Everything about the place was solid and substantial. The walls were
square and bare, the floors of wood, unblessed with any kind of cloth,
on which our feet ached in the winter time; the tables and benches in
the halls were of the hardest wood, our plates, cups and dishes all of
metal, our food in abundance, the few kinds they were, but badly cooked
and served by weekly routine. Even the strongest appetite must be
appalled by knowing three months or a year beforehand, that on certain
days at a particular minute, such and such food would invariably appear.
A person’s appetite likes to be surprised at times and is pleased with
variety.
As everything we saw was solid and at right angles, so everything we did
was by rules. We undressed by order, got into bed by order, the light
went out by order, we washed, dressed, played, studied, sang, prayed
according to rule. I had an abundance of pocket money, but could not use
it except by rule. We all had to take steps, to march by order. This
monotonous grind by order, day and night for weeks and months and years,
as if we were so many prisoners in a tread-mill, was one of the
grievances of my school life. I had all I needed and more, to add to my
comfort. Many of the boys were scantily supplied. Their fathers had
perhaps never been boys and gone away to school, or perhaps they never
had fathers as I had none, and they never found such a friend as I had.
I pitied them and aided them often, and so gained many a friendship. I
had plenty of good, warm, soft bedding, and many a night my extra
blankets were loaned to those shivering near me.
The principal was a great solid, ruddy, beefy sort of a man, so plump
and enshrined with flesh, that if he had slept on the rocks they would
not have come near his bones. He wore “parson clothes,” and was always
mousing around, not to do any work himself, but to see that the teachers
did their’s and that the boys obeyed the rules. He read the prayers and
flogged the boys, and from what we could hear some of them required his
services very often, or he thought they did. The result was the same. I
do not remember, during my whole four years, of ever receiving a kind
word from him. If he ever spoke to me it was just what was required, of
course, and by rule. We never came in contact for good or ill except
once. Whether this was arranged by the decrees or by the rules, or what,
I do not know or ever cared, but have since suspected—as I have stated
that I am rather of a suspicious, inquisitive nature, wanting a reason
or giving a reason for everything—that I was not worthy of his profound
attention, but having been sent by the well-known magistrate and
collector of Muggerpur, a man of considerable influence, who paid well,
I was not to be interfered with, though I was unnoticed and unfavored.
Though in birth I was nothing, as I well knew, and he I am sure knew it
as well as I did, for such men can tell by a sniff what rank a boy or
man is of, yet my patron, by his position, had raised or put me in the
rank of the higher class. It was not long before I came to the
conclusion that my position was fixed, not by my own merit, but by some
arbitrary rule or something, I knew not what.
Though happy for myself in my position, I could not help pitying some
about whom he inquired of a teacher if they were of the middle or lower
classes in society. The result was that the floggings were in this
proportion, commencing with the lower class, as three, two, one. Though
to be just I think the higher class, of which I was accidentally one,
seldom got what we deserved. Thus the scripture is fulfilled, “To him
that hath, shall be given even more than he hath,” so the lower classes,
who have all the poverty, misery and wretchedness, have these abundantly
increased, and besides get nearly all the stripes and curses.
This class arrangement greatly puzzled me. Somewhere in one of the
scripture lessons we read that “God created of one blood all nations of
men,” but this we read according to rule, and probably meant nothing
when it came to practice, as scripture often does, yet for the life of
me, and I was very attentive whenever our rules compelled us to read our
Bible lessons, I could never find out where it was said that God had
created higher, middle and lower classes, and this is still one of the
many things I have yet to learn.
Why was I sent to this school? I often thought of that, for I was always
putting in my whys and wherefores. This school was under the
distinguished patronage of the Lord Bishop of Somewhere, the Supreme
Head of the Church and next to God in authority, following the
ecclesiastical rules. Accordingly, every mother’s son below him in rank
followed him darja ba darja, as the natives say, step by step, as sheep
follow a bell-wether. When he says “Thumbs up,” it is thumbs up, and
when he says “Thumbs down,” what else can it be but that?
I think it was on account of its prominent figure-head that Mr. Percy
finally decided upon this school.
The teachers, with one exception, were excellent men. They were good
scholars, as I afterward came to know. They performed their work
thoroughly and took delight in the advancement of their pupils. And
better than all, they had a kind, genial manner that showed itself in
various ways and won the affections of the boys. They were above
pettiness, and acted as if they had once been boys themselves. Many men
seem to forget and act as if they had come into the world full grown.
The one teacher, my exception, seemed to be, I do not know what else to
say, a freak of nature. I formed a dislike to him the first time I saw
him. I could never get over this feeling, though I tried to do so. I was
not alone in this, for during the four years I never heard a boy speak
well of him. And boys can make up their minds about what they like or
dislike as well as men. In fact, their judgment is often more correct,
as it comes by instinct. Did you ever see a dog run around in a crowd
and pick out just the man he wanted? A wide awake boy, as well as a dog,
can tell who would be kind to him at the first glance.
Acquaintance with this teacher did not improve on the first opinion of
him, but the reverse. He was tall and lean as if he had been brought up
on milk with the cream removed. His complexion was almost milky white,
or rather a pale yellow, sometimes whiter and sometimes yellower. The
color of his hair was not much better than that of his skin. He had the
most juvenile moustache, and a few straggling unneighborly hairs at the
sides of his face, that he seemed to be nursing with great care to bring
to maturity. Many were the sly jokes of the boys on those whiskers. His
clothes were of the strictest cleric cut, a parson’s waistcoat, a great
high collar that was ever threatening to cut his ears off, but refused
to do the deed out of sheer pity.
I cannot but think, heathen as I am, that a parson, of all men, should
always be a well favored, as well favored in body as well as mind, a
manly man, of whom God or nature need not be ashamed and to whom the
people would listen without disgust or pity. Another thing I could not
understand why most of this class should always have that far away pious
look, a ministerial drawl or holy moaning tone. Whether these are
produced by their longings for heaven, or their food, or their
devotions, or what I cannot tell. Their tone or drone and appearance,
all goes to show that their profession has got the better of their
manhood.
To return to the school. This teacher had really nothing in him or about
him of a parson, except his manner and his clothes, and the clothes were
the most valuable part of him. He evidently realized this himself, for,
lacking in every respect what pertained to a real priest, he tried to
make up in his dress and posing. By his manner, at first sight, not
later, he would be taken to be one of God’s saints; and by his clothes,
that he was the confidential adviser and chaplain of some great
Archbishop or the Bishop himself. He went around the building or through
our play grounds with his eyes turned towards the earth as if in holy
meditation, appearing as meek as Moses was said to be, but an hour
afterward when some of the boys were called before the beefy principal
for some loud laughter or slight violation of the rules, we knew that
“Yellow Skin” had been telling. How we learned to think of that man! not
with hatred for he was not worthy of that, but with contempt, probably
the same feeling that a noble mastiff has for a mangy pariah cur. He was
lurking everywhere, with his eyes towards the ground as if searching for
some lost jewel but we came to know that he always had his side eye upon
us. Outside his classes he never spoke to the boys, as this might have
compromised his clerical dignity. He never accused any one openly and
the principal never revealed his informant, but any boy of us knew who
had told. I always thanked my guiding star that I was not in any of his
classes. By instinct I kept out of his range as much as possible.
The principal, portly as he was, knew a thing or two. He was a slow
thinker, or probably thought but little, as I have not treasured up
anything of his, not a saying, a witticism, an anecdote, and a man must
be composed of the very essence of stupidity who in four years could not
give out something worth saving. A learned professor—as I have read
somewhere—claims that “genius is the evidence of a degenerative taint,
that is, an epileptical degenerative psychosis.” To be just, I must
absolve our chief from any such imputation. But he was business itself,
a plodder in his little circle, with as much brilliancy and energy in
his thoughts and movements, as in a buffalo going from grass to its
wallow. He surely understood “Yellow Whiskers” thoroughly, as he never
treated him as an associate, rather as a spy and lackey.
How different with the other teachers. We soon fell into the habit of
making a note of their bright sayings, their anecdotes and witticisms
and frequently after class, one boy would call out “Hallo Jim,” or
“Dick” or “Japhet, I have got another,” and out would come the note-book
and heads would be bent over it reading something good that he had got
from his teacher in the class room. It became quite a competition as to
who should get the most of these good things. And now after years have
passed I often take out the old note-books and read them with the
greatest pleasure, and again see the happy faces of the boys reading the
bright things they had secured. But we never remembered anything of the
sleek parson spy, except what we were obliged to do by the nature of
memory, and what we would willingly have forgotten.
A little incident will show the character of one of our teachers. One
morning, as we came into our class room, every eye was fixed upon a
billy-goat tied in the master’s chair on the platform behind the table.
Every boy looked at every other boy with a silent question on his lips,
and waited in wonder what the teacher would say. I greatly admired him,
as he was one of my model men, and I felt sorry for anything that might
annoy him, and I think most of the class felt the same. Soon he came in,
and apparently did not notice anything out of the way until he was about
to step upon the platform, when he turned quickly, saying, “I beg your
pardon, boys, I find I have made a mistake. I am not the kind of teacher
you need, as I see you have selected a billy-goat to take my place. You,
perhaps, think that he is able to teach you all you are capable of
learning, so I had better seek another situation, but before I leave, as
I would not act hastily, I would like to know if you all prefer the goat
to me. Any one who wants the goat, hold up his hand.” Not a hand went
up. “Now, any one who wants me to remain hold up his hand.” And every
hand and arm in the room went up as high as they could be raised. “That
settles it,” he said, “and I have a very good opinion of you. I think
the chaukedar must have been playing on us all, so we will have him
called to take the butt of his joke away.”
That was all. He never referred to the matter again, and our lessons
went on as usual. We all, or most of us, felt so sorry for the master
that we proposed as we left the room to keep dead silent. But the news
of it got to the principal. We never knew how, but we all believed that
the spy, always lurking about, had seen the goat through the window.
That evening, as our chief pastor read the prayers, I felt by his tone,
manner, and the redness of his face, that something was coming; just as
the heated air and the distant rumbling thunder, tells of the coming
storm.
Prayers said, little Johnny, he who was so timid that he could not kneel
down before the boys to say his prayers, was called in front of the
desk. Said our portly head in a pompous, angry voice, fierce enough to
make a lion tremble; his face crimson, and his whole mountain of flesh
fairly shaking with wrath: “You were seen in front of the school
building last night, when several large boys ran past you, and I am sure
they were the ones who put the goat in the master’s chair, and I want
you to tell who they were?” There was a dead silence, of a minute, it
seemed to me, but it may have been only a half of one, yet it was an
awful long time. Johnny was as silent as the rest of us. Then the chief,
angrier than ever: “Are you going to tell me who those boys were, or
not?” “No, sir, I shall not tell,” said the brave lad. His voice
trembled, but had a deal of firmness in it. As he gave his answer our
chief drew a rattan from the table drawer, and laid it upon poor Johnny,
right and left, up and down, regardless where he struck. Every blow hit
me, for I had often met the little fellow and loved him. One thing,
especially, brought us together. One day he told me he had never had a
father, so this made us twin brothers in sympathy ever afterward. I
screamed in pain, pain in my heart, the worst kind of pain. At my scream
the big flogger stopped and shaking the rattan at me, shouted out: “If
that boy makes another sound, I will give him something to remember.
This will do for to-day,” said he, as he seemed to be exhausted, and out
we went, the spy following us.
As I had been threatened for my sympathy with Johnny, my instinct told
me that it might be better for him that I should not be seen in his
company by the spy. I went back up the hill to a bit of level ground
where we often walked, and where I knew Johnny would come, and soon he
appeared. We went into a quiet little nook, and then he pulled up his
trousers and showed the great red marks that were swelling into welts,
and then showed me his arms and back. How those cuts must have hurt! I
had never been whipped, but had received some cuts in play, so I could
imagine how such a thrashing must have felt. But he never whimpered. He
seemed to be more hurt in his thoughts than in his body. I took him in
my arms, and told him he was a brave noble fellow, that there was not
another boy in the school who could have stood such a licking without
screaming and blubbering. This greatly pleased and consoled him, but he
carried the marks, as he was black and blue for months. He then said
that the night before, he had gone out for a few minutes, and just as he
was in front of the hall, four boys ran out of the class room. He knew
every one of them, as the moon was shining brightly. Just as he entered
the door, the spy appeared. Neither of them said anything. When he was
called up by the principal he was surprised, as he could not think of
any reason for it. He was thunderstruck when the question was asked, and
more so, when the blows fell.
Just as we thought, the spy was in it. Johnny did not tell me who the
boys were, and I did not wish to know the name of any one who would sit
still like a great skulking coward, and see a boy like Johnny, be
thrashed for his fault. Though Johnny never told, they became known and
were not forgotten during our four year’s course. They were not blamed
for the goat affair, as all took that as a joke, but for their cowardice
and meanness in letting Johnny be whipped while they looked on. They
were often left out of our games when sets were made up if we could do
without them. Often we would find placards on the walls and trees
asking: “Who were the cowards that let Johnny be thrashed?” “Little
Johnny is known, but who are the sneaks?”
But where was our teacher? It appeared that he had gone out for a stroll
with a friend after his classes, but I felt sure that he knew something
was going to happen about the goat affair, and he would get out of the
way so as not to be called on to say anything, or to blame any one. This
was just like him. He was a man, and we all admired and loved him.
As to our principal. That scene of anger and brutality ended his praying
for me. He read prayers, but I never heard them. His influence over me
for good or evil was ended. How could such a man as that preach to us of
pity to the weak, of kindness, of charity, of mutual forbearance!
Johnny became a general favorite, a hero among us, and I never saw our
teacher meet him without a smile or pleasant word, and I am sure that
Johnny had many a treat without knowing the giver; for he often found
sweets and cake in his coat pockets in the morning and wondered how they
got there.
In spite of the rigid rules, the blank walls, the coarse solid food; in
spite of the harsh bully of a man over us and the spy lurking at our
heels, our time passed pleasantly. The rest of our masters were kind and
considerate. I soon fell into the ways of my associates and although our
rules were so precise, I soon became accustomed to them. I studied
because I enjoyed it and for another reason. Not a day passed in which I
did not often think of Mr. Percy. I would find myself asking, “What
would he say if he could see me, if he could know my thoughts, know of
my progress, what would he think of me!” I would imagine him in his
home, or riding, driving, how he looked and talked. He was my other life
and I could but feel from the interest he had shown in me that I was
his. I guided myself in all my ways by what I thought he would like and
this I now see had a wonderful influence over me. His gentleness, his
intelligence, his nobility of character inspired me and had I been
inclined to idleness, or injurious habits the remembrance of him would
have checked me, for the thought of failing in his anticipation of me
gave me pain.
To go back a little. As I awoke the next morning after my arrival, I
thought of Mr. Percy and soon I was writing my first letter to him. It
was the first real letter that I had ever attempted. My teacher on the
plains, had daily instructed me in writing and composition, and had
caused me to write some imaginary letters which he corrected. I now
wrote as I thought and just as I felt. Mr. Percy had never criticised me
in a way to make me feel any embarrassment. So I had no fear, besides it
was a labor of love and respect. I told him of my journey, my surprise
on seeing the hills, of my arrival and first view of things. The letter
was ready on the appearance of the bearer. He took it and made his
salaam, while I burdened him with many salaams to all the servants.
The next day there came a letter written on the day of my departure, the
first of a great number that I received from Mr. Percy all of which I
have kept, forming several volumes that are among my treasures. The
letter ran thus:
“_My Dear Charles_:—
You cannot know how lonesome I have been since you left. This shows how
much I think of you and what you are to me. I trust you had a pleasant
journey, and arrived safely. I have no doubt you found everything
strange, for it must be a new life to you. There will be some things
disagreeable to you as there is to every one of us in whatever
circumstances we may be placed. The world is far from being perfect, and
as we ourselves lack so much, we should always be ready to make
allowances for others. The best way is to do the best we can, take the
bitter with the sweet, and endure bravely what we cannot cure. I am
anxious for the return of the bearer to hear from him about you, and
also to receive a letter which I am sure you have sent by him. Wishing
you every blessing and success, I am your very desolate and devoted
friend,
R. PERCY.”
In a few days another letter came:
“The bearer has returned and I am so glad to hear such a good report of
you and of your position. He is ready again and again to give his
account of the ‘Chota Sahib,’ and I often see him surrounded by
everybody in the compound and know he is telling of his journey up the
hills and no doubt much about you. I was this morning behind one of the
trees in the garden and overheard him say to the mali, “One day the
‘Chota Sahib’ will become a ‘Barra Sahib,’ so you see there is some hope
for you.””
I could see in my mind the twinkle of his eyes as he would have made
this remark had I been near him.
The letters came and went regularly two a week. One of the rigid rules
was that we were to write home only once a week. I considered this most
unjust, especially if the writing did not interfere with my studies. I
evaded this rule openly a number of times until I was spoken to by the
principal. I then secreted the materials in my pocket and went for a
walk to a place sheltered by a rock where I could be unseen and yet see
any one coming. This was my writing place, that is for off-day illegal
letters during the first year, except in the rains when I sought shelter
in a hut built for the watchmen. My trunk on leaving home was well
supplied with writing materials and with stamps, so I had no trouble in
this respect. But how to get the letters to the post was my first query?
I had plenty of money and had given the bearer of our room several tips
already, so he was my friend and remained very devoted to me during all
the years I was in school. He was a good fellow in himself and would
have done me favors without reward.
I always like to speak as well as I can of human nature. It is so
defective at the best that we should always keep the better view of it
to the front, if possible. Yet, I think my tips had considerable to do
with his constant allegiance to my interests. Money is like cement in a
wall; it keeps the bricks together. The power of money! What has it not
done and what is it not able to do? Nothing on earth seems able to stand
before it. Nor honor, nor patriotism, integrity or virtue? Even the
doors of heaven seem to be unlocked by it. If not, why the gifts of
wicked men who have spent their lives in sin, if they did not have faith
that they could purchase a mansion in heaven, as they could buy a ticket
for a seat in a theatre?
It was privately arranged with the bearer that on certain days he would
find under the sheet at the foot of my bed a letter which he was to take
to the post-box on the lower road. So faithfully was this contract kept
that my letters never failed to be posted.
To be sure this was a violation of the one of the rules, but what of it?
I was not conscious of wrong in evading the rule. They had no right to
make it. It interfered with an inalienable natural right of mine, and
the right of my best friend to have the letters from me. If they had
said, “You must not write during school hours,” I would have seen the
sense and justice of it. My instinct rebelled against the rule and I
violated it with a clear conscience. I hate injustice and have a
contempt for the petty kind, and who has not? Tyranny is one of my
devils, man-made, however, for I have never got my faith high enough or
so low as to believe in the divine origin of the devil or any devils.
They are all so low down, that man must have begotten them.
As to the rule, I took pleasure in breaking it for it was absurd and
unjust. If they had posted up in our room “No pillow fights.” I would at
once have said, “Right you are,” for a violation of such a rule would
cause destruction of property, confusion, and no doubt the devil of
quarrel would have been born.
I think that the world, as well as schools, is cursed with too much
legislation. Statutes, laws, regulations, restrictions, prohibitions at
every turn, are enough to make us all sinners. I often think of that old
fable of Eve and the apple, that if the Lord had told her to go out and
gather all the apples in the garden and eat as many as she wanted, she
would have said that she did not like apples, and never did from the
time she was born, they were too acidulated, and she would not have
tasted even one; but when she was told not to touch any of them she was
bound to break the rule, even if she broke her neck and the necks of all
of us, her children. I cannot leave this without noticing a question
that has often bothered me, because I am no theologist and yet cannot
take everything by faith on the mere say so of man or men—and that is,
since the Lord foreknew what Eve would do, why did He place the apples
in the garden and then forbid her to take them? Did He not lead her into
temptation? That is, if the story about her is true. If, knowing the
predilections of my bearer for appropriating my property, and
particularly for his dislike of seeing silver and copper coin lying
around unused, why should I freely place them about in his sight to
excite his desire of reciprocity, in order to tempt him and so bring
punishment upon himself and upon his children? Would not I, an educated
fore-thinking sahib be more to blame for what I did, than what he a poor
ignorant man did? Though I have studied much, and thought a little, yet
I am often puzzled by such simple questions.
It is the little things of life that bother us the most. Poor Johnny
could take a flogging that raised great welts on his body without a
squeal, but he could not kneel to say his prayers when the other boys
could see him. I have ridden an elephant, a noble tusker, all day in the
forest after tigers and he never flinched, but in the evening when he
was hobbled to a tree, one little mosquito buzzing about his ears would
set him frantic with rage. It is the mean, petty annoyances that make
life a burden, and it is not strange when they become frequent, that
many take tickets of-leave for parts unknown.