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 thoughtsgradually 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.
As I was more interested in looking up my own pedigree than in listening to an account of his, I suggested a year somewhere about which I wished to inquire and asked if he knew of any incidents to aid me in tracing my mother or my father.
“Yes,” said he, “I remember the time very well, and it is strange how trivial things at times will help to fasten greater things in the memory.”
And the old man chuckled over something as he recalled the time. He continued: “I was then very much annoyed by a number of cattle coming into my compound at night, eating the grass and the vegetables in my garden, and destroyingmore than they ate. My servants repeatedly tried to catch them, but at the first noise every one bolted out through the hedge as fast as their legs could carry them. It seemed as if the devil was in the cattle, and the cattle were in the plot to worry me and escape. This continued for a number of nights. I went to the cowherds, but they declared and swore that they tied up their cattle every night, and they would not think of such a thing as letting their cattle go loose to be lost or else get into the pound. I returned home determined to have those cattle, outwit the devil and those cowherds or else I was not the son of a Frenchman. I laid my plan. I sent to the bazar for a lot of strong rope, and had my servants make a lot of loops or snares, and I explained to them that after the cattle had entered the compound, we would slip around through the gully and fasten the ends of the ropes to the trees standing in the hedge, and let the snares hang between where the cattle would have to go out. The servants rather enjoyed the prospect of fun as much as I did, and besides they were becoming tired of night watching and being aroused to chase the cattle.”
The old man went on with the garrulous prolixity of old age, entering into all the details, and in fact the story was interesting from the way he told it, with so much earnestness, with his French gestures,—how well they illustrate,—and the twitching and smiles of his face. “Well,” said he, “the night came and the cattle also. I took a number of men with me, they with the rope snares, and we went a long way around, down through the gully and fixed the loops. When all was ready, a man went into the compound, and at once such a scurrying of the cattle, and then what a bellowing, roaring and plunging as each was caught in a noose! It was a good deal more sport than to see a poor devil of a man hung!”
The old man laughed again and again, as he recalled those bellowing, plunging cattle, and I had to laugh too, almost forgetting what I came after, but asked, “And then?”
He replied, “We watched by the cattle till morning, as we were in to the finish, and sent for the owners, as wewell knew who they were. They held up their hands in surprise, saying they had been everywhere looking for the cattle as they had broken loose during the night. I made them do something more than hold up their hands, for they paid me well before the cattle were released. It was a trick of theirs to let their cattle out at night to steal a good feed, and the brutes seemed to be trained therein.”
I could not see what all this had to do with me so I asked, “And then?”
“Really!” he replied, “I had almost forgotten what I was going to tell you. It must have been about three or four o’clock in the morning or just before day break, as we were watching the cattle as I went along the gully, I came near running into a man. I saw at a glance that he was a European and recognized him as Mr. Smith the young magistrate.”
“Smith!” I thought, “that name Smith, have I come across it again?”
“And then?” I asked.
He continued. “I said, ‘Good morning Mr. Smith,’ but he made no reply and slipped away as quickly as he could. I was much surprised, as it was very strange for a European to be there in that stinking gully at that time of night. It was bad enough for me, but then I had a little business there. I asked one of the servants close by who that was? ‘That is Smith Sahib,’ said he. ‘Smith Sahib!’ I exclaimed, ‘What can he be doing here at this time of night?’ The servant coolly answered, ‘The sahib has an aurat over in that muhalla there and comes to see her at night.’ You cannot hide anything from these natives.”
As my friend was evidently in a gossiping mood, I checked him by asking: “Do you know anything more?”
“Yes,” said he. “One night, I was aroused by a native saying that some one in the muhalla was taken with the cholera, and they wanted me to come at once. They always come to me when they are in trouble, and I am such an old fool that I always help them, so I quickly dressed and taking some cholera mixture, went to the sick man and he was soon greatly relieved. While standing by him, as he was lying on a charpoy in front of his house, Isaw Mr. Smith”—“Smith again!” I groaned inwardly—“come in by the little door in the back wall and go up the narrow stairs to the upper rooms at the corner. I knew him well, yet I asked ‘Who is that Sahib?’ And they replied, ‘Smith Sahib, his woman is up there.’”
My friend halted a little and I started him by asking, “And then? Did you learn nothing more?”
“Yes,” said he. “Some time after, it may have been a couple of years, when the famine came, the muhalla people being in great distress sent for me and I went. A number of the poor wretches had died, really starved to death, and there were others who could barely stand alone, living skeletons, an awful sight! Strange isn’t it that with all our boasted civilization, philanthropy and religion, yet human beings die for want of work and the coarsest food to eat?”
I became fidgety, thinking he was about to give me an address on political economy or religion, which at any other time I would gladly have heard, so I pulled my check rein again, “And then?” He took to the track immediately.
“Well, I sent for some food at once and waited to see it distributed, and while waiting looked about the place. I noticed the upper rooms and thought of the woman, so I inquired about her. They told me that her sahib had left her to go to Wilayat; that she mourned for him day after day and at last died of a broken heart, uska dil tut gaya, her heart broken went. Then the old mamagee who had been the servant of this choti mem sahib took care of the two children, a boy and a girl, as they had nothing to live on. The muhalla people gave them something till the famine came and they had nothing for themselves. One day the mamagee took the children one by each hand and went out of the big gate, and that was the last they ever saw or heard of them.”
How my heart beat, and my whole body, hot then cold, trembled, as he told this.
He remarked, “This is all I know, and I am afraid it will not be of much use to you, and now I want you to stay and take dinner with me.”
So considerate he was, and kindly, just like a Frenchman, as I had read of them. I thanked him, but said that I must take the next train for home. He urged me to come again and see him, just as the French do.
I took my departure. Dine! Take dinner! I felt as if I never wanted to eat again. I had rather gone to death. I wandered towards the railway station. I almost cursed my insatiable curiosity for leading me to that wretched place, of which I always had such a dread of seeing. We can see evil enough, and misery to the full, as we pass along, without rummaging around to find it. I had taken the bit in my teeth in spite of my reason, of my good sense, and I was wilfully making my own evil destiny. We are all mostly fools at times, and most of us all the time. I was bewildered, weary, sick in my very soul. I tried to think of other things, but the black nightmare that had come, would not away. “What next? What next?” some coco demon kept torturing me in asking. I had so much of the past, not of the remote, but of the recent past, to think of, rather to feel, that I could take no thought of the future.
I was in a condition of a traveler, who, after a toilsome journey of months comes to an immense stream, where there is neither bridge, nor boats, nor ferryman. He can neither retrace his steps, or go forward, and sits down in abject despair. I reached home, and hardly knew how I passed the next few days.
I took to my books, but my old friends were either very dull, or sleeping, or dreaming, and failed to take any interest in me. I rode out to my villages, on my fresh horses, and they gave me a good shaking up. The villagers failed to please me, as they formerly did. Evidently the times were out of joint, or I was, or something. We’ll leave it at the latter. Would you believe it, that in a few days, when I was just recovering from that fearful wide awake dream, and had called myself a fool a score of times for ever venturing to that place in Lucknow, that had been the dread of my life; that one morning the question came right to me, “Why not go again, and find out all about that Mr. Smith?”
I was in the garden at the time, and I must have called out something terrible at myself, for all the malies came running to know what I wanted. I concluded I must be going daft, and to save appearances, told them that they must keep the walks cleaner, or I would cut their wages. I saw the nonsense of this, for there was not a weed or a blade of grass to be seen, and the paths were as smooth as a bald man’s head. But I was ready to break or cut something, I could not tell what or where.
The question came again and again, and would not down, and the result was that I was on my way again to Lucknow. I knew what I was going for. I was Japhet in search of his father. But why? Yes, why? I have often wondered why people do certain things, even to their own hurt. I have put the question to them, and the answer was: “They couldn’t help it.” There seems to be a tide in the affairs of men, and often a big flood tide that carries them whether they will or not. Good, old Æneas was impelled by fate, and so it seems are all other men. I was going, I knew that, impelled to go, and all the time calling myself a fool. I might be going to my degradation, my death, my damnation, yet I must go. Men will worry their lives away in trying to invent some powder to blow other men to bits, yet knowing all the time, ten chances to one, they may blow their own heads off first, yet they keep on trying. But what is the use of any further explanation when everybody knows what I mean, that when the devil of curiosity takes possession of us, as it did of our mother Eve, as the story goes, we do not think of consequences.
I went directly to the bungalow of M. Le Maistre, and he received me most cordially. I told him that I came to look up the record of that Mr. Smith, as every one ought to have some interest in his paternal parent. He looked at me with a peculiar expression on his face, showing that he thought me a queer lot, but it was not in his French blood to say anything to hurt my feelings.
He suggested we go to the cutchery, court house, which we did at once. He knew the head clerks, and they would tell us everything. And they did. I often think thesenatives know especially what they ought not to know. I went on purpose to learn something, but in my secret soul I wished they were as ignorant as mules, and could tell me nothing.
Smith Sahib, they said, had gone home, to Wilayat, from Lucknow, on furlough, had married, and returning had been assistant at some place, and then magistrate at, alas! my station, and then commissioner at Jalalpur.
The whole story came out in a sentence. I then knew too much. I restrained my feelings as I was becoming hardened as a criminal who commits crime upon crime.
I did not care to think, and if I was ever thankful for a man who could talk, I was then. My friend was a whole mill stream of talk. The gate once opened, on he went. It was not idle or dull chatter either, but a flood of good things, interesting and amusing. I yielded entirely to his good humor, and the blue devils had no chance of attacking me. I dined with him, as my reason told me that this was the best thing I could do, and so it was.
At home again, but I was not happy, for I was not satisfied. I had, as it were, started out on a hunt, got track of the game, but had not bagged it. I know this is not at all respectful to compare a father to game, and to talk of bagging him, but then what had my father taught me of respect to himself or anybody else? What had he done for me but to curse me in begetting me?
When I have heard that prayer, “We bless thee for our creation,” may God forgive me I never could say it, and God knows why, and I think I love Him too well to believe that He will make any record against me for what I am now saying. What next? was the question. The same something, I do not know what, either led me, or pushed me on, or told me to go on, go on. I could sympathize with the wandering Jew.
I went to Jalalpur. On the way I tried to analyze my feelings. I had no love or respect for this man, though he should prove to be my father. That was settled. I had nothing to give him, that he would like to receive; I wished nothing from him, no public recognition of me as his son, if it was found that he was my father; I wanted no moneyor favor of any kind whatever. The only thing I wished really to know, who was my father. This man, or some equally honorable gentleman? I wanted to know, if I had a father, and who he was. I made up my mind to go most respectfully to Mr. Smith, state the case calmly, find out the fact, and go home to let the matter rest for ever and aye.
With this conclusion, I tried to assume a moral philosophic kind of feeling, and by the time I had taken a good bath at the hotel, donned my best morning suit, and fortified myself with a good substantial breakfast, I felt myself ready to meet anybody, even my father, if I should find him.
I went to the big bungalow of the Commissioner, guarded in front by a number of impudent lackeys, the hangers-on often make the man in India. I sent in my card, and was admitted to the presence. I bowed and said “Good morning,” but he did nothing. That was his style. He did not ask me to be seated, and I did what I could not help doing, remained standing. Glancing me over he quickly said, “I have nothing for you, there is no vacancy.” I replied that I did not wish for a situation. “O!” said he, “I thought you were the man that wanted a place.” I answered, “I come to ask you a few questions: were you in Lucknow in the year —.” He stopped me at once, saying, “I deny your right to question me. Say what you have got to say and as briefly as possible, for I have no time to waste.” Then I said, “I will state the matter as briefly as possible. You were in Lucknow in — and were acquainted with a Mussalmani, and I believe you to be my father.”
I got this out quickly so as to give him no chance to choke me off. He sprang to his feet, his face livid with rage, and shaking his fist at me exclaimed. “You damned Eurasian! Do you come here to insult me? I dare you to prove what you have said. Out from here at once. Chuprassi! Open the door, and get this man out.” This last was said in Hindustani in the most insulting tone and words.
What more or less could I do than go, and at once? Ithink even the cringing slave at the door, pitied me as the gentleman fairly shouted his insulting command. Did you ever see a dog go into a room wagging his tail and expecting a pleasant reception, then turned out with the forcible aid of a boot? I was that dog. If I had any respect, or desire to be just and fair before I went in, when I came out all had given way to anger and hate. That is about the size of it. I had been humiliated, cursed, spurned. My feelings flashed within me and over me, chills and fever, cold and hot they were. But this was uppermost. He dared me!
I have read that the quickest way to get up a shindy at an Irish fair, is to have a man go with his coat tails dragging on the ground and dare any one to step on them, or to put a potato on his shoulder and dare any one to knock it off. Men, that is, real men won’t be dared. I have known a little fellow at school to be dared by a big bully, and he went in for all he was worth, no matter if he came out all bleeding and pummeled, for he wouldn’t be dared.
“All right, Mr. Smith, you dared me to prove it. But how shall I do it?” was the question in my mind for days. It was a queer thing to do, prove that a man is your own father, but there are many queer things in the world, as probably all of us have discovered. I concluded to go again to Lucknow, though I had not the remotest idea of what I should do.
On arriving there, I at once went to M. Le Maistre. I had formed an opinion that he was very shrewd and quick-witted, and that if any one could help me he could.
He received me very kindly and after a little talk, I said, “M. Le Maistre, I rather like you and think I can trust you.”
“I don’t see why you shouldn’t,” he replied.
I went on. “You know what I am in search of?”
“Your father,” he said with a smile.
I answered, “Something of that kind, perhaps. I went to see Mr. Smith. He was very angry, and dared me to prove that he was my father. I don’t care a fig about him as a man, or as a father, but I won’t be dared. I am to prove this thing, if it is possible, if it takes me the rest of my life. Can you help me?”
“We’ll see,” he answered. “Let us go over to the muhalla.” He was full of talk about everything. I think he would have gone to Jericho with me, if I had only agreed to listen to him.
A little incident occurred which I must relate, as I remember it so well. As we were going through his compound, I bounded up with a scream at the sight of a cobra rising in front of me. I think if Eve had hated snakes as I do, she would never have listened to that serpent. M. Le Maistre went to the cobra, took it in his hand and let it crawl up his sleeve. I stood aghast in astonishment. When I recovered my breath, I asked, “Are you not afraid?”
“Afraid!” said he. “Why should I be afraid? I never harmed a snake in my life and they never harm me.” Then he pulled the hideous thing out, placed it on the ground, and patted its neck with his hand, and we went on. The chills were still racing up and down my back, but with his lively stories I soon recovered.
Reaching the muhalla he began talking with the people, especially an old man, with whom he was well acquainted. M. Le Maistre told him, that he wanted to find out something about Smith Sahib’s woman who had lived in the two upper rooms, years ago. The old man after thinking, said that there was the son of a money-lender, not far away, whose father had done business for the woman, cashed notes for her or something, he did not know just what, and he might tell us something. So on we went and found the son. He at once said that he had lately been looking over some old papers of his father’s and had found some, hidden in an earthen jar, and among them a package. This might be what we wanted. He quickly brought it. There were some letters in English, turning yellow, yet very legible, but not one of them signed. Better than all these was a photograph of an English Sahib! The very thing! I recognized it at once. The fright I had received on that fearful night, when I had got the first and only sight of that monster man was so impressed on my mind that I remembered him as if I had seen him that very day. I fairly leaped for joy and M. LeMaistre chuckled at our success. That wonderful little package, so carefully done up, the treasure of my darling mama, and what was it not to me?
M. Le Maistre, with all his wits in hand, said: “Yet he may deny all these letters, for there is not a name anywhere! He was a shrewd one. But as it is a long lane that has no turn, we’ll see.” Away we went, I with the packet fast in my pocket, as happy as if I had got a deed of possession to a new world.
“Now,” said he, “we will go to the cutchery and get some papers to prove this handwriting.” On mentioning to the head clerk that we wanted to look at some papers of the year—he immediately said that he had just received orders to collect all the papers beyond a certain date to be burned in a few days, and we could look them over. We found what we wanted, and were allowed to take a dozen or more all written and signed “H. J. Smith.” The very handwriting of our letters to the crossing of a t and the dot of an i. I was satisfied and suggested that we return to his house, but M. Le Maistre said “O, no, we are not through yet. There is the photograph?” “Yes, but what of that?” I asked. “We’ll go to the photographer, and see what we can see,” he replied. He asked the man of art if he had the negative of such a photograph, showing him ours, or if he had any copies of it. He went to his closet and soon returned with a photograph, on the back of which was written: “You may make me one dozen like this—H. J. Smith.” The very same writing as in our letters, and in the cutchery papers. We quickly bought the picture, worth its weight in gold to me, not only for the likeness, but for the writing on the back of it. If I was surprised before, I was astonished now. I was in a delirium of excitement, but my old friend was as cool as when he handled the cobra. Any one can imagine only slightly my feelings, but they cannot realize my intense enjoyment at the out-turn of our search. With a quiet smile, my good friend then said, “I think you can eat a good breakfast now and we’ll have it.” And it was a good one. He drew on his boundless store of stories until I departed, giving him all the thanks my language couldexpress, and carrying with me the proofs that I, Japhet, had found my father! Would he dare me again? It was some days before I felt that I could venture to beard the dragon (I ought to say my beloved father), in his den again. I was anxious to get through with the business, for it seemed that until it was finished I could do nothing else.