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    Chapter 39

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    Chapter 40
    Previous Chapter
    By trying we can easily learn to endure adversity. Another man's,
    I mean.
    --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

    You soon find your long-ago dreams of India rising in a sort of vague and
    luscious moonlight above the horizon-rim of your opaque consciousness,
    and softly lighting up a thousand forgotten details which were parts of a
    vision that had once been vivid to you when you were a boy, and steeped
    your spirit in tales of the East. The barbaric gorgeousnesses, for
    instance; and the princely titles, the sumptuous titles, the sounding
    titles,--how good they taste in the mouth! The Nizam of Hyderabad; the
    Maharajah of Travancore; the Nabob of Jubbelpore; the Begum of Bhopal;
    the Nawab of Mysore; the Rance of Gulnare; the Ahkoond of Swat's; the Rao
    of Rohilkund; the Gaikwar of Baroda. Indeed, it is a country that runs
    richly to name. The great god Vishnu has 108--108 special ones--108
    peculiarly holy ones--names just for Sunday use only. I learned the
    whole of Vishnu's 108 by heart once, but they wouldn't stay; I don't
    remember any of them now but John W.

    And the romances connected with, those princely native houses--to this
    day they are always turning up, just as in the old, old times. They were
    sweating out a romance in an English court in Bombay a while before we
    were there. In this case a native prince, 16 1/2 years old, who has been
    enjoying his titles and dignities and estates unmolested for fourteen
    years, is suddenly haled into court on the charge that he is rightfully
    no prince at all, but a pauper peasant; that the real prince died when
    two and one-half years old; that the death was concealed, and a peasant
    child smuggled into the royal cradle, and that this present incumbent was
    that smuggled substitute. This is the very material that so many
    oriental tales have been made of.

    The case of that great prince, the Gaikwar of Baroda, is a reversal of
    the theme. When that throne fell vacant, no heir could be found for some
    time, but at last one was found in the person of a peasant child who was
    making mud pies in a village street, and having an innocent good time.
    But his pedigree was straight; he was the true prince, and he has reigned
    ever since, with none to dispute his right.

    Lately there was another hunt for an heir to another princely house, and
    one was found who was circumstanced about as the Gaikwar had been. His
    fathers were traced back, in humble life, along a branch of the ancestral
    tree to the point where it joined the stem fourteen generations ago, and
    his heirship was thereby squarely established. The tracing was done by
    means of the records of one of the great Hindoo shrines, where princes on
    pilgrimage record their names and the date of their visit. This is to
    keep the prince's religious account straight, and his spiritual person
    safe; but the record has the added value of keeping the pedigree
    authentic, too.

    When I think of Bombay now, at this distance of time, I seem to have a
    kaleidoscope at my eye; and I hear the clash of the glass bits as the
    splendid figures change, and fall apart, and flash into new forms, figure
    after figure, and with the birth of each new form I feel my skin crinkle
    and my nerve-web tingle with a new thrill of wonder and delight. These
    remembered pictures float past me in a sequence of contracts; following
    the same order always, and always whirling by and disappearing with the
    swiftness of a dream, leaving me with the sense that the actuality was
    the experience of an hour, at most, whereas it really covered days, I
    think.

    The series begins with the hiring of a "bearer"--native man-servant--a
    person who should be selected with some care, because as long as he is in
    your employ he will be about as near to you as your clothes.

    In India your day may be said to begin with the "bearer's" knock on the
    bedroom door, accompanied by a formula of, words--a formula which is
    intended to mean that the bath is ready. It doesn't really seem to mean
    anything at all. But that is because you are not used to "bearer"
    English. You will presently understand.

    Where he gets his English is his own secret. There is nothing like it
    elsewhere in the earth; or even in paradise, perhaps, but the other place
    is probably full of it. You hire him as soon as you touch Indian soil;
    for no matter what your sex is, you cannot do without him. He is
    messenger, valet, chambermaid, table-waiter, lady's maid, courier--he is
    everything. He carries a coarse linen clothes-bag and a quilt; he sleeps
    on the stone floor outside your chamber door, and gets his meals you do
    not know where nor when; you only know that he is not fed on the
    premises, either when you are in a hotel or when you are a guest in a
    private house. His wages are large--from an Indian point of view--and he
    feeds and clothes himself out of them. We had three of him in two and a
    half months. The first one's rate was thirty rupees a month that is to
    say, twenty-seven cents a day; the rate of the others, Rs. 40 (40 rupees)
    a month. A princely sum; for the native switchman on a railway and the
    native servant in a private family get only Rs. 7 per month, and the
    farm-hand only 4. The two former feed and clothe themselves and their
    families on their $1.90 per month; but I cannot believe that the farmhand
    has to feed himself on his $1.08. I think the farm probably feeds him,
    and that the whole of his wages, except a trifle for the priest, go to
    the support of his family. That is, to the feeding of his family; for
    they live in a mud hut, hand-made, and, doubtless, rent-free, and they
    wear no clothes; at least, nothing more than a rag. And not much of a
    rag at that, in the case of the males. However, these are handsome times
    for the farm-hand; he was not always the child of luxury that he is now.
    The Chief Commissioner of the Central Provinces, in a recent official
    utterance wherein he was rebuking a native deputation for complaining of
    hard times, reminded them that they could easily remember when a
    farm-hand's wages were only half a rupee (former value) a month--that
    is to say, less than a cent a day; nearly $2.90 a year. If such a
    wage-earner had a good deal of a family--and they all have that, for God
    is very good to these poor natives in some ways--he would save a profit
    of fifteen cents, clean and clear, out of his year's toil; I mean a
    frugal, thrifty person would, not one given to display and ostentation.
    And if he owed $13.50 and took good care of his health, he could pay it
    off in ninety years. Then he could hold up his head, and look his
    creditors in the face again.

    Think of these facts and what they mean. India does not consist of
    cities. There are no cities in India--to speak of. Its stupendous
    population consists of farm-laborers. India is one vast farm--one almost
    interminable stretch of fields with mud fences between. . . Think of the
    above facts; and consider what an incredible aggregate of poverty they
    place before you.

    The first Bearer that applied, waited below and sent up his
    recommendations. That was the first morning in Bombay. We read them
    over; carefully, cautiously, thoughtfully. There was not a fault to find
    with them--except one; they were all from Americans. Is that a slur?
    If it is, it is a deserved one. In my experience, an American's
    recommendation of a servant is not usually valuable. We are too
    good-natured a race; we hate to say the unpleasant thing; we shrink from
    speaking the unkind truth about a poor fellow whose bread depends upon
    our verdict; so we speak of his good points only, thus not scrupling to
    tell a lie--a silent lie--for in not mentioning his bad ones we as good
    as say he hasn't any. The only difference that I know of between a
    silent lie and a spoken one is, that the silent lie is a less respectable
    one than the other. And it can deceive, whereas the other can't--as a
    rule. We not only tell the silent lie as to a servant's faults, but we
    sin in another way: we overpraise his merits; for when it comes to
    writing recommendations of servants we are a nation of gushers. And we
    have not the Frenchman's excuse. In France you must give the departing
    servant a good recommendation; and you must conceal his faults; you have
    no choice. If you mention his faults for the protection of the next
    candidate for his services, he can sue you for damages; and the court
    will award them, too; and, moreover, the judge will give you a sharp
    dressing-down from the bench for trying to destroy a poor man's
    character, and rob him of his bread. I do not state this on my own
    authority, I got it from a French physician of fame and repute--a man who
    was born in Paris, and had practiced there all his life. And he said
    that he spoke not merely from common knowledge, but from exasperating
    personal experience.

    As I was saying, the Bearer's recommendations were all from American
    tourists; and St. Peter would have admitted him to the fields of the
    blest on them--I mean if he is as unfamiliar with our people and our ways
    as I suppose he is. According to these recommendations, Manuel X. was
    supreme in all the arts connected with his complex trade; and these
    manifold arts were mentioned--and praised-in detail. His English was
    spoken of in terms of warm admiration--admiration verging upon rapture.
    I took pleased note of that, and hoped that some of it might be true.

    We had to have some one right away; so the family went down stairs and
    took him a week on trial; then sent him up to me and departed on their
    affairs. I was shut up in my quarters with a bronchial cough, and glad
    to have something fresh to look at, something new to play with. Manuel
    filled the bill; Manuel was very welcome. He was toward fifty years old,
    tall, slender, with a slight stoop--an artificial stoop, a deferential
    stoop, a stoop rigidified by long habit--with face of European mould;
    short hair intensely black; gentle black eyes, timid black eyes, indeed;
    complexion very dark, nearly black in fact; face smooth-shaven. He was
    bareheaded and barefooted, and was never otherwise while his week with us
    lasted; his clothing was European, cheap, flimsy, and showed much wear.

    He stood before me and inclined his head (and body) in the pathetic
    Indian way, touching his forehead with the finger--ends of his right
    hand, in salute. I said:

    "Manuel, you are evidently Indian, but you seem to have a Spanish name
    when you put it all together. How is that?"

    A perplexed look gathered in his face; it was plain that he had not
    understood--but he didn't let on. He spoke back placidly.

    "Name, Manuel. Yes, master."

    "I know; but how did you get the name?"

    "Oh, yes, I suppose. Think happen so. Father same name, not mother."

    I saw that I must simplify my language and spread my words apart, if I
    would be understood by this English scholar.

    "Well--then--how--did--your--father--get--his name?"

    "Oh, he,"--brightening a little--"he Christian--Portygee; live in Goa; I
    born Goa; mother not Portygee, mother native-high-caste Brahmin--Coolin
    Brahmin; highest caste; no other so high caste. I high-caste Brahmin,
    too. Christian, too, same like father; high-caste Christian Brahmin,
    master--Salvation Army."

    All this haltingly, and with difficulty. Then he had an inspiration, and
    began to pour out a flood of words that I could make nothing of; so I
    said:

    "There--don't do that. I can't understand Hindostani."

    "Not Hindostani, master--English. Always I speaking English sometimes
    when I talking every day all the time at you."

    "Very well, stick to that; that is intelligible. It is not up to my
    hopes, it is not up to the promise of the recommendations, still it is
    English, and I understand it. Don't elaborate it; I don't like
    elaborations when they are crippled by uncertainty of touch."

    "Master?"

    "Oh, never mind; it was only a random thought; I didn't expect you to
    understand it. How did you get your English; is it an acquirement, or
    just a gift of God?"

    After some hesitation--piously:

    "Yes, he very good. Christian god very good, Hindoo god very good, too.
    Two million Hindoo god, one Christian god--make two million and one. All
    mine; two million and one god. I got a plenty. Sometime I pray all time
    at those, keep it up, go all time every day; give something at shrine,
    all good for me, make me better man; good for me, good for my family, dam
    good."

    Then he had another inspiration, and went rambling off into fervent
    confusions and incoherencies, and I had to stop him again. I thought we
    had talked enough, so I told him to go to the bathroom and clean it up
    and remove the slops--this to get rid of him. He went away, seeming to
    understand, and got out some of my clothes and began to brush them. I
    repeated my desire several times, simplifying and re-simplifying it, and
    at last he got the idea. Then he went away and put a coolie at the work,
    and explained that he would lose caste if he did it himself; it would be
    pollution, by the law of his caste, and it would cost him a deal of fuss
    and trouble to purify himself and accomplish his rehabilitation. He said
    that that kind of work was strictly forbidden to persons of caste, and as
    strictly restricted to the very bottom layer of Hindoo society--the
    despised 'Sudra' (the toiler, the laborer). He was right; and apparently
    the poor Sudra has been content with his strange lot, his insulting
    distinction, for ages and ages--clear back to the beginning of things, so
    to speak. Buckle says that his name--laborer--is a term of contempt;
    that it is ordained by the Institutes of Menu (900 B.C.) that if a Sudra
    sit on a level with his superior he shall be exiled or branded--[Without
    going into particulars I will remark that as a rule they wear no clothing
    that would conceal the brand.--M. T.] . . . if he speak
    contemptuously of his superior or insult him he shall suffer death; if he
    listen to the reading of the sacred books he shall have burning oil
    poured in his ears; if he memorize passages from them he shall be killed;
    if he marry his daughter to a Brahmin the husband shall go to hell for
    defiling himself by contact with a woman so infinitely his inferior; and
    that it is forbidden to a Sudra to acquire wealth. "The bulk of the
    population of India," says Bucklet--[Population to-day, 300,000,000.]
    --"is the Sudras--the workers, the farmers, the creators of wealth."

    Manuel was a failure, poor old fellow. His age was against him. He was
    desperately slow and phenomenally forgetful. When he went three blocks
    on an errand he would be gone two hours, and then forget what it was he
    went for. When he packed a trunk it took him forever, and the trunk's
    contents were an unimaginable chaos when he got done. He couldn't wait
    satisfactorily at table--a prime defect, for if you haven't your own
    servant in an Indian hotel you are likely to have a slow time of it and
    go away hungry. We couldn't understand his English; he couldn't
    understand ours; and when we found that he couldn't understand his own,
    it seemed time for us to part. I had to discharge him; there was no help
    for it. But I did it as kindly as I could, and as gently. We must part,
    said I, but I hoped we should meet again in a better world. It was not
    true, but it was only a little thing to say, and saved his feelings and
    cost me nothing.

    But now that he was gone, and was off my mind and heart, my spirits began
    to rise at once, and I was soon feeling brisk and ready to go out and
    have adventures. Then his newly-hired successor flitted in, touched his
    forehead, and began to fly around here, there, and everywhere, on his
    velvet feet, and in five minutes he had everything in the room
    "ship-shape and Bristol fashion," as the sailors say, and was standing at
    the salute, waiting for orders. Dear me, what a rustler he was after the
    slumbrous way of Manuel, poor old slug! All my heart, all my affection,
    all my admiration, went out spontaneously to this frisky little forked
    black thing, this compact and compressed incarnation of energy and force
    and promptness and celerity and confidence, this smart, smily, engaging,
    shiney-eyed little devil, feruled on his upper end by a gleaming
    fire-coal of a fez with a red-hot tassel dangling from it. I said,
    with deep satisfaction--

    "You'll suit. What is your name?"

    He reeled it mellowly off.

    "Let me see if I can make a selection out of it--for business uses, I
    mean; we will keep the rest for Sundays. Give it to me in installments."

    He did it. But there did not seem to be any short ones, except
    Mousawhich suggested mouse. It was out of character; it was too soft,
    too quiet, too conservative; it didn't fit his splendid style. I
    considered, and said--

    "Mousa is short enough, but I don't quite like it. It seems colorless
    --inharmonious--inadequate; and I am sensitive to such things. How do you
    think Satan would do?"

    "Yes, master. Satan do wair good."

    It was his way of saying "very good."

    There was a rap at the door. Satan covered the ground with a single
    skip; there was a word or two of Hindostani, then he disappeared. Three
    minutes later he was before me again, militarily erect, and waiting for
    me to speak first.

    "What is it, Satan?"

    "God want to see you."

    "Who?"

    "God. I show him up, master?"

    "Why, this is so unusual, that--that--well, you see indeed I am so
    unprepared--I don't quite know what I do mean. Dear me, can't you
    explain? Don't you see that this is a most ex----"

    "Here his card, master."

    Wasn't it curious--and amazing, and tremendous, and all that? Such a
    personage going around calling on such as I, and sending up his card,
    like a mortal--sending it up by Satan. It was a bewildering collision of
    the impossibles. But this was the land of the Arabian Nights, this was
    India! and what is it that cannot happen in India?

    We had the interview. Satan was right--the Visitor was indeed a God in
    the conviction of his multitudinous followers, and was worshiped by them
    in sincerity and humble adoration. They are troubled by no doubts as to
    his divine origin and office. They believe in him, they pray to him,
    they make offerings to him, they beg of him remission of sins; to them
    his person, together with everything connected with it, is sacred; from
    his barber they buy the parings of his nails and set them in gold, and
    wear them as precious amulets.

    I tried to seem tranquilly conversational and at rest, but I was not.
    Would you have been? I was in a suppressed frenzy of excitement and
    curiosity and glad wonder. I could not keep my eyes off him. I was
    looking upon a god, an actual god, a recognized and accepted god; and
    every detail of his person and his dress had a consuming interest for me.
    And the thought went floating through my head, "He is worshiped--think of
    it--he is not a recipient of the pale homage called compliment, wherewith
    the highest human clay must make shift to be satisfied, but of an
    infinitely richer spiritual food: adoration, worship!--men and women lay
    their cares and their griefs and their broken hearts at his feet; and he
    gives them his peace; and they go away healed."

    And just then the Awful Visitor said, in the simplest way--"There is a
    feature of the philosophy of Huck Finn which"--and went luminously on
    with the construction of a compact and nicely-discriminated literary
    verdict.

    It is a land of surprises--India! I had had my ambitions--I had hoped,
    and almost expected, to be read by kings and presidents and emperors--but
    I had never looked so high as That. It would be false modesty to pretend
    that I was not inordinately pleased. I was. I was much more pleased
    than I should have been with a compliment from a man.

    He remained half an hour, and I found him a most courteous and charming
    gentleman. The godship has been in his family a good while, but I do not
    know how long. He is a Mohammedan deity; by earthly rank he is a prince;
    not an Indian but a Persian prince. He is a direct descendant of the
    Prophet's line. He is comely; also young--for a god; not forty, perhaps
    not above thirty-five years old. He wears his immense honors with
    tranquil brace, and with a dignity proper to his awful calling. He
    speaks English with the ease and purity of a person born to it. I think
    I am not overstating this. He was the only god I had ever seen, and I
    was very favorably impressed. When he rose to say good-bye, the door
    swung open and I caught the flash of a red fez, and heard these words,
    reverently said--

    "Satan see God out?"

    "Yes." And these mis-mated Beings passed from view Satan in the lead and
    The Other following after.
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