The Padre paused. It had grown dark in the Church. On each side of the pulpit a wrought-iron bracket, raised like a skeletal arm, held a thick white candle. The two small flames from these candles suddenly furnished him with inspiration and he began to explain their significance … As the world grows darker, so the flame of truth grows brighter … just as these candles were slowly growing brighten as darkness fell outside. He was talking in a different tone, hurriedly, even incoherently. In spite of the wafting punkahs which made the candles flicker, it was stifling in the Church. He left the candles and returned to the subject of Sin. He felt there was something he had left unsaid, something that it was vital to explain to his congregation. No doubt they were suffering from weariness after the anxious night they had passed. But if they were tired, so was he. He had never felt more tired in his life, non more suffocated by omnipresent Sin. The heat was appalling … but Sin dazed him even more.
As he continued to talk, somewhat at random, the conviction slowly gained on him that he was delivering his sermon not to the half dozen ladies in front of him but to the ranks of great earthenware jars at the back of the Church. They crouched there in their shadowy pews, perfectly motionless. He pleaded with them to listen to the Word of God, but they made no answer. Ignoring the ladies, who were becoming uneasy, he tried again and again to formulate the one elusive argument that would win over those dim, sinful ranks of jars. But they remained deaf to the exhortations which echoed round their stony ears.
Although Miss Hughes had not yet killed herself (she was reluctantly reserving this measure until Harry was satisfied that he had done justice to the cause of life) she had steadfastly maintained her refusal to move from the dak bungalow. Neither of the two young men had expected her to survive that first night. They were even more surprised when she continued to survive.
Fleury secretly believed that it was Harry’s lack of eloquence which had caused Miss Hughes to stay where she was.
Unfortunately, when Fleury rather condescendingly agreed to accompany Harry on another mission to convince Miss Hughes, he found that he was quite unable to get into his stride. Miss Hughes appeared quite insensible to the wonders of the natural world, on which he had been counting. Worse, he soon discovered that the wonders of man’s own creation (Shakespeare, and so on) meant no more to her than had “the golden glories of the morning”, about which she had peremptorily cut him short, to ask him to kill a mosquito that had somehow become obsessed with her lovely naked arms. Harry and Fleury exchanged uneasy glances.
“Oh, do look! I feel sure it’s bitten me.” Miss Hughes sulkily rubbed her arm, blinking like a child. The two young men peered dutifully at her smooth skin, which was of a delicate, transparent whiteness, showing here and there the faintest of duck egg blue veins. Fleuny, forgetting for the moment that he was supposed to be looking for the place where the mosquito had had the good fortune to penetrate this lovely skin, gazed with frank admiration at Miss Hughes, thinking what a fair substance her sex was made of. What large, sad eyes she had! What glistening dark hair! Her features, though small, were perfectly sculpted: how delightful that tiny nose and delicate mouth! And he immediately began to consider a poem to celebrate her alabaster confection.
On account of the heat, and perhaps also on account of her despair as a “fallen woman”, Miss Hughes had received the two young men in her chemise, reclining on her bed in a way so forlorn that no normally good-hearted gentleman, unless a man of granite principles, could have resisted an impulse to comfort her; beside her chemise she wore only her drawers and two or three cotton petticoats. The criteria of female beauty, as Fleury knew very well, tend to change from place to place and from generation to generation: now it is eyes that are important, now it is the slenderness of your hands; perhaps for your grandmother her bosom was crucial, for your daughter it may be her ankles or even (who can tell?) her absence of bosom. Fleury and Harry were particularly sensitive to necks. Louise Dunstaple, Fleury had already noticed, had a lovely neck, and so did Miss Hughes. There was something so defenceless about Miss Hughes’s neck, it was so different from their own muscular, masculine necks that the two young men could hardly keep their eyes off it. Her dark hair was piled up into an untidy chignon beneath which a number of dank wisps had escaped; above the collar of her chemise, as she moved her head, delicate tendons played like the filaments of a spider’s web. What a beautiful neck it was! And the fact that it could plainly have done with a good scrubbing somehow made it all the more attractive, all the more sensual, all the more real. That is what Fleury was thinking as he gazed at Miss Hughes.
Miss Hughes, who sensed that she was being found attractive, permitted herself to cheer up a little and asked the young men to call her Lucy. They needn’t think though, that she was going to the Residency with them. She could not bear the shame of everyone knowing she bad been ruined. The frankness with which she spoke of her “ruin” rather took one’s breath away at first, but one soon got used to it. It was evident that she was still resolved to kill herself, if the sepoys did not do so first. And no matter how hard they tried to persuade her they were quite unable to make her yield on this point. The most that she was prepared to concede was that she might notify them once she had decided not to delay the fatal act any longer, to allow them “a last chance” (provided she did not get drunk again and kill herself spontaneously the way she almost had the other day) … it was purely out of friendship towards them that she agreed to this, and on condition that they did not bring the Padre.
“Oh, it’s trying to bite me again!” she exclaimed. “You said you wouldn’t let it!” And the rest of the visit passed pleasantly enough with Harry sitting on one side of her bed and Fleury on the other, each keeping a watch on one of her arms to prevent the mosquito from again ravishing the unfortunate girl.
Talking it over later, Fleury said: “Look here, we should be asking ourselves why Lucy won’t come into the Residency … Instead of which we waste our time thinking of plans to kidnap her or reasons why life is worth living.”
“She won’t come because she’s ashamed of what that cad did to her. I should like to give him a deuced good thrashing.” Harry, lying on his mattress in the banqueting hall looked as if he would have given a great deal to have a horsewhip and the offending officer placed within reach.
“Precisely. She’s ashamed. But above all it’s the ladies who make her feel ashamed. I mean she doesn’t seem to mind us. Now if we could get one of the ladies to go and visit her and act as if being seduced wasn’t the end of the world … D’you see what I’m getting at?”
“That sounds a good idea … but who would go?”
“I’m sure Miriam would go willingly but she’s got her migraine at the moment. You don’t think we could ask Louise?”
“Oh, I say, she’s my sister! And she doesn’t know anything about … you know, being seduced and all that not. She wouldn’t be any good at all at that sort of thing.”
“But she doesn’t have to know anything about it. She would just have to go along with us and ask her to come to the Residency.”
“Oh no, George, steady on. You probably don’t know how gup spreads in India. One has to think of her reputation, after all. She is my sister, you know.”
And that seemed to be the end of the matter. But they both wondered whether one morning they would wake up to hear that Lucy had been found lifeless.
9
Fleury had been so busy with one thing and another that he had not had the chance of seeing very much of Louise. This was a pity because he still had not settled the question of the spaniel, Chloë. It was not a very suitable time to start giving people dogs. A dog must eat and perhaps food would soon be in short supply. On the other hand, although he did not care for dogs he had grown sentimental about the idea of Chloë as a gift for Louise: he wanted to see the golden ringlets of Chloë’s ears beside Louise’s golden tresses (afterwards, Chloë could be got rid of in some way or another).
At last, on the
eighth day after the mutiny at Captainganj, Fleury found an opportunity for a private word with Louise. Harry, who was still busy reinforcing the banqueting hall, had sent Fleury to invite his sister to visit his battery, of which he was very proud. He found her attending the Sunday school which the Padre was holding in the vestry: it was her custom to bring little Fanny and then stay to soothe the smaller children if they became distressed by the Padre’s explications. But hardly had Fleury delivered his message when Louise was obliged to hand him the baby she was holding in order to comfort another member of the Padre’s audience. Fleury, who was unused to babies, was thus obliged to sit with the infant squirming on his lap and to listen to what was being said.
The Padre, who had decided, perhaps rashly, to address the children on the subject of the Great Exhibition, was telling them about the wonders to be found in the Palace of Glass: the machines, the jewels and the statues.
“And yet, children, all these wonderful things were only the natural products of the earth put into more useful and beautiful forms: trees into furniture, wool into garments and so on. Man is able to make these things but he isn’t clever enough to make trees, flowers and animals. They must have been made by someone with far greater knowledge than us, in other words …”
“By God,” piped up a little boy with a shining halo of curls.
“Precisely. Only God could produce something so complicated in its structure and workings. Everywhere in the world we see design and that, of course, plainly shows that there must have been a designer …”
“Oh Padre!” cried Fleury who had unfortunately heard these words and was unable to let them pass, “should we not rather speak to these little ones of the love of God we find in our hearts than about design, production and calculation? Only too soon the materialism of the adult world will smother these innocent little lambs!” And as he uttered the word “lambs” he picked up the baby from his lap and brandished it in his excitement. For a moment it looked as if the unfortunate infant he was wielding might slip from his grasp and dash out its little brains on the floor … but Louise swiftly darted forward and took it from him before the disaster could occur. Discountenanced by this removal of his evidence Fleury watched the Padre turn pale.
“Mr Fleury,” he muttered. “I must ask you not to interrupt. I was merely proving the existence of God by logical means to these little ones, so that they might know that they are completely in His power … so that they might know that of themselves they are nothing but sinners who can only be washed clean by the Blood of our Lord.” The Padre paused. Fleury had dropped his eyes and was shaking his head sadly, whether in penitence or disagreement it was impossible to say. The Padre was silent for a little while longer wondering what heretical assumption could have just shaken Fleury’s head for him. Could it be that he did not believe in the Atonement?
But the children were waiting so he began cautiously to talk about the lighthouse he had seen at the Exhibition, a splendid lighthouse with a fixed light and moving prisms. What did it remind him of?
“Of God,” piped up the little boy with glittering curls.
“Well, not exactly. It reminded me of the Bible. Why? Because I thought of the many lives it had saved the way a lighthouse saves men from shipwreck. The Bible is the lighthouse of the world. Those nations which are not governed by it are heathenish and idolatrous. Men without the Bible worship stars and stones. For example, ancient history gives an account of two hundred children being burned to death as a sacrifice to Saturn … which is, of course, the Moloch of the Scriptures.” The Padre surveyed the class. “You wouldn’t like that, children, would you?” The children agreed that they would not care for it in the least.
Presently it was time for the Sunday school to disband. The Padre went to a cupboard and took out a large, flat wooden box. This box he brought over to the children and when he had opened it they uttered a gasp, for inside there nestled rows of crystallized fruit glowing amber, ruby and emerald. Some of the smaller children could not resist reaching out their tiny fingers to this box. But the Padre said: “I’m going to give you each a piece of sugar fruit, children, but you must not eat it yourselves, for we have been taught that it is better to give than to receive. Outside the gate you will see some poor Christian natives sitting on the ground … I shall now go to the gate with you and there you must each give your piece of sugar fruit to one of these unfortunate men.”
By this time there was only a handful of native Christians left. They sat in the dust with their backs to one or other of the tamarind trees which made an imposing crescent of shade around the gates. They were silent, too, for one cannot keep on wailing or humming indefinitely, and they looked as if they had given up hope of being offered protection. There were also one or two money-lenders, known as bunniahs, who had come along to buy up the “certificates of loyalty” as a speculative investment, at a price which varied between four and eight annas at first, but which soon dropped to nothing for a rumour was going about that now, at last, the sepoys were making a definite move to crush the feringhees in the Residency; that yery evening they would advance from Captainganj and take up positions to attack at dawn. Apart from the bunniahs there were, of course, the inevitable bystanders one finds everywhere in India, idly looking on, wherever there is anything of interest happening (and even where there is nothing) because they are too poor to have anything better to do, and the least sign of activity or purpose, even symbolic (a railway station without trains, for example), exerts a magnetic influence over them which nothing in their own devastated lives can counter.
The ragged group of native Christians received the sugar fruit from their little benefactors expressionlessly and in silence. But when the children had gone back into the enclave they wasted no time in throwing it into the ditch for, although Christians, many of them considered themselves to be Hindus as well, indeed primarily, and had no intention of being defiled like the sepoys with their greased cartridges.
Fleury had contrived to walk back with Louise and Fanny to the Dunstaples’ house. Because he was nervous of Louise he playfully tried to tease Fanny about what pretty dimples she had; but Fanny failed to respond and the teasing fell rather flat. To tell the truth, this was by no means the first time that Fanny had been used as a conversation piece by some lovesick suitor trying to get on a more relaxed footing with Louise, and she resented it. Presently she ran off, leaving Fleury feeling more awkward in Louise’s company than ever.
Disconcerted, Fleury said humbly: “I’m afraid I must apologize, Miss Dunstaple, for that disturbance during Sunday school … and as for the baby which you so wisely took from me, to be honest I’d quite forgotten I had it in my hands.”
“Really, Mr Fleury, there’s no need to apologize because there was no harm done, after all, though I must say that I do wonder if there is anything achieved by sending such young children to Sunday school.”
“I fear the Padre was angry with me for speaking out like that,” Fleury said. The rolls of fair curls which escaped from beneath Louise’s bonnet seemed to him so like a spaniel’s ear that, for a moment, he was able to imagine that it was not Louise but Chloë who was walking along beside him. Something told him, however, that it would not be a good idea to give Chloë to Louise, at least for the immediate future.
Louise was surveying him with a gentle frown. “I’m sure you’re right, Mr Fleury, to plead for love rather than calculation to order our lives but … forgive me if I speak frankly … should you not also give a thought to the distress you are causing the poor Padre Sahib with your views?”
“My dear Miss Louise! I should never for a moment wish to cause distress to the Padre Sahib. But think how important it is that we should find the right way to lead our lives! And it is only by argument that we can find the right way … There is no other way to find the truth.”
“Alas,” said Louise, looking sad, “I sometimes wonder whether we shall ever find the right way. I wonder whether we shall ever live together in harmony,
one class with another, one race with another … Will not the labouring classes always be resentful of our privileges? Will not the natives always be ready to rise up against the ‘pale-faced Christian knight with the Excalibur of Truth in his hand’ as the Padre so picturesquely referred to him last week?”
Fleury was having trouble smothering his excitement; when he became excited he invariably began to sweat copiously and he did not want Louise to see him in such a disgusting state; it seemed unfair, the higher his spirit soared, the more his face, neck and armpits seeped … but such is man’s estate.
“Oh Louise,” he exclaimed, “that is why it’s so important that we bring to India a civilization of the heart, and not only to India but to the whole world … rather than this sordid materialism. Only then will we have a chance of living together in harmony. Will there even be classes and races on that golden day in the future? No! For we shall all be brothers working not to take advantage of each other but for each other’s good!”
Louise was perhaps looking a little taken aback by the excitement she had suddenly aroused in Fleury. She was certainly looking with curiosity at his vehement, perspiring features. But Fleury with an involuntary groan of ecstasy had whipped a folded paper from the pocket of his Tweedside lounging jacket.
“These are the words of a very dear friend of mine from Oxford, a poet (like myself), who is now working as an inspector of schools …” And Fleury began to declaim in such ringing tones that a couple of native pensioners slumbering in the shade of one of the cannons started up, under the impression that they were being ordered to stand to arms.
“Children of the future, whose day has not yet dawned, you, when that day arrives, will hardly believe what obstructions were long suffered to prevent it coming! You who, with all your faults, have neither the avidity of aristocracies, nor the narrowness of middle classes, you, whose power of simple enthusiasm is your great gift, will not comprehend how progress towards man’s best perfection … the adorning and ennobling of his spirit … should have been reluctantly undertaken; how it should have been for years and years retarded by barren commonplaces, by worn out claptraps. You will know nothing of the doubts, fears, prejudices they had to dispel. But you, in your turn, with difficulties of your own, will then be mounting some new step in the arduous ladder whereby man climbs towards his perfection: towards that unattainable but irresistible lodestar, gazed after with earnest longing, and invoked with bitter tears; the longing of thousands of hearts, the tears of many generations.”
The Siege of Krishnapur Page 14