ALEX. GROSSET & CO.
11 East Sixteenth St., New York
1899
Copyright, 1899
BY
ALEX. GROSSET & CO.
CONTENTS.
| [CHAPTER I] | |
|---|---|
| PAGE | |
| A Real Live City, | [5] |
| [CHAPTER II] | |
| The Reflections of a Savage, | [14] |
| [CHAPTER III] | |
| The Council of the Gods, | [25] |
| [CHAPTER IV] | |
| On the Banks of the Hugli, | [37] |
| [CHAPTER V] | |
| With the Calcutta Police, | [49] |
| [CHAPTER VI] | |
| The City of Dreadful Night, | [58] |
| [CHAPTER VII] | |
| Deeper and Deeper Still, | [72] |
| [CHAPTER VIII] | |
| Concerning Lucia, | [82] |
THE CITY OF DREADFUL NIGHT.
CHAPTER I.
A REAL LIVE CITY.
We are all backwoodsmen and barbarians together—we others dwelling beyond the Ditch, in the outer darkness of the Mofussil. There are no such things as commissioners and heads of departments in the world, and there is only one city in India. Bombay is too green, too pretty, and too stragglesome; and Madras died ever so long ago. Let us take off our hats to Calcutta, the many-sided, the smoky, the magnificent, as we drive in over the Hugli Bridge in the dawn of a still February morning. We have left India behind us at Howrah Station, and now we enter foreign parts. No, not wholly foreign. Say rather too familiar.
All men of certain age know the feeling of caged irritation—an illustration in the Graphic, a bar of music, or the light words of a friend from home may set it ablaze—that comes from the knowledge of our lost heritage of London. At home they, the other men, our equals, have at their disposal all that town can supply—the roar of the streets, the lights, the music, the pleasant places, the millions of their own kind, and a wilderness full of pretty, fresh-colored Englishwomen, theatres, and restaurants. It is their right. They accept it as such, and even affect to look upon it with contempt. And we, we have nothing except the few amusements that we painfully build up for ourselves—the dolorous dissipations of gymkhanas where every one knows everybody else, or the chastened intoxication of dances where all engagements are booked, in ink, ten days ahead, and where everybody’s antecedents are as patent as his or her method of waltzing. We have been deprived of our inheritance. The men at home are enjoying it all, not knowing how fair and rich it is, and we at the most can only fly westward for a few months and gorge what, properly speaking, should take seven or eight or ten luxurious years. That is the lost heritage of London; and the knowledge of the forfeiture, wilful or forced, comes to most men at times and seasons, and they get cross.