Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (166 page)

would
destroy
it
all.
But
I
must
be
allowed
to
write
it
with absolute
certainty.

There
was
no
answer.
The
flaming
colors
of
an
Aquarium
poster caught
my
eye
and
I
wondered
whether
it
would
be
wise
or
prudent to
lure
Charlie
into
the
hands
of
the
professional
mesmerist,
and whether,
if
he
were
under
his
power,
he
would
speak
of
his
past lives.
If
he
did,
and
if
people
believed
him
.
.
.
but
Charlie
would be
frightened
and
flustered,
or
made
conceited
by
the
interviews. In
either
case
he
would
begin
to
lie,
through
fear
or
vanity.
He
was safest
in
my
own
hands.

"They
are
very
funny
fools,
your
English,"
said
a
voice
at
my
elbow, and
turning
round
I
recognized
a
casual
acquaintance,
a
young Bengali
law
student,
called
Grish
Chunder,
whose
father
had
sent him
to
England
to
become
civilized.
The
old
man
was
a
retired native
official,
and
on
an
income
of
five
pounds
a
month
contrived
to allow
his
son
two
hundred
pounds
a
year,
and
the
run
of
his
teeth in
a
city
where
he
could
pretend
to
be
the
cadet
of
a
royal
house, and
tell
stories
of
the
brutal
Indian
bureaucrats
who
ground
the
faces of
the
poor.

Grish Chunder was a young, fat, full-bodied
Bengali dressed with scrupulous care in frock coat, tall hat, light trousers
and tan gloves. But I had known him in the days when the brutal Indian Government
paid for his university education, and he contributed cheap sedition to
Sachi
Durpan, and intrigued with the wives of his schoolmates.

"That is very funny and very foolish," he said, nodding at the
poster. "I am going down to the Northbrook Club. Will you come too?"

I walked with him for some time. "You
are not well," he said. "What is there in your mind? You do not
talk."

"Grish Chunder, you've been too well educated to believe in a God,
haven't you?"

"Oah, yes, here.' But when I go home I must conciliate popular
superstition, and make ceremonies of purification, and my women will anoint
idols."

"And hang up tulsi and feast the
purohit, and take you back into caste again and make a good
khuttii
of you again, you advanced social
Freethinker. And you'll eat desi food, and like it all, from the smell in the
courtyard to the mustard oil over you."

"I shall very much like it," said
Grish Chunder, unguardedly. "Once a Hindu—always a Hindu. But I like to
know what the English think they know."

"I'll tell you something that one Englishman knows. It's an old
tale to you."

I began to tell the story of Charlie in
English, but Grish Chunder put a question in the vernacular, and the history
went forward naturally in the tongue best suited for its telling. After all it
could never have been told in English. Grish Chunder heard me, nodding from
time to time, and then came up to my rooms where I finished the tale.

"Beshak," he said, philosophically.
"Lekin darwaza band hai. (Without doubt, but the door is shut.) I have
heard of this remembering of previous existences among my people. It is of
course an old tale with us, but, to happen to an Englishman—a cow-fed Malechh
—an outcast. By Jove, that is most peculiar!"

"Outcast yourself, Grish Chunder! You
eat cow-beef every day. Let's think the thing over. The boy remembers his
incarnations."

"Does
he
know
that?"
said
Grish
Chunder,
quietly,
swinging
his legs
as
he
sat
on
my
table.
He
was
speaking
in
English
now.

"He
does
not
know
anything.
Would
I
speak
to
you
if
he
did? Go
on!"

"There
is
no
going
on
at
all.
If
you
tell
that
to
your
friends
they will
say
you
are
mad
and
put
it
in
the
papers.
Suppose,
now,
you prosecute
for
libel."

"Let's
leave
that
out
of
the
question
entirely.
Is
there
any
chance of
his
being
made
to
speak?"

"There
is
a
chance.
Oah,
yess!
But
if
he
spoke
it
would
mean that
all
this
world
would
end
now—instanto—fall
down
on
your head.
These
things
are
not
allowed,
you
know.
As
I
said,
the
door is
shut."

"Not
a
ghost
of
a
chance?"

"How
can
there
be?
You
are
a
Christi-an,
and
it
is
forbidden
to eat,
in
your
books,
of
the
Tree
of
Life,
or
else
you
would
never
die. How
shall
you
all
fear
death
if
you
all
know
what
your
friend
does not
know
that
he
knows?
I
am
afraid
to
be
kicked,
but
I
am
not afraid
to
die,
because
I
know
what
I
know.
You
are
not
afraid
to be
kicked,
but
you
are
afraid
to
die.
If
you
were
not,
by
God!
you English
would
be
all
over
the
shop
in
an
hour,
upsetting
the
balances of
power,
and
making
commotions.
It
would
not
be
good.
But
no fear.
He
will
remember
a
little
and
a
little
less,
and
he
will
call
it dreams.
Then
he
will
forget
altogether.
When
I
passed
my
First Arts
Examination
in
Calcutta
that
was
all
in
the
cram-book
on Wordsworth.
Trailing
clouds
of
glory,
you
know."