“Why did my dear friend Mr Hopkin not call to see me? I am hurt. You must tell him so. It’s most very unkind of him. How’s your wrist, Dunstaple ?”
“A little better thank you,” Harry said, rather stiffly, as they crossed a rich, dusty carpet scattered here and there with ragged tiger skins. Nearer at hand Fleury was startled to see that the face of their host exactly resembled that of the score of portraits on the wall; the same fat, pale cheeks and glittering black eyes surmounted a plump body clad, not in Mogul robes, but in an ill-cut frock coat. He had been watching Fleury intently and now, seeing that he was about to open his mouth, broke in hastily: “No, please don’t call me ‘Highness’ or any of that nonsense. We don’t stand on ceremony in this day and age … Leave that sort of thing to Father … Just call me Hari … There are two Haris, eh? Well, never mind. How delightful. What a pleasure!”
Fleury said: “I hope we haven’t interrupted your breakfast, but I fear that we have.”
“Not in the least, old fellow. A boiled egg and Blackwood’s is the best way to begin the day. Now, come and sit down. I say, are you alright, Dunstaple?” For Harry, stepping forward, had given a rather odd lurch and had almost plunged on to one of the ragged tiger skins. His face, now they came to look at it, was as white as milk, though given a superficial tinge of colour by the bloodstained glass of the windows.
“It’s nothing. It’s just the heat. I shall be alright in a moment. Damned silly!”
“Correct!” cried Hari. “It’s nothing. You’ll be alright in twinkling. Come and sit down while I get the bearer to bring refreshment. Where is he the wretched fellow?” And he hurried to the door shouting.
In response to their master’s shouts more servants in grimy livery poured in, barefoot but in knee breeches, carrying two more chairs constructed of antlers; these they placed adjacent to Hari’s and to a small table supported by rhinoceros feet on which Hari had abandoned his half-eaten boiled egg. Tea was brought, and three foaming glasses of iced sugar cane juice, a delightful shade of dark green. Harry Dunstaple, looking a little green himself, rejected this delicious drink, but Fleury who loved sweet things and had never noticed the filth and flies that surround the pressing of sugar cane, drank it down with the greatest pleasure, and then admired the empty glass which was embossed with the Maharajah’s crest. Harry asked permission to undo the buttons of his tunic and with a shaking hand began to fumble with them.
“Sir, make yourself altogether as if in your home, I beg you! Bearer, bring more cushion.”
Cushions were arranged on the floor and Harry was persuaded to lie down. “Damned silly. Alright in a moment,” Fleury heard him mutter again, as he stretched out and closed his eyes.
“Bearer, bring tiger skin!” and a tiger skin was also stretched over Harry, but he kicked it aside petulantly. He was much too hot already without tiger skins. Fleury was very concerned by Harry’s sudden debility (could it be cholera?) and wondered aloud whether he should not take him back promptly to the cantonment and put him under his father’s care.
“Oh, Mr Fleury, it is much too damnably hot to travel now until evening.”
“They make such a frightful fuss,” muttered Harry without opening his eyes. “Just give me an hour or so and I shall be right as rain.” He sounded quite cross.
“Mr Fleury, Dunstaple will have refreshing repose here and during this time I shall show you palace. I call Prime Minister to watch Dunstaple and tell us if condition worsen.”
Harry’s groan of irritation at this further intervention was ignored and the Prime Minister was summoned. They waited for him in silence. When he at last appeared he proved to be a stooped, elderly gentleman, also wearing a frock coat but without trousers or waistcoat; he wore instead a dhoti, sandals, and on his head a peaked cap covered in braid like that of a French infantry officer. He evidently spoke no English for he put his palms together and murmured “Namaste” in the direction of Fleury. He seemed unsurprised to find an English officer stretched on the floor.
There was a rapid exchange in Hindustani which ended in Hari gaily shouting: “Correct!” and taking Fleury by the arm; as they left the room the Prime Minister was sitting on the floor with his knees to his chin, staring introspectively at the supine Harry.
Once outside Hari brightened visibly. “Mr Fleury, dear sir, I am delighted to make your acquaintance. Collector, you know, Hopkin is my very good friend, most interested in advance of science. This English coat, sir, is it very costly? Forgive me asking but I admire the productions of your nation very strongly. May I feel the material? And this timepiece in pocket, a half hunter is it not called? English craftsmen are so skilled I am quite lost in admiration for, you see, here our poor productions are in no wise to be compared with them. Yes, I see you are looking at my coat which is also of English flannel, though bought in Calcutta, unfortunately, and cut by durzie from bazaar and not by your Savile Rows. Timepiece is purchased in London and not Calcutta also I think?”
“It was a present from my father.”
“Correct! From your father, you say. I have heard that fathers most frequently give to the sons who leave home the Holy Bible, your very sacred scripture of Christian religion, is that not the case? Did your father give you also Holy Bible when you came to India?”
“As a matter of fact the only book he gave me was Bell’s Life.”
“Your father gave you Bell’s Life? But is that not a sporting magazine? That is not sacred scripture? I do not understand why your father gave you this book instead of Holy Bible … Sir, please explain this to me because I do not understand in the smallest amount.” And Hari gazed at Fleury in bewilderment.
Meanwhile, they had moved on to an outer verandah overlooking the river and formed of the same mud battlements Fleury had noticed on the approach. It was the same river, too, which, after a few twists and turns, passed the lawn of the Residency six or seven miles away. But it was no cooler here; a gust of hot air as from the opening of an oven door hit Fleury in the face as he stepped out … the river, moreover, had shrunk away to a narrow, barely continuous stream on the far bank, leaving only a wide stretch of dry rubble to mark its course with here and there a few patches of wet mud. Half a dozen water buffaloes were attempting to cool themselves in this scanty supply of water.
“He didn’t give it me instead of the Bible,” explained Fleury, who had attempted the mildest of pleasantries and now regretted it. He added untruthfully, sensing that the situation required it: “He had already given me the Bible on a previous occasion.”
“Correct! Bell’s Life he gave you for pleasure. All is no longer ‘as clear as mud’. The Holy Bible it must be a very beautiful work, very beautiful. Religion I do enjoy very greatly, Mr Fleury, do you not also? Oh, it is one of the best things in life beyond shadows of doubt.” And Hari stared at Fleury with a smile of beatitude on his fat, pale cheeks. Fleury said: “Yes, how true! I’d never thought of it like that before. We should enjoy religion, of course, and ‘lift up our hearts’ … of course we should.” He was surprised and touched by this remark of Hari’s and wondered why he had never thought of it himself. They were now pacing over a continuation of the verandah made of wooden planks, many of them loose, which spanned an interior courtyard … below were a number of buildings that might have been godowns or servants’ quarters; there was a well, too, and a man washing himself by it, and more servants in livery squatting with their backs to the mud wall of the palace. A peacock, feathers spread, was revolving slowly on the dilapidated roof of one of the buildings below and Hari, under a sudden impulse of warmth towards Fleury, pointed it out and said: “That is very holy bird in India because our God Kartikeya ride peacock. He was born in River Ganga as six little baby but Parvati, lady of Siva, she loved them all so very very dearly she embraced them so tight she squeezed into one person but with six face, twelve arm, twelve leg … ‘and so on and so forth’, as my teacher used to say, Mr Barnes of Shrewsbury.” Hari closed his eyes and smiled with an expression of deep contentment, whether at the thought of Kartikeya or of Mr Barnes of Shrewsbury, it was impossible to say.