"Why did you not come and see the game? After all your enthusiasm about
polo this morning, I did not think you would miss anything so good,"
were the first words of Miss Westonhaugh as we met her and Kildare in
the narrow path that leads down to Annandale. Two men were riding behind
them, who proved to be Mr. Currie Ghyrkins and Mr. John Westonhaugh. The
latter was duly introduced to us; a quiet, spare man, with his sister's
features, but without a trace of her superb colour and animal spirits.
He had the real Bombay paleness, and had been steamed to the bone
through the rains. As we were introduced, Isaacs started and said
quickly that he believed he had met Mr. Westonhaugh before.
"It is possible, quite possible," said that gentleman affably,
"especially if you ever go to Bombay."
"Yes--it was in Bombay--some twelve years ago. You have probably
forgotten me."
"Ah, yes. I was young and green then. I wonder you remember me." He did
not show any very lively interest in the matter, though he smiled
pleasantly.
Miss Westonhaugh must have been teasing Lord Steepleton, for he looked
flushed and annoyed, and she was in capital spirits. We turned to go
back with the party, and by a turn of the wrist Isaacs wheeled his horse
to the side of Miss Westonhaugh's, a position he did not again abandon.
They were leading, and I resolved they should have a chance, as the path
was not broad enough for more than two to ride abreast. So I furtively
excited my horse by a touch of the heel and a quick strain on the curb,
throwing him across the road, and thus producing a momentary delay, of
which the two riders in front took advantage to increase their distance.
Then we fell in, Mr. Ghyrkins and I in front, while the dejected Kildare
rode behind with Mr. John Westonhaugh. Ghyrkins and I, being heavy men,
heavily mounted, controlled the situation, and before long Isaacs and
Miss Westonhaugh were a couple of hundred yards ahead, and we only
caught occasional glimpses of them through the trees as they wound in
and out along the path.
"What are those youngsters talking about, back there? Tigers, I'll be
bound," said Mr. Ghyrkins to me. Sure enough, they were.
"What do you suppose I found when we got back this afternoon, Mr.
Griggs? Why, this hair-brained young Kildare has been proposing to my
niece----" his horse stumbled, but recovered himself in a moment.
"You don't mean it," said I, rather startled.
"Oh no, no, no. I don't mean that at all. Ha! ha! ha! very good, very
good. No, no. Lord Steepleton wants us all to go on a tiger-hunt to
amuse John, and he proposes--ha! ha!--really too funny of me--that Miss
Westonhaugh should go with us."
"I suppose you have no objection, Mr. Ghyrkins? Ladies constantly go on
such expeditions, and they do not appear to be the least in the way."
"Objections? Of course I have objections. Do you suppose I want to drag
my niece to a premature grave? Think of the fever and the rough living
and all, and she only just out from England."
"She looks as if she could stand anything," I said, as just then an open
space in the trees gave us a glimpse of Miss Westonhaugh and Isaacs
ambling along and apparently in earnest conversation. She certainly
looked strong enough to go tiger-hunting that minute, as she sat erect
but half turned to the off side, listening to what Isaacs seemed to be
saying.
"I hope you will not go and tell her so," said Ghyrkins. "If she gets an
idea that the thing is possible, there will be no holding her. You don't
know her. I hardly know her myself. Never saw her since she was a baby
till the other day. Now you are the sort of person to go after tigers.
Why do you not go off with my nephew and Mr. Isaacs and Kildare, and
kill as many of them as you like?"
"I have no objection, I am sure. I suppose the _Howler_ could spare me
for a fortnight, now that I have converted the Press Commissioner, your
new _deus ex machina_ for the obstruction of news. What a motley party
we should be. Let me see.--a Bombay Civil Servant, an Irish nobleman, a
Persian millionaire, and a Yankee newspaper man. By Jove! add to that a
famous Revenue Commissioner and a reigning beauty, and the sextett is
complete." Mr. Ghyrkins looked pleased at the gross flattery of himself.
I recollected suddenly that, though he was far from famous as a revenue
commissioner, I had read of some good shooting he had done in his
younger days. Here was a chance.
"Besides, Mr. Ghyrkins, a tiger-hunting party would not be the thing
without some seasoned Nimrod to advise and direct us. Who so fitted for
the post as the man of many a chase, the companion of Maori, the slayer
of the twelve foot tiger in the Nepaul hills in 1861?"
"You have a good memory, Mr. Griggs," said the old fellow, perfectly
delighted, and now fairly launched on his favourite topic. "By Gad, sir,
if I thought I should get such another chance I would go with you
to-morrow!"
"Why not? there are lots of big man-eaters about," and I incontinently
reeled off half a page of statistics, more or less accurate, about the
number of persons destroyed by snakes and wild beasts in the last year.
"Of course most of those deaths were from tigers, and it is a really
good action to kill a few. Many people can see tigers but cannot shoot
them, whereas your deeds of death amongst them ate a matter of history.
You really ought to be philanthropic, Mr. Ghyrkins, and go with us. We
might stand a chance of seeing some real sport then."
"Why, really, now that you make me think of it, I believe I should like
it amazingly, and I could leave my niece with
Lady--Lady--Stick-in-the-mud; what the deuce is her name? The wife of
the Chief Justice, you know. You ought to know, really--I never remember
names much;" he jerked out his sentences irately.
"Certainly, Lady Smith-Tompkins, you mean. Yes, you might do that--that
is, if Miss Westonhaugh has had the measles, and is not afraid of them.
I heard this morning that three of the little Smith-Tompkinses had them
quite badly."
"You don't say so! Well, well, we shall find some one else, no doubt."
I was certain that at that very moment Isaacs and Miss Westonhaugh were
planning the whole expedition, and so I returned to the question of
sport and inquired where we should go. This led to considerable
discussion, and before we arrived at Mr. Ghyrkins' bungalow--still in
the same order--it was very clear that the old sportsman had made up his
mind to kill one more tiger at all events; and that, rather than forego
the enjoyment of the chase, he would be willing to take his niece with
him. As for the direction of the expedition, that could be decided in a
day or two. It was not the best season for tigers--the early spring is
better--but they are always to be found in the forests of the Terai, the
country along the base of the hills, north of Oude.
When we reached the house it was quite dark, for we had ridden slowly.
The light from the open door, falling across the verandah, showed us
Miss Westonhaugh seated in a huge chair, and Isaacs standing by her side
slightly bending, and holding his hat in his hand. They were still
talking, but as we rode up to the lawn and shouted for the saices,
Isaacs stood up and looked across towards us, and their voices ceased.
It was evident that he had succeeded in thoroughly interesting her, for
I thought--though it was some distance, and the light on them was not
strong--that as he straightened himself and stopped speaking, she looked
up to his face as if regretting that he did not go on. I dismounted with
the rest and walked up to bid Miss Westonhaugh good-night.
"You must come and dine to-morrow night," said Mr. Ghyrkins, "and we
will arrange all about it. Sharp seven. To-morrow is Sunday, you know.
Kildare, you must come too, if you mean business. Seven. We must look
sharp and start, if we mean to come back here before the Viceroy goes."
"Oh in that case," said Kildare, turning to me, "we can settle all about
the polo match for Monday, can't we?"
"Of course, very good of you to take the trouble."
"Not a bit of it. Good-night." We bowed and went back to find our horses
in the gloom. After some fumbling, for it was intensely dark after
facing the light in the doorway of the bungalow, we got into the saddle
and turned homeward through the trees.
"Thank you, Griggs," said Isaacs. "May your feet never weary, and your
shadow never be less."
"Don't mention it, and thanks about the shadow. Only it is never likely
to be less than at the present moment. How dark it is, to be sure!" I
knew well enough what he was thanking me for. I lit a cheroot.
"Isaacs," I said, "you are a pretty cool hand, upon my word."
"Why?"
"Why, indeed! Here you and Miss Westonhaugh have been calmly planning an
extensive tiger-hunt, when you have promised to be in the neighbourhood
of Keitung in three weeks, wherever that may be. I suppose it is in the
opposite direction from here, for you will not find any tigers nearer
than the Terai at this time of year."
"I do not see the difficulty," he answered. "We can be in Oude in two
days from here; shoot tigers for ten days, and be here again in two days
more. That is just a fortnight. It will not take me a week to reach
Keitung. I am much mistaken if I do not get there in three days. I shall
lay a _dâk_ by messengers before I go to Oude, and between a double set
of coolies and lots of ponies wherever the roads are good enough, I
shall be at the place of meeting soon enough, never fear."
"Oh, very well; but I hardly think Ghyrkins will want to return under
three weeks; and--I did not think you would want to leave the party." He
had evidently planned the whole three weeks' business carefully. I did
not continue the conversation. He was naturally absorbed in the
arrangement of his numerous schemes--no easy matter, when affairs of
magnitude have to be ordered to suit the exigencies of a _grande
passion_. I shrank from intruding on his reflections, and I had quite
enough to do in keeping my horse on his feet in the thick darkness.
Suddenly he reared violently, and then stood still, quivering in every
limb. Isaacs' horse plunged and snorted by my side, and cannoned heavily
against me. Then all was quiet. I could see nothing. Presently a voice,
low and musical, broke on the darkness, and I thought I could
distinguish a tall figure on foot at Isaacs' knee. Whoever the man was
he must be on the other side of my companion, but I made out a head from
which the voice proceeded.
"Peace, Abdul Hafiz!" it said.
"Aleikum Salaam, Ram Lal!" answered Isaacs. He must have recognised the
man by his voice.
"Abdul," continued the stranger, speaking Persian. "I have business with
thee this night; thou art going home. If it is thy pleasure I will be
with thee in two hours in thy dwelling."
"Thy pleasure is my pleasure. Be it so." I thought the head disappeared.
"Be it so," the voice echoed, growing faint, as if moving rapidly away
from us. The horses, momentarily startled by the unexpected pedestrian,
regained their equanimity. I confess the incident gave me a curiously
unpleasant sensation. It was so very odd that a man on foot--a Persian,
I judged, by his accent--should know of my companion's whereabouts, and
that they should recognise each other by their voices. I recollected
that our coming to Mr. Ghyrkins' bungalow was wholly unpremeditated, and
I was sure Isaacs had spoken to none but our party--not even to his
saice--since our meeting with the Westonhaughs on the Annandale road an
hour and a half before.
"I wonder what he wants," said my friend, apparently soliloquising.
"He seems to know where to find you, at all events," I answered. "He
must have second sight to know you had been to Carisbrooke."
"He has. He is a very singular personage altogether. However, he has
done me more than one service before now, and though I do not comprehend
his method of arriving at conclusions, still less his mode of
locomotion, I am always glad of his advice."
"But what is he? Is he a Persian?--you called him by an Indian name, but
that may be a disguise--is he a wise man from Iran?"
"He is a very wise man, but not from Iran. No. He is a Brahmin by birth,
a Buddhist by adopted religion, and he calls himself an 'adept' by
profession, I suppose, if he can be said to have any. He comes and goes
unexpectedly, with amazing rapidity. His visits are brief, but he always
seems to be perfectly conversant with the matter in hand, whatever it
be. He will come to-night and give me about twenty words of advice,
which I may follow or may not, as my judgment dictates; and before I
have answered or recovered from my surprise, he will have vanished,
apparently into space; for if I ask my servants where he is gone they
will stare at me as if I were crazy, until I show them that the room is
empty, and accuse them of going to sleep instead of seeing who goes in
and out of my apartment. He speaks more languages than I do, and better.
He once told me he was educated in Edinburgh, and his perfect knowledge
of European affairs and of European topics leads me to think he must
have been there a long time. Have you ever looked into the higher phases
of Buddhism? It is a very interesting study."
"Yes, I have read something about it. Indeed I have read a good deal,
and have thought more. The subject is full of interest, as you say. If I
had been an Asiatic by birth, I am sure I should have sought to attain
_moksha_, even if it required a lifetime to pass through all the degrees
of initiation. There is something so rational about their theories,
disclaiming, as they do, all supernatural power; and, at the same time,
there is something so pure and high in their conception of life, in
their ideas about the ideal, if you will allow me the expression, that I
do not wonder Edwin Arnold has set our American transcendentalists and
Unitarians and freethinkers speculating about it all, and wondering
whether the East may not have had men as great as Emerson and Channing
among its teachers." I paused. My greatest fault is that if any one
starts me upon a subject I know anything about, I immediately become
didactic. So I paused and reflected that Isaacs, being, as he himself
declared, frequently in the society of an "adept" of a high class, was
sure to know a great deal more than I.
"I too," he said, "have been greatly struck, and sometimes almost
converted, by the beauty of the higher Buddhist thoughts. As for their
apparently supernatural powers and what they do with them, I care
nothing about phenomena of that description. We live in a land where
marvels are common enough. Who has ever explained the mango trick, or
the basket trick, or the man who throws a rope up into the air and then
climbs up it and takes the rope after him, disappearing into blue space?
And yet you have seen those things--I have seen them, every one has seen
them,--and the performers claim no supernatural agency or assistance. It
is merely a difference of degree, whether you make a mango grow from the
seed to the tree in half an hour, or whether you transport yourself ten
thousand miles in as many seconds, passing through walls of brick and
stone on your way, and astonishing some ordinary mortal by showing that
you know all about his affairs. I see no essential difference between
the two 'phenomena,' as the newspapers call them, since Madame Blavatsky
has set them all by the ears in this country. It is just the difference
in the amount of power brought to bear on the action. That is all. I
have seen, in a workshop in Calcutta, a hammer that would crack an
eggshell without crushing it, or bruise a lump of iron as big as your
head into a flat cake. 'Phenomena' may amuse women and children, but the
real beauty of the system lies in the promised attainment of happiness.
Whether that state of supreme freedom from earthly care gives the
fortunate initiate the power of projecting himself to the antipodes by a
mere act of volition, or of condensing the astral fluid into articles of
daily use, or of stimulating the vital forces of nature to an abnormal
activity, is to me a matter of supreme indifference. I am tolerably
happy in my own way as things are. I should not be a whit happier if I
were able to go off after dinner and take a part in American politics
for a few hours, returning to business here to-morrow morning."
"That is an extreme case," I said. "No man in his senses ever connects
the idea of happiness with American politics."
"Of one thing I am sure, though." He paused as if choosing his words. "I
am sure of this. If any unforeseen event, whether an act of folly of my
own, or the hand of Allah, who is wise, should destroy the peace of mind
I have enjoyed for ten years, with very trifling interruption,--if
anything should occur to make me permanently unhappy, beyond the
possibility of ordinary consolation,--I should seek comfort in the study
of the pure doctrines of the higher Buddhists. The pursuit of a
happiness, so immeasurably beyond all earthly considerations of bodily
comfort or of physical enjoyment, can surely not be inconsistent with my
religion--or with yours."
"No indeed," said I. "But, considering that you are the strictest of
Mohammedans, it seems to me you are wonderfully liberal. So you have
seriously contemplated the possibility of your becoming one of the
'brethren'--as they style themselves?"
"It never struck me until to-day that anything might occur by which my
life could be permanently disturbed. Something to-day has whispered to
me that such an existence could not be permanent. I am sure that it
cannot be. The issue must be either to an infinite happiness or to a
still more infinite misery. I cannot tell which." His clear, evenly
modulated voice trembled a little. We were in sight of the lights from
the hotel.
"I shall not dine with you to-night, Griggs. I will have something in my
own rooms. Come in as soon as you have done--that is if you are free.
There is no reason why you should not see Ram Lal the adept, since we
think alike about his religion, or school, or philosophy--find a name
for it while you are dining." And we separated for a time.
It had been a long and exciting day to me. I felt no more inclined than
he did for the din and racket and lights of the public dining-room. So I
followed his example and had something in my own apartment. Then I
settled myself to a hookah, resolved not to take advantage of Isaacs'
invitation until near the time when he expected Ram Lal. I felt the need
of an hour's solitude to collect my thoughts and to think over the
events of the last twenty-four hours. I recognised that I was fast
becoming very intimate with Isaacs, and I wanted to think about him and
excogitate the problem of his life; but when I tried to revolve the
situation logically, and deliver to myself a verdict, I found myself
carried off at a tangent by the wonderful pictures that passed before my
eyes. I could not detach the events from the individual. His face was
ever before me, whether I thought of Miss Westonhaugh, or of the
wretched old maharajah, or of Ram Lal the Buddhist. Isaacs was the
central figure in every picture, always in the front, always calm and
beautiful, always controlling the events around him. Then I entered on a
series of trite reflections to soothe my baffled reason, as a man will
who is used to understanding what goes on before him and suddenly finds
himself at a loss. Of course, I said to myself, it is no wonder he
controls things, or appears to. The circumstances in which I find this
three days' acquaintance are emphatically those of his own making. He
has always been a successful man, and he would not raise spirits that he
could not keep well in hand. He knows perfectly well what he is about in
making love to that beautiful creature, and is no doubt at this moment
laughing in his sleeve at my simplicity in believing that he was really
asking my advice. Pshaw! as if any advice could influence a man like
that! Absurd.
I sipped my coffee in disgust with myself. All the time, while trying to
persuade myself that Isaacs was only a very successful schemer, neither
better nor worse than other men, I was conscious of the face that would
not be banished from my sight. I saw the beautiful boyish look in his
deep dark eyes, the gentle curve of the mouth, the grand smooth
architrave of the brows. No--I was a fool! I had never met a man like
him, nor should again. How could Miss Westonhaugh save herself from
loving such a perfect creature? I thought, too, of his generosity. He
would surely keep his promise and deliver poor Shere Ali, hunted to
death by English and Afghan foes, from all his troubles. Had he not the
Maharajah of Baithopoor in his power? He might have exacted the full
payment of the debt, principal and interest, and saved the Afghan chief
into the bargain. But he feared lest the poor Mohammedans should suffer
from the prince's extortion, and he forgave freely the interest,
amounting now to a huge sum, and put off the payment of the bond itself
to the maharajah's convenience. Did ever an Oriental forgive a debt
before even to his own brother? Not in my experience.
I rose and went down to Isaacs. I found him as on the previous evening,
among his cushions with a manuscript book. He looked up smiling and
motioned me to be seated, keeping his place on the page with one finger.
He finished the verse before he spoke, and then laid the book down and
leaned back.
"So you have made up your mind that you would like to see Ram Lal. He
will be here in a minute, unless he changes his mind and does not come
after all."
There was a sound of voices outside. Some one asked if Isaacs were in,
and the servant answered. A tall figure in a gray _caftán_ and a plain
white turban stood in the door.
"I never change my mind," said the stranger, in excellent English,
though with an accent peculiar to the Hindoo tongue when struggling with
European languages. His voice was musical and high in pitch, though soft
and sweet in tone. The quality of voice that can be heard at a great
distance, with no apparent effort to the speaker. "I never change my
mind. I am here. Is it well with you?"
"It is well, Ram Lal. I thank you. Be seated, if you will stay with us a
while. This is my friend Mr. Griggs, of whom you probably know. He
thinks as I do on many points, and I was anxious that you should meet."
While Isaacs was speaking, Ram Lal advanced into the room and stood a
moment under the soft light, a gray figure, very tall, but not otherwise
remarkable. He was all gray. The long _caftán_ wrapped round him, the
turban which I had first thought white, the skin of his face, the
pointed beard and long moustache, the heavy eyebrows--a study of grays
against the barbaric splendour of the richly hung wall--a soft outline
on which the yellow light dwelt lovingly, as if weary of being cast back
and reflected from the glory of gold and the thousand facets of the
priceless gems. Ram Lal looked toward me, and as I gazed into his eyes I
saw that they too were gray--a very singular thing in the East--and that
they were very far apart, giving his face a look of great dignity and
fearless frankness. To judge by his features he seemed to be very thin,
and his high shoulders were angular, though the long loose garment
concealed the rest of his frame from view. I had plenty of time to note
these details, for he stood a full minute in the middle of the room, as
if deciding whether to remain or to go. Then he moved quietly to a divan
and sat down cross-legged.
"Abdul, you have done a good deed to-day, and I trust you will not
change your mind before you have carried out your present intentions."
"I never change my mind, Bam Lai," said Isaacs, smiling as he quoted his
visitor's own words. I was startled at first. What good deed was the
Buddhist referring to if not to the intended liberation of Shere Ali?
How could he know of it? Then I reflected that this man was, according
to Isaacs' declaration, an adept of the higher grades, a seer and a
knower of men's hearts. I resolved not to be astonished at anything that
occurred, only marvelling that it should have pleased this extraordinary
man to make his entrance like an ordinary mortal, instead of through the
floor or the ceiling.
"Pardon me," answered Ram Lal, "if I venture to contradict you. You do
change your mind sometimes. Who was it who lately scoffed at women,
their immortality, their virtue, and their intellect? Will you tell me
now, friend Abdul, that you have not changed your mind? Do you think of
anything, sleeping or waking, but the one woman for whom you _have_
changed your mind? Is not her picture ever before you, and the breath of
her beauty upon your soul? Have you not met her in the spirit as well as
in the flesh? Surely we shall hear no more of your doubts about women
for some time to come. I congratulate you, as far as that goes, on your
conversion. You have made a step towards a higher understanding of the
world you live in."
Isaacs did not seem in the least surprised at his visitor's intimate
acquaintance with his affairs. He bowed his head in silence, acquiescing
to what Bam Lai had said, and waited for him to proceed.
"I have come," continued the Buddhist, "to give you some good
advice--the best I have for you. You will probably not take it, for you
are the most self-reliant man I know, though you have changed a little
since you have been in love, witness your sudden intimacy with Mr.
Griggs." He looked at me, and there was a faint approach to a smile in
his gray eyes. "My advice to you is, do not let this projected
tiger-hunt take place if you can prevent it. No good can come of it, and
harm may. Now I have spoken because my mind would not be at rest if I
did not warn you. Of course you will do as you please, only never forget
that I pointed out to you the right course in time."
"Thank you, Ram Lal, for your friendly concern in my behalf. I do not
think I shall act as you suggest, but I am nevertheless grateful to you.
There is one thing I want to ask you, and consult you about, however."
"My friend, what is the use of my giving you advice that you will not
follow? If I lived with you, and were your constant companion, you would
ask me to advise you twenty times a day, and then you would go and do
the diametric opposite of what I suggested. If I did not see in you
something that I see in few other men, I would not be here. There are
plenty of fools who have wit enough to take counsel of a wise man. There
are few men of wit wise enough to be guided by their betters, as if they
were only fools for the time. Yet because you are so wayward I will help
you once or twice more, and then I will leave you to your own
course--which you, in your blindness, will call your kismet, not seeing
that your fate is continually in your own hands--more so at this moment
than ever before. Ask, and I will answer."
"Thanks, Ram Lal. It is this I would know. You are aware that I have
undertaken a novel kind of bargain. The man you wot of is to be
delivered to me near Keitung. I am anxious for the man's safety
afterwards, and I would be glad of some hint about disposing of him. I
must go alone, for I do not want any witness of what I am going to do,
and as a mere matter of personal safety for myself and the man I am
going to set free, I must decide on some plan of action when I meet the
band of sowars who will escort him. They are capable of murdering us
both if the maharajah instructs them to. As long as I am alive to bring
the old man into disgrace with the British, the captive is safe; but it
would be an easy matter for those fellows to dispose of us together, and
there would be an end of the business."
"Of course they could," replied Ram Lal, adding in an ironical tone "and
if you insist upon putting your head down the tiger's throat, how do you
expect me to prevent the brute from snapping it off? That would be a
'phenomenon,' would it not? And only this evening you were saying that
you despised 'phenomena.'"
"I said that such things were indifferent to me. I did not say I
despised them. But I think that this thing may be done without
performing any miracles."
"If it were not such a good action on your part I would have nothing to
do with it. But since you mean to risk your neck for your own peculiar
views of what is right, I will endeavour that you shall not break it. I
will meet you a day's journey before you reach Keitung, somewhere on the
road, and we will go together and do the business. But if I am to help
you I will not promise not to perform some miracles, as you call them,
though you know very well they are no such thing. Meanwhile, do as you
please about the tiger-hunt; I shall say no more about it." He paused,
and then, withdrawing one delicate hand from the folds of his _caftán_,
he pointed to the wall behind Isaacs and me, and said, "What a very
singular piece of workmanship is that yataghan!"
We both naturally turned half round to look at the weapon he spoke of,
which was the central piece in a trophy of jewelled sabres and Afghan
knives.
"Yes," said Isaacs, turning back to answer his guest, "it is a ----" He
stopped, and I, who had not seen the weapon before, lost among so many,
and was admiring its singular beauty, turned too; to my astonishment I
saw that Isaacs was gazing into empty space. The divan where Ram Lal had
been sitting an instant before, was vacant. He was gone.
"That is rather sudden," I said.
"More so than usual," was the reply. "Did you see him go? Did he go out
by the door?"
"Not I," I answered, "when I looked round at the wall he was placidly
sitting on that divan pointing with one hand at the yataghan. Does he
generally go so quickly?"
"Yes, more or less. Now I will show you some pretty sport." He rose to
his feet and went to the door. "Narain!" he cried. Narain, the bearer,
who was squatting against the door-post outside, sprang up and stood
before his master. "Narain, why did you not show that pundit the way
downstairs? What do you mean? have you no manners?"
Narain stood open mouthed. "What pundit, sahib?" he asked.
"Why, the pundit who came a quarter of an hour ago, you donkey! He has
just gone out, and you did not even get up and make a salaam, you
impertinent vagabond!" Narain protested that no pundit, or sahib, or any
one else, had passed the threshold since Ram Lal had entered. "Ha! you
_budmash_. You lazy dog of a Hindoo! you have been asleep again, you
swine, you son of a pig, you father of piglings! Is that the way you do
your work in my service?" Isaacs was enjoying the joke in a quiet way
immensely.
"Sahib," said the trembling Narain, apparently forgetting the genealogy
his master had thrust upon him, "Sahib, you are protector of the poor,
you are my father and my mother, and my brother, and all my relations,"
the common form of Hindoo supplication, "but, Sri Krishnaji! by the
blessed Krishna, I have not slept a wink."
"Then I suppose you mean me to believe that the pundit went through the
ceiling, or is hidden under the cushions. Swear not by your false idols,
slave; I shall not believe you for that, you dog of an unbeliever, you
soor-be-iman, you swine without faith!"
"Han, sahib, han!" cried Narain, seizing at the idea that the pundit had
disappeared mysteriously through the walls. "Yes, sahib, the pundit is a
great yogi, and has made the winds carry him off." The fellow thought
this was a bright idea, not by any means beneath consideration. Isaacs
appeared somewhat pacified.
"What makes you think he is a yogi, dog?" he inquired in a milder tone.
Narain had no answer ready, but stood looking rather stupidly through
the door at the room whence the unearthly visitor had so suddenly
disappeared. "Well," continued Isaacs, "you are more nearly right than
you imagine. The pundit is a bigger yogi than any your idiotic religion
can produce. Never mind, there is an eight anna bit for you, because I
said you were asleep when you were not." Narain bent to the ground in
thanks, as his master turned on his heel. "Not that he minds being told
that he is a pig, in the least," said Isaacs. "I would not call a
Mussulman so, but you can insult these Hindoos so much worse in other
ways that I think the porcine simile is quite merciful by comparison."
He sat down again among the cushions, and putting off his slippers,
curled himself comfortably together for a chat.
"What do you think of Ram Lal?" he asked, when Narain had brought
hookahs and sherbet.
"My dear fellow, I have hardly made up my mind what to think. I have not
altogether recovered from my astonishment. I confess that there was
nothing startling about his manner or his person. He behaved and talked
like a well educated native, in utter contrast to the amazing things he
said, and to his unprecedented mode of leave-taking. It would have
seemed more natural--I would say, more fitting--if he had appeared in
the classic dress of an astrologer, surrounded with zodiacs, and blue
lights, and black cats. Why do you suppose he wants you to abandon the
tiger-hunt?"
"I cannot tell. Perhaps he thinks something may happen to me to prevent
my keeping the other engagement. Perhaps he does not approve----" he
stopped, as if not wanting to approach the subject of Ram Lal's
disapprobation. "I intend, nevertheless, that the expedition come off,
and I mean, moreover, to have a very good time, and to kill a tiger if I
see one."
"I thought he seemed immensely pleased at your conversion, as he calls
it. He said that your newly acquired belief in woman was a step towards
a better understanding of life."
"Of the world, he said," answered-Isaacs, correcting me. "There is a
great difference between the 'world' and 'life.' The one is a finite,
the other an infinite expression. I believe, from what I have learned of
Ram Lal, that the ultimate object of the adepts is happiness, only to be
attained by wisdom, and I apprehend that by wisdom they mean a knowledge
of the world in the broadest sense of the word. The world to them is a
great repository of facts, physical and social, of which they propose to
acquire a specific knowledge by transcendental methods. If that seems to
you a contradiction of terms, I will try and express myself better. If
you understand me, I am satisfied. Of course I use transcendental in the
sense in which it is applied by Western mathematicians to a mode of
reasoning which I very imperfectly comprehend, save that it consists in
reaching finite results by an adroit use of the infinite."
"Not a bad definition of transcendental analysis for a man who professes
to know nothing about it," said I. "I would not accuse you of a
contradiction of terms, either. I have often thought that what some
people call the 'philosophy of the nineteenth century,' is nothing after
all but the unconscious application of transcendental analysis to the
everyday affairs of life. Consider the theories of Darwin, for instance.
What are they but an elaborate application of the higher calculus? He
differentiates men into protoplasms, and integrates protoplasms into
monkeys, and shows the caudal appendage to be the independent variable,
a small factor in man, a large factor in monkey. And has not the idea of
successive development supplanted the early conception of spontaneous
perfection? Take an illustration from India--the new system of
competition, which the natives can never understand. Formerly the
members of the Civil Service received their warrants by divine
authority, so to speak. They were born perfect, as Aphrodite from the
foam of the sea; they sprang armed and ready from the head of old John
Company as Pallas Athene from the head of Zeus. Now all that is changed;
they are selected from a great herd of candidates by methods of extreme
exactness, and when they are chosen they represent the final result of
infinite probabilities for and against their election. They are all
exactly alike; they are a formula for taxation and the administration of
justice, and so long as you do not attempt to use the formula for any
other purpose, such, for instance, as political negotiation or the
censorship of the public press, the equation will probably be amenable
to solution."
"As I told you," said Isaacs, "I know nothing, or next to nothing, of
Western mathematics, but I have a general idea of the comparison you
make. In Asia and in Asiatic minds, there prevails an idea that
knowledge can be assimilated once and for all. That if you can obtain
it, you immediately possess the knowledge of everything--the pass-key
that shall unlock every door. That is the reason of the prolonged
fasting and solitary meditation of the ascetics. They believe that by
attenuating the bond between soul and body, the soul can be liberated
and can temporarily identify itself with other objects, animate and
inanimate, besides the especial body to which it belongs, acquiring thus
a direct knowledge of those objects, and they believe that this direct
knowledge remains. Western philosophers argue that the only acquaintance
a man can have with bodies external to his mind is that which he
acquires by the medium of his bodily senses--though these, are
themselves external to his mind, in the truest sanse. The senses not
being absolutely reliable, knowledge acquired by means of them is not
absolutely reliable either. So the ultimate difference between the
Asiatic saint and the European man of science is, that while the former
believes all knowledge to be directly within the grasp of the soul,
under certain conditions, the latter, on the other hand, denies that any
knowledge can be absolute, being all obtained indirectly through a
medium not absolutely reliable. The reasoning, by which the Western mind
allows itself to act fearlessly on information which is not (according
to its own verdict) necessarily accurate, depends on a clever use of the
infinite in unconsciously calculating the probabilities of that
accuracy--and this entirely falls in with what you said about the
application of transcendental analysis to the affairs of everyday life."
"I see you have entirely comprehended me," I said. "But as for the
Asiatic mind--you seem to deny to it the use of the calculus of thought,
and yet you denned adepts as attempting to acquire specific knowledge by
general and transcendental methods. Here is a real contradiction."
"No; I see no confusion, for I do not include the higher adepts in
either class, since they have the wisdom to make use of the learning and
of the methods of both. They seem to me to be endeavouring, roughly
speaking, to combine the two. They believe absolute knowledge
attainable, and they devote much time to the study of nature, in which
pursuit they make use of highly analytical methods. They subdivide
phenomena to an extent that would surprise and probably amuse a Western
thinker. They count fourteen distinct colours in the rainbow, and
invariably connect sound, even to the finest degrees, with shades of
colour. I could name many other peculiarities of their mode of studying
natural phenomena, which displays a much more minute subdivision and
classification of results than you are accustomed to. But beside all
this they consider that the senses of the normal man are susceptible of
infinite refinement, and that upon a greater or less degree of acquired
acuteness of perception the value of his results must depend. To attain
this high degree of sensitiveness, necessary to the perception of very
subtle phenomena, the adepts find it necessary to train their faculties,
bodily and mental, by a life of rigid abstention from all pleasures or
indulgences not indispensable in maintaining the relation between the
physical and intellectual powers."
"The common _fakir_ aims at the same thing," I remarked.
"But he does not attain it. The common _fakir_ is an idiot. He may, by
fasting and self-torture, of a kind no adept would approve, sharpen his
senses till he can hear and see some sounds and sights inaudible and
invisible to you and me. But his whole system lacks any intellectual
basis: he regards knowledge as something instantaneously attainable when
it comes at last; he believes he will have a vision, and that everything
will be revealed to him. His devotion to his object is admirable, when
he is a genuine ascetic and not, as is generally the case, a
good-for-nothing who makes his piety pay for his subsistence; but it is
devotion of a very low intellectual order. The true adept thinks the
training of the mind in intellectual pursuits no less necessary than the
moderate and reasonable mortification of the flesh, and higher Buddhism
pays as much attention to the one as to the other."
"Excuse me," said I, "if I make a digression. I think there are two
classes of minds commonly to be found among thinkers all over the world.
The one seek to attain to knowledge, the others strive to acquire it.
There is a class of commonplace intellects who regard knowledge of all
kinds in the light of a ladder; one ladder for each science, and the
rungs of the ladders are the successive facts mastered by an effort and
remembered in the order they have been passed. These persons think it is
possible to attain to high eminence on one particular ladder, that is,
in one particular science, without having been up any of the other
ladders, that is, without a knowledge of other branches of seience. This
is the mind of the plodder, the patient man who climbs, step by step, in
his own unvarying round of thought; not seeing that it is but the wheel
of a treadmill over which he is labouring, and that though every step
may pass, and repass, beneath his toiling feet, he can never obtain a
birdseye view of what he is doing, because his eyes are continually
fixed on the step in front."
"But," I continued, as Isaacs assented to my simile by a nod, "there is
another class of minds also. There are persons who regard the whole
imaginable and unimaginable knowledge of mankind, past, present, and
future, as a boundless plain over which they hang suspended and can look
down. Immediately beneath them there is a map spread out which
represents, in the midst of the immense desert, the things they
themselves know. It is a puzzle map, like those they make for children,
where each piece fits into its appointed place, and will fit nowhere
else; every piece of knowledge acquired fits into the space allotted to
it, and when there is a piece, that is, a fact, wanting, it is still
possible to define its extent and shape by the surrounding portions,
though all the details of colour and design are lacking. These are the
people who regard knowledge as a whole, harmonious, when every science
and fragment of a science has its appointed station and is necessary to
completeness of perfect knowledge. I hope I have made clear to you what
I mean, though I am conscious of only sketching the outlines of a
distinction which I believe to be fundamental."
"Of course it is fundamental. Broadly, it is the difference between
analytic and synthetic thought; between the subjective and the objective
views; between the finite conception of a limited world and the infinite
ideal of perfect wisdom. I understand you perfectly."
"You puzzle me continually, Isaacs. Where did you learn to talk about
'analytic' and 'synthetic,' and 'subjective' and 'objective,' and
transcendental analysis, and so forth?" It seemed so consistent with his
mind that he should understand the use of philosophical terms, that I
had not realised how odd it was that a man of his purely Oriental
education should know anything about the subject. His very broad
application of the words 'analytic' and 'synthetic' to my pair of
illustrations attracted my attention and prompted the question I had
asked.
"I read a good deal," he said simply. Then he added in a reflective
tone, "I rather think I have a philosophical mind. The old man who
taught me theology in Istamboul when I was a boy used to talk philosophy
to me by the hour, though I do not believe he knew much about it. He was
a plodder, and went up ladders in search of information, like the man
you describe. But he was very patient and good to me; the peace of Allah
be with him."
It was late, and soon afterwards we parted for the night. The next day
was Sunday, and I had a heap of unanswered letters to attend to, so we
agreed to meet after tiffin and ride together before dining with Mr.
Ghyrkins and the Westonhaughs.
I went to my room and sat a while over a volume of Kant, which I always
travel with--a sort of philosopher's stone on which to whet the mind's
tools when they are dulled with boring into the geological strata of
other people's ideas. I was too much occupied with the personality of
the man I had been talking with to read long, and so I abandoned myself
to a reverie, passing in review the events of the long day.
* * * * *