[11]There is the notorious instance of the news of Lord Roberts’ relief of Kandahar reaching Bombay long before the government in Simla knew the facts. SeeForty Years in India, by Lord Roberts.
[11]There is the notorious instance of the news of Lord Roberts’ relief of Kandahar reaching Bombay long before the government in Simla knew the facts. SeeForty Years in India, by Lord Roberts.
[12]Nirvana. The ultimate object of attainment for the Buddhist. The word has been translated “nothingness,” and the non-Buddhist missionaries are responsible for the commonly accepted and totally false belief that it means “extinction.” The truth is that by “Nirvana” the Buddhist means a condition which it is utterly impossible for the human mind to comprehend, but which can be attained, after thousands of reincarnations, by strict adherence to the Golden Rule—that is, by deeds and abstaining from deeds not by words and self-indulgence. It is said that the understanding of what is meant by “Nirvana” will dawn gradually on the mind of him who is tolerant and strives unselfishly.
[12]Nirvana. The ultimate object of attainment for the Buddhist. The word has been translated “nothingness,” and the non-Buddhist missionaries are responsible for the commonly accepted and totally false belief that it means “extinction.” The truth is that by “Nirvana” the Buddhist means a condition which it is utterly impossible for the human mind to comprehend, but which can be attained, after thousands of reincarnations, by strict adherence to the Golden Rule—that is, by deeds and abstaining from deeds not by words and self-indulgence. It is said that the understanding of what is meant by “Nirvana” will dawn gradually on the mind of him who is tolerant and strives unselfishly.
[13]Merchant.
[13]Merchant.
[14]Promissory notes.
[14]Promissory notes.
When the actor, having thrown aside the costume and the wig, departs—is he a villain? Shall we take stones and murder him because for our amusement he enacted villainy?If he should act death in the play because decency demands that, do we therefore burn him afterward and curse his memory? And is his wife a widow?And is life not like the play? The gods who watch the drama know that somebody must play the villain’s part, and somebody the pauper’s. They reward men for the acting. He who acts a poor part well receives for his reward a more important part when his turn shall come to be born again into the world.He, therefore, who is wise plays pauper, king or villain with the gods in mind.From the Book of the Sayings of Tsiang Samdup.
When the actor, having thrown aside the costume and the wig, departs—is he a villain? Shall we take stones and murder him because for our amusement he enacted villainy?
If he should act death in the play because decency demands that, do we therefore burn him afterward and curse his memory? And is his wife a widow?
And is life not like the play? The gods who watch the drama know that somebody must play the villain’s part, and somebody the pauper’s. They reward men for the acting. He who acts a poor part well receives for his reward a more important part when his turn shall come to be born again into the world.
He, therefore, who is wise plays pauper, king or villain with the gods in mind.
From the Book of the Sayings of Tsiang Samdup.
CHAPTER IX
Dawncame and no Dawa Tsering. Pale light through cobwebbed windows drove the dark into corners and consumed it, until the devil-mask on the wall over Ommony’s head grinned like a living thing and the street noises began, announcing that Delhi was awake. Diana stirred and sniffed, mistrusting her surroundings, but patient so long as Ommony was satisfied to be there. Benjamin shuffled away to the stairs. The daughter came, fussily, fatly hospitable, withchota hazri[15]on the brass Benares tray—fruit, tea, biscuits, and a smile that would have won the confidence of Pharaoh, Ruler of the Nile.
But Ommony’s heart had turned harder than Pharaoh’s ever did. He could hardly force himself to be civil. He drank the tea and ate the fruit because he needed it, unconscious now of any ritual of friendship in the act, answering polite inquiries with blunt monosyllables, his mind and memory working furiously, independently of any efforts at conversation. His face was a mask, and a dull one at that, with no smile on it. The iron in him had absolute charge.
He was not by any means the sort of man who flatters himself.
“You damned, deluded fool!” he muttered pitilessly, and Diana opened one eye wide, awaiting action.
He blamed himself, as mercilessly as he always had been merciful to others, for having acted as the Lama Tsiang Samdup’s foil for twenty years. Above all things he despised a smug fool, and he called himself just that. He should have suspected the Lama long ago. He should have seen through Benjamin. He had believed his trusteeship of the Tilgaun Mission was a clean and selfless contribution to the world’s need. Why hadn’t he resigned then from his government job long ago to devote his whole career to the trust he had undertaken? If he had done that, he knew no Lama could have hoodwinked him. No little girls would have been smuggled then into the unknown by way of Tilgaun.
The self-accusation case-hardened him. He set his teeth, and almost physically reached out for the weapons of alertness, patience, persistence, cunning, with which he might redeem the situation. For redeem it he surely would, or else perish in the attempt. Exposure too soon would do no good. He needed full proof. And he cared less to punish the offenders than to rescue the children who had been carried off, and to make anything of the sort impossible in future, wondering, as he considered that, what any one would be able to do for girls in their predicament. The early years are the most impressionable; their characters would have been undermined. And then a worse thought: was Benjamin the only agent? There might be a regular market for European girls in that unknown corner of the earth, with secret agents supplying it from a dozen sources. If so, he felt and accepted his full share of responsibility. Who else could share it with him? Only Hannah Sanburn. She, too, had shielded the Lama and, if ignorant of what was going on, might at least have suspected.
And thoughts of Hannah Sanburn did not give comfort. He remembered now a dozen incidents that should have made him suspectheryears ago. That look in her eyes, for instance, and her nervousness whenever he had urged her to bring about a meeting between the Lama and himself. He recalled now how carefully she had always shepherded him through the mission, under pretext of observing the proprieties; she had never given him a chance to talk alone with any of the mission girls, and like a fool he had believed she did that to prevent the very suggestion of scandal from finding an excuse. He had admired her for it. But there was that room (or was it two rooms) near her own quarters that she had always kept locked, and that he had not cared to ask to inspect, because she said she kept her personal belongings in there.
And now this story, told by Mrs. Cornock-Campbell, a witness as trustworthy as daybreak, of a white girl named Elsa, who spoke English and Tibetan, who had been to Lhassa, and who could draw—for he had seen the drawings—as masterfully as Michael Angelo. And Hannah Sanburn’s plea for secrecy. And the fact that McGregor had had suspicions.
Marmaduke might not have been the father of this strange girl, but that did not preclude the possibility of Hannah Sanburn being the mother. It seemed likely—more than likely—that the Lama possessed knowledge which enabled him to blackmail Hannah Sanburn; it was easy enough to understand how that well-bred New England woman would fight to preserve her good name, and how, if the Lama had once tempted her into one false position, she could be terrified from bad to worse. There is more deliberate blackmail in the world than most of its indirect victims suspect.
Nevertheless, Ommony wondered that Hannah Sanburn should not have confided in himself. She might have known he would have shielded her and helped her to redeem the situation. She had had dozens of proofs of his friendship. He smiled rather grimly as he thought to what lengths he would have gone to shield and befriend Hannah Sanburn—and yet more grimly—cynically—as it dawned on him to what lengths he might now have to go. Friendship is friendship—unto death if need be.
Benjamin returned; and an hour’s thought had had its effect on him too. His assistants came, and he chased them out on hurriedly invented errands, barring the shop-door behind them.
“I have sent for Maitraya,” he announced, stroking his beard, watching Ommony sidewise. He seemed to be not quite sure that Ommony might not have changed his mind with daylight.
“All right. Hunt me out a costume.”
Ommony stepped off the pile of blankets and began to strip himself. Benjamin’s swift fingers sought and plucked along the shelves, selecting this and that until a little heap of clothing lay ready on a table, Ommony saying nothing but observing almost savagely, like a caged man watching his meal prepared.
“There, that is perfect,” said Benjamin at last. “A dude—a dandy, such as actors are—aping the high-caste—too educated to submit to inferiority—a little of this, a little of that—fashionable—tolerated—half-philosopher, half-mountebank—”
Stark-naked, Ommony confronted him, and Benjamin betrayed the naked fear that has nothing to do with physical consequences. Ommony looked straight into his eyes and analyzed it, as he had done fifteen years ago when he protected Benjamin against accusers.
“All right, Benjamin. I’ll trust you this once more. But no flinching. See it through.”
He dressed himself, Benjamin watching alertly for the least mistake, but that was an art in which no man in the world could give Ommony instruction; he knew costumes as some enthusiasts know postage stamps, and he bound on the cream-colored silk turban without a glance in the mirror that Benjamin held for him.
“I’ll need an old trunk now, and three or four changes,” he said abruptly. “No, cow-hide won’t do—no, there’s glue in that imported thing—observe caste prejudices, even if I’m supposed to have none—basket-work’s the stuff. That’s it. Throw me in a trousseau.”
He began to pace the floor, adjusting himself to the costume, finding it not difficult; his natural, sturdy gait learned in forest lanes with a gun under his arm, suggested independence and alertness without a hint of drill, which is the secret of self-assurance; add good manners to that and an intimate knowledge; there is not much acting needed.
He looked stout and a bit important in the flowing cotton clothes. The short beard gave him dignity. His skin, weathered by twenty years of outdoor life, needed no darkening. Even his legs, and his bare feet thrust into red morocco slippers had the ivory color that belongs to most of the higher castes; and an actor must be of Brahman or Kshattriya origin if he hopes to be admitted anywhere within the pale from which the lower castes are utterly excluded. His profession makes him technically unclean, but that is rather an advantage than a handicap.
“And the name? The honored name?” asked Benjamin admiringly.
“Gupta Rao. I’m a Bhat-Brahman of Rajputana.”
Benjamin sat down and laughed with his head to one side, nursing a knee.
“Oh, you Ommony! A Jew you should have been! Hey-yey-clever! Now who would have thought of that but you!Yah-tchah!Bhat-Brahman—of whom even rajahs are afraid! Gossiping tongue! The privilege to slander!Yah-keh-keh-keh!You are a clever one! Not even a Brahman will challenge you, for fear you will make him a laughing-stock!Keh-hah-hah-hey-hey-hey!Ah, but wait, wait! We forgot thepan. You must have a pouch to carry betel-nut. And the caste-mark—keep still while I paint the caste-mark.”
And then at last came Dawa Tsering, not pleased with himself but trying to appear pleased, adjusting his eyes to the dimness as Benjamin let him in by the back door.
“Where is Ommonee?”
He stared about him, brushed past Ommony contemptuously, and at last saw the cast-off dinner jacket and white shirt. He broke into the jargon-Hindustani that serves for lingua franca in that land of a hundred tongues, chattering as he hurried along the passage past the stairs and back again:
“Where is he? Is he hiding? Has he gone?” Then, shouting at last in something near panic: “Oh—Ommonee!”
He stared at Diana, but she gave him no information. She lay curled up on the floor, apparently asleep. Benjamin looked non-committal—busy considering something else.
“Where is he—thou?” the Hillman demanded, coming to a stand in front of Ommony and fingering the handle of his knife. The light was dim just there where the saddles were piled in a ten-foot heap.
“Would you know his voice?” asked Ommony.
“Aye, in a crowd!”
“Would you know his walk?”
“None better! Seen from behind, when he is thinking, he rolls thus, like a bear. But who art thou? Where is he?”
Ommony turned his back, walked to the heap of blankets by the wall, and sat down.
“Would you know him sitting?” he asked casually; and suddenly it occurred to Dawa Tsering that he was being questioned in his own tongue.
“Thou!” he exclaimed. “Well, may the devils destroy the place! Art thou then a magician?” He sniffed three times. “Not even the smell is the same! Was it the Jew who worked the magic? Art thou truly Ommonee?”
“No, I’m changed. I’m Gupta Rao. If you ever call me Ommony again without my permission, I will bring to pass a change in your affairs that you will remember! Do you understand?”
“Gupta Rao—huh? A change—eh? Hmm! And that is not a bad idea. Changeme, thou! There are many garments in this place—buy me some of them. That Lama played a dirty trick on me. He has vanished. I found hischelaSamding, and I told him the Lama owes me two months’ pay; and I said ‘Where is the Lama?’ But Samding, standing by a covered bullock-cart (but the cart was empty, for I looked) laughed at me and said nothing. I would have killed him if I had not thought of that letter, which you said the Lamamustreceive. So I slapped Samding’s face with the letter, and threw it on the ground in front of him, and bade him pick it up and find the Lama or take the consequences. Andhesaid, with that mild voice of his, that I had become very reckless all at once, so I hustled him a time or two, hoping to make him strike me, that I might with justice strike him back. But he has no fight in him. He picked up the letter, holding it thus, because there was dirt on it and he hates to soil his hands. And he said to me, ‘The Lama has no further use for you!’ Do you hear that, thou—what is thy new name?—Gupta Rao? Did you ever hear the like of it for impudence? You wonder, I suppose, why I didn’t smite Samding there and then, so that the Lama would have no further use forhim. Trust me, I would have done; but two great devils of Tibetans came out of a doorway and seized me from behind. Lo, before I could draw my knife they had hurled me into a party of Sikh soldiers who were passing, so that I broke up their formation, they blamingmefor it, which is just like Sikhs. And it isn’t wise to argue with too many Sikhs, so I ran. Now—what is thy name again? Gupta Rao? Well—it would now be fitting to disguise me, so that I may come on that Lama and hischelaand the whole brood of them unawares. Then let us see what one man can do to half-a-dozen!”
Ommony got up and began to pace the floor again. It would be difficult to disguise Dawa Tsering, even if that were advisable, for the man had a swagger that was as much a part of him as his huge frame, and a simplicity that underlay and would inevitably shine through all cunning. Yet the man would be useful, since he knew more than a little about the Lama’s goings and comings; and, once in the Hills, where a man without an armed friend has a short life and a sad one as a rule, he would be almost indispensable.
He had not made up his mind what to do when one of Benjamin’s assistants hammered on the shop-door and announced Maitraya. Dawa Tsering sat down beside Diana, who seemed to have decided he was tolerable, and Maitraya entered stagily, as if he thought he were a god, or wished other people to believe him one. He was not a very big man, but he had a trick of filling up the doorway and pausing there before he strode into the room to seize by instinct the most conspicuous position and command all eyes.
His face was rather wrinkled, but he was richly clothed in new Tussore silk, with a gorgeous goldencummerbund,[16]and his gallant bearing tried to give the lie to fifty years. There were marks on his handsome face that suggested debauch, but might have been due to former hardship; his manner on the whole was one of dignity and conscious worthiness. One could tell at a glance what were his views on the actor’s art and on the position that actors should hold in the community; in another land he would have pestered the politicians for a knighthood. A pair of gorgeous black eyes, that he knew how to use with effect, glowed under a heavy lock of black hair that he had carefully arranged to fall in apparent carelessness beneath his turban.
“You wished to see me, Benjamin?”
His voice was tragic, his language Urdu, his diction refined to the verge of pedantry. Benjamin signed to him to be seated on a heap of blankets, but he declined the invitation like Cæsar refusing a throne (except that Cæsar could not have done it with such super-modesty).
“May all the glorious gods, and above all friendly, fortunate Ganesha, have worked on you and made you change your mind, O stubborn Benjamin! Father of money-bags! Provider of finery for entertaining fools! Patient, but too cautious Benjamin! May all the gods melt butter on you for your former trust in me, Maitraya,—and may they also melt your heart! I need you, Benjamin. I have a bargain with that Lama struck and bound. The man is crazy, and a traitor to all his gods, but he knows a little. God knows they will tear him between wild asses for debauching his religion, when he gets back to Tibet! Believe me or not, Benjamin—although Ihopemy word rings unsuspicious in your ears—he leans toward modern views! Can you imagine that—in a Ringding Lama from Tibet? He proposes just what I have always preached—to moderate the ancient plays, retaining their charm and morality, but making them comprehensible! The man is mad—mad as an American—but genuinely gifted with imagination. It will make me famous, Benjamin.”
“Does he offer to pay you?” Benjamin asked dryly.
“Richly! Princely! Like a maharajah—with the difference—aha!—that he will settle regularly, instead of forcing me to borrow from his special money-lenders (as the rajahs do) while I await his slow convenience. I tell you, Benjamin, the Lord Ganesha surely smiled on me in the hour of this Lama’s birth!”
“Did you ask for money in advance?” asked Benjamin.
“Not I, Benjamin. What do you mistake me for—a parasite? A beggar? A man without dignity? A hanger-on of some courtesan? Nay, nay! I remembered my blessed friend Benjamin, who likes to do business at a reasonable profit, and who will be glad to advance me a little more, in order that I may pay what I already owe. Are we notgoodfriends, Benjamin? Have I ever defrauded you or told you a word of untruth?”
“A man’s word and his deed should be one,” Benjamin answered. “I hold yourhundis[17]that you have not paid. There is interest due on them.”
“True, Benjamin, true. I have been unfortunate. Who could have foretold smallpox, the death of three actors, and the burning of a theater? But another might have repudiated, Benjamin. Another might have told you to hunt for your money where the smallpox and the fire are born!Kali[18]can care for her own! Did I repudiate? Did I not come and tell you I will pay in time?”
“The worst is, you are not the only one,” said Benjamin. “I have another here, who is heavily in my debt, although a famous actor, more famous than you, and a much finer artist. This is Gupta Rao sahib, of Bikanir.”
“I never heard of him,” said Maitraya, looking slightly scandalized although prepared to condescend.
“He is a very great actor,” said Benjamin. Whereat Ommony bowed with becoming gravity, and Maitraya took his measure, up and down.
“Does he act in that beard?” he inquired.
“I have lately been acting the part of an Englishman,” said Ommony; and his Urdu was as perfect and pedantic as Maitraya’s.
“An Englishman? There are few who can do that with conviction.” Maitraya stepped back a pace. “You don’t look like an Englishman. No wonder you grew a beard. That is the only way you could have carried off the part at all without looking foolish. It takes a man of my proportions to play an Englishman properly. I have been told that I excel at it. I played once before the officers of a cavalry regiment at Poona, and they assured me they believed I was an English gentleman until I stepped down off the stage. Watch this.”
Maitraya inserted an imaginary monocle and gave an outrageous caricature of a stock Englishman as portrayed in comic papers on the European continent.
“God-dam fine weather, eh? Not bad, eh? What?”
“I see you are a genius,” said Ommony. “I could not do it nearly so well as that.”
“No, I dare say not. The actor’s is an art that calls for technique. However, I dare say you are good in conventional parts,” said Maitraya, mollified.
“I have seen him and I am a good judge of such matters,” said Benjamin. “What I have to say to you, Maitraya, is that I am anxious about the money which you and Gupta Rao owe me.”
Benjamin put on his extra-calculating air, that Jews use to make their customers believe there is something as yet undecided—an alternative course, less profitable to the customer. It is the oldest trick in the world—much older than Moses. Maitraya showed furtive alarm.
“My son-in-law is away on a long journey. It is costing too much. I need the money,” Benjamin went on. “I will not advance you more—no, not arupeemore—”
“Unless?” said Maitraya. He was watching the old Jew’s face, flattering himself that he could read behind the mask and swallowing the bait as simply as a hungry fish.
“Unless you take Gupta Rao with you—”
“I could give him small parts,” said Maitraya, cautiously yet with a gorgeous magnanimity.
“As leading actor,” Benjamin went on, “on a leading actor’s salary, so that he may have a chance to pay me what he owes.”
“But I must first see him act,” Maitraya objected. “I promised the Lama a company of actors second to none, and—”
“And on this newhundiboth your names must go,” said Benjamin, “so that you are both responsible, and I can take a lien on Gupta Rao’s salary if I so wish.”
That stipulation started a long-winded argument, in which Ommony joined sufficiently to add confusion to it and support Benjamin by pretending to support Maitraya. Benjamin’s investment in costumes, theatrical properties and cash might be considerable, and there was no reason why the shrewd old merchant should not protect himself. At the end of an hour of expostulation, imprecation, gesticulation and general pandemonium Benjamin had his way, vowing he had never made a more unprofitable bargain in his life, and Maitraya was convinced that Gupta Rao had at least a rich vocabulary. Moreover, as fellow victims of necessity, with their names on a joint promissory note, they had an excuse for friendship, of which Ommony took full advantage.
“Being of Brahman origin, of course I have access to inner circles, and enjoy privileges that are denied to you; and if I were an ordinary Brahman I would notjoinforces with you. But we Bhats consider ourselves above caste, and when we find an outcaste of merit and distinction, such as you evidently are, we believe it no dishonor to befriend him. You will find it a great advantage to have me in your company, and for many reasons.”
Maitraya was readily convinced of that. A Bhat enjoys more privileges than any scald did in the Viking days, for there is none who dares to call him in question and nowadays, at least in Northern India, there is no authority that can discipline him. An orthodox Brahman is very easily kept within bounds, and it is next to impossible for a man of lower caste to pose as a Brahman successfully because at the first suggestion of suspicion he would be questioned narrowly and be required to give substantial proofs; if the proofs were not forthcoming the Brahmans would simply close their ranks against him. But who shall challenge the College of Heralds on points of etiquette?
The very Pundits themselves, who are the fountainheads of orthodoxy, are at the mercy of the Bhats. A Pundit who should challenge a Bhat’s veracity or privilege would lay himself open to such scurrilous attack, in song and jest and innuendo, as he could never stand against. He would be in the position of a public man in Europe or America who should dare to defy the newspapers. The only limits to a Bhat’s audacity are imposed by his own intelligence and his own gift of invective. He may act, sing, dance in public and be undefiled; he may accept gifts whose very shadow no orthodox Brahman would dare to let fall on his door-step; and that source of strength is the secret of his weakness at the same time, since, like the Press that accepts paid advertising, he has to be careful whose corns he crushes.
Maitraya, finding himself linked with this Gupta Rao by a contract, which Benjamin would certainly enforce, began at once to take good care to establish cordial relations. He was even deferent in his remarks about the beard.
“Beautiful it is, and manly—good to see, Gupta Rao, but—for certain parts and certain purposes—will it not be inconvenient?”
Ommony conceded that point. He withdrew to a little dark room and removed the beard by candle-light, using a razor belonging to one of Benjamin’s assistants and, since the skin was paler where the hair had been, rubbing on a little dark stain afterward. While that was going on, Maitraya was regaled by Benjamin with accounts of Gupta Rao’s audacity and influence.
“Then why is he not rich?” Maitraya asked. “These Bhats are notorious for luxury. Everybody gives them presents, to keep their tongues from wagging.”
“That is just it,” Benjamin explained. “Too much luxury! Too many gifts! It spoils them. This one is a gambler and a patron of the courtesans, who favor him exceedingly.Tshay-yay-yay!What a weakness is the love of women! But he is on his good behavior at present because, says he, a Bikaniri broke his heart. But the truth is, she only emptied his pockets.”
“And that great dog?” Maitraya asked. “To whom does that belong?”
Benjamin stroked his beard and hesitated. But Ommony had heard every word of the conversation through the thin partition.
“And that great savage beside the dog—that Northerner—who is he?” asked Maitraya.
Ommony emerged, having reached a conclusion at last as to what should be done with Dawa Tsering and Diana.
“I must count on your honor’s sympathy and good will,” he said, smiling at Maitraya rather sheepishly. “That, hound is the agent ofHanuman[19]. The man from Spiti is a simpleton, whose service is to keep the hound in good health and to assist with occasional amorous errands. Our friend Benjamin has not told all the truth. Whose heart is broken while he can communicate with his beloved?”
Maitraya smiled. He had acted in too many plays, in which the plot consisted of intrigue between man and woman, not to accept that sort of story at face-value. Life, to him, was either drama or else mere drudgery. Ommony excused himself, to go and talk with Dawa Tsering.
“Now this dog is used to a dog-boy,” he said sternly. “Moreover, she will do as I say, and if you are kind to her, she will be tolerant of you.”
Diana smelt Ommony over inquisitively. The strange clothes puzzled her but, having nosed them thoroughly, she lay down again and waited.
“She is an incarnation of a devil,” said Dawa Tsering. “I am sure of it.”
“Quite right. But she is a very friendly devil to her friends. I am going to tell her to look after you; and she will do it. And I order you to look after her. Keep the fleas off her. Attend to it that she is clean and comfortable.”
“What then?”
“The Jew shall provide you with new clothing, after you have cleaned yourself. When I go presently, with that man Maitraya, you are to remain here, and you will see that the dog will remain with you willingly. At the proper time you are to come and find me.”
“But how, Ommonee? How shall I find you?”
“Don’t call me Ommony! Remember that. My name is Gupta Rao.”
“That makes you even more difficult to find!”
“You are going to learn what the dog can do. When I send a messenger, the dog will follow him, but you are to remain here, do you understand? You are not to move away on any condition. When it suits my convenience the dog will return to this place alone and will bring you to wherever I may happen to be. Do you understand?”
“No, I don’t understand, but I will wait and see,” said Dawa Tsering. “I think you would make a good thief on the te-rains, Om—I mean, Gupta Rao!”
[15]Early breakfast.
[15]Early breakfast.
[16]Sash.
[16]Sash.
[17]Promissory notes.
[17]Promissory notes.
[18]Goddess, among other horrors, of the smallpox.
[18]Goddess, among other horrors, of the smallpox.
[19]The monkey—god—patron of love-affairs.
[19]The monkey—god—patron of love-affairs.
Men agree that prostitution is an evil, and they who know more than I do have assured me this opinion is right. But there are many forms of prostitution, and it may be that among the least of them is that of women, bad though that is. I have seen men sell their souls more inexcusably than women sell their bodies—and with more disastrous consequences—to themselves and to the buyer.From the Book of the Sayings of Tsiang Samdup.
Men agree that prostitution is an evil, and they who know more than I do have assured me this opinion is right. But there are many forms of prostitution, and it may be that among the least of them is that of women, bad though that is. I have seen men sell their souls more inexcusably than women sell their bodies—and with more disastrous consequences—to themselves and to the buyer.
From the Book of the Sayings of Tsiang Samdup.
CHAPTER X
Ittook five minutes to convince Diana that she was henceforth responsible for Dawa Tsering, but oncethatfact had been absorbed she accepted the duty without complaint. There was no whimper from the hound when Ommony accepted Maitraya’s invitation to go in search of the Lama. He and Maitraya, side-by-side in atikka-gharri[20]drove through the crowded streets, now and then passing Englishmen whom Ommony knew well. Members of the mercantile community, Moslems as well as Hindus, bowed to Maitraya from open shop-windows or from the thronged sidewalk as if he were a royal personage. Men who would not have let his clothing touch them, because of the resulting caste-defilement, were eager to have it known that they were on familiar terms with him; for a popular actor is idolized not only in the West.
“You see, they know me!” said Maitraya proudly. “Men whose names I can’t remember pay me homage! Actors are respected more than kings and priests—and justly so.Theyrule badly and teach nonsense. It iswewho interpret—we who hold example up to them!”
The man’s vanity delivered him tied and bound to Ommony’s chariot wheels. There was nothing to do but flatter him, and he would tell all he knew, accepting the flatterer as guide, philosopher and friend appointed for his comfort by the glorious gods.
“I am surprised that a man of your attainments should condescend to employment by this Lama person,” said Ommony. “Of course, if you are willing, so am I, but how did it come about?”
“You would never believe. He is a very strange Lama—more unusual than rain in hot weather or the sun at midnight; but I have a gift for attracting unusual people. By Jinendra, Gupta Rao, I have never seen the like of him—even in these days, when everything is upside down! He has achelaby the name of Samding, who has more genius in his little finger that any dozen statesmen have in their whole bodies. Not that it would do to tell him so—I don’t believe in flattering beginners—they can’t stand it. And he lacks experience. That Lama must be a very expert teacher. The first time I met him, he was one of a crowd who watched me act ‘Charudatta’ inThe Toy Cart—a part that I excel in. Afterward, he invited me to witness a performance in private by hischela, and I went with him to a mysterious place kept by some Tibetans at the end of a stone courtyard—the sort of place where you would expect to be murdered for your shoe-leather—a place that smelt of rancid butter and incense and donkey-stables. Whoof! I shudder now, to think of it! But thechelawas marvelous. Calm—you never saw such equipoise—such balance of all the faculties! And a voice as if a god were speaking! The middle note, true as a bell, like a gong to begin with every time, rising and lowering from that with utter certainty—half-tones—quarter-tones—passion, pathos, scorn, command, exhilaration—laughter like a peal of bells—wait till you have heard it, Gupta Rao! You will be as thrilled as I was. You will say I did not exaggerate. Perfect! If only success doesn’t turn the boy’s head!”
“What language?” asked Ommony.
“Prepare to be amazed! Ancient Sanskrit—modern Urdu—with equal fluency and equal grace! Distinct enunciation—and a command of gesture that expresses everything, so that you know what he will say before he speaks! But that is not all. I tell you he is marvelous! He has the modern touch. He understands how to play an ancient part so that it means something to the uninitiated. I am already jealous of him! I tell you, when that boy has had the advantage of my instruction for a while, he will be great—the greatest actor in the world!”
“What proposal did the Lama make?” asked Ommony.
“A crazy one. I told you the man is mad. He proposes to givefreeentertainments—on tour—at places selected by himself—for an indefinite period. I am to provide a troupe of excellent actors, for whom I am to be responsible. There are to be three women among them, but the dancers will be provided by the Lama, as also the music, and Samding thechelais to play the leading female parts.”
“I’m surprised he takes any women at all,” said Ommony. “There’s a prejudice against actresses. They’re always a nuisance. Properly trained boys are better. If a man plays leading woman, the women will only make him look absurd by contrast.”
“Well, that ishisaffair. I suggested that, but the Lama insisted. And mad though he undoubtedly is, he knows his own mind, and is shrewd in some respects. I lied to Benjamin when I said I had not asked for money in advance. I did my best to hold out for that—naturally. But I suspect the Lama knows a lot about me, and he certainly knows Benjamin; he told me to go to Benjamin and to get what credit I may need from him. Do you see the idea? If he and Benjamin have a private understanding, that gives him an extra hold over me—it makes me practically powerless to oppose him in anything, however ridiculous his demands may turn out to be. You see, I have to pay Benjamin’s bill. However—here we are.”
And where they were was not the least surprising feature of the mystery. Thetikka-gharridrew up at an arched gate in a high wall, over which trees leaned in well cared for profusion. There were cut flowers tucked into the carving on the arch, and blossoms strewn on the sidewalk. A dozen carriages, most of them with thoroughbred horses, waited in line near the gate, and the dazzling sun projected on the white wall shadows of thirty or forty men in turbans of every imaginable color, who seemed to have nothing to do but to lounge near the entrance. Some of them nodded at Maitraya; several salaamed to him; one or two were at pains to stare insolently.
In the gateway was a fatchuprassiwith a lemon-colored silk scarf, and the whitest clothes that ever any man wore—whiter than the wall, and starched stiff. He stood guard over about fifty pairs of slippers, most of which were expensive, and nearly all of which looked new. There was no question as to what kind of a house it was—or rather, palace; and there was music tinkling in a courtyard, which confirmed the general impression.
“Vasantasena’s birthday,” said Maitraya. “They began to celebrate at dawn. But what does that matter? We are not rich fools who have to race to do the fashionable thing. Our presence honors her, however late we come. Have you a present ready? Lend me a piece of gold, will you?”
“Where should I get gold?” asked Ommony—instantly aware that he was teetering on the edge of his first mistake. Maitraya cocked a wondering eye at him; it was quite clear that he knew all about a Bhat’s resources, even if the Bhat himself, for unimaginable reasons, should choose to have forgotten them.
“I will improvise a poem in her honor,” Ommony explained. “Women enjoy poems, and I am good at them. Give me a glimpse of her, and then see.”
“Ah, but they like the poem gilded! Women are practical! Moreover, I am no poet,” said Maitraya. “Now one gold piece from each of us—”
Ommony smiled. Without the beard he looked as obstinate as ever, but humorous lines were revealed at the corners of his mouth which the beard had hidden. He decided to put his disguise to a severe test now, while the consequences of detection might not be too disastrous.
“All right,” he said, kicking off his slippers under the archway and accepting thechuprassi’ssalaam with a patronizing nod, as if the fellow were dirt beneath his sacred feet, “I will attend to it.”
Beyond the arch there was a small paved courtyard, around the walls of which were flowers growing in painted wooden troughs. There were several tradesmen squatting there with trays of jewelry in front of them, silver and even golden images of gods, and all sorts of valuable gifts that a visitor might buy to lavish on the lady who kept house within. The tradesmen were noisy, and sarcastic when not patronized. Maitraya bridled, his vanity not proof against insinuations that he probably had squandered all his fortune long ago on much less lovely women. But one hard stare from Ommony and the banter ceased.
“I will sing a song to Vasantasena about the jackals at her gate!” he said sternly; whereat one of them offered him money, and another tried to thrust a silver image of a god into his hands. But he brushed all those offers aside.
“Shall a Bhat-Brahman take gifts from such as you?” he demanded.
“Pranam! Pranam! Paunlagi!” they murmured, raising both hands to their foreheads; whereat he blessed them, as a Brahman is obliged to, with a curt phrase that means “Victory be unto you,” and he and Maitraya passed on, through another arch, into a courtyard fifty feet square. There was a fountain in the midst, around which about a dozen well dressed Hindus were gossiping.
“Iwould have taken the fool’s money,” said Maitraya. “Are you not entitled to it?”
Ommony glanced at him contemptuously. “A tiger, if he wishes, may eat mice!” he answered. “A bear may eat frogs—if he likes them! A pig eats all things!”
Maitraya looked chastened.
There came across the courtyard, swaggering toward them, an heir to an ancient throne, in rose-pink turban and silken breeches, with silver spurs nearly six inches long, and a little black mustache on his lazy face that looked as if it had been stuck on there with glue. He whacked his long boots with a rhino-hide riding whip and rolled a little in his gait, as if it were almost too much trouble to support his vice-exhausted frame. He was for passing without notice, but Ommony stood by the fountain and mocked him. He knew that youngster—knew him well.
“Do they still wean young princes on camel’s milk and whisky in Telingana?” he asked tartly. “I have heard tales of changelings. Return, O treasure of a midwife, and hear me sing a song; I know a good one!”
The gossipers around the fountain pricked their ears. The prince seemed to come out of a day-dream. “Ah! Oh! I kiss feet!” he exclaimed, and made as if to pass on. But Ommony was determined to try his hand to a conclusion.
“Those boots are not respectful. They offend me!” he sneered. “Are they cow-skin? They look like it!”
“Oh, damn!” remarked the prince in English. “Here, take this and confer a blessing,” he went on in Urdu, diving into his pocket.
“Gold!” warned Ommony. “I declare you gave gold to the woman in there. All fees are payable in gold!”
“Gold? I have none. You must take this,” said the prince and passed a handful of crumpled paper money. “Pranam.”
“Victory be unto you,” said Ommony; accepting it, and the prince made his escape, muttering under his breath at the insolence of Brahmans, and of Bhats in particular.
“But paper money is no good,” Maitraya objected. “Ihave paper money,” he added, lying for vanity’s sake.
But Ommony was creeping into the Bhat-Brahman part.
“Why didn’t you say so? Go and buymohurs[21]then from thesonar[22]at the gate,” he retorted.
“Nay, Gupta Rao, you saidyouwould provide the presents. It is only fair. You owe me a consideration. And besides, now I come to think of it, I left most of my money at home.”
Ommony thrust the paper money contemptuously into Maitraya’s hands, smiling in a way that spared the actor no embarrassment.
“Go and buymohursat the gate,” he said. “I wait here.”
Maitraya returned presently with four gold coins and offered two of them.
“Thesonarcheated me—he cheated like a dog!” he grumbled, but Ommony shrugged his shoulders and waved the coins aside.
“Give them all to the woman. I have another way to make her smile,” he said, looking important.
Maitraya approached humility as closely as professional pride would permit.
“It occurs to me I did not ask a blessing when we first met. I crave forgiveness. Your honor was so unusually free from false pride that I overlooked the fact you are a Brahman.Pranam.”
Ommony murmured the conventional curt blessing, and dismissed the apology as if it were beneath notice. They passed into another courtyard on which awninged windows opened from three sides. In a corner a dozen musicians were raising Bedlam on stringed instruments, their tune suggestive of western jazz but tainted, too, like Hawaiian music, with a nauseating missionary lilt. Fashionable India, in the shape of thirty or forty younger sons of over-rich Hindus and a sprinkling of middle-aged roués, was amusing itself in a bower of roses and strong-smelling jasmine, while in a corner of the courtyard opposite the music three girls were dancing more modestly than the scene would have led a censor of morals to expect.
It was a gorgeous scene, for the sun beat down on a blaze of turbans and the awnings cast purple shadows that made it all seem unreal, like a vision of ancient history. Maitraya was greeted noisily by a dozen men; he bowed to them right and left, as if accepting applause as he entered a stage from the wings. The girls danced more vigorously, under the eyes of an expert now, whose approval might be of more than momentary value. Professional zeal took hold of the musicians; the tune grew louder and less careless.
“Beware! Vasantasena is in a Begum’s fury!” some one shouted. “None can satisfy her. Prince Govinda of Telingana gave her a quart of goldmohurs, and she sent him away because he had dared to call on her in riding boots! I advise you to try her with two quarts of gold, and to crawl on your belly!”
A stone stair gave on to the courtyard, through a doorway guarded by two tall serving-men—immaculate, proud images of stern propriety, turbaned and sashed with blazing silk. They looked incapable of smiling, or of anything except the jobs they held, but as gilt, as it were, on the surface of sin they were unsurpassable. Ommony’s disguise and manner aroused no suspicion, although swift suspicion was what they drew wages for, and they would have thrown him out into the street if as much as a suggestion had crossed their minds that he might be a European. They scrutinized Maitraya and Ommony and passed them as autocratically as if they were Masters of Ceremony passing judgment on attendants at a royal levee.
But royal levees are easier for outsiders to attend than that one was, and royalty, even in India, is shabby nowadays because its power is at most a shadow of the past and its forms mean nothing more than a cheap desire by unimportant folk to strut in a reflected pseudo-glory. Kings and conquerors go down, but whoever thinks that the power of the Pompadours has waned knows very little of the world or human nature. Vasantasena wielded more influence, and could pull more hidden wires than any dozen maharajahs, and the court she kept, if rather less splendid than a royal one, was alive with the mysterious magnetism of actual personal power. It was almost tangible, and much more visible than if she had been surrounded by men in armor.
Up-stairs there was no attempt at glittering display, but art and Old-World luxury in every considered detail. A hall, paneled in carved teak and hung with Rawalia woven curtains and a silver lamp on heavy silver chains, conveyed no suggestion of wickedness; a Christian bishop could have trodden the soft Persian rug (had he dared) and have imagined himself in the midst of sanctity. But as Ommony and Maitraya reached the stair-head the curtains facing them across the hall were parted, and a girl peeped through whom hardly a Wahabi ascetic would associate with thoughts of Paradise. She was much too paganly aware that life is laughter, and that men are amusing creatures, to be criticized by standard formula; and she looked like a mother o’ pearl Undine faintly veiled in mist—one of those fabled spirits who may receive a human soul, perhaps, someday, by marriage with a mortal—when she slipped out through the curtains and stood more or less revealed. She was clothed, and from head to foot, but not in obscurity.
She greeted Maitraya with a smile of recognition that suggested no familiarity. She was friendly, but perfectly sure of herself, and as sure of his unimportance. Then she glanced at Ommony, observed the caste-mark on his forehead, and made him a little mock-salaam, covering her eyes with both hands and murmuring “Pranam.”
“This is Gupta Rao sahib. The Joy of Asia will be pleased to see us both,” said Maitraya, assuming his courtliest air; whereat the girl laughed at him.
“She is not so easily pleased,” she answered, glancing at Maitraya’s hand. There was not much that her dark eyes missed. He gave her one of the goldmohurs, and then she stared straight at Ommony. Maitraya nudged him, trying to slip amohurinto his hand; but if you are to act the part of a Bhat-Brahman it is as well not to begin by bribing any one who can be overawed.
“I have a song to sing!” said Ommony. “Shall I include you in it? Shall I add a verse concerning—”
Swiftly she drew the curtain back and, laughing impudently over-shoulder at him, signed to him rather than to Maitraya to follow her down a short wide corridor to a door at the end that stood slightly ajar and through which came a murmur of voices. Through that she led without ceremony into a square room in which half a dozen men were seated on a long cushioned divan beneath a window at the farther end. They were wealthy, important-looking men, one or two of middle age. Girls, dressed as unobscurely as the one who had acted guide, were passing to and fro with cigarettes and sitting down between whiles on heaped cushions near the men’s feet. In the center of the room a white-robed Hindu was making two costumed monkeys perform tricks, solemnly watched by the men in the window, who took scant notice of Ommony and Maitraya.
Vasantasena was not there. Her richly draped divan under a peacock-colored canopy at the end of the room facing the window was vacant, although two girls with jeweled fans lounged on cushions, one on either side of it, as if she were expected to come presently. The sharp cries of the man with the monkeys and the occasional giggle of a girl punctuated an underhum of murmured conversation from the men by the window. The atmosphere was loaded with dim incense and cigarette smoke, blown into spirals of bluish mist by a punkah that swung lazily, pulled by a cord through a hole in the wall. Ommony sat down cross-legged on a cushioned couch against the wall midway between the window and Vasantasena’s divan, and Maitraya followed suit. Two girls, possessed of patronizing smiles, brought cigarettes and a little golden lamp to light them by.
It was sixty seconds before Ommony grew aware of the essential fact. He lit a cigarette and blew smoke through his nose before he dared to look a second time, for fear of betraying interest. Having satisfied himself that Maitraya was studying the girls with an air of professional judgment assumed for the perfectly evident purpose of disguising a middle-aged thrill; and that after one glance none of the men in the window was in the least interested in himself, Ommony let his eyes wander again toward the darkest corner of the room beyond Vasantasena’s divan. There, on a mat on the floor, sat no other than the Ringding Gelong Lama, Tsiang Samdup, with hischelaSamding beside him.
They sat still, like graven images. The Lama’s face was such a mass of unmoving wrinkles that it looked like a carved pine-knot with the grain exposed. He was dressed in the same snuff-colored robe that he wore when Ommony first saw him in Chutter Chand’s back room, and if he was not day-dreaming, oblivious to all surroundings, he gave a marvelous imitation of it.
Thechelawas equally motionless, but less in shadow and his eyes were missing no detail of the scene; they were keen and bright, expressing alert intelligence, and each time Ommony looked away he was aware that they were watching him with a curiosity no less intense than his own. But they refused to meet his. Whenever he looked straight at thechela, although he could not detect movement, he was sure the eyes were looking elsewhere.
He was also very nearly sure that Samding whispered to the Lama; the calm lips parted a trifle showing beautifully even white teeth, but the Lama made no acknowledgment.
“What is the Lama doing in this place?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said Maitraya, “but he told me to meet him here. Many important plans are laid in this place. Ah! Here she comes!”
Maitraya was nervous, suffering from something akin to stage-fright, which consumes the oldest actors on occasion. It was clear enough that, though he had been in the place before it was rather as an entertainer than a guest, and he was not quite sure now how to behave himself. He tried to shelter himself behind Ommony—to push him forward as every one rose to his feet (every one, that is, except the Lama and Samding, who appeared to be glued to the mat).
But Ommony was no man’s fool, to rush in where Maitraya feared to tread. He wanted time for observation. He laughed aloud and swung Maitraya forward by the elbow, arousing a ripple of merriment from the women, as a door opened behind where the Lama was sitting and Vasantasena entered to a chorus of flattering comment from every one.
She was worth running risks to see; as gracious, modest to the eye and royal-looking as her attendant women were the opposite. Her dress was not diaphanous, and not extravagant; she wore no jewelry except a heavy gold chain reaching from her shoulders to her waist, long earrings of aquamarine, plain gold bangles on her wrists, and one heavy jeweled bracelet on her right ankle. From head to knees she was draped in a pale blue silk shawl that glittered with sequins.
By far her most remarkable feature was her eyes, that were as intelligent as Samding’s, or almost; but her whole face was lit up with intelligence, though as for good looks in the commonplace acceptance of the term, there was none. She was too dynamic to be pretty; too imperious to arouse impertinent emotions. She was of the type that could have ruled a principality of Rajasthan, in the days before those hotbeds of feudalism went under in a cycle of decay.
She took her seat under the canopy, settled herself on one elbow among the cushions, with one small henna-stained foot projecting over the edge of the divan, noticed Maitraya and suddenly smiled. That explained her. Her smile was the miracle of Asia—the expression of the spirit of the East that so few casual observers catch—a willingness to laugh—a knowledge that the whole pageant of life is onlymaya[23]after all and not to be taken too seriously—satisfaction that the sins of this life may be wiped out in the next, and the next, and that all inequalities adjust themselves ultimately. The true philosophy is sterner stuff than that; but it was impossible to see that smile of hers and not understand why men of the world paid her homage and tribute; she could see through any make-believe, and pardon any crime but impudence. One could see how she wielded more power than a thousand priests, and would very likely work less evil in the end, although fools were likely to go to swifter ruin in her company than elsewhere. She had force of character, and that is very bad for fools.
Maitraya bowed and stepped forward (for Ommony shoved him). The birthday tribute she had levied already that morning lay in a silver bowl on a little table to her right; Maitraya advanced to add his mite to it, bowed to her profoundly as he passed, and dropped his coins on top of the yellow heap, murmuring platitudes.
“Three mohurs!” exclaimed one of the fan-girls, and the men near the window laughed.
“Liar!” Maitraya cried indignantly. “I threw in five!”
“Three!” the girl repeated, laughing scornfully, whereat every other woman in the room except Vasantasena, who ignored the whole transaction, mocked him and he went and sat down on the floor near the Lama with his back against the wall, scowling as if poison and daggers were his only joy.
That left Ommony on his feet, wondering whether the Powers, that had treated him exceedingly well in all emergencies until that moment, would still stand by. It would not be correct to say his heart was in his mouth; it was pumping like a big ship’s engines, humming in his ears, and if it had not suddenly occurred to him that this woman was possibly one of the Lama’s agents for the traffic in white children he might have surrendered to nervousness. He forgot that she was too young to have had any hand in the incidents that Benjamin had told about—remembered only that the Lama was there in her house, and that a Bhat-Brahman’s tongue should be readier than nitroglycerine to go off and shake the pillars of any society.
“O Brighter than the stars!—O Shadow of Parvarti!—O Dew upon the Jasmine blossoms!” he began. “I bring a greater gift than gold.”
He was surprised by the ringing arrogance of his own voice. Vasantasena smiled. No man that day had dared to come empty-handed, yet with his mouth so full of brave words. The company had bored her. Here was a man who held out promise of amusement.
“What is greater than gold?” she inquired in tones that came rolling from her throat like organ-music. And on the instant he challenged her.
“Reputation!” he answered. “Shall I sing thine? For thou and I are both from Rajasthan, O Moon of men’s desire!”
She frowned and did not answer for a moment. It is quite in order to sing poems to a lady on her birthday, but it is not bad policy sometimes to know the words of the poem before giving a Bhat-Brahman leave to sing; what scandal they don’t know they are almost always willing to invent.
“What is thy name?” she inquired, smiling again.
“Gupta Rao.”
Her brows grew reminiscent, as if the name suggested vague connection with the past. She seemed not quite able to place it, but the men in the window scented a delicious piece of scandal and began calling for the song, and that naturally settled it; she was not going to be made foolish before a crowd.
“Did you not come with Maitraya?” she asked quietly. “Is your business not with Tsiang Samdup?”
“Subject to the Mirror of Heaven’s smile,” said Ommony, making an obeisance that verged on the brink of mockery.
She raised her voice, not very loud, but so that it vibrated with power:
“The noblemen who have honored me will find good entertainment in the inner courtyard. I will send down word as soon as I crave to rejoice in your lordships’ smiles again!”
Without a murmur the guests got to their feet and bowed themselves out; if she had been an empress they could not have been more complacently obedient. They went with side-glances at Ommony and nods to one another, implying that a great deal went on at times in that room that they would give their ears to know, but on the whole they more resembled overgrown children turned out to play than middle-aged, bearded courtiers given temporary leave of absence.