THE SECOND ACT.
Although the first act was no more than a prologue, the second was long,
constituting almost the entire play, followed by a short third act which
was not much more than epilogue. For more than half an hour Ommony
studied his part in silence, and the more he studied it the more its
grim irony appealed to him. The _saddhu_ typified intolerant
self-righteousness and the beautifully written lines were jeremiads of
abortive sanctity. Whatever else the Lama, or whoever wrote the play,
might be, he was witty and aware of all the arguments of the accusers of
mankind.
It appeared that, having refused to look at the magic jade while the
_mantra_ was being chanted, the _saddhu_ alone went through the second
act unchanged. The king, who had looked although warned not to look,
became turned for a day and a night into an increditably wise man (which
was just what he wanted to be) but surrounded by the sweetmeat seller,
shoemaker and so on, transformed into members of his court, whose
ignorance exasperated him to the verge of insanity. The soldier had
become a general, who prated about patriotic duty. The camel-driver was
a minister of commerce, who believed that the poor were getting their
exact deserts and would be ruined by paternalism. The village headman
was a nobleman with vast estates, who rack-rented his tenants and
insisted that he did it by divine right. The farmers had become a
minister of finance and his assistant, who conspired to bring about a
better state of things by wringing the last realizable _rupee_ from the
merchant classes. The goatherd, strange to say, became a courtier pure
and simple, who had no ambition but to make love to every woman who came
within his range. The sweetmeat seller was a chancellor whose duty was
to invent laws, and the shoemaker was a judge who had to apply them.
San-fun-ho, it seemed, had also looked into the magic jade, and had
become a goddess, with her name unchanged, who came and went, heaping
Puck-like irony on every one, king included, and engaging in acid
exchanges of wit with the _saddhu_, who had much the worst of it.
The women with the water-jars had all become court favorites, who lolled
on divans and complained of their tedious, unprofitable fate, inclining
rather to the _saddhu’s_ view of things but unwilling to give up
sinecures for austerity (which they declared had gone out of fashion
long ago) and cynically skeptical of the morals of the dancing women,
who entered early in the second act to entertain the court. The long and
the short of it was, that nobody was any happier for being changed, and
least of all the king, who had only implored the Powers to make him
fabulously wise, and who found his wisdom sterile because foolish people
could not understand it.
The second act was supposed to take place at night, after a long day’s
experience of the results of the sudden change of character, and at the
close they all departed to the well, to greet the dawn and welcome a
return to their former condition.
The third act found them at the well-side, changed again, and
San-fun-ho, once more a Chinese woman, took them to task for having
failed to see the future seeded in themselves, depending for fruition
solely on their own use of each passing moment. Because the _saddhu_ had
to interject remarks, the whole of San-fun-ho’s last speech was written
on Ommony’s scroll, and as he read he chuckled at the _saddhu’s_
vanquishment. He loved to see cant and pseudo-righteousness exploded. He
could imagine the _saddhu_, typifying all he most loathed, slinking
off-stage, brow-beaten, ashamed—and just as bent as ever on attaining
Heaven by the exercise of tyranny, self-torture and contempt of fun.
Then San-fun-ho’s last lines—a _mantra_—sung to Manjusri, Lord and
Teacher, “free from the two-fold mental gloom,” as redolent, and ringing
with immortal hope as sunshine through the rain.
He was reading that when the gong sounded—a reverberating, clanging
thing of brass whose din drowned thought and drove the wasps in
squadrons through the window-slats. And that brought another problem
that invited very serious attention. As a Brahman—even a Bhat-Brahman,
who is not supposed to be above committing scores of acts the orthodox
would reckon unclean—he might not eat in company with actors, nor even
in the Lama’s company, nor in any room in which non-Brahmans were. He
began to exercise his wits to find a way out of the difficulty—only to
find that the Lama had foreseen it and had provided the solution.
Long-robed servants entered from the courtyard bearing bowls of hot food
for the actors, but none for Ommony or Dawa Tsering or the dog. Instead,
a tall Tibetan came, announcing that a meal cooked by a Brahman would be
served in a ritually clean room, if his honor would condescend to be
shown the way to it.
The room turned out to be a small one at the far corner of the cloister,
and no more ritually clean than eggs are square, nor had the meal been
cooked by a Brahman; but the actors were none the wiser. Dawa Tsering’s
food was heaped in a bowl on a mat outside the door, and he, having no
caste prejudices, squatted down to gorge himself, with a wary eye on
Diana. Ommony relieved his mind:
“She eats only at night. She won’t touch food unless I give permission.”
Dawa Tsering promptly tried to tempt the dog, but she turned up her nose
at the offer, and the Hillman grinned.
“I think you have more than one devil in you, Gupta Rao! However, maybe
they are not bad devils!” He nodded to himself; down in the recesses of
his mind there was an evolution going on, that was best left to take its
own course.
Ommony left him and the dog outside and shut himself into the small
square room. There was only one door; one window. He was safe from
observation. There was a plain but well-cooked meal of rice and
vegetables laid out on a low wooden bench with a stool beside it, and a
pitcher of milk that smelt as fresh as if it had come from a model
dairy; also a mattress in a corner, on which to rest when the meal was
finished—good monastic fare and greater ease than is to be had in many
an expensive hostelry.
He finished the meal and sprawled on the mattress, confessing to himself
that in spite of the Lama’s having avoided him for twenty years, in
spite of the evidence of an astonishingly perfect spy-system that had
enabled the Lama so infallibly to trace and recover the jade, and even
in spite of Benjamin’s confession, it was next to impossible to believe
the old Lama was a miscreant. Because of the story of traffic in white
children, reason argued that the Lama was a fiend. Intuition, which
ignores deduction, told him otherwise; and memory began to reassert
itself.
There was, for instance, twenty years of correspondence from the Lama,
mostly in English, with reference to the business of the Tilgaun
Mission; not one word of it was less than altruistic, practical and
sane; there had never been a hint of compromise with even those
conventional lapses from stern principle that most institutions find
themselves compelled to make. In fact, he admitted to himself that the
Lama’s letters, more than anything else during his life in India, had
helped him to see straight and to govern himself uprightly.
And now this play. And Samding. Could a man who made victims of children
so educate a _chela_ as that one evidently had been educated? Youth
takes on the taint of its surroundings. Samding had the calm
self-possession of one who knew the inherent barrenness of evil and
therefore could not be tempted by it.
And _would_ a man, who permitted himself to outrage humanity by
hypnotizing children, write such a play as this one, or approve of it,
or stage it at his own expense? The play was not only ingeniously moral,
it was radically sound and aimed equally at mockery of wrong ideals and
the presentation of a manly view of life. A saint might have written it,
and a reckless “angel” might finance it, but a criminal or a man with
personal ambitions, hardly.
Then again, there was the mystery of the Lama’s treatment of himself.
How much had Benjamin told? The old Jew had sent the trunk, so there had
been plenty of chance to send a message with it. Benjamin might have
brought the trunk in person. Anyhow, the Lama now unquestionably knew
who the Bhat-Brahman was; and he was evidently willing for the present
not only to submit to espionage but to protect the spy!
It might be, of course, that the Lama had views of his own as to what
constitutes crime. He had radical views, and was not averse to voicing
them before strangers. But if his conception of morality included
smuggling children into the unknown Hill country, how was it that he was
so careful for the Tilgaun Mission and so insistent on safeguards
against mental contamination?
Above all, why was he so careful to avoid an interview? What did he
propose to gain by pretending not to see through the Brahman disguise?
True, he had spoken English once or twice, but he had made no comment
when the Bhat-Brahman pretended not to understand him. Was he simply
amusing himself? If so, two could play at that game! For the present
Ommony had to let the problem go unsolved, but he dismissed the very
notion of not solving it and he determined to get at least as much
amusement out of the process as ever the Lama should enjoy.
He had about reached that conclusion, and was contemplating a siesta,
when the same attendant who had brought him to the room came to announce
that “the holy Lama Tsiang Samdup” was expecting him in the great hall.
When he reached the hall rehearsal of the second act was already under
way; Maitraya was getting off a speech he had already memorized,
strutting, declaiming, trying to impress the Lama and the troupe with
his eloquent stage personality. The Lama took no notice as Ommony
entered with the dog and Dawa Tsering, but told Maitraya to repeat the
lines. Maitraya, rather nettled, gave a different rendering, more
pompous, louder and accompanied by gestures more emphatic than the
first. The troupe applauded, since Maitraya plainly expected it, but the
Lama broke into a smile that disturbed his wrinkles as if they had been
stirred with a spoon.
“My son,” he said quietly, “the whistle does not pull the train.”
Maitraya’s jaw dropped. “Samding, show him how I like to have those
lines read.”
Samding spoke the lines from memory, not moving his body at all, and the
amazing thing was that while he spoke one forgot he was a _chela_, and
almost actually saw a king standing where he was sitting—a king who was
bored to distraction and trying to explain kindly to stupid people why
their arguments were all wrong. One felt immensely sorry for the king,
and saw the hopelessness of his attempt. But all that was between the
lines, and in the wonderful inflection of the voice.
“And now, my son, try once more,” said the Lama. “Imagine the audience
is on the stage, and speak to them as you would like a king to speak to
you; not as you yourself would speak if you were king, but as a king
_should_ speak to unwise people.”
Maitraya swallowed pride, tried again, and so surprised himself with his
second effort that he tried a third time without invitation; and the
third rendering was almost good. The man had imitative talent.
The whole of the afternoon was given up to the reading and re-reading of
the second act, and Dawa Tsering slept—and snored—throughout the
entire performance. Several times the Lama obliged Ommony to repeat his
lines, without once calling him by name, and once he made Samding repeat
them for him, the _chela_ doing so from memory, apparently knowing the
whole play by heart. The Lama was as exacting with Ommony as with
Maitraya and the rest. Once he said:
“My son, you _know_ the _saddhu_ is a false philosopher. You _like_ to
see him ridiculed by San-fun-ho. And that shows wisdom. There is merit
in appreciation. But it is not good to forget that _you_ are the
_saddhu_. Those who listen must not be aware that you expect to be
worsted in argument. Now speak the lines again.”
Ommony complied, and did his best, for he was enjoying the game hugely;
and that put Maitraya in a somewhat similar frame of mind; Maitraya
imitated anything, including mental attitudes, and the rest of the
troupe took example from him. When the East sets forth to play a part in
earnest, it becomes audience as well as actor, and accepts the drama for
reality. Even the Lama was pleased. He praised them after a fashion of
his own.
“Because you are doing well, it would not be good to believe you can not
do better. Even the sun and stars are constantly improving. Let vanity
not slay humility, which is the spirit reaching upward.”
Then, as if that perhaps were too great praise, which might deceive
them, he picked out an actor here and there for comforting rebuke:
“You must remember that to play the part of a stupid character requires
intelligence. You will grow more intelligent as you endeavor. Now let us
begin again at the beginning, trying to forget how stupid we have
consented to be hitherto. Let us consent to be intelligent.”
He did not once betray impatience. When he needed an example he
commanded Samding, and the _chela_ spoke at once from memory,
occasionally descending to the floor to act as well as speak the lines.
Once the _chela_ acted the same part in the same way twice in
succession, and then _he_ came in for reprimand:
“Samding, no two atoms in all nature are alike. No day is twice
repeated. No second breath is like the first. Do that a third time. Do
it differently.”
Tyrant, however, was no right name for the Lama. There was no sense of
oppression, even at the end of a long afternoon, when every faculty,
Samding’s apparently included, ached from exercise. Samding worked
harder than them all together, because all through the second act, in
the rôle of a goddess, he had to come and go and speak the all-important
lines on which the action hinged. But when darkness came, and tall
monk-like Tibetans, armed with tapers, lit the hanging lights and set
candles in the wall-sconces, the _chela_ was as self-possessed and full
of life as ever, which he hardly would have been if he had felt imposed
on.
At last the Lama dismissed the troupe to the far end of the hall, where
they sprawled wearily on the floor and awaited supper. Not moving from
the mat, he beckoned Ommony and Dawa Tsering to come and squat on the
floor in front of him, not on the platform. They had to look up.
“Now for the show-down! Good!” thought Ommony, stroking Diana’s head as
she crouched on the floor beside him. But the Lama spoke to Dawa
Tsering, using the northern dialect:
“Why did you say to Samding that I owe you two months’ pay?” he asked,
not offended, curious.
“Oh, I had to say something. I had to have an excuse for seeing you. I
had a letter to deliver.”
The Lama nodded, but his voice became a half-note sterner: “Why did you
use violence to Samding?”
“I am a violent man, and the _chela_ offended me.”
“What offense did the _chela_ commit?”
“Oh, he looked too satisfied. He was a fool to stir the devil in me.
Also I was disgusted.”
“Why?”
“Because he did not look afraid. And I knew he was afraid—of me!
Therefore he was a liar. Therefore I smote him with the letter, and
hustled him a time or two. He was afraid to hit back. Let him hit me
now, if he is not afraid to!”
The Lama meditated for a moment—seemed to fall asleep—and then to come
out of a dream as if emerging from another universe.
“There is a certain merit in you,” he said quietly. “Are you now the
servant of this Brahman?”
“I am keeper of the dog. I pick the fleas from her. She is a very wise
and unusual devil.”
Dawa Tsering glanced at Ommony, who rather hoped he would say something
to the Lama about the Bhat-disguise and thus bring that subject to a
head; but he was disappointed. Nothing was farther from Dawa Tsering’s
intention; he was thoroughly enjoying what he thought was a perfect
imposition on the Lama.
“This Gupta Rao,” he went on, “is a devil even greater than the dog. I
like him. He and I are friends.”
“Well,” said the Lama, “that seems to be excellent, because friends must
stand together. There is a devil needed in this play of mine, and you
shall act the devil. You will like that. But remember: there must be no
offense to Samding, or to any one. You and Gupta Rao are together,
being, as you say, friends. If I should need to dismiss you, because of
wrong-doing, I will dismiss him also. Therefore his safety—do you hear
me?—his _safety_ will depend on you, and you must behave accordingly.”
The word safety was plainly intended for Ommony’s ears and the _chela_
glanced at him, but the Lama’s eyes did not move. After a slight pause
he continued:
“You and the dog will both receive instruction.” Then at last he looked
at Ommony: “Will the dog open her mouth when she is told?” he asked.
Ommony ordered Diana to sit upright. He did not need to speak. At a sign
from him she opened her mouth wide and yawned.
“That is good,” said the Lama. “That will do. Peace dwell with you, my
son. Samding!”
The _chela_ helped him to his feet, rolled up the mat, and followed him
to the door exactly as on the first occasion, leaving Ommony and Dawa
Tsering looking at each other until the Hillman threw his shoulders back
and laughed.
“_Now_ you see why I have served him all these months! I, who have a
devil in me! I, who mean to slay a man in Spiti! I, who hate a
long-faced monk as an ape hates the river!” Then another thought
occurred to him. “You must pay me more money, Gupta Rao, else I will
offend the old Bag of Wisdom and he will discharge the two of us!”
But instead of answering Ommony got up and found his way to the little
room reserved for him. Through the slats of the window he could hear
Dawa Tsering, squatting beside Diana, taking her into confidence:
“It would be amusing, thou, to betray this Ommon_ee_ and see what
happens. But I am afraid that what would happen might be serious. I
think I had better say nothing, because what may happen then will
probably be amusing. Thou, I think a person who can teach thee such
obedience might be a bad enemy and a good friend!”
Tibetans brought the evening meal, with a huge bowl of rice and a bone
for Diana, but Diana refused to touch the food although the man set the
bowl down in front of her and Dawa Tsering urged. It was not until
Ommony gave her permission that she fell to greedily.
“Thou, Gupta Rao, put no such spell upon _me_!” Dawa Tsering urged
solemnly. “I am used to eating when my belly yearns for it!”
Ommony finished his meal and decided to find out whether or not he was
under any personal restraint. He crossed the courtyard and approached
the double gate through which the carriage had entered that morning.
There was a Tibetan standing near, who bowed, saw his intention, and
opened the gate civilly to let him through! Diana followed, but he sent
her back, making her jump the gate, which she managed at the third
attempt, and he could hear the Tibetan on the far side laughing
good-humoredly. He knocked on the gate from outside and the Tibetan
opened it. Plainly there was no restriction on his movements; so he
whistled Diana and started strolling down the alley, considering
Benjamin and wondering whether the old Jew had lied about the smuggled
children—and if so, why? What did Benjamin stand to gain by telling
such a tale if it were not true? “The more you know of India the less
you know!” he muttered.
It was Diana who transferred his thoughts to another angle of the
problem. She had paused at the end of the alley and was signaling in the
way she used to in jungle lanes when she detected a human who had no
ostensible right to be there.
Ommony stood still, which obliged her to glance around at him for
orders. He signed to her to come to heel and then walked very quietly to
the end of the alley, where the corner of a high wall intensified the
gathering darkness. No lamps were yet lighted, although there was one
fixed on an iron upright at the angle of the masonry above him; it was
almost pitch-dark where he sat down, with his back against the wall,
giving no orders to Diana, simply watching her.
The hair on the scruff of her neck began to rise; she could hear voices,
and so could he presently. He pulled her closer against the wall where
she crouched obediently, trembling because she added his alertness to
her own. She was quite invisible in the depth of the shadow; Ommony was
between her and the road into which the alley opened; but he knew his
own figure could be seen, something like a wayside idol, by any one with
sharp eyes who should pass close to the corner.
There were two men approaching very slowly, deep in conversation. One
wore spurs. Unexplainably (without delving into such science as Chutter
Chand expounds in his room behind the jewelry store) Ommony received an
impression that they had been pacing to and fro for a considerable time.
They came to a halt around the corner within three steps of where he
sat, and when he held his breath he could hear their words distinctly:
“You see, Chalmers, if we raid the place without being sure of our
ground, all we’ll do is make trouble for ourselves and serve them notice
to cover their tracks. We must have evidence that’ll make conviction
certain, or they’ll hold us up as another horrid example of official
tyranny.”
“I tell you, sir, I _know_ the women are in here.”
“But do you know they are _the_ women? We can’t interfere with religion.
We’d be in a fine mess if we haled a bevy of legitimate nautch-girls
into court. We’ve got to have _proof_.”
“Pardon _me_, sir. Lamaism doesn’t run to nautch-girls. These people are
Tibetans. They’ve no proper business in Delhi, and absolutely no excuse
for lugging unexplainable women around the country. The Lama was _seen_
to enter Vasantasena’s place, and I myself saw him come out and drive
off with his _chela_ and two other people. I had him followed, and I
_know_ he drove in here. He hasn’t come out since. You know what kind of
a place Vasantasena keeps.”
“Yes, but we also know every member of her household. And she’s another
individual it’s deadly dangerous to monkey with unless we’re certain of
our facts.”
“We’ve got circumstantial evidence enough to hang a rajah, sir.”
“Circumstantial won’t do, Chalmers. I spoke with McGregor about it
to-day; he assured me there isn’t a thing on the Lama in the Secret
archives. He admits there’s slavery on the Assam border[31], and that
slaves are sold into Nepaul and Tibet. But that doesn’t justify us in
raiding this place, warrant or no warrant. We’d be inviting a riot. The
way things are at the moment, Moslems and Hindus ’ud get together and
make common cause even with _Christians_ if they thought they could jump
on us by doing it—and slit one another’s throats afterward! They’d call
it another Amritsar. I’ll tell you what you may do if you like: surround
this place and shadow every one who leaves it. That way we may get
evidence.”
There was silence while some one suppressed ill-temper. Then a voice:
“Very well, sir.”
A piece of mortar from the top of the wall fell to the ground beside
Ommony. He glanced up. It was growing very dark, but he thought he saw
the shadow of a man’s head, vague against the colored gloom of an
overhanging tree. The men who were talking moved on, toward the
alley-mouth—passed it—turned, and started back again.
“Hullo!” said one of them, the taller, he with the spurs. “Do you notice
the audience? Wait! Don’t go down there—that’s a nasty, damned dark
alley—might be an accident.—_Good evening!_” he said, coming to a
stand six feet away from Ommony. “_I hope we haven’t disturbed your
meditations._”
Ommony’s hand closed on Diana’s muzzle. She crowded herself closer
against the wall.
“_I say, I hope we haven’t disturbed your meditations!_”
Ommony did not move.
“Maybe he doesn’t know English, sir.”
“Dammit, I can’t see his caste-mark. He looks like a Hindu. Haven’t a
flash-light, have you?”
The younger of the two men struck a match; its yellow glare showed
Ommony in high relief, but darkened the shadow behind him.
“By gad, sir, that’s the Brahman who came out of Vasantasena’s with the
Lama!”
The last thing Ommony wanted was police recognition; with the best will
in the world the police may bungle any intricate investigation, through
over-zeal, and because they must depend on underqualified subordinates.
He was satisfied to learn that McGregor had kept his promise not to
unleash the Secret Service on the trail; disturbed to learn the police
on the other hand were busy. During thirty seconds, until the match went
out, he cultivated the insolent stare to which Brahmans treat “unclean”
intruders.
“Brahman and a Lama keeping company? That’s strange.”
“I’d call it suspicious, if you asked me, sir! What’s he doing here?
He’s not even sitting on a mat. That corner’s ritually unclean—fouled
by dogs and God knows what else.”
“I’ll try him in the vernacular.—_I’m curious to know why you are
sitting here_,” said the man with spurs. “_Is there anything wrong? Are
you ill? Can I help you in any way?_”
“Leave me to my meditation!” Ommony answered in a surly tone of voice.
“_Why meditate just here, O twice-born? This is a bad
place—dangerous—thieves, you know. Don’t you think you’d better move
on?_”
Ommony was in doubt whether or not to answer, but he was afraid Diana
might betray her presence unless he could get rid of the inquisitors. He
made up an answer on the spur of the moment and growled it indignantly:
“A year ago my son died on this very spot, slain by a bullet from a
soldier’s rifle. Therefore I choose this place to meditate. I abase
myself in dirt before the gods who visited that evil on me.”
“Damned unlikely story, sir, if you asked me!”
“Everything in this damned country _is_ unlikely! Have him watched.
You’d better stand at that corner, and if he moves off, have one of the
men follow him. I’ll go back and send you twenty or thirty men to
surround the place.—_Good night, O twice-born! Meditate in peace!_”
Ommony listened until their footsteps died away in the near distance.
Then, taking very great care that Diana should understand she was still
stalking danger, not defying it, he crept on tiptoe to the gate at the
other end of the alley and drummed on it with his knuckles.
There was no answer. He tried the gate, but it was fastened on the
inside. So he made Diana jump it, and in less than a minute after that
Dawa Tsering came and undid the bars.
“O thou, Gupta Rao, there are happenings!” he said, showing white teeth
that gleamed in the dark.
-----
[31] See United States daily papers, 1923; also official Indian
Government reports.
To him who truly seeks the Middle Way, the Middle Way will open.
One step forward is enough.
From the Book of the Sayings of Tsiang Samdup.