I did not go to bed till two o'clock the next morning, and when my
tindal aroused me at eleven, and informed me that a young man wished to
see me, I was disposed to believe that my engagement at twelve had been
made in my dreams.
I ordered the young man to be admitted. He came to my bedside, and
said in a confidential tone of voice: "The lady has sent me to wait
your commands." I got up, made a hasty toilet, drank a cup of very hot
tea, and followed the young man, who led me to the little house near
the theatre, at the top of the Bazaar. I entered the abode, and found
the lady sitting, native fashion, on a carpet on which was strewed
marigold and rose leaves. Her silver kulean (small hookah) was beside
her; and, sure enough, there was my long-lost terrier, Duke, looking as
sleek, fat, lazy, and useless as a native lady's dog could be. After
expressing my thanks to the lady for her condescension in granting
me the interview, I spoke to my former favourite, Duke, but he only
stretched himself, and yawned in reply.
"And you have still that ring with the blue stone in it," said the
lady, taking my hand, and smiling while she looked at the ring. "I
remember observing this when I saw you asleep, one morning, on a couch
in the tent at Deobund. Had I noticed it when you addressed me during
the storm, I would not have spoken so rudely to you."
"I do not remember having seen you previous to the other evening," said
I; "and if I had, I should never have forgotten it. Where have we met?"
I repeated.
"Where I had opportunities of seeing you, but where you could not see
me."
There was an old serving woman, whom she called mother, attending upon
her, and the young man whom she called brother, a soldier-like looking
youth, was still standing in the room to which he had conducted me. The
lady desired them both to withdraw, and then begged me to bring the
mora (or stool) upon which I was sitting close to her side. I obeyed
her. She placed her finely-formed head in the palms of her hands, and
gave vent to a violent flood of tears. I suffered her to weep without
interruption. Grief appeared to relieve her rather than to increase her
pain. At length she dried her eyes, and said:--
"My father was a _Moolvee_ (Mahommedan law officer), attached to the
Sudder Court, in Agra. I am his only daughter. He was absent from home
all day. Why should he not be? He was paid for it; he ate the Company's
salt. Well, when I was about fifteen years of age I was enticed away
from my home by the _Kotwall_ (native police officer). He sent an old
woman, who had silver on her tongue and gold in her hand. She told
me long stories about love; and promised me that if I left my home I
should marry the _Kotwall's_ son, who was young and handsome. I was
but a child and very foolish. The servants who had charge of me were
all bribed heavily. One received three hundred rupees, another two
hundred, a third one hundred. These people encouraged me in the idea
that to marry the _Kotwall's_ son would be the most prudent thing in
the world; and, one day, when my father had gone to the Court at about
ten o'clock, I eloped with the old woman whom the _Kotwall_ had sent to
talk me over.
"We travelled all day in a _bylee_ (native carriage), guarded by two
sowars. I asked the old woman several times where she was taking me,
but her only reply was, 'Set your heart at rest, child, and eat some
sweetmeats.' The _pawn_ which she gave me must have been drugged, for
shortly after eating it I fell asleep. How long I slept I cannot say,
but when I awoke I found myself in the house of a Sahib. The old woman
was there also. I became alarmed, but my fears were quieted by the old
woman's tongue. She told me I was close to Agra, but the truth was, I
was one hundred koss (two hundred miles) distant. Nautch girls were
sent for, and they danced before me. I had this hookah given to me,
and these bangles. A boy very handsomely dressed waited upon me, and
brought my food. Parrots, minahs, and doves were purchased for me to
play with. Whatever my childish fancy dictated the old woman instantly
procured.
"I was so constantly amused, I had no time or inclination to think of
my home. My father was a bad-tempered man, and I was only too glad to
be out of hearing of the quarrels in which he constantly engaged with
his servants and dependents. One evening the old woman said to me,
'_Baba_ (child), order a Nautch this evening, and let me, in your name,
invite the Sahib to witness it.' I had never seen an Englishman--an
European--except at a distance. The idea of being in the room with
one inspired me with terror. I had been taught to despise the Kafir,
whom my father said he was compelled to serve. I objected; but the old
woman's eloquence again prevailed.
"The night came; I was seated on my _fureesh_ (carpet) just as I am
now, and dressed in clothes of the gayest description. I was like a
little queen, and felt as proud as was Noor Jehan. I was then very
handsome. If I had not been, much trouble would have been spared; and
my flesh was firm--not as it is now. At about ten o'clock the Sahib
made his appearance. When he came into the room I was ready to faint
with alarm, and, turning my head away, I clung to the old woman, and
trembled from head to foot. '_Dhuro mut_' (do not fear), said the
Sahib; and then he reproved, but in a gentle voice, the Nautch girls
who were laughing loudly at me. The old woman, too, bade me banish my
fears. After a while, I ventured to steal a look at the Sahib; and
again averted my face, and clung to the old woman. The Sahib, after
remaining a brief while, during which he praised my beauty, retired,
and I was once more happy. 'There,' said the old woman, when he was
gone; 'you see the Sahib is not a wild beast out of the jungles, but as
gentle as one of your own doves.'
"On the following day I heard the Sahib talking in the next room;
I peeped through the keyhole of the door, and saw him seated at a
table. The _nazir_ (head clerk) was standing beside him, reading.
There was a man in chains surrounded by _burkandâzes_ (guards) at the
other end of the room, and a woman was there giving her evidence. The
Court-house was undergoing some repairs, and the Sahib was carrying on
his magisterial duties in his dining-room. The man in chains began to
speak, and deny his guilt. The Sahib called out, '_Choop!_' (Silence!)
in a voice so loud, that I involuntarily started back and shuddered.
The prisoner again addressed the Sahib, and one of the _burkandâzes_
dealt him a severe blow on the head, accompanied by the words, '_Suer!
Chor!_' (Pig! Thief!) The case was deferred until the following day,
and the court closed at about four o'clock in the afternoon, when the
Sahib again paid me a visit.
"I was now afraid to show my fears, lest the Sahib should order me to
be killed; and I therefore put on a cheerful countenance, while my
heart was quivering in my breast. The Sahib spoke to me very kindly,
and I began to dread him less.
"In this way I spent a fortnight; and, at the end of that time, I
ventured to talk to the Sahib as though I were his equal. It afforded
me great amusement to watch the administration of justice through the
keyhole; and, young as I was, I imbibed a desire to have a share in the
arbitrary power which was daily exercised.
"One day, when the Sahib came into my room, I began to talk to him
about a case of which he had just disposed. He laughed, and listened to
my views with great patience. I told him that the evidence upon which
the prisoner had been convicted was false from beginning to end. He
promised me that he would reverse the sentence of imprisonment; and, in
the ecstasy of my joy at finding that I really had some power, I was
intoxicated and unconscious of what I was doing. I suffered the Sahib's
lips to touch mine. No sooner had I done so than I felt a degraded
outcast, and I cried more bitterly than I have words to describe. The
Sahib consoled me, and said that his God and his Prophet should be
mine; and that in this world and the next our destinies should be the
same.
"From that day I was a wife unto him. I ruled his household, and I
shared his pleasures and his sorrows. He was in debt; but, by reducing
his expenses, I soon freed him, for his pay was fifteen hundred rupees
a month. I suffered no one to rob him, and caused the old woman, who
was a great thief and cheat, to be turned away. I loved him with all
my soul. I would rather have begged with him than have shared the
throne of Ackbar Shah. When he was tired, I lulled him to sleep; when
he was ill, I nursed him; when he was angry, I soon restored him to
good-humour; and, when I saw him about to be deceived by subordinates,
I put him on his guard. That he loved me I never had any reason to
doubt. He gave me his confidence, and I never abused his trust."
"Who was the man?" I inquired; for I was in doubt, although I suspected.
"Be patient, Sahib," she replied, and then resumed. "At the end of two
years I became a mother."
Here she gave vent to another flood of tears.
"The Sahib was pleased. The child seemed to bind us more closely
together. I loved the child; I believe it was because it bore such a
strong likeness to its father. When the Sahib was away from me on duty
in the district, he seemed still by my side, when I looked at the boy,
who was as white as you are."
"Is the child dead?" I asked.
"Be patient, Sahib. When you passed through Deobund, and stayed in the
tent with your friend, my child was two years old. I was the mistress
of that encampment at Deobund, and the wine you drank was given out
with this hand."
"How little do men know of each other!" I exclaimed; "even those who
are the most intimate! I had not the least idea there was a lady in the
camp, I assure you."
"How angry with you was I," said she, "for keeping the Sahib up so
late. You talked together the whole night long. Therefore I had no
remorse when I took your dog. Well, as you are aware, soon after that
the Sahib was seized with fever, from which he recovered; but he was so
shattered by the attack that he was compelled to visit Europe, where
you know--" She paused.
A native woman will never, if she can avoid it, speak of the death of
a person whom she has loved. I was aware of this, and bowed my head,
touching my forehead with both hands. The father of her child had died
on his passage to England.
"Before he left me," she continued, "he gave me all that he possessed;
his house and furniture; his horses, carriage, plate; his shares in
the bank; his watch, his dressing-case, his rings;--everything was
given to me, and I own all to this hour. When I heard the sad news I
was heartbroken. Had it not been for the child I would have starved
myself to death; as it was, I took to opium and smoking _bhung_
(hemp). While I was in this state, my Sahib's brother--the Captain
Sahib--came, and took away the boy; not by violence. I gave it to him.
What was the child to me then? I did not care. But the old woman whom
you heard me call my mother, who now attends me, gradually weaned
me from the desperation in which I was indulging; and, by degrees,
my senses returned to me. I then began to ask about my child, and a
longing to see him came over me. At first they told me he was dead;
but when they found I was resolved to destroy myself by intemperance,
they told me the truth; that the child was living, and at school in
these hills. I have come hither to be near my child. I see him almost
every day, but it is at a distance. Sometimes he passes close to where
I stand, and I long to spring upon him and to hug him to my breast,
whereon in infancy his head reposed. I pray that I could speak to him,
give him a kiss, and bless him; but he is never alone. He is always
playing with, or talking to, the other little boys at the same school.
It seems hard that he should be so joyous while his own mother is so
wretched. Of what use to me is the property I have, when I cannot touch
or be recognised by my own flesh and blood. You know the master of the
school?"
"Yes."
"Could you not ask him to allow my child to visit you? I could then
see him once more, and speak to him. You were a friend of his father,
and the request would not seem strange."
I felt myself placed in a very awkward position, and would make no
promise; but I told the woman I would consider the matter, and let her
know on the following day, provided she would stay at home, and not
visit that rock upon the road any more. She strove hard to extract from
me a pledge that I would yield to her request; but, difficult as it was
to deny her anything--she was still so beautiful and so interesting--I
would not commit myself, and held to what I had in the first instance
stated.
* * * * *
I paid a visit to the school at which my friend's child had been placed
by his uncle, a captain in the East India Company's service. I saw
some thirty scholars, of all colours, on the play-ground; but I soon
recognised the boy whom I was so curious to see. He was indeed very
like his father, not only in face and figure, but in manner, gait, and
bearing. I called to the little fellow, and he came and took my hand
with a frankness which charmed me. The schoolmaster told me that the
boy was very clever, and that, although only six years old, there were
but few of his playmates whom he did not excel. "His father was an old
friend of mine," I said. "Indeed our acquaintance began when we were
not older than this child. Would you have any objection to allow the
boy to spend a day with me?"
"I promised his uncle," was the schoolmaster's reply, "that he should
not go out, and that I would watch him closely; but of course he will
be quite safe with you. Any day that you please to send for him he
shall be ready."
"Does he know anything of his mother?" I inquired.
"Nothing," said the schoolmaster. "He was very young when he came to
me. I have no idea who, or what, or where the mother is, for his uncle
did not enter into the particulars of his parentage. The mother must
have been very fair, if she were a native, the boy is so very slightly
touched with the tar-brush."
I went home, and sent for the mother. She came; and I entreated her to
forego her request, for the child's sake. I represented to her that
it might unsettle him, and cause him to be discontented. I assured
her that he was now as happy and as well taken care of as any mother
could desire her offspring to be. On hearing this the poor woman
became frantic. She knelt at my feet and supplicated me to listen to
her entreaty--a sight of her child, a few words with him, and a kiss
from his lips. She said she did not wish him to know that she was his
mother; that if I would have him brought into my house, she would dress
in the garb of a servant woman, or _syce's_ (groom's) wife, and talk
to the boy without his being aware that she was the person who had
brought him into the world.
"And you will not play me false?" said I, moved by her tears. "You will
not, when you have once got hold of the boy, decline to relinquish
that hold, and defy his friends--as mothers _have_ done--to take him
from you, except by an order of Court? Remember, Dooneea (that was her
name), that I am running a great risk; and am, moreover, deceiving the
schoolmaster, and behaving badly to the boy's uncle, by allowing myself
to be swayed by your tears and my own feelings. Consider what disgrace
you will bring upon me, if you fail to keep your word in this matter."
She bound herself by an oath that she would do all I required, if I
would only give her the longed-for interview.
"To-morrow, at twelve," said I, "you may come here. At that hour, in
this room, the child shall be with me. Come in the dress of a poor
woman, and bring an infant with you. Let your excuse be that you have
come to complain of the ill-treatment you have received from your
husband, who is in my service. This will give me an opportunity of
bidding you remain until justice be done, and meanwhile you will see
the boy; and when I go out of the room, which will be only for a short
time, you can talk to him. Do you know your part, Dooneea?"
"Yes, Sahib."
"To-morrow, at twelve. Salaam, Dooneea!"
"Salaam, Sahib." She went away with a cheerful countenance.
There are no such actors in the world as the people of Hindostan.
The boy came to me a little before twelve, and was reading to me,
when Dooneea, with a child in her arms, and dressed in the shabbiest
apparel, rushed into the room, and commenced an harangue. She said she
had been beaten unmercifully by her husband, for no cause whatever;
that he had broken one of her fingers, and had attempted to stab her;
but she had saved her life by flight. All this she accompanied with
gesticulations and tears, according to the custom of complainants in
the East. I feigned to be very angry with the husband, and hastily left
the room, as if to make inquiry and to send for him.
I ran round to an outer door, and peeped in upon Dooneea and her
boy. She was repeating the same tale to the child, and the child was
imploring her not to cry. It was a strange scene. The tears she was now
shedding were not mock tears. The boy asked her how her husband came to
beat her? She began thus:--"I was sitting near the fire talking to my
eldest boy, and had my arm round his waist--there, just as I put my arm
round your waist--and I said to the boy, 'It is getting very late and
you must go to sleep,' and I pulled him to my breast--like this--and
gave him a kiss on his forehead, then on his eyes--there--just as
gently as that, yes, just like that. Well, the boy began to cry--"
"Why did he cry? Because you told him to go to bed?"
"Yes," said Dooneea; "but his father came in, and thought I was teasing
the child. He abused me and then he beat me."
The woman gazed at her child; and, having a good excuse for weeping in
her alleged wrongs, she did not scruple to avail herself of it. From
behind the screen which concealed me from her sight, and that of the
boy, I, too, shed tears of pity.
I returned to the room, and said, "Dooneea, since you are afraid of
your life, do not leave this house until I tell you to do so; but give
your infant to the sweeper's wife to take care of. I do not like your
children in my house."
How thankful she was! She placed her head upon my feet, and cracked her
knuckles over my knees.
Charles Lamb says that the children of the poor are adults from
infancy. The same may be said of the children of the rich in India.
Dooneea's little boy discussed the conduct of the cruel husband, and
sympathised with the ill-used wife, as though he had been called upon
to adjudicate the affair in a court of justice. He even went so far as
to say, "What a wicked man to beat such a dear looking woman!" and he
gave Dooneea the rupee which I had given to him on the day previous
when I saw him at the school. With what delight did Dooneea tie up that
piece of coin, from the child's hand, in the corner of her garment.
It seemed far more precious to her than all the jewels which his dead
father had presented to her in days gone by. It was a gift from her
own child, who was living, but to her, dead. Dooneea spoke Persian--a
language the boy did not understand. His father had taught Dooneea that
language in order that their servants might not know the tenor of their
discourse. In that language Dooneea now spoke to me, in the boy's
presence.
"Is he not very like his father?" she said.
"Very," I replied.
"Will he be as clever?"
"He is too young for any one to judge of that."
"But he will be as generous" (she pointed to the coin), "and he will be
as tall, as good-looking, as passionate, as gentle, and as kind."
The boy's boots were muddy. Dooneea observed this, and with her own
little hands cleaned them; and smiling, she asked him for a present, in
that tone and manner which the poorest menial in Hindostan adopts when
addressing the most haughty superior.
The boy blushed, and looked at me.
"Have you nothing to give her?" said I.
"Nothing," said he; "I gave her my rupee."
"Give her that pretty blue ribbon which is round your neck, and I will
give you one like it," said I.
He took the ribbon from his neck and gave it to Dooneea.
Dooneea twisted the ribbon in her hair, and began to weep afresh.
"Do not cry, you silly woman," said I; "I will see that your husband
does not beat you again."
She understood me, and dried her tears.
Dooneea again spoke to me in Persian. "Sahib," said she, "they do not
wash the children properly at that school. Order me to do this."
"Charley, why did you come to me in this state, with your neck
unwashed?" I asked the boy.
"We only wash in warm water once a week; on Saturdays," he replied.
"This is Thursday."
"But I cannot allow you to dine with me in this state," said I, in
Hindostanee. "You must be well washed, my boy. Dooneea, give the child
a bath."
With reluctant steps, the child followed his mother to my bathing-room.
I peeped through the purdah; for I began to fear that I should have
some trouble in parting the mother from her child, and half repented
that I had ever brought them together. While Dooneea was brushing the
child's hair, she said, "_Toomara mama kahan hai?_--Where is your
mother?"