The editor of the _Word of Truth_ sat in his office correcting a proof.
The proof looked insurmountably difficult of correction, because it was
printed in Bengali; but Tarachand Mookerjee’s eye ran over it nimbly,
and was accompanied by a smile, ever expanding and contracting, of
pleased, almost childish appreciation. The day was hot, unusually so for
February; and as the European editors up-town worked in their
shirt-sleeves, so Tarachand Mookerjee worked in his _dhoty_, which left
him bare from his waist up—bare and brown and polished, like a figure
carved in mahogany, for his ribs were very visible. He wore nothing
else, except patent leather shoes and a pair of white cotton stockings,
originally designed for a more muscular limb, if for a weaker sex. These
draperies were confined below the knee by pieces of the red tape with
which a considerate Government tied up the reports and resolutions it
sent the editor of the _Word of Truth_ for review. Above Tarachand’s
three-cornered face his crisp black hair stood in clumps of oily and
admired disorder; he had early acquired the literary habit of running
his fingers through it. He had gentle, velvety eyes, and delicate
features, and a straggling beard. He had lost two front teeth, and his
attenuated throat was well sunk between his narrow shoulders. This gave
him the look of a poor nervous creature; and, indeed, there was not a
black-and-white terrier in Calcutta that could not have frightened him
horribly. Yet he was not in the least afraid of a watch-dog belonging to
Government—an official translator who weekly rendered up a confidential
report of the emanations of the _Word of Truth_ in English—because he
knew that this animal’s teeth were drawn by the good friends of Indian
progress in the English Parliament.
Tarachand did almost everything that had to be done for the _Word of
Truth_ except the actual printing; although he had a nephew at the
Scotch Mission College who occasionally wrote a theatrical notice for
him in consideration of a free ticket, and who never ceased to urge him
to print the paper in English, so that he, the nephew, might have an
opportunity of practising composition in that language. It was Tarachand
who translated the news out of the European papers into his own columns,
where it read backwards, who reviewed the Bengali school-books written
by the pundits of his acquaintance, who “fought” the case of the baboo
in the Public Works Department dismissed for the trivial offence of
stealing blotting-paper. It was, above all, Tarachand who wrote
editorials about the conduct of the Government of India: that was the
business of his life, his morning and his evening meditation. Tarachand
had a great pull over the English editors uptown here; had a great pull,
in fact, over any editors anywhere who felt compelled to base their
opinions upon facts, or to express them with an eye upon consequences.
Tarachand knew nothing about facts—it is doubtful whether he would
recognise one if he saw it—and consequences did not exist for him. In
place of these drawbacks he had the great advantages of imagination and
invective. He was therefore able to write the most graphic editorials.
He believed them, too, with the open-minded, admiring simplicity that
made him wax and wane in smiles over this particular proof. I doubt
whether Tarachand could be brought to understand the first principles of
veracity as applied to public affairs, unless possibly through his
pocket. A definition to the Aryan mind is always best made in rupees,
and to be mulcted heavily by a court of law might give him a grieved and
surprised, but to some extent convincing education in political ethics.
It would necessarily interfere at the same time, however, with his
untrammelled and joyous talent for the creation and circulation of cheap
fiction; it would be a hard lesson, and in the course of it Tarachand
would petition with fervid loyalty and real tears. Perhaps it was on
some of these accounts that the Government of India had never run
Tarachand in.
Even for an editor’s office it was a small room, and though it was on
the second floor, the walls looked as if fungi grew on them in the
rains. The floor was littered with publications; for the _Word of Truth_
was taken seriously in Asia and in Oxford, and “exchanged” with a number
of periodicals devoted to theosophical research, or the destruction of
the opium revenue, or the protection of the sacred cow by combination
against the beef-eating Briton. In one corner lay a sprawling blue heap
of the reports and resolutions before mentioned, accumulating the dust
of the year, at the end of which Tarachand would sell them for waste
paper. For the rest, there was the editorial desk, with a chair on each
side of it, the editorial gum-pot and scissors and waste-paper basket;
and portraits, cut from the _Illustrated London News_, askew on the wall
and wrinkling in their frames, of Max Müller and Lord Ripon. The warm
air was heavy with the odour of fresh printed sheets, and sticky with
Tarachand’s personal anointing of cocoa-nut oil, and noisy with the
clamping of the press below, the scolding of the crows, the eternal
wrangle of the streets. Through the open window one saw the sunlight
lying blindly on the yellow-and-pink upper stories, with their winding
outer staircases and rickety balconies and narrow barred windows, of the
court below.
Tarachand finished his proof and put it aside to cough. He was bent
almost double, and still coughing when Mohendra Lal Chuckerbutty came
in; so that the profusion of smiles with which he welcomed his brother
journalist was not undimmed with tears. They embraced strenuously,
however, and Mohendra, with a corner of his nether drapery, tenderly
wiped the eyes of Tarachand. For the moment the atmosphere became doubly
charged with oil and sentiment, breaking into a little storm of phrases
of affection and gestures of respect. When it had been gone through
with, these gentlemen of Bengal sat opposite each other beaming, and
turned their conversation into English as became gentlemen of Bengal.
“I deplore,” said Mohendra Lal Chuckerbutty concernedly, with one fat
hand outspread on his knee, “to see that this iss still remaining with
you——”
The other, with a gesture, brushed his ailment away. “Oh, it iss
nothing—nothing whatever! I have been since three days under
astronomical treatment of Dr. Chatterjee. ‘Sir,’ he remarked me
yesterday, as I was leaving his höwwse, ‘after _one_ month you will be
again salubrious. You will be on legs again—_take_ my word!’”
Mohendra leaned back in his chair, put his head on one side, and
described a right angle with one leg and the knee of the other. “Smart
chap, Chatterjee!” he said, in perfect imitation of the casual sahib. He
did not even forget to smooth his chin judicially as he said it. The
editor of the _Word of Truth_, whose social opportunities had been
limited to his own caste, looked on with admiration.
“And what news do you bring? But already I have perused the _Bengal Free
Press_ of to-day, so without doubt I know all the news!” Tarachand made
this professional compliment as coyly and insinuatingly as if he and
Mohendra had been sweethearts. “I can_not_ withhold my congratulations
on that leader of thiss morning,” he went on fervently. “Here it is to
my hand; diligently I have been studying it with awful admiration.”
Mohendra’s chin sank into his neck in a series of deprecating nods and
inarticulate expressions of dissent, and his eyes glistened. Tarachand
took up the paper and read from it:—
“‘THE SATRAP AND THE COLLEGES.’
“Ah, how will His Honour look when he sees that!
“‘Is it possible, we ask all sane men with a heart in their bosom, that
Dame Rumour is right in her prognostications? Can it be true that the
tyrant of Belvedere will dare to lay his hand on the revenue sacredly
put aside to shower down upon our young hopefuls the mother’s milk of an
Alma Mater upon any pretext whatsoever? We fear the affirmative. Even as
we go to press the knell of higher education may be sounding, and any
day poor Bengal may learn from a rude Notification in the _Gazette_ that
her hope of progress has been shattered by the blasting pen of the
caitiff Church. We will not mince matters, nor hesitate to proclaim to
the housetops that the author of this dastardly action is but a poor
stick. Doubtless he will say that the College grants are wanted for this
or for that; but full well the people of this province know it is to
swell the fat pay of boot-licking English officials that they are
wanted. A wink is as good as a nod to a blind horse, and any excuse will
serve when an autocrat without fear of God or man sits upon the _gaddi_.
Many are the pitiable cases of hardship that will now come to view. One
amongst thousands will serve. Known to the writer is a family man, and a
large one. He has been blessed with seven sons, all below the age of
nine. Up to the present he has been joyous as a lark and playful as a
kitten, trusting in the goodness of Government to provide the nutrition
of their minds and livelihoods. Now he is beating his breast, for his
treasures will be worse than orphans. How true are the words of the
poet—
“‘Manners with fortunes, humours turn with climes,
Tenets with books, and principles with times!’
Again and yet again have we exposed the hollow, heartless and vicious
policy of the acting Lieutenant-Governor, but, alas! without result.
“‘Destroy his fib or sophistry—in vain;
The creature’s at his dirty work again!’
But will this province sit tamely down under its brow-beating? A
thousand times no! We will appeal to the justice, to the mercy of
England, through our noble friends in Parliament, and the lash will yet
fall like a scorpion upon the shrinking hide of the coward who would
filch the people from their rights.’”
Tarachand stopped to cough, and his round liquid eyeballs, as he turned
them upon Mohendra, stood out of their creamy whites with enthusiasm.
“One word,” he cried, as soon as he had breath: “you are the Ma_cau_lay
of Bengal! No less. The Ma_cau_lay of Bengal!”
(John Church, when he read Mohendra’s article next day, laughed, but
uneasily. He knew that in all Bengal there is no such thing as a sense
of humour.)
“My own feeble pen,” Tarachand went on deprecatingly, “has been busy at
this thing for the to-morrow’s issue. I also have been saying some
worthless remark, perhaps not altogether beyond the point,” and the
corrected proof went across the table to Mohendra. While he glanced
through it Tarachand watched him eagerly, reflecting every shade of
expression that passed over the other man’s face. When Mohendra smiled
Tarachand laughed out with delight, when Mohendra looked grave
Tarachand’s countenance was sunk in melancholy.
“‘Have the hearts of the people of India turned to water that any son of
English mud may ride over their prostrate forms?’”
he read aloud in Bengali. “That is well said.
“‘Too often the leaders of the people have waited on the
Lieutenant-Governor to explain desirable matters, but the counsel of
grey hairs has not been respected. Three Vedas, and the fourth a cudgel!
The descendants of monkeys have forgotten that once before they played
too many tricks. The white dogs want another lesson.’
“A-ha!” Mohendra paused to comment, smiling. “Very good talk. But it is
necessary also to be a little careful. After that—it is my advice—you
say how Bengalis are loyal before everything.”
The editor of the _Word of Truth_ slowly shook his head, showing, in his
contemptuous amusement, a row of glittering teeth stained with the red
of the betel. “No harm can come,” he said. “They dare not muzzle thee
press.” The phrase was pat and familiar. “When the loin-cloth burns one
must speak out. I am a poor man, and I have sons. Where is their rice to
come from? Am I a man without shame, that I should let the Sirkar turn
them into carpenters?” In his excitement Tarachand had dropped into his
own tongue.
“‘Education to Bengalis is as dear as religion. They have fought for
religion, they may well fight for education. Let the game go on; let
European officials grow fat on our taxes; let the wantons, their women,
dance in the arms of men, and look into their faces with impudence, at
the _tamashos_ of the Burra Lât as before. But if the Sirkar robs the
poor Bengali of his education let him beware. He will become without
wings or feathers, while Shiva will protect the helpless and those with
a just complaint.’
“Without doubt that will make a _sen_sation,” Mohendra said, handing
back the proof. “With_out_ doubt! You can have much more the courage of
your opinion in the vernacular. English—that iss a_noth_er thing. I
wrote myséêlf, last week, some issmall criticism on the Chairman of the
Municipality, maybe half a column—about that new drain in Colootollah
which we must put our hand in our pocket. Yesterda-ay I met the Chairman
on the Red Road, and he takes no notiss off my face! That was _not_
pleasant. To-day I am writing on issecond thoughts we cannot live
without drainage, and I will send him marked copy. But in that way it
iss troublesome, the English.”
“These Europeans they have no eye-shame. They are entirely made of wood.
But I think this Notification will be a nice kettle of fish! Has the
Committee got isspeakers for the mass meeting on the Maidan?”
Mohendra nodded complacently. “Already it is being arranged. For a month
I have known every word spoken by His Honour on this thing. I have the
_best_ information. Every week I am watching the _Gazette_. The morning
of publication _ekdum_[B] goes telegram to our good friend in
Parliament. Agitation in England, agitation in India! Either will come
another Royal Commission to upset the thing, or the Lieutenant-Governor
is forced to _re_tire.”
-----
Footnote B:
In one breath.
-----
Mohendra’s nods became oracular. Then his expression grew seriously
regretful. “Myséêlf I hope they will—what iss it in English?—_w’itewass_
him with a commission. It goes against me to see disgrace on a high
official. It is _not_ pleasant. He means well—he _means_ well. And at
heart he is a very good fellow—personally I have had much agreeable
conversation with him. Always he has asked me to his garden-parties.”
“He has set fire to his own beard, brother,” said the editor of the
_Word of Truth_ in the vernacular, spitting.
“Very true—oh, very true! And all the more we must attack him because I
see the reptile English press, in Calcutta, in Bombay, in Allahabad,
they are upholding this dacoity. That iss the only word—dacoity.”
Mohendra rose. “And we two have both off us the best occasion to fight,”
he added beamingly, as he took his departure, “for did we not graduate
hand in hand that same year out off Calcutta University?”
* * * * *
“God knows, Ancram, I believe it is the right thing to do!”
John Church had reached his difficult moment—the moment he had learned
to dread. It lay in wait for him always at the end of unbaffled
investigation, of hard-fast steering by principle, of determined
preliminary action of every kind—the actual executive moment. Neither
the impulse of his enthusiasm nor the force of his energy ever sufficed
to carry him over it comfortably; rather, at this point, they ebbed
back, leaving him stranded upon his responsibility, which invariably at
once assumed the character of a quicksand. He was never defeated by
himself at these junctures, but he hated them. He turned out from
himself then, consciously seeking support and reinforcement, to which at
other times he was indifferent; and it was in a crisis of desire for
encouragement that he permitted himself to say to Lewis Ancram that God
knew he believed the College Grants Notification was the right thing to
do. He had asked Ancram to wait after the Council meeting was over very
much for this purpose.
“Yes, sir,” the Chief Secretary replied; “if I may be permitted to say
so, it is the most conscientious piece of legislation of recent years.”
The Lieutenant-Governor looked anxiously at Ancram from under his bushy
eyebrows, and then back again at the Notification. It lay in broad
margined paragraphs of beautiful round baboo’s handwriting, covering a
dozen pages of foolscap, before him on the table. It waited only for his
ultimate decision to go to the Government Printing Office and appear in
the _Gazette_ and be law to Bengal. Already he had approved each
separate paragraph. His Chief Secretary had never turned out a better
piece of work.
“To say precisely what is in my mind, Ancram,” Church returned,
beginning to pace the empty chamber, “I have sometimes thought that you
were not wholly with me in this matter.”
“I will not disguise from you, sir”—Ancram spoke with candid
emphasis—“that I think it’s a risky thing to do, a—deuced risky thing.”
His Honour was known to dislike strong language. “But as to the
principle involved there can be no two opinions.”
His Honour’s gaunt shadow passed and repassed against the oblong patch
of westering February sunlight that lightened the opposite wall before
he replied.
“I am prepared for an outcry,” he said slowly at last. “I think I can
honestly say that I am concerned only with the principle—with the
possible harm, and the probable good.”
Ancram felt a rising irritation. He reflected that if His Honour had
chosen to take him into confidence earlier, he—Mr. Ancram—might have
been saved a considerable amount of moral unpleasantness. By taking him
into confidence now the Lieutenant-Governor merely added to it
appreciably and, Ancram pointed out to himself, undeservedly. He played
with his watch-chain for distraction, and looked speculatively at the
Notification, and said that one thing was certain, they could depend
upon His Excellency if it came to any nonsense with the Secretary of
State. “Scansleigh is loyal to his very marrow. He’ll stand by us,
whatever happens.” No one admired the distinguishing characteristic of
the Viceroy of India more than the Chief Secretary of the Government of
Bengal.
“Scansleigh sees it as I do,” Church returned; “and I see it plainly. At
least I have not spared myself—nor any one else,” he added, with a smile
of admission which was at the moment pathetic, “in working the thing up.
My action has no bearing that I have not carefully examined. Nothing can
result from it that I do not expect—at least approximately—to happen.”
Ancram almost imperceptibly raised his eyebrows. The gesture, with its
suggestion of dramatic superiority, was irresistible to him; he would
have made it if Church had been looking at him; but the eyes of the
Lieutenant-Governor were fixed upon the sauntering multitude in the
street below. He turned from the window, and went on with a kind of
passion.
“I tell you, Ancram, I feel my responsibility in this thing, and I will
not carry it any longer in the shape of a curse to my country. I don’t
speak of the irretrievable mischief that is being done by the wholesale
creation of a clerkly class for whom there is no work, or of the danger
of putting that sharpest tool of modern progress—higher education—into
hands that can only use it to destroy. When we have helped these people
to shatter all their old notions of reverence and submission and
self-abnegation and piety, and given them, for such ideals as their
fathers had, the scepticism and materialism of the West, I don’t know
that we shall have accomplished much to our credit. But let that pass.
The ultimate consideration is this: You know and I know where the money
comes from—the three lakhs and seventy-five thousand rupees—that goes
every year to make B.A.s of Calcutta University. It’s a commonplace to
say that it is sweated in annas and pice out of the cultivators of the
villages—poor devils who live and breed and rot in pest-stricken holes
we can’t afford to drain for them, who wear one rag the year through and
die of famine when the rice harvest fails! The ryot pays, that the
money-lender who screws him and the landowner who bullies him may give
their sons a cheap European education.”
“The wonder is,” Ancram replied, “that it has not been acknowledged a
beastly shame long ago. The vested interest has never been very strong.”
“Ah well,” Church said more cheerfully, “we have provided for the vested
interest; and my technical schools will, I hope, go some little way
toward providing for the cultivators. At all events they will teach him
to get more out of his fields. It’s a tremendous problem, that,” he
added, refolding the pages with a last glance, and slipping them into
their cover: “the ratio at which population is increasing out here and
the limited resources of the soil.”
He had reassumed the slightly pedantic manner that was characteristic of
him; he was again dependent upon himself, and resolved.
“Send it off at once, will you?” he said; and Ancram gave the packet to
a waiting messenger. “A weighty business off my mind,” he added, with a
sigh of relief. “Upon my word, Ancram, I am surprised to find you so
completely in accord with me. I fancied you would have objections to
make at the last moment, and that I should have to convince you. I
rather wanted to convince somebody. But I am very pleased indeed to be
disappointed!”
“It is a piece of work which has my sincerest admiration, sir,” Ancram
answered; and as the two men descended the staircases from the Bengal
Council Chamber to the street, the Lieutenant-Governor’s hand rested
upon the arm of his Chief Secretary in a way that was almost
affectionate.