"_Ich Liebe Dich_"
Early one morning in December, in the year 186--, I left my camp with a
pointer at my heels to explore the foothills to the northwest of
Nyagong. The region abounded with iron ore, and the mining syndicate I
represented instructed me to conduct my prospecting in a way that would
not arouse the suspicion of the manager of another company that had
already established iron works at Kaladoongie. So it speedily became
noised about in that section of the Terai that I was one of the many
Englishmen who spend their leave of absence in the jungle for the
purposes of sport.
There was a shrewd nip in the air when I started, and the barrels of my
gun were so cold that I was glad I had put on a pair of thick gloves.
The jungle was hardly awake when I struck into the path that skirted the
Bore Nuddee. Presently, a green parrot "kr-r-r-d" tentatively, as a
faint flush appeared in the cloudless east. A wild boar jumped a fence a
few hundred yards ahead of me, followed by the sounder, of which he was
chief, as they left the fields they had been marauding during the night.
A nilghai, with his wicked-looking horns, soon followed, and lumbered
noiselessly away. These were the thieves of the Terai, and they were,
naturally, hurrying to their coverts before the coming day should be
upon them.
Suddenly, the dewy silence was broken by the invocation of a black
partridge,--the muezzin of the jungle. "Sobhan theri koodruth!" How
solemnly, and with what splendor of utterance and pause this voice of
the Terai announces the miracle of the morning! The cry was taken up and
passed on with a significance that dwarfed the passing of the fiery
torch as told by Scott in "The Lady of the Lake." And immediately
thereafter the jungle was singing its many-voiced matin, not the least
"notable note" of which was the challenge of the jungle-cock, who is a
native of the Terai, and whose vigorous voice is not raucous with the
civilized laryngeal affections of the "tame villatic fowl."
And then, in the awakening of the forest, there came--Italian opera! A
well-poised soprano voice silenced the jungle choir by a brilliantly
executed chromatic scale, as though the singer were trying her voice.
Finding it flexible enough for her purpose, she launched into the
difficult--and abominable--aria, "Di tale amore che dirsi" in "Il
Trovatore." She suddenly stopped, as though she were ashamed of the
rubbish she sang; and, after a pause of half a minute, my soul was
stirred by the air of Beethoven's immortal "Ich Liebe Dich," sung to the
following words, which were beautifully enunciated:
I love thee, dear! All words would fail
To tell the true and tender theme;
Such ardent thoughts, and passion pale,
And humble suit, I fondly deem,
Would need a poet's rapturous mind.
Oh! if fit words could but be bought,
If Love's own speech I could but find,
I'd sell my soul to express my thought,
So you should in Love's toils be caught!
Oh! then a kindlier sun would shine,
The vermeiled flowers would look more fair,
The common world would seem divine,
And daily things appear most rare;
My soul, a soaring lark, would rise
To greet the morning of thy love
So sweetly dawning in thine eyes,
And in thy smiles, which should approve.
The tender charm of the sweet old song--now utterly neglected for more
brazen utterances, and which only Beethoven could have written--was
thoroughly appreciated by the singer.
Wishing to see her without myself being discovered, and hoping to hear
her sing again, I "stalked" her--and, behold, she was a Padhani! I
couldn't be mistaken, for she was singing David's "O ma maitresse," as I
watched her from behind the bole of a great huldoo tree.
A little boy, about three years in age, played beside her as she sat on
a fallen tree trunk and took part in the matin of the Terai. There was a
noble breadth between her eyes that reminded one of the Sistine
Madonna, and an air of repose about her figure which was set off by her
simple garments.
She was, without doubt, Chambeli, the Padhani protege of the Fishers,
whose flight from her husband, the Rev. John Trusler, immediately after
her return to the Terai, had been the sensation of the season at Naini
Tal a few years ago.
Snapping a dry twig with my foot to attract her attention, I stepped
into the open and approached her. Her first impulse was to flee, but she
quickly regained her composure and awaited me, standing, her eyes
meeting mine without the least embarrassment.
"Your singing attracted me," I began, taking off my hat to her.
"Yes?" she replied, evidently not at all anxious to come to my relief in
the awkward position I had sought.
"It was very beautiful----"
"And it is finished," she interrupted. There was a slight tone of
contempt in her voice as she thus gave me to understand that my
presence was unwelcome. But, as a student of psychology, I was not to be
so easily moved from my design of "investigating the case" before me.
"The Rev. John Trusler is dead." I paused awhile to see how she would be
affected. Then, as she gave no sign of emotion, I went on, "He hanged
himself a few days after you left him."
"My God!" she exclaimed, putting her hand to her side and seating
herself on the fallen tree.
The child, who had been clinging to his mother's dress and regarding me
with round, brown eyes, began to cry when he saw his mother's sudden
emotion. She took him up in her arms and cuddled his head to her bosom,
saying in the Padhani patois, "Mea mithoo, mea mithoo! hush, my butcha."
In the silence that ensued after the child had been quieted there came
the regular stroke of a woodman's axe, and presently the refrain of a
Padhani song sung by a man.
When the woman had regained her calm, she looked up at me somewhat
defiantly and said, "What business had they to come between me and my
jungle mother? What right had they to impose moral shackles on one who
was above their petty codes?"
"The Fishers were moved by kindness, surely; they educated you, and
Christianized you, and through them you met and married an honorable
man."
"Educated me, forsooth!" she exclaimed with scorn, her nostrils
twitching; "they robbed me of my five senses, and gave me
instead--accomplishments. Can you tell the time of the day from the sun,
sir? Can you say when the sambhur passed whose track is at your feet,
and how many wolves were in the pack that followed him? Would your sense
of smell lead you to a pool of fresh water in mid-jungle? Can you feel
the proximity of a crouching leopard without seeing it? What sort of
education is it that neglects the senses? Oh, the highest product of
your civilization--your poet-laureate, Tennyson--felt the same thing
stir in his pulses when he wrote 'Locksley Hall,' and deprecated the
'poring over miserable books' with blinded eye-sight."
"'Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay,'" I quoted, as
she paused in her rapid discourse.
"For the European, perhaps; not for the Chinaman. No, I have no feeling
of gratitude towards those you speak of; for the large freedom of the
Terai they gave me a brick cage in London; they gave me endless crowds
of miserable men and women for these, my green brothers, who are always
happy," and she put out her hand and caressed a tree that grew beside
her.
"As for Christianity," she resumed, "it is but one facet in the jewel,
morality. Christ was but an adept, I take it, who attained to his
miraculous powers--as do our rishis and jogis--by prayer and fasting and
meditation. I cannot see that Christian vices are fewer or more venial
than those of our people."
"But don't you miss your books, and the keeping in touch with the
progress of civilization?" I asked.
"Must I quote 'books in the running brooks' to you? What book is there
like this book of God's?" and she swept her arm round her. "And if my
son grow up to be brave and strong, that will be civilization enough for
me."
"But your music?"
"Ah! that is the only thing I miss. But I recollect all of Schumann's
songs and Schubert's, some of Beethoven's--and then I make songs of my
own to fit the moods of my jungle mother, and I have some small skill in
weaving words for them."
"And the man who hanged himself?"
"He was no man," she flashed; "who had not the strength of a girl, and
who was as weak-eyed as the bat in daytime! You shall see a man indeed,
one who fears not to track the tiger afoot, and who even beats me when
he sees fit," and she called aloud, "Aho! Kali Dass, aho!"
The sound of the woodman's axe ceased, and presently we heard some one
approaching through the jungle.
"'Twere better that he should know from me that you and I had had
speech together, than that he should learn it from the Terai, for our
men are very terrible when they are wrought upon by jealousy." Then,
after a pause, she went on, "Don't speak to me in English in his
presence. He won't like it."
She rose and half veiled her face with her chudder, as a splendid young
Padhan bearing an immense load of wood entered the glade. He threw down
his burden as soon as he perceived me, and, snatching up his axe,
advanced menacingly towards me. He was a bronze Apollo, with the air of
freedom that is native to mountaineers and woodsy folks.
"The sahib intended no harm, Kali Dass," began the woman; "and he hath
given me tidings of _his_ death."
"What of it? He was but a quail."
"But now canst thou become a Christian, and--marry me."
"Marry one who was twice a widow? Nana Debi forbid! I must admonish thee
when we return to our hut. Come."
Fearing that any further interest in the case on my part would but
increase the severity of her punishment, I turned down the jungle path.
Just before leaving the glade I looked back; the woman had one knee on
the ground, and with outstretched arms she was balancing the load of
wood that Kali Dass was putting on her head.