore in others the qualities we lack ourselves, have paid them homage, and fought under their banners in defence of the rights won from the weakness of our rulers. And so, out of the acts of a trading company, a great empire has grown. But let me tell you,' said Chunder Singh impressively, 'that the quality of the rule smacks of its origin. It is just in most cases, but it is not sympathetic, nor is its policy large and beneficent. With any other nation under the sun the results would be disastrous. But you English are a strange people. You go straight on. In your wildest flights you cannot forget that you have a conscience, and so you have won the respect of some and the superstitious dread of others, and your empire goes on increasing.'
'But you do not love us,' I said.
'How can we?' answered Chunder Singh. 'As in the Divine—which is the model of all excellence—the Supreme Spirit, from whom all flows, and to whom all must return—love must begin from above. Do you love us? You know you do not. I am not speaking of you individually, or of any other man. One here and there, considering the greatness of our land, may take an interest in us. But, as a nation, do you care for us?'
It was impossible for me to say that we did, knowing full well the contrary, and then those strange words, which echo still in my ears, were spoken.