You go down shade to the river, where naked men sit on flat brown rocks, to
watch the ferry, in the sun;
And you cross the ferry with the naked people, go up the tropical lane
Through the palm-trees and past hollow paddy-fields where naked men are
threshing rice
And the monolithic water-buffaloes, like old, muddy stones with hair on
them, are being idle;
And through the shadow of bread-fruit trees, with their dark green, glossy,
fanged leaves
Very handsome, and some pure yellow fanged leaves;
Out into the open, where the path runs on the top of a dyke between paddy-fields:
And there, of course, you meet a huge and mud-grey elephant advancing his
frontal bone, his trunk curled round a log of wood:
So you step down the bank, to make way.
Shuffle, shuffle, and his little wicked eye has seen you as he advances
above you,
The slow beast curiously spreading his round feet for the dust.
And the slim naked man slips down, and the beast deposits the lump of wood,
carefully.
The keeper hooks the vast knee, the creature salaams.
White man, you are saluted.
Pay a few cents.
But the best is the Pera-hera, at midnight, under the tropical stars,
With a pale little wisp of a Prince of Wales, diffident, up in a small
pagoda on the temple side
And white people in evening dress buzzing and crowding the stand upon the
grass below and opposite:
And at last the Pera-hera procession, flambeaux aloft in the tropical
night, of blazing cocoa-nut,
Naked dark men beneath,
And the huge frontal of three great elephants stepping forth to the
tom-tom’s beat, in the torch-light,
Slowly sailing in gorgeous apparel through the flame-light, in front of
a towering, grimacing white image of wood.
The elephant bells striking slow, tong-tong, tong-tong,
To music and queer chanting:
Enormous shadow-processions filing on in the flare of fire
In the fume of cocoa-nut oil, in the sweating tropical night,
In the noise of the tom-toms and singers;
Elephants after elephants curl their trunks, vast shadows, and some cry
out
As they approach and salaam, under the dripping fire of the torches
That pale fragment of a Prince up there, whose motto is _Ich dien_.
Pale, dispirited Prince, with his chin on his hands, his nerves tired out,
Watching and hardly seeing the trunk-curl approach and clumsy, knee-lifting
salaam
Of the hugest, oldest of beasts in the night and the fire-flare below.
He is royalty, pale and dejected fragment up aloft.
And down below huge homage of shadowy beasts; barefoot and trunk-lipped
in the night.
Chieftains, three of them abreast, on foot
Strut like peg-tops, wound around with hundreds of yards of fine linen.
They glimmer with tissue of gold, and golden threads on a jacket of velvet,
And their faces are dark, and fat, and important.
They are royalty, dark-faced royalty, showing the conscious whites of their
eyes
And stepping in homage, stubborn, to that nervous pale lad up there.
More elephants, tong, tong-tong, loom up,
Huge, more tassels swinging, more dripping fire of new cocoa-nut cressets
High, high flambeaux, smoking of the east;
And scarlet hot embers of torches knocked out of the sockets among bare
feet of elephants and men on the path in the dark.
And devil dancers luminous with sweat, dancing on to the shudder of drums,
Tom-toms, weird music of the devil, voices of men from the jungle singing;
Endless, under the Prince.
Towards the tail of the everlasting procession
In the long hot night, mere dancers from insignificant villages,
And smaller, more frightened elephants.
Men-peasants from jungle villages dancing and running with sweat and laughing,
Naked dark men with ornaments on, on their naked arms and their naked
breasts, the grooved loins
Gleaming like metal with running sweat as they suddenly turn, feet apart,
And dance, and dance, forever dance, with breath half sobbing in dark, sweat-shining breasts,
And lustrous great tropical eyes unveiled now, gleaming a kind of laugh,
A naked, gleaming dark laugh, like a secret out in the dark,
And flare of a tropical energy, tireless, afire in the dark, slim limbs
and breasts,
Perpetual, fire-laughing motion, among the slow shuffle
Of elephants,
The hot dark blood of itself a-laughing, wet, half-devilish, men all motion
Approaching under that small pavilion, and tropical eyes dilated look up
Inevitably look up
To the Prince
To that tired remnant of royalty up there
Whose motto is _Ich dien_.
As if the homage of the kindled blood of the east
Went up in wavelets to him, from the breasts and eyes of jungle torch-men,
And he couldn’t take it.
What would they do, those jungle men running with sweat, with the strange
dark laugh in their eyes, glancing up,
And the sparse-haired elephants slowly following,
If they knew that his motto was _Ich dien_?
And that he meant it.
They begin to understand
The rickshaw boys begin to understand
And then the devil comes into their faces,
But a different sort, a cold, rebellious, jeering devil.
In elephants and the east are two devils, in all men maybe.
The mystery of the dark mountain of blood, reeking in homage, in lust, in
rage,
And passive with everlasting patience,
Then the little, cunning pig-devil of the elephant’s lurking eyes, the unbeliever.
We dodged, when the Pera-hera was finished, under the hanging, hairy
pigs’ tails
And the flat, flaccid mountains of the elephants’ standing haunches,
Vast-blooded beasts,
Myself so little dodging rather scared against the eternal wrinkled pillars
of their legs, as they were being dismantled;
Then I knew they were dejected, having come to hear the repeated
Royal summons: _Dient Ihr!_
_Serve!_
_Serve, vast mountainous blood, in submission and splendour, serve royalty._
Instead of which, the silent, fatal emission from that pale, shattered boy
up there:
_Ich dien._
That’s why the night fell in frustration.
That’s why, as the elephants ponderously, with unseeming swiftness, galloped
uphill in the night, going back to the jungle villages,
As the elephant bells sounded tong-tong-tong, bell of the temple of blood
in the night, swift-striking,
And the crowd like a field of rice in the dark gave way like liquid to the
dark
Looming gallop of the beasts,
It was as if the great bare bulks of elephants in the obscure light went
over the hill-brow swiftly, with their tails between their legs,
in haste to get away,
Their bells sounding frustrate and sinister.
And all the dark-faced, cotton-wrapped people, more numerous and whispering
than grains of rice in a ricefield at night,
All the dark-faced, cotton-wrapped people, a countless host on the shores
of the lake, like thick wild rice by the water’s edge,
Waiting for the fireworks of the after-show,
As the rockets went up, and the glare passed over countless faces, dark
as black rice growing,
Showing a glint of teeth, and glancing tropical eyes aroused in the night,
There was the faintest twist of mockery in every face, across the hiss of
wonders as the rocket burst
High, high up, in flakes, shimmering flakes of blue fire, above the palm-trees
of the islet in the lake,
O faces upturned to the glare, O tropical wonder, wonder, a miracle in heaven!
And the shadow of a jeer, of underneath disappointment, as the rocket-coruscation
died, and shadow was the same as before.
They were foiled, the myriad whispering dark-faced cotton-wrapped people.
They had come to see royalty,
To bow before royalty, in the land of elephants, bow deep, bow deep.
Bow deep, for it’s good as a draught of cool water to bow very, very low to
the royal.
And all there was to bow to, a weary, diffident boy whose motto is _Ich
dien_.
_I serve! I serve!_ in all the weary iron of his mien--_’Tis I who serve!_
Drudge to the public.
I wish they had given the three feathers to me;
That I had been he in the pavilion, as in a pepper-box aloft and alone
To stand and hold feathers, three feathers above the world,
And say to them: _Dient Ihr! Dient!_
_Omnes, vos omnes, servite._
_Serve me, I am meet to be served._
_Being royal of the gods._
And to the elephants:
_First great beasts of the earth
A prince has come back to you,
Blood-mountains.
Crook the knee and be glad._
_Kandy._