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    Chapter 49

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    Chapter 50
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    He had had much experience of physicians, and said "the only way to keep
    your health is to eat what you don't want, drink what; you don't like,
    and do what you'd druther not."
    --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

    It was a long journey--two nights, one day, and part of another day, from
    Bombay eastward to Allahabad; but it was always interesting, and it was
    not fatiguing. At first the night travel promised to be fatiguing, but
    that was on account of pyjamas. This foolish night-dress consists of
    jacket and drawers. Sometimes they are made of silk, sometimes of a
    raspy, scratchy, slazy woolen material with a sandpaper surface. The
    drawers are loose elephant-legged and elephant-waisted things, and
    instead of buttoning around the body there is a drawstring to produce the
    required shrinkage. The jacket is roomy, and one buttons it in front.
    Pyjamas are hot on a hot night and cold on a cold night--defects which a
    nightshirt is free from. I tried the pyjamas in order to be in the
    fashion; but I was obliged to give them up, I couldn't stand them. There
    was no sufficient change from day-gear to night-gear. I missed the
    refreshing and luxurious sense, induced by the night-gown, of being
    undressed, emancipated, set free from restraints and trammels. In place
    of that, I had the worried, confined, oppressed, suffocated sense of
    being abed with my clothes on. All through the warm half of the night
    the coarse surfaces irritated my skin and made it feel baked and
    feverish, and the dreams which came in the fitful flurries of slumber
    were such as distress the sleep of the damned, or ought to; and all
    through the cold other half of the night I could get no time for sleep
    because I had to employ it all in stealing blankets. But blankets are of
    no value at such a time; the higher they are piled the more effectively
    they cork the cold in and keep it from getting out. The result is that
    your legs are ice, and you know how you will feel by and by when you are
    buried. In a sane interval I discarded the pyjamas, and led a rational
    and comfortable life thenceforth.

    Out in the country in India, the day begins early. One sees a plain,
    perfectly flat, dust-colored and brick-yardy, stretching limitlessly away
    on every side in the dim gray light, striped everywhere with hard-beaten
    narrow paths, the vast flatness broken at wide intervals by bunches of
    spectral trees that mark where villages are; and along all the paths are
    slender women and the black forms of lanky naked men moving, to their
    work, the women with brass water-jars on their heads, the men carrying
    hoes. The man is not entirely naked; always there is a bit of white rag,
    a loin-cloth; it amounts to a bandage, and is a white accent on his black
    person, like the silver band around the middle of a pipe-stem. Sometimes
    he also wears a fluffy and voluminous white turban, and this adds a
    second accent. He then answers properly to Miss Gordon Cumming's
    flash-light picture of him--as a person who is dressed in "a turban
    and a pocket handkerchief."

    All day long one has this monotony of dust-colored dead levels and
    scattering bunches of trees and mud villages. You soon realize that
    India is not beautiful; still there is an enchantment about it that is
    beguiling, and which does not pall. You cannot tell just what it is that
    makes the spell, perhaps, but you feel it and confess it, nevertheless.
    Of course, at bottom, you know in a vague way that it is history; it is
    that that affects you, a haunting sense of the myriads of human lives
    that have blossomed, and withered, and perished here, repeating and
    repeating and repeating, century after century, and age after age, the
    barren and meaningless process; it is this sense that gives to this
    forlorn, uncomely land power to speak to the spirit and make friends with
    it; to, speak to it with a voice bitter with satire, but eloquent with
    melancholy. The deserts of Australia and the ice-barrens of Greenland
    have no speech, for they have no venerable history; with nothing to tell
    of man and his vanities, his fleeting glories and his miseries, they have
    nothing wherewith to spiritualize their ugliness and veil it with a

    There is nothing pretty about an Indian village--a mud one--and I do not
    remember that we saw any but mud ones on that long flight to Allahabad.
    It is a little bunch of dirt-colored mud hovels jammed together within a
    mud wall. As a rule, the rains had beaten down parts of some of the
    houses, and this gave the village the aspect of a mouldering and hoary
    ruin. I believe the cattle and the vermin live inside the wall; for I
    saw cattle coming out and cattle going in; and whenever I saw a villager,
    he was scratching. This last is only circumstantial evidence, but I
    think it has value. The village has a battered little temple or two, big
    enough to hold an idol, and with custom enough to fat-up a priest and
    keep him comfortable. Where there are Mohammedans there are generally a
    few sorry tombs outside the village that have a decayed and neglected
    look. The villages interested me because of things which Major Sleeman
    says about them in his books--particularly what he says about the
    division of labor in them. He says that the whole face of India is
    parceled out into estates of villages; that nine-tenths of the vast
    population of the land consist of cultivators of the soil; that it is
    these cultivators who inhabit the villages; that there are certain
    "established" village servants--mechanics and others who are apparently
    paid a wage by the village at large, and whose callings remain in certain
    families and are handed down from father to son, like an estate. He
    gives a list of these established servants: Priest, blacksmith,
    carpenter, accountant, washerman, basketmaker, potter, watchman, barber,
    shoemaker, brazier, confectioner, weaver, dyer, etc. In his day witches
    abounded, and it was not thought good business wisdom for a man to marry
    his daughter into a family that hadn't a witch in it, for she would need
    a witch on the premises to protect her children from the evil spells
    which would certainly be cast upon them by the witches connected with the
    neighboring families.

    The office of midwife was hereditary in the family of the basket-maker.
    It belonged to his wife. She might not be competent, but the office was
    hers, anyway. Her pay was not high--25 cents for a boy, and half as much
    for a girl. The girl was not desired, because she would be a disastrous
    expense by and by. As soon as she should be old enough to begin to wear
    clothes for propriety's sake, it would be a disgrace to the family if she
    were not married; and to marry her meant financial ruin; for by custom
    the father must spend upon feasting and wedding-display everything he had
    and all he could borrow--in fact, reduce himself to a condition of
    poverty which he might never more recover from.

    It was the dread of this prospective ruin which made the killing of
    girl-babies so prevalent in India in the old days before England laid the
    iron hand of her prohibitions upon the piteous slaughter. One may judge
    of how prevalent the custom was, by one of Sleeman's casual electrical
    remarks, when he speaks of children at play in villages--where
    girl-voices were never heard!

    The wedding-display folly is still in full force in India, and by
    consequence the destruction of girl-babies is still furtively practiced;
    but not largely, because of the vigilance of the government and the
    sternness of the penalties it levies.

    In some parts of India the village keeps in its pay three other servants:
    an astrologer to tell the villager when he may plant his crop, or make a
    journey, or marry a wife, or strangle a child, or borrow a dog, or climb
    a tree, or catch a rat, or swindle a neighbor, without offending the
    alert and solicitous heavens; and what his dream means, if he has had one
    and was not bright enough to interpret it himself by the details of his
    dinner; the two other established servants were the tiger-persuader and
    the hailstorm discourager. The one kept away the tigers if he could, and
    collected the wages anyway, and the other kept off the hailstorms, or
    explained why he failed. He charged the same for explaining a failure
    that he did for scoring a success. A man is an idiot who can't earn a
    living in India.

    Major Sleeman reveals the fact that the trade union and the boycott are
    antiquities in India. India seems to have originated everything. The
    "sweeper" belongs to the bottom caste; he is the lowest of the low--all
    other castes despise him and scorn his office. But that does not trouble
    him. His caste is a caste, and that is sufficient for him, and so he is
    proud of it, not ashamed. Sleeman says:

    "It is perhaps not known to many of my countrymen, even in India,
    that in every town and city in the country the right of sweeping the
    houses and streets is a monopoly, and is supported entirely by the
    pride of castes among the scavengers, who are all of the lowest
    class. The right of sweeping within a certain range is recognized
    by the caste to belong to a certain member; and if any other member
    presumes to sweep within that range, he is excommunicated--no other
    member will smoke out of his pipe or drink out of his jug; and he
    can get restored to caste only by a feast to the whole body of
    sweepers. If any housekeeper within a particular circle happens to
    offend the sweeper of that range, none of his filth will be removed
    till he pacifies him, because no other sweeper will dare to touch
    it; and the people of a town are often more tyrannized over by these
    people than by any other."

    A footnote by Major Sleeman's editor, Mr. Vincent Arthur Smith, says that
    in our day this tyranny of the sweepers' guild is one of the many
    difficulties which bar the progress of Indian sanitary reform. Think of

    "The sweepers cannot be readily coerced, because no Hindoo or
    Mussulman would do their work to save his life, nor will he pollute
    himself by beating the refractory scavenger."

    They certainly do seem to have the whip-hand; it would be difficult to
    imagine a more impregnable position. "The vested rights described in the
    text are so fully recognized in practice that they are frequently the
    subject of sale or mortgage."

    Just like a milk-route; or like a London crossing-sweepership. It is
    said that the London crossing-sweeper's right to his crossing is
    recognized by the rest of the guild; that they protect him in its
    possession; that certain choice crossings are valuable property, and are
    saleable at high figures. I have noticed that the man who sweeps in
    front of the Army and Navy Stores has a wealthy South African
    aristocratic style about him; and when he is off his guard, he has
    exactly that look on his face which you always see in the face of a man
    who has is saving up his daughter to marry her to a duke.

    It appears from Sleeman that in India the occupation of elephant-driver
    is confined to Mohammedans. I wonder why that is. The water-carrier
    ('bheestie') is a Mohammedan, but it is said that the reason of that is,
    that the Hindoo's religion does not allow him to touch the skin of dead
    kine, and that is what the water-sack is made of; it would defile him.
    And it doesn't allow him to eat meat; the animal that furnished the meat
    was murdered, and to take any creature's life is a sin. It is a good and
    gentle religion, but inconvenient.

    A great Indian river, at low water, suggests the familiar anatomical
    picture of a skinned human body, the intricate mesh of interwoven muscles
    and tendons to stand for water-channels, and the archipelagoes of fat and
    flesh inclosed by them to stand for the sandbars. Somewhere on this
    journey we passed such a river, and on a later journey we saw in the
    Sutlej the duplicate of that river. Curious rivers they are; low shores
    a dizzy distance apart, with nothing between but an enormous acreage of
    sand-flats with sluggish little veins of water dribbling around amongst
    them; Saharas of sand, smallpox-pitted with footprints punctured in belts
    as straight as the equator clear from the one shore to the other (barring
    the channel-interruptions)--a dry-shod ferry, you see. Long railway
    bridges are required for this sort of rivers, and India has them. You
    approach Allahabad by a very long one. It was now carrying us across the
    bed of the Jumna, a bed which did not seem to have been slept in for one
    while or more. It wasn't all river-bed--most of it was overflow ground.

    Allahabad means "City of God." I get this from the books. From a printed
    curiosity--a letter written by one of those brave and confident Hindoo
    strugglers with the English tongue, called a "babu"--I got a more
    compressed translation: "Godville." It is perfectly correct, but that is
    the most that can be said for it.

    We arrived in the forenoon, and short-handed; for Satan got left behind
    somewhere that morning, and did not overtake us until after nightfall.
    It seemed very peaceful without him. The world seemed asleep and

    I did not see the native town, I think. I do not remember why; for an
    incident connects it with the Great Mutiny, and that is enough to make
    any place interesting. But I saw the English part of the city. It is a
    town of wide avenues and noble distances, and is comely and alluring, and
    full of suggestions of comfort and leisure, and of the serenity which a
    good conscience buttressed by a sufficient bank account gives. The
    bungalows (dwellings) stand well back in the seclusion and privacy of
    large enclosed compounds (private grounds, as we should say) and in the
    shade and shelter of trees. Even the photographer and the prosperous
    merchant ply their industries in the elegant reserve of big compounds,
    and the citizens drive in thereupon their business occasions. And not in
    cabs--no; in the Indian cities cabs are for the drifting stranger; all
    the white citizens have private carriages; and each carriage has a flock
    of white-turbaned black footmen and drivers all over it. The vicinity of
    a lecture-hall looks like a snowstorm,--and makes the lecturer feel like
    an opera. India has many names, and they are correctly descriptive. It
    is the Land of Contradictions, the Land of Subtlety and Superstition, the
    Land of Wealth and Poverty, the Land of Splendor and Desolation, the Land
    of Plague and Famine, the Land of the Thug and the Poisoner, and of the
    Meek and the Patient, the Land of the Suttee, the Land of the
    Unreinstatable Widow, the Land where All Life is Holy, the Land of
    Cremation, the Land where the Vulture is a Grave and a Monument, the Land
    of the Multitudinous Gods; and if signs go for anything, it is the Land
    of the Private Carriage.

    In Bombay the forewoman of a millinery shop came to the hotel in her
    private carriage to take the measure for a gown--not for me, but for
    another. She had come out to India to make a temporary stay, but was
    extending it indefinitely; indeed, she was purposing to end her days
    there. In London, she said, her work had been hard, her hours long; for
    economy's sake she had had to live in shabby rooms and far away from the
    shop, watch the pennies, deny herself many of the common comforts of
    life, restrict herself in effect to its bare necessities, eschew cabs,
    travel third-class by underground train to and from her work, swallowing
    coal-smoke and cinders all the way, and sometimes troubled with the
    society of men and women who were less desirable than the smoke and the
    cinders. But in Bombay, on almost any kind of wages, she could live in
    comfort, and keep her carriage, and have six servants in place of the
    woman-of-all-work she had had in her English home. Later, in Calcutta, I
    found that the Standard Oil clerks had small one-horse vehicles, and did
    no walking; and I was told that the clerks of the other large concerns
    there had the like equipment. But to return to Allahabad.

    I was up at dawn, the next morning. In India the tourist's servant does
    not sleep in a room in the hotel, but rolls himself up head and ears in
    his blanket and stretches himself on the veranda, across the front of his
    master's door, and spends the night there. I don't believe anybody's
    servant occupies a room. Apparently, the bungalow servants sleep on the
    veranda; it is roomy, and goes all around the house. I speak of
    menservants; I saw none of the other sex. I think there are none, except
    child-nurses. I was up at dawn, and walked around the veranda, past the
    rows of sleepers. In front of one door a Hindoo servant was squatting,
    waiting for his master to call him. He had polished the yellow shoes and
    placed them by the door, and now he had nothing to do but wait. It was
    freezing cold, but there he was, as motionless as a sculptured image, and
    as patient. It troubled me. I wanted to say to him, "Don't crouch there
    like that and freeze; nobody requires it of you; stir around and get
    warm." But I hadn't the words. I thought of saying 'jeldy jow', but I
    couldn't remember what it meant, so I didn't say it. I knew another
    phrase, but it wouldn't come to my mind. I moved on, purposing to
    dismiss him from my thoughts, but his bare legs and bare feet kept him
    there. They kept drawing me back from the sunny side to a point whence I
    could see him. At the end of an hour he had not changed his attitude in
    the least degree. It was a curious and impressive exhibition of meekness
    and patience, or fortitude or indifference, I did not know which. But it
    worried me, and it was spoiling my morning. In fact, it spoiled two
    hours of it quite thoroughly. I quitted this vicinity, then, and left
    him to punish himself as much as he might want to. But up to that time
    the man had not changed his attitude a hair. He will always remain with
    me, I suppose; his figure never grows vague in my memory. Whenever I
    read of Indian resignation, Indian patience under wrongs, hardships, and
    misfortunes, he comes before me. He becomes a personification, and
    stands for India in trouble. And for untold ages India in trouble has
    been pursued with the very remark which I was going to utter but didn't,
    because its meaning had slipped me: "Jeddy jow!" ("Come, shove along!")

    Why, it was the very thing.

    In the early brightness we made a long drive out to the Fort. Part of
    the way was beautiful. It led under stately trees and through groups of
    native houses and by the usual village well, where the picturesque gangs
    are always flocking to and fro and laughing and chattering; and this time
    brawny men were deluging their bronze bodies with the limpid water, and
    making a refreshing and enticing show of it; enticing, for the sun was
    already transacting business, firing India up for the day. There was
    plenty of this early bathing going on, for it was getting toward
    breakfast time, and with an unpurified body the Hindoo must not eat.

    Then we struck into the hot plain, and found the roads crowded with
    pilgrims of both sexes, for one of the great religious fairs of India was
    being held, just beyond the Fort, at the junction of the sacred rivers,
    the Ganges and the Jumna. Three sacred rivers, I should have said, for
    there is a subterranean one. Nobody has seen it, but that doesn't
    signify. The fact that it is there is enough. These pilgrims had come
    from all over India; some of them had been months on the way, plodding
    patiently along in the heat and dust, worn, poor, hungry, but supported
    and sustained by an unwavering faith and belief; they were supremely
    happy and content, now; their full and sufficient reward was at hand;
    they were going to be cleansed from every vestige of sin and corruption
    by these holy waters which make utterly pure whatsoever thing they touch,
    even the dead and rotten. It is wonderful, the power of a faith like
    that, that can make multitudes upon multitudes of the old and weak and
    the young and frail enter without hesitation or complaint upon such
    incredible journeys and endure the resultant miseries without repining.
    It is done in love, or it is done in fear; I do not know which it is.
    No matter what the impulse is, the act born of it is beyond imagination
    marvelous to our kind of people, the cold whites. There are choice great
    natures among us that could exhibit the equivalent of this prodigious
    self-sacrifice, but the rest of us know that we should not be equal to
    anything approaching it. Still, we all talk self-sacrifice, and this
    makes me hope that we are large enough to honor it in the Hindoo.

    Two millions of natives arrive at this fair every year. How many start,
    and die on the road, from age and fatigue and disease and scanty
    nourishment, and how many die on the return, from the same causes, no one
    knows; but the tale is great, one may say enormous. Every twelfth year
    is held to be a year of peculiar grace; a greatly augmented volume of
    pilgrims results then. The twelfth year has held this distinction since
    the remotest times, it is said. It is said also that there is to be but
    one more twelfth year--for the Ganges. After that, that holiest of all
    sacred rivers will cease to be holy, and will be abandoned by the pilgrim
    for many centuries; how many, the wise men have not stated. At the end
    of that interval it will become holy again. Meantime, the data will be
    arranged by those people who have charge of all such matters, the great
    chief Brahmins. It will be like shutting down a mint. At a first glance
    it looks most unbrahminically uncommercial, but I am not disturbed, being
    soothed and tranquilized by their reputation. "Brer fox he lay low," as
    Uncle Remus says; and at the judicious time he will spring something on
    the Indian public which will show that he was not financially asleep when
    he took the Ganges out of the market.

    Great numbers of the natives along the roads were bringing away holy
    water from the rivers. They would carry it far and wide in India and
    sell it. Tavernier, the French traveler (17th century), notes that
    Ganges water is often given at weddings, "each guest receiving a cup or
    two, according to the liberality of the host; sometimes 2,000 or 3,000
    rupees' worth of it is consumed at a wedding."

    The Fort is a huge old structure, and has had a large experience in
    religions. In its great court stands a monolith which was placed there
    more than 2,000 years ago to preach (Budhism) by its pious inscription;
    the Fort was built three centuries ago by a Mohammedan Emperor--a
    resanctification of the place in the interest of that religion. There is
    a Hindoo temple, too, with subterranean ramifications stocked with
    shrines and idols; and now the Fort belongs to the English, it contains a
    Christian Church. Insured in all the companies.

    From the lofty ramparts one has a fine view of the sacred rivers. They
    join at that point--the pale blue Jumna, apparently clean and clear, and
    the muddy Ganges, dull yellow and not clean. On a long curved spit
    between the rivers, towns of tents were visible, with a multitude of
    fluttering pennons, and a mighty swarm of pilgrims. It was a troublesome
    place to get down to, and not a quiet place when you arrived; but it was
    interesting. There was a world of activity and turmoil and noise, partly
    religious, partly commercial; for the Mohammedans were there to curse and
    sell, and the Hindoos to buy and pray. It is a fair as well as a
    religious festival. Crowds were bathing, praying, and drinking the
    purifying waters, and many sick pilgrims had come long journeys in
    palanquins to be healed of their maladies by a bath; or if that might not
    be, then to die on the blessed banks and so make sure of heaven. There
    were fakeers in plenty, with their bodies dusted over with ashes and
    their long hair caked together with cow-dung; for the cow is holy and so
    is the rest of it; so holy that the good Hindoo peasant frescoes the
    walls of his hut with this refuse, and also constructs ornamental figures
    out of it for the gracing of his dirt floor. There were seated families,
    fearfully and wonderfully painted, who by attitude and grouping
    represented the families of certain great gods. There was a holy man who
    sat naked by the day and by the week on a cluster of iron spikes, and did
    not seem to mind it; and another holy man, who stood all day holding his
    withered arms motionless aloft, and was said to have been doing it for
    years. All of these performers have a cloth on the ground beside them
    for the reception of contributions, and even the poorest of the people
    give a trifle and hope that the sacrifice will be blessed to him. At
    last came a procession of naked holy people marching by and chanting, and
    I wrenched myself away.
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