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UNDER THE BIG DIPPER
[Illustration: HELÈNE]
UNDER THE BIG DIPPER
by
D. GEORGE DERY
Brentano’s :: :: :: New York
MCMXVI
Copyright, 1916, by D. George Dery
TO HER
TO WHOSE GRACIOUS FORBEARANCE
AND NEVER FALTERING FAITH THE
EXISTENCE OF THIS BOOK IS DUE,
I HEREWITH DEDICATE THIS, MY
FIRST LITERARY EFFORT
TO MY DEAR WIFE
MARCH NINETEENTH, 1916
UNDER THE BIG DIPPER
UNDER THE BIG DIPPER
BOOK I
CHAPTER I
India the wonderful--India the home of Buddha and the land of mystery
and misery. The country of glorious traditions and unsatisfied desires!
What ambitions have not been dreamed, what visions not conjured in
your cause! Assyrian and Greek, Mongol and Parsee, Portuguese rover,
Dutch trader, Russian diplomat and English merchant prince--all have
sought thee and thy wealth, all have fought and striven, chicaned and
murdered, sneaked and schemed--for thy gold and dominion over thy
people.
And the result? A land teeming with beings abject and low; a land
where Paradise might have been nestling amongst the giant hills of the
North, now laid waste and desolated of its ancient splendors--a land of
dreams, but a land of unfulfilled desires. The country of caste and the
grave of unborn ambitions; the country of dirt and superstition; the
cradle of plagues and epidemics and famines; the land of the noblest
palaces and temples, as well as of the meanest hovels which serve as
dwellings for its sad-eyed patient inhabitants.
And over all rises and sets the sun of the tropics, over all shine the
moon of Gautama and the stars of Zoroaster. Over all there rest the
curses of disease, dirt and ignorance, the ready tools of greed and
lust of power, the outcome of lack of coherence and the terrible rule
of classes.
This cradle of humanity is still a couch of prodigious
productiveness--and to our eternal shame be it confessed--these
all-enduring, passive, gazelle-like creatures are really white--white
like we are, of the same color as are the gay crowds of Hyde Park, or
the Boulevards of Paris, Rome or Vienna, New York or Boston! And older
as race and nearer to Eden than any of these. They pray to Brahma
and many-armed Shiva, to Buddha and Mohammed, to the sun and fire of
Zoroaster--and even to the cobra of the jungle; but forlorn and without
hope as they seemingly are, they are still human beings.
Along the dusty highway leading from Madras to Pondisherry, well inland
and therefore removed from the life-giving breezes of the Coromandel
coast and the Bay of Bengal, under a straggling group of ficus, a
native dwelling on low stilts raises its squalid roof above the yellow
grime of its surroundings.
From the distant hills resounds the shrill blast of the locomotive;
every once in a while the contour of gently rolling land permits a
glimpse of a curious looking behatted smokestack, copied after the
model of early Pacific days, belching soot and smoke, and pulling
noisily amidst groans and creaks their little dingy cars. Along the
highway the ungainly telegraph poles with their odd crosspieces copied
after the favorite gallows-construction of remote rural England, bear
witness to the encroaching hand of western civilization on the land.
Even India is now but another source of supply for trade and commerce.
Near this native structure, in the shade of a clump of hybiscus and a
few doleful fig trees, some saddle-horses and donkeys are tethered;
sprawling in the deep weed-like grass and scrubby undergrowth a
number of natives with swathed limbs and streaky, greasy turbans are
contemplating with expressionless mien the cloudless sky in which float
and soar buzzards and vultures upon seeming motionless wings. At some
distance from this group and seated on a well-filled saddle-bag, a
European is smoking a cigarette, as if unaware of the proximity of his
humbler companions.
The stilted building itself, containing two compartments separated by a
narrow hallway, is made accessible from the tangle of weeds and caked
mud by a crude ladder-like few steps of filth-covered boards.
Even the bounty of the tropics and wealth of vegetation in this favored
clime have not succeeded in hiding the unattractive nakedness of the
mean dwelling. Straggling, unkempt brush and creepers but emphasize
the wild condition of its near surroundings. Rough weathered beams,
decaying boards, cracked dirty bamboo and sunbaked grayish clay afford
the only protection against burning sun, heating wind and drifting rain.
In the larger of the two compartments, which hardly justify the
appellation of rooms, two men are seated upon a low, rough-hewn bench.
In the middle of the space an irregular heap of straw, covered with a
torn and unclean sheet of unbleached muslin, serves as a couch upon
which a man is lying prostrate--pale and evidently very ill.
One of the two seated men, a dark-skinned, bright-eyed native, heavily
bearded and dressed in garments denoting a position of high standing,
rises from the bench to kneel before the prostrate form. He holds the
unresisting wrist in his capable brown hand and feels carefully with
long prehensile fingers the pulse of the invalid.
The eyes of the sick man are covered by silky lashes; the features are
calm and resigned; the nostrils expand and contract while the native
physician, machine-like, listens and counts. Then the hand he holds is
laid gently down on the coverlet and slowly rising he beckons to the
other figure in the room to follow as he moves towards the door.
This other figure, until now silent and rigid in its vigil on the
bench, sends a look of deep concern and pity upon the recumbent young
man, and follows his companion into the adjoining space, where both
retire to the wall farthest removed from the sick youth.
“There is no hope for your young friend, my lord. The ague has weakened
his frame, the drug and excess have sapped his strength. He will die
before the setting of the sun. I shall give him a draught that will
ease his pain and hold the spirit to the last. Help I cannot; he is
beyond the power of man.”
His companion, a tall, lean man of fine features, and even in his
begrimed linens and dusty pith helmet a man of importance, gave the
speaker a searching look and then bowed his head in evident grief.
“Doctor Saklava, I know you to be a physician of great judgment and
equal skill. The governor vouches for you and I am more than grateful
to have had your aid so promptly. If you say there is no hope, I must
cease to indulge in any. But oh--if only something could be done!” Then
in a calmer voice he continued: “The boy is young, his constitution
strong, and after all youth clings to life! Is there truly no hope? It
means so much to me!” The Parsee remained motionless and silent. The
other went on:
“When I asked the governor for help he dispatched his chief surgeon
at the same time he sent for you; Major Murdock might arrive at any
moment. Will you not await him, pray, while I go in to the boy? How
soon do you think will he awaken to consciousness?”
“In less than half an hour, my lord. And I think his mind will be
clearer; indeed he may be perfectly rational. But his heart is very
weak and his vitality low. The next attack of fever, which I beg
to assure you cannot be prevented, will be his last, I fear. His
temperature is now as high as any man can bear and live; his pulse is
galloping and his lungs are under the maximum tension. I shall join
your man in the grove and will await Major Murdock’s arrival. I presume
he will bring a nurse and a cot?”
“The governor had arranged with the hospital at Mahabalibar. Would we
could have found the boy a day sooner!”
“My lord, the seed of death is in man when the seed of life is planted.
Any time during the past week your friend’s chances would have been no
better. This district of ours is not the place for passionate youth
from foreign lands, nor is it the country where indulgence can be
committed with impunity. Our sun is cruel, our climate is deadly. He
who cares not for his life here--is lost. Grieve not, my lord; fate has
overtaken your young friend, but he will pass out free from pain and
unconscious of the end that is inevitable. Until later, my lord.”
While the deeply salaaming physician retired, his tall companion
returned with careful, noiseless step to the sick-room and seated
himself facing the sufferer.
His elbows on his knees and his face buried in his palms, he
contemplated the white and almost lifeless features of the dying youth.
The regular, finely moulded face was fair like a woman’s, the proud,
bold nose, high faultless brow and beautiful, wavy, chestnut hair,
arched lips and delicate chin betokened a distinguished and even noble
ancestry. Two spots of crimson showed on the cheeks, almost the only
signs of life, and imparted an appearance of extreme youthfulness and
innocence; the lips were red and bright, the closed eyelids clear and
smooth. Must the boy die?
This silent musing brought a flood of memories to the motionless
watcher. His eyes grew clouded, tears gathered in them. The boy slept
on insensible to the bitter grief he was causing, unconscious of
everything, peaceful and still.
A shadow fell across the doorway. Brushing his eyes the man rose
quickly and cautiously passed out to greet the new arrival. It was
Major Murdock, the surgeon, a severe-looking, stout man in undress
uniform. A few whispered words, a handshake and the two physicians
followed the tall man into the sick-room.
Dr. Murdock examined the sleeper’s face carefully, thoroughly
investigated chest, heart-beat, pulse and temperature. His examination
over he, in a low voice, requested the others to join him in the
primitive porch.
“Your Excellency, I can but confirm the diagnosis and prediction of Dr.
Saklava; your friend cannot be saved. He lives but under the influence
of the narcotic that the doctor gave him, the only drug we know which
will hold life until the next fit of this awful fever consumes it
finally. Dr. Saklava has more experience in enteric fevers than anyone
in this province; he is both competent and skillful in the knowledge
and treatment of all native diseases. You could not have had a better
physician. Your friend will pass away with the next attack. He will
regain consciousness and there can be no harm in speaking to him. But
after his fever returns he will be delirious--and in his weakened state
neither drug nor cold bath nor nurse can avail. Do you wish me to watch
with you beside your young friend, Count Rondell?”
“No, Major, I think I will remain alone with him and save him the
shock of seeing too many strange faces upon his awakening. He doesn’t
know of my presence, if you remember. Will you gentlemen kindly remain
within hearing?”
“Certainly, my lord; when you want us, pray call.”
The Parsee doctor deposited a cup and bottle upon the bench, and after
giving some whispered instructions to the man who had been addressed
as “Count,” he followed the surgeon out of the dwelling. The tall man
resumed his post of observation.
The oppressive quiet of the chamber was broken after a long interval by
a sigh followed by the sound of a slight cough. Count Rondell leaned
forward eagerly. The invalid had moved, an arm had been thrown up and
the hand was feeling for the throat. Gradually the eyes opened and the
sick man gazed stupidly upward at the dingy mud-plastered bamboo lace
work of the ceiling, and then slowly and almost devoid of intelligence
swept the foreground and rested curiously upon the watcher. Count
Rondell half rose as he intently observed the change, and wondered
vaguely whether he should speak or await the actions of the sufferer.
The void expression of the eyes, now free of fever, slowly yielded to
one of recognition and then of shame. A heightened color mantled the
brow of the sick youth and an elusive twitch upon the poor lips as they
spoke: “How are you, Count? So you have caught me at last?”
The old man flushed, sank to his knee and with both arms extended,
leaned over the invalid.
“God greet you, Your Highness! I am more than happy to have found you!”
His voice broke and he grasped the nerveless hands of the youth before
him with deep emotion, whispering huskily, “My Prince--my boy!”
Tears gathered into the now softened eyes of the sick youth. The deep
feeling shown by the man kneeling at his pallet touched him keenly.
“Do not grieve, dear Count! I am not worth it. Why should you weep for
me? Why should you still extend your love and care for one so useless
as I?”
“My Prince, I beseech you, do not speak thus of yourself! Let us forget
what has passed and look forward to what is to come. I am glad to have
found you, so glad to be with you. Now, all will be, must be, well!”
“No--no, my dearest friend and guardian. No--there is nothing to look
forward to. I feel that the end has come. I know I shall never again
see my loved ones, my land, my king. I knew it when they brought me
here. Ill as I was, I was not unconscious. How long have I been lying
here? Raise my head so that I may look at you well--and, pray, be
seated!”
The Count gently adjusted the head and sat down.
For some moments not a word was spoken, then the young man broke the
stillness:
“Dear General, I have given you and all the world a great deal of
trouble, have I not? It will be all over and done with soon--pray,
don’t grieve, don’t worry. What difference will it make to the world
or to our Roumelia if I go and another succeeds to the throne? It
could only be a worthier man whoever he may be! Why should you waste
a thought on one who has been foolish as I have been? Why waste time
on the dreamy fool who bartered a throne, the love and respect of a
people, your friendship, Count, for the smiles of a false woman, a
wanton? Have I not shown myself a coward? A man who after his first
failure turned tail and ran off like a sulking boy? A good riddance I
call it! Better to know the truth now than burden a hopeful land with
so worthless a ruler. Do not weep; truly, I am not worth it!”
Count Rondell, his cheeks wet with the tears that were freely coursing
down his now deathly pale face, extended his hands imploringly. With a
great effort he recovered his calmness, and vehemently exclaimed, “I
beg of you, my Prince, do not let us harp on actions which must have
been beyond your control. Let us rather speak of your welfare and your
health. May I ask you to look at it in this light, your Highness?”
“Very well, my good teacher; let it be as you will. What do you wish me
to say or tell?”
“Your Highness, I trust and confidently believe we shall get you well
and out of this deadly place very soon. But you may shortly relapse
into a fever and with it into unconsciousness. I beg of your Highness
to state now what you wish to have attended to. I ask for your
commands! But first take this draught the physician has left for you.”
Indifferently at first, but after a sip or two, with grateful
expression in his features, the invalid partook of the drink.
“Ah, that is good, General! I was very thirsty without realizing it.
Well, there is really not much to tell and surely nothing to command. I
am here alone, with no obligations towards anyone. As it possibly may
be my last chance, you may want to hear how I came to this place?”
“I beg of your Highness not to tell more than you wish. Of course
I shall be glad to know your reasons for choosing this dangerous
country”--then once more breaking down, he murmured: “Why did you, my
boy, why did you?”
The sick man lightly pressed the older man’s arm, letting his hand rest
upon the sleeve. Count Rondell mutely gazed upon the suffering youth,
and saw that the boy before him knew the price he was to pay for his
folly, knew it all--and it seemed as if he wanted to pay it. Through
his mind there flitted thoughts of the futility of man’s plans when God
willed otherwise. With this bitter reflection there came the grief of
the thought of the death of this young life that had had no chance for
fulfillment.
“Count, the woman who made me forget my duty, who caused me to quarrel
with you and his Majesty--the woman for whose sake I was willing to
give up honor, glory and a throne--she was nothing but a wanton. I
shall be brief. Returning one day to our villa in Mentone, rather
earlier than usual, I found her with Monsieur Goddard, her late
business manager as I thought, in very intimate seclusion. I asked for
explanations--she laughed! The man had the best, the only right in the
world to be intimate with her--he was her lawful husband--the only
man she ever really loved and always had loved. What cared she for a
romantic boy--a fool! He was the man who had introduced me to her, who
had aided my wooing--and who had conspired with her to gull me! During
the months I was whispering words of love and endearment to the woman
I was craving to make my wife, she and he were in a conspiracy to ruin
me. All they wanted was my money.
“Humiliated and desperate, I grew reckless. How well you knew it, my
friend! How you pleaded with me when first this great passion took hold
of me! Would I had listened to you and obeyed your wise counsel; but it
was too late. The poison of this ignoble passion, which I mistook for
the holy fire of love, had entered my heart, had clouded my brain!
“After this discovery--I felt I had broken with everything in life. As
I sinned--I became reckless.”
The sick boy sank back, breathing hard and gazed absently into space.
His friend rose to soothe his agitation, but was arrested by an
imperious motion of the feeble hand.
“Let me conclude, General. After this blow--I chose to show that
I cared not for one woman’s treachery--and tried to prove this by
publicly making love to other women. And when one morning my valet
reported your arrival in the town, I felt that I dared not see
you, that I must flee! That day I joined the troupe of ‘Le Ballet
Occidental,’ which was to leave for Naples. I joined the company as the
admirer of Mademoiselle Genée, and I followed this troupe to Alexandria
and Cairo, thence to Bombay and Calcutta--and finally to Madras.
“On the way to the French settlement at Pondisherry I became very ill
and they thought it best to take me off the train and put me in charge
of the hospital. And the first night I could bear it no longer--they
wouldn’t give me morphine to ease my pain--and I ran away--and--here I
am. During all these latter weeks I always felt and sometimes knew that
you, my dear Count, were near me--but fate was against you, my would-be
saviour--against you and with me--the lost one--and so here I am!”
The last words came almost in a whisper. The Count sat still, his
forehead damp with cold perspiration. The young man had spoken like a
judge pronouncing his own doom!
He could not move, he could not speak. His lips were parched, his mind
numb. He gazed at the ashen face of the boy, at the crimson lips of the
smiling, bonny face--God, what should he do?
“And now, General, the last stage has been reached,” said the youth
recovering his voice. “All there is left to do is for me to ask
your forgiveness, the pardon of his Majesty, my uncle, for all the
unhappiness caused by me. You have in the vaults of the Credit
Lyonnaise at Nice my formal renunciation of all claims to the
succession and all family rights. There never was a marriage between
Madelain and me--the proofs are with the Austrian Legation at Rome.
Madelain was paid and all my dancer and actor friends are settled with.
Come, General, be brave, be strong! Forget me--and if you can--forgive
me. You in your wisdom will find a way to alter the succession, perhaps
my little sister can secure the dynasty. Come, be cheerful, and do not
grieve. It is but a worthless life that is about to pass out--I have
lived my life--and lost. May God forgive me!”
The hand clutching the arm of the General fell back. The Count, in his
agitation, mumbled terms of love and endearment as he eased the sick
boy upon the mean couch--but the youth had swooned. Quivering and faint
he hastened to the porch and summoned the physicians.
They came quickly, the Parsee first, who bent over the prostrate form.
A light touch upon the sick youth’s chest and brow and Doctor Saklava
announced the fit of fever had returned. He begged the Count to retire
to the adjoining room or outdoors. Nothing could be done; he would
watch and render all the help needed.
With the sinking of that day’s sun, in the meager light of a battered
lantern, and attended by the doctors and servants, General Rondell
knelt by the couch of straw and closed forever the eyes of the boy
who was to have been his king--but who had willed it otherwise. The
falling darkness found a sad cavalcade slowly riding back to Madras,
carrying all that remained of one of the world’s chosen. And the tall,
sorrow-stricken man rode on alone behind and found no balm for his
broken heart in his thoughts.