His Honour, and a Lady
CHAPTER XII.
The editor of the _Word of Truth_ sat in his office correcting a proof.The proof looked insurmountably difficult of correction, because it wasprinted in Bengali; but Tarachand Mookerjee’s eye ran over it nimbly,and was accompanied by a smile, ever expanding and contracting, ofpleased, almost childish appreciation. The day was hot, unusually so forFebruary; and as the European editors up-town worked in theirshirt-sleeves, so Tarachand Mookerjee worked in his _dhoty_, which lefthim bare from his waist up—bare and brown and polished, like a figurecarved in mahogany, for his ribs were very visible. He wore nothingelse, except patent leather shoes and a pair of white cotton stockings,originally designed for a more muscular limb, if for a weaker sex. Thesedraperies were confined below the knee by pieces of the red tape withwhich a considerate Government tied up the reports and resolutions itsent the editor of the _Word of Truth_ for review. Above Tarachand’sthree-cornered face his crisp black hair stood in clumps of oily andadmired disorder; he had early acquired the literary habit of runninghis fingers through it. He had gentle, velvety eyes, and delicatefeatures, and a straggling beard. He had lost two front teeth, and hisattenuated throat was well sunk between his narrow shoulders. This gavehim the look of a poor nervous creature; and, indeed, there was not ablack-and-white terrier in Calcutta that could not have frightened himhorribly. Yet he was not in the least afraid of a watch-dog belonging toGovernment—an official translator who weekly rendered up a confidentialreport of the emanations of the _Word of Truth_ in English—because heknew that this animal’s teeth were drawn by the good friends of Indianprogress in the English Parliament.
Tarachand did almost everything that had to be done for the _Word ofTruth_ except the actual printing; although he had a nephew at theScotch Mission College who occasionally wrote a theatrical notice forhim in consideration of a free ticket, and who never ceased to urge himto print the paper in English, so that he, the nephew, might have anopportunity of practising composition in that language. It was Tarachandwho translated the news out of the European papers into his own columns,where it read backwards, who reviewed the Bengali school-books writtenby the pundits of his acquaintance, who “fought” the case of the babooin the Public Works Department dismissed for the trivial offence ofstealing blotting-paper. It was, above all, Tarachand who wroteeditorials about the conduct of the Government of India: that was thebusiness of his life, his morning and his evening meditation. Tarachandhad a great pull over the English editors uptown here; had a great pull,in fact, over any editors anywhere who felt compelled to base theiropinions upon facts, or to express them with an eye upon consequences.Tarachand knew nothing about facts—it is doubtful whether he wouldrecognise one if he saw it—and consequences did not exist for him. Inplace of these drawbacks he had the great advantages of imagination andinvective. He was therefore able to write the most graphic editorials.
He believed them, too, with the open-minded, admiring simplicity thatmade him wax and wane in smiles over this particular proof. I doubtwhether Tarachand could be brought to understand the first principles ofveracity as applied to public affairs, unless possibly through hispocket. A definition to the Aryan mind is always best made in rupees,and to be mulcted heavily by a court of law might give him a grieved andsurprised, but to some extent convincing education in political ethics.It would necessarily interfere at the same time, however, with hisuntrammelled and joyous talent for the creation and circulation of cheapfiction; it would be a hard lesson, and in the course of it Tarachandwould petition with fervid loyalty and real tears. Perhaps it was onsome of these accounts that the Government of India had never runTarachand in.
Even for an editor’s office it was a small room, and though it was onthe second floor, the walls looked as if fungi grew on them in therains. The floor was littered with publications; for the _Word of Truth_was taken seriously in Asia and in Oxford, and “exchanged” with a numberof periodicals devoted to theosophical research, or the destruction ofthe opium revenue, or the protection of the sacred cow by combinationagainst the beef-eating Briton. In one corner lay a sprawling blue heapof the reports and resolutions before mentioned, accumulating the dustof the year, at the end of which Tarachand would sell them for wastepaper. For the rest, there was the editorial desk, with a chair on eachside of it, the editorial gum-pot and scissors and waste-paper basket;and portraits, cut from the _Illustrated London News_, askew on the walland wrinkling in their frames, of Max Müller and Lord Ripon. The warmair was heavy with the odour of fresh printed sheets, and sticky withTarachand’s personal anointing of cocoa-nut oil, and noisy with theclamping of the press below, the scolding of the crows, the eternalwrangle of the streets. Through the open window one saw the sunlightlying blindly on the yellow-and-pink upper stories, with their windingouter staircases and rickety balconies and narrow barred windows, of thecourt below.
Tarachand finished his proof and put it aside to cough. He was bentalmost double, and still coughing when Mohendra Lal Chuckerbutty camein; so that the profusion of smiles with which he welcomed his brotherjournalist was not undimmed with tears. They embraced strenuously,however, and Mohendra, with a corner of his nether drapery, tenderlywiped the eyes of Tarachand. For the moment the atmosphere became doublycharged with oil and sentiment, breaking into a little storm of phrasesof affection and gestures of respect. When it had been gone throughwith, these gentlemen of Bengal sat opposite each other beaming, andturned their conversation into English as became gentlemen of Bengal.
“I deplore,” said Mohendra Lal Chuckerbutty concernedly, with one fathand outspread on his knee, “to see that this iss still remaining withyou——”
The other, with a gesture, brushed his ailment away. “Oh, it issnothing—nothing whatever! I have been since three days underastronomical treatment of Dr. Chatterjee. ‘Sir,’ he remarked meyesterday, as I was leaving his höwwse, ‘after _one_ month you will beagain salubrious. You will be on legs again—_take_ my word!’”
Mohendra leaned back in his chair, put his head on one side, anddescribed a right angle with one leg and the knee of the other. “Smartchap, Chatterjee!” he said, in perfect imitation of the casual sahib. Hedid not even forget to smooth his chin judicially as he said it. Theeditor of the _Word of Truth_, whose social opportunities had beenlimited to his own caste, looked on with admiration.
“And what news do you bring? But already I have perused the _Bengal FreePress_ of to-day, so without doubt I know all the news!” Tarachand madethis professional compliment as coyly and insinuatingly as if he andMohendra had been sweethearts. “I can_not_ withhold my congratulationson that leader of thiss morning,” he went on fervently. “Here it is tomy hand; diligently I have been studying it with awful admiration.”
Mohendra’s chin sank into his neck in a series of deprecating nods andinarticulate expressions of dissent, and his eyes glistened. Tarachandtook up the paper and read from it:—
“‘THE SATRAP AND THE COLLEGES.’
“Ah, how will His Honour look when he sees that!
“‘Is it possible, we ask all sane men with a heart in their bosom, thatDame Rumour is right in her prognostications? Can it be true that thetyrant of Belvedere will dare to lay his hand on the revenue sacredlyput aside to shower down upon our young hopefuls the mother’s milk of anAlma Mater upon any pretext whatsoever? We fear the affirmative. Even aswe go to press the knell of higher education may be sounding, and anyday poor Bengal may learn from a rude Notification in the _Gazette_ thather hope of progress has been shattered by the blasting pen of thecaitiff Church. We will not mince matters, nor hesitate to proclaim tothe housetops that the author of this dastardly action is but a poorstick. Doubtless he will say that the College grants are wanted for thisor for that; but full well the people of this province know it is toswell the fat pay of boot-licking English officials that they arewanted. A wink is as good as a nod to a blind horse, and any excuse willserve when an autocrat without fear of God or man sits up
on the _gaddi_.Many are the pitiable cases of hardship that will now come to view. Oneamongst thousands will serve. Known to the writer is a family man, and alarge one. He has been blessed with seven sons, all below the age ofnine. Up to the present he has been joyous as a lark and playful as akitten, trusting in the goodness of Government to provide the nutritionof their minds and livelihoods. Now he is beating his breast, for histreasures will be worse than orphans. How true are the words of thepoet—
“‘Manners with fortunes, humours turn with climes, Tenets with books, and principles with times!’
Again and yet again have we exposed the hollow, heartless and viciouspolicy of the acting Lieutenant-Governor, but, alas! without result.
“‘Destroy his fib or sophistry—in vain; The creature’s at his dirty work again!’
But will this province sit tamely down under its brow-beating? Athousand times no! We will appeal to the justice, to the mercy ofEngland, through our noble friends in Parliament, and the lash will yetfall like a scorpion upon the shrinking hide of the coward who wouldfilch the people from their rights.’”
Tarachand stopped to cough, and his round liquid eyeballs, as he turnedthem upon Mohendra, stood out of their creamy whites with enthusiasm.“One word,” he cried, as soon as he had breath: “you are the Ma_cau_layof Bengal! No less. The Ma_cau_lay of Bengal!”
(John Church, when he read Mohendra’s article next day, laughed, butuneasily. He knew that in all Bengal there is no such thing as a senseof humour.)
“My own feeble pen,” Tarachand went on deprecatingly, “has been busy atthis thing for the to-morrow’s issue. I also have been saying someworthless remark, perhaps not altogether beyond the point,” and thecorrected proof went across the table to Mohendra. While he glancedthrough it Tarachand watched him eagerly, reflecting every shade ofexpression that passed over the other man’s face. When Mohendra smiledTarachand laughed out with delight, when Mohendra looked graveTarachand’s countenance was sunk in melancholy.
“‘Have the hearts of the people of India turned to water that any son ofEnglish mud may ride over their prostrate forms?’”
he read aloud in Bengali. “That is well said.
“‘Too often the leaders of the people have waited on theLieutenant-Governor to explain desirable matters, but the counsel ofgrey hairs has not been respected. Three Vedas, and the fourth a cudgel!The descendants of monkeys have forgotten that once before they playedtoo many tricks. The white dogs want another lesson.’
“A-ha!” Mohendra paused to comment, smiling. “Very good talk. But it isnecessary also to be a little careful. After that—it is my advice—yousay how Bengalis are loyal before everything.”
The editor of the _Word of Truth_ slowly shook his head, showing, in hiscontemptuous amusement, a row of glittering teeth stained with the redof the betel. “No harm can come,” he said. “They dare not muzzle theepress.” The phrase was pat and familiar. “When the loin-cloth burns onemust speak out. I am a poor man, and I have sons. Where is their rice tocome from? Am I a man without shame, that I should let the Sirkar turnthem into carpenters?” In his excitement Tarachand had dropped into hisown tongue.
“‘Education to Bengalis is as dear as religion. They have fought forreligion, they may well fight for education. Let the game go on; letEuropean officials grow fat on our taxes; let the wantons, their women,dance in the arms of men, and look into their faces with impudence, atthe _tamashos_ of the Burra Lât as before. But if the Sirkar robs thepoor Bengali of his education let him beware. He will become withoutwings or feathers, while Shiva will protect the helpless and those witha just complaint.’
“Without doubt that will make a _sen_sation,” Mohendra said, handingback the proof. “With_out_ doubt! You can have much more the courage ofyour opinion in the vernacular. English—that iss a_noth_er thing. Iwrote myséêlf, last week, some issmall criticism on the Chairman of theMunicipality, maybe half a column—about that new drain in Colootollahwhich we must put our hand in our pocket. Yesterda-ay I met the Chairmanon the Red Road, and he takes no notiss off my face! That was _not_pleasant. To-day I am writing on issecond thoughts we cannot livewithout drainage, and I will send him marked copy. But in that way itiss troublesome, the English.”
“These Europeans they have no eye-shame. They are entirely made of wood.But I think this Notification will be a nice kettle of fish! Has theCommittee got isspeakers for the mass meeting on the Maidan?”
Mohendra nodded complacently. “Already it is being arranged. For a monthI have known every word spoken by His Honour on this thing. I have the_best_ information. Every week I am watching the _Gazette_. The morningof publication _ekdum_[B] goes telegram to our good friend inParliament. Agitation in England, agitation in India! Either will comeanother Royal Commission to upset the thing, or the Lieutenant-Governoris forced to _re_tire.”
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Footnote B:
In one breath.
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Mohendra’s nods became oracular. Then his expression grew seriouslyregretful. “Myséêlf I hope they will—what iss it in English?—_w’itewass_him with a commission. It goes against me to see disgrace on a highofficial. It is _not_ pleasant. He means well—he _means_ well. And atheart he is a very good fellow—personally I have had much agreeableconversation with him. Always he has asked me to his garden-parties.”
“He has set fire to his own beard, brother,” said the editor of the_Word of Truth_ in the vernacular, spitting.
“Very true—oh, very true! And all the more we must attack him because Isee the reptile English press, in Calcutta, in Bombay, in Allahabad,they are upholding this dacoity. That iss the only word—dacoity.”Mohendra rose. “And we two have both off us the best occasion to fight,”he added beamingly, as he took his departure, “for did we not graduatehand in hand that same year out off Calcutta University?”
* * * * *
“God knows, Ancram, I believe it is the right thing to do!”
John Church had reached his difficult moment—the moment he had learnedto dread. It lay in wait for him always at the end of unbaffledinvestigation, of hard-fast steering by principle, of determinedpreliminary action of every kind—the actual executive moment. Neitherthe impulse of his enthusiasm nor the force of his energy ever sufficedto carry him over it comfortably; rather, at this point, they ebbedback, leaving him stranded upon his responsibility, which invariably atonce assumed the character of a quicksand. He was never defeated byhimself at these junctures, but he hated them. He turned out fromhimself then, consciously seeking support and reinforcement, to which atother times he was indifferent; and it was in a crisis of desire forencouragement that he permitted himself to say to Lewis Ancram that Godknew he believed the College Grants Notification was the right thing todo. He had asked Ancram to wait after the Council meeting was over verymuch for this purpose.
“Yes, sir,” the Chief Secretary replied; “if I may be permitted to sayso, it is the most conscientious piece of legislation of recent years.”
The Lieutenant-Governor looked anxiously at Ancram from under his bushyeyebrows, and then back again at the Notification. It lay in broadmargined paragraphs of beautiful round baboo’s handwriting, covering adozen pages of foolscap, before him on the table. It waited only for hisultimate decision to go to the Government Printing Office and appear inthe _Gazette_ and be law to Bengal. Already he had approved eachseparate paragraph. His Chief Secretary had never turned out a betterpiece of work.
“To say precisely what is in my mind, Ancram,” Church returned,beginning to pace the empty chamber, “I have sometimes thought that youwere not wholly with me in this matter.”
“I will not disguise from you, sir”—Ancram spoke with candidemphasis—“that I think it’s a risky thing to do, a—deuced risky thing.”His Honour was known to dislike strong language. “But as to theprinciple involved there can be no two opinions.”
Hi
s Honour’s gaunt shadow passed and repassed against the oblong patchof westering February sunlight that lightened the opposite wall beforehe replied.
“I am prepared for an outcry,” he said slowly at last. “I think I canhonestly say that I am concerned only with the principle—with thepossible harm, and the probable good.”
Ancram felt a rising irritation. He reflected that if His Honour hadchosen to take him into confidence earlier, he—Mr. Ancram—might havebeen saved a considerable amount of moral unpleasantness. By taking himinto confidence now the Lieutenant-Governor merely added to itappreciably and, Ancram pointed out to himself, undeservedly. He playedwith his watch-chain for distraction, and looked speculatively at theNotification, and said that one thing was certain, they could dependupon His Excellency if it came to any nonsense with the Secretary ofState. “Scansleigh is loyal to his very marrow. He’ll stand by us,whatever happens.” No one admired the distinguishing characteristic ofthe Viceroy of India more than the Chief Secretary of the Government ofBengal.
“Scansleigh sees it as I do,” Church returned; “and I see it plainly. Atleast I have not spared myself—nor any one else,” he added, with a smileof admission which was at the moment pathetic, “in working the thing up.My action has no bearing that I have not carefully examined. Nothing canresult from it that I do not expect—at least approximately—to happen.”
Ancram almost imperceptibly raised his eyebrows. The gesture, with itssuggestion of dramatic superiority, was irresistible to him; he wouldhave made it if Church had been looking at him; but the eyes of theLieutenant-Governor were fixed upon the sauntering multitude in thestreet below. He turned from the window, and went on with a kind ofpassion.
“I tell you, Ancram, I feel my responsibility in this thing, and I willnot carry it any longer in the shape of a curse to my country. I don’tspeak of the irretrievable mischief that is being done by the wholesalecreation of a clerkly class for whom there is no work, or of the dangerof putting that sharpest tool of modern progress—higher education—intohands that can only use it to destroy. When we have helped these peopleto shatter all their old notions of reverence and submission andself-abnegation and piety, and given them, for such ideals as theirfathers had, the scepticism and materialism of the West, I don’t knowthat we shall have accomplished much to our credit. But let that pass.The ultimate consideration is this: You know and I know where the moneycomes from—the three lakhs and seventy-five thousand rupees—that goesevery year to make B.A.s of Calcutta University. It’s a commonplace tosay that it is sweated in annas and pice out of the cultivators of thevillages—poor devils who live and breed and rot in pest-stricken holeswe can’t afford to drain for them, who wear one rag the year through anddie of famine when the rice harvest fails! The ryot pays, that themoney-lender who screws him and the landowner who bullies him may givetheir sons a cheap European education.”
“The wonder is,” Ancram replied, “that it has not been acknowledged abeastly shame long ago. The vested interest has never been very strong.”
“Ah well,” Church said more cheerfully, “we have provided for the vestedinterest; and my technical schools will, I hope, go some little waytoward providing for the cultivators. At all events they will teach himto get more out of his fields. It’s a tremendous problem, that,” headded, refolding the pages with a last glance, and slipping them intotheir cover: “the ratio at which population is increasing out here andthe limited resources of the soil.”
He had reassumed the slightly pedantic manner that was characteristic ofhim; he was again dependent upon himself, and resolved.
“Send it off at once, will you?” he said; and Ancram gave the packet toa waiting messenger. “A weighty business off my mind,” he added, with asigh of relief. “Upon my word, Ancram, I am surprised to find you socompletely in accord with me. I fancied you would have objections tomake at the last moment, and that I should have to convince you. Irather wanted to convince somebody. But I am very pleased indeed to bedisappointed!”
“It is a piece of work which has my sincerest admiration, sir,” Ancramanswered; and as the two men descended the staircases from the BengalCouncil Chamber to the street, the Lieutenant-Governor’s hand restedupon the arm of his Chief Secretary in a way that was almostaffectionate.