VASANTASENA.
It took five minutes to convince Diana that she was henceforth
responsible for Dawa Tsering, but once _that_ fact had been absorbed she
accepted the duty without complaint. There was no whimper from the hound
when Ommony accepted Maitraya’s invitation to go in search of the Lama.
He and Maitraya, side-by-side in a _tikka-gharri_[20] drove through the
crowded streets, now and then passing Englishmen whom Ommony knew well.
Members of the mercantile community, Moslems as well as Hindus, bowed to
Maitraya from open shop-windows or from the thronged sidewalk as if he
were a royal personage. Men who would not have let his clothing touch
them, because of the resulting caste-defilement, were eager to have it
known that they were on familiar terms with him; for a popular actor is
idolized not only in the West.
“You see, they know me!” said Maitraya proudly. “Men whose names I can’t
remember pay me homage! Actors are respected more than kings and
priests—and justly so. _They_ rule badly and teach nonsense. It is _we_
who interpret—we who hold example up to them!”
The man’s vanity delivered him tied and bound to Ommony’s chariot
wheels. There was nothing to do but flatter him, and he would tell all
he knew, accepting the flatterer as guide, philosopher and friend
appointed for his comfort by the glorious gods.
“I am surprised that a man of your attainments should condescend to
employment by this Lama person,” said Ommony. “Of course, if you are
willing, so am I, but how did it come about?”
“You would never believe. He is a very strange Lama—more unusual than
rain in hot weather or the sun at midnight; but I have a gift for
attracting unusual people. By Jinendra, Gupta Rao, I have never seen the
like of him—even in these days, when everything is upside down! He has
a _chela_ by the name of Samding, who has more genius in his little
finger that any dozen statesmen have in their whole bodies. Not that it
would do to tell him so—I don’t believe in flattering beginners—they
can’t stand it. And he lacks experience. That Lama must be a very expert
teacher. The first time I met him, he was one of a crowd who watched me
act ‘Charudatta’ in _The Toy Cart_—a part that I excel in. Afterward,
he invited me to witness a performance in private by his _chela_, and I
went with him to a mysterious place kept by some Tibetans at the end of
a stone courtyard—the sort of place where you would expect to be
murdered for your shoe-leather—a place that smelt of rancid butter and
incense and donkey-stables. Whoof! I shudder now, to think of it! But
the _chela_ was marvelous. Calm—you never saw such equipoise—such
balance of all the faculties! And a voice as if a god were speaking! The
middle note, true as a bell, like a gong to begin with every time,
rising and lowering from that with utter
certainty—half-tones—quarter-tones—passion, pathos, scorn, command,
exhilaration—laughter like a peal of bells—wait till you have heard
it, Gupta Rao! You will be as thrilled as I was. You will say I did not
exaggerate. Perfect! If only success doesn’t turn the boy’s head!”
“What language?” asked Ommony.
“Prepare to be amazed! Ancient Sanskrit—modern Urdu—with equal fluency
and equal grace! Distinct enunciation—and a command of gesture that
expresses everything, so that you know what he will say before he
speaks! But that is not all. I tell you he is marvelous! He has the
modern touch. He understands how to play an ancient part so that it
means something to the uninitiated. I am already jealous of him! I tell
you, when that boy has had the advantage of my instruction for a while,
he will be great—the greatest actor in the world!”
“What proposal did the Lama make?” asked Ommony.
“A crazy one. I told you the man is mad. He proposes to give _free_
entertainments—on tour—at places selected by himself—for an
indefinite period. I am to provide a troupe of excellent actors, for
whom I am to be responsible. There are to be three women among them, but
the dancers will be provided by the Lama, as also the music, and Samding
the _chela_ is to play the leading female parts.”
“I’m surprised he takes any women at all,” said Ommony. “There’s a
prejudice against actresses. They’re always a nuisance. Properly trained
boys are better. If a man plays leading woman, the women will only make
him look absurd by contrast.”
“Well, that is _his_ affair. I suggested that, but the Lama insisted.
And mad though he undoubtedly is, he knows his own mind, and is shrewd
in some respects. I lied to Benjamin when I said I had not asked for
money in advance. I did my best to hold out for that—naturally. But I
suspect the Lama knows a lot about me, and he certainly knows Benjamin;
he told me to go to Benjamin and to get what credit I may need from him.
Do you see the idea? If he and Benjamin have a private understanding,
that gives him an extra hold over me—it makes me practically powerless
to oppose him in anything, however ridiculous his demands may turn out
to be. You see, I have to pay Benjamin’s bill. However—here we are.”
And where they were was not the least surprising feature of the mystery.
The _tikka-gharri_ drew up at an arched gate in a high wall, over which
trees leaned in well cared for profusion. There were cut flowers tucked
into the carving on the arch, and blossoms strewn on the sidewalk. A
dozen carriages, most of them with thoroughbred horses, waited in line
near the gate, and the dazzling sun projected on the white wall shadows
of thirty or forty men in turbans of every imaginable color, who seemed
to have nothing to do but to lounge near the entrance. Some of them
nodded at Maitraya; several salaamed to him; one or two were at pains to
stare insolently.
In the gateway was a fat _chuprassi_ with a lemon-colored silk scarf,
and the whitest clothes that ever any man wore—whiter than the wall,
and starched stiff. He stood guard over about fifty pairs of slippers,
most of which were expensive, and nearly all of which looked new. There
was no question as to what kind of a house it was—or rather, palace;
and there was music tinkling in a courtyard, which confirmed the general
impression.
“Vasantasena’s birthday,” said Maitraya. “They began to celebrate at
dawn. But what does that matter? We are not rich fools who have to race
to do the fashionable thing. Our presence honors her, however late we
come. Have you a present ready? Lend me a piece of gold, will you?”
“Where should I get gold?” asked Ommony—instantly aware that he was
teetering on the edge of his first mistake. Maitraya cocked a wondering
eye at him; it was quite clear that he knew all about a Bhat’s
resources, even if the Bhat himself, for unimaginable reasons, should
choose to have forgotten them.
“I will improvise a poem in her honor,” Ommony explained. “Women enjoy
poems, and I am good at them. Give me a glimpse of her, and then see.”
“Ah, but they like the poem gilded! Women are practical! Moreover, I am
no poet,” said Maitraya. “Now one gold piece from each of us—”
Ommony smiled. Without the beard he looked as obstinate as ever, but
humorous lines were revealed at the corners of his mouth which the beard
had hidden. He decided to put his disguise to a severe test now, while
the consequences of detection might not be too disastrous.
“All right,” he said, kicking off his slippers under the archway and
accepting the _chuprassi’s_ salaam with a patronizing nod, as if the
fellow were dirt beneath his sacred feet, “I will attend to it.”
Beyond the arch there was a small paved courtyard, around the walls of
which were flowers growing in painted wooden troughs. There were several
tradesmen squatting there with trays of jewelry in front of them, silver
and even golden images of gods, and all sorts of valuable gifts that a
visitor might buy to lavish on the lady who kept house within. The
tradesmen were noisy, and sarcastic when not patronized. Maitraya
bridled, his vanity not proof against insinuations that he probably had
squandered all his fortune long ago on much less lovely women. But one
hard stare from Ommony and the banter ceased.
“I will sing a song to Vasantasena about the jackals at her gate!” he
said sternly; whereat one of them offered him money, and another tried
to thrust a silver image of a god into his hands. But he brushed all
those offers aside.
“Shall a Bhat-Brahman take gifts from such as you?” he demanded.
“_Pranam! Pranam! Paunlagi!_” they murmured, raising both hands to their
foreheads; whereat he blessed them, as a Brahman is obliged to, with a
curt phrase that means “Victory be unto you,” and he and Maitraya passed
on, through another arch, into a courtyard fifty feet square. There was
a fountain in the midst, around which about a dozen well dressed Hindus
were gossiping.
“_I_ would have taken the fool’s money,” said Maitraya. “Are you not
entitled to it?”
Ommony glanced at him contemptuously. “A tiger, if he wishes, may eat
mice!” he answered. “A bear may eat frogs—if he likes them! A pig eats
all things!”
Maitraya looked chastened.
There came across the courtyard, swaggering toward them, an heir to an
ancient throne, in rose-pink turban and silken breeches, with silver
spurs nearly six inches long, and a little black mustache on his lazy
face that looked as if it had been stuck on there with glue. He whacked
his long boots with a rhino-hide riding whip and rolled a little in his
gait, as if it were almost too much trouble to support his
vice-exhausted frame. He was for passing without notice, but Ommony
stood by the fountain and mocked him. He knew that youngster—knew him
well.
“Do they still wean young princes on camel’s milk and whisky in
Telingana?” he asked tartly. “I have heard tales of changelings. Return,
O treasure of a midwife, and hear me sing a song; I know a good one!”
The gossipers around the fountain pricked their ears. The prince seemed
to come out of a day-dream. “Ah! Oh! I kiss feet!” he exclaimed, and
made as if to pass on. But Ommony was determined to try his hand to a
conclusion.
“Those boots are not respectful. They offend me!” he sneered. “Are they
cow-skin? They look like it!”
“Oh, damn!” remarked the prince in English. “Here, take this and confer
a blessing,” he went on in Urdu, diving into his pocket.
“Gold!” warned Ommony. “I declare you gave gold to the woman in there.
All fees are payable in gold!”
“Gold? I have none. You must take this,” said the prince and passed a
handful of crumpled paper money. “_Pranam._”
“Victory be unto you,” said Ommony; accepting it, and the prince made
his escape, muttering under his breath at the insolence of Brahmans, and
of Bhats in particular.
“But paper money is no good,” Maitraya objected. “_I_ have paper money,”
he added, lying for vanity’s sake.
But Ommony was creeping into the Bhat-Brahman part.
“Why didn’t you say so? Go and buy _mohurs_[21] then from the
_sonar_[22] at the gate,” he retorted.
“Nay, Gupta Rao, you said _you_ would provide the presents. It is only
fair. You owe me a consideration. And besides, now I come to think of
it, I left most of my money at home.”
Ommony thrust the paper money contemptuously into Maitraya’s hands,
smiling in a way that spared the actor no embarrassment.
“Go and buy _mohurs_ at the gate,” he said. “I wait here.”
Maitraya returned presently with four gold coins and offered two of
them.
“The _sonar_ cheated me—he cheated like a dog!” he grumbled, but Ommony
shrugged his shoulders and waved the coins aside.
“Give them all to the woman. I have another way to make her smile,” he
said, looking important.
Maitraya approached humility as closely as professional pride would
permit.
“It occurs to me I did not ask a blessing when we first met. I crave
forgiveness. Your honor was so unusually free from false pride that I
overlooked the fact you are a Brahman. _Pranam._”
Ommony murmured the conventional curt blessing, and dismissed the
apology as if it were beneath notice. They passed into another courtyard
on which awninged windows opened from three sides. In a corner a dozen
musicians were raising Bedlam on stringed instruments, their tune
suggestive of western jazz but tainted, too, like Hawaiian music, with a
nauseating missionary lilt. Fashionable India, in the shape of thirty or
forty younger sons of over-rich Hindus and a sprinkling of middle-aged
roués, was amusing itself in a bower of roses and strong-smelling
jasmine, while in a corner of the courtyard opposite the music three
girls were dancing more modestly than the scene would have led a censor
of morals to expect.
It was a gorgeous scene, for the sun beat down on a blaze of turbans and
the awnings cast purple shadows that made it all seem unreal, like a
vision of ancient history. Maitraya was greeted noisily by a dozen men;
he bowed to them right and left, as if accepting applause as he entered
a stage from the wings. The girls danced more vigorously, under the eyes
of an expert now, whose approval might be of more than momentary value.
Professional zeal took hold of the musicians; the tune grew louder and
less careless.
“Beware! Vasantasena is in a Begum’s fury!” some one shouted. “None can
satisfy her. Prince Govinda of Telingana gave her a quart of gold
_mohurs_, and she sent him away because he had dared to call on her in
riding boots! I advise you to try her with two quarts of gold, and to
crawl on your belly!”
A stone stair gave on to the courtyard, through a doorway guarded by two
tall serving-men—immaculate, proud images of stern propriety, turbaned
and sashed with blazing silk. They looked incapable of smiling, or of
anything except the jobs they held, but as gilt, as it were, on the
surface of sin they were unsurpassable. Ommony’s disguise and manner
aroused no suspicion, although swift suspicion was what they drew wages
for, and they would have thrown him out into the street if as much as a
suggestion had crossed their minds that he might be a European. They
scrutinized Maitraya and Ommony and passed them as autocratically as if
they were Masters of Ceremony passing judgment on attendants at a royal
levee.
But royal levees are easier for outsiders to attend than that one was,
and royalty, even in India, is shabby nowadays because its power is at
most a shadow of the past and its forms mean nothing more than a cheap
desire by unimportant folk to strut in a reflected pseudo-glory. Kings
and conquerors go down, but whoever thinks that the power of the
Pompadours has waned knows very little of the world or human nature.
Vasantasena wielded more influence, and could pull more hidden wires
than any dozen maharajahs, and the court she kept, if rather less
splendid than a royal one, was alive with the mysterious magnetism of
actual personal power. It was almost tangible, and much more visible
than if she had been surrounded by men in armor.
Up-stairs there was no attempt at glittering display, but art and
Old-World luxury in every considered detail. A hall, paneled in carved
teak and hung with Rawalia woven curtains and a silver lamp on heavy
silver chains, conveyed no suggestion of wickedness; a Christian bishop
could have trodden the soft Persian rug (had he dared) and have imagined
himself in the midst of sanctity. But as Ommony and Maitraya reached the
stair-head the curtains facing them across the hall were parted, and a
girl peeped through whom hardly a Wahabi ascetic would associate with
thoughts of Paradise. She was much too paganly aware that life is
laughter, and that men are amusing creatures, to be criticized by
standard formula; and she looked like a mother o’ pearl Undine faintly
veiled in mist—one of those fabled spirits who may receive a human
soul, perhaps, someday, by marriage with a mortal—when she slipped out
through the curtains and stood more or less revealed. She was clothed,
and from head to foot, but not in obscurity.
She greeted Maitraya with a smile of recognition that suggested no
familiarity. She was friendly, but perfectly sure of herself, and as
sure of his unimportance. Then she glanced at Ommony, observed the
caste-mark on his forehead, and made him a little mock-salaam, covering
her eyes with both hands and murmuring “_Pranam_.”
“This is Gupta Rao sahib. The Joy of Asia will be pleased to see us
both,” said Maitraya, assuming his courtliest air; whereat the girl
laughed at him.
“She is not so easily pleased,” she answered, glancing at Maitraya’s
hand. There was not much that her dark eyes missed. He gave her one of
the gold _mohurs_, and then she stared straight at Ommony. Maitraya
nudged him, trying to slip a _mohur_ into his hand; but if you are to
act the part of a Bhat-Brahman it is as well not to begin by bribing any
one who can be overawed.
“I have a song to sing!” said Ommony. “Shall I include you in it? Shall
I add a verse concerning—”
Swiftly she drew the curtain back and, laughing impudently over-shoulder
at him, signed to him rather than to Maitraya to follow her down a short
wide corridor to a door at the end that stood slightly ajar and through
which came a murmur of voices. Through that she led without ceremony
into a square room in which half a dozen men were seated on a long
cushioned divan beneath a window at the farther end. They were wealthy,
important-looking men, one or two of middle age. Girls, dressed as
unobscurely as the one who had acted guide, were passing to and fro with
cigarettes and sitting down between whiles on heaped cushions near the
men’s feet. In the center of the room a white-robed Hindu was making two
costumed monkeys perform tricks, solemnly watched by the men in the
window, who took scant notice of Ommony and Maitraya.
Vasantasena was not there. Her richly draped divan under a
peacock-colored canopy at the end of the room facing the window was
vacant, although two girls with jeweled fans lounged on cushions, one on
either side of it, as if she were expected to come presently. The sharp
cries of the man with the monkeys and the occasional giggle of a girl
punctuated an underhum of murmured conversation from the men by the
window. The atmosphere was loaded with dim incense and cigarette smoke,
blown into spirals of bluish mist by a punkah that swung lazily, pulled
by a cord through a hole in the wall. Ommony sat down cross-legged on a
cushioned couch against the wall midway between the window and
Vasantasena’s divan, and Maitraya followed suit. Two girls, possessed of
patronizing smiles, brought cigarettes and a little golden lamp to light
them by.
It was sixty seconds before Ommony grew aware of the essential fact. He
lit a cigarette and blew smoke through his nose before he dared to look
a second time, for fear of betraying interest. Having satisfied himself
that Maitraya was studying the girls with an air of professional
judgment assumed for the perfectly evident purpose of disguising a
middle-aged thrill; and that after one glance none of the men in the
window was in the least interested in himself, Ommony let his eyes
wander again toward the darkest corner of the room beyond Vasantasena’s
divan. There, on a mat on the floor, sat no other than the Ringding
Gelong Lama, Tsiang Samdup, with his _chela_ Samding beside him.
They sat still, like graven images. The Lama’s face was such a mass of
unmoving wrinkles that it looked like a carved pine-knot with the grain
exposed. He was dressed in the same snuff-colored robe that he wore when
Ommony first saw him in Chutter Chand’s back room, and if he was not
day-dreaming, oblivious to all surroundings, he gave a marvelous
imitation of it.
The _chela_ was equally motionless, but less in shadow and his eyes were
missing no detail of the scene; they were keen and bright, expressing
alert intelligence, and each time Ommony looked away he was aware that
they were watching him with a curiosity no less intense than his own.
But they refused to meet his. Whenever he looked straight at the
_chela_, although he could not detect movement, he was sure the eyes
were looking elsewhere.
He was also very nearly sure that Samding whispered to the Lama; the
calm lips parted a trifle showing beautifully even white teeth, but the
Lama made no acknowledgment.
“What is the Lama doing in this place?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said Maitraya, “but he told me to meet him here. Many
important plans are laid in this place. Ah! Here she comes!”
Maitraya was nervous, suffering from something akin to stage-fright,
which consumes the oldest actors on occasion. It was clear enough that,
though he had been in the place before it was rather as an entertainer
than a guest, and he was not quite sure now how to behave himself. He
tried to shelter himself behind Ommony—to push him forward as every one
rose to his feet (every one, that is, except the Lama and Samding, who
appeared to be glued to the mat).
But Ommony was no man’s fool, to rush in where Maitraya feared to tread.
He wanted time for observation. He laughed aloud and swung Maitraya
forward by the elbow, arousing a ripple of merriment from the women, as
a door opened behind where the Lama was sitting and Vasantasena entered
to a chorus of flattering comment from every one.
She was worth running risks to see; as gracious, modest to the eye and
royal-looking as her attendant women were the opposite. Her dress was
not diaphanous, and not extravagant; she wore no jewelry except a heavy
gold chain reaching from her shoulders to her waist, long earrings of
aquamarine, plain gold bangles on her wrists, and one heavy jeweled
bracelet on her right ankle. From head to knees she was draped in a pale
blue silk shawl that glittered with sequins.
By far her most remarkable feature was her eyes, that were as
intelligent as Samding’s, or almost; but her whole face was lit up with
intelligence, though as for good looks in the commonplace acceptance of
the term, there was none. She was too dynamic to be pretty; too
imperious to arouse impertinent emotions. She was of the type that could
have ruled a principality of Rajasthan, in the days before those hotbeds
of feudalism went under in a cycle of decay.
She took her seat under the canopy, settled herself on one elbow among
the cushions, with one small henna-stained foot projecting over the edge
of the divan, noticed Maitraya and suddenly smiled. That explained her.
Her smile was the miracle of Asia—the expression of the spirit of the
East that so few casual observers catch—a willingness to laugh—a
knowledge that the whole pageant of life is only _maya_[23] after all
and not to be taken too seriously—satisfaction that the sins of this
life may be wiped out in the next, and the next, and that all
inequalities adjust themselves ultimately. The true philosophy is
sterner stuff than that; but it was impossible to see that smile of hers
and not understand why men of the world paid her homage and tribute; she
could see through any make-believe, and pardon any crime but impudence.
One could see how she wielded more power than a thousand priests, and
would very likely work less evil in the end, although fools were likely
to go to swifter ruin in her company than elsewhere. She had force of
character, and that is very bad for fools.
Maitraya bowed and stepped forward (for Ommony shoved him). The birthday
tribute she had levied already that morning lay in a silver bowl on a
little table to her right; Maitraya advanced to add his mite to it,
bowed to her profoundly as he passed, and dropped his coins on top of
the yellow heap, murmuring platitudes.
“_Three mohurs!_” exclaimed one of the fan-girls, and the men near the
window laughed.
“Liar!” Maitraya cried indignantly. “I threw in five!”
“Three!” the girl repeated, laughing scornfully, whereat every other
woman in the room except Vasantasena, who ignored the whole transaction,
mocked him and he went and sat down on the floor near the Lama with his
back against the wall, scowling as if poison and daggers were his only
joy.
That left Ommony on his feet, wondering whether the Powers, that had
treated him exceedingly well in all emergencies until that moment, would
still stand by. It would not be correct to say his heart was in his
mouth; it was pumping like a big ship’s engines, humming in his ears,
and if it had not suddenly occurred to him that this woman was possibly
one of the Lama’s agents for the traffic in white children he might have
surrendered to nervousness. He forgot that she was too young to have had
any hand in the incidents that Benjamin had told about—remembered only
that the Lama was there in her house, and that a Bhat-Brahman’s tongue
should be readier than nitroglycerine to go off and shake the pillars of
any society.
“O Brighter than the stars!—O Shadow of Parvarti!—O Dew upon the
Jasmine blossoms!” he began. “I bring a greater gift than gold.”
He was surprised by the ringing arrogance of his own voice. Vasantasena
smiled. No man that day had dared to come empty-handed, yet with his
mouth so full of brave words. The company had bored her. Here was a man
who held out promise of amusement.
“What is greater than gold?” she inquired in tones that came rolling
from her throat like organ-music. And on the instant he challenged her.
“Reputation!” he answered. “Shall I sing thine? For thou and I are both
from Rajasthan, O Moon of men’s desire!”
She frowned and did not answer for a moment. It is quite in order to
sing poems to a lady on her birthday, but it is not bad policy sometimes
to know the words of the poem before giving a Bhat-Brahman leave to
sing; what scandal they don’t know they are almost always willing to
invent.
“What is thy name?” she inquired, smiling again.
“Gupta Rao.”
Her brows grew reminiscent, as if the name suggested vague connection
with the past. She seemed not quite able to place it, but the men in the
window scented a delicious piece of scandal and began calling for the
song, and that naturally settled it; she was not going to be made
foolish before a crowd.
“Did you not come with Maitraya?” she asked quietly. “Is your business
not with Tsiang Samdup?”
“Subject to the Mirror of Heaven’s smile,” said Ommony, making an
obeisance that verged on the brink of mockery.
She raised her voice, not very loud, but so that it vibrated with power:
“The noblemen who have honored me will find good entertainment in the
inner courtyard. I will send down word as soon as I crave to rejoice in
your lordships’ smiles again!”
Without a murmur the guests got to their feet and bowed themselves out;
if she had been an empress they could not have been more complacently
obedient. They went with side-glances at Ommony and nods to one another,
implying that a great deal went on at times in that room that they would
give their ears to know, but on the whole they more resembled overgrown
children turned out to play than middle-aged, bearded courtiers given
temporary leave of absence.
-----
[20] A one-horse open cab.
[21] A gold coin, value about one pound sterling.
[22] A goldsmith.
[23] Delusion.
The most important thing is Silence. In the Silence Wisdom
speaks, and they whose hearts are open understand her. The brave
man is at the mercy of cowards, and the honest man at the mercy
of thieves, unless he keep silence. But if he keep silence he is
safe, because they will fail to understand him; and then he may
do them good without their knowing it, which is a source of true
humor and contentment.
From the Book of the Sayings of Tsiang Samdup.