George Keene was trying to translate the cloth-of-gold sunlight into
cadmium yellow, with the result that the blue of the tiles in his
sketch grew green, and the opal on the pigeon's breasts as they sidled
along the cornice, was dimmed to dust colour.
The courtyard with its blind arcades of Saracenic arches surrounding
the mosque, lay bare and empty, as it always did save at the hours of
prayer. He looked across it with a dissatisfied expression, noting the
intense colour of certain tiles which were mixed up with those more
modern ones bearing the Arabic letterings. The former reminded him of
the Ayodhya pot, and set him a-wondering if he should ever have an
honest chance of procuring one like his first bribe. The old potter,
his authority in such matters, had told him they were still to be
found, more or less broken, in the digging of graves, or the sinking of
wells. Hitherto, however, he had failed to hear of one. Yet, the
possibility remained, since those tiles, which must be centuries older
than the _cafe chantant_ sort of proscenium on which they were inlaid,
had survived. The latter he saw clearly, now he came to draw it, had
been added on to an older building behind; probably a Hindu temple. So,
when all was said and done, that figure of a grave and reverend
Mohammedan moulvie, which he had intended to put in the foreground,
might not have so much right to be there as a priest of Baal. It was a
confusing country!
When he looked up again from his work, he gave a start; for a totally
unexpected model was squatting on the flags of his foreground. A mere
slip of a village girl; and yet was she of the village? More likely a
stranger--perhaps one of the southern tribes of whom the potter told
tales--since her dress was odd.
It consisted of a reddish purple drapery, more tike wool than cotton in
texture, with a stitched border in browns and creams such as the desert
folk embroider on their camel trappings. It was an admirable piece of
colouring against that blue background, and he began upon it at once,
reckless of the averted face; for he was accustomed to be thus watched
furtively from afar, and knew that the least notice would end in
instant flight, as of a wild animal. Besides, the faces were apt to be
disappointing. This one, however, was not, and his first glimpse of it
gave him quite a shock. Without being beautiful, it was most peculiar;
a golden brown face, with a long straight nose, and a wide, curved
mouth; golden brown hair under the reddish purple of the veil; golden
brown eyes, and a golden brown arm circled with big bronze bracelets
stretched out so that the hand rested on----!
He gave an irrepressible exclamation and half rose from his seat. Down
fell his box and brushes, and over went the dirty water streaming
across his hard-won sunshine. He mopped at it hastily with his
handkerchief--as hastily as he dared; but when he looked up the girl
had gone. He sat down and eyed the spot where she had been
suspiciously; not because of her disappearance--there had been time for
that--but because he was doubtful of his own eyes in thinking that her
hand had rested on an Ayodhya pot. If so, what a rare chance he had
lost; if not, he must be going to have fever, and had better go home
and take some quinine. Go home, however, _via_ the potter's house, and
ask that inveterate gossip if he knew anything of an odd-looking child
with light eyes--here George gave a low whistle, paused in his packing
up of paint-boxes, and looked round again to where the girl had
squatted, feeling that it was foolish of him not to have noticed the
resemblance before. Doubtless the girl was a relation of some sort,
though the old man had always strenuously asserted that he had none
living. Perhaps he had meant no male ones; yet, strangely enough, Fuzl
Elahi did not seem to share that contempt for girls which all the other
natives of George Keene's acquaintance professed. He often talked about
his dead daughter, and whenever he talked he became excited and
restless; indeed, the fear of thus arousing him made George somewhat
reticent in his description of the girl he had seen, which he confined
as far as possible to the dress.
'She is not of Hodinuggur, Huzoor,' declared the old man confidently.
'They who wear wool live far to the south. They never leave the
hearthstone where their fathers lie buried. 'Tis the old way, Huzoor,
and we of this place did it also long ago.' Suddenly his eyes lit up,
he let the wheel slacken and clasped his hands closely over the dome of
clay in its centre. It shot up under the pressure like a fountain.
'Perhaps the Huzoor hath seen one of the old folk; they come and go,
they go and come. I see them often; my fathers and their fathers, but
never my daughter. She will not come, she will not come.' As his voice
died away the cadence of the wheel recommenced, only to stop with a
jar. 'Huzoor! Have _you_ seen her? A slip of a girl with a fawn face
tinted like a young gazelle's? Not black like these people--but sun
colour and brown--all sun colour and brown with little curls on her
forehead----'
For the life of him George could not help acknowledging the thrill that
ran through him. The man was mad, of course, hopelessly mad; yet if he
had seen the girl he could scarcely have given a better description.
Perhaps he had seen her, knew all about her, and only pretended
ignorance, to serve his own ends; that overweening desire, for
instance, to pose as one apart from commonplace humanity, at which
George alternately laughed and frowned.
'Your daughter is dead, potter-ji, how can I have seen her?' he said
rather brutally; yet what else was there to say with that glaring
daylight shining down remorselessly on the squalid reality of the
scene? It was an ordinary potter's yard, no more, no less; the kneaded
clay on one side of the wheel, the unbaked pots lying on the other. In
the outer yard a couple of children were playing in the dust, while
their mother sought a satisfactory ring in one of the pile of
ready-baked water-pots before bringing it with her to haggle and
bargain over the price. Overhead a kite or two wheeled in circles, and
down the slope, of course, lay the palace and its inhabitants; who were
very ordinary examples of impoverished native nobility in its worst
aspect. So George Keene meant to be brutal, his common-sense demanded
it of him. But that evening, as he sat smoking as usual in the
verandah, he saw a light flickering about the ruins, and told himself
that, despite his reticence, the potter was in one of his restless
moods, when he would seek for his daughter all night long, returning at
dawn with a handful of dust, which he would knead to clay and mould
upon his wheel into odd little nine-pins. Sometimes he would bury these
in pairs upon the mound--George had seen him doing it--more often he
would give them to the village children as toys. George had seen them,
too, with sticks for arms and bits of charcoal for eyes, doing duty as
dolls. He had laughed at the oddity of it all; but now in the soft
darkness the thought sent that thrill through his veins once more. This
would never do! He had been too long mooning about Hodinuggur sketching
and playing chess. It was time to ride down the canal, bully the
workman at the brick-kilns, and have a day or two at the bustard in the
desert; so then and there he called to the factotum and gave his orders
for breakfast to be ready twenty miles off the next morning. That would
settle his nerves.
When he returned, after four days, absence, he set to work rationally
to finish his sketch. The cloth-of-gold sunshine was brilliant as ever,
the blue tiles glowed, the prismatic pigeons sidled along the cornices.
He told himself that Hodinuggur was not such a bad place if you refused
to allow imagination----
'The Huzoor gives medicine to the poor,' came a voice behind him.
'Mother is ill; I want quinine.'
It was the girl with the Ayodhya pot in her hand. George Keene laughed
out loud in the satisfaction of his heart at his own wisdom.
'What is the matter with your mother?' he asked judiciously.
'She is sick, I am to get quinine,' repeated the girl. 'I came once
before, but the Huzoor jumped up; so I became frightened and ran away.
Since then I have come often, but the Huzoor was not here.'
George felt vaguely that he too had run away before something
ridiculously commonplace and simple, and in the effort to bolster up
his dignity, his tone became pompous and condescending.
'You are not frightened now, I hope?'
The queerest demure look came to her downcast eyes.
'Wherefore should I be afraid? The Huzoor is my father and mother.'
George had heard the saying a hundred times. Even now, incongruous as
it was, it pleased him by its flattering recognition of the fact that
his benevolence and superiority were undeniable.
'But, unfortunately, I don't carry quinine with me,' he began.
'If the Huzoor were to bring it to-morrow when he comes to put paints
on paper, his slave could return and fetch it,' she interrupted
readily. He looked at her more sharply, wondering what her age might
be. 'Shall I come, Huzoor?' she continued, with a certain anxiety in
her grave face.
'What else?' he answered quickly. It would suit him admirably, since he
could come armed with rupees wherewith to bribe the Ayodhya pot from
her, and with canvas and oil-colour more suitable to the portrait
which, as he looked at her golden brown face and reddish purple
draperies, he resolved to have. He would paint her against the dark
mound of the ruins rising formless and void upon a sunset sky, and he
would call it----
'You had better tell me your name,' he said suddenly, 'then I shall
know to whom I have to send the quinine in case you can't come.'
Her white teeth flashed between the long curves of her mouth.
'I am Azizan, Huzoor. I am quite sure to come, and I will bring the pot
for the medicine.'
It was almost as if she had divined his intention, he thought, as he
watched her pass out through the gateway behind him. It was a queer
chance altogether, all the greater because the name Azizan was
familiarly commonplace. Briefly, it happened to be that of his
factotum's wife. He had, of course, never seen that estimable female,
but he had often heard her addressed in tones of objurgation when delay
occurred between the courses, thus--'_Azizan! egg sarse. Azizan! salt
fish is not without egg sarse_.' From which George inferred that she
was responsible for the kitchen-maid's portion of the Barmecidal feast.
The remembrance made him smile as he packed up his colours, resolving
to do no more till he could begin in earnest on that most interesting
study. He would have thought it still more interesting if he could have
seen it slipping into the white domino which old Zainub, the duenna,
held ready at the gate, where she had been warding off possible
intrusion by the bare truth, that one of her palace ladies was within.
For the custom of seclusion renders intrigue absolutely safe, since
none dare put the identity of a white-robed figure to the test, or pry
into the privacy of a place claimed by a veiled woman.
'Now mind,' scolded Zainub, as they shuffled back to the women's
apartments, 'if thou sayest a word of this to the girls thou goest not
again; but the old bridegroom comes instead.'
'I will go again,' said the girl gravely, 'I liked it. But the sun made
my eyes ache without the veil. Yes! I will go again, amma-jan'
(nursie).
To tell the truth, she had small choice. We have all heard of an empire
whereon the sun never sets, and where slavery does not exist. Even
those who shake their heads over the former statement, applaud the
latter. But slavery, unfortunately, is as elusive as liberty, and when
not a soul, save those interested in making you obey, is even aware of
your existence, individual freedom is apt to be a fraud. This was
Azizan's case. Born of an unknown wrong, she might have died of one
also, and none been the wiser. The zenana walls which shut her in, shut
out the penal code of the alien. If she had chosen to be prudish, the
alternative would have been put before her brutally; but she did not
choose; for naturally enough, as she said, she liked the masquerade,
even if the sun did make her head ache. So she sat all that afternoon
under the lattice-window, whence, if you stood on tiptoe, you could see
the flags in front of the mosque, and thought of the morrow; naturally,
also, since it was a great event to one who had never before set foot
beyond the walls of the women's quarter.
Yet George had to wait a long time the next day ere she appeared and
squatted down before him confidently. 'It was the black man who came
with the Huzoor's things,' she explained quite openly. 'Mother would
not let me come while he was here. The Huzoors are quite different;
they are our fathers and mothers.'
The repetition of the phrase amused George, and tickled his sense of
superiority. It scarcely needed stimulus, for, like most of his race,
he was inclined to consider the natives as automata, until personal
experience in each case made him admit reluctantly that they were not.
So he wondered vain-gloriously what certain politicians at home would
say to this candid distrust of the black man, produced the quinine, and
then offered Azizan five whole rupees if she would let him draw a
picture of her, as he had of the mosque.
'Is that the mosque?' she asked dubiously.
George's reply was full of condescension, which it would not have been
had he looked on Azizan in the light of a girl capable, as girls always
are, of mischief; for the sketch was accurate to a degree. It ended in
an offer of ten rupees for a finished picture of that odd, attractive,
yellow-brown face. It was now resting its pointed chin on the tucked-up
knees, round which the thin brown arms were clasped; and the smile
which lengthened the already long curves of the mouth George set down
to sheer greedy delight at an over large bribe, which, to tell truth,
he regretted. Half would have been sufficient.
'Then the Huzoor must really think me pretty.'
The words might have been bombs, the sigh of satisfaction accompanying
them a thunderclap, from the start they gave to his superiority. So she
was nothing more nor less than a girl; rather a pretty girl, too, when
she smiled, though not so picturesque as when she was grave.
'I think you will make a pretty picture,' he replied with dignity.
'Come! ten rupees is a lot, you know.'
'I'll sit if the Huzoor thinks me pretty,' persisted Azizan, now quite
grave. And her gravity, as she sat with the reddish purple drapery
veiling all save the straight column of her throat and the thin brown
hands clasping the Ayodhya pot, appealed so strongly to George Keene's
artistic sense, that he would have perjured himself to say she was
beautiful as a houri twenty times over if thereby he could have made
her sit to him.
She proved an excellent model; perhaps because she had done little else
all her life but sit still, with that grave tired look on her face. So
still, so lifeless, that he felt aggrieved when, without a word of
warning, she rose and salaamed.
'I must go home now, Huzoor,' she said in answer to his impatient
assertion that he had but just begun. 'I will come to-morrow if the
Huzoor wishes it.'
'Of course you must come,' he replied angrily, 'if you are to get the
ten rupees. Why can't you stay now?'
Azizan might have said with truth that a hand from the gateway behind
the sketcher's back had beckoned to her, but she only smiled
mysteriously.
George, left behind in the sunny courtyard, looked at the charcoal
smudges on his canvas with mixed feelings. He had the pose; but should
he ever succeed in painting the picture which rose before his mind's
eye? To most amateurs of real talent, such as he was, there comes some
special time when the conviction that here is an opportunity, here an
occasion for the best possible work, brings all latent power into
action, and makes the effort absorbing. Something of this feeling had
already taken possession of George; he began to project a finished
picture, and various methods of inducing his sitter to give him more
time. Perhaps she had found it dull. Native women, he believed,
chattered all day long. So when she came next morning, he asked her if
she liked stories, and when she nodded, he began straightway on his
recollections of Hans Andersen; choosing out all the melancholy and
aggressively sentimental subjects, so as to prevent her from smiling.
He succeeded very well so far; Azizan sat gravely in the sunshine
listening, but every day she rose to go with just the same sudden
alacrity. Then he told her the tale of Cinderella, and the necessity
for her leaving the prince's ball before twelve o'clock; but even this
did not make Azizan laugh. On the contrary, she looked rather
frightened, and asked what the prince said when he found out.
'He told her that he thought her the most beautiful girl in the world,
so they lived happy ever after,' replied George carelessly.
It was two nights after this incident that old Zainub the duenna paid a
visit to Chandni in her shadowy recesses.
'What is to come of this foolishness?' she asked crossly. ''Twas a week
at first; now 'tis ten days. She used to give no trouble, and now she
sits by the lattice in a fever for the next day. That is the plague of
girls; give them but a glimpse outside and they fret to death. So I
warned Meean Khush-hal sixteen years agone, when the mother took refuge
with us during her father's absence on the night of the storm; but he
listened not when he had the excuse of the wall. Yea, that is the
truth, O Chandni! 'tis well thou shouldst know the whole, since thou
hast guessed half. Mayhap thou wilt think twice when thou hast heard.
Ai! my daughter! I seem to hear her now; I would not pass such another
year with this one for all the money thou couldst give. Nor is it safe
for me, or for thee, Chandni, with those eyes in the child's head. Let
be--'tis no good. Would I had never consented to begin the work! I will
do no more.'
'True!' yawned Chandni, lounging on her bed. 'Thou art getting old for
the place--it needs a younger woman. I will tell the Diwan so.'
Zainub whimpered. 'If aught were to come of it, 'twould be different;
but thou thyself hast but the hope of beguiling him to some unknown
snare within the walls.'
'An unknown snare is the deadliest,' laughed the other shrilly. 'What
care I for the girl? 'Tis something to have him meet a screened inmate
of the palace day after day; many things may come of that. If Azizan
pines, tell her the wedding is delayed; tell her anything----'
'Tell her!' broke in the old duenna between the whiffs of the hookah
whence she sought to draw comfort. 'Sobhan ullah! There is too much
telling as it is. _He_ tells her--God knows what!--not sensible
reasonable things, like the tales of a parrot, about real men and
women; but upside-down rigmaroles about beggar-maidens and kings and
sighs without kisses. Lo! she hath them pat! But now, because I bid her
hold her tongue from teasing me with them when I wished to sleep, she
flung out her hands so, quite free like, saying if she might not speak
them she would think them, since they were true words. He had told her,
and the sahib-logue ever spake the truth.'
Chandni burst into high pitched laughter. 'So! the little Moghulani
learns fast! 'Tis not strange, seeing the blood which runs in her
veins. The cross breed hath but given it strength. Lo! if this be as
thou sayest, she would not thank thee for stopping her ears with the
cotton of decency. Thus, for the eyes' sake, Zainub, thou hadst best
let well alone, and give the girl the rein--while thou canst.'
In good sooth the old dame felt the truth of Chandni's words, and
knew herself to be between two stools. Either by interference, or
non-interference, she ran the risk of Azizan's anger; more, perhaps, by
the latter than the former. So the girl in her odd dress continued to
steal out in the fresh mornings--for March had come with its hot
glaring noons--to sit between George and the mosque, and to steal back
again, obedient to that beckoning hand from the gate; Zainub's
authority remaining sufficient for that, backed as it was by an
ill-defined fear on the girl's part, lest the fate of Cinderella should
befall her before the proper time. There was little conversation
between the odd couple; chiefly because Azizan had none, and seemed to
know nothing of her neighbours and the village. Her mother? Oh yes! she
was better for the quinine. She was a purdah woman, more or less, and
lived yonder--this with a wave of the hand palacewards. Yes! she had
heard there was a potter, but she had never seen him. Oh, no! they were
not related. Her dress? It was very old because they were very poor.
Her mother had had it by her; it was very ugly. She would rather have
'Manchester'; but they--that is to say, her mother--would not give it
her. The Ayodhya pot? That was old also. She had asked her mother, and
she was willing to sell it. When the Huzoor had finished the picture
her mother would come, if she were well enough, and settle the price.
If not, the Huzoor might go 'yonder' and speak to her mother. The
Huzoors were their fathers and mothers. It was not like a black man.
This much, no more, George gleaned during the morning hours which
passed so swiftly for them both. He in a novel absorption and pride in
the success of his own work. She? It is hard to say. She sat listening,
while the pigeons sidled and coo'd, the blue tiles glowed, and the
blind arcades shut out all the world save George and his stories. They
were of the simplest, most uncompromising nature; partly because his
sense of superiority made him stoop, perhaps unnecessarily, to Azizan's
level; partly because his knowledge of the language, though long past
the stuttering stage, did not extend to niceties of emotion. But loving
was loving, hating was hating, when all was said and done. Sometimes
the crudity of his own words made the lad smile, as, by the aid of his
own complexity, he recognised how entirely they dealt in first
principles; and then Azizan would smile too, not from comprehension,
but from first principles also. The woman's smile born of the man's.
It was different, however, when he laid down his brush with an elated
laugh. 'There! that's done! and you have sat like--like anything.
Earned your ten rupees and--Azizan! my dear little girl--what is the
matter?'
First principles with a vengeance, and the sunlight turning tears to
diamonds as they rolled down those sun-coloured cheeks! He rose,
divided between pity and impatience, and stood looking at her almost
incredulously. 'Come, don't cry--there's nothing to cry about. Look!
how pretty you are in the picture; but it wouldn't have been half so
pretty if you hadn't sat so still. I owe you more than the ten rupees,
Azizan, and that's a fact. What shall it be--money or jewels? What
would you like best?'
She did not answer, and with the same careless superiority he stooped
and turned her downcast face to his; he was used to turning it this way
or that at his pleasure. But this somehow was different; so was the
sun-colour and brown he saw. Sun-colour indeed! He was only
one-and-twenty, and the brightness and the glamour which seemed to fall
in a moment on everything, as he saw the heart-whole surrender of her
eyes, dazed him utterly; only one-and-twenty, and he had never before
seen such a look as this that came to him from the sun-coloured face;
but it was brown also! Truth is truth. It was not a sense of duty, it
was a sense of colour which prevented him from kissing it then and
there. So much may be said for him and his morality, that the
difference between a brown and a white skin was the outward sign of the
vast inward gulf between sentiment and sheer passion. The transition
was too abrupt; for the time it shocked his culture, and brought a look
to his face before which poor little Azizan gave a cry, and fled, just
as she had fled on that first day when George had spilled the dirty
water over the sunshine. He had spilled it now with a vengeance,
and--over the sunshine of her face, sent shame--needless shame.
'Azizan!' he called after her, his pulses bounding and beating,
'Azizan!'
Then he paused, since she would not; and told himself that there was no
need for pursuit. She would come back, for there, as she had left it,
lay the Ayodhya pot. Yes! she must come back. He could scarcely think
of her without it clasped in her thin hands; so silent--yet all the
time----? He gave a little laugh, tender, half regretful. Dear little
Aziz! What a brute, what a fool he had been to bring that look to her
face! His brain was in a whirl; he could think of nothing save her shy,
confident eyes, and ask himself if, when all was said and done, that
world beyond the desert held anything better despite its palaver and
pretension? Did it not come back in the end to the old ways, to the
first principles? He laughed recklessly at his own thoughts more than
once as, scarcely seeing the ground beneath his feet, he made his way
homewards to the branded red brick bungalow.
The factotum was standing in the verandah.
'The mem-sahib is waiting for the Huzoor,' he said calmly,
'The mem! what mem?'
'This slave knows not. She came half an hour gone, and said she would
await the Huzoor's return.'
'Wait! where?'
The man pointed to the sitting-room. 'In there, Huzoor. She has since
fallen asleep in the sahib's arm-chair.'
George stared helplessly at the bamboo-screen which, hanging before the
open door, prevented him from seeing inside. Who could it be? Rose
Tweedie? The mere thought sent the first blush of the morning to his
cheek, by bringing him back with a round turn to civilisation.
'Here! take these things,' he said, thrusting the picture and the pot
hastily into the servant's hand; 'and see!--wipe my boots--they are not
fit to be seen.'
And as the factotum carefully brushed the dust of Hodinuggur from
George's feet, the latter had forgotten everything in wonder as to who
the 'mem' could possibly be.