The Empire Trilogy

by J. G. Farrell

  “Why did my dear friend Mr Hopkin not call to see me? I am hurt. You must tell him so. It’s most very unkind of him. How’s your wrist, Dunstaple?”

  “A little better thank you,” Harry said, rather stiffly, as they crossed a rich, dusty carpet scattered here and there with ragged tiger skins. Nearer at hand Fleury was startled to see that the face of their host exactly resembled that of the score of portraits on the wall; the same fat, pale cheeks and glittering black eyes surmounted a plump body clad, not in Mogul robes, but in an ill-cut frock coat. He had been watching Fleury intently and now, seeing that he was about to open his mouth, broke in hastily: “No, please don’t call me ‘Highness’ or any of that nonsense. We don’t stand on ceremony in this day and age...Leave that sort of thing to Father...Just call me Hari...There are two Haris, eh? Well, never mind. How delightful. What a pleasure!”

  Fleury said: “I hope we haven’t interrupted your breakfast, but I fear that we have.”

  “Not in the least, old fellow. A boiled egg and Blackwood’s is the best way to begin the day. Now, come and sit down. I say, are you alright, Dunstaple?” For Harry, stepping forward, had given a rather odd lurch and had almost plunged on to one of the ragged tiger skins. His face, now they came to look at it, was as white as milk, though given a superficial tinge of colour by the bloodstained glass of the windows.

  “It’s nothing. It’s just the heat. I shall be alright in a moment. Damned silly!”

  “Correct!” cried Hari. “It’s nothing. You’ll be all right in twinkling. Come and sit down while I get the bearer to bring refreshment. Where is he the wretched fellow?” And he hurried to the door shouting.

  In response to their master’s shouts more servants in grimy livery poured in, barefoot but in knee breeches, carrying two more chairs constructed of antlers; these they placed adjacent to Hari’s and to a small table supported by rhinoceros feet on which Hari had abandoned his half-eaten boiled egg. Tea was brought, and three foaming glasses of iced sugar cane juice, a delightful shade of dark green. Harry Dunstaple, looking a little green himself, rejected this delicious drink, but Fleury who loved sweet things and had never noticed the filth and flies that surround the pressing of sugar cane, drank it down with the greatest pleasure, and then admired the empty glass which was embossed with the Maharajah’s crest. Harry asked permission to undo the buttons of his tunic and with a shaking hand began to fumble with them.

  “Sir, make yourself altogether as if in your home, I beg you! Bearer, bring more cushion.”

  Cushions were arranged on the floor and Harry was persuaded to lie down. “Damned silly. Alright in a moment,” Fleury heard him mutter again, as he stretched out and closed his eyes.

  “Bearer, bring tiger skin!” and a tiger skin was also stretched over Harry, but he kicked it aside petulantly. He was much too hot already without tiger skins. Fleury was very concerned by Harry’s sudden debility (could it be cholera?) and wondered aloud whether he should not take him back promptly to the cantonment and put him under his father’s care.

  “Oh, Mr Fleury, it is much too damnably hot to travel now until evening.”

  “They make such a frightful fuss,” muttered Harry without opening his eyes. “Just give me an hour or so and I shall be right as rain.” He sounded quite cross.

  “Mr Fleury, Dunstaple will have refreshing repose here and during this time I shall show you palace. I call Prime Minister to watch Dunstaple and tell us if condition worsen.”

  Harry’s groan of irritation at this further intervention was ignored and the Prime Minister was summoned. They waited for him in silence. When he at last appeared he proved to be a stooped, elderly gentleman, also wearing a frock coat but without trousers or waistcoat; he wore instead a dhoti, sandals, and on his head a peaked cap covered in braid like that of a French infantry officer. He evidently spoke no English for he put his palms together and murmured “ Namaste” in the direction of Fleury. He seemed unsurprised to find an English officer stretched on the floor.

  There was a rapid exchange in Hindustani which ended in Hari gaily shouting: “Correct!” and taking Fleury by the arm; as they left the room the Prime Minister was sitting on the floor with his knees to his chin, staring introspectively at the supine Harry.

  Once outside Hari brightened visibly. “Mr Fleury, dear sir, I am delighted to make your acquaintance. Collector, you know, Hopkin is my very good friend, most interested in advance of science. This English coat, sir, is it very costly? Forgive me asking but I admire the productions of your nation very strongly. May I feel the material? And this timepiece in pocket, a half hunter is it not called? English craftsmen are so skilled I am quite lost in admiration for, you see, here our poor productions are in no wise to be compared with them. Yes, I see you are looking at my coat which is also of English flannel, though bought in Calcutta, unfortunately, and cut by durzie from bazaar and not by your Savile Rows. Timepiece is purchased in London and not Calcutta also I think?”

  “It was a present from my father.”

  “Correct! From your father, you say. I have heard that fathers most frequently give to the sons who leave home the Holy Bible, your very sacred scripture of Christian religion, is that not the case? Did your father give you also Holy Bible when you came to India?”

  “As a matter of fact the only book he gave me was Bell’s Life.”

  “Your father gave you Bell’s Life? But is that not a sporting magazine? That is not sacred scripture? I do not understand why your father gave you this book instead of Holy Bible...Sir, please explain this to me because I do not understand in the smallest amount.” And Hari gazed at Fleury in bewilderment.

  Meanwhile, they had moved on to an outer verandah overlooking the river and formed of the same mud battlements Fleury had noticed on the approach. It was the same river, too, which, after a few twists and turns, passed the lawn of the Residency six or seven miles away. But it was no cooler here; a gust of hot air as from the opening of an oven door hit Fleury in the face as he stepped out...the river, moreover, had shrunk away to a narrow, barely continuous stream on the far bank, leaving only a wide stretch of dry rubble to mark its course with here and there a few patches of wet mud. Half a dozen water buffaloes were attempting to cool themselves in this scanty supply of water.

  “He didn’t give it me instead of the Bible,” explained Fleury, who had attempted the mildest of pleasantries and now regretted it. He added untruthfully, sensing that the situation required it: “He had already given me the Bible on a previous occasion.”

  “Correct! Bell’s Life he gave you for pleasure. All is no longer ‘as clear as mud’. The Holy Bible it must be a very beautiful work, very beautiful. Religion I do enjoy very greatly, Mr Fleury, do you not also? Oh, it is one of the best things in life beyond shadows of doubt.” And Hari stared at Fleury with a smile of beatitude on his fat, pale cheeks. Fleury said: “Yes, how true! I’d never thought of it like that before. We should enjoy religion, of course, and ‘lift up our hearts’...of course we should.” He was surprised and touched by this remark of Hari’s and wondered why he had never thought of it himself. They were now pacing over a continuation of the verandah made of wooden planks, many of them loose, which spanned an interior courtyard...below were a number of buildings that might have been godowns or servants’ quarters; there was a well, too, and a man washing himself by it, and more servants in livery squatting with their backs to the mud wall of the palace. A peacock, feathers spread, was revolving slowly on the dilapidated roof of one of the buildings below and Hari, under a sudden impulse of warmth towards Fleury, pointed it out and said: “That is very holy bird in India because our God Kartikeya ride peacock. He was born in River Ganga as six little baby but Parvati, lady of Siva, she loved them all so very very dearly she embraced them so tight she squeezed into one person but with six face, twelve arm, twelve leg...‘and so on and so forth’, as my teacher used to say, Mr Barnes of Shrewsbury.” Hari closed his eyes and smiled with an expression of deep con
tentment, whether at the thought of Kartikeya or of Mr Barnes of Shrewsbury, it was impossible to say.

  Fleury, however, glanced at him in dismay: he had forgotten for the moment just what sort of religion it was that Hari enjoyed...a mixture of superstition, fairy-tale, idolatry and obscenity, repellent to every decent Englishman in India. As if to underline this thought, the bearer who had served refreshments a little earlier suddenly appeared in the courtyard below. He held something in his hand as he laughed and exchanged a few words with the other servants and it flashed in the sunlight; he raised it, examined it casually, then dropped it on the flagstones where it shattered. Fleury was certain that it was the glass from which he himself had been drinking a little earlier.

  They walked on, Fleury chilled by this trivial incident; how could one respond warmly to someone who regarded your touch as pollution? But Hari, on the other hand, had noticed nothing and was still thinking warmly of Fleury...how different he was from the stiff, punctilious Dunstaple! He could hardly bear to look at Dunstaple’s face: there was something obscene about blue eyes...In fact, that had been the only real drawback to Mr Barnes, for he too had had blue eyes.

  “And so on and so forth,” he repeated with pleasure. “Mr Barnes has gone back to England. Perhaps you have made acquaintance with him? No? One year ago he wrote me letter from Shrewsbury. He is a very fine gentleman. I would like to ask special favour of you, Mr Fleury, sir. I would like to have pleasure of making daguerrotype of you, you see I am most very interested in science, sir. In Krishnapur I am only one who make daguerrotype and all who want picture come and see me. Mr and Mrs Hopkins, Collector and his bride, come to me, and many other married persons in cantonment. I have made pictures to send to England for absent brides and love ones. You also have bride in England, sir, I think? No? How is that? Your bride is perhaps no longer ‘in the land of the living’?” And Fleury was obliged to explain that so far he had not succeeded in capturing a bride...he had been unable to find one to suit his fancy. Hari’s brow puckered at this, for it was evident that Fleury was impeded from choosing a bride by being unable to find one suited to some special requirements of his own, beyond the usual ones of birth and dowry...but what these might possibly be he had not the faintest idea; in this matter Hari’s incomprehension was shared by Fleury’s own relations in Norfolk and Devon.

  “Soon I make daguerrotype but first I show you my pater. Come with me please. At this hour when it is so very much hot he is usually to be found ‘in arms of Morpheus’ which means, I understand, that he is asleeping. It is best time to look at pater when he is asleeping...Correct!” and Hari, laughing cheerfully, led the way.

  As they walked on through breathless mud corridors and climbed narrow stone steps Fleury found himself thinking again of Kartikeya, what a charming story, after all! Six babies pressed by love into one, there was surely no harm in such a pleasant fairy story.

  They were now progressing through windowless inner apartments, dimly lit by blazing rags soaked in linseed or mustard oil and stuck on five-pronged torches. In the distance an oil lamp of blue glass cast a sapphire glow over a small, fat gentleman sprawled on a bed and clad only in a loin cloth; above the bed an immense jewelled and tasselled punkah swept steadily back and forth. A bearer stood beside the bed holding an armful of small cushions.

  “Father is asleeping,” Hari explained softly. “He has blue light for asleeping, green light for awaking, red light for entertaining ladies, and so on and so forth. To make comfortable he has cushion under every joint of body...bearer watch him to place cushion under joint when he move.”

  Hardly had Hari given this explanation when the Maharajah with a grunt kicked out one of his short, plump legs. Instantly cushions appeared under knee and ankle. Fleury could now see that the Maharajah’s face was yet another copy of the portraits he had seen earlier and of Hari himself. As he watched, the Maharajah’s mouth opened, stained red with betel, and he belched resonantly. “Father is breaking wind,” commented Hari. “Now come with me please, my dear Mr Fleury, and I shall show you many wonderful things. First and foremost, you would like perhaps to see abominable pictures?”

  “Well...”

  Hari spoke to one of the bearers who advanced with a cup containing blazing, oil-soaked rags on the end of a long, silver pole. He held this close to the wall and a large and disgusting oil-painting sprang out of the gloom. But Fleury found that the picture was such an intricate mass of limbs that he was quite unable to fathom what it was all about (though it was clearly very lewd indeed).

  “Sir, shall I show you more disgraceful pictures? Very disgraceful indeed?”

  “No thank you,” said Fleury, and then, not wanting to sound ungrateful, he added gruffly: “I’m afraid I’m not very well up in this sort of thing.”

  “Correct! For a gentleman ‘well up’ in science and progress it is not in the least rather interesting. Come, I show you many other things.”

  Suddenly there came what sounded like the lowing of a cow from the adjoining apartment; Hari frowned and spoke sharply to one of the servants, evidently to tell him to steer the animal in another direction, but already it was clattering towards them. “This is most backward,” muttered Hari. “I am sorry you have witnessed such a thing, Mr Fleury. My father should not be permitting it. Always in India cow here, cow there, cow everywhere!” The cow, alarmed by the servants, hastened forward and was only diverted at the last moment from charging the sleeping Maharajah. An elderly servant hurried after it with a large silver bowl.

  “To catch dropping,” explained Hari as they moved on. “Here march of science is only just beginning, you understand.”

  They now found themselves in the armoury, which turned out to contain not only arms of every imaginable sort but many other things as well. But Fleury could only stare with indifference and wish they could discuss religion or science or some such topic. He had some spying to do, too, on the Maharajah’s troops, better not forget that! He was unaware of Hari’s sensitive and vulnerable eyes devouring his every reaction to the objects he was being shown.

  “This is not rather interesting at all,” apologized Hari with intensity. “This is spear-pistol. Shoot and stab one gentleman at the same time. When sharp point stabs gentleman breast, mechanism releases trigger, shoots gentleman also.”

  “Good heavens,” said Fleury languidly.

  “This big knife open out into four small knife, stab person four times.”

  “Well...”

  “And here is brass cannon which can be mounted on camel saddle. This is rather very dull also, don’t you think?” And Hari began to look rather annoyed.

  “I think, Fleury, that you will not find this absorbing, too,” he pursued relentlessly, indicating a rack of flint-lock guns with extraordinarily long barrels which could be re-loaded from horseback without dismounting, a sporting rifle by Adams with a revolving magazine, a cap in the shape of a cow pat with a feather of gold tinsel sprouting from it which had belonged to Hari’s grandfather, and an ostrich egg.

  Fleury stifled a yawn, which Hari unfortunately noticed but yet he continued as if unable to stop himself: “This is astrological clock, very complicated...The circle in centre shows zodiacal sign over which the sun pass once in year...From movement of this black needle which passes over circle in twenty-four hours the ascendant of horoscope can be ascertained. But I see that this miserable machine, which show also, I forget to add, phases of moon, sunrise and sunset, day of week, is not worthy of your attention also. Correct. It is all very humble and useless materials such as you do not have in London and Shrewsbury. Now, Fleury, I make daguerrotype.”

  As soon as the landau had arrived at the opium factory the Collector handed Miriam over to Mr Rayne and vanished about his business in the neighbourhood. Mr Rayne then handed her over in turn to one of his deputies, Mr Simmons, and instructed him to show her the process by which opium is refined. Mr Simmons was a little younger, Miriam found, than her brother; he was a nice young man w
hose freckled skin was peeling seriously in several places. Not many ladies visited the factory and Mr Simmons, in any case, was unused to their company. His manner was excessively deferential and he blushed frequently for no apparent reason. In addition, he was very zealous in his explanations and allowed few details of the preparation of opium to escape Miriam’s notice. He conducted her round immense iron vats and invited her to peer at mysterious fermenting liquids...mysterious because although Miriam was told all about them, she discovered that Mr Simmons’s words slipped through her mind like fish through a sluice-gate the instant after he had spoken them...this was embarrassing and she had to be careful that he did not notice. But gradually it became clear that although Mr Simmons was overwhelmed by the superior qualities of the gentler sex, to the extent that a too personal smile or frown from her would have crushed him as easily as a moth beneath the sole of her shoe, he did not include the possibility of intelligence among these qualities. He did not expect to be understood or remembered from one instant to the next.

  Miriam was content, however. The drowsy scent of the poppy hung everywhere in the hot darkness of the warehouses and lulled her senses. She felt wonderfully at peace and was sorry when at last the tour came to an end and she was taken to watch the workmen making the finished opium into great balls, each as big as a man’s head, which would be packed forty to a chest and auctioned in Calcutta. Each of these head-sized balls, explained Mr Simmons quietly but with the air of someone speaking his words into a high wind, would fetch about seventy-six shillings, while to the ryot and his family the Government paid a mere four shillings a pound. As he talked he nervously scratched his peeling wrists and brow while Miriam, diverted, sleepily tried to think of a sensible question and watched the falling flakes of skin drift to the ground.