by Talbot Mundy
XXV
“But I Believe My Heart Is Broken.”
The inner courtyard was crowded. It resembled a fair, there were so many people. Having had to come over the wall by a ladder, they were thoroughly enjoying a secretive atmosphere that was as illusory as it was important and exciting.
“If less than ten per cent of them are spies, then I am an archbishop,” said the babu; and as they swarmed around to ask him questions and to stare at Quorn, he told them that the day was not yet finally decided on.
“But be ready! Be ready!” he insisted. “He who is ready reaps rewards. All others only read the bulletins and pay the taxes!”
Then he almost forced his way into the room the Princess occupied. It was crowded with people. She was holding a kind of court. She was bright-eyed and excited, but pretending not to be. Unused to male society, but thoroughly determined to be modern, she was getting a swift education in manners and in how to impose them on designing flatterers. They were taking utmost advantage of her inexperience, and she needed help. The babu gave it to her.
He threw one man out — a very obvious nobody who was near enough to the door to be an easy victim.
“Follow me,” he said, “and keep close.”
Then he hustled his way through the crowd, not caring whom he elbowed, nor how violently, and Quorn kept at his heels, admiring the man’s prodigious strength of mind and muscle. When he had forced himself near enough he whispered to one of the women. They were rather scared looking women; they lacked their young leader’s inborn arrogance; and even more than that, they lacked her sense of humor, but they were protecting her from the crush as best they could. She to whom the babu whispered looked a little older than the others, and a bit less nervous, but she was so relieved to see the babu that she stumbled, and almost fell, in her hurry to repeat the whispered message to the Princess. The Princess nodded. The babu faced about suddenly, clearing a space for himself by sheer violence. But he smiled like a man who only did no worse than that because he saw no need. The arrogance of his air of power and authority was overwhelming. Silence fell. There were men in the room whose caste and rank were vastly higher than the babu’s. There were young bloods who had deserted the Maharajah’s court for the sheer fun of an adventure. But before astonishment could change into truculence, the babu read that embryonic court a lesson, in the vernacular. He betrayed no trace of fear of them, and no respect of persons.
“Animals!” he called them. “Parasites! Beggars of rewards for worthless promises! Her Highness has commanded me to clear the room. There is important news for her, and there are some of you who are untrustworthy. I could give names.” He turned and appeared to whisper to the Princess, but Quorn thought he only pretended to. She looked puzzled for a moment, but smiled and then nodded again. The babu continued: “She has commanded me to tell you, on her royal oath, that nobody shall be rewarded except for actual service! There are no promises asked or given — no bribes — no offices for sale. She will know whom to reward! You have her royal leave to withdraw immediately! Those of you whose treachery is known are warned to keep away unless you wish to test the temper and resources of more honorable men!”
He drew a paper from his pocket and appeared to consult it. Out they all went. None had courage to oppose him. He looked, as he always did, like some one with resources at his beck and call. He only had to stride six paces forward, and the laggards at the rear made haste to get out of his reach. Then he summoned inside the two gray-bearded gentlemen who were on guard at the door, and when he had closed and locked the door he flattered them heavily:
“You two are trusted,” he said. “By her Highness’ express command you are permitted to know the deepest secrets. Of such as you she hopes her future ministry may be when she is ruler of Narada.” They scarcely acknowledged the babu. Caste and prejudice resented his assumed authority. But they bowed profoundly to the Princess. Then the babu approached her, taking care to leave them on guard at door and window. He lowered his voice so that they would need preternaturally sharp ears to overhear anything, and on top of that he spoke English:
“Tonight!” he said to her. “Tonight, tonight!”
“But Babu-ji,” she answered, “I am told that the police may interfere. Some secret friends, who dare not let their names be known at present, have asked for delay, to give them time to persuade the police to—”
His laugh interrupted her. It was crusty, curt, dynamic. He could use the manners of an angry Bismarck when he chose. He silenced her without a gesture. Then he drew on fatherly and patient gentleness that only half-hid his anger, though the anger was assumed and the patience was nothing less than iron will:
“Sahiba, this babu is willingly the servant of experience and wisdom, but presumes to tell you that experience is wisdom. Wisdom is experience. The two are twins. Their womb is Willingness to learn. And they are in that womb, sahiba, not yet born, or reared, or educated! Learn this: Secret friends are always open enemies as soon as secret treachery has opened doors through which their secret friendship can betray successfully the unwise person whom they altruistically love! That is very verb sap. Write it in your book of poems.”
“But the police—” she began.
He interrupted her. “Sahiba, the police are opportunists, I assure you. Tempo is the plague of opportunists; it invariably beats them, because they wait for the beat instead of foreseeing it. You have read some books on Scotland Yard, and they were pretty good. I read them also. You believe with Teddy Roosevelt of U.S.A. United States that a policeman only needs a good example to become a saint. He died singing ‘Onward Christian Soldiers,’ just as Gandhi will die of starvation or brotherly love, no matter which. But the police are still policemen. Discontent won’t turn them into Galahads who will risk their jobs and pensions in behalf of decent government. They prefer it indecent. It is only in England that policemen can be morally correct and discontented at the same time. The blue bulwarks of the law of England would arrest you, if you treated them with ordinary kindness. They would say you were corrupting discipline or something. You can’t trust an English policeman. He would arrest the King for buying a cigar after hours. But you can trust ours. They are police, not missionaries. That is why I took them into confidence.”
“You told the police?” she asked, horrified. “How much did you tell them? Isn’t that enough to ruin us?”
“Enough, sahiba, is always too much. So I told them too much for our enemies, but not enough for the police to overtake our tempo. Many a conspiracy has failed because the politzei weren’t warned in time to keep out of the way. They have their dignity to think about, the same as you have. Anywhere except in England, where the unmatriculated bishops all join the police as a matter of routine, the police understand that law-breaking is what they live by. If the laws weren’t broken, nobody would pay policemen to arrest fat gentlemen for slipping on bananas. If they were taken by surprise, they might feel forced to do things. They would lose their tempers, and there might be serious trouble.”
“Then it isn’t true they may interfere?” she asked him.
“After the event they will be for us or against us, as the case may be. If we succeed, they claim the credit for having made it easy for us. If we fail, they will feel they were treated fairly because we made things easy for them. They will be able to arrest the nuisances and let the valuable people go free — that is to say, the people who can afford to pay for it. The market price is always higher for conspirators than for mere criminals.”
“Oh I won’t endure it!” she exploded. “I despise such hypocrites! When I am Maharanee—”
“You may do as you jolly well please when you are Maharanee, if the British will let you,” he interrupted. “You may even have incorruptible police if you know where to find them. For the present you are dealing with an unevangelized police, who naturally wish to see which way the cat will jump before they make their bets. If it should suddenly occur to bet on airplanes there would be nothing for
us to do but skedaddle. Do you know what that is?”
“I will not run away!” she retorted.
“This babu is much too fat to run away, sahiba. He would be a much too easy target for a bullet. That is why intuitive and selfish prejudice supports my reasoned judgment that tonight’s the night. Why? Nobody is ready.”
“Babu-ji, are we not ready?”
“Let us hope not! Ready is the word that rots imagination! That is why the Germans did not win the war, they were so absolutely ready! Everyone, including you, will have to pinch hit. Do you know what that means?”
“No,” she answered. She was becoming angry with him. Evidently flattery had rather spoiled her taste for being lectured. But the babu restored her equanimity:
“To pinch hit,” he explained, “is to produce at a dangerous moment the resourcefulness that makes the only difference between a special person and a duffer. If I did not know you have that spark of genius, I would be elsewhere. It is better to bet on the quails or the dogs than on second-rate people. This babu discovered that a quarter of a century ago.”
“Dangerous?” she answered. “How I wish there were some real danger! I would love to test my courage! I am not afraid of that tame tiger since you told me that the Jains used to let people go into his cage. My part of it is all too safe and easy. What can go wrong?”
“Everything!” He grinned as if he relished that thought. “If anything goes right I shall become hysterical! I won’t believe it. I shall think that destiny is interfering. And I don’t trust destiny! I beg you, please, to eat a moderately hearty meal, sahiba, and be ready one hour after sunset.”
“Very well,” she answered.
“Please don’t talk to anyone, but let me manage the publicity. I can spread the news through the city in twenty minutes — three different versions; in an hour there will be thirty versions, because versions breed like microbes. That will perplex our opponents and will also fill the streets with an unmanageable crowd. They will be much more afraid of the crowd than of us. We shall need at least four elephants to force a passage for us. But there must be no armed followers” — (he said that slowly, with great emphasis)— “because they would certainly start trouble, which can start itself quite easily enough. So I intend to scare away these faithful friends of yours who crowd this place to offer such undying devotion.”
“Scare them? You? How?” she demanded. She was cut to the quick.
“Sahiba, this babu has had five friends in fifty years, whose friendship stood the test of anticlimax. You have made a very good beginning with two friends. But I warn you: one of those is not yet tested!” He bowed toward Quorn with mock-solemnity.
Quorn bridled. But he saw the trap. He knew, if he should boast, he would be at the babu’s mercy. He would have to live up to the boast, and things were bad enough already. Instinctively he felt for his pipe, but remembered in time.
“I’ve warned you, Miss,” he said, “that I’m no hero. I can do my damnedest, and I will, but it maybe won’t amount to much. So if you’d sooner use that substitute that you’ve been grooming up to take my place, I’m willing.”
“What substitute?” she answered, frowning. “I haven’t heard of one? What do you mean?”
“Your ladies, Miss, were titivating him this afternoon so he’d pass in the dark for the Gunga sahib.”
“But that is untrue,” she answered. “It is the first I have heard of it. Who told you?”
Quorn was puzzled for a moment. Were there other women, unknown to her, who did the real plotting?
“Oh, well,” said the babu, “go ahead and penalize me for a pinch hit! Terminological inexactitudes are good when Winston Churchill uses them and gets found out. This babu was experimenting with the Gunga sahib. He is as per invoice. He is certified as Grade A. He is not a quitter.”
“You take too great liberties,” she answered. She was very angry now. “I will not have my friends subjected to your impudent experiments. Scare them away, will you? No need! They will leave me in disgust because I tolerate such methods!”
He bowed patiently — suavely.
“If you have a friend outside here, I will find him for you,” he answered. And before she could stop him he went to the door. He walked out, closing it behind him. His unmistakable baritone voice could be heard clearly through the window, but his words were undistinguishable. He was gone several minutes. There was quite a lot of talking outside — mostly low-voiced, but considerably louder than the conversation of the Princess with her women, who discussed the babu angrily. When he came in again be was smiling.
“Terminological inexactitudes,” he said, “are no good among loyal friends and gallant comrades. So I told what I know. Let us see what happens.”
She was almost on the verge of tears, she was so exasperated by his insolence. She bit her lip.
Quorn could not endure the spectacle. It would have been bad enough to see her alone look mortified, but every one of her women was in a state of bewildered sympathy, or seemed to be. Her angry eyes and twitching lip betrayed the last extremity of self-control.
“Shame on you! What ha’ you done now?” Quorn demanded.
The babu told him: “I have said that British airplanes and a bloodless revolution are not simultaneous equations. One, in fact, precludes the other. Messages undoubtedly have gone to British India to summon airplanes. Therefore it is timely that the names of those who pledge themselves to die if necessary in the name of this cause should be signed immediately on a roll of honor. Thus may each depend upon the other’s steadfastness and all may share the peril equally.”
“Who has said that the British planes are coming?” asked the Princess.
“I have said it,” he answered. “It is as sure as tomorrow’s sunrise. Are the British noted for their hesitation, when a rumor of this sort of storm in a tea-cup reaches them? They will come to find out. They will be TNT-ically ready to correct a false impression that Narada can conduct its own—”
He was interrupted by a voice. It spoke through the window rapidly. The two gentlemen in waiting bowed to the Princess and walked out, closing the door after them. But the Princess hardly noticed that; she, too, was talking rapidly in low tones to her ladies. They had clustered around her. Suddenly she faced the babu:
“I will not permit it! Should they sign their names, if we should fail, their signatures would involve them all in ruin.”
“Altruism!” said the babu. “‘Oh what errors are committed in thy mad name! — But there won’t be many signatures,” he added. “Let us count how many.”
He went to the window and drew aside the curtain just sufficiently to peer out. She went to the other window. Quorn went to the door and opened it six inches. At the far end of the courtyard there were still some dozens of secretive looking men, but they were waiting their turn at the ladder. None spoke. For about two minutes the Princess stared through the parted window curtain. Quorn closed the door softly and watched her fight herself for self-command. She seemed to him to age in those two minutes, until, when at last she turned and faced the babu, youth had almost vanished. There was a hardness in her eyes that he had not seen previously.
“Very well then, I am disillusioned,” she said in a strained voice. There was a tear on her cheek, but she did not deign to notice it. “What now?”
“Disillusionment is better than credulity, sahiba. You are learning what is understood by the strong, but that the weak obey, believing they originate it. You are learning tempo.”
“Tempo?” Her voice was hollow. “Why do you not speak plainly to me?”
“You are learning that on you yourself alone depends your destiny. You are your destiny. To count on crowds to aid you to destroy indecencies by which they hope to profit in their own turn, is as unwise as to trust in God and keep your powder in a wet sack. You must make them trust you. You must never trust them — never. Tempo is the art of doing unexpectedly and suddenly a concrete thing that theorists can talk about, until another c
oncrete thing presents them with another climax. Thus they learn to trust you because you always put one over on them, and their doubts can never overtake your deeds. But they will never trust you if they know what to expect. They will merely love you for being as stupid as themselves. Their love is just as worthless as a tiger’s morals, and the sooner they learn that you can get along without it, the more determined they will be to make you love them. Your love for them is important; but keep it skeptical!”
“You have made me two hundred enemies,” she said.
“But I have shown you whom to trust,” he answered.
“Whom?” She defied him — stared straight at him. Her indignant eyes declared he had lost her confidence.
“Trust yourself, sahiba.”
“So that you may mock my judgment and my ideals and persuade me how ridiculous I am?”
“Sahiba, I have shown you what you are not. You are not a puppet at the mercy of designing mediocrities. You might be, if you had no impudent old babu to impose his criticism.”
Through the window came the sound of footsteps. They were startling, because it had grown so silent outside. The babu went to the window and peered out.
“Who are they?” she demanded.
“Policemen.”
She caught her breath. “Do you mean — Oh, why did you confide in the police! They—”
“Plain clothes,” he said, “off duty — most anonymous — impersonal — and verb sap very.”
“What are they here for?”
“They will see that no more candidates for honors overcrowd your Highness. They will take care, too, that no one murders you until the tiger gets its innings! I was waiting for them; otherwise I would be snatching forty winks instead of preaching. Have I leave to go now?”
She nodded. But as he and Quorn bowed she spoke again:
“I will come to you through the tunnel one hour after sunset. And I will go through with this, come what may. But I believe my heart is broken. I believed those men were—”
“Broken hearts,” he interrupted, “are the broken eggs of which the omelets of destiny are made, sahiba. Destiny is iron rations, and it kills off weaklings, but the strong grow stronger on it. Destiny is not a sentimental moralist in Red Cross uniform. It makes its omelets of bad eggs very often. But oh what good ones it can make of good eggs!”