He then took us up on to the roof of the Palace, where we had a view of some very beautiful ruined temples, two hundred years old, which his grandfather had destroyed.
“Why are ruins beautiful?” he asked. “And what is beauty? Is it the cloak of God?”
Hindoos believe in one impersonal God, Brǎhma, the Universal Spirit or Energy, pervading, constituting everything. Like the banyan tree in the Dewan’s garden, it is forever evolving itself out of itself. Brǎhma is neuter; but it has developed a triple personality, three masculine deities called Brǎhma, the Creator; Vishnu, the Preserver; and Siva, the Dissolver and Reproducer. These three principal personalities are sometimes considered as co-equal and their functions interchangeable; they are constantly manifested and finally reabsorbed into the one eternal, impersonal Essence, Brǎhma.
DECEMBER 30TH
Another jackal-hunt was arranged this morning, and Mrs. Montgomery asked me if I would like to join. I said that although I had done a little riding and had always, so far, managed to stay on my horse, I had never hunted in my life and was afraid I might be a nuisance to the party; but she said it was not really a hunt, but only a way of passing the time and exercising themselves and Titus. She is reputed to be a very good horsewoman, the best in Shikaripur.
Hitherto I had not liked her; her rather small eyes behind her pince-nez had seemed severe and hard; but now she was making herself agreeable to me, and looked more kind and attractive. I accepted. The Commander was not riding with us, and Miss Gibbins borrowed his hat to wear. It didn’t fit.
“I detest your septic hat,” she remarked. “It wobbles up and down on my idiot bun.”
But she kept it nevertheless. The words “idiot” and “septic” are used very frequently in this sense as terms of disparagement by both the women. Also the word “lethal.” All Indians, it seems, are either “lethal” or “septic.”
While we rode, Mrs. Montgomery drew me back and said:
“You know you gave us all a bit of a shock here at the first kick-off. You didn’t introduce yourself. That isn’t done in India. You ought to have labeled yourself at once—we all have labels out here, so that we know where we are, so to speak; so you should have told us all about yourself at once—where you come from, your parents, school, “varsity, profession, business, and so on. But you didn’t. You just sat still and left us guessing, and that creates a bad impression. Luckily for you, we’re rather different; we’re jolly, unconventional sorts; but if you don’t label yourself at once to the people round here, the Rajgarh ladies, for instance—especially the old ones—won’t know you after the first five minutes.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I didn’t know.”
“I thought you didn’t; and we don’t mind so much, you understand, but I thought I’d better warn you so that you’ll know what’s expected of you in future.”
“Did you want a kind of recitation?” I asked.
“No, of course not. But at the least opportunity you should have produced information about yourself.”
“I was really quite willing, you know,” I said, “only there didn’t seem to be the least opportunity.”
“Of course there was. You see, when we asked you one thing about yourself it meant that we wanted to hear all. It isn’t inquisitiveness exactly; you needn’t think that; but considering our position in this country it’s just necessary that we should know and have confidence in each other. We have to stick together. How do you suppose we’d get on if every one was like you?”
“But I think you all knew all about me before I arrived,” I said slyly.
“That’s quite true,” she replied, “but it doesn’t excuse you.” We rode on for a little in silence.
“Now tell me about yourself,” she said.
I walked through the city this morning.
“What on earth do you want to do that for?” asked Mrs. Montgomery, as I set out. “You’re sure to catch something—if it’s only a flea.”
But I wanted to see the place. Chhokrapur was once a walled city; it has long since spread outside its walls, but parts of these and some of the old gateways are still standing. I entered through the main gateway, by the caravanserai, which lies on the Rajgarh road at the foot of the Guest House hill, and found myself in a wide, straight street. It was in good repair but very dusty, and bordered by crude dwellings of mud or whitewashed brick, all raised on low brick platforms which formed a kind of wide step in front on which the inhabitants might squat in the shade of the eaves. There were a number of people about, and before I had gone very far I began to feel timid. Curiosity had brought me out; but I now found myself an object of curiosity, and this embarrassed me. Every one started at me; people who were squatting on their heels in front of their houses rose up, salaamed, called others out and stood staring; groups of men interrupted their conversation to watch me pass; children followed me, and women concealed their faces, no matter how old and ugly they might be, in the long red cloths in which they were draped. I felt intrusive and self-conscious in my English clothes, and omitted to return salutes in case the saluters should be encouraged to speak to me and I should not understand what they said.
I turned down another street which crossed at right angles, hoping for less frequented ways, but this led into a kind of bazaar and was more crowded still. Salaams came from all sides; a brass vendor called to me from his stall; goats, fowls, and an occasional cow wandered at large. I hurried along in a panic, trying to appear as though I knew where I was going and had but little time to spare, and soon got lost. The streets became narrower and narrower as I turned and turned, until I felt I was back in the trenches, the houses upon either side being so much of the same color and substance as the rough ground between.
Eventually I came out by a lake which I remembered having passed on the way to the Garden of Dilkhusha, and so found my way back.
We all drove to Garha after lunch. It is about thirty-five miles distant, and is the home of the Maharani, the Queen.
Once, about a thousand years ago, said Babaji Rao, it was a large city, the capital of the province, and contained about forty great temples, of which a small group of seven still remain and are famous all over India.
We went in two cars: Babaji Rao and the two women in the first, Major Pomby, the Commander, and myself in the second. On the way Major Pomby warned us that one of the temples—and he described its exact position in the group—had some highly indecent sculptures on its walls. We must therefore keep clear of it, he said, in case the ladies followed us. He also told us not to try to enter any of the temples, for this was not permitted.
Garha Palace, the back of which was the first thing we saw, had little of the beauty of the Mahua Palace, but again was pleasanter than the Palace at Chhokrapur. It also stood on the edge of an artificial lake. Beyond it was another imposing white building, whose cupola and chhatris appeared over a high surrounding wall. I supposed it to be yet another palace; but Babaji Rao smiled and said it was the tomb of His Highness’s grandfather. I peeped in and saw a pretty bush with pink flowers growing at the entrance to the tomb. The temples were facing this, standing against the trees on the far edge of the great clearing which fronted the Palace. They were all close together, and rose from high stone platforms reached by wide flights of steps. Very beautiful they were, like huge gray plants, ribbed and groined, springing up from their wide bases and evolving out of themselves. Built without mortar, they had a loose, self-developed appearance; one felt that if one pressed them down from the top they would collapse and close up into something like an artichoke. Every inch of them, it seemed, was carved and sculptured with countless figures of gods and men. These were of all sizes, and extraordinarily beautiful in their separate form and detail and in their harmony with the general plan. They were Jain temples, Babaji Rao said, dedicated to Siva, the Dissolver and Reproducer, and we might enter them so long as we removed our shoes. I did so; but the two women did not want to spoil their stockings, and remained outside in t
he charge of Major Pomby and the Commander. Perhaps this was as well, since one of the temples enshrined a gigantic black stone lingam which, incidentally, was alleged to contain in its midst a rare and priceless jewel. There was so much sculpture that I should certainly have missed the indecencies if Major Pomby had not been considerate enough to mention them; as it was, it took me a long time to locate them, but I found them at last, a long file of soldiers marching gaily along, and another smaller, more elaborate, design which was frequently repeated. They were both sodomitic.
The village of Garha we did not see; it lies behind His Highness’s grandfather’s tomb, and consists now, Babaji Rao said, of only about two hundred houses.
I told His Highness that I had mistaken the tomb of his grandfather for a palace.
“He was poisoned,” he remarked.
“Indeed?” I said. “How did that happen?”
“My great-grandmother. They quarreled, and she poisoned him.”
He added that a king could never trust his relatives, they were always scheming and giving trouble of some sort; in fact, he said gravely, he had just received a report that some of his own kinsmen were plotting together in a neighboring State to destroy his son by Black Magic.
Mrs. Montgomery gave me some advice this evening after dinner. Fixing me with her lorgnettes as we sat alone together over the dining-room fire, she said:
“Look here, young man, I’ll give you a word of advice. Keep clear of Indian women! Do you understand me? Don’t look at them! Don’t notice them! They don’t exist!”
DECEMBER 31ST
This morning His Highness took me out for a drive in one of his cars. He knows no more about cars than I do, and chooses them by the appeal of their names. So he bought a “Sunbeam.” It would surely be a very pretty car; but it seemed much the same as any other, and he was equally disappointed by a “Moon.” He asked me to-day what his next car should be, for two of the four he already has are getting very old, and I suggested a “Buick,” which was the only make I could call to mind; but after pronouncing the word two or three times with evident disfavor, and making it sound like a sneeze, he did not refer to the matter again. He was wearing a purple overcoat, of European cut, lined with pink; the yellow spots down the collapsed bridge of his nose had been renewed; he had not shaved. A travelling-rug was draped about his knees, and over the top of his green and gold bonnet and beneath his chin a bright red woolen muffler was bound.
It is the last day of the old year, and he said he was extremely anxious to see a mongoose, for a mongoose is a very good omen; so we passed slowly along the Deori road about in search of one, while he fired rapid questions at me my circumstances, nodding briefly at my answers but never taking his eyes off the landscape.
How many members were there of my family? Was I the only son? Did I have to support the family? Oh, not while my father lived? And what was my father’s business? And his income? And was he old? How old? Was he strong? Did he move, like His Highness himself, stiffly, with difficulty? And so on, to the object of them all—Would I stay with him and be tutor to his son (now aged two) when he should be old enough to need one, and be also his private secretary, and even, later on, his Prime Minister? Would I stay with him for—sixteen years? I said I didn’t know if I would, postponing a definite refusal by saying I could hardly be expected yet to know my own mind. Meanwhile, no mongoose having been observed, he had ordered the chauffeur to turn the car off the road, and we were now rocking and bumping over the open country among stones and bushes; but the only life I could see were large black-faced monkeys scampering off with their babies clinging to their stomachs.
“Look!” I said, pointing suddenly. “What’s that?”
“Where? Where?” he cried, following my direction anxiously.
Then he leaned back abruptly in the car, and turned his face away.
“A jackal; a very bad omen,” he said gloomily, and then be gan to shake with laughter.
“Am I very silly?” he asked, with pathetic charm.
“I should like to see a mongoose myself,” I replied.
After this he began to talk of Political Agents in general, and the local one, Major Jenkins, in particular. He was a nice man, he said, no doubt of that, but he had two sides to his nature—he was weak, and overpowered by wanton and wicked men.
“I want to pursue a good policy, but how am I to pursue a good policy when I am overpowered by wanton and wicked men?”
I had no idea to whom he was alluding, but ventured to suggest that Political Agents were not so powerful as he seemed to think.
“Aren’t they merely advisers to you?” I asked.
“But, my dear sir,” he retorted, “what sort of advice is that when I am obliged to take it?”
He spoke then of some previous Agent he had known.
“He was a most . . . cantankerous . . . what is that?”
“Ill-tempered, quarrelsome.”
“Yes, a most cantankerous man.”
But he did not find me very interesting on this subject. All I know about Political Agents is that they are usually unpopular with the rulers of the native States, and that there was trouble between His Highness and Major Jenkins over my engagement. For I am receiving a salary as well as my return fare, and I dare say the P.A. considered me a quite unnecessary extravagance, which—no doubt—I am. Mrs. Montgomery gave me some information about all this. Major Jenkins, she said, had not been at all disposed to receive me favorably.
“But I saw him the other day in Rajgarh,” she said, “and told him you were quite harmless; so it’ll be all right now.” She added that he was “a horrid man and a fool.”
His Highness turned to the subject of literature. Had I ever read a book called . . . some Latin title . . . “Quo . . . quo . . .”
“Quo Vadis?” I guessed.
“Yes, you are right, you are right.” He was very pleased.
“How do you say it?”
“Quo Vadis?”
“You have read it?”
“Yes,” I said. This was a lie; but I felt he must be thinking me a very ill-educated young man considering the number of well-known books I had already confessed to not having read; and I also thought I knew enough about Quo Vadis? to be able to support my lie.
“It is about Nero,” observed His Highness, as though to make sure.
“I know,” I said.
“A very good book! A very good book! What did it mean about Nero marrying Pythagoras in public?”
“I think you’ve got that wrong,” I said.
“No, no; I have not got it wrong. It says so.”
“Well,” I replied, after some consideration, “it may mean either that Nero, as a patron, gave Pythagoras in marriage to some young lady; or that he publicly embraced Pythagorean philosophy.”
“But, my good sir,” said His Highness, “this was not that Pythagoras; this was another Pythagoras, a boy.”
“Oh,” I said hastily. “Well, in that case perhaps it means exactly what it says.”
His Highness simpered into his sleeve.
“Nero was a pupil of Seneca’s,” he remarked later. “Why didn’t Seneca overpower him? Was he too strong for him?”
“I expect so,” I said feebly.
“I want to be like the Roman Emperors,” he mumbled; and then asked: “Do you believe in kings, or are you . . . Bol . . . Bol . . . Bolshevist?”
“I’m Bolshevist,” I replied.
He began to shake with laughter.
“I had a friend,” he spluttered, “who used to say, ‘Kings! Tcha! Chop off their heads! Chop off their heads!’”
We had returned to the road again, and the scenery was becoming very beautiful.
“Why aren’t you satisfied with this lovely State?” I asked.
“But, my dear sir, this is not my State! This is the Maharajah of Deori’s State. We have come out of Chhokrapur.”
“What is he like—the Maharajah of Deori?”
His Highness waved a
small dark hand.
“I do not know. We are not at . . . speaking terms.”
“Well, he’s got a beautiful State,” I said.
“Very beautiful,” agreed His Highness irritably. “I should like to grab it—like the Roman Emperors.”
We didn’t see a mongoose.
Talking of snakes, Mrs. Montgomery told me that once she nearly trod upon a krait—one of the most venomous snakes in India. She had been very ill at the time, suffering from acute facial neuralgia, “so that I didn’t care if I trod on fifty kraits. I was quite stupid with pain, and was going back in the evening to my bungalow, preceded by a servant who was carrying a lamp. Suddenly he stopped and said “Krait, Memsahib!”—but I was far too ill to notice what he was saying, and went straight on, and the krait was lying right in the middle of the path! Then the servant did a thing absolutely without precedent in India—he touched me!—he put his hand on my shoulder and pulled me back. My shoe came off and I stopped. Of course if he hadn’t done that I should undoubtedly have been killed; but I didn’t like it all the same, and got rid of him soon after.”
Babaji Rao, the Secretary, took me into Rajgarh this afternoon, so that I might leave cards at the British Cantonment.
The Cantonment presents a neat, orderly, well-disciplined appearance with its trim hedges and gardens, its bungalows and graveled roads. Every bungalow had a little box inscribed “Not at home” outside its front gates, for in British India no one is ever at home to a first caller. One drops cards into the little boxes, and awaits the results of investigation. My cards were printed in Italy, and are not therefore, I thought to myself as I popped them in, in very good taste.
Hindoo Holiday Page 3
