CHAPTER VII.
From the first I found myself in a very good position in the school. The principal and teachers knew who had sent me and this settled my status with them. And I knew that the principal had received a letter, for Mr. Percy told me that he would write, and that I need haveno fear of my reception or treatment. The boys soon learned that the magistrate and collector of Muggerpur was my patron. They also knew that I received two letters a week from him, and so probably concluded that I must be of some account. When I became better acquainted I read some of the letters or paragraphs to some of my intimates, and this had its effect, for the letters were such that any boy or man might be proud of receiving. They might talk of their fathers, and though I never had one I could show them that I was not friendless. These things gave me a standing with the boys. Besides I had a superior outfit, comprising everything that a boy could want in school. My clothes were of the best material and made in the best style, some of them by a “Europe” tailor. I think there is nothing that gives a boy such self respect as good fitting clothes. Some of the boys, and I pitied them, had clothes that could only humiliate them. “The apparel oft proclaims the man,” and I think often greatly helps to make the man. Their trousers were either so long as to drag on the ground or so short as to expose their legs, and their coats hung like bags from their shoulders. How could a boy rigged in such fashion stand erect and be polite?
Then I had two good trunks, not boxes, with spring locks, in which I could keep everything safely and neatly. These trunks were the admiration of my fellows. Later in life I have thought of the value of the impression those trunks made on the minds of my room-mates. The whole outfit of a man is a delineation of character. It has a subjective influence on the man himself and reveals to others the style of the owner. It seems nothing would humiliate me more than to go among strangers with a box or trunk, the hinges broken, the lock gone and the thing bound up with rope. I would certainly make an allowance, as I always have done, for poverty. I have never, since I was taken up by my best friend, been in want of money; yet I have seen so many to whom an ana was of more value than rupees to others, that I have not only a respect, but a profound sympathy for the poor. Still I cannot excuse negligence or laziness in not repairing ahinge or lock to a box, when it would require but little labor or expense.
Boys will be boys the world over, and I never yet saw a boy whose mouth was not open like a young bird’s, ready for something to eat. We were allowed only once a week to make purchases, and the mittai and boxwalas knew the day as well as we did, and never failed to come, and though it was not down in the rules that we should see them we always met them and on time. Many were the talks we had about what we should purchase next time. It soon became known that I was a liberal buyer, and I am proud to say that I was also a liberal giver. This made me many a friend and warded off many a bad cut that I might otherwise have received. There was nothing great in this, no real true feeling or friendship. It proves nothing but this, that boys as well as men know on which side their bread is buttered. How frequently we see men, brainless idiots, without a virtue or grace to recommend them, fawned upon by men of intelligence, of honor or without honor, for the sole and only reason that they have money. Let there be a carcass, though tainted, the vultures will surround it. My instinct was not so dull but that I saw through this personal attachment of some of the boys, not all of them, I am glad to state, for quite a number of them whose pockets were rather pinched, liked me not only for my sweets, but for my own sake. I know this, for years after, when I met them, they would say with a warm grasp of the hand and a kindliness of voice. “Japhet you were kind to me at school.” Such expressions are worth more than Government Stocks and far better than lying, empty inscriptions on a tombstone after one is dead.
But there were ripples now and then. Soon after the term opened the new boys began to make up the different teams, clubs and societies. There was one team rather high, inclusive of the larger boys of what they considered the “first class” and exclusive of any that did not quite come up to the views of their set. In short, they were aristocratic, and I could never understand on what this was based. In looks they were inferior to others; their manners were rude and coarse; in their studies they were below theaverage, and some of them did not pass their “exams;” yet they presumed to betheset of the whole school. It is not only in school that we see this assumption of superiority, for in life similar scenes are enacted.
I have often been amused by the strutting and parading of men who are in society. I knew one, the son of a London tailor in the civil service, who would have taken oath that he had never seen a goose; another, the son of an engine driver, who I know would have sworn that he really did not know what an engine was, but then he was so ignorant that he would not have known his own father, the engine driver, had he met him in “society.” And of the aristocracy itself, it might not be safe for many of them to look up their pedigrees, for fear of running against a pirate, a ruffian, or a scamp of some kind.
I saw something of this in the manners of the set, but paid little attention to it, as they were mostly very civil to me; probably for the reasons I have given. I was fully occupied, and this is the best preventive of devils being born in one’s self.
One day, as I was seated on a bench behind a bush reading a book, I overheard some one ask, “Why not take Japhet?” “What! that Eurasian?” said the other. This startled me. I had almost forgotten that other name of mine, but this remark revived it. I remained quiet, but as they passed on I saw that he who had repeated the name was one of the four who had been the cause of Johnny’s punishment. Had he been any other I would have felt the slur more than I did. I had no idea what the word meant, as I had concluded it was but a chance nickname that boys often give each other. But now being uttered by this boy, who could not have heard it before, I thought there must be something in me or about me that made the name applicable to me; that there must be a meaning to it, and resolved to say nothing until I saw Mr. Percy again. Yet I could not forget it.
When I went up to the room I surveyed myself in a small mirror I had. My hair was black, but other boys had hair as black as mine; some had red hair; others white; some yellow. I preferred the black, so the question aboutthe hair was settled. Some boys had pale, sickly complexions, others reddish-yellow, and some had faces as brown as mine, so I could see nothing in my face to make me an oddity, such as to be called by a particular name. I stood erect, had well-fitting clothes, and saw nothing out of shape or style, so gave up trying to solve the mystery and went back to my book.
When I have thought of this I have smiled at the simplicity of my ignorance, and wondered why I did not inquire of some one what “Eurasian” meant. One reason was that I was too proud to confess my ignorance; but another and a greater one was a fear that there might be something in it to my detriment, and I would delay the knowledge of it as long as possible. It has been one of the weaknesses of my life to put off the disagreeable as long as possible, though sure it must inevitably come sooner or later.
I think it was the fear of hearing something unpleasant that kept me silent. I concealed my fear, however, and I doubt if any one ever suspected that I had thoughts of the opprobrium cast upon me by this name. I resolved to make up any defect or deformity by my standing, not only in my classes but in our social life, by my proficiency and courtesy, and I think in a great measure I succeeded, for except by a very few, who occasionally in a mocking way tried to give me a snub, the others treated me not only with respect, but considerable deference. One of those who would have crowded me out, if he could have got others to join him, was a great lubberly fellow, coarse in feature and dull in intellect. He was the son of a chaplain on the plains who was compelled to marry the daughter of his charwoman before he left college. This I heard years after, and it was well I did not know it then. It is a wise provision of Providence that we do not know everything about our fellow-mortals. The mother of this boy, as I saw her years after, was an adipose creature, a fine specimen of good living and poor thinking. Once, calling on her husband to make some inquiries, the only remark I heard her make was, “Henry, I think that rooster will make a fine curry one of these days,” referring to a pullet in front of the veranda.
The father was a “so so” sort of man, almost emaciated as if he gave his wife all the fat and nearly all the lean to eat. He had a recipe for a rum punch that he was offering to everybody, so that the profane of his flock called him the “Rum Punch Padri.” He was a good-natured, fidgety man, no sooner commencing anything than he was off to something else. He showed his nature in the performance of the Church service, for I never saw a padri get through with it quicker than he did. He never made a pause, and seemed never to take breath. From the time he commenced to the finish, it was a race between himself and the congregation; he to see how far ahead he could get, and they to keep in sight of him, for they would hardly begin “Good Lord” than he was far away into the middle of the next sentence. This reminds me of what a friend, the surgeon of a man-of-war, told me of their chaplain, one Sunday morning, betting a bottle of champagne that he could get through the service in fifteen minutes. He went in for it and came out with his watch in his hand, throwing off his gown, claimed his champagne, and got it. But the “Rum Punch Padri” was a truthful man, for he frankly said one day that so many services were a great bore. He was not to blame so much for his haste, for he had to make up for his wife’s slowness—and she was so slow! I often thought that if I had such a wife—but I will not say what, as it is not always best to say just what one thinks.
If it is really true that children get their intellect from the mother, and that there never was a smart man who had not a smart mother, one of the problems of the future in step with the progress in other things, will be to give everybody smart mothers; but that cannot happen just now, as what would be done with all the dull women? If it were said to each of themvideHamlet, “Get thee to a nunnery,” the world would be almost motherless.
After seeing the mother I could make some allowance for that boy. Had I known her in my school days he would have had my fullest sympathies, with such a maternal burden. He could not help being born lazy, tired, dull and snobby, though the latter trait he probably got from his father. I did feel enough for him to aid him in his mathematicsand translations. The father was of good family, that is, the society “good,” not in mentality, nor in sense, certainly not in morals. It was a false label as applied to him, or rather a good label attached to a fraudulent article.
I found myself admitted into the highest set, and had not much to complain of. The term passed quickly. I often indulged in reveries of the past, and hoped that in some future time I could gather up the threads of my life and unravel the mystery of my early days, for there was certainly something strange and mysterious, for little Johnny and I were the only boys who never had a father, and it was strange, very strange. He was a modest, quiet and lovable lad, and we often walked and talked together, for he confided in me as an elder brother.
The year closed with our examinations, and I was extremely happy in being able to carry the report to my best of friends that I had passed at the head of my classes. This was not from any superior mental ability, but because I had a special delight in studying. In one of Mr. Percy’s letters he said, “Anything you have to do, do it with all your mind and strength. Don’t dawdle. If you find your mind is tired, rest it by taking up another book, or if you can, take a good run. If at play, engage in it with all your might. Don’t linger over anything, act vigorously, and stop.” This letter was a spur to me, and many a time when I was growing listless, that expression “Don’t dawdle” came up. I did not know really what it meant, and have never looked it up yet. I caught the idea he intended to convey, and used it as my mental whip. Since then I have often used the word upon myself, and would like to have used it upon others, for there are many dawdlers in the world.
We had our final games, our last treats, packed our boxes and were ready to depart. The bearer had come for me. The journey down the hills and on the train was pleasant; but the anticipation of meeting Mr. Percy made me oblivious to almost everything by the way. As the train drew up to the station, I saw him looking eagerly at each passing car. He quickly saw me, and his first words were,“Why, Charles, my boy, I am so glad to see you. How you have grown!”
The carriage was in waiting, and soon we were at home. I cannot tell how the other boys felt when they met their fathers and mothers or friends, but I doubt if any of them were happier than I. If the heart is capable of holding only so much joy, they could not have been happier, for mine was full. The servants were all ready with their profoundest salaams and greetings, and even the dogs, from the big hound to the little terrier, were glad, and he must be hard-hearted indeed, who cannot enjoy the greeting, sincere and honest as it is, of a dog.
Need I tell of the pleasant dinner that followed? The big vases of flowers were not now needed to hide my mistakes. All was as if I were some distinguished guest, not that quite, but a long absent friend. After that came our chat with our coffee in front of the fire. One thing gave me the greatest pleasure, and that was Mr. Percy’s evident satisfaction in my improvement. He never praised or flattered me, though he always spoke kindly. It was not in his words so much that I knew of his pleasure, as in his manner, a feeling that came from his heart, and through his eyes, in his voice, his smile, his gestures; in fact, his satisfaction showed itself in the whole man. He was all or nothing. His whole being was absorbed in what he was, and all his faculties and energy in what he did. He could not profess to believe anything and then act contrary to it. There was no sophistry in his words or deception in his manner. His leading characteristic was sincerity. He often said that he made many mistakes, and he might have added that he was ever ready to acknowledge and rectify them. He had his moods as all should have. At home in his library, investigating some abstruse law case, he was as frigid as marble, and could bear no interruption from friend, servant or dog. Even in this mood he was never out of temper, for I never once saw him surly or cross. He calmly gave the order that he was not to be disturbed and it was obeyed. Once I broke the rule. The door was closed and the bearer acted as Cerberus. A young man had come to see me ride a pony that Mr. Percy had purchasedfor me. I did not like to wait, for it might be hours before the door would be opened, as it was early morning, and I might miss the chance of a ride. I approached the door and the bearer shook his head, but I gave a timid knock and heard “Come in.” I opened the door just enough to let my voice in and said, “Please may I ride the pony?” “Yes, Charles; good morning,” he answered. I heard the smile in his tone, and said “Thank you.” I think he would have received the bearer with the same courtesy if it had been necessary to interrupt him. He treated the servants with kindness, even the sweeper had respect shown him. He made all allowances for their capacity and position. I remember one morning a neighbor called, and while sitting on the veranda complained of one of his servants who was not able to do this or that, and after he had finished, Mr. Percy quietly asked, “Stoker, how much ability do you expect to get for eight rupees a month?”
I saw him in his court room where he put on his judicial mood, when calm and dignified he listened to all parties alike, showing in his manner that he had taken no side, but was trying to find out the truth that he might act justly. One thing I remember particularly, he would not allow a witness to be bullied or frightened out of his senses by a pleader on the opposite side, as is too often the case. In some courts one might think the one accused of crime had got into the witness stand instead of the dock, from the manner the witness is treated. The way they are often badgered is enough to keep them away from court, and when there, to prevent them telling a straight story, either true or untrue. After calmly hearing a case Mr. Percy would deliberately render his judgment. When many years had passed, and I had an opportunity of inquiring, I found that never was one of his decisions reversed by a higher court.
There was not a more sociable man in the station than he. He was extremely fond of good company. I mean by that, of intelligent men and women of good sense, agreeable manners; who had something worth talking about, who could wield argument even against himself,and I think he was more pleased with a keen opponent than with one who agreed entirely with him. He was fond of wit, and had an abundance of it. I knew that he hated low talk and vulgar anecdotes. No one ever commenced the second time to tell one of those ill-flavored stories in his presence. Once a rather fast youth, who presumed a good deal on his family and position in society, was about to offer one of his unsavory morsels, when Mr. Percy remarked in the tone of a judge roasting a thief, “Mr. Sharp, you had better take your smut to another market.” Another time, after a bachelor’s dinner, a man high up in the service commenced to relate one of his bald old elementary jokes that appeared to have some impropriety in it. Mr. Percy arose and left the room without a word, but every one was conscious of what he thought and felt. The social thermometer fell suddenly a number of degrees, and the story remained untold.
His purity of conversation was one of his characteristics. I cannot recall a word or story of his, that could not have been told in a drawing room to the most refined ladies and gentlemen. He would no sooner let dirty talk come from his lips than he would have taken filth from the gutter and rubbed it upon his own face or thrown it in the faces of his friends. This had a great effect upon me in after life.
One may make allowance for ignorant men who have always lived in an atmosphere of coarseness and vulgarity, for indulging in talk which seems second nature to them, but I never could comprehend how educated men, boasting of their blood and family descent, claiming to be Christians and gentlemen, can indulge in stories and insinuations that are most repulsive to all but those whose minds gloat and fatten upon salacious garbage.
Mr. Percy could become angry, but always with a reason and a purpose, yet at times, under great provocation, he could be as cool as if nothing had happened. He was once making an experiment in trying to grow seedless oranges. There were only half a dozen fruit on the tree, and while they were ripening he never missed seeing them several times a day, and every one about the place knew his interest in them. The malies were ordered to watchthem night and day. One morning all were gone. The malies were instantly summoned. They declared that their eyes had been upon the oranges every minute; they would sooner have plucked out their eyes than to have had the fruit disappear. He knew that one or all of them were guilty, as it was impossible for any one else to have taken the fruit without their knowing it. They were all ordered to the veranda, and the bearer was told to bring the galvanic battery, or bijli ka bockus, as they called it. A large mirror was placed in front of the box. They were told to look into the mirror and to take hold of the handles of the battery and the oranges would be seen in the eyes of the thief. They all exclaimed that the idea was an excellent one. Three of them stood the test bravely, receiving the shocks and looking with eyes wide open into the mirror. The fourth, as he took hold, when the current was increased, cried out that he was dying, and tightly closed his eyes, declaring that the light was so bright that he could not open them. “All right,” said Mr. Percy, “if we cannot see the oranges in his eyes we will look into his house,” and every one went to see the search. Sure enough, the oranges were found hidden in the man’s hut. Mr. Percy did not dismiss the man or even utter a word of reproach. His fellow servants, however, did not let the matter rest, as they often asked him what he thought of the bijli ka bockus. There was no more fruit stolen after that. The report got abroad in the bazar, and probably there were but few in the city who did not hear of the Barra Sahib’s wonderful instrument for detecting a thief.
Once he had purchased a number of sheep to add to his flock. A few mornings after, looking them over, he asked the shepherd where he got those strange sheep. “Why,” said the man, “they are the very sheep his honor bought.” Mr. Percy suggested, “They are very much changed,” and examining them closely, exclaimed, “They have been sheared!” “Sheared!” said the man, in utter astonishment, “is his honor’s servant such a dog as that, to let any one shear the sheep while I am the shepherd?” “Very well,” said Mr. Percy, “put the sheep in the yard and feed them.” He then turned to me and said that wewould take our morning ride, as my pony and his horse were waiting.
We rode off to one of the villages near which the sheep had been pastured. Calling the zemindar or head man he asked him if there was any wool in the village, as he wanted some immediately. The zemindar replied that the day previous he had seen one of the villagers carrying some wool to his house, so bidding him show us the place we followed. The man was called and told to bring out all the wool he had, which was quite a load for him. Mr. Percy said it was just the kind of wool he wanted, and told the man to bring it with him at once. He asked the zemindar to come also.
We returned at a walk with the men at our heels. Mr. Percy was so quiet and deliberate that no one would have suspected the purport of this wool gathering. On reaching the sheep-fold the shepherd appeared at the gate. With a glance he took in the whole situation, the zemindar, the purchaser and the wool itself. He stood trembling from head to foot. Mr. Percy sat on his horse silently looking at him for some moments, as it seemed to me, then calling the shepherd by name, he said, “You tell that lying dog of a servant who takes care of my sheep that if he has any more wool to sell that I would like to buy it.”
There was not a coarse or improper word used. There was anger, but it was of that slow, intense, deliberate kind that made every word cut with a keen, sarcastic edge, or fall like a blow upon the man until he could stand no longer, but fell crouching before us and begged that the sahib would strike him, kill him, but not say anything more. I thought that I would have rather taken any number of lashings than those reproachful words. Mr. Percy turned without another word to him, after he had thrown himself upon the ground. He inquired of the man how much he had paid for the wool, and calling the bearer told him to pay that amount and a rupee besides, and suggested that he buy no more wool of the shepherds. He also told the bearer to give the zemindar some fruit for his children, and our morning’s adventure was ended.
I asked him if he was going to dismiss the shepherd. “O, no,” said he, “I might get a worse thief, and he willnever shear the sheep again.” He never did, and was one of the most faithful servants ever afterward.
I have known many sahibs since then, and doubt if they would have let such a man off so easily. Most of them, in their wrath, would have thrashed him with a horse whip, or others would have sent him to jail. Though Mr. Percy had his riding whip in his hand, he did not even raise it, and he would no more have struck the man than he would have struck me. He abhorred that brutal custom of flogging the natives, or throwing boots, or anything convenient, at their heads, so frequent among the high born sahib log.
He always made allowances for the circumstances of the natives. Once, referring to the ignorance, poverty and low wages of the people, he said: “If I was so hard pressed as they are, I am afraid I might do a little stealing myself.” He was very kind to the poor, and they all knew him as their friend.
Early on each Sunday morning, there would be a crowd of the lame, blind, diseased, old, decrepit women and mothers with sickly, starved children, in our compound. As soon as we had taken our tea, which was very early, he would say: “Now, Charles, let us go to our religious service. We will not say, ‘Let us sing, or let us pray,’ but we will worship God in giving something to His poor.” So we would go out, he, with his bag of rupees, anas and pice, which he had ready, and each of the Lord’s poor would come up to get their share. He never trusted this to the servants. This was his personal service unto God, and he performed it devoutly as if he felt God himself was there seeing it all, and I have no doubt He was.