A JUVENILE WEDDING AND HINDU THEATRICALS
The note to Lord Tremlyn enclosed sixteen cards printed in gold letters,
one for each member of the company, and they were passed around to them.
They were to the effect that Perbut Lalleejee would celebrate the marriage
of his son that evening, and the favor of the recipient's attendance was
requested to a Grand Nautch at nine o'clock. The gentleman who sent out
these cards was one of the wealthiest of the Parsee community, with whom
the viscount was intimately acquainted, and he strongly recommended the
Americans to attend.
The Parsees kept their religious affairs to themselves, and the party were
not to "assist" at the ceremony, which would have been an extra inducement
to attend. Promptly at the hour named the carriages set the tourists and
their volunteer guides down at the magnificent mansion of the father of the
young man who was to enter the marriage state that evening.
The street in the vicinity of the house was brilliantly illuminated, and it
was covered over with an awning, from which no end of ornamental lamps were
suspended. Behind a mass of flowers--cartloads of them--a foreign orchestra
was placed. As the carriages stopped at the door, the band began a military
march, whose inspiring strains seemed to give an additional lustre to the
elaborate decorations. It was easy for the guests to believe that they had
been introduced into the midst of a fairy scene. Sahib Perbut appeared at
the door as soon as the vehicles stopped, and took his lordship by the
hand, and each of the guests were presented to him as they alighted. The
host was not an old man, as the strangers expected to find him, since he
had a son who was old enough to get married.
He was very richly dressed, and he was a gentleman of unbounded suavity.
Taking Mrs. Belgrave by the hand, he conducted her into the house, the rest
of the party forming a procession behind them. The Americans had been
obliged to make a trip to the Guardian-Mother, to obtain garments suitable
for such a "swell" occasion, and they were all dressed in their Sunday
clothes.
If the exterior of the splendid mansion had challenged the admiration of
the guests, the interior presented a scene of Oriental magnificence which
might have astonished even the Count of Monte Cristo. The party were
conducted to the grand and lofty apartment where the Nautch was to be
given. Immense mirrors reflected the brilliancy of a thousand lights; the
floor was covered with the richest of carpets, the luxurious divans and
sofas were overspread with the cloths of Cashmere; the elaborate richness
of the costumes of the Oriental guests, and the army of servants
manipulating _punkas_, or fans, formed a scene not unlike, while it
out-rivalled, the grand _dénoûment_ of a fairy spectacle on the stage.
The procession of foreign guests were all seated in the most conspicuous
divans; for if Lord Tremlyn had been the Prince of Wales, he and his
friends could hardly have been treated with greater distinction, as he was
the unofficial representative of the predominating influence in the affairs
of India near the throne of the United Kingdom and the Empire. The party
were immediately beset with servants offering them fruit and sherbets, and
they were sprinkled with rose-water from silver flagons.
The Nautch girls were not the same the tourists had seen earlier in the
day. There were more of them, and they were of a finer grain; in fact, the
gentlemen, who were judges, declared that most of them were really pretty.
They were seated on the floor in native fashion. They had great black eyes;
their complexion was only the least tawny, and was paler than it would have
been if they had lived on a more invigorating diet than rice and fruits.
There were half a dozen musicians, who played upon tom-toms, instruments
like a fiddle, and one that was very nearly a hurdy-gurdy, with lutes and
flutes. They gave the preliminary strains, and the dancers formed the
semicircle. The performance was similar to that the party had seen at the
hotel, though it was more finished, and the attitudes and posturing
appeared to belong to a higher school of art than the other. But the whole
was so nearly like what the strangers had seen before, that they were not
absorbed by it, and gave more attention to the people attending the feast;
for they were an exceedingly interesting study to them.
After the performance had continued about a quarter of an hour there was a
pause, and the dancers retreated to a corner of the room, seating
themselves again on the floor. At this moment Sahib Perbut came into the
grand saloon leading a boy, who did not appear to be more than ten years
old, by the hand. He was dressed in the most richly ornamented garments,
and he was an exceedingly pretty little fellow. He was conducted to the
viscount.
"Will your Lordship permit me to present to you and your friends my son
Dinshaw, in whose honor I am making this feast? This is Lord Tremlyn, my
son," said the father, who was evidently very proud of the boy.
"Sahib Dinshaw, I am very happy to make your acquaintance," replied his
lordship, as he rose and took the hand of the young gentleman, whom he
introduced to every member of his party.
They all followed the example of the viscount, and addressed him as "Sahib
Dinshaw," the title being equivalent to "Lord," or "Master," applied by the
natives to their employers, and to the English generally. All of them gazed
at him with intense interest, not unmingled with admiration. The hero of
the occasion spoke English as fluently as his father.
"How old are you, Sahib Dinshaw?" asked Mrs. Belgrave, who was strongly
tempted to kiss the little fellow; but she was afraid it would not be in
order, and she refrained.
"I am ten years old, madam," replied Dinshaw, with the sweetest of smiles.
"And you have been married this evening, sahib?" continued the lady.
"I should not ask him any questions in that direction," interposed Sir
Modava, afraid she would meddle with an interdicted subject; and the young
gentleman's father seemed to have a similar fear, for he gently led him
away.
He was introduced to the members of the "Big Four," who could hardly keep
their faces at the proper length after hearing what passed between the
youthful sahib and Mrs. Belgrave, at the idea of a ten-year-old bridegroom.
"Is it possible that this little fellow is married, Sir Modava?" exclaimed
the principal lady from Von Blonk Park.
"There can be no doubt of it," replied the Hindu gentleman. "But it is
hardly in the same sense that marriage takes place in England and America.
The bride will be received into this Parsee family, and the groom will
remain here; but everything in the domestic circle will continue very
nearly as it was before, and husband and wife will pursue their studies."
"It looks very strange to us," added the lady.
"It is the custom of the country. The British government does not interfere
unnecessarily with matters interwoven into the religion and habits of the
people, though it has greatly modified the manners of the natives, and
abolished some barbarous customs. The 'suttee,' as the English called the
Sanscrit word _sati_ meaning 'a virtuous wife,' was a Hindu
institution which required that a faithful wife should burn herself on the
funeral pyre with the body of her deceased husband; or if he died at a
distance from his home, that she should sacrifice herself on one of her
own."
"How horrible! I have read of it, but hardly believed it," added the lady;
and others who were listening expressed the same feeling.
"It was a custom in India before the time of Christ. Some of your American
Indians bury the weapons of the dead chief, food, and other articles with
him, as has been the custom of other nations, in the belief that they will
need these provisions in the 'happy hunting-ground.' The Hindus believed
that the dead husband would need his wife on the other shore; and this is
the meaning of the custom."
"It is not wholly a senseless custom," said Mrs. Woolridge, "barbarous as
it seems."
"In 1828, or a little later, Lord William Cavendish, then Governor-General
of Bengal, determined to abolish the custom, though he encountered the
fiercest opposition from the natives, and even from many Europeans, who
dreaded the effect of his action. He carried a law through the council,
making it punishable homicide, or manslaughter, to burn a widow. In 1823
there were five hundred and seventy-five of them burned in the Bengal
Presidency; but after the enactment of the law, the number began to
decrease. The treaties with the Indian princes contained a clause
forbidding it. The custom is really discontinued, though an occasional
instance of it comes to light."
The dancing had been renewed, and this conversation continued till later.
At this wedding Lord Tremlyn met a gentleman whom he introduced to some of
his party as Sahib Govind. This gentleman had just invited him to visit a
theatrical performance at a private house, such as a European can very
rarely witness.
"I never went to a theatre in my life!" protested Mrs. Belgrave.
"But this is a representation in connection with the religious traditions
of the Hindus," argued his lordship.
It was decided to go, the scruples of the Methodists being overcome by the
fact that it was a religious occasion, and not at all like the stage
performances of New York. The carriages conveyed them to the house
indicated by Sahib Govind, and they were conducted to a hall, at one end of
which was a stage, with a thin calico curtain in front of it. The
performance was just beginning.
A Brahmin came out in front of the curtain, with some musicians, and set up
an image of Ganesa, the god of wisdom; then he prayed this idol to
enlighten the minds of the actors, and enable them to perform their parts
well, which was certainly very untheatrical, the Americans thought, when
Sir Modava had translated the substance of the invocation. The Brahmin then
announced that the subject of the play was the loves of the god Krishna.
"Who is the hero of the piece, Sir Modava?" asked Mr. Woolridge, who was a
theatre-goer at home.
"He is really Vishnu, one of the Hindu trinity, known as the preserver.
Vishnu has a considerable number of forms, or incarnations, one of which is
Krishna, the most human of them all."
The curtain rose, and cut short the explanation. The scene, painted on
canvas, was an Indian temple. A figure with an enormous wig, his half-naked
body daubed all over with yellow paint, was seated before it, abstracted in
the deepest meditation. The interpreter told them it was Rishi, a
supernatural power, a genius who is a protector to those who need his
services. Then a crowd of gods and goddesses rushed on the stage, and each
of them made a long speech to the devotee-god, which Sir Modava had not
time to render into English, even with the aid of Sahib Govind.
The actors were fantastically dressed. One had an elephant's head, and all
of them wore high gilt mitres. Krishna enters, and the other divinities
make their exit. He is a nice-looking young man, painted blue, and dressed
like a king. His wife enters, and throws herself at his feet. Then she
reproaches him for forsaking her, in a soft and musical voice, her eyes
raining tears all the time. She embraces his knees.
Then appears the rival in her affections with Krishna, Rukmini, an
imperious woman, and tells by what artifices she has conquered the weak
husband. Then follows a spirited dialogue between the two women. The rival
boasts of her descent from Vishnu, and of her beauty and animation, and
reproaches Krishna with his unworthy love. Sir Modava wrote this down in
his memorandum book, and handed it to the Americans.
Satyavama, the wife, insists that her only crime was her love for her
divine husband. She narrates her early history, when she was a peasant girl
on the banks of the Jumna, with her companions, and drew upon herself the
attention of the god. Her life had been simple, and she had always been a
faithful wife. Yet Rukmini triumphs over her. Her pride is aroused; she
rushes off, and returns with her little son.
"Kill us both, since we cannot live without your love!" the interpreters
rendered her piteous cry. The rival ridicules her, and, urged on by her,
Krishna hands her a cup of poison, which she drinks, and sinks to the
ground.
"It is not the poison that rends me; it is that my heart is broken by the
ingratitude of one I have so dearly loved." She forgives him, and dies.
But not thus does the Indian love-story end; for the genie enters, and in
thundering tones calls Krishna to an account for his deeds. The festive god
is tortured with remorse, but has no excuse to offer. He drives Rukmini
from him, and implores the yellow-painted god for forgiveness; and, as he
is the preserver, it is granted. Satyavama is brought back to life. She
presents her son to her husband, who holds out his arms to embrace him; and
the curtain drops in a blaze of Bengal lights, and the "Wah! Wahs!" of the
Hindu audience.
The interpreters finished their explanations, and the company retired with
the salaams of the crowd. It was very late when they retired to rest that
night.