"God has a few of us, whom He whispers in the ear;
The rest may reason and welcome...."
--BROWNING.
"Living still, and the more beautiful for our longing."
The house of Sir Lakshman Singh, C.S.I.--like many others in advancing
India--was a house divided against itself. And the cleavage cut deep.
The furnishing of the two rooms, in which he mainly lived, was not more
sharply sundered from that of the Inside, than was the atmosphere of his
large and vigorous mind from the twilight of ignorance and superstition
that shrouded the mind and soul of his wife. More than fifty years
ago--when young India ardently admired the West and all its works--he
had dreamed of educating his spirited girl-bride, so that the way of
companionship might gladden the way of marriage.
But too soon the spirited girl had hardened into the narrow, tyrannical
woman; her conception of the wifely state limited to the traditional
duties of motherhood and household service. Happily for Sir Lakshman,
his unusual gifts had gained him wide recognition and high service in
the State. He had schooled himself, long since, to forget his early
dreams: and if marriage had failed, fatherhood had made royal amends.
Above all, in Lilámani, daughter of flesh and spirit, he had found--had
in a measure created--the intimate companionship he craved; a woman
skilled in the fine art of loving--finest and least studied of all the
arts that enrich and beautify human life. But the gods, it seemed, were
jealous of a relation too nearly perfect for mortal man. So Rama, eldest
son, and Lilámani, beloved daughter, had been taken, while the
estranged wife was left. Remained the grandchildren, in whom centred all
his hope and pride. So far as the dividing miles and years would permit,
he had managed to keep in close touch with Roy. But the fact remained
that England had first claim on Lilámani's children; and Rama's were
tossed on the troubled waters of transition.
As for India herself--sacred Mother-land--her distraught soul seemed
more and more at the mercy of the voluble, the half-baked, the
disruptive, at home and abroad.
Himself, steeped in the threefold culture of his country--Vedantic,
Islamic, and European--he came very near the prevailing ideal of
composite Indian nationality. Yet was he not deceived. In seventy years
of life, he had seen intellectual India pass through many phases, from
ardent admiration of the West and all its works, to no less ardent
denunciation. And in these days he saw too clearly how those same
intellectuals--with catchwords, meaningless to nine-tenths of her
people--were breaking down, stone by stone, their mighty safeguard of
British administration. Useless to protest. Having ears, they heard not.
Having eyes, they saw not. The spirit of destruction seemed abroad in
all the earth. After Germany--Russia. Would it be India next? He knew
her peoples well enough to fear. He also knew them well enough to hope.
But of late, increasingly, fear had prevailed. His shrewd eye discerned,
in every direction, fresh portents of disaster--a weakened executive,
divided counsels, and violence that is the offspring of both. His own
Maharája, he thanked God, was of the old school, loyal and conservative:
his face set like a flint against the sedition-monger in print or
person. And as concessions multiplied and extremists waxed bolder, so
the need for vigilance waxed in proportion....
But to-day his mind had room for one thought only--the advent of Roy;
legacy of her, his vanished Jewel of Delight.
A message from the Residency had told of the boy's arrival, of his hope
to announce himself in person that evening; and now, on a low divan, the
old man sat awaiting him with a more profound emotion at his heart than
the mere impatience of youth. But the impassive face under the
flesh-pink turban betrayed no sign of disturbance within. The
strongly-marked nose and eyebones might have been carved in old ivory.
The snowy beard, parted in the middle, was swept up over his ears; and
the eyes were veiled. An open book lay on his knee. But he was not
reading. He was listening for the sound of hoofs, the sound of a
voice....
The two had not met for five years: and in those years the boy had
proved the warrior blood in his veins; had passed through the searching
test of a bitter loss. Together, they could speak of her--gone from
them; yet alive in their hearts for evermore. Seen or unseen, she was
the link that kept them all united, the pivot on which their lives still
turned. There had been none with whom he could talk of her since she
went....
Over his writing-table hung the original Antibes portrait--life-size;
Nevil's payment for the high privilege of painting her; a privilege how
reluctantly accorded none but himself had ever known. And behold his
reward: her ever-visible presence--the girl-child who had been
altogether his own.
Hoofs at last--and the remembered voice; deeper, more commanding; the
embroidered curtain pushed aside. Then--Roy himself, broader, browner;
his father's smile in his eyes; and, permeating all, the spirit of his
mother, clearly discernible to the man who had given it life.
He was on his feet now, an imposing figure, in loose white raiment and
purple choga. In India, he wisely discarded English dress, deeming it as
unsuitable to the country as English political machinery. Silent, he
held out his arms and folded Roy in a close embrace: then--still
silent--stood away and considered him afresh. Their mutual emotion
affected them sensibly, like the presence of a third person, making them
shy of each other, shy of themselves.
It was Sir Lakshman who spoke first. "Roy, son of my Heart's Delight, I
have waited many years for this day. It was the hidden wish of her
heart. And her spirit, though withdrawn, still works in our lives. It is
only so with those who love greatly, without base mixture of jealousy or
greed. They pass on--yet they remain; untouched by death, like the
lotus, that blooms in the water, but opens beyond its reach."
Words and tone so stirred Roy that sudden tears filled his eyes. And
through the mist of his grief, dawned a vision of his mother's face.
Blurred and tremulous, it hovered before him with a startling illusion
of life; then--he knew....
Without a word, he went over to the picture and stood before it, drowned
fathoms deep....
A slight movement behind roused him; and with an effort he turned away.
"I've not seen a big one since--since my last time at home," he said
simply. "I've only two small ones out here."
The carven face was not impassive now. "After all, Dilkusha,[10] what
matter pictures when you have--herself?"
Roy started. "It's true. I _have_--herself. How could you know?"
Five minutes later, he was sitting beside his grandfather on the deep
divan, telling him all.
Before setting out, he would not have believed it possible. But
instinctively he knew himself in touch with a quality of love that
matched his own; and the mere telling revived the marvel, the thrill of
that strange and beautiful experience at Chitor....
Sir Lakshman had neither moved nor spoken throughout. Now their eyes met
in a look of deep understanding.
"I am very proud you told me, Roy. It is not easy."
"No. I've not told any one else. I couldn't. But just now--something
seemed to draw it all out of me. I suppose--something in you----"
"Or perhaps--herself! It almost seemed--she was here with us, while you
talked."
"Perhaps--she is here still."
Their voices were lowered, as in the presence of sacred things. Never,
till now, had Roy so keenly felt his individual link with this wonderful
old man, whose blood ran in his veins.
"Grandfather," he asked after a pause, "I suppose it doesn't often
happen--that sort of thing? I suppose most common-sense people would
dismiss it all as--sheer delusion?"
The young simplicity of the question lit a smile in Sir Lakshman's eyes.
"Quite possible. All that is most beautiful in life, most real to saints
and lovers, must seem delusion to those whose hearts and spirits are
merely vassals to the body and the brain. But those who say of the soul,
'It is not,' have still to _prove_ it is not to those who have felt and
known. Also I grant--the other way about. But they speak in different
languages. Kabir says, 'I disclose my soul in what is hidden.' And
again, 'The bird is beyond seeking, yet it is most clearly visible.' For
us, that is living truth. For those others, a mere tangle of words."
"I see." Roy's gaze was riveted on the picture above the writing-table.
"You can't explain colours to the colour-blind. And I suppose
experiences like mine only come to those for whom words like that
are--living truth?"
"Yes--like yours. But there are other kinds; not always true. Because,
in this so sacred matter, clever people, without scruple, have made
capital out of the heart's natural longing; and the dividing line is dim
where falsehood ends and truth begins. So it has all come into suspicion
and contempt. Accept what is freely given, Roy. Do not be tempted to try
and snatch more."
"No--no. I wouldn't if I could." A pause. "_You_ believe it is time ...
what I feel? That she is often--very near me?"
Sir Lakshman gravely inclined his head. "As I believe in Brahma, Lord of
all."
And for both the silence that fell seemed pulsating with her unseen
presence....
When they spoke again it was of mundane things. Roy vividly described
his sensations, riding through the City; the culminating incident, and
his recognition of the offender.
"The queerest thing, running into the beggar again like that! He looks
as sulky and shifty as ever. That's how I knew."
"Sulky and shifty--and wearing English clothes?" Sir Lakshman's brows
contracted sharply. "What name did you say?"
"Chandranath, we called him."
"And you don't know his whereabouts?"
"No, I'm sorry. I didn't suppose his whereabouts mattered a damn to any
one."
The stern old Rajput smiled. It did his heart good to hear the familiar
slang phrases again. "Whether it matters a damn--as you say--depends on
whether he is the undesirable I have in mind. Quite young; but much
influence, and a bad record. Mixed up with German agents, before the
War, and the Ghadr party in California; arrested for seditious activity
and deported: but of course, on appeal, allowed to return. Always the
same tale. Always the same result. Worse mischief done. And India--the
true India--must be grateful for these mercies! Sometimes I think the
irony is too sharp between the true gifts given, unnoticed, by
Englishmen working sincerely for the good of our people, and the false
gifts proclaimed from the house-tops, filling loyal Indians with
bewilderment and fear. I have had letters from scores of these, because
I am known to believe that loyal allegiance to British government gives
India the best chance for peaceful progress she is likely to have for
many generations. And from every one comes the same cry, begging to be
saved from this crazy nightmare of Home Rule, not understood and not
desired except by those who invented it. But what appeal is possible to
those who stop their ears? And all the time, by stealthy and open means,
the poison of race-hatred is being poured into India's veins----"
"But, Grandfather--what about the War--and pulling together--and all
that?"
Sir Lakshman's smile struck Roy as one of the saddest he had ever seen.
"Four years ago, my dear Boy, we all had many radiant illusions. But
this War has dragged on too long. It is too far away. For our Princes
and warlike races it has had some reality. For the rest it means mostly
news in the papers and rumours in bazaars, high prices, and trouble
about food. No better soil for sowing evil seeds. And friends of
Germany are still working in India--remember that! While the loyal were
fighting, these were talking, plotting, hindering: and now they are
waving, like a flag, the services of others, to gain their own ends,
from which the loyal pray to be delivered! Could irony be more complete?
Indian Princes can keep some cheek on these gentlemen. But it is not
always easy. If this Chandranath should be the same man--he is here, no
doubt, for Dewáli. At sacred feasts they do most of their devil's work.
Did you speak of connection with me?"
"No. But he seemed to know about Arúna: said you were English mad."
Sir Lakshman frowned. "English mad! That is their jargon. Too narrow to
understand how I can deeply love both countries, while remaining as
jealous for all true rights of my Motherland as any hot-head who
swallows their fairy-tale of a Golden Age, and England as
Raksha--destroying demon! By help of such inventions, they have deluded
many fine young men, like my poor Dyán, who should be already married
and working to all my place. Such was my hope in sending him to Oxford.
And now--see the result ..."
On that topic he could not yet trust himself; and Roy, leaning forward
impulsively, laid a hand on his knee.
"Grandfather, I have promised Arúna--and I promise you--that somehow, I
_will_ get hold of him; and bring him back to his senses."
Sir Lakshman covered the hand with his own. "True son of Lilámani! But I
fear he may have joined some secret society; and India is a large
haystack in which to seek one human needle!"
"But Arúna has written again. She is convinced he will answer."
Sir Lakshman sighed. "Poor Arúna! I am not sure if I was altogether wise
letting her go to the Residency. But I am deeply grateful to Mrs Leigh.
India needs many more such English women. By making friends with
high-born Indian women, it is hardly too much to say they might,
together, mend more than half the blunders made by men on both sides."
Thus, skilfully, he steered clear of Arúna's problem that was linked
with matters too intimately painful for discussion with a grandson,
however dear.
So absorbed was Roy in the delight of reunion, that not till he rose to
go did he take in the details of the lofty room. Everywhere Indian
workmanship was in evidence. The pictures were old Rajput paintings;
fine examples of Vaishnava art--pure Hindu, in its mingling of restraint
and exuberance, of tenderness and fury; its hallowing of all life and
idealising of all love. Only the writing-table and swivel-chair were
frankly of the West, and certain shelves full of English books and
reviews.
"I _like_ your room," Roy announced after leisurely inspection. "But I
don't seem to remember----"
"You would be a miracle if you did! The room _you_ saw had plush
curtains, gilt mirrors and gilt furniture; in fact, the correct
'English-fashion' guest-room of the educated Indian gentleman. But of
late years I have seen how greatly we were mistaken, making imitation
England to honour our English friends. Some frankly told me how they
were disappointed to find in our houses only caricatures of middle-class
England or France. Such rooms are silent barriers to friendship:
proclaiming that East may go to the West but West cannot come to the
East."
"In a way that's true, isn't it?"
"Yes--in a way. This room, of course, is not like my inner apartments.
It is like myself, however; cultivated--but still Indian. It is my way
of preaching true Swadeshi:--Be your own self, even with English guests.
But so far I have few followers. Some are too foolishly fond of their
mirrors and chandeliers and gramophones. Some will not believe such
trifles can affect friendliness. Yet--strange, but true--too much
Anglicising of India instead of drawing us nearer, seems rather to widen
the gulf."
Roy nodded. "I've heard that. Yet most of us are so keen to be friends.
Queer, perverse things--human beings, aren't they?"
"And for that reason, more interesting than all the wonders of Earth!"
Setting both hands on Roy's shoulders he looked deeply into his eyes.
"Come and see me often, Dilkusha. It lifts my tired heart to have this
very human being so near me again."
* * * * *
Ten minutes later, Roy was riding homeward through a changed city;
streets and hills and sky wrapped in the mystery of encroaching dusk.
South and west the sky flamed, like the heart of a fire opal, through a
veil fine as gauze--dust no longer; but the aura of Jaipur. Seen afar,
through the coloured gloom, familiar shapes took on strange outlines;
moved and swayed, mysteriously detached, in a sea of shadows, scattered,
here and there, by flames of little dinner fires along the pavements.
The brilliant shifting crowd of two hours ago seemed to have sunk into
the earth. For there is no night life in the streets of Jaipur.
Travellers had passed on and out. Merchants had stowed away their
muslins and embroideries, their vessels of brass and copper and
priceless enamels. Only the starving lay in huddled heaps as
before--ominously still; while above them vultures and eagles circled,
expectant, ink-black against the immense radiance beyond. Grey,
deepening to black, were flat roofs, cornices, minarets and massed
foliage, and the flitting shadows, with lifted tails, that careered
along the house-tops; or perched on some jutting angle, skinny elbows
crooked, absorbed in the pursuit of fleas. For sunset is the monkey's
hour, and the eerie jibbering of these imps of darkness struck a bizarre
note in the hush that shrouded the city.
Roy knew, now, why Thea had stayed his impatience; and he blessed her
sympathetic understanding. But just then--steeped in India at her most
magical hour--it was hard to believe in the Residency household; in
English dinner-tables and English detachment from the mediæval medley of
splendour and squalor, of courage and cruelty and dumb endurance, of
arts and crafts and all the paraphernalia of enlightened knowledge that
was Jaipur. It seemed more like a week than a few hours since he had
turned in the saddle to salute Arúna and ridden out into another
world:--her world, which was also in a measure his own....
On and on he rode, at a foot's pace, followed by his twin shadows; past
the temples of Maha Deo, still rosy where they faced the west, still
rumbling and throbbing with muffled music; past wayside shrines, mere
alcoves for grotesque images--Shiva, Lord of Death, or Ganesh the
Elephant God--each with his scented garlands and his nickering chirágh;
past shadowy groups round the dinner fires, cooking their evening meal:
on and out through the double fortified gateways into the deserted road,
his whole being drenched in the silence and the deepening dusk.
Here, outside the city, emptiness loomed almost like a presence. Only
the trees were alive; each with its colony of peacocks and parrots and
birds of prey noisily settling to rest. The peacocks' unearthly cry, and
the far, ghostly laugh of jackals--authentic voice of India at
sundown--sent a chill down Roy's spine. For he, who had scarcely known
fear on the battlefield, was ignominiously at the mercy of imagination
and the eerie spirit of the hour.
At a flick of the reins, Suráj broke into a smart canter, willingly
enough. What were sunsets or local devils to him compared with stables
and gram?
And as they sped on, as trees on either side slid by like stealthy
ghosts, the sunset splendour died, only to rise again in a volcanic
afterglow, on which trunks and twigs and battlemented hills were printed
in daguerreotype; and desert voices were drowned in the clamour of
cicadas, grinding their knives in foolish ecstasy; and, at last, he
swerved between the friendly gate-posts of the Residency--the richer for
a spiritual adventure that could neither be imparted, nor repeated, nor
forgotten while he lived.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 10: Joy of my heart.]