No More Learning

Between the hailing and
re-starting of an omnibus I foresaw the scuffles that would arise among
half a dozen denominations all professing "the doctrine of the True
Metempsychosis as applied to the world and the New Era"; and saw, too,
the respectable English newspapers shying, like frightened kine,
over the beautiful simplicity of the tale. The mind leaped forward a
hundred--two hundred--a thousand years. I saw with sorrow that men would
mutilate and garble the story; that rival creeds would turn it upside
down till, at last, the western world which clings to the dread of death
more closely than the hope of life, would set it aside as an interesting
superstition and stampede after some faith so long forgotten that it
seemed altogether new. Upon this I changed the terms of the bargain that
I would make with the Lords of Life and Death. Only let me know, let me
write, the story with sure knowledge that I wrote the truth, and I would
burn the manuscript as a solemn sacrifice. Five minutes after the last
line was written I would destroy it all. But I must be allowed to write
it with absolute certainty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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