Three Afternoons off the Track
"They are led captive by Satan at his will in the
most quiescent manner."
_David Brainerd, North America._
"Oh that the Lord would pour out upon them a
spirit of deep concern for their souls!"
_Henry Martyn, India._
"I ask you earnestly to pray that the Gospel may
take saving and working effect."
_James Gilmour, Mongolia._
THE Western Ghauts sweep down to the sea in curves. Dohnavur is in one
of the last of these curves. There are no proper roads running under the
mountains, only rough country ruts crossing the plain. We were rolling
along one of these at the rate of two miles an hour.
Crash and tumble went the bandy, a springless construction with a mat
roof; bang over stones and slabs of rock, down on one side, up on the
other; then both wheels were sharp aslant. But this is usual. On that
particular First Afternoon the water was out, which is the South Indian
way of saying that the tanks, great lake-like reservoirs, have
overflowed and flooded the land. Once we went smoothly down a bank and
into a shallow swollen pool, and the water swished in at the lower end
and floated our books out quietly. So we had to stop, and fish them up;
and then, huddled close at the upper end we sat, somewhat damp, but
happy.
At last we got to our destination, reached through a lane which then was
a stream with quite a swift little current of its own. Cupid's Lake the
place is called. We thought the name appropriate. Cupid's Lake is
peopled by Castes of various persuasions; we made for the Robber quarter
first. The Robber Caste is honourable here; it furnishes our watchmen
and the coolies who carry our money. There is good stuff in the Robber
Caste people: a valiant people are they, and though they were not
prepared for the thing that was coming towards them, they met it with
fortitude. A little girl saw it first. One glance at my hat through the
end of the cart, and she flew to spread the news--
"Oh! everyone come running and see! A great white man is here! Oh what
an appalling spectacle! A great white man!"
Then there was a general rush; children seemed to spring from the
ground, all eyes and tongues and astonishment. "She isn't a man!" "He
is!" "She isn't!" "He has got a man's turban!" "But look at her seeley!"
(Tamil dress.) A _woman_, and white--it staggered them till the
assurances of the Band Sisters prevailed; and they let me into a
neighbouring house, out of the sun which made that hat a necessity. Once
it was off they lost all fear, and crowded round in the friendliest
fashion; but later, one of the Band was amused by hearing me described
in full: "Not a man, though great and white, and wearing a white man's
turban, too! Was it not an appalling spectacle?" And the old body who
was addressed held up both her hands amazed, and hastened off to
investigate.
An English magazine told us lately exactly what these poor women think
when they see, for the first time in their lives, the lady missionary.
They greatly admire her, the article said, and consider her fairer and
more divine than anything ever imagined before--which is very nice
indeed to read; but here what they say is this: "Was it not an appalling
spectacle? A great white man!"
And now that the spectacle was safe in the house, the instincts of
hospitality urged clean mats and betel. Betel (pronounced _beetle_) is
the leaf of a climbing plant, into which they roll a morsel of areca nut
and lime. The whole is made up into a parcel and munched, but not
swallowed. This does not sound elegant; neither is the thing. It is one
of the minor trials of life to have to sit through the process.
We took a leaf or two, but explained that it was not our custom to eat
it; and then we answered questions straight off for ten minutes. "What
is your Caste?" "Chee!" in a tone of remonstrance, "don't you see she is
_white_? Married or widow? Why no jewels? What relations? Where are they
all? Why have you left them and come here? Whatever can be your business
here? What does the Government give you for coming here?" These last
questions gave us the chance we were watching for, and we began to
explain.
Now what do these people do when, for the first time, they hear the Good
Tidings? They simply stare.
In that house that day there was an old woman who seemed to understand
a little what it was all about. She had probably heard before. But
nobody else understood in the least; they did not understand enough to
make remarks. They sat round us on the floor and ate betel, as everybody
does here in all leisure moments, and they stared.
The one old woman who seemed to understand followed us out of the house,
and remarked that it was a good religion but a mistaken one, as it
advocated, or resulted in, the destruction of Caste.
In the next house we found several girls, and tried to persuade the
mothers to let them learn to read. If a girl is learning regularly it
gives one a sort of right of entrance to the house. One's going there is
not so much observed and one gets good chances, but to all our
persuasions they only said it was not their custom to allow their girls
to learn. Had _they_ to do Government work? Learning was for men who
wanted to do Government work. We explained a little, and mentioned the
many villages where girls are learning to read. They thought it a wholly
ridiculous idea. Then we told them as much as we could in an hour about
the great love of Jesus Christ.
I was in the middle of it, and thinking only of it and their souls, when
an old lady with fluffy white hair leaned forward and gazed at me with a
beautiful, earnest gaze. She did not speak; she just listened and gazed,
"drinking it all in." And then she raised a skeleton claw, and grabbed
her hair, and pointed to mine. "Are you a widow too," she asked, "that
you have no oil on yours?" After a few such experiences that beautiful
gaze loses its charm. It really means nothing more nor less than the
sweet expression sometimes observed in the eyes of a sorrowful animal.
But her question had set the ball rolling again. "Oil! no oil! Can't you
even afford a halfpenny a month to buy good oil? It isn't your custom?
Why not? Don't any white Ammals ever use oil? What sort of oil do the
girls use? Do you _never_ use castor oil for the hair? Oh, castor oil is
excellent!" And they went into many details. The first thing they do
when a baby is born is to swing it head downwards, holding its feet, and
advise it not to sin; and the second thing is to feed it with castor
oil, and put castor oil in its eyes. "Do we do none of these things?" We
sang to them. They always like that, and sometimes it touches them: but
the Tamils are not easily touched, and could never be described as
unduly emotional.
All through there were constant and various interruptions. Two bulls
sauntered in through the open door, and established themselves in their
accustomed places; then a cow followed, and somebody went off to tie the
animals up. Children came in and wanted attention, babies made their
usual noises. We rarely had five consecutive quiet minutes.
When they seemed to be getting tired of us, we said the time was
passing, to which they agreed, and, with a word about hoping to come
again, to which they answered cordially, "Oh yes! Come to-morrow!" we
went out into the street, and finished up in the open air. There is a
tree at one end of the village; we stood under it and sang a chorus and
taught the children who had followed us from house to house to sing it,
and this attracted some passing grown-ups, who listened while we
witnessed unto Jesus, Who had saved us and given us His joy. Nothing
tells more than just this simple witness. To hear one of their own
people saying, with evident sincerity, "One thing I know, that whereas I
was blind now I see," makes them look at each other and nod their heads
sympathetically. This is something that appeals, something they can
appreciate; many a time it arrests attention when nothing else would.
[Illustration: We were not able to get the photo of that special girl
in the blue seeley, but this girl is so like her that I put her here.
She is a Vellalar. The jewels worn by a girl of this class run into
thousands of rupees. They are part of the ordinary dress. This girl did
not know we were coming, she was "caught" just as she was. She had a
ball of pink oleander flowers in her hands and white flowers in her
hair.]
We were thoroughly tired by this time, and could neither talk nor sing
any more. The crowd melted--all but the children, who never melt--one by
one going their respective ways, having heard, some of them, for the
first time. What difference will it make in their lives? Did they
understand it? None of them seemed specially interested, none of them
said anything interesting. The last question I heard was about
soap--"What sort of soap do you use to make your skin white?" Most of
them would far prefer to be told that secret than how to get a white
heart.
Afternoon Number Two found us in the Village of the Temple, a
tumble-down little place, but a very citadel of pride and the arrogance
of ignorance. We did not know that at first, of course, but we very soon
found it out. There was the usual skirmish at the sight of a live white
woman; no one there had seen such a curiosity. But even curiosity could
not draw the Brahmans. They live in a single straggling street, and
would not let us in. "Go!" said a fat old Brahman disdainfully; "no
white man has ever trodden our street, and no white woman shall. As for
that low-caste child with you"--Victory looked up in her gentle way, and
he varied it to--"that child who eats with those low-caste people--she
shall not speak to one of our women. Go by the way you have come!"
This was not encouraging. We salaamed and departed, and went to our
bandy left outside ("low-caste bandies" are not allowed to drive down
Brahman streets), and asked our Master to open another door. While we
were waiting, a tall, fine-looking Hindu came and said, "Will you come
to my house? I will show you the way." So we went.
He led us to the Vellala quarter next to the Brahmans, and we found his
house was the great house of the place. The outer door opened into a
large square inner courtyard. A wide verandah, supported by pillars
quaintly carved, ran round it. The women's rooms, low and windowless,
opened on either side; these are the rooms we rejoice to get into, and
now we were led right in.
But first I had to talk to the men. They were regular Caste Hindus;
courteous--for they have had no cause to fear the power of the
Gospel--yet keen and argumentative. One of them had evidently read a
good deal. He quoted from their classics; knew all about Mrs. Besant and
the latest pervert to her views; and was up in the bewildering tangle of
thought known as Hindu Philosophy. "Fog-wreaths of doubt, in blinding
eddies drifted"--that is what it really is, but it is very difficult to
prove it so.
One truth struck him especially--Christianity is the only religion which
provides a way by which there is deliverance from sin _now_. There is a
certain system of philosophy which professes to provide deliverance in
the future, when the soul, having passed through the first three stages
of bliss, loses its identity and becomes absorbed in God; but there is
no way by which deliverance can be obtained here and now. "Sin shall not
have dominion over you"--there is no such line as this in all the
million stanzas of the Hindu classics. He admitted this freely, admitted
that this one tenet marked out Christianity as a unique religion; but he
did not go on further; he showed no desire to prove the truth of it.
After this they let us go to the women, who had all this time been
watching us, and discussing us with interest.
Once safely into their inner room, we sat down on the floor in the midst
of them, and began to make friends. There was a grandmother who had
heard that white people were not white all over, but piebald, so to
speak; might she examine me? There were several matronly women who
wanted to know what arrangements English parents made concerning their
daughters' marriages. There were the usual widows of a large Indian
household--one always looks at them with a special longing; and there
was a dear young girl, in a soft blue seeley (Tamil dress), her ears
clustered about with pearls, and her neck laden with five or six
necklets worth some hundreds of rupees. She was going to be married; and
beyond the usual gentle courtesy of a well-brought-up Tamil girl,
showed no interest in us. Almost all the women had questions to ask. On
the track it is different; they have already satisfied their lawful
curiosity concerning Missie Ammals; but here they have not had the
chance; and if we ignore their desires, we defeat our own. They may seem
to listen, but they are really occupied in wondering about us. We got
them to listen finally, and left them, cheered by warm invitations to
return.
Then we thought of the poor proud Brahmans, and hoping that, perhaps, in
the interval they had inquired about us, and would let us in, we went to
them again. We could see the fair faces and slender forms of the younger
Brahman women standing in the shadow behind their verandah pillars, and
some of them looked as if they would like to let us in, but the street
had not relented; and a Brahman street is like a house--you cannot go in
unless you are allowed.
There was one kind-faced, courtly old man, and he seemed to sympathise
with us, for he left the mocking group of men, and came to see us off;
and then, as if to divert us from the greater topic, he pointed to one
of the mountains, a spur of the God King's mountain, famous in all South
India, and volunteered to tell me its story. We were glad to make
friends with him even over so small a thing as a mountain; but he would
speak of nothing else, and when he left us we felt baffled and sorry,
and tired with the tiredness that comes when you cannot give your
message; and we sat down on a rock outside the Brahman street, to wait
till the Band Sisters gathered for the homeward walk.
It was sunset time, and the sky was overcast by dull grey clouds; but
just over the Brahman quarter there was a rift in the grey, and the
pent-up gold shone through. It seemed as if God were pouring out His
beauty upon those Brahmans, trying to make them look up, and they would
not. One by one we saw them go to their different courtyards, where the
golden glow could not reach them, and we heard them shut their great
heavy doors, as if they were shutting Him out.
In there it was dark; out here, out with God, it was light. The
after-glow, that loveliest glow of the East, was shining through the
rent of the clouds, and the red-tiled roofs and the scarlet flowers of
the Flame of the Forest, and every tint and colour which would respond
in any way, were aglow with the beauty of it. The Brahman quarter was
set in the deep green of shadowy trees; just behind it the mountains
rose outlined in mist, and out of the mist a waterfall gleamed white
against blue.
We spent Afternoon Number Three in the Village of the Warrior, a lonely
little place, left all by itself on a great rough moorland--if you can
call a patch of bare land "moor" which is destitute of heather, and
grows palms and scrub in clumps instead. It took us rather a long time
to get to it, over very broken ground on a very hot day; but when we did
get there we found such a good opening that we forgot about our
feelings, and entered in rejoicing. There were some little children
playing at the entrance to the village, and they led us straight to
their own house, making friends in the most charming way as they
trotted along beside us. They told us their family history, and we told
them as much of ours as was necessary, and they introduced us to their
mothers as old acquaintances. The mothers were indulgent, and let us
have a room all to ourselves in the inner courtyard, where a dozen or
more children gathered and listened with refreshing zest. _They_
understood, dear little things, though so often their elders did not.
Then the mothers got interested, and sat about the door. The girls were
with me. (We usually divide into two parties; the elder and more
experienced Sisters go off in one direction, and the young convert-girls
come with me.) And before long, Jewel of Victory was telling out of a
full heart all about the great things God had done for her. She has a
very sweet way with the women, and they listened fascinated. Then the
others spoke, and still those women listened. They were more intelligent
than our audience of yesterday; and though they did not follow nearly
all, they listened splendidly to the story-part of our message. In the
meaning, as is often the case, their interest was simply nil.
But we were sorry, and I think so were they, when a commotion outside
disturbed us, and we were sorrier when we knew the cause. The village
postman, who only visits these out-of-the-way places once a week, had
appeared with a letter for the head of the house. One of the men folk
had read it. It told of the death of the son in foreign parts--Madras, I
think--and the poor old mother's one desire was to see us out of the
room. She had not liked to turn us out; but, as the news spread, more
women gathered clamouring round the door; and the moment we left the
room empty, in they rushed, with the mother and the women who had
listened to us, and flinging themselves on the floor, cried the Tamil
cry of sorrow, full of a pathos of its own: "Ai-y[=o]! Ai-y[=o]!
Ai-Ai-y[=o]!"
It was sad to leave them crying so, but at that moment we were certainly
better away. The children came with us to the well outside the village,
and we sat on its wall and went on with our talk. They would hardly let
us go, and begged us to come back and "teach them every day," not the
Gospel--do not imagine their little hearts craved for that--but reading
and writing and sums! As we drove off some of the villagers smiled and
salaamed, and the little children's last words followed us as far as we
could hear them: "Come back soon!"
Sometimes, as now, when we come to a new place, we dream a dream, dream
that perhaps at last it may be possible to win souls peacefully. Perhaps
these courteous, kindly people will welcome the message we bring them
when they understand it better. Perhaps homes need not be broken up,
perhaps whole families will believe, or individual members believing may
still live in their own homes and witness there. Perhaps--perhaps--! And
snatches of verse float through our dream--
"Oh, might some sweet song Thy lips have taught us,
Some glad song, and sweet,
Guide amidst the mist, and through the darkness,
Lost ones to Thy feet!"
It sounds so beautiful, so easy, singing souls to Jesus. And we dream
our dream.
Till suddenly and with violence we are awakened. Someone--a mere girl,
or a lad, or even a little child--has believed, has confessed, wants to
be a Christian. And the whole Caste is roused, and the whole countryside
joins with the Caste; and the people we almost thought loved us, hate
us. And till we go to the next new place we never dream that dream
again.