by Talbot Mundy
The chela said nothing, but the women were allowed to touch him and appeared to think the touch conferred a priceless boon. They laid a finger of the right hand on his shoulder as he passed, and one woman, a Moslem, who laid both hands on him and clung almost passionately, was quietly reproved for it by two of the girls in white.
“The game begins to look political,” thought Ommony, watching the Lama clean a snuff-filled nostril with a meditative forefinger. “Vasantasena — umm! Now these women — I’ve always wondered why some genius didn’t try to conquer India by winning the women first! They rule the country anyhow.”
The Lama just then looked as calculating as a medieval cardinal, but despite that air of playing a deep game for tremendous stakes, there was now something almost Puck-like in his attitude. Ommony noticed for the first time that his ears did not lie close to his head, were large and slightly pointed at the top. Seen sidewise in the rather dim light there was a faint suggestion about him of one of those gargoyles that survey the street from a cathedral roof. He was even more interesting to watch than the proceedings on the floor below.
Suddenly the Lama spoke again. When he did that his leathery throat moved like a pelican’s swallowing a big fish, and the noise that came out was hardly human — startling — so abrupt that it completely broke the sequence of all other sounds. It monopolized attention. In the ensuing silence he sat back, took snuff again, and seemed to lose all interest in the proceedings.
But to Ommony the interest increased. The girls in white threw black cloaks over their shoulders. The Hindu and Moslem women smothered themselves in the impenetrable veils without which it is pollution to face men-folk out-of-doors; and all of them, in groups of three or four, each little group in charge of one of the Lama’s female family, who shielded their faces in masked hoods that formed part of the black cloaks, departed toward the street.
There was no doubt that they did go to the street; a door opened on to a vestibule, and sunlight shone through a street door at its farther end.
Samding returned up the steps and gave the piece of jade to the Lama, who stowed it somewhere in his bosom without glancing at it. Ommony watched the chela narrowly. Was he a European boy? There was something in the clean strong outline of his face and in the lithe athletic figure that might suggest that. But he was too abstract-looking — altogether too impersonal and (the word was as vague as the impression Ommony was trying to fix in his mind) too fascinating. No European youngster could have looked as he did without stirring resentment in whoever watched. Samding aroused in the beholder only admiration and an itching curiosity.
CHAPTER XVII. Diana Rehearses a Part
O ye who look to enter in through Discipline to Bliss,
Ye shall not stray from out the way, if ye remember this:
Ye shall not waste a weary hour, nor hope for Hope in vain,
If ye persist with will until self-righteousness is slain.
If through the mist of mortal eyes, deluded, ye discern
That ye are holier than these, ye have the whole to learn!
If ye are tied with tangled pride because ye learn the Law,
Know then, your purest thoughts deny the Truth ye never saw!
If ye resent in discontent the searchlight of reproof,
Preferring praise, ye waste your days at sin’s not Soul’s behoof!
Each gain for self denies the Self that knows the self is vain.
Who crowns accomplishment with pride must build the whole again!
But if, at each ascending step, more clearly ye perceive
That he must kill the lower will, who would the world relieve
And they are last who would be first, their effort thrown away;
Be patient then and persevere. Ye tread the Middle Way!
— The Lama’s Law
THE MOMENT the last woman had vanished from the room the Lama let Samding help him to his feet and clucked, snapping his fingers to Diana. She glanced at Ommony, he nodded, immensely curious, and promptly she trotted to the Lama’s side as matter-of-factly as if she had known him all her life.
The Lama and the chela went down to the room below, taking Diana with them. The chela spread out the mat, rearranged it in accordance with the Lama’s instructions, and the two sat down on it facing the balcony, conversing in low tones, evidently waiting for something preordained to happen. Diana sniffed around the room, inspecting cushions curiously, but they took no apparent notice of her. After a minute or two she sat down and looked bored. Instantly the Lama called to Ommony:
“Can you cause the dog to open her mouth, from where you are, without speaking?”
Ommony stood up, his head and shoulders visible above the rail, and seeing him Diana pricked an ear. The trick was simple enough; ever since she was a puppy she had always dropped her jaw when he held up a finger at her; by education, for his own amusement, he had simply encouraged and fixed a habit. Her mouth opened, closed and opened wide again.
Samding laughed delightedly, but the Lama very seriously beckoned to Diana to come nearer and she obeyed at a nod from Ommony. She wanted to sit on the mat, but the Lama would not allow that; he pushed her away and she squatted down facing the balcony, watching Ommony, awaiting orders.
“Now again!” said the Lama.
Ommony raised his finger. The ear went up, the mouth opened and stayed open until the finger was lowered.
The Lama was as pleased as a child with a toy. Diana would have been satisfied to go through all her tricks, but a Tibetan entered through the door the women had used. The Lama froze into immobility and Samding followed suit.
There entered a man whom Ommony knew from his photographs — Prabhu Singh — the almost middle-aged but younger son of a reigning rajah. He knew him well by reputation — had admired him in the abstract because he was notorious for independence and for fair, intelligent, outspoken and constructive criticism of foreign rule. He was said to be an intimate of Gandhi and was, in consequence, about as much appreciated by the ruling powers as a hornet at a tea-party.
He was tall, lean, lithe, big-eyed under a plain silk turban and extremely simply dressed in tussore stuff that showed every line of his athletic figure — not very dark-skinned — clean-shaven except for a black mustache. He wore no jewelry, strode barefooted with manly dignity to a point midway between the Lama and the door, bowed low, and stood still. Diana went up and sniffed him. He showed surprise, but laid his hand on the dog’s head and rubbed her ear.
“Peace be with you. Peace perfect you in all her ways,” the Lama boomed.
“And to you, my father, peace,” he answered. “Was it well done? Was anything lacking for your comfort? Have my servants failed in anything? Were there enough elephants?”
“It is all good,” said the Lama.
“And the mission succeeded?”
“The first part.”
The Lama’s hand went into his bosom and produced the piece of jade. Prabhu Singh approached to the edge of the mat, received the jade into his hands, and stepped back to examine it, holding it to the light from a window. He did not appear to have any superstitious reverence for it, but handled it as if it were a work of art, rare and valuable.
“I am glad,” he said simply after about two minutes, handing it back to the Lama, who returned it to his bosom. The chela’s eyes were missing nothing.
“San-fun-ho!” said the Lama suddenly; and the chela stood up on the mat. Was the stage-name his real one? The mystery increased. Prabhu Singh’s attitude underwent an instant change. He became embarrassed. He bowed three times with much more reverence than he had shown the Lama, and when the chela smiled the lineal descendant of a hundred kings was as nervous as a small boy being introduced to a bishop. Samding said something to him that Ommony could not catch, and the murmured answer seemed to be no more than a conventional formula of politeness. The chela was as perfectly at ease as if he had been receiving the homage of princes all his life.
Prabhu Singh bowed again three
times and retreated backward, stumbling against Diana and recovering his balance awkwardly. He appeared almost physically frightened; yet he was famous on polo fields from end to end of India, and was notorious for speaking his mind bluntly to viceroys at real risk of personal liberty. His back to the door at last, he made his escape with better grace, recovering presence of mind and remembering to salute the Lama.
The moment the door shut the Lama turned on Samding and rebuked him in Tibetan; Ommony could only catch occasional sentences; but it seemed that the Lama was angry because Samding had not put the visitor at ease.
“That is only vanity — self-approval. Worshipers are mockers... turned your head... I would rather see you pelted with stones... better for you and for them... break the shell of the egg before the chicken hatches ... sclaappkapp! (whatever that meant)... dirt under your feet will someday cover your grave... all these years and yet you know so little... if you are going to fail you had better not begin... presumption...”
It was a wonder of a discourse. Samding listened, standing for a while, then sat down cross-legged — off the mat — facing the Lama — head bowed humbly — not once moving until Diana came and sniffed his neck to find out what the matter was.
That stopped the Lama’s flow of speech. He glanced up at the gallery and called to Ommony in an absolutely normal tone of voice, as if he had entirely forgotten the whole incident of Prabhu Singh’s visit and the rebuke and all connected with it.
“Now again, my son. Make the dog do the acting again.”
Samding resumed his position on the mat at the Lama’s right hand; he, too, seemed to dismiss the lecture as if it had never taken place; and Ommony, directing from the gallery, made Diana open and shut her mouth. The Lama insisted on her doing it again and again and at last he and Samding chuckled together over it as if it were the greatest joke that ever happened. Still chuckling, they got up and left the room by the door leading to the street, taking the mat with them and locking the door as they went out. No explanation; not a word to Ommony as to what was expected of him; not even a backward glance at the gallery to suggest that they had him in mind. Ommony sat still for a while; then, whistling Diana, he made his way to the gallery door, found that open, and proceeded to explore; but he found all the other doors along the passage locked, except the one at the end that opened into the room assigned to himself.
He looked through the window into the compound, where there were all kinds of noise and confusion. Four men were trying to throw a mule and several other mules had broken loose; an elephant was lying on its back near a water- butt while two mahouts scrubbed its belly; and two bull camels were fighting with everything except their tails while twenty onlookers heaped humorous advice on rather bored-looking experts who were watching for a chance to rope the brutes by the leg and separate them.
And in the midst of all that riot, with the sun pouring down on them and crows and sparrows hopping about among them, Maitraya and his troupe sat on boxes, repeating their lines to one another.
It appeared that the devil’s part already had been written. Maitraya held a small scroll in addition to his own, and was trying to teach the lines to Dawa Tsering, who was disposed to believe he could play the devil better if left to his own resources.
“I tell you, a devil is devilish!” he shouted. “A devil is like one of those bull camels — you never know what he’ll do next! Or like a mule — you have to look out for his teeth and heels! This devil of yours is like a pretty gentleman. Here, let me show you how to act the devil!”
But Maitraya stuck to it, patiently correcting the Hillman’s mispronunciation of the Urdu words. Catching sight of Ommony through the window, he called to him to come out and take part in the rehearsal; but the door was still locked, and though he could have climbed through the window easily enough Ommony hardly liked to confess that he was locked in, not knowing what effect that news might have on Maitraya. After a moment’s hesitation he excused himself on religious grounds:
“I must recite the mantras.”
Even Maitraya, possessed by the almost absolute of religious cynicism, respected that Brahmin’s privilege, so Ommony was left to his own meditations, which were mixed, amused and mystified in turn.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door behind him. The chela came in. He had changed his clothes again and was in the same snuff-colored robe in which Ommony first saw him in Chutter Chand’s back room. His face was an enigma — a mask with a marvelous smile on it; but the eyes, to Ommony, suggested excitement; or, it might have been, extremely keen amusement; at any rate, some strong emotion was shining through the self- controlled exterior. The remarkable thing was, that the youngster’s calm did not suggest fanatical asceticism or conceit. He seemed human, curious and not unfriendly.
Diana’s tail thumped on the floor. Flies buzzed in and out through the window. There was nothing in the situation to cause nervousness, and yet Ommony confessed to himself that he felt an inclination to shudder; the sort of inclination that forewarns a man of something that his eyes cannot see. He spoke first, purposely in English, hoping to catch the chela off- guard:
“Maitraya has suggested that those young women who are with the party are your wives. That seems improbable. Tell me the truth about it.”
If eyes mean anything, the chela understood; he was laughing. No muscle of his face moved. He pretended to assume that the words were some form of greeting, and answered in kind, in Tibetan, then broke into Urdu:
“Tsiang Samdup sends a blessing. He is unwilling that you should speak of what occurred this morning.”
“You mean, of the performance of the dog?” asked Ommony.
But the chela appeared to be an expert in dealing with stupidity. “Of anything that occurred.” Ommony chose another angle of assault:
“Whatever the holy Lama wishes. Kindly tell him so. As long as I am his guest, I will be silent. Wait!”
The chela had started to go, but Ommony stepped between him and the door and stood with his back to it.
“Don’t be alarmed.”
But the chela had only retreated a pace or two. Excepting that, he seemed hardly more than curious to know what would happen next. It was Ommony who felt uncomfortable. “I want you to tell me,” he said, “whether it was Tsiang Samdup or someone else who educated you and those young women.”
The chela, still standing erect, did not answer.
“Come on, tell me. There must be someone else besides the Lama.”
“Is that why you stand between me and the door?” the chela asked. The voice was ironic — amused. Ommony tried emphasis:
“I won’t let you go until you answer a few questions. Tell me—”
But the chela had already gone. He had crossed the room in three strides, laid a hand on the window-ledge, and vaulted through, tucking his legs up neatly under his chin and landing almost noiselessly on the veranda. He contrived the whole swift maneuver without a moment’s loss of dignity, and walked away unruffled, not glancing behind him.
Ommony strode to the window feeling cheap, wishing he had gone about things differently; he supposed it would take an interminable time now to establish himself in the chela’s confidence; he had possibly totally ruined his chance of doing that. The chela was sure to go straight to the Lama and tell him.
But there stood the Lama, in the midst of the group of actors, with Samding already beside him; and apparently Samding was talking about the play to Maitraya; the Lama seemed to be encouraging Dawa Tsering to rehearse his lines. They did not glance in Ommony’s direction. But a minute or two later a Tibetan came and unlocked the door, and when Ommony stepped out under the veranda the Lama turned and beckoned to him.
However, the Lama had nothing to say. He led the entire troupe at once toward the elephant stalls, down a gangway between two of the big beasts, whom he saluted in passing as if they were human beings, and through a gate at the rear into an alley fifty yards long. The alley seemed to have been used as a sheep-c
orral the preceding night; there were some loose boards that probably served to enclose it. Across its end ran a street, in which a dozen or more nondescript humans lounged in front of back doors. It was a back street; all the houses faced the other way, their rears were an irregular jumble of yards and walls, with empty kerosene cans, rubbish heaps and faded cotton purdahs* much in evidence.
The Lama led straight across the street into a doorway, and down a long passage that admitted to the wings of a fair-sized theater, almost modern in some of its details.
Someone had been busy, for the stage was set. A hideous back-drop had been almost concealed by branches up-ended, that gave a very good suggestion of a clump of trees; and in front of those, in mid-stage, was a wickerwork affair covered with cotton cloth that had been painted to look like the stone-work of an old well; a beam with a rope thrown over it, supported on two uprights completed the illusion well enough. The flies had been very simply painted to resemble house corners at the end of a street, and the whole scene suggested the extreme fringe of a village, with the audience looking out through it toward the open country.
For a wonder, there was electric light, although none too much, and the switchboard was a mystery, painted red and labeled in English “Keep away!”
At the rear of the theater and along both sides was a balcony for women, screened off with narrow wooden slats that left openings about four inches square. The orchestra “pit” was a platform, three feet lower than the stage, in full view of the audience. The musicians were already squatting there — Tibetans to a man; four were armed with radongs;* four more had tomtoms; the remaining dozen were provided with stringed instruments. The radongs blew a fog-horn blare to greet the Lama as he stepped on to the stage.