by Robert Payne
The rather gawky untamed boy has given place to the poised youth on the edge of manhood, transparently intelligent. The eyes have a steady gaze, and there is the suggestion that if he rose and walked about the photographer’s studio, we would see him moving with a casual grace. The youthful features have a beauty which will never be recaptured in later years.
With the father’s death the family was reduced to poverty, not the beggarly poverty of the Indian peasant but the middle-class poverty that still retains an air of respectability. Karamchand Gandhi had received a small pension from the ruler of Rajkot, but this ceased with his death. He had never hoarded money, preferring to spend what he earned in charity and on the education and marriages of his children. On the rare occasions when he was asked why he did not set aside money for his wife and children, he answered that his children were his capital and while they were alive, his wife would never be in need. He owned the two houses at Porbandar and Rajkot, and while the family remained in Rajkot there was income from the house in Porbandar. At his death there was scarcely any cash in the house, and the four rupees Mohandas earned from his scholarship were therefore entrusted to Laxmidas, the eldest of the three brothers and the new head of the household.
According to the Indian family system, all property and all income is owned by the family in common, but the head of the household is in complete command and within limits can do with it as he pleases. Mohandas therefore had to appeal to Laxmidas whenever he needed money or whenever questions arose about his share in the family property. Later they would quarrel over money matters, but during these years they were on close and friendly terms. About this time Mohandas, who had been impressed by the doctors attending his father, and especially impressed by the English surgeon in Bombay who had spoken about an operation for the removal of the fistula, wanted to become a doctor. Mohandas had thought very carefully about the operation, and he was inclined to think it would have been better to have had the operation. He believed he was born to serve the people, and as a doctor he would be especially privileged to serve them.
In spite of a heavy syllabus he was doing well in school. He was not a brilliant pupil, but he was close to the top of his class. English still disturbed him, and he derived no pleasure from the prescribed reading of 200 pages of Joseph Addison’s essays in The Spectator and 750 lines of Milton’s Paradise Lost In addition he had to learn 200 lines of Paradise Lost by heart and recite them in class. Sanskrit was nearly as troublesome as English, for the teacher was a hard taskmaster. He did reasonably well in mathematics, receiving 65/100, but Sanskrit proved to be too much for him, for he received only 56/100. His marks in English were 45/100 and in astronomy 21/50. Few of the other boys got better marks, and in these examinations, which took place a year after his father’s death, he came fourth in his class. For this success he was awarded a scholarship of ten rupees a month.
In his autobiography he wrote that he was always astonished whenever he won prizes and scholarships, and that he owed them more to luck than to native intelligence. It was sometimes assumed that he was being unduly modest, but in fact he was saying no more than the truth. He showed a marked interest and some proficiency in mathematics, and in the normal course of events this might have led him to a position of government surveyor. He could pride himself that he was better than most of the other students, but this could not be a great source of satisfaction since so many of the students were so very bad.
In December 1886 he reached the highest class in the school, and for the rest of the school year he would be preparing for his matriculation. That year he had to read Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, a history of England and another of India, and the first four books of Euclid. The examination questions for the matriculation have survived, and although they are not especially grueling, they demanded a solid command of many disciplines and a gift for writing accurate English; his general knowledge was faulty and his English was still painfully inaccurate. He succeeded in passing the examination without any distinction whatsoever, coming 404th in the list of successful candidates. It is not clear why he was permitted to pass. He had shown some knowledge of mathematics, but now he received only 59/175. In general knowledge he received 54/150, and in English 89/200. Even in Gujarati he received only 451/2/100. Of the three thousand candidates only eight hundred passed.
The next step, of course, was to obtain a B.A., and he decided to apply for admission to the Samaldas College in Bhavnagar, a town ninety miles southeast of Rajkot. The college had many advantages; it was quite new, there were seven teachers on the staff and only sixty students. On the basis of his matriculation he was permitted to enter the college, and in January 1888 he left Rajkot by camel-cart for Jetpur, where he caught the train to Bhavnagar. He found some unfurnished lodgings in the town, bought some furniture, and settled down only to learn within a few days that he was hopelessly lost, could not understand what the teachers were saying, and was totally incapable of giving a good account of himself in the examinations. “The professors at that college were regarded as first rate, but I was so raw,” he wrote; but it seems to have been more than rawness which gave him 13/100 for Euclid and 18/100 in history. Indian students often have nervous breakdowns before they take their matriculation. Mohandas appears to have had some kind of breakdown after his matriculation. Month after month he found himself earning marks that made him a laughingstock. At the end of the first term he abandoned the struggle altogether and returned to Rajkot with nothing to show for five months of study. Baffled and defeated, without prospects, still hoping in some mysterious way to earn a medical degree, dreaming of a long visit to England, and weighed down by the responsibilities of parenthood—for while he was at the college his wife had given birth to his first son, who was called Harilal—he confided his troubles to Laxmidas, who could only suggest that they pay a visit to the Brahmin priest Mavji Dave, an old family friend and the chief adviser to the family.
Mavji Dave was one of those men who inspire confidence the moment you set eyes on them. He had a long fleshy nose, bright eyes under heavy eyebrows, and an appearance of affectionate concern over the follies of mankind. His words carried weight, and he was a prominent person in the politics of Kathiawar.
Mohandas told him about the five wasted months at Bhavnagar, concealing nothing. The old priest indicated that he was not in the least surprised. What was the use of a B.A.? It would give him a sixty-rupee post in government service, and nothing more. What was demanded of him was that he should one day be the dewan of Rajkot, occupying the post left by his father, and since times had changed and it was no longer possible to enter state service by inheriting a post, he should acquire a law degree, to prepare himself for his future duties. It would cost about five thousand rupees. “Don’t reveal the matter to anyone,” he went on. “Apply to Junagadh and Porbandar States. Try to get a scholarship. If you fail in getting pecuniary help and if you have no money, sell your furniture. Mohandas must go to London. It is the only way to keep up the reputation of your father.”
Mavji Dave was so determined that Mohandas should go to London that he extracted a promise from Laxmidas that the family should do everything possible to send Mohandas to England, and at the same time he insisted that the matter should be kept secret, because there would be objections to the plan on religious grounds.
Laxmidas had no talent for keeping secrets, and soon many of the Gandhi cousins heard about it. One of them even promised to advance the five thousand rupees, but he was one of those men who make promises lightly and nothing came of his offer. A few days later Mohandas met Mavji Dave’s son, a leading lawyer in Kathiawar who had taken his law degree in London.
“You will have to spend there at least ten thousand rupees,” Kevalram Dave said. “You will have to set aside your religious prejudices, if any. You will have to eat meat; you must drink. You cannot live without that. The more you spend, the cleverer you will be. It is a very important thing. I speak to you frankly. Don’t be offended, but look her
e, you are still very young. There are many temptations in London. You are apt to be entrapped by, them.”
The lawyers words were written down a few months after the conversation. Mohandas remembered them vividly, because each word was a wound. After the talk with Mavji Dave he had felt wildly elated, but now all his cloud castles were toppling to the ground. It was not only that the journey to London had suddenly become forbiddingly expensive, but he was being invited to drink alcohol, eat meat, and submit to the unimaginable temptations of life in a great metropolis. Timidly Mohandas asked the lawyer to help him obtain a scholarship. “I will do anything but that,” the lawyer answered, and the interview came to an end.
Mohandas spent the following weeks in a mood of profound depression. Everything seemed to be against the journey; his mother would inevitably object, there were religious taboos against anyone of his caste traveling overseas, ten thousand rupees was a large sum, and it was unlikely that his family or his relatives would be able to afford it. There was also his wife to be considered. He went to see his uncle in Porbandar; it was another distressing interview, for the uncle was about to go on a pilgrimage and he had no liking for anyone who dared to break religious taboos. In his eyes London-educated Indians were all the same: they had no scruples about food, cigars were never out of their mouths, and they dressed as shamelessly as Englishmen. “As for myself, I do not like it,” he said. “Nevertheless we shall consider afterwards.” These words seemed to open a small loophole, and Mohandas was properly grateful.
He sought the assistance of Mr. Lely, the British agent who managed Porbandar State during the minority of the young Rana, and found him climbing a ladder reaching to the upper story of his bungalow. He was an impatient, rather choleric man. When Mohandas explained that he wanted to go to England and hoped to study law and would be grateful for some financial assistance from Porbandar State, Mr. Lely could only say that the state was very poor, no pecuniary help could possibly be given, and he should first graduate and then see whether any financial assistance would be forthcoming. A much smaller loophole was being opened at some remote time in the future.
The interview with Mr. Lely was one of those traumatic experiences comparable with the events which took place after he fell under the influence of Sheikh Mehtab. It was the first time he had ever attempted to engage in conversation with a British official, or with any white man. They had spoken in Gujarati, which Mr. Lely knew well, and following the acceptable code of conduct in talking with high officials, Mohandas had begun to speak to the man on the ladder with delicate small talk, in much the same way that he would begin a conversation with his uncles or his schoolmasters. Mr. Lely could make nothing of this small talk. Mohandas was just one more harassment in a life given over to many harassments, and he was abrupt and condescending. Mohandas, who had been preparing for this interview for many weeks, and had the greatest difficulty in finding Mr. Lely, turned and fled. His distrust of British officials, even those he genuinely liked, appears to have had its origin in that first momentous interview.
Although the lawyer Kevalram Dave told him that his expenses would amount to ten thousand rupees, Mohandas was convinced he could live more cheaply. He thought all problems would be solved if he could raise five thousand rupees. Another cousin, the son of his uncle Ratan, was approached. He, too, promised financial aid, but only on condition that his father approved, a condition that did not seem likely to be met, since the father was the same man who disapproved of Mohandas breaking his religious vows by going overseas. Nevertheless the cousin seemed hopeful, invited Mohandas to stay with him, and spoke encouragingly about the prospect of being able to finance the boy’s education in England. Colonel Watson, the British agent at Rajkot, was approached. He said he would think about the matter and presented Mohandas with a letter of introduction to someone in England. The Thakore of Rajkot proved to be equally useless; his sole contribution was a signed photograph of himself. Mohandas returned to Bhavnagar and sold off his furniture, thus providing himself with a few pennies toward his expenses. Meanwhile he had resumed his relations with Sheikh Mehtab, who was sufficiently sympathetic to the cause to write a letter addressed to another cousin called Megh-jibhai, requesting the sum of five thousand rupees. It was a bold move, and for a few days Meghjibhai’s promise of assistance was added to the sum of other promises. By the end of June it was becoming evident that six or seven weeks of complicated maneuvers had failed, and no money at all would be received from his uncles and cousins. Laxmidas, in charge of the family treasury, decided there was only one solution: the journey to England would be financed partly from the sale of the family property and partly from the sale of Kasturbhai’s jewelry, which was worth two or three thousand rupees.
There were still many hurdles to be overcome. Kasturbai, who was nursing her baby Harilal, did not want him to leave her side, and her parents were equally determined to prevent him from leaving India. So it became necessary for him to spend many evenings sitting with his father-in-law, Gokaldas Makanji, the merchant of grain and cloth, gently arguing with him, explaining the advantages of a law degree obtained in London over the disadvantages of exile from his daughter. His mother, too, had some reservations about his going. In her own way she had made patient inquiries about the life he would be expected to maintain in London, and being very devout, determined that her youngest and favorite son should be worthy of his religion, and concerned with his future prospects in the community, she pointed out that young Indians in London sometimes abandoned themselves to strange women, drank wine and ate meat. Mohandas replied: “I shall not lie to you. I swear that I shall not touch any of these things.” He reminded her that old Mavji Dave would never have suggested the journey to London if he had thought there was any danger of him committing these sins.
He had a way of laughing at her and putting her at ease, not taking her too seriously. They were very close, and like people who are intimate with one another, they were still wary of each other and she was not content with his promise to abstain from wine, women and meat. Troubled, she decided to call upon the services of Becharji Swami, another old family friend, greatly loved by Mohandas’s father, who thought that there were few things in the world so beautiful as listening to Becharji Swami chanting the Ramayana.
The old singer, who started out in life as a Modh Bania, belonging to the same Hindu caste as the Gandhi family, had become a Jain monk. During the last days of Karamchand Gandhi he was a frequent visitor to the house in Rajkot, for his chanting eased the last hours of the dying man. Just as Mavji Dave was regarded with veneration in the family because he could deal sympathetically with practical affairs, so Becharji Swami was regarded with veneration as a source of spiritual authority. There was a brief discussion and it was decided that Mohandas should take an oath before the Jain monk, vowing not to touch wine, women or meat. When this was done, the last hurdle was overcome.
Laxmidas offered to forego his own interest in the family estate on behalf of his brother. Mavji Dave’s estimate of the expense of sending Mohandas to London proved to be sadly inaccurate. Instead of five thousand rupees, the total expense amounted to thirteen thousand rupees. If they had known this at the beginning, it is unlikely that he would have been allowed to undertake the journey.
Throughout July Mohandas continued to make preparations for the journey. He was in a state of nervous elation, determined to carry the project through to the end, although relatives and friends were still urging him to reconsider. On July 4 his fellow students at the Kathiawar High School in Rajkot gave him a farewell party. Knowing that he would be called upon to make a speech, he had carefully written out a few words, but when the time came he could only stammer nervously, his head reel-. ing and his body shaking convulsively. The Kathiawar Times, the local Gujarati newspaper, gave the substance of his speech a few days later: “I hope that some of you will follow in my footsteps and after your return from England you will work wholeheartedly for big reforms in India.”
This was not, of course, a political speech. He was merely saying the conventional things expected of a youth traveling to England to become a lawyer.
The farewell party was premature, for more than a month passed before he set but for Bombay. Finally, on the night of August 10, a host of relatives and friends gathered to bid him farewell. He gave Kasturbai some last-minute instructions; she wept inconsolably, but he was firm with her, showing no more emotion than was necessary. A ship left on August 21, and he intended to spend a few days in Bombay buying the proper clothes for the journey.
According to the Indian custom some friends and relatives accompanied him on the early stages of the journey. Laxmidas and his brother-in-law Khushalbhai Makanji accompanied him the whole way.
Bombay was another testing-ground. Once more, as so often in the past, questions were raised about the advisability of the journey. He was told that the sea voyage was dangerous in the Indian Ocean, and should think seriously of postponing his departure to November. Laxmidas was uneasy: ships had been known to sink without trace, he might never get as far as Aden, he would drown and no one would ever know what happened to him. He returned to Rajkot, leaving Mohandas in the charge of Khushalbhai Makanji, who had been entrusted with the money. Friends came forward with offers of help, but there were also enemies. Suddenly and quite unexpectedly Mohandas discovered that the innocent desire to study in England was being interpreted as an act of heresy against his own caste.
