He was a dreamer of dreams, with the look in his large dark eyes,
which Botticelli put into the eyes of his Moses; that Moses in doublet
and hose, whose figure, isolated from its surroundings, reminds one
irresistibly of Christopher Columbus, or Vasco da Gama--of those, in
fact, who dream of a Promised Land.
And this man dreamt as wild a dream as any. He hoped, before he died,
to change the social customs of India.
He used to sit in my drawing-room, talking to me by the hour of the
Prophet and his blessed Fatma--for he was a Mahomedan--and bewailing
the sad degeneracy of these present days, when caste had crept into
and defiled the Faith. I shall never forget the face of martyred
enthusiasm with which he received my first invitation to dinner. He
accepted it, as he would have accepted the stake, with fervour, and
indeed to his ignorance the ordeal was supreme. However, he appeared
punctual to the moment on the appointed day, and greatly relieved my
mind by partaking twice of plum-pudding, which he declared to be a
surpassingly cool and most digestible form of nourishment, calculated
to soothe both body and mind. Though this is hardly the character
usually assigned to it, I did not contradict him, for not even his
eager self-sacrifice had sufficed for the soup, the fish, or the
joint, and he might otherwise have left the table in a starving
condition. As it was, he firmly set aside my invitation to drink water
after the meal was over, with the modest remark that he had not eaten
enough to warrant the indulgence.
The event caused quite a stir in that far-away little town, set out
among the ruins of a great city, on the high bank of one of the Punjab
rivers; for the scene of this sketch lay out of the beaten track,
beyond the reach of _babus_ and barristers, patent-leather shoes and
progress. Beyond the pale of civilisation altogether, among a quaint
little colony of fighting Pathans who still pointed with pride to an
old gate or two which had withstood siege after siege, in those old
fighting days when the river had flowed beneath the walls of the city.
Since then the water had ebbed seven miles to the south-east, taking
with it the prestige of the stronghold, which only remained a
picturesque survival; a cluster of four-storeyed purple-brick houses
surrounded by an intermittent purple-brick wall, bastioned and
loop-holed. A formidable defence, while it lasted. But it had a trick
of dissolving meekly into a sort of mud hedge, in order to gain the
next stately fragment, or maybe to effect an alliance with one of the
frowning gateways which had defied assault. This condition of things
was a source of sincere delight to my Reformer Futteh Deen (Victory of
Faith) who revelled in similes. It was typical of the irrational,
illogical position of the inhabitants in regard to a thousand
religious and social questions, and just as one brave man could break
through these sham fortifications, so one resolute example would
suffice to capture the citadel of prejudice, and plant the banner of
abstract Truth on its topmost pinnacle.
For he dreamt excellently well, and as he sate declaiming his Persian
and Arabic periods in the drawing-room with his eyes half shut, like
one in presence of some dazzling light, I used to feel as if something
might indeed be done to make the Mill of God grind a little faster.
In the matter of dining out, indeed, it seemed as if he was right. For
within a week of his desperate plunge, I received an invitation to
break bread with the municipal committee in the upper storey of the
Vice-President's house. The request, which was emblazoned in gold,
engrossed on silk paper in red and black, and enclosed in a brocade
envelope, was signed by the eleven members and the Reformer; who, by
the way, edited a ridiculous little magazine to which the committee
subscribed a few rupees a month. Solely for the purpose of being able
to send copies to their friends at court, and show that they were in
the van of progress. For a man must be that, who is patron of a
"Society for the General Good of All Men in All Countries." I was, I
confess it, surprised, even though a casual remark that now perhaps
his Honour the Lieutenant-Governor would no longer suspect his slaves
of disloyalty, showed me that philanthropy had begun at home. For the
little colony bore a doubtful character, being largely leavened by the
new Puritanism, which Government, for reasons best known to itself,
chooses to confound with Wahabeeism.
The entertainment given on the roof amid starshine and
catherine-wheels proved a magnificent success, its great feature being
an enormous plum-pudding which I was gravely told had been prepared by
my own cook. At what cost, I shudder to think; but the rascal's
grinning face as he placed it on the table convinced me that he had
seized the opportunity for some almost inconceivable extortion. But
there was no regret in those twelve grave, bearded faces, as one by
one they tasted and approved. All this happened long before a
miserable, exotic imitation of an English vestry replaced the old
patrician committees, and these men were representatives of the
bluest blood in the neighbourhood, many of them descendants of those
who in past times had held high offices of state, and had transmitted
courtly manners to their children. So the epithets bestowed on the
plum-pudding were many-syllabled; but the consensus of opinion was
indubitably towards its coolness, its digestibility, and its evident
property of soothing the body and the mind. Again I did not deny it.
How could I, out on the roof under the eternal stars, with those
twelve foreign faces showing, for once, a common bond of union with
the Feringhee? I should have felt like Judas Iscariot if I had struck
the thirteenth chord of denial.
The Reformer made a speech afterwards, I remember, in which, being
wonderfully well read, he alluded to love-feasts and sacraments, and a
coming millennium, when all nations of the world should meet at one
table, and--well! not exactly eat plum-pudding together, but something
very like it. Then we all shook hands, and a native musician played
something on the _siringhi_ which they informed me was "God Save the
Queen." It may have been. I only know that the Reformer's thin face
beamed with almost pitiful delight as he told me triumphantly that
this was only the beginning.
He was right. From that time forth the plum-pudding feast became a
recognised function. Not a week passed without one. Generally--for my
gorge rose at the idea of my cook's extortion--in the summer-house in
my garden, where I could have an excuse for providing the delicacy at
my own expense. And I am bound to say that this increased intimacy
bore other fruits than that contained in the pudding. For the matter
of that it has continued to bear fruit, since I can truthfully date
the beginning of my friendship for the people of India from the days
when we ate plum-pudding together under the starshine.
The Reformer was radiant. He formed himself and his eleven into
committees and subcommittees for every philanthropical object under
the sun, and many an afternoon have I spent under the trees with my
work watching one deputation after another retire behind the oleander
hedge in order to permutate itself by deft rearrangement of members,
secretaries, and vice-presidents into some fresh body bent on the
regeneration of mankind. For life was leisureful, lingering and
lagging along in the little town where there was neither doctor nor
parson, policeman nor canal officer, nor in fact any white face save
my own and my husband's. Still we went far and fast in a cheerful,
unreal sort of way. We started schools and debating societies, public
libraries and technical art classes. Finally we met enthusiastically
over an extra-sized plum-pudding, and bound ourselves over to reduce
the marriage expenditure of our daughters.
The Reformer grew more radiant than ever, and began in the
drawing-room--where it appeared to me he hatched all his most daring
schemes--to talk big about infant marriage, enforced widowhood, and
the seclusion of women. The latter I considered to be the key to the
whole position, and therefore I felt surprised at the evident
reluctance with which he met my suggestion, that he should begin his
struggle by bringing his wife to visit me. He had but one, although
she was childless. This was partly, no doubt, in deference to his
advanced theories; but also, at least so I judged from his
conversation, because of his unbounded admiration for one who by his
description was a pearl among women. In fact this unseen partner had
from the first been held up to me as a refutation of all my strictures
on the degradation of seclusion. So, to tell truth, I was quite
anxious to see this paragon, and vexed at the constant ailments and
absences which prevented our becoming acquainted. The more so because
this shadow of hidden virtue fettered me in argument, for Futteh Deen
was an eager patriot, full of enthusiasms for India and the Indians.
Once the sham fortifications were scaled, he assured me that
Hindustan, and above all its women, would come to the front and put
the universe to shame. Yet, despite his successes, he looked haggard
and anxious; at the time I thought it was too much progress and
plum-pudding combined, but afterwards I came to the conclusion that
his conscience was ill at ease, even then.
So the heat grew apace. The fly-catchers came to dart among the
_sirus_ flowers and skim round the massive dome of the old tomb in
which we lived. The melons began to ripen, first by ones and twos,
then in thousands--gold, and green, and russet. The corners of the
streets were piled with them, and every man, woman, and child carried
a crescent moon of melon at which they munched contentedly all day
long. Now, even with the future good of humanity in view, I could not
believe in the safety of a mixed diet of melon and plum-pudding,
especially when cholera was flying about. Therefore, on the next
committee-day I had a light and wholesome refection of sponge-cakes
and jelly prepared for the philanthropists. They partook of it
courteously, but sparingly. It was, they said, superexcellent, but of
too heating and stimulating a nature to be consumed in quantities. In
vain I assured them that it could be digested by the most delicate
stomach; that it was, in short, a recognised food for convalescents.
This only confirmed them in their view, for, according to the Yunani
system, an invalid diet must be heating, strengthening, stimulating.
Somehow in the middle of their upside-down arguments I caught myself
looking pitifully at the Reformer, and wondering at his temerity in
tilting at the great mysterious mass of Eastern wisdom.
And that day, in deference to my Western zeal, he was to tilt wildly
at the _zenana_ system.
His address fell flat, and for the first time I noticed a distinctly
personal flavour in the discussion. Hitherto we had resolved and
recorded gaily, as if we ourselves were disinterested spectators.
However, the Vice-President apologised for the general tone, with a
side slash at exciting causes in the jelly and sponge-cake, whereat
the other ten wagged their heads sagely, remarking that it was
marvellous, stupendous, to feel the blood running riot in their veins
after those few mouthfuls. Verily such food partook of magic. Only the
Reformer dissented, and ate a whole sponge-cake defiantly.
Even so the final Resolution ran thus: "That this committee views with
alarm any attempt to force the natural growth of female freedom, which
it holds to be strictly a matter for the individual wishes of the
man." Indeed it was with difficulty that I, as secretary, avoided the
disgrace of having to record the spiteful rider, "And that if any
member wanted to unveil the ladies he could begin on his own wife."
I was young then in knowledge of Eastern ways, and consequently
indignant. The Reformer, on the other hand, was strangely humble,
and tried afterwards to evade the major point by eating another
sponge-cake, and making a facetious remark about experiments and vile
bodies; for he was a mine of quotations, especially from the Bible,
which he used to wield to my great discomfiture.
But on the point at issue I knew he could scarcely go against his own
convictions, so I pressed home his duty of taking the initiative. He
agreed, gently. By-and-by, perhaps, when his wife was more fit for the
ordeal. And it was natural, even the _mem-sahiba_ must allow, for
unaccustomed modesty to shrink. She was to the full as devoted as he
to the good cause, but at the same time--Finally, the _mem-sahiba_
must remember that women were women all over the world--even though
occasionally one was to be found like the _mem-sahiba_ capable of
acting as secretary to innumerable committees without a blush. There
was something so wistful in his eager blending of flattery and excuse
that I yielded for the time, though determined in the end to carry my
point.
With this purpose I reverted to plum-puddings once more, and, I fear,
to gross bribery of all kinds in the shape of private interviews and
soft words. Finally I succeeded in getting half the members to consent
to sending their wives to an after-dark at-home in my drawing-room,
provided always that Mir Futteh Deen, the Reformer, would set a good
example.
He looked troubled when I told him, and pointed out that the
responsibility for success or failure now lay virtually with him, yet
he did not deny it.
I took elaborate precautions to ensure the most modest seclusion on
the appointed evening, even to sending my husband up a ladder to the
gallery at the very top of the dome to smoke his after-dinner cigar. I
remember thinking how odd it must have looked to him perched up there
to see the twinkling lights of the distant city over the soft shadows
of the _ferash_ trees, and at his feet the glimmer of the white
screens set up to form a conventional _zenan-khana_. But I waited in
vain--in my best dress, by the way. No one came, though my ayah
assured me that several jealously-guarded _dhoolies_ arrived at the
garden-gate and went away again when Mrs. Futteh Deen never turned up.
I was virtuously indignant with the offender, and the next time he
came to see me sent out a message that I was otherwise engaged. I felt
a little remorseful at having done so, however, when, committee-day
coming round, the Reformer was reported on the sick-list. And there he
remained until after the first rain had fallen, bringing with it the
real Indian spring--the spring full of roses and jasmines, of which
the poets and the bul-buls sing. By this time the novelty had worn off
philanthropy and plum-pudding, so that often we had a difficulty in
getting a quorum together to resolve anything; and I, personally, had
begun to weary for the dazzled eyes and the eager voice so full of
sanguine hope.
Therefore it gave me a pang to learn from the Vice-President, who,
being a Government official, was a model of punctuality, that in all
probability I should never hear or see either one or the other again.
Futteh Deen was dying of the rapid decline which comes so often to the
Indian student.
A recurrence of a vague remorse made me put my pride in my pocket and
go unasked to the Reformer's house, but my decision came too late. He
had died the morning of my visit, and I think I was glad of it.
For the paragon of beauty and virtue, of education and refinement, was
a very ordinary woman, years older than my poor Reformer, marked with
the small-pox, and blind of one eye. Then I understood.