IN THE MATTER OF A PRIVATE
Hurrah! hurrah! a soldier's life for me! Shout, boys, shout! for it makes you jolly and free. --The Ramrod Corps.
PEOPLE who have seen, say that one of the quaintest spectacles ofhuman frailty is an outbreak of hysterics in a girls' school. It startswithout warning, generally on a hot afternoon among the elder pupils. Agirl giggles till the giggle gets beyond control. Then she throws up herhead, and cries, "Honk, honk, honk," like a wild goose, and tears mixwith the laughter. If the mistress be wise she will rap out somethingsevere at this point and check matters. If she be tender-hearted, and sendfor a drink of water, the chances are largely in favor of another girllaughing at the afflicted one and herself collapsing. Thus the troublespreads, and may end in half of what answers to the Lower Sixth ofa boys' school rocking and whooping together. Given a week of warmweather, two stately promenades per diem, a heavy mutton and rice mealin the middle of the day, a certain amount of nagging from the teachers,and a few other things, some amazing effects develop. At least this iswhat folk say who have had experience.
Now, the Mother Superior of a Convent and the Colonel of a BritishInfantry Regiment would be justly shocked at any comparison being madebetween their respective charges. But it is a fact that, under certaincircumstances, Thomas in bulk can be worked up into ditthering, ripplinghysteria. He does not weep, but he shows his trouble unmistakably, andthe consequences get into the newspapers, and all the good peoplewho hardly know a Martini from a Snider say: "Take away the brute'sammunition!"
Thomas isn't a brute, and his business, which is to look after thevirtuous people, demands that he shall have his ammunition to his hand.He doesn't wear silk stockings, and he really ought to be supplied witha new Adjective to help him to express his opinions; but, for all that,he is a great man. If you call him "the heroic defender of the nationalhonor" one day, and "a brutal and licentious soldiery" the next, younaturally bewilder him, and he looks upon you with suspicion. There isnobody to speak for Thomas except people who have theories to work offon him; and nobody understands Thomas except Thomas, and he does notalways know what is the matter with himself.
That is the prologue. This is the story:
Corporal Slane was engaged to be married to Miss Jhansi M'Kenna,whose history is well known in the regiment and elsewhere. He had hisColonel's permission, and, being popular with the men, every arrangementhad been made to give the wedding what Private Ortheris called "eeklar."It fell in the heart of the hot weather, and, after the wedding,Slane was going up to the Hills with the Bride. None the less, Slane'sgrievance was that the affair would be only a hired-carriage wedding,and he felt that the "eeklar" of that was meagre. Miss M'Kenna didnot care so much. The Sergeant's wife was helping her to make herwedding-dress, and she was very busy. Slane was, just then, the onlymoderately contented man in barracks. All the rest were more or lessmiserable.
And they had so much to make them happy, too. All their work was overat eight in the morning, and for the rest of the day they could lie ontheir backs and smoke Canteen-plug and swear at the punkah-coolies. Theyenjoyed a fine, full flesh meal in the middle of the day, and then threwthemselves down on their cots and sweated and slept till it was coolenough to go out with their "towny," whose vocabulary contained lessthan six hundred words, and the Adjective, and whose views on everyconceivable question they had heard many times before.
There was the Canteen, of course, and there was the Temperance Room withthe second-hand papers in it; but a man of any profession cannot readfor eight hours a day in a temperature of 96 degrees or 98 degrees inthe shade, running up sometimes to 103 degrees at midnight. Very fewmen, even though they get a pannikin of flat, stale, muddy beer and hideit under their cots, can continue drinking for six hours a day. One mantried, but he died, and nearly the whole regiment went to his funeralbecause it gave them something to do. It was too early for theexcitement of fever or cholera. The men could only wait and wait andwait, and watch the shadow of the barrack creeping across the blindingwhite dust. That was a gay life.
They lounged about cantonments-it was too hot for any sort of game,and almost too hot for vice-and fuddled themselves in the evening,and filled themselves to distension with the healthy nitrogenous foodprovided for them, and the more they stoked the less exercise they tookand more explosive they grew. Then tempers began to wear away, and menfell a-brooding over insults real or imaginary, for they had nothingelse to think of. The tone of the repartees changed, and instead ofsaying light-heartedly: "I'll knock your silly face in," men grewlaboriously polite and hinted that the cantonments were not big enoughfor themselves and their enemy, and that there would be more space forone of the two in another place.
It may have been the Devil who arranged the thing, but the fact of thecase is that Losson had for a long time been worrying Simmons in anaimless way. It gave him occupation. The two had their cots side byside, and would sometimes spend a long afternoon swearing at each other;but Simmons was afraid of Losson and dared not challenge him to a fight.He thought over the words in the hot still nights, and half the hate hefelt toward Losson be vented on the wretched punkahcoolie.
Losson bought a parrot in the bazar, and put it into a little cage,and lowered the cage into the cool darkness of a well, and sat on thewell-curb, shouting bad language down to the parrot. He taught it tosay: "Simmons, ye so-oor," which means swine, and several other thingsentirely unfit for publication. He was a big gross man, and he shooklike a jelly when the parrot had the sentence correctly. Simmons,however, shook with rage, for all the room were laughing at him--theparrot was such a disreputable puff of green feathers and it looked sohuman when it chattered. Losson used to sit, swinging his fat legs, onthe side of the cot, and ask the parrot what it thought of Simmons. Theparrot would answer: "Simmons, ye so-oor." "Good boy," Losson used tosay, scratching the parrot's head; "ye 'ear that, Sim?" And Simmonsused to turn over on his stomach and make answer: "I 'ear. Take 'eed youdon't 'ear something one of these days."
In the restless nights, after he had been asleep all day, fits of blindrage came upon Simmonr and held him till he trembled all over, while hethought in how many different ways he would slay Losson. Sometimes hewould picture himself trampling the life out of the man, with heavyammunition-boots, and at others smashing in his face with the butt, andat others jumping on his shoulders and dragging the head back till theneckbone cracked. Then his mouth would feel hot and fevered, and hewould reach out for another sup of the beer in the pannikin.
But the fancy that came to him most frequently and stayed with himlongest was one connected with the great roll of fat under Losson'sright ear. He noticed it first on a moonlight night, and thereafterit was always before his eyes. It was a fascinating roll of fat. A mancould get his hand upon it and tear away one side of the neck; or hecould place the muzzle of a rifle on it and blow away all the head ina flash. Losson had no right to be sleek and contented and well-to-do,when he, Simmons, was the butt of the room, Some day, perhaps, he wouldshow those who laughed at the "Simmons, ye so-oor" joke, that he was asgood as the rest, and held a man's life in the crook of his forefinger.When Losson snored, Simmons hated him more bitterly than ever. Whyshould Losson be able to sleep when Simmons had to stay awake hour afterhour, tossing and turning on the tapes, with the dull liver pain gnawinginto his right side and his head throbbing and aching after Canteen? Hethought over this for many nights, and the world became unprofitable tohim. He even blunted his naturally fine appetite with beer and tobacco;and all the while the parrot talked at and made a mock of him.
The heat continued and the tempers wore away more quickly than before.A Sergeant's wife died of heat--apoplexy in the night, and the rumor ranabroad that it was cholera. Men rejoiced openly, hoping that it wouldspread and send them into camp. But that was a false alarm.
It was late on a Tuesday evening, and the men were waiting in the deepdouble verandas for "Last Posts," when Simmons went to the box at thefoot of his bed, took out his pipe, and sl
ammed the lid down with abang that echoed through the deserted barrack like the crack of a rifle.Ordinarily speaking, the men would have taken no notice; but theirnerves were fretted to fiddle-strings. They jumped up, and three or fourclattered into the barrack-room only to find Simmons kneeling by hisbox.
"Owl It's you, is it?" they said and laughed foolishly. "We thought'twas"--
Simmons rose slowly. If the accident had so shaken his fellows, whatwould not the reality do?
"You thought it was--did you? And what makes you think?" he said, lashinghimself into madness as he went on; "to Hell with your thinking, yedirty spies."
"Simmons, ye so-oor," chuckled the parrot in the veranda, sleepily,recognizing a well-known voice. Now that was absolutely all.
The tension snapped. Simmons fell back on the arm-rackdeliberately,--the men were at the far end of the room,--and took outhis rifle and packet of ammunition. "Don't go playing the goat, Sim!"said Losson. "Put it down," but there was a quaver in his voice. Anotherman stooped, slipped his boot and hurled it at Simmon's head. The promptanswer was a shot which, fired at random, found its billet in Losson'sthroat. Losson fell forward without a word, and the others scattered.
"You thought it was!" yelled Simmons. "You're drivin' me to it! I tellyou you're drivin' me to it! Get up, Losson, an' don't lie shammin'there-you an' your blasted parrit that druv me to it!"
But there was an unaffected reality about Losson's pose that showedSimmons what he had done. The men were still clamoring on the veranda.Simmons appropriated two more packets of ammunition and ran into themoonlight, muttering: "I'll make a night of it. Thirty roun's, an' thelast for myself. Take you that, you dogs!"
He dropped on one knee and fired into the brown of the men on theveranda, but the bullet flew high, and landed in the brickwork with avicious phant that made some of the younger ones turn pale. It is, asmusketry theorists observe, one thing to fire and another to be firedat.
Then the instinct of the chase flared up. The news spread from barrackto barrack, and the men doubled out intent on the capture of Simmons,the wild beast, who was heading for the Cavalry parade-ground, stoppingnow and again to send back a shot and a Lurse in the direction of hispursuers.
"I'll learn you to spy on me!" he shouted; "I'll learn you to give medorg's names! Come on the 'ole lot O' you! Colonel John Anthony Deever,C.B.!"--he turned toward the Infantry Mess and shook his rifle--"youthink yourself the devil of a man--but I tell 'jou that if you Put yourugly old carcass outside O' that door, I'll make you the poorest-lookin'man in the army. Come out, Colonel John Anthony Deever, C.B.! Come outand see me practiss on the rainge. I'm the crack shot of the 'olebloomin' battalion." In proof of which statement Simmons fired at thelighted windows of the mess-house.
"Private Simmons, E Comp'ny, on the Cavalry p'rade-ground, Sir, withthirty rounds," said a Sergeant breathlessly to the Colonel. "Shootin'right and lef', Sir. Shot Private Losson. What's to be done, Sir?"
Colonel John Anthony Deever, C.B., sallied out, only to be saluted by aspurt of dust at his feet.
"Pull up!" said the Second in Command; "I don't want my step in thatway, Colonel. He's as dangerous as a mad dog."
"Shoot him like one, then," said the Colonel, bitterly, "if he won'ttake his chance. My regiment, too! If it had been the Towheads I couldhave understood."
Private Simmons had occupied a strong position near a well on the edgeof the parade-ground, and was defying the regiment to come on. Theregiment was not anxious to comply, for there is small honor in beingshot by a fellow-private. Only Corporal Slane, rifle in band, threwhimself down on the ground, and wormed his way toward the well.
"Don't shoot," said he to the men round him; "like as not you'll hit me.I'll catch the beggar, livin'."
Simmons ceased shouting for a while, and the noise of trap-wheels couldbe heard across the plain. Major Oldyne Commanding the Horse Battery,was coming back from a dinner in the Civil Lines; was driving after hisusual custom--that is to say, as fast as the horse could go.
"A orf'cer! A blooming spangled orf'cer," shrieked Simmons; "I'll make ascarecrow of that orf'cer!" The trap stopped.
"What's this?" demanded the Major of Gunners. "You there, drop yourrifle."
"Why, it's Jerry Blazes! I ain't got no quarrel with you, Jerry Blazes.Pass frien', an' all's well!"
But Jerry Blazes had not the faintest intention of passing a dangerousmurderer. He was, as his adoring Battery swore long and fervently,without knowledge of fear, and they were surely the best judges, forJerry Blazes, it was notorious, had done his possible to kill a man eachtime the Battery went out.
He walked toward Simmons, with the intention of rushing him, andknocking him down.
"Don't make me do it, Sir," said Simmons; "I ain't got nothing agin you.Ah! you would?"--the Major broke into a run--"Take that then!"
The Major dropped with a bullet through his shoulder, and Simmons stoodover him. He had lost the satisfaction of killing Losson in the desiredway: hut here was a helpless body to his hand. Should be slip in anothercartridge, and blow off the head, or with the butt smash in the whiteface? He stopped to consider, and a cry went up from the far side ofthe parade-ground: "He's killed Jerry Blazes!" But in the shelter of thewell-pillars Simmons was safe except when he stepped out to fire. "I'llblow yer 'andsome 'ead off, Jerry Blazes," said Simmons, reflectively."Six an' three is nine an one is ten, an' that leaves me anothernineteen, an' one for myself." He tugged at the string of the secondpacket of ammunition. Corporal Slane crawled out of the shadow of a bankinto the moonlight.
"I see you!" said Simmons. "Come a bit furder on an' I'll do for you."
"I'm comm'," said Corporal Slane, briefly; "you've done a bad day'swork, Sim. Come out 'ere an' come back with me."
"Come to,"--laugbed Simmons, sending a cartridge home with his thumb."Not before I've settled you an' Jerry Blazes."
The Corporal was lying at full length in the dust of the parade-ground,a rifle under him. Some of the less-cautious men in the distanceshouted: "Shoot 'im! Shoot 'im, Slane!"
"You move 'and or foot, Slane," said Simmons, "an' I'll kick JerryBlazes' 'ead in, and shoot you after."
"I ain't movin'," said the Corporal, raising his head; "you daren't 'ita man on 'is legs. Let go O' Jerry Blazes an' come out O' that with yourfistes. Come an' 'it me. You daren't, you bloomin' dog-shooter!"
"I dare."
"You lie, you man-sticker. You sneakin', Sheeny butcher, you lie. Seethere!" Slane kicked the rifle away, and stood up in the peril of hislife. "Come on, now!"
The temptation was more than Simmons could resist, for the Corporal inhis white clothes offered a perfect mark.
"Don't misname me," shouted Simmons, firing as he spoke. The shotmissed, and the shooter, blind with rage, threw his rifle down andrushed at Slane from the protection of the well. Within strikingdistance, he kicked savagely at Slane's stomach, but the weedy Corporalknew something of Simmons's weakness, and knew, too, the deadly guardfor that kick. Bowing forward and drawing up his right leg till the heelof the right foot was set some three inches above the inside of the leftknee-cap, he met the blow standing on one leg--exactly as Gonds standwhen they meditate--and ready for the fall that would follow. There wasan oath, the Corporal fell over his own left as shinbone met shinbone,and the Private collapsed, his right leg broken an inch above the ankle.
"'Pity you don't know that guard, Sim," said Slane, spitting out thedust as he rose. Then raising his voice--"Come an' take him orf.I've bruk 'is leg." This was not strictly true, for the Private hadaccomplished his own downfall, since it is the special merit ofthat leg-guard that the harder the kick the greater the kicker'sdiscomfiture.
Slane walked to Jerry Blazes and hung over him with ostentatiousanxiety, while Simmons, weeping with pain, was carried away. "'Ope youain't 'urt badly, Sir," said Slane. The Major had fainted, and there wasan ugly, ragged hole through the top of his arm. Slane knelt downand murmured. "S'elp me, I believe 'e's dead. Well, if that ain't myblooming lu
ck all over!"
But the Major was destined to lead his Battery afield for many a longday with unshaken nerve. He was removed, and nursed and petted intoconvalescence, while the Battery discussed the wisdom of capturingSimmons, and blowing him from a gun. They idolized their Major, and hisreappearance on parade brought about a scene nowhere provided for in theArmy Regulations.
Great, too, was the glory that fell to Slane's share. The Gunners wouldhave made him drunk thrice a day for at least a fortnight. Even theColonel of his own regiment complimented him upon his coolness, and thelocal paper called him a hero. These things did not puff him up. Whenthe Major offered him money and thanks, the virtuous Corporal took theone and put aside the other. But he had a request to make and prefacedit with many a "Beg y'pardon, Sir." Could the Major see his way toletting the Slane M'Kenna wedding be adorned by the presence of fourBattery horses to pull a hired barouche? The Major could, and so couldthe Battery. Excessively so. It was a gorgeous wedding.
* * * * *
"Wot did I do it for?" said Corporal Slane. "For the 'orses O' course.Jhansi ain't a beauty to look at, but I wasn't goin' to 'ave a hiredturn-out. Jerry Blazes? If I 'adn't 'a' wanted something, Sim might ha'blowed Jerry Blazes' blooming 'ead into Hirish stew for aught I'd 'a'cared."
And they hanged Private Simmons-hanged him as high as Haman in hollowsquare of the regiment; and the Colonel said it was Drink; and theChaplain was sure it was the Devil; and Simmons fancied it was both,but he didn't know, and only hoped his fate would be a warning tohis companions; and half a dozen "intelligent publicists" wrote sixbeautiful leading articles on "'The Prevalence of Crime in the Army."
But not a soul thought of comparing the "bloody-minded Simmons" to thesquawking, gaping schoolgirl with which this story opens.
THE ENLIGHTENMENTS OF PAGETT, M.P.
"Because half a dozen grasshoppers under a fern make the field ring with their importunate chink while thousands of great cattle, reposed beneath the shadow of the British oak, chew the cud and are silent, pray do not imagine that those who make the noise are the only inhabitants of the field-that, of course, they are many in number or that, after all, they are other than the little, shrivelled, meagre, hopping, though loud and troublesome insects of the hour."-Burke: "Reflections on the Revolution in France."
THEY were sitting in the veranda of "the splendid palace of an IndianPro-Consul"; surrounded by all the glory and mystery of the immemorialEast. In plain English it was a one-storied, ten-roomed, whitewashed,mud-roofed bungalow, set in a dry garden of dusty tamarisk trees anddivided from the road by a low mud wall. The green parrots screamedoverhead as they flew in battalions to the river for their morningdrink. Beyond the wall, clouds of fine dust showed where the cattle andgoats of the city were passing afield to graze. The remorseless whitelight of the winter sunshine of Northern India lay upon everything andimproved nothing, from the whining Peisian-wheel by the lawn-tenniscourt to the long perspective of level road and the blue, domed tombs ofMohammedan saints just visible above the trees.
"A Happy New Year," said Orde to his guest. "It's the first you've everspent out of England, isn't it?"
"Yes. 'Happy New Year," said Pagett, smiling at the sunshine. "What adivine climate you have here! Just think of the brown cold fog hangingover London now!" And he rubbed his hands.
It was more than twenty years since he had last seen Orde, hisschoolmate, and their paths in the world had divided early. The onehad quitted college to become a cog-wheel in the machinery of the greatIndian Government; the other more blessed with goods, had been whirledinto a similar position in the English scheme. Three successiveelections had not affected Pagett's position with a loyal constituency,and he had grown insensibly to regard himself in some sort as a pillarof the Empire, whose real worth would be known later on. After a fewyears of conscientious attendance at many divisions, after newspaperbattles innumerable and the publication of interminable correspondence,and more hasty oratory than in his calmer moments he cared to thinkupon, it occurred to him, as it had occurred to many of his fellows inParliament, that a tour to India would enable him to sweep a larger lyreand address himself to the problems of Imperial administration with afirmer hand. Accepting, therefore, a general invitation extended to himby Orde some years before, Pagett had taken ship to Karachi, and onlyover-night had been received with joy by the Deputy-Commissioner ofAmara. They had sat late, discussing the changes and chances of twentyyears, recalling the names of the dead, and weighing the futures of theliving, as is the custom of men meeting after intervals of action.
Next morning they smoked the after breakfast pipe in the veranda, stillregarding each other curiously, Pagett, in a light grey frock-coat andgarments much too thin for the time of the year, and a puggriedsun-hat carefully and wonderfully made. Orde in a shooting coat, ridingbreeches, brown cowhide boots with spurs, and a battered flax helmet. Hehad ridden some miles in the early morning to inspect a doubtful riverdam. The men's faces differed as much as their attire. Orde's worn andwrinkled around the eyes, and grizzled at the temples, was the harderand more square of the two, and it was with something like envy that theowner looked at the comfortable outlines of Pagett's blandly receptivecountenance, the clear skin, the untroubled eye, and the mobile,clean-shaved lips.
"And this is India!" said Pagett for the twentieth time staring long andintently at the grey feathering of the tamarisks.
"One portion of India only. It's very much like this for 300 milesin every direction. By the way, now that you have rested a little--Iwouldn't ask the old question before--what d'you think of the country?"
"'Tis the most pervasive country that ever yet was seen. I acquiredseveral pounds of your country coming up from Karachi. The air is heavywith it, and for miles and miles along that distressful eternity of railthere's no horizon to show where air and earth separate."
"Yes. It isn't easy to see truly or far in India. But you had a decentpassage out, hadn't you?"
"Very good on the whole. Your Anglo-Indian may be unsympathetic aboutone's political views; but he has reduced ship life to a science."
"The Anglo-Indian is a political orphan, and if he's wise he won't bein a hurry to be adopted by your party grandmothers. But how were yourcompanions, unsympathetic?"
"Well, there was a man called Dawlishe, a judge somewhere in thiscountry it seems, and a capital partner at whist by the way, and when Iwanted to talk to him about the progress of India in a political sense(Orde hid a grin, which might or might not have been sympathetic), theNational Congress movement, and other things in which, as a Member ofParliament, I'm of course interested, he shifted the subject, and when Ionce cornered him, he looked me calmly in the eye, and said: 'That's allTommy rot. Come and have a game at Bull.' You may laugh; but that isn'tthe way to treat a great and important question; and, knowing who I was.well. I thought it rather rude, don't you know; and yet Dawlishe is athoroughly good fellow."
"Yes; he's a friend of mine, and one of the straightest men I know. Isuppose, like many Anglo-Indians, he felt it was hopeless to give youany just idea of any Indian question without the documents before you,and in this case the documents you want are the country and the people."
"Precisely. That was why I came straight to you, bringing an open mindto bear on things. I'm anxious to know what popular feeling in Indiais really like y'know, now that it has wakened into political life.The National Congress, in spite of Dawlishe, must have caused greatexcitement among the masses?"
"On the contrary, nothing could be more tranquil than the state ofpopular feeling; and as to excitement, the people would as soon beexcited over the 'Rule of Three' as over the Congress."
"Excuse me, Orde, but do you think you are a fair judge? Isn't theofficial Anglo-Indian naturally jealous of any external influencesthat might move the masses, and so much opposed to liberal ideas, trulyliberal ideas, that he can scarcely be expected to regard a popularmovement with fairness?"
"What did Dawlishe say about Tommy Rot? Think a
moment, old man. Youand I were brought up together; taught by the same tutors, read the samebooks, lived the same life, and new languages, and work among new races;while you, more fortunate, remain at home. Why should I change my mindour mind-because I change my sky? Why should I and the few hundredEnglishmen in my service become unreasonable, prejudiced fossils, whileyou and your newer friends alone remain bright and open-minded? Yousurely don't fancy civilians are members of a Primrose League?"
"Of course not, but the mere position of an English official gives hima point of view which cannot but bias his mind on this question." Pagettmoved his knee up and down a little uneasily as he spoke.
"That sounds plausible enough, but, like more plausible notions onIndian matters, I believe it's a mistake. You'll find when you come toconsult the unofficial Briton that our fault, as a class--I speak of thecivilian now-is rather to magnify the progress that has been made towardliberal institutions. It is of English origin, such as it is, and thestress of our work since the Mutiny--only thirty years ago--has been inthat direction. No, I think you will get no fairer or more dispassionateview of the Congress business than such men as I can give you. But I mayas well say at once that those who know most of India, from the inside,are inclined to wonder at the noise our scarcely begun experiment makesin England."
"But surely the gathering together of Congress delegates is of itself anew thing."
"There's nothing new under the sun When Europe was a jungle half Asiaflocked to the canonical conferences of Buddhism; and for centuries thepeople have gathered at Pun, Hurdwar, Trimbak, and Benares in immensenumbers. A great meeting, what you call a mass meeting, is really oneof the oldest and most popular of Indian institutions In the case ofthe Congress meetings, the only notable fact is that the priests of thealtar are British, not Buddhist, Jam or Brahmanical, and that the wholething is a British contrivance kept alive by the efforts of Messrs.Hume, Eardley, Norton, and Digby."
"You mean to say, then, it s not a spontaneous movement?"
"What movement was ever spontaneous in any true sense of the word? Thisseems to be more factitious than usual. You seem to know a great dealabout it; try it by the touchstone of subscriptions, a coarse but fairlytrustworthy criterion, and there is scarcely the color of money in it.The delegates write from England that they are out of pocket forworking expenses, railway fares, and stationery--the mere pasteboardand scaffolding of their show. It is, in fact, collapsing from merefinancial inanition."
"But you cannot deny that the people of India, who are, perhaps, toopoor to subscribe, are mentally and morally moved by the agitation,"Pagett insisted.
"That is precisely what I do deny. The native side of the movement isthe work of a limited class, a microscopic minority, as Lord Dufferindescribed it, when compared with the people proper, but still a veryinteresting class, seeing that it is of our own creation. It is composedalmost entirely of those of the literary or clerkly castes who havereceived an English education."
"Surely that s a very important class. Its members must be the ordainedleaders of popular thought."
"Anywhere else they might be leaders, but they have no social weight inthis topsy-turvy land, and though they have been employed in clericalwork for generations they have no practical knowledge of affairs. Aship's clerk is a useful person, but he is scarcely the captain; and anorderly-room writer, however smart he may be, is not the colonel. Yousee, the writer class in India has never till now aspired to anythinglike command. It wasn't allowed to. The Indian gentleman, for thousandsof years past, has resembled Victor Hugo's noble:
'Un vrai sire Chatelain Laisse ecrire Le vilain. Sa main digne Quand il signe Egratigne Le velin.
And the little egralignures he most likes to make have been scoredpretty deeply by the sword."
"But this is childish and medheval nonsense!"
"Precisely; and from your, or rather our, point of view the pen ismightier than the sword. In this country it's otherwise. The faultlies in our Indian balances, not yet adjusted to civilized weights andmeasures."
"Well, at all events, this literary class represent the naturalaspirations and wishes of the people at large, though it may not exactlylead them, and, in spite of all you say, Orde, I defy you to finda really sound English Radical who would not sympathize with thoseaspirations."
Pagett spoke with some warmth, and he had scarcely ceased when a wellappointed dog-cart turned into the compound gates, and Orde rose saying:
"Here is Edwards, the Master of the Lodge I neglect so diligently, cometo talk about accounts, I suppose."
As the vehicle drove up under the porch Pagett also rose, saying withthe trained effusion born of much practice:
"But this is also my friend, my old and valued friend Edwards. I'mdelighted to see you. I knew you were in India, but not exactly where."
"Then it isn't accounts, Mr. Edwards," said Orde, cheerily.
"Why, no, sir; I heard Mr. Pagett was coming, and as our works wereclosed for the New Year I thought I would drive over and see him."
"A very happy thought. Mr. Edwards, you may not know, Orde, was aleading member of our Radical Club at Switebton when I was beginningpolitical life, and I owe much to his exertions. There's no pleasurelike meeting an old friend, except, perhaps, making a new one. Isuppose, Mr. Edwards, you stick to the good old cause?"
"Well, you see, sir, things are different out here. There's preciouslittle one can find to say against the Government, which was the main ofour talk at home, and them that do say things are not the sort o' peoplea man who respects himself would like to be mixed up with. There are nopolitics, in a manner of speaking, in India. It's all work."
"Surely you are mistaken, my good friend. Why I have come all the wayfrom England just to see the working of this great National movement."
"I don't know where you're going to find the nation as moves to beginwith, and then you'll be hard put to it to find what they are movingabout. It's like this, sir," said Edwards, who had not quite relishedbeing called "my good friend." "They haven't got any grievance--nothingto hit with, don't you see, sir; and then there's not much to hitagainst, because the Government is more like a kind of generalProvidence, directing an old--established state of things, than thatat home, where there's something new thrown down for us to fight aboutevery three months."
"You are probably, in your workshops, full of English mechanics, out ofthe way of learning what the masses think."
"I don't know so much about that. There are four of us English foremen,and between seven and eight hundred native fitters, smiths, carpenters,painters, and such like."
"And they are full of the Congress, of course?"
"Never hear a word of it from year's end to year's end, and I speak thetalk too. But I wanted to ask how things are going on at home--old Tylerand Brown and the rest?"
"We will speak of them presently, but your account of the indifferenceof your men surprises me almost as much as your own. I fear you are abackslider from the good old doctrine, Ed wards." Pagett spoke as onewho mourned the death of a near relative.
"Not a bit, Sir, but I should be if I took up with a parcel of baboos,pleaders, and schoolboys, as never did a day's work in their lives, andcouldn't if they tried. And if you was to poll us English railwaymen, mechanics, tradespeople, and the like of that all up and down thecountry from Peshawur to Calcutta, you would find us mostly in a taletogether. And yet you know we're the same English you pay some respectto at home at 'lection time, and we have the pull o' knowing somethingabout it."
"This is very curious, but you will let me come and see you, and perhapsyou will kindly show me the railway works, and we will talk things overat leisure. And about all old friends and old times," added Pagett,detecting with quick insight a look of disappointment in the mechanic'sface.
Nodding briefly to Orde, Edwards mounted his dog-cart and drove off.
"It's very disappointing," said the Member to Orde, who, while hisfriend discoursed with Edwards, had b
een looking over a bundle ofsketches drawn on grey paper in purple ink, brought to him by aChuprassee.
"Don't let it trouble you, old chap," 'said Orde, sympathetically. "Lookhere a moment, here are some sketches by the man who made the carvedwood screen you admired so much in the dining-room, and wanted a copyof, and the artist himself is here too."
"A native?" said Pagett.
"Of course," was the reply, "Bishen Siagh is his name, and he has twobrothers to help him. When there is an important job to do, the three go'ato partnership, but they spend most of their time and all their moneyin litigation over an inheritance, and I'm afraid they are gettinginvolved, Thoroughbred Sikhs of the old rock, obstinate, touchy,bigoted, and cunning, but good men for all that. Here is BishenSingn--shall we ask him about the Congress?"
But Bishen Singh, who approached with a respectful salaam, had neverheard of it, and he listened with a puzzled face and obviously feignedinterest to Orde's account of its aims and objects, finally shaking hisvast white turban with great significance when he learned that it waspromoted by certain pleaders named by Orde, and by educated natives.He began with labored respect to explain how he was a poor man with noconcern in such matters, which were all under the control of God, butpresently broke out of Urdu into familiar Punjabi, the mere sound ofwhich had a rustic smack of village smoke-reek and plough-tail, ashe denounced the wearers of white coats, the jugglers with words whofilched his field from him, the men whose backs were never bowed inhonest work; and poured ironical scorn on the Bengali. He and one ofhis brothers had seen Calcutta, and being at work there had Bengalicarpenters given to them as assistants.
"Those carpenters!" said Bishen Singh. "Black apes were more efficientworkmates, and as for the Bengali babu-tchick!" The guttural clickneeded no interpretation, but Orde translated the rest, while Pagettgazed with in.. terest at the wood-carver.
"He seems to have a most illiberal prejudice against the Bengali," saidthe M.P.
"Yes, it's very sad that for ages outside Bengal there should be sobitter a prejudice. Pride of race, which also means race-hatred, isthe plague and curse of India and it spreads far," pointed with hisriding-whip to the large map of India on the veranda wall.
"See! I begin with the North," said he. "There's the Afghan, and, asa highlander, he despises all the dwellers in Hindoostan-with theexception of the Sikh, whom he hates as cordially as the Sikh hates him.The Hindu loathes Sikh and Afghan, and the Rajput--that's a little lowerdown across this yellow blot of desert--has a strong objection, to putit mildly, to the Maratha who, by the way, poisonously hates the Afghan.Let's go North a minute. The Sindhi hates everybody I've mentioned. Verygood, we'll take less warlike races. The cultivator of Northern Indiadomineers over the man in the next province, and the Behari of theNorthwest ridicules the Bengali. They are all at one on that point.I'm giving you merely the roughest possible outlines of the facts, ofcourse."
Bishen Singh, his clean cut nostrils still quivering, watched the largesweep of the whip as it traveled from the frontier, through Sindh, thePunjab and Rajputana, till it rested by the valley of the Jumna.
"Hate--eternal and inextinguishable hate," concluded Orde, flicking thelash of the whip across the large map from East to West as he sat down."Remember Canning's advice to Lord Granville, 'Never write or speak ofIndian things without looking at a map.'"
Pagett opened his eyes, Orde resumed. "And the race-hatred is only apart of it. What's really the matter with Bisben Singh is class-hatred,which, unfortunately, is even more intense and more widely spread.That's one of the little drawbacks of caste, which some of your recentEnglish writers find an impeccable system."
The wood-carver was glad to be recalled to the business of his craft,and his eyes shone as he received instructions for a carved woodendoorway for Pagett, which he promised should be splendidly executed anddespatched to England in six months. It is an irrelevant detail, but inspite of Orde's reminders, fourteen months elapsed before the work wasfinished. Business over, Bishen Singh hung about, reluctant to take hisleave, and at last joining his hands and approaching Orde with batedbreath and whispering humbleness, said he had a petition to make.Orde's face suddenly lost all trace of expression. "Speak on, BishenSingh," said he, and the carver in a whining tone explained that hiscase against his brothers was fixed for hearing before a native judgeand--here he dropped his voice still lower till he was summarily stoppedby Orde, who sternly pointed to the gate with an emphatic Begone!
Bishen Singh, showing but little sign of discomposure, salaamedrespectfully to the friends and departed.
Pagett looked inquiry; Orde with complete recovery of his usualurbanity, replied: "It's nothing, only the old story, he wants his caseto be tried by an English judge-they all do that-but when he began tohint that the other side were in improper relations with the nativejudge I had to shut him up. Gunga Ram, the man he wanted to makeinsinuations about, may not be very bright; but he's as honest asday-light on the bench. But that's just what one can't get a native tobelieve."
"Do you really mean to say these people prefer to have their cases triedby English judges?"
"Why, certainly."
Pagett drew a long breath. "I didn't know that before." At this point aphaeton entered the compound, and Orde rose with "Confound it, there'sold Rasul Ah Khan come to pay one of his tiresome duty calls. I'm afraidwe shall never get through our little Congress discussion."
Pagett was an almost silent spectator of the grave formalities ofa visit paid by a punctilious old Mahommedan gentleman to an Indianofficial; and was much impressed by the distinction of manner and fineappearance of the Mohammedan landholder. When the exchange of politebanalities came to a pause, he expressed a wish to learn the courtlyvisitor's opinion of the National Congress.
Orde reluctantly interpreted, and with a smile which even Mohammedanpoliteness could not save from bitter scorn, Rasul Ah Khan intimatedthat he knew nothing about it and cared still less. It was a kind oftalk encouraged by the Government for some mysterious purpose of itsown, and for his own part he wondered and held his peace.
Pagett was far from satisfied with this, and wished to have the oldgentleman's opinion on the propriety of managing all Indian affairs onthe basis of an elective system.
Orde did his best to explain, but it was plain the visitor was boredand bewildered. Frankly, he didn't think much of committees; they hada Municipal Committee at Lahore and had elected a menial servant, anorderly, as a member. He had been informed of this on good authority,and after that, committees had ceased to interest him. But all wasaccording to the rule of Government, and, please God, it was all for thebest.
"What an old fossil it is!" cried Pagett, as Orde returned from seeinghis guest to the door; "just like some old blue-blooded hidalgo ofSpain. What does he really think of the Congress after all, and of theelective system?"
"Hates it all like poison. When you are sure of a majority, election isa fine system; but you can scarcely expect the Mahommedans, the mostmasterful and powerful minority in the country, to contemplate their ownextinction with joy. The worst of it is that he and his co-religionists,who are many, and the landed proprietors, also, of Hindu race, arefrightened and put out by this election business and by the importancewe have bestowed on lawyers, pleaders, writers, and the like, who have,up to now, been in abject submission to them. They say little, hutafter all they are the most important fagots in the great bundle ofcommunities, and all the glib bunkum in the world would not pay fortheir estrangement. They have controlled the land."
"But I am assured that experience of local self-government in yourmunicipalities has been most satisfactory, and when once the principleis accepted in your centres, don't you know, it is bound to spread, andthese important--ah'm people of yours would learn it like the rest.I see no difficulty at all," and the smooth lips closed with thecomplacent snap habitual to Pagett, M.P., the "man of cheerfulyesterdays and confident to-morrows."
Orde looked at him with a dreary smile.
"The pr
ivilege of election has been most reluctantly withdrawn fromscores of municipalities, others have had to be summarily suppressed,and, outside the Presidency towns, the actual work done has been badlyperformed. This is of less moment, perhaps-it only sends up thelocal death-rates-than the fact that the public interest in municipalelections, never very strong, has waned, and is waning, in spite ofcareful nursing on the part of Government servants."
"Can you explain this lack of interest?" said Pagett, putting aside therest of Orde's remarks.
"You may find a ward of the key in the fact that only one in everythousand af our population can spell. Then they are infinitely moreinterested in religion and caste questions than in any sort of politics.When the business of mere existence is over, their minds are occupied bya series of interests, pleasures, rituals, superstitions, and the like,based on centuries of tradition and usage. You, perhaps, find it hard toconceive of people absolutely devoid of curiosity, to whom the book, thedaily paper, and the printed speech are unknown, and you would describetheir life as blank. That's a profound mistake. You are in anotherland, another century, down on the bed-rock of society, where the familymerely, and not the community, is all-important. The average Orientalcannot be brought to look beyond his clan. His life, too, is naorecomplete and self-sufficing, and less sordid and low-thoughted than youmight imagine. It is bovine and slow in some respects, but it is neverempty. You and I are inclined to put the cart before the horse, and toforget that it is the man that is elemental, not the book.
'The corn and the cattle are all my care, And the rest is the will of God.'
Why should such folk look up from their immemorially appointed roundof duty and interests to meddle with the unknown and fuss withvoting-papers. How would you, atop of all your interests care to conducteven one-tenth of your life according to the manners and customs of thePapuans, let's say? That's what it comes to."
"But if they won't take the trouble to vote, why do you anticipate thatMohammedans, proprietors, and the rest would be crushed by majorities ofthem?"
Again Pagett disregarded the closing sentence.
"Because, though the landholders would not move a finger on any purelypolitical question, they could be raised in dangerous excitement byreligious hatreds. Already the first note of this has been sounded bythe people who are trying to get up an agitation on the cow-killingquestion, and every year there is trouble over the Mohammedan Muharrumprocessions.
"But who looks after the popular rights, being thus unrepresented?"
"The Government of Her Majesty the Queen, Empress of India, in which, ifthe Congress promoters are to be believed, the people have an implicittrust; for the Congress circular, specially prepared for rusticcomprehension, says the movement is 'for the remission of tax,the advancement of Hindustan, and the strengthening of the BritishGovernment.' This paper is headed in large letters--
'MAY THE PROSPERITY OF THE EMPIRE OF INDIA ENDURE.'"
"Really!" said Pagett, "that shows some cleverness. But there are thingsbetter worth imitation in our English methods of--er--political statementthan this sort of amiable fraud."
"Anyhow," resumed Orde, "you perceive that not a word is said aboutelections and the elective principle, and the reticence of the Congresspromoters here shows they are wise in their generation."
"But the elective principle must triumph in the end, and the littledifficulties you seem to anticipate would give way on the introductionof a well-balanced scheme, capable of indefinite extension."
"But is it possible to devise a scheme which, always assuming thatthe people took any interest in it, without enormous expense, ruinousdislocation of the administation and danger to the public peace, cansatisfy the aspirations of Mr. Hume and his following, and yet safeguardthe interests of the Mahommedans, the landed and wealthy classes, theConservative Hindus, the Eurasians, Parsees, Sikhs, Rajputs, nativeChristians, domiciled Europeans and others, who are each important andpowerful in their way?"
Pagett's attention, however, was diverted to the gate, where a group ofcultivators stood in apparent hesitation.
"Here are the twelve Apostles, by Jove--come straight out of Raffaele'scartoons," said the M.P., with the fresh appreciation of a newcomer.
Orde, loth to be interrupted, turned impatiently toward the villagers,and their leader, handing his long staff to one of his companions,advanced to the house.
"It is old Jelbo, the Lumherdar, or head-man of Pind Sharkot, and avery' intelligent man for a villager."
The Jat farmer had removed his shoes and stood smiling on the edge ofthe veranda. His strongly marked features glowed with russet bronze, andhis bright eyes gleamed under deeply set brows, contracted by lifelongexposure to sunshine. His beard and moustache streaked with grey sweptfrom bold cliffs of brow and cheek in the large sweeps one sees drawnby Michael Angelo, and strands of long black hair mingled with theirregularly piled wreaths and folds of his turban. The drapery of stoutblue cotton cloth thrown over his broad shoulders and girt round hisnarrow loins, hung from his tall form in broadly sculptured folds,and he would have made a superb model for an artist in search of apatriarch.
Orde greeted him cordially, and after a polite pause the countrymanstarted off with a long story told with impressive earnestness. Ordelistened and smiled, interrupting the speaker at 'times to argue andreason with him in a tone which Pagett could hear was kindly, andfinally checking the flux of words was about to dismiss him, when Pagettsuggested that he should be asked about the National Congress.
But Jelloc had never heard of it. He was a poor man and such things, bythe favor of his Honor, did not concern him.
"What's the matter with your big friend that he was so terribly inearnest?" asked Pagett, when he had left.
"Nothing much. He wants the blood of the people in the next village, whohave had smallpox and cattle plague pretty badly, and by the help ofa wizard, a currier, and several pigs have passed it on to his ownvillage. 'Wants to know if they can't be run in for this awful crime.It seems they made a dreadful charivari at the village boundary, threw aquantity of spell-bearing objects over the border, a buffalo's skull andother things; then branded a chamur--what you would call a currier--onhis hinder parts and drove him and a number of pigs over into Jelbo'svillage. Jelbo says he can bring evidence to prove that the wizarddirecting these proceedings, who is a Sansi, has been guilty of theft,arson, cattle-killing, perjury and murder, but would prefer to have himpunished for bewitching them and inflicting small-pox."
"And how on earth did you answer such a lunatic?"
"Lunatic I the old fellow is as sane as you or I; and he has some groundof complaint against those Sansis. I asked if he would like a nativesuperintendent of police with some men to make inquiries, but heobjected on the grounds the police were rather worse than smallpox andcriminal tribes put together."
"Criminal tribes--er--I don't quite understand," said Paget.
"We have in India many tribes of people who in the slack anti-Britishdays became robbers, in various kind, and preyed on the people. They arebeing restrained and reclaimed little by little, and in time will becomeuseful citizens, but they still cherish hereditary traditions ofcrime, and are a difficult lot to deal with. By the way what; about thepolitical rights of these folk under your schemes? The country peoplecall them vermin, but I sup-pose they would be electors with the rest."
"Nonsense--special provision would be made for them in a well-consideredelectoral scheme, and they would doubtless be treated with fittingseverity," said Pagett, with a magisterial air.
"Severity, yes--but whether it would be fitting is doubtful. Even thosepoor devils have rights, and, after all, they only practice what theyhave been taught."
"But criminals, Orde!"
"Yes, criminals with codes and rituals of crime, gods and godlings ofcrime, and a hundred songs and sayings in praise of it. Puzzling, isn'tit?"
"It's simply dreadful. They ought to be put down at once. Are there manyof them?"
"Not more than a
bout sixty thousand in this province, for many of thetribes broadly described as criminal are really vagabond and criminalonly on occasion, while others are being settled and reclaimed. They areof great antiquity, a legacy from the past, the golden, gloriousAryan past of Max Muller, Birdwood and the rest of your spindriftphilosophers."
An orderly brought a card to Orde who took it with a movement ofirritation at the interruption, and banded it to Pagett; a large cardwith a ruled border in red ink, and in the centre in schoolboy copperplate, Mr. Dma Nath. "Give salaam," said the civilian, and thereentered in haste a slender youth, clad in a closely fitting coat of greyhomespun, tight trousers, patent-leather shoes, and a small black velvetcap. His thin cheek twitched, and his eyes wandered restlessly, for theyoung man was evidently nervous and uncomfortable, though striving toassume a free and easy air.
"Your honor may perhaps remember me," he said in English, and Ordescanned him keenly.
"I know your face somehow. You belonged to the Shershah district Ithink, when I was in charge there?"
"Yes, Sir, my father is writer at Shershah, and your honor gave me aprize when I was first in the Middle School examination five years ago.Since then I have prosecuted my studies, and I am now second year'sstudent in the Mission College."
"Of course: you are Kedar Nath's son--the boy who said he likedgeography better than play or sugar cakes, and I didn't believe you. Howis your father getting on?"
"He is well, and he sends his salaam, but his circumstances aredepressed, and he also is down on his luck."
"You learn English idiom at the Mission College, it seems."
"Yes, sir, they are the best idioms, and my father ordered me to askyour honor to say a word for him to the present incumbent of yourhonor's shoes, the latchet of which he is not worthy to open, and whoknows not Joseph; for things are different at Sher shah now, and myfather wants promotion."
"Your father is a good man, and I will do what I can for him."
At this point a telegram was handed to Orde, who, after glancing at it,said he must leave his young friend whom he introduced to Pagett, "amember of the English House of Commons who wishes to learn about India."
Orde bad scarcely retired with his telegram when Pagett began:
"Perhaps you can tell me something of the National Congress movement?"
"Sir, it is the greatest movement of modern times, and one in which alleducated men like us must join. All our students are for the Congress."
"Excepting, I suppose, Mahommedans, and the Christians?" said Pagett,quick to use his recent instruction.
"These are some mere exceptions to the universal rule."
"But the people outside the College, the working classes, theagriculturists; your father and mother, for instance."
"My mother," said the young man, with a visible effort to bringhimself to pronounce the word, "has no ideas, and my father is notagriculturist, nor working class; he is of the Kayeth caste; but he hadnot the advantage of a collegiate education, and he does not knowmuch of the Congress. It is a movement for the educated young-man"-connecting adjective and noun in a sort of vocal hyphen.
"Ah, yes," said Pagett, feeling he was a little off the rails, "and whatare the benefits you expect to gain by it?"
"Oh, sir, everything. England owes its greatness to Parliamentaryinstitutions, and we should at once gain the same high position inscale of nations. Sir, we wish to have the sciences, the arts, themanufactures, the industrial factories, with steam engines, and othermotive powers and public meetings, and debates. Already we have adebating club in connection with the college, and elect a Mr. Speaker.Sir, the progress must come. You also are a Member of Parliament andworship the great Lord Ripon," said the youth, breathlessly, and hisblack eyes flashed as he finished his commaless sentences.
"Well," said Pagett, drily, "it has not yet occurred to me to worshiphis Lordship, although I believe he is a very worthy man, and I am notsure that England owes quite all the things you name to the House ofCommons. You see, my young friend, the growth of a nation like oursis slow, subject to many influences, and if you have read your historyaright"--"Sir. I know it all--all! Norman Conquest, Magna Charta,Runnymede, Reformation, Tudors, Stuarts, Mr. Milton and Mr. Burke, andI have read something of Mr. Herbert Spencer and Gibbon's 'Decline andFall,' Reynolds' Mysteries of the Court,'" and Pagett felt like one whohad pulled the string of a shower-bath unawares, and hastened to stopthe torrent with a question as to what particular grievances of thepeople of India the attention of an elected assembly should be firstdirected. But young Mr. Dma Nath was slow to particularize. There weremany, very many demanding consideration. Mr. Pagett would like to hearof one or two typical examples. The Repeal of the Arms Act was at lastnamed, and the student learned for the first time that a license wasnecessary before an Englishman could carry a gun in England. Thennatives of India ought to be allowed to become Volunteer Riflemen ifthey chose, and the absolute equality of the Oriental with his Europeanfellow-subject in civil status should be proclaimed on principle, andthe Indian Army should be considerably reduced. The student was not,however, prepared with answers to Mr. Pagett's mildest questions onthese points, and he returned to vague generalities, leaving the M.P. somuch impressed with the crudity of his views that he was glad on Orde'sreturn to say good-bye to his 'very interesting' young friend.
"What do you think of young India?" asked Orde.
"Curious, very curious-and callow."
"And yet," the civilian replied, "one can scarcely help sympathizingwith him for his mere youth's sake. The young orators of the OxfordUnion arrived at the same conclusions and showed doubtless just thesame enthusiasm. If there were any political analogy between India andEngland, if the thousand races of this Empire were one, if there wereany chance even of their learning to speak one language, if, in short,India were a Utopia of the debating-room, and not a real land, thiskind of talk might be worth listening to, but it is all based on falseanalogy and ignorance of the facts."
"But he is a native and knows the facts."
"He is a sort of English schoolboy, but married three years, and thefather of two weaklings, and knows less than most English schoolboys.You saw all he is and knows, and such ideas as he has acquired aredirectly hostile to the most cherished convictions of the vast majorityof the people."
"But what does he mean by saying he is a student of a mission college?Is he a Christian?"
"He meant just what he said, and he is not a Christian, nor ever willhe be. Good people in America, Scotland and England, most of whom wouldnever dream of collegiate education for their own sons, are pinchingthemselves to bestow it in pure waste on Indian youths. Their schemeis an oblique, subterranean attack on heathenism; the theory being thatwith the jam of secular education, leading to a University degree, thepill of moral or religious instruction may he coaxed down the heathengullet."
"But does it succeed; do they make converts?"
"They make no converts, for the subtle Oriental swallows the jam andrejects the pill; but the mere example of the sober, righteous, andgodly lives of the principals and professors who are most excellent anddevoted men, must have a certain moral value. Yet, as Lord Lansdownepointed out the other day, the market is dangerously overstockedwith graduates of our Universities who look for employment in theadministration. An immense number are employed, but year by year thecollege mills grind out increasing lists of youths foredoomed tofailure and disappointment, and meanwhile, trade, manufactures, and theindustrial arts are neglected, and in fact regarded with contempt by ournew literary mandarins in posse."
"But our young friend said he wanted steam-engines and factories," saidPagett.
"Yes, he would like to direct such concerns. He wants to begin at thetop, for manual labor is held to be discreditable, and he would neverdefile his hands by the apprenticeship which the architects, engineers,and manufacturers of England cheerfully undergo; and he would be aghastto learn that the leading names of industrial enterprise in Englandbelonged a generation or t
wo since, or now belong, to men who wroughtwith their own hands. And, though he talks glibly of manufacturers, herefuses to see that the Indian manufacturer of the future will be thedespised workman of the present. It was proposed, for example, a fewweeks ago, that a certain municipality in this province should establishan elementary technical school for the sons of workmen. The stress ofthe opposition to the plan came from a pleader who owed all he had to acollege education bestowed on him gratis by Government and missions.You would have fancied some fine old crusted Tory squire of the lastgeneration was speaking. 'These people,' he said, 'want no education,for they learn their trades from their fathers, and to teach a workman'sson the elements of mathematics and physical science would give himideas above his business. They must be kept in their place, and it wasidle to imagine that there was any science in wood or iron work.' And hecarried his point. But the Indian workman will rise in the social scalein spite of the new literary caste."
"In England we have scarcely begun to realize that there is anindustrial class in this country, yet, I suppose, the example of men,like Edwards for instance, must tell," said Pagett, thoughtfully.
"That you shouldn't know much about it is natural enough, for there arebut few sources of information. India in this, as in other respects, islike a badly kept ledger-not written up to date. And men like Edwardsare, in reality, missionaries, who by precept and example are teachingmore lessons than they know. Only a few, however, of their crowds ofsubordinates seem to care to try to emulate them, and aim at individualadvancement; the rest drop into the ancient Indian caste groove."
"How do you mean?" asked he, "Well, it is found that the new railway andfactory workmen, the fitter, the smith, the engine-driver, and the restare already forming separate hereditary castes. You may notice this downat Jamalpur in Bengal, one of the oldest railway centres; and at otherplaces, and in other industries, they are following the same inexorableIndian law."
"Which means?" queried Pagett.
"It means that the rooted habit of the people is to gather in smallself-contained, self-sufficing family groups with no thought or care forany interests but their own-a habit which is scarcely compatible withthe right acceptation of the elective principle."
"Yet you must admit, Orde, that though our young friend was not able toexpound the faith that is in him, your Indian army is too big."
"Not nearly big enough for its main purpose. And, as a side issue, thereare certain powerful minorities of fighting folk whose interests anAsiatic Government is bound to consider. Arms is as much a means oflivelihood as civil employ under Government and law. And it would bea heavy strain on British bayonets to hold down Sikhs, Jats, Bilochis,Rohillas, Rajputs, Bhils, Dogras, Pahtans, and Gurkbas to abide by thedecisions of a numerical majority opposed to their interests. Leave the'numerical majority' to itself without the British bayonets-a flock ofsheep might as reasonably hope to manage a troop of collies."
"This complaint about excessive growth of the army is akin to anothercontention of the Congress party. They protest against the malversationof the whole of the moneys raised by additional taxes as a FamineInsurance Fund to other purposes. You must be aware that this specialFamine Fund has all been spent on frontier roads and defences andstrategic railway schemes as a protection against Russia."
"But there was never a special famine fund raised by special taxationand put by as in a box. No sane administrator would dream of sucha thing. In a time of prosperity a finance minister, rejoicing ina margin, proposed to annually apply a million and a half to theconstruction of railways and canals for the protection of districtsliable to scarcity, and to the reduction of the annual loans for publicworks. But times were not always prosperous, and the finance ministerhad to choose whether he would bang up the insurance scheme for a yearor impose fresh taxation. When a farmer hasn't got the little surplushe hoped to have for buying a new wagon and draining a low-lying fieldcorner, you don't accuse him of malversation, if he spends what he hason the necessary work of the rest of his farm."
A clatter of hoofs was heard, and Orde looked up with vexation, but hisbrow cleared as a horseman halted under the porch.
"Hellin Orde! just looked in to ask if you are coming to polo onTuesday: we want you badly to help to crumple up the Krab Bokbar team."
Orde explained that he had to go out into the District, and while thevisitor complained that though good men wouldn't play, duffers werealways keen, and that his side would probably be beaten, Pagett rose tolook at his mount, a red, lathered Biloch mare, with a curious lyre-likeincurving of the ears. "Quite a little thoroughbred in all otherrespects," said the M.P., and Orde presented Mr. Reginald Burke, Managerof the Siad and Sialkote Bank to his friend.
"Yes, she's as good as they make 'em, and she's all the female I possessand spoiled in consequence, aren't you, old girl?" said Burke, pattingthe mare's glossy neck as she backed and plunged.
"Mr. Pagett," said Orde, "has been asking me about the Congress. What isyour opinion?" Burke turned to the M. P. with a frank smile.
"Well, if it's all the same to you, sir, I should say, Damn theCongress, but then I'm no politician, but only a business man."
"You find it a tiresome subject?"
"Yes, it's all that, and worse than that, for this kind of agitation isanything but wholesome for the country."
"How do you mean?"
"It would be a long job to explain, and Sara here won't stand, but youknow how sensitive capital is, and how timid investors are. All thissort of rot is likely to frighten them, and we can't afford to frightenthem. The passengers aboard an Ocean steamer don't feel reassured whenthe ship's way is stopped, and they hear the workmen's hammers tinkeringat the engines down below. The old Ark's going on all right as she is,and only wants quiet and room to move. Them's my sentiments, and thoseof some other people who have to do with money and business."
"Then you are a thick-and-thin supporter of the Government as it is."
"Why, no! The Indian Government is much too timid with its money-likean old maiden aunt of mine-always in a funk about her investments. Theydon't spend half enough on railways for instance, and they are slow ina general way, and ought to be made to sit up in all that concernsthe encouragement of private enterprise, and coaxing out into use themillions of capital that lie dormant in the country."
The mare was dancing with impatience, and Burke was evidently anxious tobe off, so the men wished him good-bye.
"Who is your genial friend who condemns both Congress and Government ina breath?" asked Pagett, with an amused smile.
"Just now he is Reggie Burke, keener on polo than on anything else, butif you go to the Sind and Sialkote Bank to-morrow you would find Mr.Reginald Burke a very capable man of business, known and liked by animmense constituency North and South of this."
"Do you think he is right about the Government's want of enterprise?"
"I should hesitate to say. Better consult the merchants and chambersof commerce in Cawnpore, Madras, Bombay, and Calcutta. But though thesebodies would like, as Reggie puts it, to make Government sit up, it isan elementary consideration in governing a country like India, whichmust be administered for the benefit of the people at large, that thecounsels of those who resort to it for the sake of making money shouldbe judiciously weighed and not allowed to overpower the rest. They arewelcome guests here, as a matter of course, but it has been found bestto restrain their influence. Thus the rights of plantation laborers,factory operatives, and the like, have been protected, and thecapitalist, eager to get on, has not always regarded Government actionwith favor. It is quite conceivable that under an elective system thecommercial communities of the great towns might find means to securemajorities on labor questions and on financial matters."
"They would act at least with intelligence and consideration."
"Intelligence, yes; but as to consideration, who at the present momentmost bitterly resents the tender solicitude of Lancashire for thewelfare and protection of the Indian factory operative? English a
ndnative capitalists running cotton mills and factories."
"But is the solicitude of Lancashire in this matter entirelydisinterested?"
"It is no business of mine to say. I merely indicate an example of howa powerful commercial interest might hamper a Government intent in thefirst place on the larger interests of humanity."
Orde broke off to listen a moment. "There's Dr. Lathrop talking to mywife in the drawing-room," said he.
"Surely not; that's a lady's voice, and if my ears don't deceive me, anAmerican."
"Exactly, Dr. Eva McCreery Lathrop, chief of the new Women's Hospitalhere, and a very good fellow forbye. Good-morning, Doctor," he said, asa graceful figure came out on the veranda, "you seem to be in trouble. Ihope Mrs. Orde was able to help you."
"Your wife is real kind and good, I always come to her when I'm in a fixbut I fear it's more than comforting I want."
"You work too hard and wear yourself out," said Orde, kindly. "Let meintroduce my friend, Mr. Pagett, just fresh from home, and anxious tolearn his India. You could tell him something of that more importanthalf of which a mere man knows so little."
"Perhaps I could if I'd any heart to do it, but I'm in trouble, I'velost a case, a case that was doing well, through nothing in the worldbut inattention on the part of a nurse I had begun to trust. And when Ispoke only a small piece of my mind she collapsed in a whining heap onthe floor. It is hopeless."
The men were silent, for the blue eyes of the lady doctor were dim.Recovering herself she looked up with a smile, half sad, half humorous,"And I am in a whining heap, too; but what phase of Indian life are youparticularly interested in, sir?"
"Mr. Pagett intends to study the political aspect of things and thepossibility of bestowing electoral institutions on the people."
"Wouldn't it be as much to the purpose to bestow point-lace collarson them? They need many things more urgently than votes. Why it's likegiving a bread-pill for a broken leg."
"Er-I don't quite follow," said Pagett, uneasily.
"Well, what's the matter with this country is not in the leastpolitical, but an all round entanglement of physical, social, and moralevils and corruptions, all more or less due to the unnatural treatmentof women. You can't gather figs from thistles, and so long as the systemof infant marriage, the prohibition of the remarriage of widows,the lifelong imprisonment of wives and mothers in a worse than penalconfinement, and the withholding from them of any kind of educationor treatment as rational beings continues, the country can't advance astep. Half of it is morally dead, and worse than dead, and that's justthe half from which we have a right to look for the best impulses. It'sright here where the trouble is, and not in any political considerationswhatsoever."
"But do they marry so early?" said Pagett, vaguely.
"The average age is seven, but thousands are married still earlier. Oneresult is that girls of twelve and thirteen have to bear the burdenof wifehood and motherhood, and, as might be expected, the rate ofmortality both for mothers and children is terrible. Pauperism,domestic unhappiness, and a low state of health are only a few of theconsequences of this. Then, when, as frequently happens, the boy-husbanddies prematurely, his widow is condemned to worse than death. Shemay not re-marry, must live a secluded and despised life, a life sounnatural that she sometimes prefers suicide; more often she goesastray. You don't know in England what such words as 'infant-marriage,baby-wife, girl-mother, and virgin-widow' mean; but they meanunspeakable horrors here."
"Well, but the advanced political party here will surely make it theirbusiness to advocate social reforms as well as political ones," saidPagett.
"Very surely they will do no such thing," said the lady doctor,emphatically. "I wish I could make you understand. Why, even of thefunds devoted to the Marchioness of Dufferin's organization for medicalaid to the women of India, it was said in print and in speech, that theywould be better spent on more college scholarships for men. And inall the advanced parties' talk-God forgive them--and in all theirprogrammes, they carefully avoid all such subjects. They will talk aboutthe protection of the cow, for that's an ancient superstition--theycan all understand that; but the protection of the women is a new anddangerous idea." She turned to Pagett impulsively:
"You are a member of the English Parliament. Can you do nothing? Thefoundations of their life are rotten-utterly and bestially rotten.I could tell your wife things that I couldn't tell you. I know thelife--the inner life that belongs to the native, and I know nothingelse; and believe me you might as well try to grow golden-rod in amushroom-pit as to make anything of a people that are born and reared asthese--these things're. The men talk of their rights and privileges. Ihave seen the women that bear these very men, and again-may God forgivethe men!"
Pagett's eyes opened with a large wonder. Dr. Lathrop rosetempestuously.
"I must be off to lecture," said she, "and I'm sorry that I can'tshow you my hospitals; but you had better believe, sir, that it's morenecessary for India than all the elections in creation."
"That's a woman with a mission, and no mistake," said Pagett, after apause.
"Yes; she believes in her work, and so do I," said Orde. "I've a notionthat in the end it will be found that the most helpful work donefor India in this generation was wrought by Lady Dufferin in drawingattention-what work that was, by the way, even with her husband's greatname to back it to the needs of women here. In effect, native habits andbeliefs are an organized conspiracy against the laws of health and happylife--but there is some dawning of hope now."
"How d' you account for the general indifference, then?"
"I suppose it's due in part to their fatalism and their utterindifference to all human suffering. How much do you imagine the greatprovince of the Pun-jab with over twenty million people and half a scorerich towns has contributed to the maintenance of civil dispensaries lastyear? About seven thousand rupees."
"That's seven hundred pounds," said Pagett, quickly.
"I wish it was," replied Orde; "but anyway, it's an absurdly inadequatesum, and shows one of the blank sides of Oriental character."
Pagett was silent for a long time. The question of direct and personalpain did not lie within his researches. He preferred to discuss theweightier matters of the law, and contented himself with murmuring:"They'll do better later on." Then, with a rush, returning to his firstthought:
"But, my dear Orde, if it's merely a class movement of a local andtemporary character, how d' you account for Bradlaugh, who is at least aman of sense taking it up?"
"I know nothing of the champion of the New Brahmins but what I see inthe papers. I suppose there is something tempting in being hailed by alarge assemblage as the representative of the aspirations of two hundredand fifty millions of people. Such a man looks 'through all the roaringand the wreaths,' and does not reflect that it is a false perspective,which, as a matter of fact, hides the real complex and manifold Indiafrom his gaze. He can scarcely be expected to distinguish between theambitions of a new oligarchy and the real wants of the people of whom heknows nothing. But it's strange that a professed Radical should come tobe the chosen advocate of a movement which has for its aim the revivalof an ancient tyranny. Shows how even Radicalism can fall into academicgrooves and miss the essential truths of its own creed. Believe me,Pagett, to deal with India you want first-hand knowledge and experience.I wish he would come and live here for a couple of years or so."
"Is not this rather an ad hominem style of argument?"
"Can't help it in a case like this. Indeed, I am not sure you ought notto go further and weigh the whole character and quality and upbringingof the man. You must admit that the monumental complacency with which hetrotted out his ingenious little Constitution for India showed a strangewant of imagination and the sense of humor."
"No, I don't quite admit it," said Pagett.
"Well, you know him and I don't, but that's how it strikes a stranger."He turned on his heel and paced the veranda thoughtfully. "And, afterall, the burden of the actual, dail
y unromantic toil falls on theshoulders of the men out here, and not on his own. He enjoys all theprivileges of recommendation without responsibility, and we-well,perhaps, when you've seen a little more of India you'll understand. Tobegin with, our death rate's five times higher than yours-I speak nowfor the brutal bureaucrat--and we work on the refuse of worked-outcities and exhausted civilizations, among the bones of the dead."
Pagett laughed. "That's an epigrammatic way of putting it, Orde."
"Is it? Let's see," said the Deputy Commissioner of Amara, striding intothe sunshine toward a half-naked gardener potting roses. He took theman's hoe, and went to a rain-scarped bank at the bottom of the garden.
"Come here, Pagett," he said, and cut at the sun-baked soil. Afterthree strokes there rolled from under the blade of the hoe the half of aclanking skeleton that settled at Pagett's feet in an unseemly jumble ofbones. The M.P. drew back.
"Our houses are built on cemeteries," said Orde. "There are scores ofthousands of graves within ten miles."
Pagett was contemplating the skull with the awed fascination of a manwho has but little to do with the dead. "India's a very curious place,"said he, after a pause.
"Ah? You'll know all about it in three months. Come in to lunch," saidOrde.
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