The Collector kept his word. Next day he issued
invitation cards to numerous Indian gentlemen in the
neighbourhood, stating that he would be at home in
the garden of the club between the hours of five and
seven on the following Tuesday, also that Mrs. Turton
would be glad to receive any ladies of their families
who were out of purdah. His action caused much
excitement and was discussed in several worlds.
“It is owing to orders from the L.G.,” was Mahmoud
Ali’s explanation. “Turton would never do this unless
compelled. Those high officials are different—they sympathize,
the Viceroy sympathizes, they would have us
treated properly. But they come too seldom and live
too far away. Meanwhile——”
“It is easy to sympathize at a distance,” said an old
gentleman with a beard. “I value more the kind word
that is spoken close to my ear. Mr. Turton has spoken
it, from whatever cause. He speaks, we hear. I do
not see why we need discuss it further.” Quotations
followed from the Koran.
“We have not all your sweet nature, Nawab Bahadur,
nor your learning.”
“The Lieutenant-Governor may be my very good
friend, but I give him no trouble.—How do you do,
Nawab Bahadur?—Quite well, thank you, Sir Gilbert;
how are you?—And all is over. But I can be a thorn
in Mr. Turton’s flesh, and if he asks me I accept the
invitation. I shall come in from Dilkusha specially,
though I have to postpone other business.”
“You will make yourself chip,” suddenly said a little
black man.
There was a stir of disapproval. Who was this ill-bred
upstart, that he should criticize the leading Mohammedan
landowner of the district? Mahmoud Ali, though
sharing his opinion, felt bound to oppose it. “Mr.
Ram Chand!” he said, swaying forward stiffly with his
hands on his hips.
“Mr. Mahmoud Ali!”
“Mr. Ram Chand, the Nawab Bahadur can decide
what is cheap without our valuation, I think.”
“I do not expect I shall make myself cheap,” said
the Nawab Bahadur to Mr. Ram Chand, speaking very
pleasantly, for he was aware that the man had been
impolite and he desired to shield him from the consequences.
It had passed through his mind to reply,
“I expect I shall make myself cheap,” but he rejected
this as the less courteous alternative. “I do not see
why we should make ourselves cheap. I do not see why
we should. The invitation is worded very graciously.”
Feeling that he could not further decrease the social
gulf between himself and his auditors, he sent his elegant
grandson, who was in attendance on him, to fetch his
car. When it came, he repeated all that he had said
before, though at greater length, ending up with “Till
Tuesday, then, gentlemen all, when I hope we may meet
in the flower gardens of the club.”
This opinion carried great weight. The Nawab Bahadur
was a big proprietor and a philanthropist, a man of
benevolence and decision. His character among all the
communities in the province stood high. He was a
straightforward enemy and a staunch friend, and his
hospitality was proverbial. “Give, do not lend; after
death who will thank you?” was his favourite remark.
He held it a disgrace to die rich. When such a man was
prepared to motor twenty-five miles to shake the Collector’s
hand, the entertainment took another aspect.
For he was not like some eminent men, who give out
that they will come, and then fail at the last moment,
leaving the small fry floundering. If he said he would
come, he would come, he would never deceive his supporters.
The gentlemen whom he had lectured now urged one
another to attend the party, although convinced
at heart that his advice was unsound.
He had spoken in the little room near the Courts
where the pleaders waited for clients; clients, waiting
for pleaders, sat in the dust outside. These had not
received a card from Mr. Turton. And there were
circles even beyond these—people who wore nothing
but a loincloth, people who wore not even that, and
spent their lives in knocking two sticks together before
a scarlet doll—humanity grading and drifting beyond
the educated vision, until no earthly invitation can embrace
it.
All invitations must proceed from heaven perhaps;
perhaps it is futile for men to initiate their own unity,
they do but widen the gulfs between them by the
attempt. So at all events thought old Mr. Graysford
and young Mr. Sorley, the devoted missionaries who
lived out beyond the slaughterhouses, always travelled
third on the railways, and never came up to the club.
In our Father’s house are many mansions, they taught,
and there alone will the incompatible multitudes of
mankind be welcomed and soothed. Not one shall be
turned away by the servants on that verandah, be he
black or white, not one shall be kept standing who
approaches with a loving heart. And why should the
divine hospitality cease here? Consider, with all reverence,
the monkeys. May there not be a mansion for the
monkeys also? Old Mr. Graysford said No, but young
Mr. Sorley, who was advanced, said Yes; he saw no
reason why monkeys should not have their collateral
share of bliss, and he had sympathetic discussions about
them with his Hindu friends. And the jackals? Jackals
were indeed less to Mr. Sorley’s mind, but he admitted
that the mercy of God, being infinite, may well embrace
all mammals. And the wasps? He became uneasy
during the descent to wasps, and was apt to change
the conversation. And oranges, cactuses, crystals and
mud? and the bacteria inside Mr. Sorley? No, no,
this is going too far. We must exclude someone from
our gathering, or we shall be left with nothing.
