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Title: Atonement. A play of modern India, in four acts.
Author: Thompson, Edward John (1886-1946)
Date of first publication: 1924
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Ernest Benn, 1924
   [Contemporary British Dramatists, Volume XVIII]
   [first edition]
Date first posted: 9 October 2011
Date last updated: 9 October 2011
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #866

This ebook was produced by: Barbara Watson, Mark Akrigg
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net






_Contemporary British Dramatists, Volume XVIII_:
 ATONEMENT




_PLAYS BY SUSAN GLASPELL_

The first volumes in the new contemporary American Dramatists series
have proved as surprising to the critics as to the general reading and
playgoing public. Apart from the plays of Eugene O'Neill, and a single
example by Elmer Rice, the best work of the younger American dramatists
is practically unknown here. The publication of these three plays by
Susan Glaspell has found the English critics in general accord with the
American estimate of her work. "Few living dramatists have succeeded so
well in amalgamating psychology with perfect stagecraft," says a
reviewer in the _Westminster Gazette_, while the _Liverpool Post_ critic
sees in her "a prodigy" and in her plays "an arresting, a positively
fearsome originality." James Agate in the _Sunday Times_, on reading
_Inheritors_, hails her as "a genius" and her plays as "the finest
achievement of the American theatre."

_Crown 8vo. Price 4s. net each._


=THE VERGE.= _By_ SUSAN GLASPELL

"_Extraordinarily interesting besides being very unusual . . . fresh,
curious and dramatically alive. . . . Here there is revolt against the
platitude, the repetition, but the repudiation of life as it is goes far
beyond the social rebellion . . . it is an attempt to capture something
beyond the reaches of our souls._"--"_Manchester Guardian._"

"_Susan Glaspell's mind is unfettered . . . her characters are strangely
unlike anyone we know, but we feel that we want to know them, as we want
to know Hedda Gabler and Mrs. Alving._"--"_Liverpool Post._"


=INHERITORS.= _By_ SUSAN GLASPELL

"_I submit that this is a fine play. Quite how fine I do not know.
Certainly one would not rank it below 'An Enemy of the People,' and for
my own part I am inclined to think that it ranks with 'The Master
Builder' . . . 'Inheritors' must be seen on the stage and it would be a
rare challenge to any company of actors._"--_James Agate in the "Sunday
Times" (column-and-a-half review)_.

"_There is no mistaking the power and insight of her characterisation
. . . the first act is a little epic of the pioneer days in America,
beautifully written and deeply felt._"--"_Daily Telegraph._"

"_An extremely able piece of work. The picture it presents is not an
exaggerated one . . . she neither comments nor explains, only shows the
process by which America, from being one of the champions of freedom,
bids fair to become one of the most obscurantist and tyrannical of
modern states._"--"_New Statesman._"


=BERNICE.= _By_ SUSAN GLASPELL

"_The entire play is centred on a character who never appears, yet it
is impossible to read the play without having as clear an impression of
Bernice as of any of the people who are brought on the stage._"--
"_Westminster Gazette._"

"_Very strange and well worth any committee's considerations are these
plays by Susan Glaspell. . . . I want to see to what extent 'Bernice'
would succeed on the stage._"--_Lennox Robinson in the_ "_Observer._"

_The announcements in Ernest Benn's "Contemporary British Dramatists"
will be found on pages 130 and 131 at the end of the book._




ATONEMENT

A PLAY OF MODERN INDIA
IN FOUR ACTS

BY EDWARD THOMPSON
Author of _Krishna Kumari_



LONDON
ERNEST BENN LIMITED
8 _Bouverie Street, E.C._ 4
1924




MADE AND PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN


_All rights reserved_
_Application regarding performing rights should
be addressed to the author, care of the publishers._




TO
ARTHUR MARSHMAN SPENCER




    "What do they know of England who only England know?"
                                                      _Kipling._




PREFACE


This play deals with a situation and problems which are exciting deep
passion. This makes it necessary that the reader should be reminded that
it is presented as a play and not as propaganda--that no statement
purports to be anything but the belief or opinion of the _dramatis
persona_ who utters it.



DRAMATIS PERSON


GANAPATI BANERJEE         _District Collector and Magistrate, Durgapur._
WALSH                     _District Judge._
GREGORY                   _Principal, Baptist Missionary College._
LOMAX                     _District Superintendent of Police._
HORTON                    _Labour Recruiting Agent._
THORP                     _An ex-Missionary, now with the Non-Co-operation
                           Party._
NAGENDRANATH SINGH        _Leader of the Non-Co-operation Party, Durgapur._
SARATCHANDRA DATTA        _Professor at the Baptist Missionary College._
BASANTAKUMAR CHATTERJEE } _Indian extremists._
INAYAT KHAN             }
MAHATMA RANADE            _Leader of the Non-Co-operation Party in India._
SUB-INSPECTOR OF POLICE
MRS. WALSH
MRS. GREGORY
MRS. LOMAX

Indian Police, Servants, etc.

_The action takes place in Durgapur, an up-country town in Bengal, and
in a village near Durgapur._

_Acts I, II, and III take place on the afternoon and night of a day in
April. Act IV takes place three months later._

_The period is next year--or, possibly, this year._




ACT I


    _The Judge's compound, in the mofussil station of Durgapur,
    Bengal. An arid stretch of brown "lawn." Large trees at the
    back, along the whitewashed compound wall, and several smaller
    trees towards the front (left). In the shade of the smaller
    trees, a row of easy chairs facing the tennis-court, which is
    just off the stage (right). In charge of a uniformed, turbaned
    "bearer," a table holding drinks, glasses, etc., and an ice-box
    containing bottles of soda-water._

    _It is late afternoon in mid-April, sunny and sweltering. The
    trees are casting long shadows._

    WALSH, _the Judge, is lying back in an easy chair. He is dressed
    in flannels, a racquet under his chair. He is a man of about
    forty, well-preserved and young-looking, with keen, sharp face._

    _There is the sound of a car being driven up, and stopping a
    little distance away._ WALSH _rises, and goes to the left of the
    stage, to greet two ladies, his guests_.

    [_Enter two ladies._ MRS. LOMAX _is a large, motherly person, to
    the initiated unmistakably "country-born." She is the wife of
    the Superintendent of Police, and still rather surprised to find
    herself one of a European "station." People wonder why_ LOMAX
    _married her. But they would not have wondered if they had seen
    her ten years ago--she has aged rapidly, after the manner of her
    race, and lost her good looks._

    [MRS. GREGORY, _the College Principal's wife, tall, attractive in
    appearance, seems much younger. Her manner is languid and bored,
    though she can show a sprightly enough vivacity on occasion._


WALSH: Good afternoon, ladies. Aren't any men going to turn up?

MRS. LOMAX: Oh, Mr. Walsh, how _can_ Harry come, with all this going on
in the bazar? I've hardly seen him all day long. _Up_ and down, _up_ and
down (_she makes illustrative movements_), he's just on the rush _all_
the time. And Mr. Banerjee's chaprasi has been coming with chits _all_
the time--he's been simply living on our verandah. I got _so_ tired of
it, so after tea I thought I would give Mrs. Gregory a lift round here,
and see if anyone was going to turn up.

MRS. GREGORY: Tom's away, but he'll be back on the four-forty. He
promised to drop in here, and fetch me home after tennis. (_They all sit
down._)

MRS. LOMAX: Well, I can give you both a lift back. But then, he'll have
his bike, won't he?

MRS. GREGORY: It's _so_ good of you, Mrs. Lomax. But I'd love to walk
home after tennis, and my husband would, too.

WALSH (_jumping up_): Here's my wife. We might be able to make up a
four.

MRS. LOMAX (_giving a noisy, rattling laugh_): Walk, indeed! In this
weather! You wouldn't catch _me_ doing it!

MRS. WALSH (_dressed in the daintiest and lightest fashion, as
always--seeming like twenty, so far as profile and figure and manner go.
But her eyes are tired and hard. She glides in and speaks softly_): Ah,
you feel the heat, do you? Some do feel it more than others.

MRS. LOMAX (_again with that laugh_): Feel it! (_She snorts._) I should
just think I do feel it. I seem to feel it more every year I'm out here.
(_Plaintively._) I wish Harry would take his pension and we could go
home.

MRS. WALSH (_eyeing the almost manless company with disfavour_):
Dreadful, isn't it? Victor, I don't know why on earth you ever took a
job in a place like this. When I married him, he was billeted in
Darjiling, and he made me suppose that I should always live near a club,
with dances and _tamashas_[1] every night. Why don't they let a native
run this court? Here we even have to send to the railway station for
ice.

[Footnote 1: Shows, amusements.]

MRS. LOMAX: And half of it melts on the way up to your house. You can
bet your life your coolie's been standing about in the bazar, gaping at
some show or other, or _bukking_[2] to some other native. Just worrying
the life out of you _all_ the time, _all_ the time.

[Footnote 2: Chattering.]

WALSH: Well, what about a spot of tennis? I'll play till another man
comes.

MRS. LOMAX: Oh, Mr. Walsh, it's _too_ hot. Let us wait a few more
minutes. Besides, I wanted specially to ask Mrs. Walsh about her
dirzi.[3]

[Footnote 3: Indian tailor.]

MRS. WALSH: My dear, I take no interest _whatever_ in the servants.
Victor pays them and runs them--that's all I know about them.

MRS. LOMAX (_unabashed_): My dirzi tells me you're paying yours eight
annas a day. I told him I didn't believe such a yarn. _He's_ asking for
eight annas, too.

MRS. WALSH: Ask Victor, my dear. I know nothing about it.

MRS. LOMAX: Mr. Walsh!

WALSH (_reluctantly giving her his attention_): Yes, Mrs. Lomax.

MRS. LOMAX: You don't mean to say you're paying a dirzi eight annas a
day!

WALSH: Well, I didn't mean to say it, but since you press for
information on the point, I'm afraid I am. I understood it was the
regular price. I know nothing about these things.

MRS. LOMAX: Oh, Mr. Walsh, you shouldn't go spoiling the rates in this
way. No dirzi ever gets more than seven annas a day.

WALSH: But what's the difference? It's less than a couple of dibs[4] a
month, isn't it? A couple of bob, say. In a month!

[Footnote 4: Rupees.]

MRS. LOMAX (_who is a pertinacious person, much respected in the bazar
and avoided by the itinerant vendors of a whole province_): But that's a
whole fortune to a native! If we keep on giving in to them like this, we
spoil them. They'll be making trouble _all_ the time.

    [_A frosty silence falls on the company._ MRS. LOMAX, _however,
    is undaunted; the subject to her is engrossing above the fate of
    empires_.

I've been having a _dreadful_ time with the servants. Do you know how
many flower-pots my mali[5] has broken since last October? Just guess.
(_No one responds._)

[Footnote 5: Gardener.]

(_Impressively._) He's broken no less than seven. Seven! Seven pots in
seven months--no, only six months!

MRS. WALSH: That must be nearly three annas' worth, isn't it? Or are
they only a pice[6] each?

[Footnote 6: A farthing.]

MRS. LOMAX (_whose mind is too serious to notice sarcasm. Again with
that laugh_): A pice indeed! (_She laughs again, as the grim absurdity
of the suggestion penetrates deeper._) A pice! No, you won't get them
anywhere now for less than three pice for two pots.

MRS. GREGORY (_anxious to close down the discussion_): Don't the pots
get frightfully dry in this weather, and crack of themselves?

MRS. LOMAX (_turning on her indignantly_): Your mali no doubt tells you
that! If you believe him, he'll be having you on _all_ the time, _all_
the time. If they do, it's his laziness. If he stood _every_ pot in
water overnight, they wouldn't crack. You make enquiries, and you'll
find he hasn't been doing that. You just ask him. (_A pause._ MRS. WALSH
_yawns, with her racquet before her face_.) It isn't only the mali who's
been getting slack. My cook----

WALSH: What's _he_ done? Been embezzling the vegetable-money? Send him
up to my court, and I'll give him six months for every cauliflower whose
price he's stolen. You're quite right, Mrs. Lomax. It's time we stood
together, and put a stop to the way these servants behave. Low,
downright cheating, I call it.

MRS. LOMAX (_mollified by this support_): Well, we all know what these
natives are, don't we, Mr. Walsh? What can you expect of people who
haven't had our advantages?

MRS. WALSH (_jumping up_): Victor, let's have a game of sorts.

WALSH (_also rising_): Quite so. They take it out of us by pinching our
dusters and turning their goats into our vegetable-gardens. The heathen
have some horrid ways. Right-o, my dear. How shall we play? You and I
take these ladies on?

MRS. WALSH (_dismally_): I suppose so. (_Lingering--but no one seems in
a hurry to move off to the court._) I never saw such men as you have in
this station. It's just _too_ dull, having to play with your own husband
for a partner. You can't even rely on him to pick up your balls for you.
I _won't_ go out. Where's that wretched boy Max? _He's_ got nothing to
keep him away.

MRS. LOMAX (_to whom the delay is welcome, as giving another chance to
open up her favourite topic_): It all comes of educating these natives.
Before we started educating them, they were happy and contented. Each
one had his little house and his little garden, and his little cow, and
his little goats----

WALSH: Bless my soul, they've still got those, curse the brutes! And
they're not so little! I shan't forget the sight of that huge yellow cow
that spent most of last cold weather pasturing in the peas I'd grown
with such care. And as for goats! Goats galore! You don't mean to say,
Mrs. Lomax, that you maintain _they've_ disappeared owing to the wicked
educational policy of Government! Shall I tell my servants to catch a
couple of hundred and send them round to you?

MRS. LOMAX (_to whom the pathos of changed times appeals too poignantly
for her to let her lyrical periods be broken up in this way_): Each
house had its little bit of ground, and its little vegetable-plot, and
its mangoes and jack-trees, and its little fowl-run. And they were happy
and loyal, and no one dreamed of passing a saheb or a memsaheb without
salaaming. And then we spoilt them by educating them and making them
like ourselves! Now every fat babu thinks he's as well educated as we
are.

MRS. GREGORY (_who feels it is up to her to be_ "_pro-Indian_"): Well,
you know they weren't exactly savages when the British came to India.
They had schools and universities ages ago, when our ancestors were
running about dressed in woad. (_This is a very shocking thing for_ MRS.
GREGORY _to say, and she feels pleasantly broad-minded and wicked in
consequence_.)

MRS. LOMAX: Woad? What's woad?

WALSH (_soothingly_): A kind of very light flannel that the early
Britons used to wear. Something like chiffon or cretonne or
charmeuse--you know, the stuff that ladies wear for evening dresses
nowadays.

MRS. LOMAX: If our ancestors wore things like that, I don't see how you
can say they were uneducated. But there you go (_to_ MRS. GREGORY),
sticking up for these people _all_ the time, and supporting them.
(_Remembering a rankling grievance._) How many really good Christian
servants has your college turned out in all the years it's been running?

MRS. GREGORY (_getting roused_): How many really good Christian masters
and mistresses have _we_ turned out, in all the years that we have been
running?

MRS. WALSH (_stamping her foot_): Oh, Victor! We can't wait for that
miserable boy! I'll play, even with you!

MRS. GREGORY: I don't know why, I'm sure, but whenever I run across my
own country-women, especially if it's in some hill-station
boarding-house, the first thing they ask me, when they find I'm a
missionary's wife, is, how many good Christian servants my mission has
produced. And then some planter's wife tells me she once had a Christian
servant, and she lost more dusters in the year than she'd ever lost in
the same time before.

MRS. LOMAX (_triumphantly_): My husband's brother met a padre who said
he would _never_ employ a Christian servant himself--never! That was a
_padre_. What do you say to that?

MRS. GREGORY: Where was it he met that padre?

MRS. LOMAX: It was in Bangalore--no, Hyderabad.

MRS. GREGORY (_venomously_): That padre must be on tour. The last time I
heard of him, he'd been saying that in Peshawur; and the time before
that he was in the Bombay-Nagpur mail, going to Jub.[7] Are you sure he
wasn't out in India just for the cold weather?

[Footnote 7: Jubalpur, in Central India.]

MRS. WALSH: Victor! _Do_ something, if you call yourself a man!

MRS. LOMAX: When my punkahwallah was down with fever, I sent to the
college for someone to take his place till he could come back. And your
husband said he had no one to send! No one to send! And how many years
has the college been running?

MRS. GREGORY (_thoroughly exasperated_): Mrs. Lomax, how often must I
explain that we're not a Registry Office, and that the college
curriculum is _not_ meant to turn out bearers and punkahwallahs? We
educate Indians of good family to take degrees in arts and science.

MRS. LOMAX (_with an air of finality_): That's what I say! You turn them
all into babus, just educating them _all_ the time!

WALSH (_desperately_): Spin for sides, Mrs. Lomax. Rough or smooth? (_He
spins his racquet._)

MRS. LOMAX: Rough. If you educate them, of course you won't get them to
come and work for us. Anyone could tell you that. We'll take that side.
You can change every three games, if you find the sun too much for you.
They've gone and released Gandhi now, and we shall have more trouble
with our servants, and they'll get slacker _all_ the time, _all_ the
time.

WALSH: Come, come, Mrs. Lomax, you don't mean to say that you suspect
Mr. Gandhi of putting your mali up to breaking your flower-pots or
telling them to charge you over a farthing apiece for them in the bazar?
He's a bad hat, but I don't think he'd descend to such depths of utter
depravity as all that!

MRS. LOMAX: I keep on telling Harry, I wish he'd take his pension, and
then we could go home.

MRS. WALSH (_very sweetly_): But you could do that without drawing his
pension. The railway fare to Calcutta isn't more than twenty rupees, is
it? And I believe it's less, if you go second class.

MRS. LOMAX (_who does not understand innuendo, even if blunt and heavy
enough to stun an elephant_): I'm not thinking of the railway fare.
There's the steamer fare--and then, the cost of living has gone up so at
home, they say. (_With sudden suspicion._) I don't understand what you
mean by saying that the fare to Calcutta is only twenty rupees.

WALSH (_hastily--anxious that she should not understand_): Mrs. Lomax is
quite right about Gandhi and his influence on our servants. I've noticed
it myself. (_Speaking with solemn impressiveness._) The very evening of
the day he came here last cold weather, my bearer, who's usually so
careful, broke my tobacco-jar. Now, if it wasn't Gandhi who put him up
to that, who was it, I'd like to know?

    [_Enter_ MAX HORTON, _the labour[8] recruiting-agent--generally
    known, but not to his face, as the coolie-catcher; a boy of
    about twenty, with the appearance and reputation of being a
    cheerful idiot. He always has a cigarette in his mouth, even
    after cycling, as now._

[Footnote 8: For the Himalayan and Assam tea-gardens.]

My dear, you're saved from the horror of having to play with me. Step
along, Max. You've been keeping all these ladies waiting.

HORTON (_mopping his brow_): No, have I really? My word, isn't it
sweltering? I never thought anyone would stir out for anything so
strenuous as tennis. Only dropped in on spec. I had a long snooze this
afternoon.

MRS. WALSH: That's how you spend three-quarters of your life. You're
playing with me now, so try to wake up. _Not_ with a cigarette, please.
I've seen you play with a cigarette in your mouth, and your performance
is a shade worse than when you're without one--if that's possible.
Besides, you're playing against ladies.

WALSH (_with simulated ferocity_): Get in, you idiot. You've only time
for one set, as it is--for six short, quick games. It's a lucky thing
that it's you who's turned up, and not Lomax or Gregory.

HORTON: What do you mean, Walsh?

WALSH (_shouting in his ear_): I mean, there won't be time for _seven_
games. Go on, get in. The balls are over there.

    [_The players move off to the court_, WALSH _looking after them as
    they go_.

    [_Enter_ LOMAX, _the Police Superintendent--a man of about
    thirty-five, strongly built, athletic, with honest, dogged face_.

Hullo, Lomax. Thought we weren't going to see you. You're just too late
for a set--afraid there won't be another. You'll have a peg, of course.
Bearer! _Polis-sahebke peg do._[9]

[Footnote 9: "Give the Police-Saheb a peg."]

    [_Tennis begins as_ WALSH _and_ LOMAX _sit down; and from time
    to time their talk is punctuated with the sound of bouncing
    balls, calls of encouragement or advice, and the usual run of
    tennis witticisms. The Bearer brings a tray of drinks, and opens
    a bottle of soda-water._

LOMAX (_gloomily_): I didn't come to play. I oughtn't to be here at all,
with all this foolery on in the bazar.

WALSH: Has my old school-chum Chatterjee rolled up?

LOMAX: Yes, damn him! They're processing him through the streets now.
I'll have to be back in half a jiff to take in any reports that come.
But I really _had_ to get away for a breathing-space from those infernal
idiots in my office. My sub-inspectors have all got the wind up. Worst
of all, they've put the wind up that ass Banerjee. He's been chasing me
with chits all the blessed day. (_Bitterly._) As if I hadn't enough to
worry me without having a damned fool for a Collector.

WALSH: Tut, tut, you mustn't talk like that of our dear Ganapati[10]--our
Lord of Hosts! Lomax, my boy, you're letting this thing get on your
_nerves_. Get that peg down, and have another. When you've had half a
dozen, you'll find philosophy getting on top again. You'll feel better.
You'll
          "let the legions thunder past,
    Then plunge in thought again."

[Footnote 10: A title of the elephant-headed god of wisdom; "Lord of the
Ganas" or "Hosts" of his father Siva. It is a common Indian name.]

LOMAX (_looking dismally into his half-empty glass_): Well, I must say
it's a bit thick.

WALSH: What, that whisky! Then mix some more soda with it. Don't let a
thing like that darken your life.

LOMAX (_startled_): This whisky! Good Lord, no! This is mild enough, in
all conscience. I mean that prancing idiot Banerjee.

WALSH: So our dear Ganapati has been worrying you, has he? What's the
matter with him? Does he see another chance of advertisement?

LOMAX: You bet he does. When the whole thing blows over, we shall read a
long yarn in the _Politician_ from "A Mofussil Correspondent," telling
how a dangerous rising was settled at Durgapur by the wonderful tact and
firmness of the popular----

WALSH: Yes, you mustn't leave out the _popular_. He's very keen on being
loved by the people, is our Ganapati.

LOMAX (_growing cheerful_): By the popular magistrate here.

WALSH: One seems to expect to read something of the kind.

LOMAX: But just now he's panicking about in the bluest funk imaginable.
I've told him the whole thing'll blow over if we just keep our heads.

    [GREGORY, _the College Principal, enters, and leans his bike
    against a tree at the back of the stage. He is taller than_
    WALSH _or_ LOMAX, _and more strongly built than either. Wears
    glasses. Like both the other men, he looks extremely tired and
    discouraged._

GREGORY (_sitting down_): Do you honestly think it will?

LOMAX (_angrily_): It would if it weren't for your damned students.

GREGORY (_taking a "soft" drink from the Bearer_): It's a bit unfair,
isn't it, holding a lot of excitable boys responsible for every row that
happens?

LOMAX: Who provides the inflammable stuff these beastly agitators work
upon?

GREGORY: Exactly. The students, naturally. And it's the keenest who
blaze up most readily. Wouldn't _you_ be a nationalist, in their place?

LOMAX (_disgustedly_): I've heard all that before. What beats me is how
a decent chap can waste his time educating and missionising these folk?
Doesn't it you, Walsh?

WALSH (_whose mind has been wandering, as he watches the tennis_):
Haven't thought about it, I'm afraid. Been too busy lately. But _will_
think about it when I get time. Certainly a problem. Let's see--why does
Gregory--quite a decent chap--educated, not altogether a fool
either--could have earned a fairish living in some other way, probably
with far less work--why does he waste his time educating the heathen?
Are they grateful? No, they tear him to pieces when they get a chance.
(_Leaning forward._) Why is it, Greg, old boy? Tell us. There's only
just us two. None of your missionary society's secretaries anywhere
within hearing.

GREGORY (_grinning_): And why does Lomax--again, quite a decent
chap--man of liberal instincts and unusually good at seeing another
fellow's point of view--spend his time putting poor devils of
cultivators into quod and repressing boys who are only doing what he'd
do in their place? _And_ buttressing up that monstrous system of petty
thieving and by no means petty bullying that goes by the name of the
Indian Police? _Very_ decent fellow, Lomax, really. He's played a lot of
football and cricket with my boys, and they like him uncommonly.

LOMAX: Tell me, how many Christians has your college made, in the dozen
years or so in which you've been spending the widows' mites that your
society has collected at home?

GREGORY: I don't mind telling you. One.

LOMAX: How many thousand pounds a head does that work out at?

GREGORY: That's the question the heathen are always asking. They all
believe a missionary gets a _huge_ sum per head, especially if he gets
hold of a Brahmin. A Brahmin wrote the other day, offering to turn
Christian if I'd pay all his exs. to England and through four years at
Oxford. He was quite sure I'd jump at the proposal, as it would have
left me a handsome surplus for my own old age. I'm told they had a
session at the Revolutionary headquarters last week, to decide how they
were going to budget for the cost of running India when we clear out. It
was carried that a hundred Brahmins should be told off yearly to turn
Christian, and that the police service should be run out of the
thank-offerings sent by the missionary societies.

LOMAX: Gregory's trying to be funny.

WALSH: Is he? He mustn't do that. But I'm interested in that bloke who
wrote to you. That wasn't just a yarn, was it?

GREGORY: Not a bit of it. Honest fact.

WALSH: Why did he want to go to Oxford? Why do all these Hindus think so
much more of Oxford than they do of Cambridge? As an Oxford man, of
course I have my theories. But I'd like to know what a Cambridge man
thinks.

GREGORY (_very solemnly_): Religion, Walsh. Don't you know that
_everything_ a Hindu does is from religious motives, just as all _we_ do
is from greed of money? Hasn't that been dinned into your head ever
since you came out here?

WALSH: But what the devil has religion to do with Oxford?

GREGORY: Why, the very name. _Ox_-ford--isn't that enough to draw a
Hindu by every fibre of his subconscious self, all throbbing with
veneration for the cow!

WALSH: Gregory, you _are_ trying to be funny! Drop it, for Lomax and I
aren't going to stand for it!

LOMAX (_to_ GREGORY): Did you notice the row in the bazar when you were
cycling from the station?

GREGORY: I don't see how even a giraffe could have overlooked it.

WALSH: Gregory, again, drop it! Were they friendly, Lomax wants to know.

GREGORY: Quite, on the whole. A lot of boys----

LOMAX: Your students.

GREGORY: A lot of boys shouted _Gandhike jai_[11] and _Basantake jai_,[12]
when they saw me. But they were too busy with their own show to bother
about me. Brother Basanta is riding on an elephant; and they've got a
_foo-foo_[13] band.

[Footnote 11: "Victory to Gandhi!"]

[Footnote 12: "Victory to Basanta!"]

[Footnote 13: A band, usually consisting of Portuguese half-castes, who
play what is understood to be European music.]

LOMAX: I know all that. They fetched them by the noon train.

GREGORY: Yes, but did you know that they've hauled Krishna out, and are
having a sort of extra car-festival? I asked one of my students about
it, and he said, "Oh, sir, we Hindus are bhery[14] religious. We are
always glad to see our Gods."

[Footnote 14: Very.]

LOMAX (_perturbed_): Curse them, I didn't know that. These things begin
to get serious the moment they swing off the usual track. Are you dead
sure about it?

WALSH: Some brilliant lad's improvisation. Nothing like making sedition
religious. A riot becomes a holy pilgrimage.

GREGORY (_joyously_): It was too funny for words! There was the
elephant, and grim Basanta Babu on top of it. Then in front was Krishna
being pulled along by a crowd of happy maniacs. And heading the whole
procession the _foo-foo_ band playing "Hold the fort, for I am coming."

WALSH (_delightedly_): No!

GREGORY: Yes.

WALSH: How damned funny! Krishna touring the bazar to one of Sankey's
tunes! And the _foo-foos_, of course, are Catholics. Lastly, Basanta
Babu, in whose honour this exquisite blend of two religions has been
placed on the market, was a particularly pugnacious kind of atheist when
I knew him at Oxford. I hope he appreciates the thing! He wasn't very
good at seeing a joke in his undergraduate days. On my soul, India'd be
dull if the non-co-operationists shut down.

LOMAX (_growling_): Yes, damned funny! But the joke's been giving me too
many sleepless nights for me to enjoy it as I ought.

WALSH: All mad, all mad together! Let's forget 'em for a bit. Steady on,
Max! (_As a tennis ball hits him hard._) Isn't the rest of the compound
big enough for what you're pleased to call your play?

HORTON'S voice (_from off the stage_): Sorry, Walsh! I was trying to
smash one of Mrs. Gregory's returns.

WALSH: Well, leave me out of your strokes in future. (_As they all turn
their attention to the tennis._) Remarkable game that boy's playing! He
seems to think the thing is to collar every blessed ball you can and
scoop it swiftly into the net. What's it remind you of?

LOMAX (_wearily_): Nothing on earth. Only Max.

GREGORY: _Lycidas._ The "two-handed engine" that
          Stands ready to strike once and strike no more.

He's going to serve now. He did four double faults running five minutes
back.

WALSH: Isn't that about as many as you _can_ get? World's record, is it?
Held by our Max! Very steady player, Max--_remarkably_ steady and
reliable. Never wins a point. My wife seems to be saying something to
him.

LOMAX. He looks a bit worried.

WALSH: Ah, modesty. Feels he's taking more than his fair share of the
game.

GREGORY: That's probably what _she_ thinks. Max always seems to be doing
that when he's your partner.

LOMAX: Well, I really _must_ clear. But it's been nice seeing you boys,
for a change from that----

WALSH (_warningly_): Now, now, _now_! Keep yourself from getting nervy.
Have another peg--just one, before you go. Bearer!

LOMAX: No, I won't, really. (_As Bearer comes up to him with tray._) All
right, I will then. (_As Bearer pours out the whisky._) Pretty mild
whisky, this, isn't it?

WALSH: I don't know that it is. It's what I've got for years. Isn't it
all right? Never touch it myself--prefer beer.

LOMAX: Ye-es. Well, I don't think a second peg of _this_'ll do me any
harm.

    [_A Constable enters, and salutes_ LOMAX, _handing him a note_.
    LOMAX _reads it, and frowns_.

Damn your students, Gregory. Damn them again, a million times. All this
trouble is their work.

GREGORY: I don't see how you can make that out.

LOMAX: Didn't it start in the Calcutta colleges, as it always does? And
then they send their emissaries down here, and to every mofussil
college, and start a lot of fresh hells like the one they've left.
Wasn't Nagen one of your professors?

GREGORY: Yes, for two months. I suppose you think we imported him
specially to start trouble for you here?

LOMAX: Anyway, he _did_ start it. And he's kept it going.

GREGORY: You forget that Gandhi visited us. And Gandhi to Indians is
what cocktails are to us--he goes to their heads at once.

LOMAX: Well, it may interest you to know that I've got the names of a
couple of hundred of your students who've joined Nagen Babu. I warn you,
I'm going to proceed against them. My patience is finished.

WALSH: What's happening now?

LOMAX: Nagen and a lot of Gregory's boys are proposing to lead the mob
to the jail, to demand the release of that poisonous little ass of a
pleader whom I got orders to arrest and send down to Alipore[15]
to-night. That means bloodshed, if the crowd's really crazy with
religion and patriotism, as it will be by this time. Then, when the
Indian press shouts for my head, I'll be broken, I suppose.

[Footnote 15: The principal Calcutta jail.]

    [_Exit._

GREGORY (_looking after him_): Lomax seems a bit short of his usual
reasonableness.

WALSH: I'm not surprised. When you get a letter formally notifying you
that your name's next but two on the Revolutionaries' official list for
assassination, it doesn't give you quite that Kruschen feeling, does it?
You don't exactly feel like leaping over a pillar-box before breakfast.
Of course, one has always had these friendly little notices--but one
can't quite regard them as mere badinage nowadays. Too many Brownings
about.

GREGORY (_puzzled_): Brownings?

WALSH: I don't mean the poet's works. They're regarded as rather
old-fashioned in the best circles, I believe. Even Indians don't read
them. I mean pistols--little guns--lethal weapons--things that put holes
in you. Wake up, Gregory!

GREGORY (_with a start_): Oh, of course. I was thinking of Lomax. I
don't wonder he's worried. I'd like to know who's next for
assassination.

WALSH: Can't tell you. But the same joke-merchants inform me I'm next
but one.

GREGORY: _You've_ had a chit telling you _that_?

WALSH: Yes. All in the day's work. My handling of that Jherria dacoity
case seems to have given dissatisfaction. Lomax is really rather low
down on the list, apparently. But he's too worried just now to take a
light-hearted view of things.

The revellers are returning. Let us rise to greet them with
congratulations and long drinks.

    [WALSH _and_ GREGORY _rise, as the tennis-players enter_.

MRS. LOMAX (_to_ MRS. GREGORY): And what has your cook been charging you
for chickens?

MRS. WALSH (_her voice throbbing with indignation_): Well, of all the
hopeless rabbits! Max--you--you--you----

WALSH: Come, we'll have a meeting on his case when we've all got drinks,
and we'll see if we can't find a word that fits him. Bearer!

BEARER (_hurrying up with a tray of drinks_): _Huzzoor!_ (_He proceeds
to serve out drinks._)

GREGORY (_politely asking the usual question_): What sort of a set did
you have? How did the games go? (_All seat themselves, except_ WALSH
_and_ HORTON.)

MRS. WALSH (_glaring at_ HORTON): Go? Rapidly. They simply slumped. Like
an avalanche--or a cataract--or anything that just collapses without any
hesitation.

HORTON (_who, in the temporary absence of a second Bearer, now hurrying
up, is helping by opening bottles of soda-water_): Mrs. Walsh, you're
awfully hard on a fellow! Just look at my racquet! (_Holding it out._)
It's like a fishing-net. How could any fellow play with a racquet like
that?

WALSH: So it was your racquet, was it, Tilden? Why didn't you bring the
one you used at Wimbledon--when you beat Alonzo in three straight sets?
Then we could have seen your game at its _best_--we've always seen it at
its worst hitherto.

GREGORY: Are we to gather that Max didn't put up his usual stiff fight?

MRS. WALSH (_witheringly_): Oh, yes. Very stiff fight--the kind of
desperate resistance a sparrow would put up against a leopard. I don't
want to talk about the wretch. I just want to forget him. (_To_ HORTON,
_as he offers her a soda_.) No, thank you. I'd rather the Bearer gave me
my soda. (_She fans herself._) They beat us six-love, of course.

MRS. GREGORY: Eight-love.

MRS. WALSH (_with a frigid look at_ MRS. GREGORY): Six-love.

WALSH (_soothingly_): There seems some discrepancy here. But Mrs.
Gregory must have counted wrong. You can't have eight-love.

MRS. WALSH: For that matter, you could have a hundred-love, if you cared
to play against Max long enough. But it was six-love. He served four
double faults running twice over----

GREGORY: I saw him do it once.

MRS. WALSH: He did it _twice_. Of course, I refused to count those
games, so we played them over again, and I took the serves.

HORTON: I was trying a new serve to-day.

MRS. WALSH (_drearily_): Were you? It seemed uncommonly like your old
one. What do you consider was new about it?

HORTON: I was trying to put a break on it--this way. (_Illustrates._)

GREGORY: Well, apparently it was the net that put the brake on.

HORTON: A fellow's bound to have his off days. You can't expect him to
be always consistent.

WALSH: That's where you do yourself injustice, my boy. You're the one
player I've met who always _is_ consistent--the most reliable,
absolutely _steady_ player in India--probably in the world.

HORTON: What I mean is--you can't expect a fellow always to strike
twelve.

WALSH: No. But when _you're_ serving we expect you to strike
_twice_--twice, and then move across to the other half of the court. The
rules of the game don't allow you more than _double_ faults, you know.

HORTON (_resignedly throwing himself back in a chair_): Oh, well. I know
I'm not a world's champion or anything of that sort. But anyway, Mrs.
Walsh, I'm always trying.

MRS. WALSH: You are. More than trying--downright exasperating. I could
have _screamed_ when you poached that easy shot from my right hand, and
scooped it past my face into the tree behind.

WALSH: Your play seems to have aroused deep feeling, Max. But don't let
that put you off your drink.

MRS. WALSH: You won't catch him letting anything do _that_.
(_Subsides._)

MRS. LOMAX (_seizing the chance to return to serious business_): You
haven't told me what you're paying for chickens.

MRS. GREGORY: I got the last lot six for the rupee. Those were for soup.

MRS. LOMAX (_horrified_): Soup-chickens six for the rupee! I'd jolly
soon get rid of my cook if he did me like that! You ought always to get
soup-chickens eight for the rupee. And _big_ chickens six.

WALSH: What has Mr. Gandhi ordered the fowl-wallahs to sell their ducks
at?

MRS. LOMAX (_reminded_): Yes, what are you paying for ducks?

MRS. GREGORY: I haven't bought any lately. I paid eight annas for the
last.

WALSH (_in mock horror_): Good gracious, you paid eight annas for a
duck! Why, you ought to have got an ostrich for the price! _Never_ more
than _seven_ annas for a duck--or seven and a half, at the very outside.
That's right, isn't it, Mrs. Lomax?

MRS. LOMAX: My dear, you hear what Mr. Walsh says. You'll spoil all the
rates, if you go on paying these _huge_ prices, _all_ the time, _all_
the time.

WALSH: It's sheer extortion. I must drop Gandhi a stiff chit about it.
I'll threaten to run him in under Section 429. It's seven years for
overcharging for chickens, and eight if you do it for ducks.

GREGORY: I'm told the Revolutionary Committee have put a tax on every
fowl sold to Europeans. They call it the War Tax, on the lines of the
War Tax they have in the U.S.A. and Canada.

MRS. LOMAX (_alarmed and indignant_): But they have no right to do
_that_. They're not the Government of this country, even if they think
they are. What a shame! It ought to be stopped at once.

GREGORY: Get Walsh to put it up to headquarters for you, Mrs. Lomax. If
they can't guarantee us chickens at twopence a head, they can't expect
us to stop in this poisonous country. Why, I've eaten a chicken a day
for thirteen years, to say nothing of the thousands I've drunk as soup.

HORTON (_who has been sipping at his peg fastidiously_): I say, Walsh,
what's wrong with this whisky?

WALSH (_surprised_): I didn't know anything was wrong with it.

HORTON: I mean, where do you get it?

WALSH (_still more surprised_): Where do I get it? Where I generally get
it--the Army and Navy Stores, Chowringhee, Calcutta, if you insist on
precise information. Where do you get yours? Not that I particularly
want to know.

HORTON: What do you pay for it?

WALSH: Well, really! I'm sure I don't remember exactly. But I always pay
a good price for it. Isn't it good enough for your taste? Don't you find
it strengthening enough, after a hard, stiff set at tennis?

HORTON (_holding out his glass_): You're being had. Smell it. Taste it.
It's just water.

WALSH (_taking his glass_): Now I think of it, Lomax seemed rather to
toy with his drink, instead of supping it down in his usual hearty
fashion. Bearer, whisky! (_The Bearer, inscrutable in expression as
ever, brings the whisky._ WALSH _pours a little into a glass, and holds
it up_.) Looks a little pale, doesn't it? (_He smells it, then tastes
it._) You're right. There _is_ something wrong with it.

HORTON: I'll tell you what's happened. Old Buddha (_indicating the
Bearer_) has been putting it away, and filling up the wastage with
water.

WALSH: That so? In that case, the best we can hope for is that it was
fairly clean water. I fancy you've got it in one. I'll look into the
matter afterwards. Bearer, _nutun whisky do_.[16] _Nutun._

[Footnote 16: "Give new whisky."]

    [_Bearer goes off towards the house._

HORTON: That's the same blighter who sold your tea and made your tea
with bazar tobacco, isn't it?

MRS. WALSH: When did that horror happen? Did _I_ drink any of that tea?

WALSH: You were in the hills, my dear. He was certainly making some most
abominable stuff and calling it tea: and Max alleged it was made with
bad tobacco.

HORTON: There was no doubt about it. You had that doctor fellow staying
with you, and you gave his dog some in a saucer. The doctor said the
poor brute showed all the symptoms of suffering from acute nicotine
poisoning for days afterwards. It couldn't have got that from tea, could
it?

MRS. GREGORY (_who has been brooding over the poultry question_): Well,
my cook said he couldn't buy ducks anywhere for less than eight annas. I
don't see how I could have helped paying it. He wouldn't have got the
ducks at all, otherwise.

MRS. LOMAX: You could have let him get them, and at the end of the
month, when you were paying him, have cut him for every duck on which
he'd overcharged you.

MRS. GREGORY: And have lost my cook. (_Peevishly._) Remember, _my_
servants aren't under the impression that my husband can send them to
jail if I complain to him about them.

MRS. WALSH: Thank goodness, I've had my last game of tennis here. This
time to-morrow I'll be in the Club at Darjiling.

MRS. GREGORY: I wish _I_ were getting away now. Is Mr. Walsh going, too?

MRS. WALSH: He's got a lot of stupid papers, judgments or something or
other, that he says he's got to write. He could get away if he wanted.

WALSH: That's all you know, my dear. I can't stir out of my office for
another couple of months that I can see. (_As Bearer returns, with new
bottle of whisky._) There, that looks all right.

HORTON (_as Bearer pours out peg_): This is first-rate, I can see.

WALSH: My dear, we're often very hard on Max. But he's proved his value
to-day, as an absolutely expert whisky-taster. One sip--or a smell,
even--and he can tell you year of vintage, district, light or heavy
soil, proportion of alcohol and sugar--everything.

MRS. WALSH (_pettishly_): I've no doubt he's equally good with brandy or
beer. But it doesn't make him of any more use to me. Let's get in for a
game of three-handed bridge. I can just manage a rubber before I have to
go for my train.

MRS. GREGORY (_taking the hint, rising_): I'm afraid I ought to go. I'll
say good night to everyone.

WALSH (_protestingly, as everyone rises_): I say, Mrs. Gregory, you're
not going! I haven't had a _buk_ with your husband for days and days.
Just wait a few minutes. I can send you both round in the car. He can
leave his bike.

MRS. GREGORY: I'll wait indoors, then. It's too hot here, away from the
punkahs.

MRS. LOMAX (_as the ladies and_ MAX _move off_): You get on to your
mali, first thing when you get home, and just see if what I told you
about the flower-pots isn't right. And tell your cook that you won't pay
him a pice more than seven annas for a duck! Tell him I told
you--that'll put the wind up him! These natives all know that the
police-memsaheb is up to their little tricks. They are trying to cheat
us _all_ the time, _all_ the time.

    [_As the others depart_, BANERJEE, _the Collector, is seen
    making his way towards_ WALSH _and_ GREGORY. _He is a lumpy,
    fussy Indian, in European dress. He enters._

BANERJEE (_excitedly_): Isn't Lomax here?

WALSH (_very coolly_): He looked in for a few minutes.

BANERJEE (_waving his arms helplessly_): I don't understand you
Englishmen. You never take things seriously. You play tennis and drink
and play bridge and joke, while everything's going wrong. You're like
the ancient Romans.

WALSH: The ancient Romans? They were rather careful chaps, weren't they?

BANERJEE: Didn't they fiddle while Rome was burning?

WALSH: I'd forgotten that. Did it every week-end, regularly.

BANERJEE: Don't you know there's a _hartal_ on in the bazar?

WALSH: You heard anything of that, Gregory?

GREGORY: I did seem to have heard something about it.

WALSH: Are the lads of the village doing anything fresh this time?

GREGORY: Don't we have a _hartal_ once a month? Hasn't it become a sort
of Indian bank holiday?

WALSH: What we mean is--are there any new performers? Or just the old
favourites? Kshitish Babu's good old address on _The Greatness of
Ancient Aryan Civilisation_? Nagen Babu on _Ees the Eendian een any way
eenferior to the European_? Abdul Qasim on _The Wrongs of Turkey_? Any
_new_ features?

BANERJEE: You Englishmen will never realise when a situation is serious.
I've had to take grave steps all day long. If it had not been for me,
the whole town would have been in rebellion. Lomax wouldn't have lifted
a little finger if I hadn't been at him all the time. Where is he now?
That's what I came to find out.

WALSH: I fancy you'll find him in his office, if he isn't in the bazar.
Anyway, they can tell you there. _We_ don't know.

BANERJEE (_still walking excitedly about_): He doesn't even know what is
happening. And he comes round here to play tennis, with the whole place
in an uproar.

WALSH: Look here, Banerjee, I'd clear my mind of some of the things that
are worrying it, if I were you. First, about Lomax----

GREGORY: He's not been playing tennis.

WALSH: No, not by a long chalk. He dropped round for five minutes, to
save himself from going crazy.

BANERJEE: Why should _he_ go crazy? He hasn't the responsibility for the
whole district on his shoulders. It's _I_ who ought to go crazy. But you
don't see me doing it. No, I keep my head, and _do_ things. And here you
sit and talk and pay no attention to what's happening.

WALSH: That's where you make a mistake, my friend. About Lomax--what was
I saying? Oh, yes, you said he didn't know what was happening. I'm
prepared to bet that Lomax has a pretty fair notion of what has happened
and of what is going to happen.

BANERJEE: Yes, because I've told him. But he'd never have known if I'd
left him to himself, as any other Collector would have done. That's why
these fellows have made a dead set at Durgapur. They know that if they
can get me broken, they'll have things their own way in the rest of
Bengal. (_Excitedly_.) None of you are helping me. I shall have to do it
all myself again. Gregory, don't you know that your boys have all joined
Nagen Babu? Don't you know they've all gone on strike?

GREGORY: Yes, I know. They have a habit of going on strike when a
_hartal_ comes during holidays. It's no concern of mine.

BANERJEE: What do you mean? They're your boys, aren't they?

GREGORY: They will be to-morrow, when the college reopens after the
Easter vacation. To-day--I have no more jurisdiction in the bazar than I
have in Kamschatka.

WALSH (_showing signs of getting annoyed_): What can we _do_, man? Tell
us, and we'll do it. We've no call to go blithering through the bazar.
The people are entitled to shut their shops, if they want. It's doing no
one any harm.

GREGORY: Everyone knew it was coming off. You've got in all the stores
you need, haven't you? If you haven't, let us help you out. Abdul Qasim
sent me a special chit two days ago, that there was to be the usual
_hartal_ for Amritsar, and would I let him know what groceries we
required.

WALSH: He sent me one, too. Very neighbourly of him, I'm sure. He said
he had to be speaking about the Wrongs of Turkey, so couldn't be at his
shop, in any case. But his son told me that, if we ran short of
anything, even to-day, they'd serve us, if we'd send a man round the
back way.

BANERJEE: But they're having _huge_ meetings, enormous meetings. And
processions.

WALSH: Of course. Why not? Fine day, sunny, bright, not too hot--just
the day for a people's holiday. Let's have a good stroll through the
town, with banners and drums! Nothing like walking exercise, if you
can't afford horse-exercise. And when we're tired, let's listen to dear
old Abdul Qasim on the Wrongs of Turkey, and why Hindus and Mohammadans
should be united. We can heckle him afterwards, and ask him why he sells
such shocking tea--and at such a price!

BANERJEE: You fellows drive me _wild_. I won't stop here. I must get on
to Lomax, and make him _do_ something.

WALSH: Take my advice, and leave Lomax to carry on as he is doing. If
anything happens, he'll be on the spot before you can tell him. And if
nothing happens, why, everyone'll feel all the better for their happy
little outing to-day. I like the morning after a _hartal_; everyone's so
cheerful. "Good morning, Suren Babu," I say to my Chief Typist. "You
weren't here yesterday. We missed your smiling face. You've no idea what
a gap you leave in the office. I hope you weren't out with any of these
horrid non-co-operationists--you, an old Government servant!" "Oh, no,
sir," he replies. "I had bhery bad phebers[17] yesterday." "I'm sorry to
hear that," I tell him. "You all right to-day?" "Your Honour, I am now
bhery well," he says. And he looks it, and is. Why? Because he's had a
day in the country. _You_ have one, Banerjee. Have several. Take a month
off. We'll keep Durgapur here till you return.

[Footnote 17: Very bad fevers.]

BANERJEE: You don't realise things a bit. How could I go away for a
month? I have to stay here, I have to watch everything, I have to keep
Lomax up to his work----

WALSH: I've pointed out to you, Banerjee, that that's a delusion of
yours. Try a peg. Try a dozen. They'll clear your brain.

BANERJEE: You don't know what Nagen Babu's just been saying in the
bazar.

WALSH: In a public address?

BANERJEE: Yes. Before a couple of thousand people.

WALSH: Then I do know, very well. (_He proceeds to talk in a
high-pitched nasal voice, very rapidly, as if talking by rote._)
Eendians have always been renowned all over the world for their
speeritual qualities. Everything we Eendians do is releegious. We
worship God all the time. Eu-ropeans (_pronouncing the word as if it
were_ "_You ropey 'uns_") are materialistic. They worship brute force.
They are superior to us in pheesical strength, but speeritually and
mentally we Aryans----There, Banerjee, isn't that the old boy's
message?

GREGORY (_affectionately_): He's an awfully decent fellow really, is
Nagen Babu. He honestly believes all that stuff.

WALSH: I know he does. So do millions of them. Banerjee here does, don't
you?

BANERJEE: Well, of course we Indians _are_ famous all over the world for
our spiritual and mental qualities, while you Englishmen _do_ worship
money, don't you?

GREGORY: Quite so. As a student of mine put it in an essay the other
day, "The English are drunk with blood and wine." He had no intention of
being offensive or hurting my feelings. Just thought he was stating an
indubitable fact, as who should say, "It is a fine evening," when it
_is_ and everyone can _see_ it is.

WALSH: I suppose it's no worse than the way our Calcutta papers are
always bragging about the grand "British" qualities of justice and fair
play and sportsmanship. We're all mad, Banerjee--you folk bragging of
your spirituality and we of our general nobleness.

GREGORY: I knew an earnest Christian who was always boasting of his
humility. Well, what else did Nagen Babu say?

BANERJEE: On Gandhi's birthday Swaraj is going to be established
everywhere. Their administration's all ready, and they're just going to
walk into our jobs. At five minutes to ten in the morning, Nagen is
going to walk into your office, Gregory, and take over the College. So,
you see, it isn't such a joke as you thought.

GREGORY: It's even better. I wish him joy of the job of running the
College on five hundred rupees a month.

BANERJEE: What do you mean? Of course, he can't run it on that.

GREGORY: That's our Government grant. If we got our finances in some
unholy mess, no doubt we'd get a lot more. Perhaps Nagen'll persuade the
Swaraj Government to give him more. But I doubt it. You see, Gandhi
doesn't believe in modern education. That's where he and I agree, by the
way. There are fees, of course. He _may_ scoop those in. But I somehow
don't see my Society sending out his salary and various other hefty
benefactions, if I'm dismissed by local enthusiasts. I'm afraid his
inaugural address will have to announce the annihilation of his
professors' salaries.

WALSH: A fine, popular, patriotic start. A return to good old Aryan
customs. All teachers to work for nixes, and go round after their
lectures with a begging-bowl. You know, Greg, I've often thought that
would be a good idea at home. I'd love to see our dons processing down
the High, beating a gong and collecting any vegetables tossed to them by
the well-disposed--or hanging outside the Cadena for stray buns. I
don't know your Cambridge equivalents for these Oxford haunts of luxury.
It'd liven a few of them up a bit.

BANERJEE: Go on, laugh. But Nirmal Singh is going to walk into your
court, five minutes before you arrive; and you'll find him sitting in
your chair.

WALSH (_sitting upright, as if surprised_): What, old Mossy-Face! But
he's been to see me privately about getting a Kaisar-i-Hind, for long
and loyal service to the British Raj!

GREGORY: What class? Second--the class they give to nurses and
missionaries who've done forty years' work in colleges or leper asylums?

WALSH: Of course. There's no third class; and he knows we keep the first
class for Civilians and Governors' wives. But you surprise and grieve me
about Mossy-Face. I've always looked on him as my chief supporter. And
who's going to have _your_ job? And Lomax's?

BANERJEE: I'm going to find Lomax. I'm wasting time when I ought to be
going out to Simulbund--when I ought to be in the bazar--when I ought to
be everywhere! I won't talk to you chaps any more. You think
everything's a joke.      [_Exit._

WALSH: It is offended. See, it stalks away!
       We do it wrong, being so majestical,
       To offer it the show of violence;
       For it is, as the air, invulnerable,
       And our vain blows malicious mockery.

GREGORY (_knocking the ashes out of his pipe, on his boot_): Ass! I hope
he won't find Lomax. I say, you said you knew Basanta Chatterjee at
Oxford, didn't you?

WALSH: A bit. As a matter of fact, we were at St. Peter's together.

GREGORY: What sort of a bloke was he in those days?

WALSH: Desperately solemn. A ghastly windbag, I believe. They pulled his
leg rather, and he was understood to resent it uncommonly. I daresay he
had a grievance, but you know what our fellows are--they make a joke of
everything, and the Indians couldn't get that. They had been accustomed
to taking everything seriously--even Schools.

GREGORY: When did he go to Berlin?

WALSH: Oh, some time before the War. He's certainly been about as
poisonous and bitter as anyone could be.

    [LOMAX _suddenly enters_.

Hullo, Lomax. Where've you sprung from? However did you manage to miss
our Ganapati?

LOMAX: Have I missed him? Thank Heaven!

GREGORY: He's just this minute gone. He was crazy to find you. You'll
catch him if you run.

    [LOMAX _makes a gesture of derision, and sits down_.

LOMAX: I was round at Pratap Babu's. I make a point of looking him up
when I'm in a hole. I know no one who can tell me more what's happening.
I fancy I escaped Ganapati because I cut across the fields and through
your vegetable-garden. I hope you don't mind.

WALSH: Not a bit. Did you have any trouble at the jail?

LOMAX: No. Met a sub-inspector, as soon as I left your place, who told
me Nagen had persuaded the crowd to call that part of their programme
off.

GREGORY: I've a great respect for Nagen. He's one of the few who
honestly believe in Gandhi's non-resistance stunt.

LOMAX: Look here, I want you chaps to know. This isn't an ordinary
_hartal_. It's damned serious.

WALSH: So Brother Ganapati was assuring us.

LOMAX: Well, it is, in spite of that. I was worried when I heard they'd
brought Krishna out. And they're keeping up that religious line--or what
they choose to call religion. In this case, it's just plain incitement
to murder.

GREGORY: The Krishna?

LOMAX: No. You've seen that Narasingha at Khantihar--you know, that huge
figure they've stuck up in the bazar there--of Vishnu lion-faced and
with his claws ripping a chap's bowels up. The man's in European kit, as
you know. We knew that was meant to stir up hatred, but we couldn't do
anything, so long as he was brown--they said it was symbolical--Vishnu
tearing up the traitors who imitate English dress, instead of wearing
_khudder_.[18]

[Footnote 18: Country-spun cloth.]

WALSH: Yes?

LOMAX: They've just substituted the figure of a white man. I've got to
do something. It's a direct challenge. If we let it stop there----

GREGORY: Exactly. They'll say we _daren't_ remove it! And, if we _do_
remove it----

LOMAX: Then we're desecrating their religion. We've insulted their gods.

WALSH: Is this Chatterjee's work?

LOMAX: No. He's poisonous enough, in all conscience; but he only makes
the pleaders and educated folk--Gregory's people--discontented and
seditious.

WALSH: Which they all are already.

LOMAX: Yes. He daren't move them to open warfare, though he would, if he
dared. I could handle him. But Inayat Khan is here.

GREGORY, WALSH (_together_): Inayat Khan!

LOMAX: Inayat Khan. And you know what his coming means--bloodshed
always. He was in that Chakrata business, when the mob butchered over a
score of police. In the Bombay riots, when hundreds were killed and
wounded. And we're dead sure he was behind that Moplah rising. But we
never get anything we can handle. He hates us like fury, but he never
commits himself. He drives other poor devils to massacre and to being
massacred; but he keeps himself safe.

WALSH: What can he do at Khantihar?

LOMAX: Do? He can send the people crazy. They can murder _us_, they can
cut the main line between Calcutta and up-country, if they come in here.
And Khantihar's on the edge of the jungles. If he sends those silly
fools of Santals[19] out of their minds, they'll start slaying Hindu
moneylenders--that won't worry _him_; he's a Mohammadan. We'll have
another Moplah affair, only among Santals this time. We shall put it
down, without catching him. The revolt will be said to be due to
"economic causes," the Santals' habit of getting into debt and losing
their land. But there'll be a deal of shooting, and then all India will
be savage about our measures of repression. Amritsar won't be in it, if
you get a mob of Santals marching against our Volunteers.

[Footnote 19: An aboriginal race.]

GREGORY: What are you going to do?

LOMAX: Run over to Khantihar now, and arrest him.

WALSH: But _can_ you?

LOMAX: I can. He's committed himself at last. (_Holding up papers._)
Here's my last _Confidential Report_, just come in; and my Chief's sent
a covering letter with it to all of us, telling us we must arrest Inayat
Khan if he comes into our territory. He lost his temper at Patna, and
was fool enough publicly to urge all Mohammadan sepoys to mutiny. That's
done it at last. He can be charged.

WALSH: You'll take us with you, of course. Max, Gregory, myself--you can
call us out as Volunteers, you know.

LOMAX: Thanks, awfully. But I'm going with just a sub-inspector and half
a dozen of my police.

WALSH: Don't do anything so crazy, man.

LOMAX: Yes, I will. I've thought it out, and it isn't crazy. If we make
heavy weather about arresting one man, the people'll all think we've got
the wind up. The quieter it's done, the better.

GREGORY: But, Lomax----

LOMAX: Look here, Gregory, I want to stop this thing as quickly as I
can. The people round here are silly idiots, but I don't want to have to
shoot them down presently. If I first arrest this blighter in a way
that shows I'm not afraid of them, and then get hold of a few of them
quietly, I'll have that Narasingha matter set right by private
arrangement. But I want you two to stand by me, all the same--just for
advice, that is.

GREGORY: Rather. But why----

LOMAX: If I'm back from Khantihar at nine-thirty (say), where'll you
both be?

WALSH: I'm seeing my memsaheb off to Darjiling on the eight-fifteen.
I'll be back by eight-thirty. You'll have finished dinner then, Gregory?

GREGORY: I'll manage it. Come round to my place, Lomax. Walsh'll be
there.

    [_Enter a Constable. He salutes, and gives_ LOMAX _a note_.

LOMAX (_reading note_): So that was why friend Ganapati was so keen to
catch me! He's left this note at my office.

WALSH: All about things at Khantihar?

LOMAX: Not a word about them. Simply observes that he--_he_, mark
you!--has quieted things in the bazar here, and that he finds he has
urgent duty that makes it necessary for him to go to Simulbund at
once--that's twenty miles away. Like to see the note? (WALSH _and_
GREGORY _read the note_.)

GREGORY: What's it mean? Is the man an even bigger fool than we
thought--or what?

LOMAX: No, he's not a fool, in this case--simply a funk. It means that
he knows there's likely to be trouble, and he's going to be off the
premises temporarily.

WALSH: The note seems a bit shamefaced. So he's clearing off to the
jungles of Simulbund--Jove goes to visit the blameless Ethiopians, while
these Greeks and Trojans kill each other. Then, if neas gets done in,
_he_ isn't responsible.

LOMAX: That's it. If I do any shooting, it'll be because our wise and
far-sighted Collector wasn't here to settle things peaceably. So _I_
shall be broken, when the enquiry comes. _Your_ service won't be in any
danger of losing its brightest ornament, Walsh. You'll be glad to
realise that. (_Wistfully._) You haven't, by any chance, got a _new_
bottle of whisky on the premises? One you haven't opened?

WALSH: Inside the house. Was anything wrong with what you had before?

LOMAX: Oh--er--no. That is----I fancy it'd been kept a bit too long
perhaps. Some of the strength seemed to have evaporated, or something. I
shan't be going home before I run out to Khantihar. I want just one
drink before I go.

WALSH (_affectionately_): Come along, old boy.

    [_They all rise and go off towards the house._


CURTAIN.




ACT II


    GREGORY'S _study--a large, bare room distempered in white. A
    table in centre, covered with papers, files, etc., all well
    weighted to withstand the breeze made by the large electric fan
    whirling above the table. Large doors centre back and in centre
    of walls to right and left--all open, with swaying purdahs
    hanging across them. The door to the right opens on the
    verandah--the other two into the bungalow. Plain
    furniture--straight chairs, a typewriting table, and large, ugly
    bookcases with glass doors._

    _It is eight-thirty in the evening, immediately after dinner.
    The room is lighted by a large electric reading-lamp on the
    centre table._ GREGORY, _in clerical white evening dress, is
    sitting behind the table, facing the audience. To his right,
    half facing him, sits_ SARATCHANDRA DATTA, _history professor at
    the College--a man of about twenty-six but looking younger. He
    is in Indian dress. His face is eager, attractive, intellectual;
    his manner enthusiastic and simple, childlike, sometimes almost
    childish._


GREGORY: How many students do you think will turn up to-morrow? Twenty?

SARAT: Not a dozen, now that Inayat Khan has come.

GREGORY (_frowning, troubled_): Are you sure it is as bad as all that?
Can't we save even the two hostels?

SARAT: You may be able to save those who've already come back--with
luck, and if you can keep them from going out to hear Inayat Khan
to-night. If _you_ will speak to them, you may be in time.

They will not listen to us; they say we are doing what we have been paid
to do. But you are a foreigner.

GREGORY: They'll listen to me because I'm a foreigner?

SARAT: Yes. Their minds are disturbed and restless. All Indian minds are
to-day. What are they to do? You may be sure that the non-co-operators
have already been getting at them--they will have met even the trains at
the station.

When the mind is wretched, it will not listen to itself. But another
mind can sometimes speak to it. You are a foreigner.

GREGORY: I'll try. After all, it isn't fair to put the job on you.

SARAT: It would be no use, sir.

GREGORY: Anyway, you've done your share in remaining loyal yourself. It
isn't easy for me to say how grateful I feel to you and the rest of the
staff. Without you, it would have been impossible to carry on. As it
is----(_He pauses._)

SARAT: As it is?

GREGORY: Why, it will be as it has always been. The students will have
their mass meetings, and unanimously vote to give up their college
career for their country. But in three days they will be coming back,
and beg to be forgiven. That is because they know that we are working
for their real interests, and because they see that you have all stood
by us--all except Nagen Babu.

SARAT: I wish I could think so, sir. But we have never had Inayat Khan
before. He has never come anywhere without leaving hatred.

GREGORY: Sarat Babu, that's what puzzles me more than anything else. Why
is it that Inayat Khan moves whole towns and sends the sanest people
mad--for everyone says he does?

SARAT: He does. He makes the quietest simply drunk with hatred of the
English. There is bloodshed, always bloodshed, where he comes. There
will be bloodshed here. We shall have rioting; then people will be shot
down.

GREGORY: Can you tell me why he has this power?

SARAT: Yes. But I do not think anyone but an Indian could understand.

GREGORY: What do you mean? I could understand. Don't you all recognise
that I am sympathetic with Indian aspirations?

SARAT (_evasively_): Everyone likes and respects you very much--even the
non-co-operators.

GREGORY: But?

SARAT: Well, at the time of the War I said something you didn't like,
and you told me I didn't understand, that I couldn't understand. You
said it was no use trying to explain to people who hadn't lost brothers
and sons in the War.

GREGORY: That was quite true.

SARAT: You said that the real conflict between people was at the back of
the brain, and that the trouble was, we never seemed to be able to get
there. I thought that was very true.

GREGORY (_mortified_): But don't you think I understand the Indian point
of view--well, better than other Englishmen?

SARAT (_unflinchingly_): No. What I mean is----

GREGORY: Go on.

SARAT: You understand the best _English_ view better than other
Englishmen, and you really do stand for it. And because of that you do
try to put yourself in our place and see with our eyes. We all like you
because--oh, you'll think what I am going to say is very silly!

GREGORY: I promise you I won't. Sarat Babu, help me. I'm frankly
puzzled. All these years I've been trying to get at what you people
really do think and feel. I've read your literature, I've studied your
religion----

SARAT (_warmly_): We know you have. There isn't an Indian who isn't
grateful to you. Only half a dozen Englishmen have taken the trouble you
have. It's because everyone knows this that the College has kept fairly
quiet in all these strikes. That's partly why they're making a dead set
at us now. Basanta Chatterjee said to-day, "The real enemy is men like
Mr. Gregory, for they make us think that the English are just and kind
and can be reasoned with."

GREGORY: He would say, of course, that my supposed sympathy was all
humbug?

SARAT: But the rest of us know it isn't.

GREGORY: You haven't told me what you were going to say. Never mind how
silly it seems. We can't help others if we keep worrying about our
dignity. You said I didn't understand--that I couldn't understand. Show
me that.

SARAT: I'll try. The reason why India has kept so loyal to England, and
been--on the whole, whatever people like Basanta Babu now say--so happy
under English rule is not that Englishmen understand us or we them--oh,
I cannot say it!

GREGORY: Yes. Go on.

SARAT: Let me do it another way. We all know you are a religious man,
although you are English. Yet you have told me that, while you could
sympathise even with the worship of Kali and see sublimity in it, you
could never feel anything but repelled by the story of the love of
Krishna and Radha. Yet that moves us Bengalis more passionately than any
other story. I myself, though I am an M.A. of Calcutta University, am
melted to tears every time I hear it. I am ashamed to tell you this!


GREGORY (_generously_): But why? There is no need to be ashamed of a
genuine emotion.

SARAT: Yes, there is, if its root is some weakness. I have been thinking
it over, and it seems to me that it is because we Indians really _are_
what you Westerners often sneeringly say we are--we _are_
effeminate--yes, there _is_ more of the woman than of the man in us--and
so we put ourselves--we put the whole nation--in the place of Radha. We
don't _mean_ to do it, of course. But we do it.

GREGORY (_encouragingly_): Well?

SARAT (_bitterly_): We are fools, and we have fallen long ago in love
with the English spirit, which is so hard and masculine and--so
contemptuous of us. And if we like _you_--and there isn't a man who has
met you or even heard of you who doesn't secretly like you--it isn't
because you are more Indian than other Englishmen, as you think you are
and have tried to be. It is because you are more English--more like our
ideal of an Englishman.

GREGORY: I see. But I haven't got any nearer to what Indians are
thinking than any other Englishman?


SARAT: No, we don't think you have. Of course, we are grateful for what
you said about Amritsar. But----

GREGORY: But what?

SARAT: Well, you spoke then like a decent Englishman. And it was a time
when we thought all decent Englishmen were dead.

GREGORY: It's more puzzling than ever. It's more than puzzling--it's
maddening. I really _have_ thought sometimes that I've got through to
what Indians were thinking--and then I've pushed hard, and it's been
like going through a curtain, and finding a solid wall behind.

Even now you haven't told me why Inayat Khan can do what he likes with
Indians. (_After a pause._) Yet you've helped me to guess part of the
reason--or am I only stupid again? Sarat Babu, is it because he is one
of the few Indians who really _hate_ us?

SARAT: Yes. He hates you. The rest of us are often bitter, we are often
exasperated. But we do not hate you, except when he makes us do it for
the time being.

GREGORY (_leaning forward on the table_): Tell me how he does it.

SARAT (_evasively_): It is _because_ he hates. His hatred is like a
blazing torch, and it makes us see things that are in the back of our
minds. He makes us remember things it would be better for us to forget.

GREGORY: Such as?

SARAT (_earnestly_): Do not ask me that. I do not want to hate you, even
for a moment.

GREGORY (_smiling_): I'll risk it. I _must_ get to the bottom of this.

SARAT: Then please find your own way. Think of Indians along the lines
where you don't understand us, where you haven't any sympathy with us.
(_Both are silent for a minute._)

GREGORY: Have _you_ ever heard Inayat Khan?

SARAT (_wildly_): I dare not. If I did, I should join the strikers
immediately.

GREGORY (_incredulously_): _You_ would join the strikers! I don't
believe it.

SARAT: I could not help myself.

GREGORY: _You_, the most level-headed Indian I have ever met! Why, you
have often told me that you realised that all this non-co-operation was
simply ruining the students, by filling their minds with restlessness.
You know that it is no true patriotism to try to destroy this college. I
have told everyone how grateful I am to you. If Nagen Babu had been as
clear-sighted as you----

SARAT: Yes, I shut my eyes tight. He opened his, and he saw things I
simply dare not let myself see. Don't you understand what I am, sir?

GREGORY (_warmly_): What I have just said--an Indian who is as clear and
steady in brain and purpose as any Englishman.

SARAT (_almost shouting_): There is no such Indian! He simply does not
exist!

GREGORY: But it is precisely on the fact that such Indians exist that I
have based my support of your right to full self-government.

SARAT: Then you must change your grounds of argument. If _that_ is what
gives the right to self-government, then we shall never be entitled to
it. I begin to see that there is more justice in the world than I
thought. We have always refused freedom to our women for the very
reasons for which it is now being refused to us--because they are
emotional, swayed by their passions and loyalties, and cannot be calm
and collected.

GREGORY: _Tell_ me then what you are.

SARAT: I _know_ that we should make a mess of things, as you or any wise
man would judge. I _know_ we are not fit for self-government along the
lines on which we are claiming it. But I tell you, Mr. Gregory, that I
could break down like a woman when I think of my country and realise
that she cannot speak for herself--that she goes to international
conferences and assemblies like a child in the charge of its
nurse--that----

GREGORY: No, no.

SARAT: Yes. You send what you call an Indian representative to
Geneva--or London--or wherever else it is--but _you_ have chosen him and
not we, and you send him in charge of Lord Curzon! And then you say
India has been represented! She has _not_! Even if she had, why _should_
she be represented? Why should she not be there in person?

Oh, you don't understand! I cannot explain. But the very mention of the
word _freedom_ overcomes us. We cease to reason; we just break down.

    [_A Voice from the verandah._

May I come in, sir?

GREGORY: Yes, come in.

    [NAGENDRANATH SINGH _enters. He is a Bengali of about_ SARAT'S
    _age, with lean, intellectual face and burning eyes. He is
    dressed in_ khudder, _the grey homespun cloth which_ MAHATMA
    GANDHI _has commanded all patriotic Indians to wear. He and_
    SARAT _look at each other with constraint; then he greets_
    GREGORY _with genuine respect and friendliness_.

NAGEN: You sent a message that you would like to see me?

GREGORY: Yes. I am so glad that you have managed to come. (_He points to
a chair._ NAGEN _hesitates, then sits down_.)

NAGEN (_guardedly_): I am always glad to obey my old Principal.

GREGORY: I wanted a talk with you, to see if together we could save
these boys of mine from making fools of themselves again to-morrow.
These silly strikes can't go on indefinitely. I shall have to expel some
of my best students.

NAGEN (_non-committal_): Yes, you must do what seems to you your duty.

GREGORY: It's awfully lucky that you should call while Sarat Babu is
here.

NAGEN: No doubt he was helping you to find some way of stopping the
strike. I am sorry I have interrupted your plan. I will go again.

SARAT (_rising_): No, _I_ will go. Then you can talk to Nagen Babu
alone.

GREGORY: Why should either of you go?

NAGEN: Why should either of us stay?

GREGORY: Because you can both help me--because we three together can
prevent these boys from doing themselves a lot of harm. Nagen Babu, you
know that _swaraj_ is not going to be brought in by a lot of excited
boys refusing to be educated.

NAGEN (_again non-committal_): We have learnt that nothing can be done
without sacrifice.

GREGORY: But useless sacrifice! Foolish, pointless sacrifice!

NAGEN: You yourself, sir, have often told us that all sacrifice seems
useless at the time and to those who do not believe in the cause, but
that later times have seen that it helped.

GREGORY: But boys ought not to be wasting their time in politics. They
ought to be finishing their education.

NAGEN: It is always the young who are enthusiastic and capable of
sacrifice.

GREGORY: Look here, Nagen Babu. Don't you believe in the supreme value
of education?

NAGEN: Yes, of real education. But you have often said that the
education we get is a sham.

GREGORY: But it will do Government no harm whatever if these boys refuse
to attend their classes. Sarat Babu will tell you that.

NAGEN (_stiffening_): Sarat Babu _has_ told me that. It is those who
have been enslaved by this system of false education who are incapable
of hearing when their country calls. That is why Mahatma Gandhi says we
must break its chains. It imposes a slave mentality on us, and makes us
forget our glorious Aryan heritage. It makes us unspiritual and cowardly
and indolent.

WALSH (_from the verandah_): Gregory! (_He comes in, and sits down._)
All right. Don't pay any attention to me.

GREGORY (_to_ NAGEN): Like the English, I suppose?

NAGEN: No. You are not cowardly or indolent.

GREGORY: But only Satanic and unspiritual?

NAGEN: Satanic is Mahatma Gandhi's adjective, not mine. And we do not
say the English are Satanic--only the English Government.

GREGORY: Nagen Babu, once again I appeal to you. These continued strikes
are making a farce of these boys' education. I'm not going to pretend I
hold a brief for Calcutta University; but, at any rate, it isn't going
to help India if all the present generation of her young men grow up
utterly undisciplined.

NAGEN: The noblest discipline is forgetfulness of self in the service of
others.

GREGORY (_getting impatient_): What service? I have here on my desk (_he
turns over the papers_) over thirty telegrams, and I cannot tell you how

many letters, from parents and guardians, all urging me at all costs not
to let their boys go on strike. The whole business is wrong, morally
wrong. Can you tell me of any great movement which began with
disobedience of parents? Any, in the whole history of the world? (_He
throws himself back in his chair, and looks at_ NAGEN _triumphantly_.)

NAGEN: Yes.

GREGORY: What movement?

NAGEN: Christianity.

GREGORY: Christianity!

NAGEN: He that loveth father or mother more than Me is not worthy of Me.
That is what our country is saying to us to-day. Only some (_looking at_
SARAT) are so deafened by self-interest that they cannot hear her.

GREGORY: But you are not going to pretend that this non-co-operation
movement which has plunged all India into confusion and unrest is like
Christianity!

NAGEN: Why not? Were not the earliest Christians called those who had
turned the whole world upside down?

GREGORY: But think of the bitterness you have introduced!

NAGEN: Jesus Christ said He had come to set a son at variance with his
parents, and that a man's foes should be those of his own household.
Have you not yourself explained those words to your students, in years
when no one dreamed of non-co-operation?

GREGORY (_dreamily_): Yes. And I remember wondering what on earth was
the use of trying to preach a religion which to Hindus must sound so
utterly and fundamentally immoral. I remember, I almost wished that
Christ had never spoken those words.

NAGEN (_triumphantly_): And all the time they came to your hearers like
a message of deliverance! You did not realise how spiritual Indians are,
and that they could understand Christianity better than you of the West
do, because Jesus Christ was an Oriental. That is why to-day we regard
Him as the world's greatest teacher. Mahatma Gandhi has said that he
reads the New Testament every day. (_Exaltedly._) Now at last, after
centuries during which we had forgotten it, we are recovering our
ancient Aryan greatness. Jesus Christ has called us back to our real
spirituality.

WALSH: You are very sure of the spirituality, aren't you?

GREGORY: And I suppose the race which produced Abraham Lincoln and David
Livingstone, and the men who went to certain death at Zeebrugge is
hopelessly materialistic?

NAGEN: Yes, because they lived and fought for materialistic ends. Jesus
said, "My kingdom is not of this world."

You see, I was educated at a missionary college, and I learnt then to
read the New Testament.

WALSH: I've often thought the New Testament was the most dangerous book
in the world.

NAGEN: We now know the truth, and the truth is making us free.

GREGORY: Sarat Babu, won't you point out to Nagen Babu how unwise and
wicked it is for these boys to go on strike?

NAGEN: It is no use for Sarat Babu to speak to me. He has made his
choice.

GREGORY: But you two were the closest friends.

NAGEN: A man's foes shall be they of his own household.

GREGORY: You are surely not going to let political differences sever
friendship!

NAGEN: That is what you English always say. I have read somewhere that
your political differences are just the differences between black and
very dark brown; and that is why you cannot understand why Indians and
Irishmen hate and murder one another for what you call just political
differences.

GREGORY: Nagen Babu, listen to me. I did all I could to keep you. I held
your resignation back for nearly a month, and begged you to reconsider
it. When you insisted on going, I thought you acted unwisely and
excitedly, but I never had the slightest ill-feeling over the matter,
for I knew you did what you thought right. And, after all, we had been
colleagues.

NAGEN: I believe we shall be colleagues again. I believe we shall work
together again, when all this trouble is satisfactorily ended. We do not
want to get rid of Englishmen, but only of the English Government. You
are one of the Englishmen we want to keep.

GREGORY: Then you will work again with your old friend Sarat Babu?

NAGEN (_angrily_): No! Never!
      Just for a handful of silver he left us,
      Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat.

We have no ill-feeling against _you_. But no patriotic Indian will ever
forgive Sarat Babu.

WALSH: I should like to hear Sarat Babu speak for himself. I'm afraid I
don't accept Nagen Babu's very charitable construction of his action as
the only possible one.

GREGORY: No, nor I. I shall never forget Sarat Babu's loyalty during a
most trying time.

NAGEN: That is the only merit by which Englishmen judge us. Indians to
them are of two classes--they are loyal or they are disloyal.

GREGORY: That, Nagen Babu, is not true. It is not true of me, at any
rate.

SARAT (_as if waking from a dream_): What he says is true. And yet I
don't think it is true. I don't know why I didn't go when he went. I
argued with myself and persuaded myself that it was wrong and useless
for the boys to go out on strike, and lose the best years of their life
in just restlessness. And I persuaded myself that the non-co-operation
movement was filling India with bitterness and would lead to hatred and
violence and more misery.

NAGEN: And?

SARAT (_facing him_): Yes, I was afraid. I have a family to support, and
I should be penniless if I gave up my work. And I thought of all that.

GREGORY (_approvingly_): You were quite right. You have a responsibility
to your family.

NAGEN: _I_ have a family, too. And my wife and my mother weep whenever I
go home, because they know that I may be taken to prison any day.

WALSH: Your continual returns home must be a great disappointment to
them; and to you, too. Accept my condolences, Nagen Babu. You've been
doing your damnedst for eighteen months to get sent to jail, and can't
bring it off.

GREGORY: Mr. Lomax gave me a message for you the other day: "If you run
across Nagen Babu, tell him it's no earthly use his going on as he does,
for I'm not going to arrest him. As long as he's at large, he's worth
his weight in gold as a safety-valve."

WALSH: Hasn't it dawned on you yet, Nagen Babu, that the more heroically
and often you talk of the martyrdom you're _going_ to endure, without
being able to persuade the Satanic Government to inflict it, the more
your verbal currency gets depreciated? (_As_ NAGEN _rises_.) God bless
my soul, I believe the man's going to weep!

GREGORY (_hastily_): Mr. Walsh is only joking, Nagen Babu.

SARAT (_rising_): Nagen Babu, if you are going now, may I come with you?

    [NAGEN _goes out quickly_.

Mr. Gregory, I've got to go. Please accept my resignation. I thought I
was doing right, but I have been doing wrong all the time. (_Almost
tearfully._) Will you English never understand? It would not matter if
you were not so strong; but, as it is, your joking makes every other
nation hate you. You insult us with your good-nature and remind us how
weak we are.

WALSH (_gazing at him in amazement_): Good Lord! It's another grievance
against our Satanic tribe that we refuse to recognise there's a war on.

GREGORY: Sarat Babu, this is nonsense. You're just excited. Mr. Walsh
never meant to hurt Nagen Babu's feelings.

SARAT: It isn't that. I suddenly saw something. I forgot to keep my eyes
shut. Good-bye, sir. Good-bye, Mr. Walsh.

GREGORY (_good-humouredly_): All right, if you want to go now. But all
that about resignation is nonsense, of course.

SARAT: Of course. But I've got to act by it. Please accept my genuine
thanks for all the kindness you have shown me, sir.

GREGORY: Rubbish, Sarat Babu. I've never shown you any kindness, as you
call it.

WALSH: I'm sure I'm most awfully sorry if I hurt the feelings of either
of you. I was merely trying, in the friendliest spirit possible, to cut
Nagen Babu's heroics a bit short.

SARAT: That's the way you put it. You are like the typical Englishman,
your dramatist Bernard Shaw. You are always trying to spoil other
people's attitudes and bring them down to what you call common sense.
I've been trying all these years to be like you, and I've nearly lost my
soul by it. We are not meant to be like you.

GREGORY (_indulgently_): Well, think it over, Sarat Babu. It'll all come
right if you do.

SARAT: I can't afford to think it over. You Englishmen act rightly when
you act by thought and reason; but we Indians have to live by emotion.
What we want to do is often right; but we think ourselves into
wickedness. That is why we have made such a mess of the last thirty
years. Good-bye, sir.      [_Exit._

GREGORY (_despairingly_): What is one to do with these people? They're
like kids.

WALSH: It's no use trying to argue with them along our own lines, that's
a dead cert.

GREGORY: You see how unstable and excitable they are. I'd have staked my
life on Sarat's common sense.

WALSH: I'm afraid I feel a bit responsible for his outburst.

GREGORY: You precipitated things rather. Still, why should he have taken
sides with Nagen over a thing that was said half as a joke? However,
it'll all blow over in a day or two.

    [_A Voice from the verandah._

May I come in? Are you there, Gregory?

    [_The curtain is lifted, and an Englishman enters. He holds out
    his hand to_ GREGORY. _The new-comer is a tall, vigorous man,
    with large, grave face; his eyes have all the patience of the
    fanatic and the fire of the martyr. He is barefooted and dressed
    in Indian fashion, in plain, grey_ khudder.

GREGORY: Hullo, Thorp! Where've you sprung from? You'll stay the night,
of course.

THORP: Thanks. But I'm putting up with some Indian friends.

GREGORY (_pained_): With some Indian friends?

THORP: A great many of my old English friends are no longer friendly.
And others whose feelings may still be unchanged might feel embarrassed
by my presence as their guest.

GREGORY: But you never thought that of _me_!

THORP: I wasn't sure. Honestly, Gregory, I didn't know. I just dropped
in to see you, for old times' sake.

GREGORY: If you don't stay here next time you come, I'll feel hurt to
the end of my days.

Walsh, our judge. Walsh, you haven't met Thorp?

    [WALSH _and_ THORP _shake hands, then both sit down_.

WALSH: I've _heard_ a lot about him, of course. You visiting this jolly
little spot just for pleasure? Not many people do that.

THORP: I'm with Mr. Ranade. We were going to Ranigunj, to settle the
coal-strike there.

WALSH: H--m. There's a strike here that Mr. Ranade might like to try his
hand at.

THORP: That's why we came here. We heard the people were a little
excited, and Mr. Ranade insisted on breaking the journey here.

GREGORY: You think his presence will make them any less excited?

THORP: It has had a wonderfully quietening effect. We saw your
magistrate, Mr. Banerjee. What a fine, sympathetic man he is! It is
glorious to think that Indians are producing such rulers from among
themselves!

WALSH: Yes, amazing bird, Banerjee!

THORP: Isn't he? An astonishing man. By his help we got the
non-co-operation leaders together--he was just off to see about digging
a tank for a poor village in the jungles, at a distance, but he very
kindly waited to see things through here.

WALSH: Why not? What the devil do you suppose he's here for?

THORP: Mr. Ranade spoke about the processions in the bazar, and told
them this was unnecessary and gave annoyance to Europeans. I explained
to them that anything that gave offence wasn't genuine non-violent
non-co-operation. They quite agreed, and there will be no more trouble.

GREGORY: You quite sure of that?

THORP: Of course. The Mahatma explained that we have to apply soul-force
only. We are going on to Ranigunj by the nine-fifty train to-night.

WALSH (_with polite interest_): How _is_ Mr. Ranade? Getting quite well,
I hope.

THORP: Ye-es, on the whole. But I'm anxious about him. He's very
grateful for the care that was taken of him during his illness, and for
the action of Government in releasing him unconditionally. But he's
still very weak, and the people are everywhere pressing to see him. In
fact, Basanta Chatterjee says that his release is just another example
of Government's dishonesty and guile. They want him to be worked to
death, so that they may be rid of him, but without the responsibility
when he breaks down finally.

WALSH: That's just the sort of kind, charitable thing that Chatterjee
_would_ say. What would he have said if Government hadn't released the
Mahatmajee or taken the risk of operating, but had let him die in jail?

GREGORY: You know Basanta Chatterjee, then? He's here now, you know.

THORP: He and I are very old friends.

WALSH: You must find him a singularly sunny and lovable nature.

THORP (_very simply_): I think he is, when you get to understand him.
Those who judge him simply by his public utterances sometimes think he
is a little bitter.

GREGORY: Well, what are they to make of comments like the one you've
just quoted? How do you bring _that_ under the heading of soul-force?

THORP (_a lover who has long got past the stage of being able to
criticise_): Don't you think it only natural? We have to make
allowances. Government has done so many things to forfeit the confidence
of the people.

WALSH: I'm not going to defend everything Government does. But what your
friends don't seem to realise is that you can't afford to judge any
nation by its official heads. They're usually damned silly, if not
wicked.

THORP: But then----

WALSH: I know what you're going to say. But just let me say something
first. Look here, Thorp, I know my countrymen out here, and I know their
mistakes. But I've become rather proud of them. I don't know much about
the Calcutta crowd--I've been a mofussilite, mostly. But I'm taking the
Englishmen I know. Among them there's hardly a man who isn't an able
fellow--_in his own line_.

THORP (_easily_): Don't you think that is explained by the fact that
they are in positions of responsibility? Indians have never been given a
chance. When, once in a while, you do get a man like Banerjee here----

WALSH: I'm prepared to give weight to that. But I haven't finished. I'm
not thinking of ability, mainly. I'll keep to the class your pals
chiefly attack--officials. They're my class, and I've known them and
mixed with them for sixteen years. (_Impressively._) _Every_ man--no,
that's too strong--I'll make you a present of Humphrey-Seymour, as an
exception----

THORP (_enthusiastically_): Yes, we know how sympathetic he is. If all
officials were like him, things would never have become so embittered.

WALSH: You misunderstand me. If your pals, the political Indians, would
occasionally get in touch with their humbler brethren, the Indians who
do the solid _work_ of the country, they might revise some of their
personal estimates. They think Humphrey-Seymour a grand fellow, because
he's always gassing at football cup competitions and prize-givings and
butters them up. But in the service he's got the reputation of having
never done an honest day's work since he first landed in Calcutta. And
he's been infesting Bengal for close on twenty years.

GREGORY: He's an absolutely first-class swab! And I wouldn't use him
even to mop up a mess with.

WALSH: You hear what the Church thinks, Thorp. I see you're quite
unconvinced.

THORP: I am. We have never found an official more sympathetic to Indian
aspirations.

WALSH: Quite so. He would be. But have you ever tried giving him a job
of work to do? Well, never mind about him.

What was I saying? Oh, yes. With this one exception, I hardly know a man
who isn't honestly out to do the best he can for the people under his
charge. Yet whatever we do is twisted against us. Absolutely every last
thing. If I send a thief to quod, it's because I'm a brute of a Briton,
who cares nothing about breaking up a simple peasant's happy home. If I
let him off, it's because I'm cynically indifferent to my duty of
protecting the community from lawlessness and depredation.

THORP: Well, Government has in so many ways forfeited----

GREGORY: Now, Thorp, you've already got that remark in.

THORP: I'll admit that individual officials have done much good. But
it's been done too often in an arrogant, superior manner, and so has
done more harm than good.

WALSH: What the devil does it matter _how_ it's done, so long as it is
done? No, I don't mean that, of course. I suppose we all of us sometimes
drive Indians crazy, as they do us.

THORP: It wouldn't matter so much if we weren't so strong But we're the
top-dogs.

WALSH: All the same, don't you think your friends are sometimes in
danger of committing the sin against the Holy Ghost, in continually
calling all our good evil?

THORP: Mahatma Ranade has frequently remonstrated with them for their
faults of exaggeration.

    [WALSH _makes a movement of disgust_.

GREGORY: Thorp, what's the root trouble? Has your fraternising with
Indians taught you what it is? Can't you help us?

WALSH: What is it that makes them all--even the apparently sanest--into
howling dervishes these days? Why do they slang every blessed thing we
do, and reject every advance?

THORP: They feel that Government has never made atonement.

WALSH (_unable to believe he has heard aright_): Never--made--_what_?

THORP: And the British nation has never made atonement.

WALSH: What the devil _should_ we make atonement for? For pulling them
out of a hole and putting them on their own legs?

THORP: If that's all you can see, then you haven't got within a hundred
miles of guessing what Indians feel.

WALSH: You're not going to drag me back into some eighteenth-century
nonsense, of what Clive or Hastings did, are you? Good Lord, are the
Indians like the Irish, still blathering about some Battle of the Boyne
or Cromwell business?

THORP: No. We needn't trouble about Clive. But you've got to go a bit
farther back than you may think. Remember, we've written the
histories--or what we choose to call histories. But the Indians have
kept the memories. The minds will beat the books, when it comes to a
question of longevity.

GREGORY: Come where we can get you. Keep to recent history--what we all
know.

THORP: Then--there's Amritsar still unatoned for.

WALSH: They've had the Hunter Commission. That condemned Amritsar right
enough, didn't it? What more do they want?

THORP: What more? What more? (_Indignantly._) You have a tepid,
watered-down _Report_----

WALSH: That's what they choose to call it.

THORP: A _Report_ that faintly says that certain actions went a bit too
far----

GREGORY: Come now, it did more than that.

WALSH: If you knew anything about these things, you'd realise it did
about as much as _could_ be done in the circumstances. (_Turning to_
GREGORY.) A sight more than _I_ ever expected it would do!

THORP: I _do_ know that. It is that fact that seems to me to condemn the
whole situation. If we had any moral sense as a nation, we'd refuse to
let such a situation exist a day longer. (_He looks at_ GREGORY.)

GREGORY (_defensively_): I don't pretend the _Report_ was good enough.
But it really was something.

THORP: Indians don't think so. They feel they have to supply the money
for the pensions of men who've trampled on them. And they see that no
one has been punished. No one ever does get punished. No one was
punished for those Moplahs who were asphyxiated in a railway van.
Indians say that, whatever is done to them, nothing will ever happen--so
long as the offender is of a fairly high position.

Are they wrong?

GREGORY: Yes. I'm not going to accept _that_ as a fair statement.

THORP: I appeal to Walsh. Walsh, are they wrong?

WALSH: I don't see how it can be helped. You can't let a man down when
he's been in the devil of a hole and had to act anyhow with any weapon
that came to hand. Thank God you'll never be in such a hole, Thorp.

THORP: Precisely. It can't be helped, so long as you have one race
ruling another. You've got to uphold what you call the prestige of
Government. And that means----

WALSH: Periodical orders for gallons of whitewash. _Of course._ Would
you rather see India dyed red? It's the very best whitewash, as supplied
to Governments everywhere.

THORP: Suppose there was a riot in some Indian village to-day, and the
local official lost his head and hanged a lot of people, what would
happen? Nothing.

WALSH: Yes, it would. He'd be broken. He'd have to retire.

THORP: On pension, of course.

WALSH: Of course. You can't take a man's legal rights from him.

THORP (_furious_): But he ought to be hanged! Not simply retired on
pension!

WALSH: He couldn't be hanged.

THORP: They hanged a British Governor, a century ago, for giving a
flogging order which resulted in the death of a British soldier. But
to-day--when an officer in Ireland executed people without trial, he was
officially found mad. No one dreamed of questioning his sanity till it
seemed as if his neck ought to be in danger.

And there'd be no real redress here. Even if he had to go, there'd be an
agitation against the injustice of punishing or even censuring a man who
had acted in perfect sincerity, and whose fine promptitude----

WALSH: Stern justice--that's the name the papers always give it.

THORP: Had saved India from another Mutiny. And our ladies would canvass
the hill-stations and picket the clubs, and make every man subscribe to
a fund to show their gratitude.

GREGORY: All the same, it's no joke being the one man on the spot who's
got the job of putting the first sparks out. Suppose that Amritsar
mob----

THORP (_with contemptuous anger_): Suppose anything you like. We know
what _did_ happen.

You wouldn't trouble to suppose these things if it were a matter of
Japanese killing Koreans--or Americans killing Haitians--or Germans
killing Herreros.

GREGORY (_feebly_): I'm only trying to make you realise that we've got
to see the other side's case.

THORP: Try to see the Indians' case, then.

GREGORY: Do you think I _don't_ see it?

THORP: Yes. If you did, you wouldn't make a debating-club matter of it.

GREGORY: Thorp, don't you consider me pro-Indian?

THORP (_sadly_): We don't know what to make of you, Gregory. We used to
hope at one time that you were going to be.

GREGORY: _We_ means Indians, I suppose?

THORP: Yes. They used to look to you.

GREGORY: And now they've been rather disappointed in me?

THORP: Frankly, yes.

GREGORY: With regard to Amritsar----

THORP (_impatiently_): Oh, Amritsar's nothing. Merely the latest example
of what's always been going on. I'm sick of Amritsar.

Of course, Indians recognise that you said some helpful things about it.
But even then you seemed to be balancing things. You seemed to think it
was just a question of which side had taken more life, and, since it was
the British, you decided to blame them.

GREGORY: Then I didn't make myself clear. I was trying to look beyond
these present troubles.

THORP: Of course. It's easy for an Englishman to do that. These present
troubles are usually troubles that he manages to put on to other people.
Like taking up "the white man's burden." The white man generally hands
that job on to a coolie. _I've_ never seen any white man take up a
burden in this country.

WALSH: I didn't know Mr. Thorp had a gift of epigram. All this part of
soul-force?

THORP: No. Forgive me, Gregory. But I lose my temper when I hear
Englishmen advising Indians to have patience, as you do. You think I
don't criticise their faults enough. But that's because I see their
point of view. When you're wretched, the only thing to do is to
concentrate on getting out of that state. Philosophise afterwards.

GREGORY: That's bad doctrine, my friend. It means you do a heap of
things that you know aren't straight, simply because they embarrass what
you choose to call the enemy. All's fair in war--even to the use of
poison-gas and lying propaganda!

THORP: Both sides used them.

GREGORY: Yes; and I'm not sure that we haven't lost the War because we
used them. And I'm not sure that you Indian extremists aren't losing
_your_ war in the same way. Gandhi would have won if he hadn't backed up
all that Khilafat business. When you slang me, and others who think like
me, because we don't support you, forget Amritsar and remember your
side's campaign of lying and mean representation.

THORP: Are you fair? Has any nation ever fought for freedom with
absolutely clean hands?

GREGORY (_ignoring his interruption_): It's all propaganda, propaganda.
Just lies, lies, lies, all the way round and everywhere. Our histories
of India are propaganda, our histories of England are propaganda. The
histories they read in France and America, that they read in every
country, are propaganda. Lies, lies, I tell you, Thorp. (_He rises in
his excitement._) And you people are lying as hard as we are. No,
harder. Much harder, because you can't afford to be just. And I'm sick
of it all. I tell you, I won't join either party. I want truth, I want
justice, I want the kind of impartial summation that----

WALSH: That you'll get at the Day of Judgment, my boy, and not a day
sooner. I've never seen old Greg so worked up before.

GREGORY: I'll die before I support a party when I think it in the wrong.

THORP: But we're right in the main. Isn't there something in your heart
of hearts that tells you that?

GREGORY: You know there is. It's shouting, simply shouting, night and
day. That's why I sometimes feel as if I almost hated you people. Why
haven't you made it possible for me to fight on your side? Oh, _why_ has
one got to go into such squalid company if one takes the right side? I
know now why decent people wouldn't join the Early Christians. Haven't I
seen our own conscientious objectors? Don't I know our own Christian
Indians out here? No wonder decent Hindus don't want to be mixed up with
them!

WALSH: Gregory, Gregory! What have the Early Christians got to do----

GREGORY: How was the decent Roman--or Greek--or Jew--to get past the
swarm of hysterical, defiant, cringing slaves, with their silly
excitements and their "inferiority complexes," and see a St. Paul? Or
how is one to get past your venomous, cowardly, lying journalists and
your double-faced pleaders and your babyish and treacherous students,
and see a Gandhi?

THORP: Yet the slaves were right, and the decent, self-controlled Roman
philosopher was wrong.

GREGORY: Yes. And your army of skunks and rabbits are right--in the
main. And the decent, straight, conscientious English official is wrong.
I wish I could get it out of my heart that one ought to be a gentleman.
Then I'd go where my instinct tells me the future is going to say the
right lay--and it wouldn't worry me to know that the man on my right was
a liar and the one on my left a coward.

(_More gently._) Tell me, Thorp, how did _you_ get over it? Was it hard?

THORP: Yes.

GREGORY: But you did it. You had farther to go than I should have, too.
I can remember when you wouldn't have touched me, a Baptist, with a
ten-yard pole. You thought all my crowd were illiterate and
envious--wanted to lay hands on Holy Church's possessions, and objected
to singing _God Save the King_. And now you travel in the same
compartment with sweepers; and you think idolatry's quite a respectable
sort of soul-expression. Tell us how it happened.

THORP: I can't. You'd both think me a fool--as you do now. Only more so.
The worst kind of fool--a sentimental fool.

GREGORY: Take the risk.

THORP: I'm not sure that I know. It was a slow business. But I can
remember one or two things that helped it along.

(_Smiling._) Gregory's told you that I used to be a very different
fellow. I suppose I _was_ what he would call a bit spiky.

GREGORY: A bit? You were a bristling hedgehog. When we were both
chaplains to that Dacca Concentration Camp, you used to address all your
chits to me to _Mr._ Thomas Gregory. Never _Reverend_ mind you--I was a
Baptist, you see. And not _Esquire_, even, because a Baptist couldn't be
considered a gentleman.

THORP (_with conviction_): I was a narrow-minded ass, with the manners
of a swine. You were very decent about things, Gregory.

GREGORY (_complacently_): I think I was, on the whole.

THORP: I was pretty well pleased with myself, in those days. I was proud
of my 'Varsity record. I was proud of my old school--I am now. (_Almost
to himself._) I wish I could think they were proud of me. They had a
reunion at Simla last month. I didn't go. I was notified that most of
the fellows would rather that I didn't.

I was proud that I was a missionary, and didn't belong to the
Ecclesiastical Establishment. I really was keen on mediating between my
own race and Indians--I thought of that as a missionary's job and
privilege.

WALSH: There was nothing wrong in that. I don't pretend to be a
religious fellow myself, but I've met missionaries I thought were jolly
useful.

THORP: Well, that's how it began. As Gregory's hinted, I was a lot
friendlier with the heathen than with my brother Christians. I tried
living as an Indian--but it didn't work.

WALSH: You mean you couldn't stand it? Knocked you up?

THORP: Oh, not as badly as all that. I do it always now, and I'm better
than I ever was. No, it was my character that got knocked up.

GREGORY: I remember telling Williamson how fine we all thought it. "Do
you?" he said. "Try living with him when he comes back after a bout of
being Indian. He picks up all sorts of beastly scabs and itches, and
gets his digestion messed up with their foods, and he's as savage as a
wolf for weeks at a time. I've known several saints like that. I hope we
get no more in our Mission."

THORP (_smiling_): It _was_ hard on Williamson. It's no use wearing
Indian dress, if you haven't got the Indian spirit. I was very much of
the saheb in those days.

It didn't impress the heathen, either. Though I gave myself acute
discomfort, they beat me easily when I played the ascetic. There was a
holy man at Gaya who'd been lying on six-inch nails for a dozen years. I
went to talk to him, as one sadhu to another. But he simply spat, and
told a disciple to warn me not to come any nearer, lest my shadow
pollute him. I was a bit sick about that.

WALSH: His behaviour seems to have been a bit discourteous.

THORP: Still, I made friendships with leading Indians. They used to
flatter me a lot, and tell me I was the only European who really
understood them.

GREGORY: I know. They've told me the same. I used to believe them.

WALSH: Flattery's their way of bribing us. There are Englishmen who'd
knock you down if you offered them a king's ransom, however tactfully
and privately you did it; but they'll eat out of your hand if you'll
listen in an awed, impressed manner to their yarns about their shooting
or their golf. My office know that I secretly fancy my tennis a bit; and
a request for leave always starts with a deeply respectful inquiry about
my opinion as to net-play.

THORP: I made rather a reputation as a man who had influence with
Indians and who knew the Indian view. High officials used to consult me.
When I went to Simla, I always stayed at Viceregal Lodge--I was at
school with the Viceroy, you know. I was proud to think I had a foot in
each camp.

WALSH: I'm beginning to understand. You had to choose between them in
the end.

THORP: One always has to. Why isn't life easier? Why isn't it honester?
If rebellion came here, you might have to arrest me--shoot me, perhaps.
Yet a big part of your sympathy is in my camp, just as a part of mine
still is in yours.

GREGORY (_anxiously_): But you haven't gone clean over, Thorp. You're
still a Christian, for example.

THORP: Of course I'm a Christian. Christianity is the only teaching so
absolutely confused and contradictory that it fits life.

GREGORY: Confused and contradictory?

THORP: Haven't your own words shown that, just now? Doubles back on
itself and contradicts itself. So does life. "He that is not against us
is for us." The time has been when that was true--when we could reckon
such a man as you, Gregory, with your cautious anxiety always to be
sure that your big right didn't anywhere involve any small wrong--yes,
we could reckon you as a friend, even an ally. That time may come again;
but it's gone for the present. It's now, "He that is not for us is
against us."

(_Almost despairingly._) In the old days, everything was so simple.
There were the Church's sacraments and means of grace--the ordained
clergy--straightforward commandments which only needed to be expressed
in up-to-date slang and dressed up with a bit of second-hand
psychologising. Just a good, straight-ahead motor-road. I was on that
road.

WALSH (_sympathetically--nodding his head_): No one but a mental
deficient or a moral pervert would have chosen a jungly side-track, as
old Greg seemingly did.

THORP (_smiling_): That's what I felt. But I'm pretty sure that _I_
shan't see any sort of high road again, for this incarnation. (_To
himself._) I fancy Christ picked His way through swamps and jungles
often enough, in Galilee.

GREGORY: How long did it take you to find all this out?

THORP: Years. No, it didn't. Do you remember my little book on _The
Permanent Value of Aryan Culture_?

GREGORY (_with enthusiasm_): Rather. A ripping little thing. If you'd
only kept to that tack now! They use it in Mission Study circles all
over the world.

THORP (_smiling wanly_): Do they? With Slack's _Challenge of the Age_
and Hewitt's _Passion for Souls_, I suppose. Spiritual massage for
flaccid limbs. (_Ferociously._) What a treble-damned fool I was in those
days, Gregory! Excuse my swearing, Walsh. I never do it about anything
but myself.

WALSH: That's quite all right. It's the next best thing to kicking
oneself, which one can't do adequately. I'm going to finish by liking
you, Thorp.

GREGORY (_protestingly_): But it's a grand little book. It's
broad-minded--but not _too_ broad-minded. It's really and deeply
sympathetic with Indians, yet on the whole sees their faults very
clearly.

THORP: So Indians seem to think. Prakash Singh, to whom I dedicated it,
was the man I regarded as about my best friend. I thought my relations
with him were as safe as with anyone on the planet.

GREGORY: He ought to have been jolly bucked over the Dedication.

THORP: He refused to acknowledge it. When I realised something was
wrong, I called on him. I had a job even to get to see him. When I did,
I found him white with fury. He said I seemed to take it for granted
that I was entitled to talk to Indians as if they were a class I was
instructing for confirmation. I don't know where he got hold of the idea
of using that comparison. But it hurt. (_Smiling._) There seemed to me
something wrong, at that time, in an Indian being contemptuous of a
saheb--especially a saheb who was well-meaning and thought he had been
generous and helpful.

WALSH: I'd like to have known Brother Prakash. I've felt the same, when
I've read a kindly book by an American lady, rebuking England for her
sins and begging her to be more worthy of working, under America's
supervision, for the moral uplift of the world.

GREGORY: Yes, we religious and moral folk are a pretty trying lot.
Manners and a sense of humour aren't our long suits. I must look into
your book again, Thorp. Evidently my own sense of decency needs a bit of
refurbishing.

THORP: There was another thing that happened, too. You know, when one
reads of patriots, one always thinks of men--oh, you know--very unlike
those we meet every day. _All_ the right is on their side--and they're
so free from meanness and cowardice and self-seeking.

WALSH: Whereas, when you come close to them, you find them singularly
like brigands and mendicants.

THORP (_startled_): How did you know?

WALSH: Used to mix with them myself. When I was in Calcutta, my first
two years, I joined a sort of East and West Club. I was very keen on
bridging the gulf in those days. Used to read Laurence Hope and Edwin
Arnold--corresponded with Mrs. Besant, at one time. But somehow I didn't
seem to meet the best Indians. At least, it's to be hoped they weren't
the best. I've got some clerks in my office who are a sight better
chaps, though of course I wouldn't dream of asking them to tea or
dinner, even if they were willing to come. We just take the gulf for
granted--we gaze at each other across it, and rather like each other.

Go on about your brigands and mendicants. You can't tell us anything
about them that will surprise us.

THORP: Do you know Lady Milligan? A charming woman, one of the most
charming women in India, but--_hard_.

WALSH: Many of our women get like that, Thorp. India's a devilish life
for them. We may have to clear out to save _their_ souls, if not our
own. She _was_ hard--but as pretty as a picture.

THORP: I was riding with her at Darjiling once, on the Chowrasta, when
we went by a whole gang of Indians I knew--briefless pleaders and
ex-students, loafers who pretended to be patriots. No, I'm
ungenerous--they _did_ care, of course. We've come to a time when
practically every Indian is secretly crazy for _swaraj_.

WALSH: Afraid so. The devil knows there are precious few genuine
loyalists. You can hear this particular bee humming in pretty well every
bonnet, if you listen for it.

THORP: Anyway, these fellows were--well, what we have made Indians. You
can see for yourself every day.

GREGORY: Why _we_?

THORP: Well, centuries of servitude--in Bengal, at least. I'll admit
we're responsible for only the last century and a half. But this lot
were a pretty depressing set.

WALSH: Don't describe them. We know. They opened their betel-stained
jaws, and gave you a great, ghastly, crimson leer of recognition.

THORP: They did. They hailed me with needless vociferousness. "Mr.
Thorp, how are _you_? When shall we see you again, for a long talk?"
They were only too pleased to show that they were friendly with a saheb
who was riding with a Member of Council's lady. And she was just mad.
She turned her horse's head, and gave me a freezing look. "You pick up
strange friends, Mr. Thorp." And I was mad, too; and I said, "Oh,
they've heard my name somewhere." "Evidently," she said; "fairly often,
I should say." At breakfast afterwards she said: "We met some of Mr.
Thorp's queer friends on the Chowrasta." And I said, "They weren't my
friends. I don't know who they were."

WALSH: Well, I don't know that I should consider folk friends who showed
their affection in that fashion.

THORP: That doesn't let me off. I've done atonement for that lie many a
time. Whenever I get impatient over the way some Indians are led
occasionally into exaggeration, I think of their centuries of serfdom
and fear; and I remember my lie because of my fear. Fear of what? Of a
pretty woman's annoyance! Merely that!

WALSH: Merely that! My friend, that's a fear which causes more lying and
prevarication than any other fear, since the Holy Inquisition gave up
practice.

THORP: What Gregory said just now reminded me of it; and I came nearer
forgiving him for what I've always thought his disloyalty to the cause
of freedom, than I ever did before.

WALSH: What Gregory said?

THORP: He was speaking of the excuse the Roman official had for
despising the Early Christians. There always _is_ an excuse--but that
doesn't excuse us. "He that denieth Me before men, him will I deny
before My Father which is in heaven."

WALSH: That's rather a far-fetched inference, isn't it? You're
overstrained, Thorp. You've been worrying over political matters too
much and too long. Laugh at them, as I do.

THORP: Why not speak out what you think? Say that I'm mad.

WALSH (_evasively_): Every man over thirty-five who's worth anything is
mad. All I should say is that your madness has taken a morbid,
unfortunate turn.

GREGORY: Why not come and live with your own countrymen again for a bit,
Thorp? You've got everything out of perspective. It isn't natural. You
were born an Englishman, and were meant to live with Englishmen. You can
go back to Indians again. Only rest your mind for a while.

THORP: I can't. This is my way now--to the end. You think I'm making a
fuss about very little. People have always thought that about every
fuss. Gregory got it just now, when he spoke of the difficulty of
getting past the mass of followers--who, after all, are just common clay
like ourselves, and can't be expected to be saints or heroes--and seeing
a St. Paul or a Gandhi.

WALSH: Thorp, Thorp, Thorp! Now why on earth----

THORP (_in a lower tone_): We never think those words apply to us--"He
that denieth Me." We imagine a grand, brave figure facing his enemies--a
man with the double fire of genius and of saintliness in his eyes--and
then we imagine ourselves springing forward, and defying anyone to say a
word against him. But it doesn't happen so--at least, not once in ten
thousand times. Usually it's negroes singing hymns and chicken-stealing
--or it's illiterate and bigoted village Nonconformists--or rabbit-brained
High Church idiots--or envious, half-educated Bengali oafs. These keep
the _idea_, which is what matters--the bread by which the generations
live. But the treasure's in earthen vessels, truly; and the vessels are
rarely decently clean.

WALSH: Thorp, now I _know_ you're mad. Dangerously mad. Or else drunk.

THORP: No, I'm not. "Not many wise, not many mighty----"

WALSH: Yes, but it's nowhere said, "Blessed are the skunks, for theirs
is the Kingdom of God."

THORP (_very earnestly_): It's only our fine-gentlemanliness that thinks
they are skunks. I've been telling you how I used to feel. God forgive
me! for a moment I almost thought I felt that way still. But it was all
a hideous mistake. I've got to know them now, and I can see how utterly
I used to misunderstand Indians. I've been doing atonement daily for my
cruel injustice to them.

WALSH (_half impatiently_): Atonement be damned! Why are you havering
about atonement all the time?

THORP: Because England has never done it to India; and she has got to do
it. That's what they all feel. England has got to repent for all her
injustice. Then there will be peace.

    [_Footsteps and voices are heard inside the house. The purdah
    at the back is suddenly pushed aside, and_ MRS. GREGORY _enters
    with an Indian Sub-Inspector of Police, who salutes_ WALSH _and_
    GREGORY.

MRS. GREGORY: Tom! Mr. Lomax----

WALSH, GREGORY (_together_): Lomax? Lomax? What's the news from Lomax?

MRS. GREGORY: He has been murdered at Khantihar!

WALSH, GREGORY (_together_): Lomax murdered!

SUB-INSPECTOR: They have burnt down the dispensary and police-station,
sir. The mob is in possession of Khantihar.

WALSH: Where is Mr. Lomax's body?

SUB-INSPECTOR: They poured kerosene oil on it, and burnt it with the
chairs and benches of the dispensary.

WALSH: I take executive charge. Sub-Inspector, let the armed police
assemble here, in front of this house--as quickly as you can. Leave a
guard with Mrs. Gregory; or send one, if you have no police here.

MRS. GREGORY (_she is very quiet and self-possessed_): There is no need.
I am going round to spend the night with Mrs. Lomax. She is alone.

WALSH: Send the guard round there, then.

SUB-INSPECTOR (_saluting_): Yes, sir.      [_Exit._

THORP: One moment. Before there is any more bloodshed, would it not be
well for me to speak to the people?

WALSH (_with cold fury_): Take my advice, and just drop out of this
picture. Why the devil did you ever come here--you and your Mahatmajee,
crazing a mob who were blood-mad already?

I'll see that someone swings for killing Lomax, if I have to do it with
my own hands.

THORP (_persistent_): If I can get Mr. Ranade to use his influence with
the people----

WALSH (_by a tremendous effort controlling himself--ignoring_ THORP):
Gregory, you and Max are the only volunteers in this station. Send Max a
chit, that's a good fellow. You know the sign-words--_Verb. sap._ Or
_sap._ by itself is enough. "_Sap._ College House." Then we'll have him
round here, with his rifle, in twenty minutes.

MRS. GREGORY: I'll send, Mr. Walsh.

WALSH: Will you, really? Thanks awfully, Mrs. Gregory.

    [MRS. GREGORY _goes out_.

I'll go and get my gun, and see that the car's all right.      [_Exit._

    [_There is the sound of a car being started outside._ GREGORY
    _goes over to a corner, and takes up a rifle. He begins to clean
    it with a pull-through._ THORP _is standing about aimlessly,
    miserable_.

GREGORY (_looking down the muzzle of his rifle_): I can't help it,
Thorp, honestly. We're just Englishmen now, and we've got to do our job.


CURTAIN.




ACT III


    _The bazar at Khantihar; a side street. At the back of the
    stage, a Narasingha--"Man-Lion"--incarnation of_ VISHNU, _in
    plaster; a seated figure twenty feet high, with hideous open
    jaws, lined with huge teeth. The figure of an Englishman lies
    across its knees; its claws are ripping up his bowels. At the
    base of the image are conventional figures grouped about it: a
    cow and a Hindu peasant with palms together in adoration of it,
    a woman representing India, and figures of_ MAHATMA GANDHI _and
    the_ ALI BROTHERS _signifying the Hindu-Mohammadan
    rapprochement_.

    _It is night, and very dark; after ten o'clock. Before the
    Narasingha are standing_ WALSH, GREGORY, HORTON, _the_
    SUB-INSPECTOR _and half a dozen police. All have rifles; several
    of the police have lanterns._ WALSH _and_ GREGORY _are in the
    evening dress they were wearing in Act II. The police have
    charge of an Indian whose hands are chained._


WALSH: No need for any more firing, I think, Sub-Inspector The mob seems
pretty well dispersed. Only keep an eye open.

GREGORY: I think we've settled the matter. It's a ghastly business, at
best. It's been done as cheaply as we could hope.

WALSH (_dazed--rests his head on his hand_): Anyway, they asked for
trouble. Any of our men hurt, Sub-Inspector?

SUB-INSPECTOR: Constable Hiralal Singh has been severely wounded by a
large stone, sir. A woman dropped it on his head, from a house in the
bazar.

WALSH: What have you done with him?

SUB-INSPECTOR: He is over there, sir. (_Indicates recumbent figure._)

WALSH (_going over to him and examining him_): He'll get all right. Bad
luck, though. Why can't the women keep out of these messes?

BASANTA CHATTERJEE (_the Indian prisoner_): Do _your_ women keep out of
them?

WALSH: Eh, what? I'd forgotten about you, my friend.

    [_He turns to the Indian, and opens his electric torch on him._
    CHATTERJEE _is a Bengali of about_ WALSH'S _age; about_ WALSH'S
    _height, too, spare and slender. He has dark, glittering eyes._

CHATTERJEE: Who writes the bitterest letters in your papers? Who
collected the Amritsar money?

WALSH: Who collects the money for missions, the pictures to sell at
church bazars, the old clothes for jumble sales? Bless me, you don't
suppose our men have time for this kind of work, do you?

Sub-Inspector, what do you reckon the total casualties at? What would
_you_ say, Gregory?

GREGORY: Eight or nine killed--perhaps a dozen. Six times as many
wounded?

SUB-INSPECTOR: I think Mr. Gregory is right, sir.

WALSH (_almost as if talking to himself_): I don't see how we could help
it. They'd have swept us down if we'd hesitated. And then it would have
been just a deluge of murder slopping over the whole province. And, if
once the European community had got out of hand----

(_Almost appealingly._) Sub-Inspector, don't you see I was really
holding my own people back as much as yours? It had to be done.

SUB-INSPECTOR: Yes, sir.

WALSH: Two tides of savagery rushing up, and I had to hold the only
gate. I couldn't help it.

Did you see whom we killed?

SUB-INSPECTOR: They were mostly men, sir.

WALSH: Mostly men! But not all!

SUB-INSPECTOR: You could not help it, sir.

WALSH: Any children?

GREGORY: Chuck it, Walsh, that's a good fellow. We've done it now, and
it had to be done. _Of course_ there were children. You don't send
bullets ricochetting down narrow lanes without a few spraying into
places where there are children. There were kiddies with the mob, too. I
want to forget it.

(_Putting a hand on_ WALSH'S _shoulder_.) You had to do it, old man; and
you did it well. I'll take over now. You rest a bit. Here, sit down.
(_He indicates the coping of a well._)

WALSH (_sitting down_): Thanks. (_He rests his head in his hands._) Just

for five minutes.

HORTON: I say, Gregory!

GREGORY: Hullo, Max!

HORTON: Do you think it's quite safe here? Right in the midst of the
bazar? Couldn't they rush us from the side streets?

WALSH (_thickly_): We're not going to kill any more, even if it isn't.
Anyone can have _my_ blood, who wants it.

GREGORY (_to_ HORTON): Don't worry, old boy. Safe as houses.

HORTON: But these side streets?

GREGORY: Empty; and will remain empty. Once it's dispersed, an Indian
mob doesn't reassemble.

WALSH: We'll have no more killing.

HORTON: There'll be no need for any more killing, if we go where they'll
leave us alone.

GREGORY: They'll leave us alone, Max. By now the whole countryside is
convinced that we're demons in human form. This time to-morrow we'll
have killed a couple of thousand people, according to the Indian press.
And they'll believe it.

WALSH (_rising_): Greg, I'm taking over again.

GREGORY: There's no need, Walsh. There's nothing doing. Just take it
easy while we think out the next move.

WALSH: No, I must. We haven't finished our job yet. My head was a bit
dizzy--smell of blood, I suppose. I often feel like that at a shoot. I'm
all right again.

HORTON: I say, if we're really safe, oughtn't we to see to the poor
devils who've been wounded? (_He looks to the_ SUB-INSPECTOR
_inquiringly_.)

SUB-INSPECTOR: That is not our work, sir.

WALSH: Yes, it is, Babu. An Englishman said that once before, and we
can't afford to have it said again. But there's something else first.
What's happened to Inayat Khan?

SUB-INSPECTOR: He is in that house over there, sir. Some of my
constables are guarding it. He has no arms with him.

WALSH: Tell him to give himself up at once.

SUB-INSPECTOR (_saluting_): Yes, sir. Sir.

WALSH: What is it, Sub-Inspector?

SUB-INSPECTOR: Are we to arrest Nagen Babu too, sir? He is in the same
house.

WALSH: Of course. Why the devil not?

SUB-INSPECTOR: He has always practised strictly non-violent
non-co-operation, sir.

WALSH: If any man's in the picture, he is. He's founded and kept going a
whole college of sedition.

    [SUB-INSPECTOR _salutes, and goes out_.

(_To_ CHATTERJEE.) You've burnt your fingers at last, haven't you? What
made _you_ play the fool in this way? I suppose you couldn't manage to
get a job?

HORTON: Chuck it, Walsh. It's all very well for you fellows with brains
and a chance at the 'Varsity----

WALSH: What d'you mean, Max? He had those, right enough.

HORTON: Yes, but you had heaps of other pull, which he hadn't. I've been
an under-dog, and I _know_. It's no joke finding that people don't think
your brains are worth paying for.

It's a bit thick, insulting a man whose hands are tied.

WALSH: You're right, Max. I'm sorry, Chatterjee. But, you know, you
_did_ belong to my college, didn't you? It's hard to forgive a fellow
who's disgraced your college.

CHATTERJEE: You choose to call it disgrace. Others call it honour.

WALSH: Yes, your own gang. Not decent people.

CHATTERJEE: That is, not your friends. But you English are not in God's
judgment-seat, though you always assume that you are.

WALSH: Anyway, you've broken the law. You'll stand your trial for that.

CHATTERJEE: A law I had no share in making. A law I never accepted.

GREGORY: Then you don't accept the law that there is everywhere, against
violence and murder?

CHATTERJEE: Who are you that speak to me?

GREGORY: My name's Gregory.

CHATTERJEE: The Principal of the Baptist Missionary College?

GREGORY: Yes.

CHATTERJEE: You are a padre, are you not? (GREGORY _nods_.) Have _you_
not a law against violence and murder? Is _that_ (_indicating_ GREGORY'S
_rifle_) what you brought to preach to us with?

GREGORY: You do not understand. I was called out, being a volunteer, to
help in suppressing disorder.

CHATTERJEE: Ah, then, you were a volunteer? All these years you have
been ready to shoot Indians down, as well as preach to them.

HORTON: I must say, Gregory, I had been wondering a bit about it myself.

WALSH: Practically every white man out here is a volunteer, Max. It may
not be logical, but old Greg's been jolly useful to-day This isn't a
time when we can afford to split hairs.

CHATTERJEE: No. But only to shed blood.

WALSH (_turning on him fiercely_): Who started the blood-shedding?

CHATTERJEE: The English, long ago, when they forced their rule upon a
country not theirs, a country that never wanted them. How much blood has
your Empire in India cost?

WALSH: Tens of thousands of our best lives, freely given.

CHATTERJEE: And millions of Indian lives. For every one of yours you
have exacted a hundred from us.

    [_Enter_ SUB-INSPECTOR.

SUB-INSPECTOR: Sir, Inayat Khan says he will surrender if his life is
guaranteed to him.

WALSH (_savagely_): Stands on terms, does he? Starts hell in a town
where he has no earthly business; and then, when one of the best fellows
that ever walked has his skull battered in, he wants to insist that he
gets off scot-free himself! Tell him you'll hack his door down, and
shoot him like a mad dog, if he doesn't come in without any more
nonsense.

SUB-INSPECTOR: Yes, sir. And Nagen Babu, sir?

WALSH: Tell him the same. I can guarantee nothing. The matter won't be
in my hands. They'll be sent up to sessions, of course. Thank God we
haven't got martial law here!

    [_Exit_ SUB-INSPECTOR.

CHATTERJEE: Martial law or civil law, it is all the same. Tiger and
tigress both drink blood.

WALSH: You think so, do you? Wait till martial law's proclaimed in some
district where you are, and you have some damned fool of a brigadier and
some equally damned fools of all ranks, from subaltern upwards, who all
think that martial law's just a Heaven-sent device to enable them to
string people up without trial.

CHATTERJEE: The trial merely legalises the murder. It does not make it
not murder.

WALSH: No. It delays things. And it isn't easy to kill a man when you
take time to think about it.

GREGORY (_who has been brooding_): I say, Chatterjee. About this rifle.
I want to explain. When I came out here, I joined the Light Horse. I
never thought about it. It was what everyone did, and it simply meant
exercise and training, when otherwise you'd have been too slack to give
it to yourself. I swear to you, I never dreamed it would come to being
called out to shoot down Indians. Honestly, I didn't.

CHATTERJEE: I suppose you shoot in the jungles? Birds? Animals?

GREGORY: Yes, of course. I do a bit of that. But that's sport.

CHATTERJEE: I understand. You English cannot do without blood, even in
peace time.

WALSH: Some of us manage to get along on precious little. I've hardly
ever seen old Greg hit a thing. His shooting's like your cricket used to
be, Chatterjee. Both cases of strictly non-violent non-co-operation.

CHATTERJEE (_smiling unwillingly_): And _your_ cricket?

WALSH: Not much better, I confess. (_To_ GREGORY _and_ HORTON.) We both
used to turn out occasionally for the College second. Only when they
were _very_ hard-up. Used to be ferreted out at the last moment, when
all hope had been abandoned.

CHATTERJEE (_smiling_): You do me an injustice. I was once included in
the first draft.

WALSH: Ah, you had the advantage of being a dark horse when you came.
But _my_ form was rigidly assessed from the first. You see, the St.
Peter's skipper came from my old school. It used to be a case of "Walsh,
old man, I'm hoping for better things, of course, but--if the worst
comes to the worst--you'll turn out this afternoon, won't you? We've got
a game of sorts on, against the Littlemore Nonesuches or the Keble
Unbelievables." And I'd say, "Hang it all, Billy, can't you get old
Jabberjee?" And he'd say, "He's roped in already, and told off to run
after the wicket-keeper's misses. So we'll probably need you to chase
the balls at square-leg."

But I seem to remember you once hitting a four, Chatterjee?

CHATTERJEE (_brightening_): I did, against Teddy Hall. It was this way.
They had quite a fast bowler--a _very_ fast bowler--and I took my
bat----(_Making to illustrate, he realises that his hands are chained
together, and turns his face away, silent with mortification._)

HORTON (_going up to him quickly_): Don't take on about it, Chatterjee.
Damn it all, Walsh, take these things off him!

WALSH: I can't, I'm afraid. But I'm sick about it, Chatterjee, really.

Oh, Gregory, I wish we could chuck this governing trade. Why is it you
can't stay a gentleman, if you once start standing over other people?

    [_Enter the_ SUB-INSPECTOR _with_ NAGEN, SARAT, _and_ INAYAT
    KHAN, _guarded, the last handcuffed_.

GREGORY (_startled_): Halt! Who goes there?

SUB-INSPECTOR: Friend.

INAYAT KHAN: It should be _friends_. Plural.

WALSH: Ah, a pleasing sense of humour, even in misfortune. A merry heart
doeth good like a medicine. Glad to find you cheerful, Mr. Khan.

    [INAYAT KHAN _is led forward--a Mohammadan, bearded and fezzed.
    He is an old man, but vigorous and stalwart in the extreme._

INAYAT KHAN: Oh, yes. Dogs pick up some of their masters' merits, you
know. Only some, of course. In this case, the Englishman's well-known
cheerfulness in face of danger.

GREGORY (_borrowing a lantern from a constable, and swinging it round_):
But what's this? What's Sarat Babu doing here? You've had nothing to do
with this, Sarat Babu. Send him home, Walsh.

WALSH: Yes, get away home, Sarat Babu. How did you get here at all? I
saw you in Mr. Gregory's study not an hour ago. Why, the man's been
running!

SUB-INSPECTOR: He rushed up when I was arresting Nagen Babu, sir, and
insisted on being arrested also. He is not a non-co-operator, sir. We
know him. Mr. Gregory knows him. He is a very loyal servant of the
Government.

WALSH: And I'm damned if I know how even Nagen Babu got here.

NAGEN (_triumphantly_): I cycled.

SARAT: And I ran all the way.

WALSH: Well, I wish you'd run all the way back. We don't want Sarat
Babu, Sub-Inspector.

SARAT: But I am not going. I am now a non-co-operator.

WALSH: That doesn't in itself make you a criminal, though it may show
you're a fool. Get away home, man.

NAGEN (_exultantly_): He wishes to make atonement for his disloyalty to
his country. Let him go to prison. It is right that we should all go to
prison.

GREGORY: Go home, Sarat Babu. There's been rebellion and murder, and
there's no call for decent citizens to be mixed up with it.

SARAT: Mr. Gregory, I refuse to go.

WALSH: Very well, then, damn you. Stay.

NAGEN: If Sarat Babu----

WALSH: Shut up, Nagen Babu. I want a few words with these learned
Thebans here. If either you or Sarat Babu say another word, on my soul
I'll--I'll--(_smiling grimly_)--release you both.

NAGEN (_earnestly_): Oh, sir, please do not.

WALSH: All right, you two be quiet then, and behave yourselves, if you
want me to send you to jail.

GREGORY (_smiling sadly_): You've managed to get arrested at last, Nagen
Babu. Now don't go and spoil a good chance!

SUB-INSPECTOR: Shall I march the prisoners in to Durgapur, sir?

GREGORY: Yes, hadn't we better be getting a move on?

HORTON: Walsh, we've got to do something for the wounded.

WALSH (_reminded_): Sub-Inspector! Take your men, and see that all the
badly wounded are collected. Get the people to take them in, and tell
them to send all expenses in to me.

SARAT: Never. No Indian grudges expense for the sick or unfortunate.

WALSH: You haven't seen bullets at work. I'm afraid some of the expenses
will run high--I don't doubt people's willingness to give food and
nursing.

INAYAT KHAN (_angrily_): You shall not insult us with your help! You
murder us, and then offer money! No one will let you pollute our misery
with your touch!

WALSH: Sub-Inspector, let it be known also that the Civil Surgeon will
be here early to-morrow, for all wounded who cannot walk in to Durgapur.

SUB-INSPECTOR: Yes, sir. Sir!

WALSH: What is it, Sub-Inspector?

SUB-INSPECTOR: The people will not dare to come. They will think that,
when he takes down their names, it is as evidence against them.

WALSH (_wearily_): Tell them Walsh Saheb is not a fool. I know that,
when you fire down a street, you hit a lot of folk who simply happen to
be there--or are there because they saw other people there. Tell them
that the mere fact of his being wounded shall not be brought in as
evidence against any single person. Haven't enough died already? Are
others to die from lack of decent treatment?

They'll take my word, won't they, if you tell them _on the honour of
Walsh Saheb_? (_As_ SUB-INSPECTOR _seems to waver_.) All right, then.
Tell them _on the honour of Gregory Saheb_.

SUB-INSPECTOR: Your name will be sufficient, sir. I will give Mr.
Gregory's as well. Shall I not leave a guard with the prisoners?

WALSH: Their hands are tied, and we have guns. Isn't that humiliation
enough for us?

SUB-INSPECTOR: But if they try to escape? Shall I fetter them?

WALSH: Not if they'll give me their word. Nagen Babu and Sarat Babu, you
don't want to escape?

NAGEN (_beaming_): No, sir.

WALSH: And I don't care two pins if you do. Chatterjee? Inayat Khan?

INAYAT KHAN (_sullenly_): I will never give my word to an Englishman.

CHATTERJEE: Nor I.

WALSH: Then give it for old times' sake, Chatterjee. You see, if you
should suddenly want to get away, I'd have no choice but to shoot you
down.

INAYAT KHAN: We are prepared to die. Now or on the gallows, what odds?
No one looks for mercy from the English.

WALSH: You may think you are prepared to die. But I'm not prepared to
kill you--not now. I was half an hour ago.

CHATTERJEE, think for me a bit, as one gentleman for another.

CHATTERJEE (_in a low voice_): I give my word, Walsh.

WALSH: Thank you. (_He looks inquiringly at_ INAYAT KHAN.)

INAYAT KHAN (_ferociously_): Never. Do what you like.

WALSH: Your own choice, then. Sub-Inspector! (_He points to_ INAYAT
KHAN, _whom a constable fetters_.) You can leave the keys with me,
Sub-Inspector. And a lantern or two.

    [SUB-INSPECTOR _salutes, gives up the keys, and goes out with
    his constables_.

Chatterjee, why on earth did you come messing yourself up with rebellion
and murder?

INAYAT KHAN (_scornfully_): Rebellion! Murder!

WALSH: Yes, of as fine a fellow as ever worked for ungrateful curs and
slaves. The reckoning for his death isn't done with. You'll stand your
trial on a double capital charge--waging war against the King-Emperor
and murder.

CHATTERJEE: It is not we who are guilty for the murder--as you call
it--or what you choose to call rebellion. It is the English who created
the situation which makes all normal existence one continued state of
violence. Out of the passive violence the active violence is bound to
spring sooner or later.

WALSH: You are too subtle for me. All I know is, you folk started the
killing here.

INAYAT KHAN: You have taken lives for your one life, as you always do.

It is an act approved of God to kill His enemies. The English are the
enemies of the whole human race. Let the English go. Then the violence
that they have brought will go with them.

WALSH: We brought you the peace which you are now daily breaking.

NAGEN (_excitedly_): You offer us peace, to buy our souls with!

GREGORY (_impressively_): We offer you partnership in the Empire. India,
before the non-co-operators came, was marching under Britain's guidance
to prosperity. Peace, abundance, the world's markets--all this is yours
with us. You are too weak to stand alone.

NAGEN: The kingdoms of the world and their lordship. Only fall down and
worship me.

GREGORY: Nagen Babu----

NAGEN (_in an ecstatic chant_): If ye be willing and obedient, ye shall
eat of the fat of the land. But if ye refuse and rebel, ye shall be
devoured with the sword. (_With surprising ferocity._) For the mouth of
the Lord hath spoken it.

GREGORY (_surprised_): The Reforms were a genuine measure of
self-government. You can't expect in a day what it took us centuries of
slow evolution to get.

INAYAT KHAN: It took you only a day to take it from us. Then you can
give it back in a day.

GREGORY (_persistent_): They were expressly stated to be only an
instalment, to be followed by others.

CHATTERJEE (_in an ecstasy of rage_): Yes! And England was to be the
judge, at each stage, if further self-government was due! India was to
be a child with its kind, good nurse! India--that was great and wise and
civilised millenniums before your savage race was even heard of!

You bring us what you call a boon in your left hand and an insult in
your right! Take your boon and insult back together!

WALSH (_angrily_): We're not going to enter upon a political wrangle
with you. I remember your gift of argufying from of old. It's that
that's led you into this mess.

(_Reminiscently._) You made yourself rather notorious at the Union,
didn't you?

CHATTERJEE (_furious_): I've done with you, Walsh.

WALSH (_with cold, restrained anger_): I remember now. A somewhat
florid, flamboyant gift of speech. What was it the _Thames_ said? "Mr.
Jabberjee--we beg his pardon, Mr. Chatterjee--but, after all, jabber and
chatter are sufficiently alike to excuse our slip--enlivened the evening
with the most unintentionally humorous speech of the session."

CHATTERJEE (_shouting_): You wrote that vile notice yourself!

HORTON: Chuck it, Walsh. It isn't playing the game. And it isn't funny.

WALSH: I won't chuck it. It's always been this people's particular way
of making idiots of themselves, and someone ought to point it out to
them.

GREGORY: Stacks of people have pointed it out to them. Better drop it,
Walsh.

INAYAT KHAN: Do not speak to him. We are prisoners and helpless, and he
insults us.

CHATTERJEE: How was I to know that your wretched Union was just a sham
and a joke and a humbug? I had read about England being the home of
oratory, about Burke and Pitt and Sheridan and Gladstone--and I had read
that many of your best speakers in the House of Commons first made their
reputations at the Union----

WALSH: Yes, but not by your style of oratory. By airy persiflage.

CHATTERJEE: Airy persiflage, indeed! You laughed at us Indians for our
seriousness. But let me tell you, you seemed to us like children, with
your schoolboy style of wit--always trying to be funny! Raise a laugh,
if you do nothing else! Show how smart you are! Why, the children in our
primary schools are above that sort of thing!

WALSH (_reddening_): Come, you're too heavy about it. If you come to our
schools and colleges, you must expect to be chaffed a bit.

CHATTERJEE: Yes! And all your jokes hurt. All your English jokes always
have hurt. Your Norse ancestors used to throw the bones about when
they'd finished feasting; and the flagons. And if they hurt a man, it
was a great jest. And if his skull was cracked and he died, everyone
swore it was the best thing they'd seen that year.

And you're still the same. Your bigger boys at what you call your public
schools boast of tanning the little boys. Corporal punishment is your
greatest jest.

Will you _never_ understand why we hate you?

INAYAT KHAN: We are not being tried in your court. You have no right to
question us and harass us.

GREGORY: You must drop it, Walsh. We'll march them in to Durgapur, as
soon as the Sub-Inspector comes back.

WALSH: I'm sorry. I don't know what's happened to me. Something's
snapped in my brain. It's a dark, miserable night. Gregory, what are we
doing here?

GREGORY: We're waiting for the Sub-Inspector to come back. He's
collecting the wounded.

HORTON: Just let Gregory take over, Walsh. You're beat to the wide, old
man. You're done up.

WALSH: No, I remember now. There's a man here, Chatterjee, who was at
St. Peter's with me. They ragged him a bit because his name sounded
funny.

CHATTERJEE: Was it any funnier than Clutterbuck? Or Higginbotham? Both
names sound funny to Indians.

HORTON: They _are_ funny.

CHATTERJEE: When I rowed in our third boat one year, everyone thought it
very witty to ask about our first or second boat, "Is that the St.
Peter's boat that has a _white_ man in it?"

WALSH: I know. It _was_ pretty shabby. I can see that now, though I
thought it a good joke at the time--I'm hanged if I know why.

GREGORY: I was looking through some old _Grantas_ the other day, and
yawning over things I once thought shriekingly funny and no end smart.
Articles by men who've since made a big name--some of them.

WALSH: We've grown into old buffers, Greg. I don't even think it funny
now if a chap calls an egg an albuminiferous oval destined to a
gallinaceous future.

Look here, Chatterjee. I want to get to the bottom of this. I didn't
write that notice in the _Thames_. Honour bright, I didn't. I don't know
who did; and I don't know why I suddenly remembered it so well.

CHATTERJEE: You did not write it, though you remember it?

WALSH: No, I didn't. Now help me. You didn't hate England when you first
came to Oxford?

CHATTERJEE: Hate it? I worshipped its name. I was prepared to find
Paradise at Oxford.

WALSH: I'm sorry, Chatterjee.

NAGEN: Better keep to our own country. Earthen pots should not go near
iron pots.

INAYAT KHAN: Speak for yourself, Bengali. India has her own iron pots,
as the English will find out.

CHATTERJEE: My people starved and scraped to pay my bills. I lived in
the meanest lodgings I could find, with landladies who stole my tea and
sugar, and who quarrelled with me over the amount of electric light they
said I used. But nothing would have mattered if----(_He hesitates._)

WALSH: If what, Chatterjee?

CHATTERJEE: I thought I should find Oxford the home of universal
culture, and meet people who were proud of our ancient Aryan culture,
because England and India were so closely connected.

GREGORY: You didn't, of course. You wouldn't have succeeded at
Cambridge, even.

CHATTERJEE: There was a society who called themselves the Eclectics.
Their idea was to get all the world's poetry together, to see how it
compared, and if there really were any universal standards. _You_ came
sometimes, Walsh!

WALSH (_evasively_): Oh, only very occasionally. I heard that you read
to them once.

CHATTERJEE: It was after they'd read a lot of Richard le Gallienne and
Swinburne. I recited a few _slokas_ from the _Meghaduta_. I was going to
translate them, and compare them with the English poetry, but I never
had the chance, for everyone was doubled up with laughter. Then some
idiots started to rag. A couple of fellows went over to a piano, and
sang _The Massacre of Phairson_. After every stanza they made a noise
like two badly hurt hyenas, and then assured the audience that "that's
the Sanskrit chorus," instead of "that's the Gaelic chorus." (_Seeing_
WALSH _and_ GREGORY _smile_.) You men seem to think it all very amusing.

GREGORY: We're beginning to diagnose your case more accurately,
Chatterjee, and it's not so bad as it seemed. You took things too
seriously, you know. I'm not going to pretend that our public schools
and 'Varsities are all right; but you mustn't believe everything you
hear against them. Just as there are boys--very decent chaps, many of
them--who ought never to be sent away to school, so there are men who
never ought to go to a 'Varsity. You had an unfortunate experience; but,
you know, you _did_ take things a bit hardly.

WALSH: All the same, that doesn't acquit us of damned bad manners.

HORTON: There's something wrong, too, if a lot of these chaps really
start enthusiastic about the Empire and England, and we can't keep them
so.

CHATTERJEE: That wasn't all. I thought I should find in Oxford sympathy
with Indian aspirations.

WALSH: And, instead, you found it the most conservative hole in the
three worlds.

GREGORY (_grinning_): You should have tried Cambridge.

CHATTERJEE: You Englishmen are never serious.

GREGORY: Oh, yes, we are. But we're not going to make heavy weather over
the antics of a few boys. All the same, we're sorry you got the
impression that your country wasn't taken seriously.

CHATTERJEE: Was it a wrong impression?

GREGORY (_uneasily_): Why, of course.

CHATTERJEE (_indignantly_): It was not. Walsh, you read poetry?

WALSH: Used to--a lot of it. Can't stick it now, at any price. Get the
_London Mercury_ regularly, but I don't pretend to understand the stuff
they put in or why they put it in.

GREGORY: Walsh is a Philistine, Chatterjee. Ask Max here.

CHATTERJEE (_ignoring him_): Walsh, what's your impression of Indian
poetry?

WALSH: Twaddle about cows and lotuses, mostly. I'm sorry, Chatterjee,
but you asked for it.

CHATTERJEE: What have you read?

WALSH: Oh, Edwin Arnold. The usual stuff. You know.

CHATTERJEE (_with fervour_): I _do_ know. Damn Edwin Arnold. Damn
Laurence Hope. Damn Rabindranath Tagore.

WALSH: Amen, amen, amen. Gregory, there's a commination service on. Give
it your blessing. Chatterjee bids thee stand on a high mountain, and
curse the tents of Midian.

HORTON: But Indian plays have often had a very good run in London.

CHATTERJEE (_derisively_): Yes! _Chu-chin-chow_ plays. _Green Goddess_
plays. Or plays with a young Englishman hero and harem scenes with a lot
of girls singing love-songs and practising high-kicking.

GREGORY (_suddenly jovial_): Chatterjee's right. My hat! but we _are_
asses, for a people who've had a huge Empire all these years!

    [_To the amazement of the company, he suddenly throws his legs
    heavily round, and sings._

        I _do_ love this English lad, I love and adore!
          Dinky winky, yes, I do!
        Seeing him, I love him more and more!
          So--would--_yew_!

HORTON (_impressed_): By Jove, that _is_ about it. Why don't you go in
for writing revue, Gregory? You'd make a fortune at it.

WALSH (_judicially_): Yes, he's got quite a good hand at light verse,
has old Greg. But _those_ lines want a bit more snap, to make them
really _go_. Or a very pretty girl to sing them.

Chatterjee looks quite cheered.

CHATTERJEE: I didn't know Englishmen could laugh at themselves.

GREGORY: Oh, yes, we can whiles. But, you know, Chatterjee, I've seen
some of your own so-called comic plays in Calcutta, with their
Englishman who does nothing but keep on saying, "Damn it! Damn it!"

WALSH: Honours even, gentlemen. Begin the next round.

CHATTERJEE: I never finished my Oxford course. I went to Germany. They
took our Aryan culture seriously there. The professors, when they met
me, would recite passages from the _Rig-Veda_----

WALSH: Ah, they'd get the gutturals better than we can.

CHATTERJEE (_smiling_): No. Worse, if anything. But I got my
self-respect back. I felt I was treated as an equal. Even the students
would ask me eagerly about Kalidasa and the Sanskrit drama and the court
of Vikramaditya.

HORTON: You liked the Germans better, then?

CHATTERJEE: No. I mean, yes, of course I did.

INAYAT KHAN (_who has been listening in contemptuous silence--with a
voice of thunder_): You mean _no_, my friend. You are false and a slave,
as all Bengalis are. You would serve the English if they would only give
you a few flattering words.

CHATTERJEE: I hate the English as much as you do.

INAYAT KHAN: What does a child like you know of hating? In your secret
heart of hearts you bow down before them.

GREGORY (_hastily--trying to bring the conversation back to less
troubled waters_): You misunderstood things, Chatterjee. It isn't good
form with us to be enthusiastic openly. But English scholars have given
Indian culture a great deal of praise.

CHATTERJEE: Yes--as one praises a child. Praise; and slaps. That's how
you treat India. Never as an equal. When people wanted to be generous to
us at Oxford, it was always "How well you Indians learn to speak
English!" It was never "How strong and deep the mind that produced your
poetry and your philosophy and your polity!" It was always "How cleverly
they pick up our ways!"

It's all because we are a "subject race"--"subject" in your histories,
"subject" in your fiction, "subject" everywhere in your thought.

INAYAT KHAN: History or fiction, why distinguish? Both are the same when
an Englishman writes of India.

CHATTERJEE: "Subject" even in the boys' stories that you read at school.
You don't regard the Chinese so! Or the Japanese!

HORTON (_who has been thinking deeply_): Then you want self-government?

SARAT (_shouting_): _No!_ Our self-respect back! Give it to us!

INAYAT KHAN: No! We will take it, and you shall pay the price. You have
humiliated us, and we will humiliate you. India shall be saved by blood,
as she has been subjugated by blood!

HORTON: You seem to have blood on the brain.

INAYAT KHAN: A blood-spot that can never be washed out but by English
blood!

    [_A new-comer has joined the circle, unobserved. He is a little
    man, in grey_ khudder, _with collarless shirt open at the neck,
    and wearing a grey cap such as is usually worn only by
    Mohammadans. His face is pinched and thin, pale as after recent
    illness; his eyes seem all things at once--sad and humorous,
    fanatical and dreamingly aloof. This is the world-famous_
    "MAHATMA" RANADE, "_the spinner of a nation's destiny_." _He
    comes forward, and speaks._

MAHATMA RANADE: How can blood ever wash out blood?

NAGEN, SARAT (_together_): Mahatmajee! (_They make gestures of profound
adoration._)

WALSH (_startled_): How did he slip in?

SARAT (_ecstatically_): The Mahatmajee comes and goes at his will. No
one can hinder.

WALSH: Mr. Ranade, you've come in time to see another mess made by your
non-violent non-co-operation! (_Bitterly._) But not in time to prevent
it.

RANADE (_coming into the centre of the group_): An Englishman has been
killed?

INAYAT KHAN (_contemptuously--he spits_): The foreign policeman.

WALSH: The man who was everyone's friend. Even the non-co-operators
trusted him. He was gentle and patient and just.

NAGEN: Mr. Lomax was a very good man.

GREGORY: We never had serious trouble here--till these people came.

RANADE (_very sternly--to_ CHATTERJEE): Why did you bring hatred here?

CHATTERJEE (_sullenly_): I did not bring hatred.

INAYAT KHAN: Stand aside, Mahatma Ranade. You have kept us from freedom
too long, with your milk-and-water methods. Let the Indian lion rouse
himself, and do battle with these devils for the mastery.

RANADE (_to_ INAYAT KHAN): _You_ brought hatred, too.

INAYAT KHAN (_facing him with a scowl_): Yes, I brought hatred. I set
this country of cows and patient, burden-bearing bullocks in a blaze.
They became tigers.

RANADE: You bring hatred wherever you come. Will you ever overcome sin
by fighting it with its own weapons?

INAYAT KHAN: The hatred was here already. It is everywhere--waiting for
a man's voice to awaken it.

CHATTERJEE: We did not bring the hatred.

RANADE: You brought pride--you brought vainglory and boasting. And where
pride has first come, hatred follows. I have heard of your doings. You
rode through the bazar on an elephant, as if you were a conqueror; and
you had musicians braying your praise before you. Were you a raja--or an
official--that you should behave so?

INAYAT KHAN: He did it because he is a Bengali. Flattery and praise are
his grandfather and grandmother.

RANADE: Be silent. It is you who divide us--then the English rule. You
are as deadly a traitor as he is.

Thus the people's minds were maddened. You should have prepared them for
our way of purification by non-violent acceptance of suffering. Instead,
you made them drunk with their own praise and their praise of you. (_To_
INAYAT KHAN.) And into this seething wickedness you flung the torch of
your hatred. An Englishman has been killed--and blood has followed
blood. There is wailing in every hut of this poor village to-night. Upon
whose head is the guilt of all this misery?

INAYAT KHAN (_pointing to_ WALSH _and_ GREGORY _and_ HORTON): It is on
his--and his--and his.

RANADE: Yes. But it is on yours also.

INAYAT KHAN (_shouting_): I can bear it. It is what I came for.

RANADE (_as if speaking to himself_): It is most of all on mine. Why did
I not know that the minds of the people were not ready for this
non-violent way of warfare? Always they will fail--and it will be blood,
blood, blood, to the end. We should fast and pray and meditate--perhaps
for a whole generation, as the Israelites when they died in the
wilderness, to get the marks of servitude out of their souls. Only then
shall we be ready for a warfare so difficult as this.

Jesus Christ was wiser when He said, "_My kingdom is not of this world,
else would My servants fight_." They always will fight, if the kingdom
is of this world.

THORP (_from without--calling_): Hul-lo! Gregory! Walsh!

GREGORY: Hullo, there! Who is it?

     [THORP _enters, with a lantern_.

THORP: You here, then? I heard you were. (_Pointing to_ RANADE.) It was
this fellow I was looking for. He gave me the slip. It's lucky I had the
lantern. (_His face darkens, as he looks at_ GREGORY.) How will you
answer for this night's work? They tell me hundreds have been killed.

GREGORY: To-morrow they will tell you that it is thousands.

THORP: This is the end of your temporising and cowardice You have filled
an innocent village with death and maiming.

WALSH (_who has been as if stupefied--now coming forward, and addressing
himself to_ RANADE): I could do nothing else. Mr. Ranade, listen to me.
I am not a tyrant. Ask my clerks. Ask anyone in the district.

NAGEN: Mr. Walsh has always respected our customs and our feelings.

INAYAT KHAN: So long as they salaamed His Honour duly and paid in the
taxes which provided for his greed, His Honour graciously returned the
salaams.

WALSH (_still to_ RANADE): I was born an Englishman, as you were born an
Indian. I did not start this business of ruling other people. I found
the British Empire here when I was born. My people have always worked
for it. It has been their life, their religion almost. My father, my
grandfather, as far back as we know, we have been the Empire's servants.

NAGEN: My father loved Mr. Walsh's father.

INAYAT KHAN: Your father was a slave, as you are.

RANADE: No, he was a faithful son of his age. There was no talk of
non-co-operation then. Evil had not shown its full face of hideousness,
as it has done to us.

WALSH: Yes, and I loved your people. It was in my blood to love them--it
is in my blood still. The Empire----

INAYAT KHAN: It squats in our holy land like a blood-drinking demon!

RANADE: Let the Englishman speak. An Englishman has died to-day.

INAYAT KHAN (_almost beside himself with indignation_): _One_
Englishman! And scores of Indians!

GREGORY: Mr. Ranade, they have burnt to the ground the police-station
here. They have burnt the dispensary where their own people were helped.
If there had been Englishwomen, they would have murdered them. If there
had been Christians, they would have murdered them, though their own
flesh and blood.

RANADE: Tell me, did your friend die first? Who was it first flung the
torch of anger into this village to-day? Was it he?

WALSH: No, no. Had he fired, he would not have lost his own life. He
tried to quiet matters without violence, as he always has done.

INAYAT KHAN: He lies to you.

RANADE (_turning on him sternly_): He does not. I know that an
Englishman of his class speaks truth. It has happened again then, as it
always does. Violence has stalked into the midst of peace, and has
carried off a friend. Will you ever bring in freedom by your way of
hatred? Now the souls of the people of this village are enslaved by
hatred till the generations which remember the slain have all passed
away.

Mr. Walsh, I am weary of our men of war, of both sides. If you could
set your wild men and our wild men together in an island, to exterminate
each other, then I would say that violence for once was better than
non-violence.

GREGORY: Let the editors fight, too. And the people who write to the
papers. I'd mobilise the lot. Conscription for _Britisher_, _Old
Soldier_, _One Who Did His Bit_, _One Who Has Served the Empire_, _Fair
Play_, _Justice_, _Disgusted_, _Mother of a Soldier_. And no
restrictions against their using any sort of poison-gas they chose. I'd
beat up all the writers of stirring boys' yarns about war, and everyone
who thinks a bayonet-charge must be rather jolly. What would be your
contribution, Mr. Ranade?

RANADE (_smiling_): I'd send along a terribly fierce battalion of
lawyers and schoolmasters and orators who are always talking in terms of
warfare without having the slightest notion of what warfare really is.

GREGORY: People who, if an Englishman accidentally pushes against them
in a football crowd, write to the papers that they were "most brutally
assaulted" and "struck with the clenched fist repeatedly."

THORP (_rebukingly_): I think we are forgetting that this village is
full of dead and wounded.

RANADE: I wish it were possible to forget it for a few moments. It is
because Englishmen and Indians never forget that we never make peace
with each other.

INAYAT KHAN: Our sufferings are nothing to you! You are a dreamer! India
to you is a game that is being played out on a chessboard, and the
pieces are wood and cannot feel! Your ideas--you live for those! But
they are not flesh and blood.

RANADE: Who are you that suddenly show such care for the wounded? They
are but the small coins with which you pay for your gamble of hatred. So
long as you could set this small place seething, you were willing that
they should die.

(_More gently._) They are being cared for by those who love them. I
shall go to them when these Englishmen have gone.

CHATTERJEE: There would be no wounded, if the English had never come
here.

GREGORY: I'm not so sure of that.

RANADE: You will never drive the English out with swords and guns. They
are here, and it was God who sent them here; and they will be heard
before they go.

Mr. Walsh, my friends have interrupted you. You are a gentleman, and
will not misjudge an impatience which has such bitter reason. You have
not said what was in your mind.

WALSH (_dejectedly_): Let it go, Mahatmajee. I think I had no choice to
act but as I did. But I have shot down women and little children. I have
no heart to defend myself.

CHATTERJEE: You hear, Mahatmajee. He admits he is blood-guilty.

(_To_ WALSH.) Let Inayat Khan go, then.

WALSH: He is the man who brought murder here. If the law so decides, he
shall hang.

INAYAT KHAN: And on the scaffold I will shout, "I killed an Englishman."
And, as I enter Paradise, Gabriel and the Host will shout, "He killed an
Englishman."

WALSH (_rushing forward_): You utter devil!

GREGORY (_restraining him_): No, Walsh. Besides, he is fettered and
chained.

WALSH (_to himself_): And an old man.

Mr. Ranade, judge for yourself who are the murderers in India to-day.

RANADE: Listen to him, then. Inayat Khan, tell him your story.

INAYAT KHAN: I will not speak before demons of that which is holy.

GREGORY: Is your hatred so holy, then?

INAYAT KHAN (_passionately_): It is my God. This, and not Allah, I have
served and worshipped all my life.

RANADE (_authoritatively_): Nevertheless, tell him.

INAYAT KHAN (_after hesitation_): My father was a free man in Oudh. He
had land, people loved him and served him. Your Lord Dalhousie stole all
that land of Oudh.

WALSH: We know. He did not understand your customs.

INAYAT KHAN: Did not understand our customs! If a thief were brought
before you, would you let the excuse pass that he did not understand the
customs of the house he had robbed?

RANADE: Better hear him out, Mr. Walsh.

INAYAT KHAN: He stole Oudh. Then came our War of Independence--the
Mutiny, as you call it. My father had been a havildar in your service;
now he took his discharge and went home. A band of his own people who
were fighting you settled on his fields and ate up his corn. (_He
falters; then goes on with difficulty._) A party of Englishmen came to
his village on a _dour_.

HORTON: A what?

GREGORY: A raid.

INAYAT KHAN: The sepoys had fled. So they burnt the village, after
shooting all they caught in the fields. They hanged others, and were
going to hang my father when their leader stopped them. He said my
father was the headman, and must be made an example; also that he was a
deserter. So they took him back with them. (_He is silent._)

RANADE (_very gently_): Go on. Let these Englishmen hear what is never
told them in their books.

INAYAT KHAN: They killed him.

HORTON: After trial, of course.

INAYAT KHAN: What trial? Trial! Who had trial in those days? There were
two boys who held a civilian commission with powers of life and death,
and they were hanging all who were brought before them--no one escaped.
And there was a military court. It was all the same, whichever you were
sent before. It was the military court that condemned my father, and he
was blown from a gun. There was an artillery officer who had nothing
else to do but blow flesh and blood to pieces; and before what they
called my father's trial one of the court told him: "Don't go off
snipe-shooting to-day. We're going to give you a bigger bird." It was
just a jest to them, this matter of an innocent man's life! (_He is
silent again._)

RANADE (_in a low voice_): And the trial?

INAYAT KHAN: There was nothing to try. They simply said: "The rebels
stayed on your land. You gave them hospitality. You have eaten our salt
and served us. The court's sentence is that you be blown from a gun."

HORTON (_miserably_): Walsh! Gregory! It isn't true!

INAYAT KHAN: It _is_ true. It was true thousands of times. You hanged
and blew to pieces and burnt, and you called it righteous vengeance.
Your books still call it righteous vengeance. They will lie about it
till the Day of Judgment, when God puts you to shame.

HORTON: Gregory! Did those things happen?

GREGORY: Yes, Max.

HORTON: Why aren't they in our history books?

INAYAT KHAN: Where do you expect to find them? In _Deeds that Won the
Empire_? Or _Britain's Fight for Justice_? Or in your _Boy's Own Paper_
stories? _When Nicholson Kept the Border_? Who is going to tell these
things?

HORTON: Indian writers?

INAYAT KHAN (_with a gesture of impatience and disgust_): Indian
writers! (_Pointing to_ WALSH.) Ask _him_.

WALSH: I'm afraid not, Max. We don't encourage Indians to tell these
things.

GREGORY: They would be liable to lead to disaffection.

HORTON: Walsh! You must let that man go free.

WALSH: I wish to God I could, Max. But I can't.

INAYAT KHAN: I was a child at the time. We hid in the jungles, because
our home had been burnt to the ground. My mother died. Many of us died.
(_He is silent._)

I have lived and worked for the day when we shall see this whole land
of India rise as one man, and shed your blood, as you have shed ours.

THORP: Blood, always blood. Each deed of murder becomes a devil that
walks the world till it has drunk fresh blood. That deed of seventy
years ago has drunk blood to-day.

GREGORY: To-day's deed will drink it again.

THORP: It has drunk it already, in the blood-spattered lanes of this
miserable little village.

GREGORY (_as if to himself_): That man whom we wronged as a child will
die on the gallows. And then some company of devil-possessed fools will
pass a resolution glorifying him as a martyr. Some boy will do again the
deed that has been praised. And then----

WALSH (_breaking fiercely from his silence--to_ INAYAT KHAN): Why did
you come here, bringing your anger of seventy years? Half a dozen deeds
such as to-day's, and we shall have it all over again--murder, and
murder in return, hangings, shootings, blowings from guns.

GREGORY: Mahatmajee, is it never to end?

SARAT (_excitedly_): I warned you that Inayat Khan had a tale we dared
not let ourselves hear. He has lit a fire in every Indian heart that is
here--a fire of hatred and loathing.

NAGEN: A fire leaps in my veins. It is the dance of the dreadful goddess
Kali, and she is crying out for blood.

GREGORY: Is there no way out, Mahatmajee?

RANADE: You should know. Are you not a Christian?

GREGORY (_as he flings his rifle down_): With that in my hands!

RANADE: Yes, it will finish. For my own people I have another message.
But to you, the Christian, I say this--it will finish when there are a
thousand Christians in India.

GREGORY: You are mocking me! There are a thousand Christians many times
over. In Tinneveli alone the C.M.S. have a communion of over two hundred
thousand. In Hyderabad----

CHATTERJEE: Rice-Christians! Slaves, bought by their bellies' need.

HORTON: The Mahatmajee is laughing at you, Gregory.

RANADE: Then I must put it another way, Mr. Gregory. It will finish when
atonement has been made.

GREGORY (_despairingly_): Atonement! When death has been exacted for
death!

RANADE: No! Not that way. Murder's audit is never settled. This is
atonement--when an Indian--or an Englishman--says: "I will _not_. Blood
is due to me, but I will not exact it. I will pay the price myself." God
is listening for that voice.

    [_Enter the_ SUB-INSPECTOR.

SUB-INSPECTOR (_to_ WALSH--_saluting_): Sir, it is known that the
Mahatmajee is in the village. The wounded beg that he may bless them,
then they will recover.

RANADE: Friend, tell them I will come.

WALSH: Sub-Inspector, there is no real charge against Nagen Babu and
Sarat Babu for this day's happenings.

SUB-INSPECTOR: None, sir.

WALSH (_pointing to_ CHATTERJEE): How much money will you need to get
witnesses to prove an alibi for him?

SUB-INSPECTOR: I do not understand, sir.

WALSH: I tell you, he shall not go to trial, if I can buy men to swear
he was not here. A thousand rupees?

SUB-INSPECTOR (_speaking very slowly_): If Your Honour will pledge your
word that there shall be no prosecutions for perjury, one hundred will
suffice. With one hundred rupees I can get a dozen witnesses who will
swear anything Your Honour commands.

WALSH: Only a hundred rupees?

SUB-INSPECTOR: The village is very poor, sir. There are men here who
would sell their grandmothers for five rupees.

GREGORY: Walsh, you are fooling. You must not dream of such a thing.

CHATTERJEE: I will not have a false case got up about me.

NAGEN: We will all swear that he was here.

WALSH (_to_ NAGEN): Fool! this is no child's play martyrdom, such as you
dream of. War has been waged against the King-Emperor, a Government
servant has been murdered, Government buildings have been gutted.

Gregory, what was it that juries used to do in the last days of hanging
for sheep-stealing? Against all evidence they used to bring the accused
in _Not Guilty_--preferring perjury to murder.

GREGORY: You must not do it, Walsh.

RANADE: This is no way out, Mr. Walsh.

WALSH: Sub-Inspector, leave the matter till you return. Tell the wounded
the Mahatma will come and bless them.

SUB-INSPECTOR (_saluting_): Yes, sir.      [_Exit._

WALSH (_flashing his electric torch full in the face of the
Narasingha_): Mahatmajee, this thing has been standing over our lives
for all this year! Is this the demon that has drunk blood to-day?

INAYAT KHAN: It is like the Image of your John Nicholson standing over
Indian lives.

WALSH (_desperately--as if his thought were wings dashing against a
wall_): Why did you begin with murder--to-day, or seventy years ago, it
is no matter? We shall always beat you when it comes to massacre, as you
should know by now.

SARAT (_hotly--pointing to the Narasingha_): Sir, you insult us. You do
not understand. That is an allegory.

NAGEN: It is our religion.

RANADE (_sharply_): Do not use that word.

NAGEN (_unable to believe that he has heard aright_):
That--word--re-li-gion?

RANADE: I hate it. Yes, I hate it. We set up in our midst an idol of
racial hatred, and we call it religion. A mob goes mad and murders a
helpless Englishman, and we call it patriotism. In war, they shoot a
wretched boy at dawn, and call it military necessity. Men are hanged in
hundreds, and it is called retribution. We have drugged ourselves into
every kind of cruelty by giving it abstract names. Let us be awake at
last. It is flesh and blood that suffer, it is men and women whose
hearts are broken.

Mr. Walsh, this is not our religion. This shrine is the devil's, not
God's.

WALSH (_like a man in a dream_): Mahatmajee! Tell me what to do.

RANADE: No man can tell another that.

WALSH: If I had been another half-hour late----

RANADE: A fire would have been lighted in this village which would have
burnt throughout India. A fire that a hundred years would not have
quenched. Is that what you would say?

WALSH: Yes. There would have been war. You have seen war?

RANADE: Yes, I have seen that kind of war. I saw it in Africa, in what
your people called the Zulu Rebellion. My Indians there----(_He is
suddenly silent._)

WALSH (_still like one talking in his sleep_): I am going to end the
walking of one demon that has been drinking blood--drinking, and seeking
blood, for seventy years. It has been incarnate in an old man who must
go to the gallows.

(_To_ INAYAT KHAN.) Tell me, is the blood-lust living in you still?

INAYAT KHAN (_in a low voice_): No. It has died.

WALSH: But, if we kill you, it will waken again. You killed Lomax?

INAYAT KHAN: I did. All my life, something within me has been seeking
for blood. Yet, when I had killed him----

WALSH: Yes?

INAYAT KHAN: I wished him alive again. He pushed towards me angrily, and
ordered me to give myself up. Then--I do not know what happened, but--I
saw him lying at my feet.

CHATTERJEE (_in answer to_ WALSH'S _look of inquiry_): You stunned him
with your _lathi_.[20] Then the crowd stoned him to death.

[Footnote 20: Club.]

WALSH: And your hatred?

INAYAT KHAN: It is dead. I am an old man. Let me die; my work is
finished.

WALSH: Old man, if I give you twenty-four hours, can you escape to some
place where you can hide? Do not tell me where.

INAYAT KHAN (_startled--looking up_): I can go where no man will find
me. Or, if he finds, he will not know me.

WALSH (_unlocking his chain and fetters_): Then--go! Chatterjee, you
also. Twenty-four hours.

CHATTERJEE: What!

WALSH: There are cycles in the village; and carts. And midnight trains
run from Gomoh, in either direction. Lomax's death shall not be reported
till to-morrow night.

Shake hands, Chatterjee. Now go.

    [INAYAT KHAN _and_ CHATTERJEE _pass out into the darkness_.

THORP: And you, Walsh?

WALSH: I shall be broken, of course. I shall see my Chief in Calcutta,
and explain that I let these men go.

RANADE: What will that mean, Mr. Walsh?

GREGORY: You will read a notification in the papers, from the _Gazette_,
that Mr. Victor Walsh, I.C.S., Sessions and District Judge, Durgapur,
has resigned the service.

    [_Enter_ SUB-INSPECTOR.

SUB-INSPECTOR (_saluting_): The wounded are all gathered together in
Chandra Babu's courtyard, and are being cared for. They are waiting for
the Mahatmajee to come and bless them.

WALSH: Thank you, Sub-Inspector. You and your men have done very well. I
will see that Government hears of your good work to-night.

SUB-INSPECTOR: Thank you, sir. Shall we march the prisoners in to
Durgapur now?

WALSH: There are no prisoners, Sub-Inspector.

SUB-INSPECTOR (_surprised_): No prisoners, sir?

WALSH: See, there is no one here but Mr. Ranade and Mr. Thorp and
ourselves; and Nagen Babu and Sarat Babu, whom you know.

SUB-INSPECTOR (_looking round_): I see that that is so, sir.

WALSH: You will leave your Report with me to-morrow, and I will see to
sending it on. Now you may go. Thank you very much.

SUB-INSPECTOR: May I ask one thing, sir?

WALSH: Of course, Sub-Inspector.

SUB-INSPECTOR: Then--will Your Honour consider it an act of disloyalty
if I beg permission to touch the Mahatmajee's feet and ask his blessing?
You see--I am loyal servant of Government, but I am also an Indian.

WALSH: Not at all, Sub-Inspector.

    [SUB-INSPECTOR, _having done obeisance humbly to the
    Mahatmajee, salutes, and goes out_.

Then you will be going to the wounded, Mahatmajee. Take Nagen and Sarat
with you. They will be useful. Good night.

(_As if awaking out of his dream._) Gregory! Max! Come along, boys!
(_They turn to go._)

RANADE (_coming forward_): Mr. Walsh! Mr. Gregory! Mr. Max! Will you not
let me shake hands with you all?


CURTAIN.




ACT IV

(WHICH IS BY WAY OF EPILOGUE ONLY)


    _Three months later. Night. The verandah of_ GREGORY'S _house_.
    MRS. GREGORY _and_ MRS. WALSH, _in evening dress, are sitting in
    easy-chairs. There are other easy-chairs unoccupied. The
    verandah is dimly lit by one electric light. The heavy moisture
    of the rains is in the air._ MRS. WALSH _is smoking a
    cigarette_.


MRS. GREGORY: I told Tom the men weren't to take more than ten minutes.
I think I'd better call him.

MRS. WALSH (_sarcastically_): No, pray don't. I wouldn't have them
disturbed for our sake. Their conversation is far more enthralling than
merely talking to a couple of ladies. They are men, remember.

MRS. GREGORY: I wonder what they are talking about that keeps them so
long?

MRS. WALSH: What _do_ men talk about over their cigars after dinner?

MRS. GREGORY (_doubtfully_): Politics?

MRS. WALSH (_with great scorn_): Politics! What, waste the best time of
the day on politics! No, my dear--there's only _one_ thing that holds
the masculine mind in India--killing. That's what they are discussing.

MRS. GREGORY: Killing?

MRS. WALSH: Yes, killing. No doubt your husband is telling again of the
bear he shot last Christmas--how the servants came and told him that
they knew where the poor brute was sleeping. Then he went--you see, I
know the whole story by heart--and he looked about, and he said, "Good
Lord! where _is_ it? I can't see it." And they all said, "Look, saheb!
See, there! there!" And at last he thought he saw a black patch, so he
fired.

MRS. GREGORY (_showing unexpected vivacity_): Then there was a _huge_
roar, and the bear jumped up and ran, and he followed it, and----

MRS. WALSH (_making smoke-rings with her cigarette_): And there were
streaks of blood all the way.

MRS. GREGORY: And, as he found out afterwards, he had shot it through
the foot----

MRS. WALSH (_continuing the antiphony_): And about two hundred yards
farther on he saw it suddenly standing up in a field of sugar-cane; so
he fired a second shot, and missed it.

MRS. GREGORY (_her voice is now almost a solemn chant_): Then the bear
ran on till it reached the edge of the sugar-cane, and there----

MRS. WALSH: He fired again, and broke its jaw. In this way, he chased it
for two miles, chipping little bits off it every few hundred yards; and
finally lost it in some very thick young _sal_-jungle. But it was found
dead next day, and he can show you its skin in his drawing-room. And he
daren't stop for a second in his narrative, because he knows the other
two are both bursting to tell yarns of their own, and will be through
any gap like a pack of hounds. _My_ husband's simply wild to tell of the
leopard he battered to pieces on Easter Sunday. And Max, who hasn't been
in the country long enough to collect many yarns, wants to tell how he
once went snipe-shooting from Calcutta.

(_Shuddering._) My dear, what ghastly things one gets used to out here!
At home one wouldn't talk twice to men who entertained ladies with the
sort of stories they regale us with in India.

MRS. GREGORY: And then they talk of the way we waste our time discussing
nothing but servants!

But, you know, my husband says he's going to give up shooting.

MRS. WALSH: Really? But what a distinction! I mean, he'll be the only
reasonably able-bodied Englishman in India who doesn't spend his spare
time killing things. Won't he be too bored for words? Aren't you afraid
he'll take to drink?

(_As a great burst of laughter comes from within, in which_ GREGORY'S
_tones can be distinguished as loudest_.) Your husband seems very happy.
He must have got to the place where he breaks the bear's jaw.
(_Pettishly._) But I _wish_ those gentlemen would remember there are
ladies here. Who started this system of herding us off by ourselves? And
what's the idea behind it, now that practically every woman smokes?

MRS. GREGORY: I fancy the idea is that we can exchange notes about our
dirzis, while the men make arrangements for the next shoot. But they
seem to be coming at last.

GREGORY (_as he enters with_ WALSH _and_ HORTON): And I said to him,
"Good Lord! If you think you can fool me by coming in an old pair of
trousers like that, you _must_ be a juggins." Then he smiled a queer
sort of smile, and cleared off.

WALSH: Did you ever see him again?

GREGORY: Yes, once. At Mussoorie. But I'll tell you about it afterwards.

MRS. WALSH: Who was Mr. Gregory's exciting friend?

WALSH: Oh, Greg's been telling us about an old pal of his who went and
joined Thorp.

MRS. WALSH (_virulently_): Then I hope he's in prison.

WALSH: Who? Old Greg? Why, he's here, so you can see he's not in prison.
You don't call being married to Mrs. Gregory being in prison, do you?

MRS. WALSH: My dear, your facetiousness is not always in the best taste,
especially after dinner. You know very well whom I mean. Why hasn't the
Government put Mr. Thorp in prison?

WALSH: That's a question they once asked in Parliament, my dear. I fancy
the reply is, because he hasn't broken the law.

MRS. WALSH: Isn't he the traitor Englishman who goes about telling the
natives to start another Indian Mutiny?

GREGORY: Who on earth told you that, Mrs. Walsh?

MRS. WALSH: Everyone knows it. I heard Lady Tomlinson say it in the Club
at Khassoorie last year. She said she'd have him put against a wall and
shot, if she had her way.

GREGORY: That's the way a good many ladies talk in the Club at
Khassoorie. If they had their way, we'd have as many military executions
in India as the Bolshevists have in Russia.

MRS. WALSH: Well, we _are_ getting too soft and sentimental nowadays.
Look at the rising we had here, when poor Mr. Lomax was killed. If they
shot a few people sometimes, we shouldn't have all this sedition.

WALSH: That's all right, my dear. We all of us believe the world would
be a better place for a few summary executions. But who's to make the
selection?

MRS. WALSH: You are very stupid to-night, Victor. You know very well
that the Government should decide.

HORTON: It usually does, doesn't it?

WALSH: Ah, _now_ it's clearer! That would be _quite_ all right--unless
we had a change of Government.

GREGORY: A sort of second New Year's and Birthday Honours' list. You
could raise money for the Party chests by charging for letting the other
side's leaders off execution. I believe something of the sort was in
vogue in Henry the Eighth's time.

HORTON (_with conviction_): It'd put some vim into our elections.

WALSH: I remember another matter on which Lady Tomlinson felt rather
strongly--that was the wickedness of educating what she called the
English lower classes. She said it was a great mistake, and gave them
ideas, and that Government ought to stop it. She met Ramsay Macdonald
when he was out in India, and he annoyed her frightfully.

GREGORY: What did he do? Come to dinner in golfing kit?

WALSH: Much worse than that. He contradicted her, I understand. She said
Ben Nevis was in Ireland.

GREGORY: Or was it that Snowdon was in Scotland--whereas Ramsay knew he
was in London all the time?

HORTON (_solemnly_): I believe it was something about Ben Tillett--not
Ben Nevis.

WALSH: Gregory, you're trying to be funny again. And you're leading that
boy astray also. Don't do it.

MRS. WALSH (_bad-temperedly_): You men spend your time trying to be
funny, all of you. You're never serious.

WALSH: My dear, _I'm_ serious, if Gregory isn't. All I'm saying is, we
have a Labour Government now. Suppose they start putting their foot
down, and saying people like Lady Tomlinson oughtn't to be educated?

GREGORY: Would it make any difference to people like Lady Tomlinson?

MRS. WALSH: Well, everyone knows we're heading straight towards another
Mutiny, and it's just because Government's afraid of the seditionists.

I'm not going to argue about it.

MRS. GREGORY: Aren't you men _ever_ going to sit down?

MRS. WALSH (_to_ MRS. GREGORY--_as the men find themselves chairs_):
Just fancy, my dear, I'd settled down to a perfectly topping time at
Darjiling--all my old pals there--when suddenly who should turn up but
Victor! And he tells me we're sailing in less than three months, and
that he's given up the service.

MRS. GREGORY (_feebly_): It must have been a great surprise.

MRS. WALSH: I wasn't over-pleased--why couldn't he wait till the cold
weather? But he pointed out that, if we got away quickly, we could get
in the autumn in Italy.

HORTON: Well, you're lucky to get away from Durgapur.

MRS. WALSH: You silly boy, Max, I shouldn't have stayed in Durgapur. Do
you think _your_ presence was sufficient attraction to bring me back
here? Still, I'm not sorry to be getting away altogether. But
(_suspiciously_) I've never fathomed you, Victor. You've always sworn
that you'd drop dead before you'd chuck your job out here. Then you
change your mind all in one night!

GREGORY (_hastily_): Heaps of officials are clearing out now. They think
India's not going to be any country for a white man much longer.

MRS. WALSH (_wrinkling her brows_): I daresay that's true. But I never
thought that Victor would have the sense to see it.

WALSH (_shamefacedly_): My dear, you've been at me for years to clear
out and take my pension. I realised that you didn't care for India.

MRS. WALSH (_pleased_): I always seemed to be preaching to a brick wall.

GREGORY (_jumping up_): What's that light coming through my compound at
this time of night?

WALSH: I hope it's my chaprasi with the mail.

GREGORY: What mail?

WALSH: It's come in half a day before time. The post-office babu
notified me, because he knew I was going to-morrow, so I sent my
chaprasi round to fetch the whole shoot of our letters round here. I
thought you'd like yours as well.

GREGORY (_receiving the letters from_ WALSH'S _chaprasi, at the top of
the steps_): Thanks, awfully, Walsh. (_The letters are distributed._)

HORTON: _You've_ got a good mail, Walsh.

WALSH: Always _looks_ like it. (_To his chaprasi._) Here, don't take
that lantern away. (_He takes it from him._) And always the same pile of
disappointing tripe. Do I want any cheap Trichinopoly cheroots for the
voyage? No, I do _not_ want any cheap cheroots when I'm on the high
seas, thanks very much. Jewellery for my wife--imitation pearls that you
can't distinguish from the real things. Recently a London burglar
carried off a lot by mistake. His firm ought to sack him--or degrade him
to work in the mofussil. (_He hands his pile over to_ MRS. WALSH.) Here,
my dear, you take the lot over.

You any luck, Gregory?

GREGORY: Not much. A wine-list. _The Baptist Times._ An Insurance
Company has just started--offers special terms to planters and
missionaries. Why do planters and missionaries always go together?

WALSH: I thought they parted company at death. Make much of Max--you
won't see him after this life, you know.

(_To_ MRS. WALSH.) What have _you_ got hold of, my dear? What's making
you frown?

MRS. WALSH: Your father's just savage about your coming home.

WALSH (_ruefully_): Isn't he pleased at the prospect of seeing his boy
again?

MRS. WALSH: He says you're the first Walsh in four generations who's
chucked his job and spoilt the family record. The first one who didn't
get to the top of the service, and bring home a knighthood. (_Frowning
again._) Yes, why didn't you do that?

WALSH: You want to stay out here another twenty years, my dear? You'd
have to, to get a title.

MRS. WALSH: It seems a big price to pay. But couldn't I have stopped at
home? I don't understand these things--they bore me Your father goes on
to say he's not altogether surprised--says you always did care more
about your own comfort than anything else.

MRS. GREGORY (_waving a letter_): Mrs. Lomax has got to East Africa.

WALSH: What does she say? She getting on all right?

MRS. GREGORY: Quite. She and her brother have bought a farm up in the
highlands. She's very cross about the Indians trying to get up there,
and says she hopes Government will be firm and keep them for educated
people.

WALSH: How does she find missionary work in those parts? Quite
satisfactory, I trust. Better than it is here?

MRS. GREGORY: I'm afraid not. She got in touch with a mission as soon as
she landed, and was delighted to find that they had a right notion of
their duty and provided trained servants. But the servants wanted
scandalously high wages, and she had difficulty in beating them down.
Two of them have been un-Christian enough to run away, and Government
has done nothing about it.

(_Turning the letter over._) She complains further that the natives are
as bad as they are in India, and that, if one isn't up to their tricks,
they'll be cheating you all the time.

HORTON (_very loudly_): _All_ the time.

WALSH (_severely_): Max!

HORTON: I'm sorry. I apologise, Mrs. Gregory. I only thought that you
hadn't read the whole sentence.

WALSH: Is there anything about the price of ducks in Kenya?

MRS. GREGORY: Yes, in a postscript she says she finds the ladies have
been paying a lot too much for their poultry, just as I used to do.

That's about all. From the triumphant note on which her letter closes, I
gather that she's not without hopes of circumventing the heathen, for
all their dark wiles.

WALSH: She'll do that, I think. _She'll_ uphold the honour of the white
race. Anyone here prepared to back the heathen against Mrs. Lomax?

ALL: No!

WALSH: Anyway, I'm jolly glad Government came down handsomely in the
matter of compensation for poor old Lomax. Her brother's a decent chap,
too. I know him a bit.

HORTON: I say, everybody! I met Wilson at Burdwan yesterday. He's
heard--it's pukka, he says--that Ganapati is going to get a job at
Delhi.

WALSH: _Our_ Ganapati! That _is_ jolly!

HORTON: Yes. He's got no end of kudos over the way he put down our
little rising here. (_Giggles delightedly._)

_The Politician_ was very enthusiastic over his C.S.I., wasn't it?

GREGORY: I've kept it by me all day, to cheer me. (_Goes over to a small
table, picks up a paper, and reads._) "But no award will give more
universal satisfaction, to right-minded Indians and Europeans alike,
than the very well-deserved honour that has fallen to Mr. G. P.
Banerjee, the energetic and popular magistrate of Durgapur. It is
generally thought that a district official's work is one in which his
reputation is buried. But Mr. Banerjee, by his ability and
far-sightedness, his vigour in decision and his tireless industry, has
attracted the notice of a whole province to himself." (_Stops, and looks
up and laughs._)

HORTON: He's done that, right enough.

GREGORY (_reading on_): "The way in which he handled the ugly situation
which recently developed in his district is fresh in all men's memories.
Indeed, it is safe to say that, but for his unfortunate absence on the
day of the actual outbreak, we should never have had the deplorable
escape of the two miscreants who incited the murder of Mr. Lomax. Mr.
Banerjee has gone far in a short time; and he will go yet farther."

HORTON: Hurrah! Three cheers for old Ganapati! Some say _Rotten old
Ganapati_, some say, _Scheming old Ganapati_, but _we_ say----

WALSH: Max, you're behaving very badly to-night.

GREGORY (_taking up another paper_): _The Britisher_ says, "It is an
open secret that Mr. Banerjee has been designated for the succession to
a very high post indeed. When that appointment is made, everyone will
congratulate this plucky and zealous official."

MRS. WALSH (_rising_): I'll be getting home now, Mrs. Gregory.

GREGORY (_protestingly--as they all rise_): You're not going yet, Mrs.
Walsh! It hasn't gone nine.

MRS. WALSH: I'm going to turn in early, and read my mail. I've still got
a lot of frocks to get packed to-morrow.

HORTON: Can't you let your Bearer do it?

    [MRS. WALSH _vouchsafes him no reply but a look of scorn_.

MRS. WALSH: Victor needn't come, though. I'll send the car back for him.

WALSH: I _will_ stay a bit longer, then, if you don't mind, my dear. But
don't bother about the car. Greg'll lend me his bike.

(_Stepping to the front of the verandah, and shouting._) Ram Buksh!

A VOICE: _Huzzoor!_

    [RAM BUKSH, WALSH'S _chauffeur, comes forward with a lantern_.

MRS. WALSH: Good night, everyone. Good night, Mrs. Gregory. I'm glad
you've heard from Mrs. Lomax. Remember me to her when you write. (_With
a smile._) Tell her that we are thinking of her _all_ the time, _all_
the time.

    [MRS. WALSH _goes down the verandah steps_.

MRS. GREGORY (_gathering up her papers_): I'll follow Mrs. Walsh's
example, if you gentlemen will excuse me, and take my letters off to
read them elsewhere.

HORTON (_handing it to her_): Don't forget the _Baptist Times_, Mrs.
Gregory.

MRS. GREGORY: I shall _not_ forget the _Baptist Times_, Mr. Horton. I
need it for my store-cupboard's shelves. You'll excuse me, Mr. Walsh?
Mr. Horton? I know you'll all have a better time if I leave you.

WALSH: No, no, Mrs. Gregory.

MRS. GREGORY: Yes, yes, Mr. Walsh. Good night, all.

ALL: Goodnight.      [_Exit_ MRS. GREGORY.

GREGORY (_as they sit down again_): Have another cheroot, Max.

HORTON: No, thanks. I'll take a cigarette instead, if I may. (_He helps
himself from a box on a table._)

GREGORY: Put your feet up. (_He puts his own up, on a vacant chair._)

A VOICE (_off the stage_): Gregory! You there?

    [THORP _comes up the verandah steps. They all spring to their
    feet._

GREGORY: Hul-_lo_, Thorp. Come in, old boy.

WALSH: Come along. We're all glad to see you.

HORTON: Ra-_ther_.

GREGORY (_as_ THORP _sits down_): Walsh is going home on Saturday, you
know.

THORP: I saw the notice, and showed it to the Mahatma.

HORTON: Where's he now?

THORP: I left him in Bombay. I was running over to Calcutta to see an
old friend who was coming from Rangoon.

WALSH: And you stopped off here?

THORP (_smiling_): Mahatmajee's orders. He said, "Don't forget there are
three Englishmen in Durgapur who are our friends, and one of them is
going away." He sent a letter for you, Walsh.

WALSH: I haven't had it.

THORP (_rummaging in the folds of his_ khudder, _and producing it_):
It's here. If he'd sent it through the post, the police might have held
it up, you know. He doesn't write to his friends through the post.

(_As_ WALSH _takes the letter_.) You're not to read it now--when you've
left India.

HORTON (_anxiously_): He'll be coming this way again, won't he?

THORP: No one can say.

He asked me to tell you, Gregory, that things are more hopeful than he
once thought. (_Smiling._) He asked me to be sure to look up three of
those thousand Christians that we need--and I have done, as you see.

WALSH: I a Christian! I haven't been inside a church since I was
married!

HORTON: Nor I since I left England.

(_Reaching for the cheroots._) If Thorp is going to be with us, I'll
have a cheroot, after all. I thought our meeting was about to break up.

(_Offering the box._) You, Thorp?

GREGORY: Thorp doesn't smoke.

THORP (_to_ WALSH): You're leaving Durgapur to-morrow, they tell me.

WALSH: That's right. Sail Saturday.

THORP: You'll come back some day?

WALSH: May--for some cold weather. I shall be wretched away from India.
You'll still be wandering, I suppose.

THORP: Yes. Always, now.

GREGORY: You're no longer mad with me because I don't join you?

THORP: No, Gregory. I know you've got your job, as I mine. I've
been--thinking about things.

GREGORY: Then--you won't take up a rational way of life again?

THORP: I can't. I've got to go this way to the end.

(_After a pause._) You remember what we said about the spirit of hatred
that was walking through India. But there is another spirit, that seeks
reconciliation. (_Shamefacedly._) It's taken possession of me.

WALSH: But, if you go on as you are doing, you'll have no end of
trouble.

HORTON: You've no idea how most of us hate your very name. And we think
you a fool, Thorp. Most of us, that is.

THORP (_reddening_): I know. That's my punishment, for having cared so
much about men's opinion.

GREGORY (_anxiously_): Weren't you assaulted at Nagpur the other day?

THORP: The man didn't know what he was doing. He was an ex-soldier who'd
lost his job. I believe he had been most shabbily treated.

HORTON: I'd have given the cad in charge.

WALSH: No, you wouldn't, Max.

HORTON: He tried to kill Thorp.

THORP: He thought in some vague way that I was stirring up people to
give all the jobs to Indians. He had a half-caste family, and was
stranded out here. (_He pauses._)

Suppose he had killed me, Max--suppose someone some day does kill me?

WALSH: Yes?

THORP: Just as the spirit of murder gets new strength with each
satisfaction, and stalks from its victim and finds a new embodiment, so,
I believe, this spirit of reconciliation does the same. If I am killed,
it will not die. It will simply take possession of another man for its
service.

HORTON (_leaning forward_): I say, Thorp!

THORP: What is it, Max?

HORTON: I've got a lot of things I want to ask you. You're not going to
clear off in a hurry, are you?

THORP: Rather not. Not unless Gregory's going to prove inhospitable.

GREGORY (_startled out of a reverie_): Eh, what? What's that you say?

HORTON (_shouting_): Thorp is wondering if you aren't going to offer him
a bed for the night. For, if you won't, _I_ will, by Jove!

    [GREGORY, WALSH, _and_ THORP _all laugh_.


CURTAIN.



_The Mayflower Press, Plymouth._ William Brendon & Son, Ltd.




_CONTEMPORARY BRITISH
 DRAMATISTS_


_Already published._

_EXODUS._ _By_ H. F. RUBINSTEIN & HALCOTT GLOVER

"_A sense of dignity in the writing and opportunities for beauty of
production in the suggested stage setting._"--"_English Review._"

"_Every scene lives, and this tremendous canvas is unfolded with a rare
dramatic feeling._"--"_Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News._"

_WHAT'S WRONG WITH THE DRAMA?_ _By_ H. F. RUBINSTEIN

"_Delightfully amusing, and to the cognoscenti of the conditions of the
modern theatre and drama they will prove exquisite fun._"--"_English
Review._"

_THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER._ _By_ HOWARD PEACEY

"_True to its original in the fine swing of its action and the sharp
thrust of its desperate minds._"--"_Manchester Guardian._"

"_There is colour and eloquence in it . . . we feel the hand of the
creator._"--"_Times Literary Supplement._"

_THE DANCE OF LIFE._ _By_ HERMON OULD

"_A delightful merging of realism, symbolism, satire, pathos, philosophy
and humour. . . . I am sure that when the theatre gets away from
drawing-room realism to a drama which brings beauty and imagination to
bear upon life, it will turn to such plays as this._"--"_English
Review._"

_THE CONQUERING HERO._ _By_ ALLAN MONKHOUSE (_3rd Impression._)

"_I do not hesitate to say that this is one of the finest pieces for the
stage written by an Englishman since the war. . . . I am often asked
what I call a great play. This is one._"--_James Agate in the_ "_Sunday
Times_."

"_Nowhere have I seen the intelligent fighting-man's attitude so
penetratingly portrayed._"--_Martin Armstrong in the_ "_Spectator_."

_MIDSUMMER MADNESS._ _By_ CLIFFORD BAX

"_Mr. Bax has done what the commedia dell' arte did--told a cynical
modern story through old figures with a delightful mixture of the
demurely fantastic with the precisely commonplace._"--"_Times Literary
Supplement._"


_OTHER PLAYS PUBLISHED BY ERNEST BENN LTD_

_THE MACHINE WRECKERS._ _By_ ERNST TOLLER, _done into English by_ ASHLEY
DUKES

"_It has power and passion and judgment and pity._"--_St. John Ervine
in_ "_The Observer_."

_SHAKESPEARE._ _By_ H. F. RUBINSTEIN & CLIFFORD BAX

"_A remarkable play._"--"_Westminster Gazette._"

_FIRST BLOOD._ _By_ ALLAN MONKHOUSE

"_Deals with a savagely embittered industrial dispute, at once more
natural and more subtle than Galsworthy's 'Strife' . . . will give
delight to those who care for finesse in dialogue and personal
portraiture._"--_Ivor Brown in the_ "_Manchester Guardian_."

"_There is a largeness in his spiritual view; we feel we are reading
about human nature in general . . . there is a wealth of thought and
knowledge, a fine play._"--"_Times Literary Supplement._"

_KRISHNA KUMARI._ _By_ EDWARD THOMPSON

"_A play about India and a very fine one . . . It has been described as
dramatised from a story in Tod's 'Annals and Antiquities of Rajasthan.'
This is as though Mr. Shaw's 'St. Joan' were described as dramatised
from a story related by Andrew Lang . . . 'Krishna Kumari' is the direct
antidote for a surfeit of 'The Green Goddess' type of Oriental
play._"--_Robert Graves in the_ "_Nation and Athenum_."

_THE MASQUE OF VENICE._ _By_ GEORGE DUNNING GRIBBLE

"_Who is this Mr. Gribble who suddenly bursts upon us as a fully
equipped playwright, master of his job, and possessed of more reading
and more wit than most living dramatists have, or at any rate,
use?_"--"_Times Literary Supplement._"

"_His situations are conceived in the true comedy spirit . . . there is
a good deal of shrewd criticism of modern life._"--"_New Statesman._"

"_Very witty comedy, written by a man who knows both literature and
human nature. . . . His characters are one and all a delight . . .
between them all we get a play that seems to me a masterpiece._"--_Colin
Gray in_ "_Eve_."

_THE SCENE THAT WAS TO WRITE ITSELF._ _By_ G. D. GRIBBLE

"_An excellent comedy._"--"_Liverpool Post._"

"_A richly humorous skit._"--"_Referee._"

"_The writing is neat, the dramatic continuity well sustained . . .
would repay good acting._"--"_New Statesman._"

_THE RAT TRAP._ _By_ NOEL COWARD

_PETER AND PAUL._ _By_ HAROLD F. RUBINSTEIN

_THE MAN WITH A LOAD OF MISCHIEF._ _By_ ASHLEY DUKES

_NOCTURNE IN PALERMO._ _By_ CLIFFORD BAX

_THE RIGORDANS._ _By_ EDWARD PERCY

_ATONEMENT._ _By_ EDWARD THOMPSON



TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE

Other than the correction of 3 periods and a semi-colon, minor
variations in spelling and punctuation have been preserved.




[End of Atonement, by Edward Thompson]
