—Pudd’nhead Wilson’s New Calendar.
You soon find your long-ago dreams of India rising in a sort of vague and luscious1 moonlight above the horizon-rim of your opaque2 consciousness, and softly lighting3 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 sumptuous4 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 Ranee 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 pauper5 peasant; that the real prince died when two and one-half years old; that the death was concealed7, and a peasant child smuggled8 into the royal cradle, and that this present incumbent9 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 reigned10 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 humble11 life, along a branch of the ancestral tree to the point where it joined the stem fourteen generations ago, and his heirship12 was thereby13 squarely established. The tracing was done by means of the records of one of the great Hindoo shrines14, 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 authentic16, 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 tingle17 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 linen19 clothes-bag and a quilt; he sleeps on the stone floor outside your chamber18 door, and gets his meals you do not know where nor when; you only know that he is not fed on the premises20, 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 Commissioner21 of the Central Provinces, in a recent official utterance22 wherein he was rebuking23 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 toil24; I mean a frugal25, thrifty26 person would, not one given to display and ostentation27. 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 creditors28 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 aggregate29 of poverty they place before you.
The first Bearer that applied30, 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 slur31? 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 scrupling32 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 gushers34. And we have not the Frenchman’s excuse. In France you must give the departing servant a good recommendation; and you must conceal6 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 spoke33 not merely from common knowledge, but from exasperating35 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 unfamiliar36 with our people and our ways as I suppose he is. According to these recommendations, Manuel X. was supreme37 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 admiration38—admiration verging39 upon rapture40. 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 deferential41 stoop, a stoop rigidified by long habit—with face of European mould; short hair intensely black; gentle black eyes, timid black eyes, indeed; complexion42 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, touching43 his forehead with the finger-ends of his right hand, in salute44. 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 perplexed45 look gathered in his face; it was plain that he had not understood—but he didn’t let on. He spoke back placidly46.
“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 Christian47—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 intelligible48. 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 uncertainty49 of touch.”
“Master?”
“Oh, never mind; it was only a random50 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 shrine15, all good for me, make me better man; good for me, good for my family, dam good.”
Then he had another inspiration, and went rambling51 off into fervent52 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 rehabilitation53. He said that that kind of work was strictly54 forbidden to persons of caste, and as strictly restricted to the very bottom layer of Hindoo society—the despised ‘Sudra’ (the toiler55, the laborer). He was right; and apparently56 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. Buckle57 says that his name—laborer—is a term of contempt; that it is ordained58 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 defiling59 himself by contact with a woman so infinitely60 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 desperately61 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 chaos62 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 kindly63 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 velvet64 feet, and in five minutes he had everything in the room “ship-shape and Bristol fashion,” as the sailors say, and was standing65 at the salute, waiting for orders. Dear me, what a rustler66 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 frisky67 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 tassel68 dangling69 from it. I said, with deep satisfaction—
“You’ll suit. What is your name?”
“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 installments71.”
He did it. But there did not seem to be any short ones, except Mousa—which 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 erect72, 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 followers73, and was worshiped by them in sincerity74 and humble adoration75. 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 amulets76.
I tried to seem tranquilly78 conversational79 and at rest, but I was not. Would you have been? I was in a suppressed frenzy80 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 recipient81 of the pale homage82 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 luminously83 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 modesty84 to pretend that I was not inordinately85 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 courteous86 and charming gentleman. The godship has been in his family a good while, but I do not know how long. He is a Mohammedan deity87; 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 comely88; also young—for a god; not forty, perhaps not above thirty-five years old. He wears his immense honors with tranquil77 grace, 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, reverently89 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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1
luscious
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| adj.美味的；芬芳的；肉感的，引与性欲的 | |
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opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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smuggled
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| 水货 | |
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incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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heirship
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| n.继承权 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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tingle
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| vi.感到刺痛，感到激动；n.刺痛，激动 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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commissioner
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| n.（政府厅、局、处等部门）专员，长官，委员 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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rebuking
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的现在分词 ) | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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thrifty
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| adj.节俭的；兴旺的；健壮的 | |
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ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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aggregate
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| adj.总计的，集合的；n.总数；v.合计；集合 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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slur
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| v.含糊地说；诋毁；连唱；n.诋毁；含糊的发音 | |
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scrupling
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| v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的现在分词 ) | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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gushers
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| n.喷油井( gusher的名词复数 ) | |
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exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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verging
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| 接近，逼近（verge的现在分词形式） | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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45
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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48
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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rehabilitation
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| n.康复，悔过自新，修复，复兴，复职，复位 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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toiler
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| 辛劳者，勤劳者 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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defiling
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| v.玷污( defile的现在分词 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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rustler
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| n.[美口]偷牛贼 | |
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frisky
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| adj.活泼的，欢闹的；n.活泼，闹着玩；adv.活泼地，闹着玩地 | |
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tassel
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| n.流苏，穗；v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须 | |
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dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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mellowly
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| 柔软且甜地，成熟地 | |
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installments
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| 部分( installment的名词复数 ) | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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amulets
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| n.护身符( amulet的名词复数 ) | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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83
luminously
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| 发光的； 明亮的； 清楚的； 辉赫 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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inordinately
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| adv.无度地，非常地 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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87
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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