Chapter Chapter 4 · Chapter IV

. Chapter IV

The Collector kept his word. Next day he issued invitation cards

to numerous Indian gentlemen in the neighbourhood, stating that he

would be at home in the garden of the club between the hours of

five and seven on the following Tuesday, also that Mrs. Turton

would be glad to receive any ladies of their families who were out

of purdah. His action caused much excitement and was discussed in

several worlds.

“It is owing to orders from the L.G.,” was Mahmoud Ali’s explanation.

“Turton would never do this unless compelled. Those high officials

are different—they sympathize, the Viceroy sympathizes, they would

have us treated properly. But they come too seldom and live too

far away. Meanwhile——”

“It is easy to sympathize at a distance,” said an old gentleman

with a beard. “I value more the kind word that is spoken close to

my ear. Mr. Turton has spoken it, from whatever cause. He speaks,

we hear. I do not see why we need discuss it further.” Quotations

followed from the Koran.

“We have not all your sweet nature, Nawab Bahadur, nor your

learning.”

“The Lieutenant-Governor may be my very good friend, but I give

him no trouble.—How do you do, Nawab Bahadur?—Quite well, thank

you, Sir Gilbert; how are you?—And all is over. But I can be a

thorn in Mr. Turton’s flesh, and if he asks me I accept the

invitation. I shall come in from Dilkusha specially, though I have

to postpone other business.”

“You will make yourself chip,” suddenly said a little black man.

There was a stir of disapproval. Who was this ill-bred upstart,

that he should criticize the leading Mohammedan landowner of the

district? Mahmoud Ali, though sharing his opinion, felt bound to

oppose it. “Mr. Ram Chand!” he said, swaying forward stiffly with

his hands on his hips.

“Mr. Mahmoud Ali!”

“Mr. Ram Chand, the Nawab Bahadur can decide what is cheap without

our valuation, I think.”

“I do not expect I shall make myself cheap,” said the Nawab Bahadur

to Mr. Ram Chand, speaking very pleasantly, for he was aware that

the man had been impolite and he desired to shield him from the

consequences. It had passed through his mind to reply, “I expect

I shall make myself cheap,” but he rejected this as the less

courteous alternative. “I do not see why we should make ourselves

cheap. I do not see why we should. The invitation is worded very

graciously.” Feeling that he could not further decrease the social

gulf between himself and his auditors, he sent his elegant grandson,

who was in attendance on him, to fetch his car. When it came, he

repeated all that he had said before, though at greater length,

ending up with “Till Tuesday, then, gentlemen all, when I hope we

may meet in the flower gardens of the club.”

This opinion carried great weight. The Nawab Bahadur was a big

proprietor and a philanthropist, a man of benevolence and decision.

His character among all the communities in the province stood high.

He was a straightforward enemy and a staunch friend, and his

hospitality was proverbial. “Give, do not lend; after death who

will thank you?” was his favourite remark. He held it a disgrace

to die rich. When such a man was prepared to motor twenty-five

miles to shake the Collector’s hand, the entertainment took another

aspect. For he was not like some eminent men, who give out that

they will come, and then fail at the last moment, leaving the small

fry floundering. If he said he would come, he would come, he would

never deceive his supporters. The gentlemen whom he had lectured

now urged one another to attend the party, although convinced at

heart that his advice was unsound.

He had spoken in the little room near the Courts where the pleaders

waited for clients; clients, waiting for pleaders, sat in the dust

outside. These had not received a card from Mr. Turton. And there

were circles even beyond these—people who wore nothing but a

loincloth, people who wore not even that, and spent their lives in

knocking two sticks together before a scarlet doll—humanity grading

and drifting beyond the educated vision, until no earthly invitation

can embrace it.

All invitations must proceed from heaven perhaps; perhaps it is

futile for men to initiate their own unity, they do but widen the

gulfs between them by the attempt. So at all events thought old

Mr. Graysford and young Mr. Sorley, the devoted missionaries who

lived out beyond the slaughterhouses, always travelled third on

the railways, and never came up to the club. In our Father’s house

are many mansions, they taught, and there alone will the incompatible

multitudes of mankind be welcomed and soothed. Not one shall be

turned away by the servants on that verandah, be he black or white,

not one shall be kept standing who approaches with a loving heart.

And why should the divine hospitality cease here? Consider, with

all reverence, the monkeys. May there not be a mansion for the

monkeys also? Old Mr. Graysford said No, but young Mr. Sorley, who

was advanced, said Yes; he saw no reason why monkeys should not

have their collateral share of bliss, and he had sympathetic

discussions about them with his Hindu friends. And the jackals?

Jackals were indeed less to Mr. Sorley’s mind, but he admitted that

the mercy of God, being infinite, may well embrace all mammals.

And the wasps? He became uneasy during the descent to wasps, and

was apt to change the conversation. And oranges, cactuses, crystals

and mud? and the bacteria inside Mr. Sorley? No, no, this is going

too far. We must exclude someone from our gathering, or we shall

be left with nothing.