Fleury, however, glanced at him in dismay: he had forgotten for the moment just what sort of religion it was that Hari enjoyed … a mixture of superstition, fairy-tale, idolatry and obscenity, repellent to every decent Englishman in India. As if to underline this thought, the bearer who had served refreshments a little earlier suddenly appeared in the courtyard below. He held something in his hand as he laughed and exchanged a few words with the other servants and it flashed in the sunlight; he raised it, examined it casually, then dropped it on the flagstones where it shattered. Fleury was certain that it was the glass from which he himself had been drinking a little earlier.
They walked on, Fleury chilled by this trivial incident; how could one respond warmly to someone who regarded your touch as pollution? But Hari, on the other hand, had noticed nothing and was still thinking warmly of Fleury … how different he was from the stiff, punctilious Dunstaple! He could hardly bear to look at Dunstaple’s face: there was something obscene about blue eyes … In fact, that had been the only real drawback to Mr Barnes, for he too had had blue eyes.
“And so on and so forth,” he repeated with pleasure. “Mr Barnes has gone back to England. Perhaps you have made acquaintance with him? No? One year ago he wrote me letter from Shrewsbury. He is a very fine gentleman. I would like to ask special favour of you, Mr Fleury, sir. I would like to have pleasure of making daguerrotype of you, you see I am most very interested in science, sir. In Krishnapur I am only one who make daguerrotype and all who want picture come and see me. Mr and Mrs Hopkins, Collector and his bride, come to me, and many other married persons in cantonment. I have made pictures to send to England for absent brides and love ones. You also have bride in England, sir, I think? No? How is that? Your bride is perhaps no longer ‘in the land of the living’?” And Fleury was obliged to explain that so far he had not succeeded in capturing a bride … he had been unable to find one to suit his fancy. Hari’s brow puckered at this, for it was evident that Fleury was impeded from choosing a bride by being unable to find one suited to some special requirements of his own, beyond the usual ones of birth and dowry … but what these might possibly be he had not the faintest idea; in this matter Hari’s incomprehension was shared by Fleury’s own relations in Norfolk and Devon.
“Soon I make daguerrotype but first I show you my pater. Come with me please. At this hour when it is so very much hot he is usually to be found ‘in arms of Morpheus’ which means, I understand, that he is asleeping. It is best time to look at pater when he is asleeping … Correct!” and Hari, laughing cheerfully, led the way.
As they walked on through breathless mud corridors and climbed narrow Stone steps Fleury found himself thinking again of Kartikeya, what a charming story, after all! Six babies pressed by love into one, there was surely no harm in such a pleasant fairy story.
They were now progressing through windowless inner apartments, dimly lit by blazing rags soaked in linseed or mustard oil and stuck on five-pronged torches. In the distance an oil lamp of blue glass cast a sapphire glow over a small, fat gentleman sprawled on a bed and clad only in a loin cloth; above the bed an immense jewelled and tasselled punkah swept steadily back and forth. A bearer stood beside the bed holding an armful of small cushions.
“Father is asleeping,” Hari explained softly. “He has blue light for asleeping, green light for awaking, red light for entertaining ladies, and so on and so forth. To make comfortable he has cushion under every joint of body… bearer watch him to place cushion under joint when he move.”
Hardly had Hari given this explanation when the Maharajah with a grunt kicked out one of his short, plump legs. Instantly cushions appeared under knee and ankle. Fleury could now see that the Maharajah’s face was yet another copy of the portraits he had seen earlier and of Hari himself. As he watched, the Maharajah’s mouth opened, stained red with betel, and he belched resonantly. “Father is breaking wind,” commented Hari. “Now come with me please, my dear Mr Fleury, and I shall show you many wonderful things. First and foremost, you would like perhaps to see abominable pictures?”
“Well …”
Hari spoke to one of the bearers who advanced with a cup containing blazing, oil-soaked rags on the end of a long, silver pole. He held this close to the wall and a large and disgusting oil-painting sprang out of the gloom. But Fleury found that the picture was such an intricate mass of limbs that he was quite unable to fathom what it was all about (though it was clearly very lewd indeed).
“Sir, shall I show you more disgraceful pictures? Very disgraceful indeed?”
“No thank you,” said Fleury, and then, not wanting to sound ungrateful, he added gruffly: “I’m afraid I’m not very well up in this sort of thing.”
“Correct! For a gentleman ‘well up’ in science and progress it is not in the least rather interesting. Come, I show you many other things.”
Suddenly there came what sounded like the lowing of a cow from the adjoining apartment; Hari frowned and spoke sharply to one of the servants, evidently to tell him to steer the animal in another direction, but already it was clattering towards them. “This is most backward,” muttered Hari. “I am sorry you have witnessed such a thing, Mr Fleury. My father should not be permitting it. Always in India cow here, cow there, cow everywhere!” The cow, alarmed by the servants, hastened forward and was only diverted at the last moment from charging the sleeping Maharajah. An elderly servant hurried after it with a large silver bowl.
“To catch dropping,” explained Hari as they moved on. “Here march of science is only just beginning, you understand.”
They now found themselves in the armoury, which turned out to contain not only arms of every imaginable sort but many other things as well. But Fleury could only stare with indifference and wish they could discuss religion or science or some such topic. He had some spying to do, too, on the Maharajah’s troops, better not forget that! He was unaware of Hari’s sensitive and vulnerable eyes devouring his every reaction to the objects he was being shown.
“This is not rather interesting at all,” apologized Hari with intensity. “This is spear-pistol. Shoot and stab one gentleman at the same time. When sharp point stabs gentleman breast, mechanism releases trigger, shoots gentleman also.”
“Good heavens,” said Fleury languidly.
“This big knife open out into four small knife, stab person four times.”
“Well …”
“And here is brass cannon which can be mounted on camel saddle. This is rather very dull also, don’t you think?” And Hari began to look rather annoyed.
“I think, Fleury, that you will not find this absorbing, too,” he pursued relentlessly, indicating a rack of flint-lock guns with extraordinarily long barrels which could be re-loaded from horseback without dismounting, a sporting rifle by Adams with a revolving magazine, a cap in the shape of a cow pat with a feather of gold tinsel sprouting from it which had belonged to Hari’s grandfather, and an ostrich egg.
Fleury stifled a yawn, which Hari unfortunately noticed but yet he continued as if unable to stop himself: “This is astrological clock, very complicated … The circle in centre shows zodiacal sign over which the sun pass once in year … From movement of this black needle which passes over circle in twenty-four hours the ascendant of horoscope can be ascertained. But I see that this miserable machine, which show also, I forget to add, phases of moon, sunrise and sunset, day of week, is not worthy of your attention also. Correct. It is all very humble and useless materials such as you do not have in London and Shrewsbuny. Now, Fleury, I make daguerrotype.”