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 have no 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 a hinge 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 the average, and some of them did not pass their
“exams;” yet they presumed to be _the_ set 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
about the 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 them _vide_ Hamlet, “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 mathematics and
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 purchased for 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 watch them 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 we would 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 will never 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.