by Ruskin Bond
'Oh, there, it's all right!' said Dick; 'he'll behave himself after this, I know. And oh! I say, sir,' he added hastily, 'is—is Dulcie anywhere about?'
'My daughter?' asked the Doctor. 'Would you like to see her?'
'I shouldn't mind,' said Dick, blushing furiously.
'I'm sorry to say she has gone out for a walk with her mother,' said the Doctor. 'I'm afraid she cannot be back for some time. It's unfortunate.'
Dick's face fell. 'It doesn't matter,' he muttered awkwardly. 'She's all right, I hope?'
'She is very seldom ailing, I'm happy to say; just now she is particularly well, thank you.'
'Oh, is she?' said Dick gloomily, probably disappointed to find that he was so little missed, and not suspecting that his father had been accepted as a substitute.
'Well, do you mind—could I see the fellows again for a minute or two. I mean I should rather like to inspect the school, you know.'
'See my boys? Certainly, my dear sir, by all means; this way,' and he took Dick out to the schoolroom—Paul following out of curiosity. 'You'll find us at our studies, you see,' said the Doctor, as he opened the first baize door. There was a suspicious hubbub and hum of voices from within; but as they entered every boy was bent over his books with the rapt absorption of the devoted student—an absorption that was the direct effect of the sound the door-handle made in turning.
'Our workshop,' said the Doctor airily, looking around. 'My first form, Mr Bultitude. Some good workers here, and some idle ones.'
Dick stood in the doorway, looking (if the truth must be told) uncommonly foolish. He had wanted, in coming there, to enjoy the contrast between the past and present—which accounts for a good many visits of 'old boys' to the scene of their education. But, confronted with his former schoolfellows, he was seized at first with an utterly unreasonable fear of detection.
The class behaved as classes usually do on such occasions. The good boys smirked and the bad ones stared—the general expression being one of uneasy curiosity. Dick never said a word, feeling strangely bashful and nervous.
'This is Tipping, my Head Boy,' touching that young gentleman on the shoulder, and making him several degrees more uncomfortable. 'I expect solid results from Tipping some day.'
'He looks as if his head was pretty solid,' said Dick, who had once cut his knuckles against it.
'My second boy, Biddlecomb. If he applies himself, he too will do me credit in the world.'
'How do you do, Biddlecomb?' said Dick. 'I owe you nine-pence—I mean—oh, hang it, here's a shilling for you! Hallo, Chawner!' he went on, gradually overcoming his first nervousness, 'how are you getting on, eh? Doing much in the sneaking way, lately?'
'You know him!' exclaimed the Doctor with naive surprise.
'No, no; I don't know him. I've heard of him, you know—heard of him!' Chawner looked down his nose with a feeble attempt at a gratified simper, while his neighbours giggled with furtive relish.
'Well,' said Dick at last, after a long look at all the old familiar objects, 'I must be off, you know. Got some important business at home this evening to look after. The fellows look very jolly and content, and all that sort of thing. Enough to make one want to be a boy again almost, eh? Goodbye, you chaps—ahem, young gentlemen, I wish you good morning!'
And he went out, leaving behind him the impression that 'young Bultitude's governor wasn't such a bad old buffer.'
He paused at the open front door, to which Paul and the Doctor had accompanied him. 'Goodbye,' he said;
'I wish I'd seen Dulcie. I should like to see your daughter, sir; but it can't be helped. Goodbye; and you—,' he added in a lower tone to his father, who was standing by, inexpressibly pained and disgusted by his utter want of dignity, 'you mind what I told you. Don't try any games with me!'
And, as he skipped jauntily down the steps to the gateway, the Doctor followed his unwieldy, oddly-dressed form with his eyes, inclining his head gravely to Dick's sweeping wave of the hand, asked with a compassionate tone in his voice, 'You don't happen to know, Richard, my boy, if your father has had any business troubles lately—anything to disturb him?'
And Mr Bultitude's feelings prevented him from making any intelligible reply.
[After more troubles at school, Paul Bultitude runs away, and arrives at his home—to find Dick not too happy in the freedom of his strange seniority and about to make an awful mess of things as the paternal man of business. By a strange turn, the Garuda stone is made to perform its magic again; and Paul and Dick become their former selves, father and son—to their mutual satisfaction.]
-F. Anstey (Guthrie): Vice Versa (1882).
THE BEGGAR
Anton Chekhov
'Kind sir, have pity; turn your attention to a poor, hungry man! For three days I have had nothing to eat; I haven't five copecks for a lodging, I swear it before God. For eight years I was a village schoolteacher and then I lost my place through intrigues. I fell a victim to calumny. It is a year now since I have had anything to do—'
The advocate Skvortsoff looked at the ragged, fawn-coloured overcoat of the suppliant, at his dull, drunken eyes, at the red spot on either cheek, and it seemed to him as if he had seen this man somewhere before.
'I have now had an offer of a position in the province of Kaluga,' the mendicant went on, 'but I haven't the money to get there. Help me kindly; I am ashamed to ask, but—I am obliged to by circumstances.'
Skvortsoff's eyes fell on the man's overshoes, one of which was high and the other low, and he suddenly remembered something.
'Look here, it seems to me I met you the day before yesterday in Sadovaya Street,' he said; 'but you told me then that you were a student who had been expelled, and not a village schoolteacher. Do you remember?'
'N-no, that can't be so,' mumbled the beggar, taken aback. 'I am a village schoolteacher, and if you like I can show you my papers.'
'Have done with lying! You called yourself a student and even told me what you had been expelled for. Don't you remember?' Skvortsoff flushed and turned from the ragged creature with an expression of disgust.
'This is dishonesty, my dear sir!' he cried angrily. 'This is swindling! I shall send the police for you, damn you! Even if you are poor and hungry, that does not give you any right to lie brazenly and shamelessly!'
The waif caught hold of the door-handle and looked furtively round the antechamber, like a detected thief.
'I—I'm not lying—' he muttered. 'I can show you my papers.' 'Who would believe you?' Skvortsoff continued indignantly. 'Don't you know that it's a low, dirty trick to exploit the sympathy which society feels for village schoolteachers and students? It's rivolting!'
Skvortsoff lost his temper and began to berate the mendicant unmercifully. The impudent lying of the ragamuffin offended what he, Skvortsoff, most prized in himself: his kindness, his tender heart, his compassion for all unhappy beings. That lie, an attempt to take advantage of the pity of its 'subject' seemed to him to profane the charity which he liked to extend to the poor out of the purity of his heart. At first the waif continued to protest innocence, but soon lie grew silent and hung his head in confusion.
'Sir!' he said, laying his hand on his heart, 'the fact is I—was lying! I am neither a student nor a schoolteacher. All that was a fiction. Formerly, I sang in a Russian choir and was sent away for drunkenness. But what else can I do? I can't get along without lying. No one will give me anything when I tell the truth. With truth a man would starve to death or die of cold for lack of a lodging. You reason justly, I understand you, but—what can I do?'
'What can you do? You ask what you can do?' cried Skvortsoff, coming close to him. 'Work! That's what you can do! You must work!'
'Work—yes. I know that myself: but where can I find work?'
'By God, you judge harshly!' cried the beggar with a bitter laugh. 'Where can I find manual labour? It's too late for me to be a clerk because in trade one has to begin as a boy; no one would ever take me for a porter because they co
uldn't order me about; no factory would have me because for that one has to know a trade, and I know none.'
'Nonsense! You always find some excuse! How would you like to chop wood for me?'
'I wouldn't refuse to do that, but in these days even skilled woodcutters find themselves sitting without bread.'
'Huh! You loafers all talk that way. As soon as an offer is made to you, you refuse it. Will you come and chop wood for me?'
'Yes, sir; I will.'
'Very well; we'll soon find out. Splendid—we'll see—'
Skvortsoff hastened along, rubbing his hands, not without a feeling of malice, and called his cook out of the kitchen.
'Here, Olga,' he said, 'take this gentleman into the woodshed and let him chop wood.'
The tatterdemalion scarecrow shrugged his shoulders, as if in perplexity, and went irresolutely after the cook. It was obvious from his gait that he had not consented to go and chop wood because he was hungry and wanted work, but simply from pride and shame, because he had been trapped by his own words. It was obvious, too, that his strength had been undermined by vodka and that he was unhealthy and did not feel the slightest inclination for toil.
Skvortsoff hurried into the dining-room. From its windows one could see the wood-shed and everything that went on in the yard. Standing at the window, Skvortsoff saw the cook and the beggar come out into the yard by the back door and make their way across the dirty snow to the shed. Olga glared wrathfully at her companion, shoved him aside with her elbow, unlocked the shed, and angrily banged the door.
'We probably interrupted the woman over her coffee,' thought Skvortsoff. 'What an ill-tempered creature!'
Next he saw the pseudo-student seat himself on a log and become lost in thought with his red cheeks resting on his fists. The woman flung down an axe at his feet, spat angrily, and, judging from the expression of her lips, began to scold him. The beggar irresolutely pulled a billet of wood toward him, set it up between his feet, and tapped it feebly with the axe. The billet wavered and fell down. The beggar again pulled it to him, blew on his freezing hands, and tapped it with his axe cautiously, as if afraid of hitting his overshoe or of cutting off his finger. The stick of wood again fell to the ground.
Skvortsoff's anger had vanished and he now began to feel a little sorry and ashamed of himself for having set a spoiled, drunken, perchance sick man to work at menial labour in the cold.
'Well, never mind,' he thought, going into his study from the dining-room. 'I did it for his own good.'
An hour later Olga came in and announced that the wood had all been chopped.
'Good! Give him half a rouble,' said Skvortsoff. 'If he wants to he can come back and cut wood on the first day of each month. We can always find work for him.'
On the first of the month the waif made his appearance and again earned half a rouble, although he could barely stand on his legs. From that day on he often appeared in the yard and every time work was found for him. Now he would shovel snow, now put the wood-shed in order, now beat the dust out of rugs and mattresses. Every time he received from twenty to forty copecks, and once, even a pair of old trousers were sent out to him.
When Skvortsoff moved into another house he hired him to help in the packing and hauling of the furniture. This time the waif was sober, gloomy and silent. He hardly touched the furniture, and walked behind the wagons hanging his head, not even making a pretence of appearing busy. He only shivered in the cold and became embarrassed when the carters jeered at him for his idleness, his feebleness, and his tattered, fancy overcoat. After the moving was over Skvortsoff sent for him.
'Well, I see that my words have taken effect,' he said, handing him a rouble. 'Here's for your pains. I see you are sober and have no objection to work. What is your name?'
'Lushkoff.'
'Well, Lushkoff, I can now offer you some other, cleaner employment. Can you write?'
'I can.'
'Then take this letter to a friend of mine tomorrow and you will be given some copying to do. Work hard, don't drink, and remember what I have said to you. Goodbye!'
Pleased at having put a man on the right path, Skvortsoff tapped Lushkoff kindly on the shoulder and even gave him his hand at parting. Lushkoff took the letter, and from that day forth came no more to the yard for work.
Two years went by. Then one evening, as Skvortsoff was standing at the ticket window of a theatre paying for his seat, he noticed a little man beside him with a coat collar of curly fur and a worn sealskin cap. This little individual timidly asked the ticket seller for a seat in the gallery and paid for it in copper coins.
'Lushkoff, is that you?' cried Skvortsoff, recognizing in the little man his former wood-chopper. 'How are you? What are you doing? How is everything with you?'
'All right. I am a notary now and get thirty-five roubles a month.'
'Thank heaven! That's fine! I am delighted for your sake. I am very, very glad, Lushkoff. You see, you are my godson, in a sense. I gave you a push along the right path, you know. Do you remember what a roasting I gave you, eh? I nearly had you sinking into the ground at my feet that day. Thank you, old man, for not forgetting my words.'
'Thank you, too,' said Lushkoff. 'If I hadn't come to you then I might still be calling myself a teacher or a student to this day. Yes, by flying to your protection I dragged myself out of a pit.'
'I am very glad indeed.'
'Thank you for your kind words and deeds. You talked splendidly to me then. I am very grateful to you and to your cook. God bless that good and noble woman! You spoke finely then. And I shall be indebted to you to my dying day; but, strictly speaking, it was your cook, Olga, who saved me.'
'How is that?'
'Like this. When I used to come to your house to chop wood she used to begin: "Oh, you sot, you! Oh, you miserable creature! There's nothing for you but ruin." And then she would sit down opposite me and grow sad, look into my face and weep. "Oh, you unlucky man! There is no pleasure for you in this world and there will be none in the world to come. You drunkard! You will burn in hell. Oh, you unhappy one!" And so she would carry on, you know, in that strain. I can't tell you how much misery she suffered, how many tears she shed for my sake. But the chief thing was—she used to chop the wood for me. Do you know, sir, that I did not chop one single stick of wood for you? She did it all. Why this saved me, why I changed, why I stopped drinking at the sight of her I can not explain. I only know that, owing to her words and noble deeds a change took place in my heart; she set me right and I shall never forget it. However, it is time to go now; there goes the bell.'
Lushkoff bowed and departed to the gallery.
READING AND BOOKS IN THE VALLEY
Upendra Arora
It's in the air. There is something almost magical about this valley of ours, green and serene, with a delicate web of little rivulets and dry riverbeds strewn like necklaces across its terrain. Tucked in warmly between the great mountain ranges on one side and India's sacred river on the other, Dehra Dun, or the Doon Valley, has always been a source of enchantment for the traveller, many of whom succumbed to the charm and made the valley their home. The Doon Valley was written about centuries ago, when it was a thick orchard of litchi and mango trees, that was traversed by people going further up to the mountains, later when wars were fought, and then, when Guru Ram Rai first set foot here. The history, sociology, geography and anthropology of the valley was extensively documented in books in the nineteenth century by acclaimed British authors because by then, the British had made it their summer home on the way to a cooler Mussoorie. These hooks written by Williams and Walton are considered as classics today, as they remain comprehensive and authentic texts of reference.
G.R.C. Williams was the first Superintendent of Dehra Dun. His immensely readable account of his times, Memoir of Dehra Doon (1872) was perhaps, written when the fountain pen had not come into existence! H.G. Walton recorded his innings in the valley in his hook, Gazetteer of Dehra Dun (1911). Mussoorie and Dehra Du
n have always shared a cosy co-habitation. Books about the Doon Valley carry exhaustive information about the 'Queen of the Hills', and likewise, hooks about Mussoorie tell about the Doon that was. The Story of Mussoorie (1910) by E. Bodycott offers an interesting account of the valley as the British perceived it—they would reach the valley by road and train and then get porters to take them and their belongings on foot up the hills to Mussoorie.
Picturesque landscapes naturally lend themselves to intellectual creativity. The Doon Valley has been a place of retreat for writers, who like to surround themselves within the echoes of their literary imagination. Among contemporary authors who have made an indelible mark on the literary map of writing in the English language in India and those from Dehra Dun, there is a proud list we can boast of, and rightfully so. Pandit Nehru's niece, Nayantara Sahgal is an old resident of Dehra Dun. Her books, Plans for Departure and Rich Like Us among others, received critical acclaim internationally when they were published and still enjoy a large readership. Students of literature at university level in Uttarakhand and elsewhere are encouraged to study her body of work. In fact, Pandit Nehru wrote a great deal while he was in jail here in Dehra Dun during the freedom struggle. Now, internationally known for his books, I. Allan Sealy also calls the valley his home. He began writing on travel, and his latest novel Red has been published internationally. Leading contemporary poet, Arvind Krishna Mehrotra also shares a close association with Dehra Dun and spends time here at his mother's home. Another writer who became well-known for her writings and whose books have recently been reprinted is Nergis Dalal.
Not just Indians, the valley has stolen the hearts of people from across the seas as well, who chose to make the valley their home and went on to pen their experiences. Two authors who come to mind instantly are Lewis King and David Keeling. Lewis led a most incredible life, having travelled the world the crazy way—and having done that, he still chose the valley to build his home and knit a family of the friends he made. His controversial book, The Twentieth Century Heretic questions a range of existing notions of time, space and existence. David Keeling, a former member of the British Foreign Service, retired to build an English style cottage in Dehra Dun. The Asian Age, carried a weekly column by him where he wrote joyously amusing anecdotes about the valley and its residents, with a typical whiff of witty British humour. His writings have been published as a collection titled Doon on a Sunday.