Hindoo Holiday (12 page)

He is very upset.

“You are my disciple, my son,” he says; “it doesn't become you to speak to me like this.”

But alas! even the Gods themselves, it seems, cannot move the heartless; the Demon becomes truculent, and the poor old man is obliged to draw his sword, and is soon driven ignominiously from the stage.

Parwati, his wife, now enters. She has come to seek her lord, but is met instead by the returning Demon (for whom even Siva, it seems, has been too nimble), who makes improper suggestions to her. She escapes, pursued; but returns almost immediately and prays softly to Vishnu to preserve her chastity and save Siva. If she had seen, as we have seen, Vishnu's inglorious defeat, perhaps she would have taken other measures to protect herself; but as it is, she departs apparently well satisfied, and Vishnu appears.

He says that something must certainly be done at once to help Parwati, and goes off to make arrangements for a scheme he has in mind. This does not take long; he returns at once, but in a new form—as a young and beautiful maiden.

(As a matter of fact another actor took the part of Vishnu transformed—the spiteful-looking young man who in the prologue had been Saraswati—so that I found this a little confusing; but Babaji Rao appeared to have no difficulty in following, nor did Ram Chandra, his son.)

Opportunely the Demon returns, and falls in love at first sight. The disguised Vishnu receives his protestations with unconcealed satisfaction, saying that she too feels herself considerably attracted towards him and would like to dance with him. But the suggestion is received with the loftiest scorn; he has never learned to dance, the Demon says, only to fight, and she must either fight with him or marry him. But she pleads so prettily for this first favor that at length he gives way, and, to gratify her, joins her in a dance.

“That shows,” whispered the stout Secretary in my ear, “to what absurd lengths a man will go when he believes himself to be in love.”

And indeed it was a pitiable sight to see this mighty Demon, who aspired to the seat of the Gods, befooled by a mere girl, divine though she might be, into dancing a minuet. Clearly he is no good at it, but clumsily copies her every movement of hand and foot, and becomes at last so confused that when she raises her hand to her head he does likewise, forgetful of the dangerous power granted him by Siva. He touches himself; there is a flash of pink flame from the left wing to signalize his internal combustion, and screaming in the agony of death he rushes from the scene. Whereupon all the Gods flock in and congratulate Vishnu, now in his proper shape, on his cunning ruse, and the final curtain falls.

“My son is very pleased with you,” said Babaji Rao as we parted. “He says you are a good man, so you must be all right, for he is very difficult to please.”

Babaji Rao is only about thirty, not much older than myself, in fact. I was astonished to hear this, for with his corpulence, his spectacles, and his scanty graying hair, he looks quite forty, and his serious, rather pedantic manner, too, is that of a much older man. But it is very difficult to guess the age of Indians. I had always thought that Abdul, for instance, must be about thirty; but when I asked him his age to-day he said: “I am half past twenty-two.”

His Highness's night's rest is of six hours' duration, and is divided into two periods. He sleeps from 11 P.M. to 2 A.M., when he sits up and transacts business or writes letters for six hours. Then he sleeps again from 8 A.M. to 11 A.M.

“Do you mean to say,” I asked him, “that you call the Dewan and Babaji Rao at two o'clock in the morning?”

He spluttered, and waved a protesting hand.

“No, no, no,” he said, “I call them at five or six. But I asked them once what they would say if I sent for them at two o'clock, and the Dewan said, ‘You will be responsible for the murder of a Brahman,' and Babaji Rao said, ‘You will be teaching me my first lesson in disobedience.'”

His Highness had told Mrs. Bristow also that he did his writing in the middle of the night.

“What, poems?” she asked, and when he shook his head, “Oh, what a pity! I was hoping you'd write one to me.”

He did so (she is his idea, he says, of perfect feminine beauty), and sent it to her—a nice little poem, which said among other things that her eyebrows were like drawn bows and her teeth like pomegranate seeds.

“Do you like India?” Mrs. Bristow asked me.

“Oh, yes. I think it's marvelous.”

“And what do you think of the people?”

“I like them very much, and think them most interesting.”

“Oo, aren't you a fibber! What was it you said the other day about ‘awful Anglo-Indian chatter'?”

“But I thought you were speaking of the Indians just now, not the Anglo-Indians.”

“The Indians! I never think of them.”

“Well, you said ‘the people,' you know.”

“I meant
us
people, stupid!”

“I see. Well now, let's start again.”

1.
A subcollector of revenue.

Abdul Haq showed me some obscene postcards to-day.

“I have bought with me some pictures, Mr. Ackerley,” he said. “Do you wish to see them?”

“What are they, Abdul?”

“Postcards,” he said, simpering “Very
bad
postcards, so I do not wish to show them to you . . . unless you wish to see them. You understand?”

I did not quite understand, perhaps chiefly because, having always, from a vague mistrust, kept my relationship with Abdul strictly scholastic, I was scarcely prepared for a sudden exchange of the schoolroom for the lavatories of sex. There had, indeed, been indications that such an exchange might, at my least encouragement, be easily effected, for among the first things he had taught me were such phrases as “To have sexual intercourse,” “To lie down with one's wife,” “To make water,” and so forth, accompanied by bashful sniggerings and puffings in the nose; and although I had been grateful for such practical information and must count these phrases as among the first learned as well as the first taught, I had never taken advantage of them as short-cuts to intimacy.

“Where are they?” I asked.

“I have them here, in my pocket; but I do not
wish
you to see them. If you
tell
me to show them to you, then I
must
show them to you. You understand? In
this
way.”

Having made himself clear, he frowned slightly, drew in his chin (a peculiar trick of his), and scrabbled nervously among his notes.

I watched him with great amusement. It was the second time he had played for my curiosity, and this time he certainly won. Bad postcards were irresistible.

“Come on, Abdul,” I said, “let's have a look at them.” He looked up brightly, smiling with tight lips.

“You wish to see them?” I nodded. “You are sure, Mr. Ackerley?” I nodded. “You will not be angry with me?” I shook my head. “They are
very
bad.” I held out my hand. “But I do not
show
them to you, you understand?” he continued, drawing a packet from his pocket. “You have commanded me—against my wish. Look, I place them here, on the table. It is for you to decide.”

I took them, and he at once craned forward, straining his hands in his lap, watching the expression of my face as I turned the cards, and tittering when one was particularly pornographic. They were mostly photographs, all of extremely unattractive naked Europeans, conventionally or unconventionally amusing themselves and taken from the most spectacular angles. I had seen them before—or pictures very similar—at school, where I was disgusted and returned them quickly to their owner, and later in Paris, or Naples, where I was disgusted and bought them.

Perhaps they differed little in subject from the sodomitic sculptures on the Garha temples—the representation of an act; but their greater reality prevented one from looking at them with such detachment, rendered them more sensational, so that the figures, selected by the photographer with as little concern for physical beauty as, it seemed, the Garha figures had been cut, were here repulsive, whilst the latter, owing to their unreality, had been merely quaint.

“You like them?” asked Abdul slyly when I had turned the last.

“Very interesting,” I said in a cold voice, handing them back.

I had gone with him as far along that road as I intended to go; I had indulged in front of him a coarse appetite; it was quite another matter to share with him my satisfaction.

I was, indeed, as much in need of friendship as he had shown himself ready to supply it; but I did not want Abdul for my friend.

There is a small market fair on the outskirts of the town, and strolling through it this afternoon I thought I would like to taste the queer silvery saffron sweets that were displayed on some of the stalls. Mrs. Bristow appeared at that moment, and asked me what I thought I was doing. I enlightened her. “You're mad!” she exclaimed. “Do you want cholera? Because if you do, eat some of those sweets and you'll be dead in a few hours!”

“But quite a lot of people are eating them,” I said. “Will they all be dead in a few hours?”

“Indians!” Mrs. Bristow snorted. “Never mind what filth they put into
their
stomachs. That's a very different matter. They're pretty well inoculated by now, I should imagine. But what
they
can eat will kill
you
. All right” (as she saw the doubt in my face), “you needn't believe me, but I
know
. Nobody,
nobody
, unless he's out of his senses, would
dream
of touching Indian sweets!”

She spoke with such vehemence that I was quite alarmed, and allowed myself to be led sweet-less away.

It appears that Sharma has been very naughty. The Maharajah gave him a small gift of ten rupees last night, and since this was received in silence, asked:

“Are you not pleased?”

“No,” said Sharma sullenly. “It spoils me.”

“Then why do you not give it back?”

“I do. Here—take it!”

“Very well. Then, since presents spoil you, why do you not give me back all the other things I have given you—the money, clothes, and ornaments?”

“I do. I give them all back. I will bring them now.”

“Bring them to-morrow morning,” said His Highness, exerting what little dignity and authority remained to him; “and meanwhile go, and do not return until I send for you.”

“He is a very bad boy,” concluded the King morosely when he had recounted this deplorable incident.

“Oh, no,” I smiled; “he's a good boy really; he's only a child!”

“He is a very bad boy,” repeated His Highness, gazing straight before him. “He says that when he came up to see you the other day, you tried to—to—to cling him, that you threw him down and tried to cling him.”

“What!” I exclaimed, considerably startled.

“That is what he told me,” said His Highness.

“It's an absolute lie,” I said.

“That is what I told him,” he replied, turning upon me wide eyes that politely reflected my indignation; “and I said that if he repeated the lie to anyone else I would send him to hell. He is a very bad boy!”

“A
very
bad boy!” I warmly agreed.

He did not appear to have anything more to say, and for some moments we rolled slowly along the empty road in silence. Then it seemed to me that in justice to Sharma I should explain what had actually taken place.

“I asked for a kiss,” I said, “and he refused. That's all that happened. I didn't lay a finger on him.”

“But you must not do such things, Mr. Ackerley,” remarked His Highness, without the smallest change of tone.

“But good Lord!” I exclaimed. “I must kiss
somebody
.”

His small body began to shake, and he hid his face in his sleeve.

“I suppose this explains why he didn't come for a ride with me this morning?” I asked, after a pause.

“Did he say he
would
come?” He inquired huskily, looking very grave.

“Yes, he did. However, if he comes to-morrow I will forget that he didn't come to-day.”

“I will tell him he
must
come.”

“Tell him he
may
come,” I said.

Early this afternoon I received a visit from His Highness and Babaji Rao. The latter, who has never in my short experience achieved tidiness, looked particularly disheveled and careworn. He was carrying a sheaf of papers in his hand.

“We have come to you for help, Mr. Ackerley,” said His Highness; and then to Babaji Rao, abruptly, “Tell him what it is.”

Babaji Rao was obviously very nervous; he kept clearing his throat and smoothing the top of his head; but he explained, in his halting manner, that “His Highness the Maharajah Sahib” was not yet satisfied with any of the attempts made to compose that difficult letter to the A.G.G., and my services were again required—

“Give them to him! Give them to him!” interrupted the King, so curtly that Babaji Rao spilt most of the papers on the floor. They were collected and handed to me, and I found about half a dozen letters to the A.G.G., all unfinished, in His Highness's and the Secretary's hand. My own letter was included, and separate from these was the King's latest attempt to combine them all and, at the same time, to express gratitude for the recent introduction to Mr. Bramble, the architect. This also, it appeared, he had been unable to finish, and Babaji Rao's suggestions had been worse than useless.

“You are to read them all,” His Highness said to me, “and put everything I want to say into one letter, in the best English. Can you do this? Can you do this—miracle?”

I said I could.

“
He
cannot do it,” he remarked bitterly, pointing to Babaji Rao, who cleared his throat again; “he cannot do anything. How long do you require? Ten minutes?”