THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 INDIA
 
 SIAM. By PIERRE LOTI. Illustrated. Demy 
 8vo. 7/6 net. 
 
 This is an account, told with all Loti's charm and 
 grace, of a_ pilgrimage undertaken by him to Siam. 
 There he visits the famous ruins of Angkor in the 
 French Protectorate of Cambodia. He first tells us 
 how in his childhood an illustration in a review had 
 fired his imagination with a desire to visit the ruins, 
 had filled him even with a presentiment that one day 
 he would see them. 
 
 He describes with his extraordinary pictorial skill 
 the journey from Saigon into the interior ; first along 
 the River Mekong, at the time in flood, then through 
 the thick forest in the heart of which is buried the 
 ruins of Angkor-Thorn, with its palaces and temples. 
 Loti's pathetic and sentimental spirit is at home 
 amongst these ruins, which are all that remains of the 
 proud Empire of the Khmers which flourished for 
 some 1,500 years (300 B.C. to A.D. 1200). 
 
 On the return journey Loti attends a performance 
 of the Corps de Ballet of King Norodon, and sees re- 
 presented scenes from the Ramazana, which exactly 
 reproduced those he had seen on the bas-relief of 
 Angkor-vat. 
 
 EGYPT. By PIERRE LOTI. Translated by 
 W. P. Baines, and with Plates in full colour 
 from paintings by Augustus O. Lamplough. 
 Demy 8vo. 7/6 net. 
 
 A_ wonderfully fascinating book, conveying vivid 
 pictures of the charm of Egypt and the marvels of its 
 antiquity. Loti, as is his wont, endeavours to get at 
 the heart of what he sees, as he steeps himself in the 
 enchantment of moonlit temples erected by the most 
 ancient of civilisations, watches the sun set behind 
 the illimitable wastes of the desert, glides over the 
 darkening waters of the half-submerged island of 
 Philae, " Pearl of Egypt," or listens to the mournful 
 song of the boatman as he drifts on his dahabieh 
 down the Nile ; and gradually a comprehension grows 
 upon him of the reasons that made Egypt the first 
 country to awaken from the torpor of barbarism and 
 to build monuments which are the wonder and 
 admiration of the whole of the modern world. He 
 realises the greatness and feels to the full her spell.
 
 THK ROCK, TRICHINOPOLY
 
 INDIA 
 
 BY 
 
 PIERRE LOTI 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY GEORGE 
 A. F. INMAN (OF BOWDON), EDITED BY 
 ROBERT HARBOROUGH SHERARD. A NEW 
 EDITION PICTURED BY A. HUGH FISHER, A.R.E. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 DUFFIELD & COMPANY
 
 V
 
 Library 
 
 f/3 
 
 /? /? 
 
 u u 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGH 
 
 INTRODUCTION ..... l 
 
 CHiPTKR 
 
 I. THE BURIED CITY .... 5 
 II. THE ROCK TEMPLE .... 13 
 
 III. THE HOME OF THE MAHARAJAH OF TRA- 
 
 VANCORE 21 
 
 IV. IN THE LAND OF THE GREAT PALMS . 87 
 V. IN FAMISHED INDIA . . . .143 
 
 VI. TOWARDS BENARES .... 221 
 INDEX 279
 
 NOTE 
 
 The Publishers gratefully acknowledge the 
 kind permission of the Visual Instruction 
 Committee (Colonial Office) to reproduce 
 in this volume the various paintings and 
 drawings by A. Hugh Fisher, A.R.E.
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 THE ROCK, TRICHINOPOLY (Coloured Plate) Frontispiece 
 
 PACING) PAGE 
 
 THE ROCK TEMPLE 16 
 
 HINDOO CHILD, WITH EAR-LOBES LENGTHENED BY 
 
 WEIGHTY RINGS 84 
 
 A HINDOO LADY ...... 58 
 
 A WAYSIDE DIVINITY NEAR THE BASE OF THE 
 
 ROCK, TRICHINOPOLY ..... 90 
 A MOHAMMEDAN TYPE . . . . .98 
 
 " RINGS ON HER TOES" 114 
 
 AVENUE OF OREODOXA PALMS (Coloured Plate) . 126 
 HINDOO WOMAN AND BABE . . . . .180 
 
 A HINDOO ACTRESS 184 
 
 THE PALACE OF ODEYPOURE . . . .174 
 HINDOOS CROSSING THE SEA .... 224 
 
 OVERLOOKING THE JUMNA 286 
 
 THE INCOMPARABLE TAJ 238 
 
 A CITIZEN OF DELHI 240 
 
 THE ROSE-COLOURED GRANITE TOWER . . . 242 
 BATHING IN THE SACRED WATERS, BENARES . . 258 
 
 CHILDREN 272 
 
 vii
 
 INDIA 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 IT is midday on the Red Sea. There is light, light 
 everywhere, so much light that cries of admiration 
 and astonishment are forced from us ; it is as if we 
 issue from gloom into a clear air of boundless space. 
 The passage from our Northern Autumn to the per- 
 petual Summer that reigns here, is made almost 
 imperceptibly by our modern ships that do not heed 
 the wind. Silvery crested waves dance on the blue 
 waters, and the sky seems more distant from the 
 earth ; the clouds, too, have more definite form and 
 are further off ; new depths of space become ap- 
 parent, and our horizon is extended. 
 
 It seems as though our eyes could appreciate new 
 forms and colours in the increasing brightness which 
 we had been unable to perceive before. From what 
 a land of shadows we must have come, and what can 
 this festival of light be that has sprung on us sud- 
 denly and unbidden ? 
 
 A melancholy brightness pours relentlessly on this 
 land of tombs, this country thick with dust of by- 
 gone races ; but we forget it when we reach our 
 northern clime, and are surprised to find it there once 
 more on our return. Its rays shine constantly on 
 the hot and languid gulfs, and on their sand or 
 granite shores ; it bathes the ruins and that world 
 of dead stones which guard the ancestral faith and 
 the secrets of those the Bible tells us of. This melan- 
 choly light is ever present, just as it must have been
 
 2 INTRODUCTION 
 
 in the old, sacred times, and these things give our 
 narrow imagination a sense of infinity, and tell of a 
 time without beginning or end. The biblical times, 
 however, whose antiquity inspires our trust, are but 
 of yesterday when we look back on the history of the 
 world, fearful in the immensity of the past. This 
 superb and intoxicating brightness is but the passing 
 effect of our slowly decaying little sun upon a 
 favoured zone of our still smaller earth, an earth that 
 nestles close to him, as if frightened by the vast and 
 chill orbits of the other planets. 
 
 The blue sky too, enwoven with the phantasy of 
 passing clouds, that looks so deep, is but a thin, 
 deceptive veil that serves to screen the yawning 
 space behind. No, this is all nothing, only the space 
 behind is real. 
 
 This empty space, this black abyss into which 
 worlds ceaselessly fall, this kingdom that knows 
 neither commencement nor decay, is the one eternal 
 reality. 
 
 I must yet spend some seven or eight days amidst 
 the shining blue of heaven and sky before I reach 
 my journey's end. I make my way to India, the 
 cradle of human faith and thought, with nameless 
 dread, fearing that I may find nothing but a cruel 
 and final deception. 
 
 I have not come here to make a trifling call, but 
 to ask or beg the keepers of the Aryan wisdom to 
 give me their belief in the lasting duration of the 
 soul in place of the ineffable Christian faith which 
 has vanished from my soul. 
 
 The day declines in wondrous splendour. The sun 
 that draws us with him in the madness of his eternal 
 wandering will soon have passed from our view. 
 Our side of the world will turn towards that deep 
 space, towards that land of shadow which the trans- 
 parencies of the night air will let us see more clearly. 
 But now the magic of the evening, with the burning 
 rays of coppery rose, steals on us. In the east a 
 chain of desolate mountains, whose granite slopes
 
 INTRODUCTION 3 
 
 glow like a furnace, rise from the sea. They are 
 Sinai, Serbal, and Horeb, and the feeling of religious 
 respect, which centuries have impressed upon our 
 race, invades us once more. 
 
 The burning summits do not linger long, for the 
 sun has sunk beneath the waters and the evening 
 enchantment is over. Sinai, Serbal, and Horeb fade 
 in the twilight, and are no longer distinguishable. 
 Were they other than crests of jagged rock, idealized 
 in our minds by the superb poetry of Exodus ? Vast 
 and calm night will soon restore all things to their 
 true proportions, for space is already filled by legions 
 of wandering suns which make me think of the black 
 emptiness into which they and we are falling. I 
 dream, too, of the miserable fate of our little planets 
 chained to a sun that they can never hope to reach, 
 ever attempting to narrow the orbits of their mad 
 circlings, instead of plunging into space as do the 
 more glorious suns. 
 
 A cloudless limpidity spreads from the zenith to 
 the horizon, and the limitless void into which myriads 
 of worlds fall (like sparks from a rain of fire) is un- 
 bared before our eyes. 
 
 A sense of alleviation comes from the starry night, 
 like some breath of tenderness or pity that is poured 
 into a pardoned soul. 
 
 My God ! If the Indian sages that I seek could 
 but convince me that I might find pardon and pity 
 too.
 
 THE BURIED CITY
 
 CHAPTER I 
 THE BURIED CITY 1 
 
 INDIA at last, with its forests and its jungles. The sun 
 dawns on a forest of vegetation, an ocean of eternal 
 greenery ; whilst a boundless plain of mystery and 
 silence stretches from my feet to the extreme horizon. 
 
 I watch the light dawning on this silent wilderness 
 of green from the summit of a hill that rises like an 
 island out of the plains. It is India of the forests and 
 the jungles, though veiled in mist. In the centre of 
 Ceylon, sheltered by interlacing trees, there is a spot 
 of profoundest peace : it is the place where the mar- 
 vellous Anuradhapura stood the city which was 
 buried in a night of leaves more than two thousand 
 years ago. The day breaks slowly through a leaden sky, 
 thick with storm and gloom. The midnight hour is 
 striking now in France, but here the earth presents 
 this region of crumbling ruins to the sun once more. 
 
 Where can the wonderful town be ? I look round, 
 like a sailor searching from the mast across the sea, but 
 nothing of human origin is visible. Nothing but trees, 
 trees everywhere, trees in serried ranks, a rolling forest 
 which loses itself in illimitable distance. Lower down 
 there are lakes, inhabited by crocodiles, where herds of 
 wild elephants come at dusk to drink. From the forest 
 and the jungles the morning call of birds is heard. 
 But are there no traces of the marvellous city left ? 
 
 Here and there, however, are some curious green 
 and wooded hills, which rise in a strangely regular 
 fashion above the leafy plains. They are the towers 
 of old temples and giant dagabas, built two centuries 
 before the reign of Christ ; the forest has been unable 
 
 1 This is the literal translation of the Indian name. Anurad- 
 hapura was destroyed at the commencement of our era by the 
 great Malabar invasion.
 
 8 THE BURIED CITY 
 
 to destroy them, but has wrapped them in its green 
 winding-sheet, covering them gradually with its soil, its 
 roots, its monkeys, and its trailing growths. The place 
 where men worshipped in the earliest times of Buddha 
 is still nobly marked, and the sacred city which slum- 
 bers under all these overhanging branches is still here. 
 Even this hill on which I stand was once a sacred 
 dagaba built by myriads of the faithful in honour 
 of their prophet, the forerunner and brother of Jesus. 
 The pediment is guarded by a row of elephants 
 carved in stone, and by gods whose features time 
 has now obliterated. What a delirium of prayer and 
 adoration, and what a din of crashing music must 
 have daily filled this temple in the olden times ! 
 
 " The Temples and the Palaces of Anuradhapura 
 are numberless, and their golden cupolas and pavilions 
 shimmer in the sun. In the streets are crowds of 
 soldiers armed with bows and arrows. Elephants, 
 horses, chariots, and countless multitudes pass in a 
 continual turmoil. There are jugglers, dancers, and 
 musicians from many lands, whose timbals gleam 
 with golden ornaments." 
 
 Now there is silence, shadow, and green night ; 
 men have passed away and the forest has closed on 
 everything. The wakening morning shines on all 
 these buried ruins as calmly as it shone on the virgin 
 forest in the first dawnings of creation. 
 
 Before visiting the mainland, I must wait some days 
 in Ceylon for the reply of a noble Maharajah whose 
 guest I am to be, and I have preferred to seek shelter 
 here, rather than in the vulgar towns of the coast. 
 
 I had to leave Kandy (the home of the old Cinga- 
 lese kings) before daybreak, travelling through the 
 region of the great palms, where all the magnificence 
 of the equatorial land is unfurled. After midday the 
 appearance of the country changes, feathered palms 
 and areca trees gradually disappear. Doubtless we 
 have entered into a colder zone, for the forests re- 
 semble our own more closely. The little coach 
 travels through an incessant, warm, and scented rain,
 
 THE BURIED CITY g 
 
 drawn by horses which are changed every few miles. 
 Sometimes we gallop along the streaming road, or 
 fall into an obstinate trot, broken by ugly rushes. 
 
 More than once we have to jump down, because 
 some half-trained brute threatens to destroy every- 
 thing. Two Indians drive our ever-changing team ; 
 one holds the reins, whilst the other is ready to jump 
 down should danger threaten. A third blows a horn 
 as we pass through villages scattered amongst tree 
 palms, or warns the slowly-moving zebu carts. We 
 should have reached our destination at eight o'clock, 
 but the storms constantly increase our delay. 
 
 Towards evening villages become rarer, and the 
 forest is more dense. There are no more of those 
 cleared spaces which looked so small and so lost by 
 the side of the all-conquering forest ; and our 
 trumpeter has no longer need to play for any one. 
 
 The palms have altogether disappeared, and now 
 that the day has declined I should have said that we 
 were in some lonely European land where a perpetual 
 summer reigns. It is true that the tangle of climbing 
 plants is more luxuriant, and from time to time we pass 
 a flowering cactus, or some great red lily with twisted 
 petals, or gorgeous butterfly chased by a more gorgeous 
 bird, which tell us that this is not our home. But the 
 illusion of our country and our woods ever returns. 
 
 Since sunset we have passed neither village nor 
 trace of man ; silence reigns in the green depths 
 through which our road takes its interminable course, 
 and we are travelling much faster now in the warm 
 caressing rain that still beats on us. 
 
 As darkness comes on, an insect humming gradually 
 rises from the ground and makes the silence more 
 perceptible. On the damp forest soil myriads of 
 wings keep up a noisy music ; such music as has 
 been heard nightly since the birth of the world. 
 
 The sky is covered, and the night quite dark. For 
 hours we have trotted rapidly between two great 
 rows of trees, which resemble overgrown and fantastic 
 hedges in some boundless park. Sometimes great
 
 io THE BURIED CITY 
 
 black animals loom out of the shadows and bar our 
 further progress, harmless and stupid buffaloes which 
 we must drive aside with whips and cries. The road 
 once more resumes its dull monotony, and silence is 
 only broken by joyous insect rustlings. 
 
 One thinks of the forest denizens sheltered by the 
 calm of night, large and small wild creatures on the 
 watch or on the prowl, so many pricked ears, and so 
 many dilated eyes watching the least movement in 
 the shadowy wood. 
 
 The clearing through the mysterious trees extends 
 ceaselessly in front of us, a pale gray streak hemmed 
 in by high black walls ; in front, behind, and on all 
 sides the impenetrable jungles cast their terrifying 
 shadows on us. 
 
 When our eyes have grown accustomed to the 
 night, we can see, as if in a dream, the vague forms of 
 velvet-footed prowlers flitting amongst the thickets. 
 
 Towards eleven o'clock some little lights are seen, 
 and the roadsides are strewn with the long stones of 
 crumbling ruins, and above the trees the silhouette of 
 giant dagabas stand darkly forth against the gloomy 
 sky. I had been warned, so I knew that these were 
 not hills, but only the temples of the buried city. 
 
 We found our night's lodging at an Indian inn, 
 standing in an exquisite garden, whose flowers 
 beamed in the light of our passing lamps. 
 
 Now the day dawns, and in the forest beneath me 
 I can hear the birds awakening ; bushes and weeds 
 like those of the jungles surround me as I stand on 
 the temple's tower. Gray-winged bats, whose slum- 
 bers I have disturbed, flit in the morning air, and tiny 
 leaping squirrels, full of vitality and grace, peer at 
 me from out their leafy hiding-places. 
 
 At my feet some of the trees which form the wind- 
 ing street of the dead city are decked as for a spring 
 pageant with red, rose, and yellow flowers. Sud- 
 denly a storm breaks over their heads, passes on, 
 and disappears like a mist in the dim distance. 
 
 Now the sun quickly rises from the rain-clouds and
 
 THE BURIED CITY n 
 
 beats down upon my head ; it is time to seek some 
 shady cover, so I descend the sacred tower by a 
 ladder of branches to the green night where the men 
 of this country dwell. 
 
 Amongst the monstrous roots which twist like ser- 
 pents over the red earth, lie confused heaps of ruins 
 and fallen stones. Hundreds of broken gods, stone 
 elephants, altars, and chimeras are scattered about, 
 giving proof of the fearful havoc wrought by the 
 Malabar conquerors nearly two thousand years ago. 
 
 Pious Buddhists of our times have collected the 
 most precious relics from the precincts of the inde- 
 structible dagabas, and have ranged the decapitated 
 heads of the old gods in rows along the steps of pros- 
 trate temples. Some shapeless and broken altars still 
 stand upright. These they decorate each morning 
 with beautiful flowers and ever-burning lamps. 
 
 Anuradhapura in their eyes is still the sacred city 
 where pilgrims from afar come to meditate and pray 
 in the shadow of the great trees. 
 
 The dimensions and outlines of the great temples 
 are still marked by sequences of columns, stones, and 
 marbles starting from the towers and losing them- 
 selves in the woods. The most sacred spot was only 
 reached after threading an interminable series of 
 passages, which were guarded by inferior 'gods and 
 monsters, a world of stone images now lying scattered 
 and broken on the ground. 
 
 Besides these temples which rise above the swelling 
 jungle, there are hundreds more which have fallen 
 down, also the ruins of countless palaces. There are 
 as many columns hidden in the forest as there are tree 
 trunks, and all mingle in the eternal green twilight. 
 
 Towards the beginning of our era, the Princess 
 Sanghamitta, who was a great believer, had a branch 
 of the tree which sheltered Buddha, when the true faith 
 was first revealed to him, brought here from the north 
 of India ; that branch still lives and has become a great 
 and complex tree, for after the manner of the banyan 
 the branches have rooted too ; it is surrounded by
 
 12 THE BURIED CITY 
 
 venerable altars, daily strewn with fresh sweet-smelling 
 flowers, on whose stones the ever-lighted sacred lamps 
 keep constant vigil amidst the dim green twilight. 
 
 A gloom of sadness is thrown over the forest by the 
 beautifully sculptured marble porches, whose steps 
 are guarded by smiling gods, which lead to no house. 
 Time has left no further trace of these dwellings, 
 which were of wood, but the steps and paving stones, 
 and the gorgeous entrances which open on to weeds 
 and roots and earth. 
 
 In one corner of Anuradhapura a village has existed 
 for several years, a pastoral village which does not 
 disturb the melancholy of the place, for it is concealed, 
 like the ruins themselves, under overhanging branches. 
 
 The Indians who have returned to the buried city 
 do not cut down the forest trees, but merely clear away 
 the brambles and trailing growths, unbaring the fine 
 sward where their goats and zebus can pasture at their 
 pleasure, happy in wandering through thesacred groves. 
 
 Those who dwell among the sacred ruins, who 
 bathe in the ponds of the old palaces, think that the 
 spirits of the princes and the kings of old return. 
 So they shun the shadows of the great dagabas on 
 moonlit nights. All conspires to make the spot a 
 shady refuge for prayer and meditation. A church- 
 like calm hovers over the woody glens and the fine 
 carpeting of grass, on which tall trees rain down 
 showers of blossoms like large azaleas. 
 
 How touching it is to see little lamps placed before 
 the statues broken two thousand years ago, and fresh 
 flowers that deck these old stones ! 
 
 It is not usual to offer bouquets to the Indian gods, 
 but rather to strew the altars with flowers ; jasmines 
 in large quantities nothing but the flowers snatched 
 from their stalks gardenias and waxy blooms of 
 heavy odour that form a scented ground on which 
 Bengal roses and red hibiscus flowers are placed ; and 
 there are many such scattered over the stones of these 
 crumbling temples, whose mouldering remains daily 
 sink deeper into the earth.
 
 THE ROCK TEMPLE
 
 CHAPTER II 
 THE ROCK TEMPLE 
 
 AT the edge of the forest which shelters the ruins, 
 and close by the jungle, stands the Rock Temple 
 in which the ancient images of the gods are still 
 preserved intact. 
 
 Scattered about in various parts of the wild plain 
 we perceive rocks similar to those of the temple. 
 
 Some ancient cataclysm must have hurled these 
 smooth, round masses here. The swollen, brown 
 shapes that look like enormous beasts crouched 
 amongst the grasses, bear no resemblance to the sur- 
 rounding soil. 
 
 Those which shelter the temple look like a collec- 
 tion of reposing monsters, and the largest ones sup- 
 port the upright dagaba (the Buddhist steeple), just as 
 an elephant carries its tower ; an old whitewashed 
 tower rising from a sombre base. As I approach the 
 solitary wastes of the jungle, sketched out silently in 
 the hot evening sun, there is no one near the temple. 
 The heaps of scented flowers lying on the ground, 
 jasmines and gardenias, and the faded wreaths of 
 former days tell one that the gods are not forgotten. 
 
 The monster-like rocks are bathed on one side by 
 a lagoon in which crocodiles dwell under the lotus 
 leaves. On drawing closer, faint lines can be seen 
 etched on the sides of the polished stones, vague bas- 
 reliefs so faintly traced as to resemble mere reflections, 
 but drawn with such skill as to give a semblance of 
 life ; trunks, feet, ears, and the general outlines of 
 elephants are here. The mysterious characteristics 
 of the stones, which naturally resemble the skin of 
 
 '5
 
 16 THE ROCK TEMPLE 
 
 the royal animals in texture and colour, have been 
 utilized, too, with the strangest art. 
 
 Plants have grown here and there in the hollows 
 of the rounded stones, plants whose sharp outlines and 
 vivid colourings contrast hi an unreal fashion with 
 the surrounding tones of old, dull leather, for the hue of 
 the periwinkles is too rosy and the hibiscus flowers 
 are much too red, whilst the young areca trees, whose 
 tufted plumes droop from their thin stalks, are too 
 magnificently green. 
 
 Behind the group of rocks is concealed an old house 
 which shelters the priestly guardians of the temple, 
 one of whom now advances to meet me. He is young, 
 and, like all Buddhist priests, clothed in a single, 
 saffron-coloured garment which leaves one arm and 
 shoulder exposed. He brings a highly ornamented 
 key, over a foot in length, to open the sanctuary for 
 me. As he advances, key in hand, his beautiful 
 grave face and mystic eyes give him the look of some 
 bronze-coloured St. Peter, clothed in raiment of 
 coppery yellow that the sun has gilded. 
 
 We ascend a stairway cut in the rock out of whose 
 rugged sides periwinkles grow ; the dreary wastes 
 of the jungles extending around us. The sanctuary 
 is hollowed out of the heart of the principal stone, and 
 we first enter a little cavern, a sort of atrium contain- 
 ing a table covered with white gardenias on which the 
 offerings for the gods are placed. At the back is the 
 entry to the sacred place, an entry guarded by bronze 
 doors and a huge chased lock. 
 
 When the doors are thrown open with a grating 
 crash, the huge painted idols confront us, and it 
 seems as if some great cavern of precious perfumes 
 had been unsealed, for freshly sprinkled essences of 
 roses and sandal, masses of gardenias and tuberose 
 make a thick white carpet on the ground, and embalm 
 the air with intoxicating odours. Thus are the gods, 
 who live in an almost perpetual gloom, ever bathed 
 in the most exquisite scents. 
 
 There is hardly room for four or five persons in the
 
 ifetllH 
 
 
 >J&a - PM 
 
 ^ ' ' JtH&rp- V '! ' i^/,^ / 
 
 -i^iS'l 
 
 --".4&^&&s5t&i&KW\\ 'I , L vw'5 
 
 
 THE ROCK TEMPLE.
 
 THE ROCK TEMPLE 17 
 
 narrow temple, which is shut in like a dungeon and 
 almost filled by the statues. Goddesses twelve feet in 
 height, cut from the solid rock, decorate the walls 
 with their closely serried forms ; their faces have 
 the same yellow tint as the priest's robe, and their 
 head-dresses touch the ceiling. A Buddha of super- 
 human size is seated in the middle, in the pose of 
 one sunk in a perpetual dream, and smaller gods of 
 the size of dolls are gathered round his knees, whilst 
 the circle of staring goddesses seems to be gathered 
 round in an air of anxious expectation. In spite 
 of the brilliance of their golden ornaments and the 
 freshness of the blue and red colouring of their 
 stony robes, these long-eyed divinities give one the 
 instant impression of fearful antiquity. 
 
 My unexpected visit has allowed a little daylight to 
 filter into their grotto and permitted them to see, 
 through the open vestibule, the confines of the jungle, 
 where their crowds of worshippers lived in bygone 
 ages. I look at them for a moment, almost em- 
 barrassed at finding myself so close in front of them, 
 and I soon allow the priest to close the holy closet, 
 so that the inmates of the rock may be plunged once 
 more in silence and scented shades. 
 
 I take my leave, for I cannot understand these 
 symbols, and this Buddhist peace is as yet hidden 
 from me ; the guardian in the yellow robe goes calmly 
 back to his hermitage priest of a strange temple, 
 having no other care than the arrangement of his 
 flowers, living a joyless life in this deserted place 
 where sorrow never comes, living only in the hope 
 that he may prolong his ego after this present 
 incarnation has ended in an impersonal and sad 
 eternity. 
 
 The sun is sinking as I leave the Rock Temple to 
 return to the lofty forest under which Anuradhapura 
 slumbers, and as I am leaving to-morrow at daybreak, 
 I will wander amongst the ruins till night comes. 
 
 " The largest streets are those of The Moon, The 
 King, The Sand-Covered Street and a fourth. In the
 
 i8 THE ROCK TEMPLE 
 
 Street of The Moon there are eleven thousand houses. 
 The distance from the principal door to the door 
 of the South is sixteen miles ; and from the door of 
 the North to the door of the South is sixteen miles 
 also." 
 
 In reality, these fallen stones, these ruins and sculp- 
 tures of the olden times, seem never-ending ; gods 
 crowned with tiaras, heraldic monsters with the bodies 
 of crocodiles, elephants' trunks, and birds' tails. 
 Columns everywhere, some standing, others fallen 
 and broken ; the thresholds of the fallen houses, 
 guarded on each side by a smiling goddess, seem to 
 invite us to enter, amidst thickets of roots and ferns 
 the houses of the inhabitants of the olden times, 
 people who were hospitable no doubt, but whose 
 dust has ceased to exist centuries ago. 
 
 The evening hour, with its harmonies of ruddy gold, 
 finds me far from the house where I have my lodging. 
 I am in the quarter of the King's Palaces, of which 
 nothing remains but the monstrous foundation, the 
 steps and the sculptured pavement. A death-like 
 silence reigns, unbroken by the cry of insect or of 
 bird. Here I rest at the edge of the gigantic tank, 
 walled in with thick granite blocks, that was the 
 bath of the royal elephants. 
 
 This lily-covered expanse of slumbering water 
 makes a clearing amongst the high trees, and lightens 
 the feeling of oppression caused by the overhanging 
 branches ; nevertheless the air is still heavy and 
 motionless. Bubbles of air continually make eddies 
 on the surface of the treacherous water bubbles 
 breathed out by crocodiles who bask in the warm 
 mud, in which silent worlds of tortoises and snakes 
 reside. 
 
 There are no climbing plants here, and as no bushes 
 mask the view, it is possible to see the boundaries 
 of this kingdom of ruins which extends around us. 
 Towards the west a fire seems to spring from the 
 level of the ground and scatters its dazzling rays 
 among the trees. It is the setting of the sun, which
 
 THE ROCK TEMPLE 19 
 
 in these latitudes is immediately succeeded by night- 
 fall. 
 
 I must hasten further whilst there is light, and as 
 this is my last evening, make my walk as long as 
 possible. 
 
 The secret charm of the new land that I tread in 
 the growing dimness lies in the delicate, dry, and 
 sandy soil covered by short, fine grasses as were the 
 woods my childhood knew, and the impression of 
 my native land is heightened by the tracks traced 
 by the shepherds and their flocks. There are trees, 
 too, which have a sober little foliage, netted with 
 gray veins like our evergreen oaks, and were it not 
 for the great red lilies and bouvardias which now 
 and then take me by surprise, it would indeed be 
 like home, for the same pastoral calm and gentle 
 melancholy reign here as there. 
 
 But these great stones and ruins are always here 
 to disturb my dream, and statues with mysterious 
 faces haunt the place. The dimness increases, and 
 in the dusk the outlines of lonely Buddhas, sitting and 
 smiling in vacancy, are almost terrifying. 
 
 I make my way back in the dusk by another road 
 which has an even sweeter sadness, and a more 
 marked resemblance to my native land. Though 
 still conscious, in a latent manner, perhaps, of the 
 Indian forest which surrounded me on all sides, I 
 felt myself back among the oak woods of Saintonge or 
 of Aunis, and walked forward confidently. Believing 
 myself quite alone, a sudden tremor ran through me 
 when I saw a huge, black man, whose head was bent 
 sideways, and whose hands were on his hips, near 
 by my side a granite Buddha who had been there 
 for two thousand years. 
 
 Drawing closer, one can see, even in the fading 
 light, his lowered eyelids and his eternal smile. 
 
 A spiritual and holy calm seems to diffuse itself 
 now that the moon is shining and the towers of the 
 great temple train their black shadows over the jungle.
 
 20 THE ROCK TEMPLE 
 
 The moonbeams have a bluish tinge, and the light 
 of Eden seems to illuminate the first and only night 
 that I shall spend amongst these woods. 
 
 The splendour of the clearness of our warm July 
 nights comes back to me, but here there is something 
 different, something more lasting, something that tells 
 of a perpetual and never-ending summer. 
 
 Between the trees the sky is visible, and the fine 
 lawns, traversed by little paths, are illuminated with 
 a strange radiance. Silence seems gradually to 
 deepen as I penetrate the woods, in spite of the night 
 music of the insects, which vibrates madly around me. 
 
 Alone I wend my way towards the shadows cast 
 by the great dagabas of which the Indians are afraid ; 
 whither my guide, thinking of the spectres of kings 
 and priests, has not chosen to follow me. 
 
 On nearing one of the temples I instinctively choose 
 the side lit by the moon, in order to reach the gigantic 
 dagaba. No doubt this open space, which served as a 
 peristyle, is haunted by spectres. Suddenly my foot- 
 steps resound on hollowed pavements and I am in the 
 midst of broken altars and mutilated images bathed 
 in a bluish glow. The vast stillness of Anuradhapura 
 seems yet more strange, and I stop short like some 
 frightened native ; indeed, I dare not walk round the 
 dagaba, or cross that patch of noisome shadow. 
 
 Where are the kings and priests who built this 
 monstrous temple ? Do they dwell in Nirvana or in 
 nothingness, and how can their spirits ever return 
 from such far-distant realms ? 
 
 Their Buddhist faith, too, seems a dead and perished 
 thing, buried under these ruins and covered by the 
 dust of the ancient idols.
 
 
 THE HOME OF THE MAHARAJAH 
 OF TRAVANCORE 
 
 21
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE HOME OF THE MAHARAJAH 
 OF TRAVANCORE 
 
 2Qth December 
 
 IT is the evening hour, and a period of calm and 
 freshness follows the hasty sunset. It is but a few 
 moments since I reached Palancota, an unknown 
 village where I am to pass the night. Here, for the 
 first time, I feel how far from home I am, amidst these 
 trees and the silence that spreads over the declining 
 day. 
 
 I made halt for a week in the damp, green island of 
 Ceylon, to which the French steamer had brought 
 me ; then last night I crossed the ever-raging Gulf of 
 Manar in a poor coasting vessel ; since then I have 
 travelled all day to this village, where I am met by an 
 envoy of His Highness the Maharajah of Travancore, 
 who quarters me in a little white house standing 
 amidst shady trees. 
 
 To-morrow I set out on my journey in an Indian 
 zebu cart for the land of Travancore, where my 
 wanderings are to commence. This land is also styled 
 " The Land of Charity," and is, I am told, a place of 
 blissful peace, cut off from the mad turmoil of our age, 
 an isolated country sheltered by spreading palms. 
 
 It is quite night now, an exquisite summer night ; 
 but there is no moon. A carriage takes me to see a 
 Brahmin temple, one of the largest in the south, that 
 has been illuminated for me. This temple is situated 
 in a neighbouring town named Tinnevelli. 
 
 We trot easily along a flat road, under the mys- 
 
 23
 
 24 THE HOME OF THE 
 
 terious interlacings of overhanging trees ; trailing 
 roots hang from the extended branches, myriads of 
 trailing roots which look like tresses of long hair. 
 Thousands of stars sparkle through the smallest gap 
 among the branches, whilst under the leaves crowds 
 of fireflies flit like sparks of flame. All these scintilla- 
 tions intermingle, so that in our rapid course we do 
 not know which are stars and which are fireflies. 
 
 It is a joy to breathe the dry and healthful air after 
 the everlasting dampness of Ceylon ; it seems a 
 summer night of France, and crickets sing everywhere 
 as they do in June with us. Strange wayfarers pass 
 along the roads, bronze figures draped in white muslin, 
 whose naked feet pass noiselessly over the ground. 
 Occasionally the sound of a distant tom-tom is heard, 
 or a few groaning notes of the bagpipes tell us of 
 India, and of Brahma, and how far we are from home. 
 White houses with verandas commence to loom 
 among the shady trees that line both sides of the road. 
 They are the houses of Tinnevelli, the town towards 
 which we journey. At last, at the end of an avenue 
 of palms, whose black heads are balanced on their 
 frail stalks, a strange and striking outline is visible, 
 the great temple. A stranger might recognize it, for 
 its shape has been vaguely impressed on us by many 
 pictures, but I did not expect to see it so large, nor 
 that tower so high in the evening sky. It is a mon- 
 strous pylone, in all probability graven with images 
 of intertwining forms of gods, whose roof, bristling 
 with monsters, casts its dark profile on the starry 
 firmament. 
 
 Our carriage soon passes under a granite archway 
 framed by square columns of primitive style. Five 
 ramparts once passed, we find ourselves in a square 
 inclosure open to the shining stars. This I am not 
 allowed to cross. The pylone, however, rises quite 
 closely before us ; its extraordinary proportions seem 
 to overhang and dwarf the doorway which I may not 
 tread, although it stands widely open. With my 
 eyes I seek to penetrate the dim obscurities of the
 
 MAHARAJAH OF TRAVANCORE 25 
 
 sacred temple whose infinite recesses are outlined by 
 many twinkling and mysterious lamps. 
 
 I am allowed to look from here, but I must not 
 approach or gaze too long. Under the columns of the 
 peristyle that adjoins each side of the yawning entry, 
 vendors of flowers, wreaths, and sacred cakes made 
 for the gods are stationed, their stalls illuminated by 
 little, flickering lamps. These dancing flames only 
 light up the groups of men and the worn bases of the 
 columns, which were once carved with monsters and 
 with fantastic groups. The motionless nude forms of 
 tawny merchants which rest against the ruddy 
 granites might be taken for those of the gods them- 
 selves ; their eyes glitter in the dim light, whilst their 
 long hair falls in a black flood upon their shoulders. 
 Above them gloom reigns supreme amongst the dim 
 outlines of columns and vaulted arches. 
 
 The temple seems to my stealthy gaze to be of in- 
 finite extent. Endless rows of columns rise from an 
 obscurity which the many-lighted lamps are power- 
 less to dispel. The air is filled with sounds of prayer 
 and chanted psalms, while white-robed forms flit 
 dimly across the dark background. 
 
 The framework of the doorway through which I 
 look, but through which I must not pass, is of a 
 strange and unknown order of architecture. Not- 
 withstanding that its proportions are those of a 
 cathedral door, it has a low and furtive look, as if 
 crushed by the weight of the monstrous pylone that 
 overhangs it ; and the colossal pyramid of gods 
 towering to the stars makes it seem the entrance of a 
 mysterious subterranean cavern. 
 
 This is my first visit to a Brahmin temple, but I 
 immediately receive a hostile impression, a dismal 
 feeling of dread and heathenish idolatry. I had not 
 expected this, nor yet that I should have been refused 
 admission. How childish were the hopes that I had 
 cherished, I who had hoped to find some ray of light 
 in the religion of our Indian ancestors ! 
 
 Oh ! for the sweet, deceptive peace of our Christian
 
 26 THE HOME OF THE 
 
 churches which are open to all, and kind even to those 
 who can believe no longer. . . . 
 
 They tell me that there are temples in other parts 
 of India which are less sullen, and into which I may 
 be allowed to enter, but it is hinted that I had better 
 retire now, if I do not wish to be indiscreet. Should 
 I desire it, our carriage may drive round the huge 
 temple. 
 
 The inclosure is square and large enough to contain 
 a town. In the middle of each of the four blank walls 
 a huge pylone rises, under which a door has been 
 hollowed out, but, except for this, these walls are as 
 gloomy as those of a citadel. 
 
 Our carriage pursues its lonely road through the 
 dim silence ; even the place we are in is sacred and 
 must not be trod by common men. We pass dark 
 masses, which look like pedestals of idols supported 
 on gigantic wheels and which seem to have been cast 
 up here by chance. These are the chariots in which 
 the gods are placed on feast days, when thousands of 
 frenzied arms push them along the ground ; but to- 
 night they slumber with their wheels embedded in the 
 ruts like dead things. 
 
 As we retrace our way under the avenues of palms 
 whose dark heads are bent in all directions, a clamour 
 of religious frenzy breaks over us, and the hollow 
 sound of tom-toms fills the serene night air ; horns 
 bray like monsters, and barbarous noises fill us with a 
 sense of terror. 
 
 i 
 2lst December 
 
 I am still in the village of Palancota. During the 
 whole night bronzed serving-men have waved great 
 fans in the air to drive mosquitoes and winged night- 
 moths away. The doors and windows of the little 
 native house have remained open during the night, 
 so that the first gay beams of the dawning day find
 
 MAHARAJAH OF TRAVANCORE 27 
 
 ready access, and I awake amidst the splendour of the 
 rising sun. 
 
 The veranda, still fresh with dew, offers an ex- 
 quisite shelter, for it is snowy with whitewash, and 
 the thick-set irregular pillars are covered with jas- 
 mines. 
 
 A calm, pastoral country extends around me, 
 bathed in a blissful morning charm ; the gentle glow 
 of one of our September mornings shines on a land 
 that has been parched by autumn droughts. There 
 are no great palms here, nor any of the rank vegeta- 
 tion of Ceylon, nothing but small trees with modest 
 leaves, like those of our woods. Fields that have been 
 reaped, orchards, pleasant, well-kept lanes wandering 
 through the short grass, and further off, amidst the 
 branches, little walls and carefully whitewashed 
 houses. I look with astonishment on sights almost 
 like those familiar to my childhood. 
 
 There are even sparrows, common sparrows just 
 like those which nest among our roofs ; but they are 
 bolder, for, like all Indian living things, they have a 
 confidence in man to which I am not accustomed. 
 
 Parts of this land closely resemble my own, and call 
 back the charm of summer's declining days, though 
 it is winter here. 
 
 A gentle sense of melancholy steals over me, and 
 without, however, being wholly able to forget that I 
 am in this far-off land of India, I dream that I am 
 once more in my native land. These flat plains, 
 whitewashed walls, and ripening harvests call to my 
 mind the countrysides of Aunis and Saintonge, and 
 the peaceful dwellings of the Isle of Oberon nestled 
 amid the glories of their ripening vines. 
 
 There are, however, many things to dispel my 
 dreams : a naked wayfarer brushes silently through 
 the grass, turning his dusky countenance to me ; a 
 humming bird that has the changing hues of a pre- 
 cious stone settles among the sparrows ; and a little 
 girl of six, who has been sent with a message to me 
 from the village, has strangely lengthened eyes, and
 
 28 THE HOME OF THE 
 
 pins threaded with blood-coloured rubies are passed 
 through her quivering nostrils. 
 
 Something strange and unhomely is seen in the 
 distance among the trees, the angle of a pylone, the 
 corner of a pyramid of gods and monsters springing 
 from a temple of Vishnu hidden in the woods. 
 
 In spite of the shade afforded by the trees, the mid- 
 day sun beats fiercely on the little whitewashed 
 houses. A brightness, which eclipses that of our 
 most gorgeous September day, hovers over the 
 neighbouring orchards and the drooping grass. No 
 one passes along the lanes, and everything is still. 
 The great fans slumber too, for their attendants have 
 gone to rest. All is silent and motionless, only the 
 crows keep wakeful. They enter the room and 
 wander round me. Their hopping noises and the 
 silky swish of their wings are the only sounds that 
 break the torpor that reigns everywhere. 
 
 The thought comes to me that our Christmas is 
 close at hand, and this never-changing summer seems 
 to fill me with an indescribable sadness. 
 
 The carriages which are to take us on our two days' 
 journey to the wished-for land of Travancore make 
 their appearance one after the other : two native 
 chariots drawn by trotting bulls of the shape of long 
 sarcophagi, into which one slides from the back, and 
 in which it is impossible to sit upright. The one pro- 
 vided for me is drawn by a pair of white cattle, whose 
 horns are painted blue ; that of my servants has 
 brown animals with copper-encircled horns. Mean- 
 while, till the sun is less powerful, the four peaceful, 
 indolent, and gentle zebus lie on the grass and wait. 
 
 ii 
 
 We start at three, under the still fierce rays of the 
 sun. My chariot is provided with mats and carpets, 
 but is too low to allow me to sit upon them, so that I 
 have to lie down, like a sick man in an ambulance, 
 whilst my zebus at once fall into the hobbling trot
 
 MAHARAJAH OF TRAVANCORE 29 
 
 which must be the accompaniment of my slumbers 
 for the next two days. 
 
 We change our teams of men and cattle frequently, 
 for relays are placed along this road, which is the sole 
 means of communication in the south between eastern 
 India and Travancore. Up till now the happy 
 " Land of Charity " has no railroad to draw away its 
 riches ; on the northern side the communication with 
 the little State of Cochin is by means of boats, which 
 thread a series of canals and lakes, but intercourse 
 from other sources is barred by the natural defences 
 of this fortunate land. 
 
 There are no ports on the western coast, nothing 
 but inaccessible shores on which great breakers beat. 
 The Great Central Chain of the Ghauts keeps watch 
 on the east, with its rugged peaks and tiger-swarming 
 forests. 
 
 My good cattle trot or gallop merrily along. Now 
 that we have passed the village, the long, endless road 
 extends before us, stretching its long, blood-coloured 
 monotony between two rows of great trees that look 
 like ash or walnut. The walnuts are young banyan 
 trees, which in time will grow to be giants ; hair-like 
 roots have already commenced to grow here and 
 there, and drooping from the branches to the ground, 
 seek the earth so that they may form new stems. 
 Vast lonely plains, thinly scattered with palms, 
 appear between the trees. 
 
 Some holes are made in the sides of the cart to give 
 air and light ; and at the back there is that tiny 
 round door through which I had to crawl with lowered 
 head. 
 
 The chariot for the luggage and the servants 
 follows closely in the wake, and the zebus with their 
 good-natured long faces are my nearest neighbours ; 
 these gentle, ambling cattle, driven by a single rein 
 threaded through their nostrils, almost touch my feet 
 as I lie extended on my back, and their horns are bent 
 backwards as if they feared to do any one an un- 
 willing injury. The bronze-hued driver is quite
 
 30 THE HOME OF THE 
 
 naked, and balances himself on the pole with a 
 marvellous alertness, sitting cross-legged, with his 
 hands placed upon his knees ; he lashes his cattle 
 with a thin reed or urges them on by making a noise 
 like that of an angry monkey. 
 
 The desert wastes extend on either hand, becoming 
 more awe-inspiring as we proceed further. Some- 
 times there are a few poor rice or cotton fields in the 
 sad rays of the setting sun. 
 
 The outlines of the Ghauts are seen on the horizon, 
 walling in the land of Travancore. We must cross 
 them to-night by their only pass. 
 
 I am astonished to see these arid plains, on which 
 grass even will not grow, after the luxuriant vegeta- 
 tion and the damp atmosphere of Ceylon. Some gray 
 stalked palms which hardly seem to belong to the 
 plant kingdom are dotted here and there, smooth and 
 straight as tall masts. Swollen at the base, they 
 taper towards the summit, which bears a little bunch 
 of rigid fans posed on the stem whose length is out of 
 all proportion to it. These stiff outlines are repeated 
 endlessly on both sides of the road as far as the eye 
 can reach. 
 
 There are no passengers on the well-kept road, with 
 its bordered sides of banyan trees, and it might be 
 thought to lead to nowhere. Gradually the ex- 
 hausting heat and the rhythmic sequence of repeated 
 jolts causes a vague drowsiness in which my thoughts 
 commence to wander. 
 
 Towards five o'clock we pass four grotesque way- 
 farers, an important event to sleep-laden eyes that 
 have become accustomed to the deserted road ; four 
 tall, scantily-clothed men, who march along with rapid 
 footsteps. They wear large, red turbans, and their 
 loins are swathed by red and white striped cloths. 
 
 Where can these gorgeously-apparelled men be 
 going in such haste, and what may they seek in the 
 midst of the desert ? 
 
 Gradually I lose consciousness, and slumber rivets 
 me to my stifling couch.
 
 MAHARAJAH OF TRAVANCORE 31 
 
 I awake an hour later ; twilight has come and I 
 can but catch one last impression from the dying day. 
 
 The mountain chain has suddenly come closer, as if 
 it had made a leap of some three miles, and now shuts 
 out the eastern plains. Its deep, purple contours are 
 outlined with incredible clearness against the rosy 
 background that the setting sun has left ; the granite 
 peaks are truly Indian in character, and take shapes 
 that are unseen elsewhere, apeing the forms of pyra- 
 mids, towers, and pagoda roofs. Thin, reedy palms, 
 and fierce-looking aloes are the only plants that grow 
 here ; their erect forms stand out sharply against the 
 declining light, and the pale clearness of the sky is 
 pierced by the outlines of their black leaves. 
 
 Suddenly darkness comes, and I feel a shade of 
 melancholy, for the night will be moonless. 
 
 Till morning dawns I am jolted in my narrow 
 sarcophagus, and I only receive a whirl of confused 
 impressions. Furious cries, the jangling of bells as we 
 pass other zebu wagons that unwillingly give place 
 to us ; stoppages to change our cattle and our men 
 in dimly seen roadside villages ; villages inhabited 
 by sleeping Brahmins, who have placed little lighted 
 lamps filled with coco-nut oil in the niches of the walls 
 to frighten away the evil spirit of the night. 
 
 22nd December 
 
 Next morning at daybreak I am aroused with 
 many salutes, for we have reached the village of 
 Nagercoil, where I am to repose till sunset. The 
 mountain chain that I had seen before me yesterday 
 outlined on the evening red, is now behind me, bathed 
 in the rosy pallor of the dawning day ; we have crossed 
 it during the night, and are now in Travancore. The 
 little veranda-fronted house at which my zebus stop 
 is the hotel, and the white-robed Indian who salutes 
 with both his hands pressed on his forehead is the 
 hotel-keeper who has had orders to await me and to 
 reserve the whole house for me.
 
 32 THE HOME OF THE 
 
 Like those of every Indian village, this " Travellers' 
 Rest " consists of three or four whitewashed rooms on 
 the ground floor, very clean, almost bare, with couches 
 of rattan cane on which to sleep. 
 
 The roof, which is upheld by thick columns, over- 
 laps the sides of the house, so as to give shelter from 
 the rays of the burning sun. 
 
 I bathe and then breakfast under fans waved by 
 listless serving-men. Then I am only conscious of the 
 melancholy sadness of a darkened room, the suave 
 silence and the visits of the crows, who come and hop 
 about the floor of my room. 
 
 At two o'clock a dispatch comes from the Dewan 
 (the minister of the Maharajah), stating that a 
 carriage drawn by horses has been sent for me to a 
 village called Neyzetavaray, in readiness to start at 
 eleven o'clock at night. 
 
 So I decide to set out at once, instead of waiting as 
 usual for sunset, in order that I may reach Neyzet- 
 avaray to-night, and spend the rest of the night in the 
 carriage. 
 
 Our departure takes place under a dazzling white 
 light and the repeated two-handed salutes of the inn- 
 keeper ; the bronzed waiting-men stand round my 
 carriage in attitudes of silent appeal, nor does the 
 nearly naked old woman, whose function is to fill the 
 bath, allow her presence to be forgotten. I give some 
 little coins of Travancore silver money to all these 
 people, little thick coins like shining grains of silver, 
 and then our zebus trot out briskly into the stifling 
 heat. 
 
 The land gradually becomes more leafy, soon equal- 
 ling the magnificence of Ceylon, and the jungle is full 
 of flowering shrubs. The tall tufted palms that but 
 yesterday looked so yellow and dried up, are now 
 luxuriant bouquets of fans ; coco-nuts with their great 
 green feathers reappear in clumps, and from the 
 banyans of the roadside, that form an archway over 
 our heads, trailing roots descend in hairy masses to 
 the ground. The country seems to be but a wilder-
 
 MAHARAJAH OP TRAVANCORE 33 
 
 ness of trees, an inextricable green entanglement. 
 Just now we meet many people travelling along the 
 shady road ; folk in zebu carts like our own, and 
 shepherds leading their flocks ; processions of women 
 too, countless groups of women carrying burdens on 
 their heads in grass-woven baskets. 
 
 Here and there we pass little granite temples, roofed 
 with flat stones, and temples of uncertain age that 
 look like miniature replicas of those of ancient Egypt ; 
 or, maybe, under some huge banyan, which has 
 become sacred in virtue of its great age, the tomb of 
 a holy fakir, garlanded with fresh flowers, or a statue 
 of the elephant-headed god Ganesa, that some pious 
 hand has adorned with a necklace made of interwoven 
 pinks and roses. 
 
 It is a somewhat unexpected surprise that though 
 most of the men are handsome, the women we meet in 
 such numbers are not beautiful ; the bronze colour 
 seems to harmonize better with the faces of the men, 
 whose moustaches, too, hide the lips, which in the 
 women are somewhat noticeably thick. With the ex- 
 ception of a few very young ones, who have the pure 
 outlines of a Tanagra figure, nearly all have prema- 
 turely deformed busts, not even hid by drapery. 
 They wear a golden ring in each nostril, and the ear 
 lobes are so much lengthened by weighty rings, that 
 they hang down to the shoulders of the old people. 
 It is true that these are but the wives of pariahs, for 
 those of the higher caste, that we have not yet seen, 
 do not travel along the roads carrying burdens. 
 
 From time to time we pass tall, solid tables of 
 granite, which have been thoughtfully provided so 
 that these women may relieve themselves of their 
 burdens, and replace them on their heads without the 
 trouble of stooping down. 
 
 A charming tranquillity hovers over the land, and 
 the scattered villages embowered in greenery are 
 sunk in a calm like that of paradise. 
 
 Under a shady banyan tree, near which an old idol 
 of Siva stands, I see a white-bearded man of Hebraic
 
 34 THE HOME OF THE 
 
 cast of countenance, dressed in a violet-coloured robe, 
 peacefully reclining with a book in his hands ; it is a 
 bishop a Syrian bishop ; surely a strange and un- 
 expected encounter in this country of the mysterious 
 rites of Brahma. 
 
 On reflection, however, there is nothing unusual in 
 it. I knew that the Maharajah of Travancore had 
 about five hundred thousand Christians among his 
 subjects, Christians whose ancestors had churches 
 here when Europe was still under pagan rule. These 
 claim that they are the descendants of St. Thomas, 
 who came to India about the middle of the first 
 century. More probably they are Nestorians who 
 arrived later from Syria, a land that still continues to 
 send them priests. In any case, they come of an old 
 and venerable stock, of that there can be no question. 
 Jews, who emigrated after the second destruction of 
 the temple of Jerusalem, are also found in the more 
 northern parts of the kingdom. As in the case of the 
 Christians, no one has ever disturbed them, for religious 
 tolerance has always existed here, and in no instance 
 has human blood been shed in this " Land of Charity." 
 
 Our zebus still maintain their constant trot. To- 
 wards evening the sun becomes overcast, and, as in 
 Ceylon, a tropical dampness fills the air. Cocoa 
 palms those denizens of the lands of hot rains 
 become more predominant now that we have entered 
 the infinite expanse of feathered palms which extends 
 from the western shores to the coast of Malabar, 
 plunging hundreds of miles in an everlasting green 
 light. As we pass at the foot of the spurs of the 
 Ghaut Chain our outlook is hemmed in by rocky 
 peaks, overhanging forests, and masses of black cloud. 
 
 The journey had already lasted some four hours 
 when the sense of weariness, aggravated by the 
 cadenced jolting of our zebus, became so intolerable 
 that I had to slip through the little opening at the 
 front of my sarcophagus, and sit for a while on the 
 pole in the pose of a crouching monkey by the side 
 of my driver. The daylight has waned considerably,
 
 HINDOO CHILD. WITH EAR-LOBES LENGTHENED BY WEIGHTY 
 
 RINGS.
 
 MAHARAJAH OF TRAVANCORE 35 
 
 and under the black clouds and overhanging palms 
 it is almost twilight. The green tunnel of banyans 
 extends as ever in front of us, but here and there 
 fantastic objects are seen looming from the woods 
 through the evening shadows. They resemble huge, 
 shapeless animals ; sometimes they are scattered 
 and sometimes in flocks, or even piled on one another. 
 These strange objects consist of granite blocks 
 blocks which have the soft roundness of elephants 
 and the bronze colour of their skin ; there is no con- 
 nection between them, and they look as if they had 
 come here separately, or as if they had been rolled or 
 thrown here, like corpses heaped up after a massacre. 
 Now the larger roots and branches of the trees take 
 the shape of elephants' trunks ; indeed, it looks as 
 if nature had had some vague idea of this particular 
 animal shape in all her creation, as if the first thought 
 of the elephantine form had existed here from the 
 remotest antiquity, even from the date when the 
 first unconscious thought had fashioned matter with 
 stone. At present it looks as if elephants or the em- 
 bryos of elephants were crowded round us, and the 
 resemblances are even more striking now that it is 
 quite dim in the woods which lie about us. 
 
 It is eight o'clock, and the heavy clouds which 
 threatened us have cleared off without leaving a trace ; 
 the sky is pure, and the night starry. Crickets and 
 grasshoppers chirp madly, and all the branches of the 
 trees vibrate with insect joy. 
 
 A confused waving of torches is seen in front of us, 
 and we behold a crowd advancing through the dusky 
 foliage. We can hear the sound of drums and cym- 
 bals, and a chorus of human voices which accompanies 
 the merry procession on their way through the 
 avenues of palm and banyan. 
 
 In the flickering light of torches we see some twenty 
 bare-chested young men, who carry an ornamented 
 and flower-decorated palanquin on their shoulders, 
 in which reposes one of their fellows, like a rajah or 
 some god, in golden crown and long gilt robe.
 
 36 THE HOME OF THE 
 
 It is a marriage procession, and this is the bride- 
 groom who is being carried by his friends with such 
 religious ceremony. 
 
 Towards eleven o'clock, as I was lying asleep at 
 the bottom of the cart, one of the little loopholes was 
 opened, and a letter, sealed with the arms of Tra van- 
 core two elephants and a seashell was handed to 
 me by the light from the lantern. We have reached 
 the village of Neyzetavaray, and the letter is from 
 the Dewan, bidding me welcome in the name of the 
 sovereign, and telling me that the carriage awaits me. 
 
 It is a great pleasure to leave the Indian cart, to 
 step into this elegant and well-hung carriage, and to 
 set forth at a brisk trot with these two splendid 
 horses. A coachman in the livery of the Maharajah 
 a long robe and a gilt turban that shines hazily 
 through the gloom is on the box, whilst two active 
 footmen are stationed on the step. They almost 
 seem to have wings as they run forward, uttering 
 fearful cries in order to clear the way of the zebu 
 carts which are now far more plentiful. It gives me 
 an intoxicating sense of joy to move along so easily 
 and so quickly through the calm starry night past 
 the flying palms, after having endured so many jolts 
 in my narrow box. We cleave the delicious night 
 air, laden with the perfume of flowers, as if our road 
 lay through some never-ending fairy garden. 
 
 Again we see the red light of torches and hear 
 strains of music ; it is another marriage procession 
 wandering along in spite of the late and silent hour. 
 This time the bridegroom is on horseback, and looks, 
 with his golden robe hanging over his horse's crupper, 
 like some king of the Magi. 
 
 Towards one o'clock in the morning, great dark 
 palm feathers suddenly cease to interlace above our 
 heads ; there is a clearing in the forest and we reach 
 a street. But this street, bathed in the clear, ashy 
 gray light that falls in tropical regions from the stars 
 on moonless nights, seems to be plunged in profound 
 slumber. Houses, which must be white in the day-
 
 MAHARAJAH OF TRAVANCORE 37 
 
 light, now have a bluish tinge. All have a story 
 rising above their verandas, from which little pointed 
 festoons or lace-worked windows look through com- 
 plicated columns. Lower down, on either side of the 
 closed doors, little lamps shine like glow-worms ; 
 these tiny flames are placed in niches to keep watch 
 against the intrusion of evil spirits. Many animals 
 crouch motionlessly on the steps, as closely as pos- 
 sible to the human habitation, as if they, too, sought 
 shelter from some unknown spell ; zebus, sheep, and 
 goats, who do not even wake as we pass by. There 
 is no other sound than that of our light wheels upon 
 the sanded road, and all these houses, slumbering 
 cattle, and vague shapes of things unseen, are bathed 
 in an uncertain bluish light, that looks like the re- 
 flection of some far-off Bengal fire. 
 
 In front of us there is a vast inclosure with a monu- 
 mental door surmounted by miradores and columns 
 opening on to an avenue which rows of lanterns show 
 to be large and wide. Tops of palm trees and palace 
 roofs rise above this wall, and quite at the back in 
 the direction of the straight avenue the gigantic 
 towers of Brahmin temples are seen. We are evi- 
 dently going to enter the inclosure, for this must be 
 the capital of Travancore, the true Trivandrum, the 
 residence of the Maharajah, and the bluish street, 
 peopled by slumbering animals, can only have been 
 a suburb. 
 
 I was not aware that only Indians of high caste 
 are permitted to inhabit this privileged inclosure till 
 my carriage turned sharply to the right from the 
 face of the great door which I thought we should 
 enter. Plunging once more into long shady roads 
 resembling park avenues, we stopped at length be- 
 fore a splendid dwelling standing in a garden, which, 
 alas ! was built in European style. 
 
 An apartment has been prepared here for me, and 
 the gracious hospitality of the Maharajah awaits me in 
 a European dwelling that seems like a kindly anomaly 
 in the midst of old and marvellous Hindustan.
 
 38 THE HOME OF THE 
 
 in 
 23rd December 
 
 Towards the close of the first night I spent in 
 Trivandrum a terrible noise was heard on my roof ; 
 rushes were succeeded by sounds of battle, and in 
 my half-waking starts I thought I could recognize 
 (not without some dread, seeing that my rooms were 
 open), the springs and yells of some members of the 
 tiger tribe ; but the calm of the night and the wood- 
 work of the roof must have exaggerated the noise, for 
 these were only the tiger-cats of the neighbourhood, 
 which sleep by day in the garden trees and disport 
 themselves during the night, boldly invading the 
 dwellings of men. 
 
 The early morning at Trivandrum is a period of 
 unspeakable sadness. A murmur of human voices is 
 heard before the wild and sad dawn breaks through 
 the pallor of the sky, sounds that seemed to come 
 from a distance, from the inclosure sacred to Brahma ; 
 a cry that is like that of humanity itself waking to 
 new tortures, and ever oppressed by thoughts of 
 death. The birds then make their homage to the 
 returning sun, but their morning serenade has not 
 the charming gaiety of those that sing in our meadows 
 in the springtime. Here the twitterings of the 
 smaller birds are drowned by the mocking voices of 
 parakeets, and the funereal croakings of the crows. 
 First, one or two isolated croaks are given as a 
 signal, then a hundred and a thousand join in fearful 
 concert to celebrate the glories of death and putre- 
 faction. Crows are everywhere ; the whole of India 
 is infested with them, and even here, in Travancore, 
 the land of peace and enchantment, their cries are 
 heard directly the day breaks ; their voices fill the 
 vaulted arches of the palms, and serve to dim the 
 joy of all that lives and wakes under the glorious 
 foliage. They say " Here we watch, we who wait 
 for the death of all that lives. Our prey is certain 
 and everything will belong to us."
 
 MAHARAJAH OF TRAVANCORE 39 
 
 After a while the cawing ceases, and the birds dis- 
 perse. Once more the far-off rumour of men's voices 
 is heard, so deep and powerful that one feels that 
 there are thousands of these Brahmins assembled in 
 the great sanctuary calling on their God. A con- 
 fused noise of tambourines, cymbals, and sacred 
 shells comes from all points of the forest of palms in 
 which Trivandrum is situated, telling of the morning 
 adoration in little temples scattered amongst the 
 woods. 
 
 At last the sun appears, and the dwelling-houses, 
 which are either entirely open, or but shut off from 
 the darkness by light blinds, are at once flooded 
 with its rays. Now all the melancholy of daybreak 
 vanishes in this exquisite hour of splendid bright- 
 ness. I descend to the garden, a sort of clearing in 
 the midst of the palm forest, where there are lawns 
 and trees covered with rose-coloured flowers ; ferns 
 and plants loving a moist heat grow in great luxuri- 
 ance, and those wonderous-foliaged Indian plant, 
 that are tinged like flowers with dull red, violets 
 pale carmine, or striped with white, like the veinings 
 of a reptile's back, or spotted with eyes like those of 
 a butterfly's wings. 
 
 Contrary to the custom which obtains with us, 
 seven o'clock in the morning, the time when a trace 
 of freshness still lingers among the green avenues, is 
 the ceremonial visiting hour of Trivandrum ; and I 
 am informed that to-morrow morning at that hour 
 I shall be conducted through the sacred precincts 
 and presented to the Prince. As midday approaches 
 all signs of life cease ; for in spite of the shade afforded 
 by the palms, the vertical rays of the sun plunge 
 everything into somnolence and torpor ; even the 
 crows are silently seated on the ground under the 
 shelter of the shady trees. 
 
 The road that I can see from my veranda, dis- 
 appearing into the green twilight, becomes deserted. 
 There are still a few passers-by, men and women 
 dressed in scarlet loin-cloths, whose deeply bronzed
 
 40 THE HOME OF THE 
 
 chests shine with coppery-coloured reflections ; these 
 reddish figures move noiselessly on naked feet along 
 the blood-coloured road, whose tone is heightened by 
 the vividly contrasting green of the surrounding 
 palms. Sometimes the earth trembles under the 
 heavy and almost noiseless footsteps of the Mahara- 
 jah's elephants as they return from some work in 
 the fields to the stables of the palace where they 
 sleep. After that nothing more is heard, and, em- 
 boldened by the silence, little leaping squirrels 
 possessed with mad activity enter my room. 
 
 Towards evening human activity begins again, and 
 I leave my retreat in one of the Maharajah's car- 
 riages, the fleet horses of which give me an illusion 
 of freshness. 
 
 I am quartered in the nearer parts of Trivandrum, 
 where the trees are no longer masters, and lawns 
 interspersed with beautifully sanded avenues have 
 been laid out. Scattered among the gardens are all 
 the buildings necessary to the life of a modern 
 capital ministries, hospitals, banks, and schools. All 
 these things would have been less out of place had 
 they been built in the Indian style, but in these 
 modern days we have to be content to find the same 
 errors of taste in all the countries of the world. 
 Churches and chapels are found here too, Protestant, 
 Catholic, and Syrian ; the latter are the oldest and 
 have faades of childish simplicity. I, however, did 
 not come to Travancore to see these things, and I 
 begin to perceive how difficult it will be to come 
 into real touch with the India of the Brahmins, that 
 deeper India which I feel surrounding me ever here, 
 ever living and unchangeable, ever haunting me with 
 mystery. 
 
 Outside the new quarters the palms extend their 
 sovereignty over the immense Trivandrum of the low- 
 caste Indians. All the movement and the bustle of 
 the somewhat silent town is concentrated in the 
 " Street of the Merchants." At this hour it is filled 
 with people, and my horses must move slowly through
 
 MAHARAJAH OF TRAVANCORE 41 
 
 the crowds. I might call them a race of gods, so 
 beautiful are their faces, and their attitudes so noble. 
 The expression on their countenances is profound 
 and unfathomable. 
 
 The perfection and grace of an antique bas-relief 
 are realized by these crowds whose arms and chests 
 seem hewn from bronze. 
 
 These superb and refined Brahmins look on cos- 
 tumes and ornaments with disdain, and are less 
 clothed than the natives of middle caste or even than 
 pariahs. A cloth of grayish white is girded round 
 the loins, and across the naked chest nothing but a 
 little linen cord worn round their shoulders, the out- 
 ward sign of rank, that the priest has knotted around 
 them when they were born and which is never re- 
 moved ; a sacred cord with which one lives and dies. 
 On their foreheads, between the dark grave eyes, the 
 monogram of their god is inscribed ; but this must 
 be piously repainted each day after the morning 
 ablution : a red disc with three white lines for the 
 followers of Siva, and for those of Vishnu a sort of 
 red and white trident, which starts between their 
 eyebrows, and whose points reach the hair, adding 
 a strangely puzzling look to their expression. 
 
 There are few or no women, though at the first 
 glance the long tresses of polished ebony hair, some- 
 times knotted and sometimes hanging over their 
 shoulders, would give the impression that these were 
 of the other sex. Those who show themselves are of 
 the lower castes, and have common features like the 
 carrier-women we met upon the road. The wives 
 and daughters of the Brahmins, who walk by thou- 
 sands in the evening air, are doubtless in the reserved 
 inclosure. 
 
 All the houses which I saw last night, closed and 
 sleeping in the bluish light, now form an animated 
 bazaar, where fruits, grain, and lightly printed stuffs 
 of antique design are sold ; there are also wares of 
 yellow copper, bright as those of gold, many-branched 
 slender lamps mounted on tall feet like those of
 
 42 THE HOME OF THE 
 
 Pompeii, plates and vases for religious usage, and 
 gods and goddesses mounted on elephants. 
 
 My guide takes me to visit the factories founded 
 by the ruling sovereign, where pottery is made after 
 the beautiful ancient fashion ; there are others where 
 carpets are woven of long wools whose colours are 
 copied from those of Rajputana or Cashmere, and 
 finally the workshops where patient workers chisel 
 ivory obtained from the elephants of the neighbour- 
 ing forests, making little Brahmin gods or the 
 handles of fly-fans and parasols. 
 
 But this was not what I had come to India to 
 see, and the only thing that interested me was the 
 real Indian life of the closed palaces and the for- 
 bidden Temple. 
 
 Trivandrum has a zoological garden too, with parks 
 of gazelles and ponds of crocodiles, as well kept up 
 as those of Europe ; one of the few places where it 
 is possible to escape from the stifling shade of the 
 palms, and to overlook the distant prospect of forests 
 and jungles. Lawns have been laid out with rows of 
 exotic flowers and other matchless plants ; and one 
 can wander in confidence through this artificial 
 forest where all the branches are carefully trimmed, 
 and where the tigers and serpents which inhabit the 
 neighbouring jungles are kept in cages. 
 
 A band of natives executes European airs with 
 great precision in a kiosk situated in the garden during 
 that short and fleeting hour between the cool evening 
 and the sudden fall of darkness. Among the rare 
 listeners stationed in the sanded avenues are a few 
 slim, nude forms, and one or two white babies (the 
 only ones living in Trivandrum) looking very pale in 
 their Indian nurses' arms, and some children of native 
 princes who, alas ! no longer wear the national cos- 
 tume, but are disfigured into the odd forms of 
 Western dolls, dolls still beautiful in spite of their 
 coppery tinge and great black velvety eyes. As this 
 garden is situated on an eminence, it is possible to 
 see the Indian Ocean in the distance ; an ocean that
 
 MAHARAJAH OF TRAVANCORE 43 
 
 has no ships, and which, unlike that of other countries, 
 has no communication with the outer world ; here 
 it is but a useless and hostile element sequestrating 
 one from other lands, since there are no ports along 
 the coast, not even barques or fishermen nothing 
 but a girdle of insuperable breakers. The apparition 
 of the far-off sea adds a feeling of melancholy to the 
 sad thoughts of exile that steal over me during this 
 fashionable evening hour, when the band plays for 
 the few lonely babies of Trivandrum. 
 
 Now the sun sets quickly in a moment of glorious 
 splendour, the red earth seems lit up with a rose- 
 coloured Bengal fire, and the inextricable tangle of 
 branches that extends as far as the eye can reach 
 assumes a more vivid tone, as if illuminated by green 
 Bengal flames. Now the night falls without any 
 intervening twilight, prematurely and almost sud- 
 denly, though its time is invariable and, unlike our 
 own, uninfluenced by the season. There is still light 
 in the garden, but under the trees and in the leafy 
 lanes it is quite dark. Now an outcry rises from the 
 great Temple of Brahma, and from the other temples, 
 scattered round, the sound of the cymbals and sacred 
 shells is heard once more. Thousands of little lamps 
 filled with coconut oil twinkle amongst the woods, 
 tracing the dim roads in lines of tiny red flames. 
 
 IV 
 
 24>th December 
 
 It is seven o'clock in the morning ; the hour of 
 official visits and princely receptions. As I take my 
 carriage and set out for the Maharajah's palace where 
 I am to be presented to my host, the bright, warm 
 rays of the eternally summer-like sun of Travancore 
 strike slantingly under the palms, and bespatter the 
 stem of the arecas and coco-nuts with tones of rosy 
 gold. We trot through the avenues of green palms 
 and soon reach the huge door which I had expected
 
 44 THE HOME OF THE 
 
 to pass through on the night of my arrival ; this 
 door gives access to a square space which incloses a 
 town within the town, and into which people of low 
 caste are never allowed to enter. 
 
 This time my carriage crosses the threshold guarded 
 by a picket of armed cavalry. The sacred character 
 of the place is at once apparent, for we pass an 
 immense tank in which a thousand Brahmins, plunged 
 to their waists in water, are making ablutions and 
 praying according to rites that are as old as the 
 world. With their dripping hair, and wetted breasts 
 that shine in the sun like new bronze, they look like 
 water gods, but so absorbed are they in their dreams 
 that not a single one turns to look at the carriage 
 brushing past them, in whose honour the military 
 guard plays fife and tambour. 
 
 The walled-off space contains residences of princes, 
 schools, and the huge temple whose four colossal 
 towers dominate all else, four obelisks of sculptured 
 gods pointing to the sky. The fronts and external 
 walls of the palaces are somewhat sad and common- 
 place ; above the doors, however, the usual monsters 
 rear their fierce heads and tell of India, just as in the 
 extreme East dragons are characteristic of China. 
 
 A glowing red pervades the whole, for the dust, red 
 as the roads themselves, has for centuries covered all 
 these buildings with tones of blood and of burnt 
 sienna. 
 
 Another squad of cavalry is drawn up before the 
 Maharajah's door, superbly accoutred men in red 
 turbans, who handle their repeating rifles with truly 
 modern precision. 
 
 The Maharajah himself appears on the threshold. 
 I had feared to see the Prince dressed in a European 
 frock coat, but no, he has had the good taste to prefer 
 the Indian dress, a turban of white silk and a velvet 
 robe with large diamond buttons. 
 
 The first reception-room is paved with earthenware, 
 and crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling. In 
 the middle stands a throne of chiselled silver, whilst
 
 MAHARAJAH OF TRAVANCORE 45 
 
 the other furniture is carved from massive black ebony 
 in that Indian style of lace-like decoration in which 
 the Asiatic workman excels all others. 
 
 I have been commanded to convey a French decora- 
 tion to His Highness, and when my simple mission 
 has been fulfilled, we speak of that Europe which the 
 Prince will never see, for the unswerving rules of his 
 caste do not allow him to leave India. We speak, too, 
 of literary matters, for the Prince has a cultivated 
 and refined taste. Then he takes me into a high 
 gallery to show me the marvellous ivories and other 
 treasures which he is pleased to collect, and soon it 
 is time for me to withdraw. 
 
 As I return through the green shade of the palms, 
 I regret that I have been unable to converse on more 
 serious subjects with this amiable prince, whose soul 
 must be so different from our own. We shall meet 
 again during my stay here, but my first interview has 
 taught me that the mysteries of his inmost thoughts 
 will be as impenetrable to me as the great temple. 
 There is a radical difference of race, ancestry, and re- 
 ligion between us ; then we do not speak the same 
 language, and the necessity of conversing through a 
 third person forms (in spite of the affability of my 
 interpreter) a barrier which isolates us from all 
 communion. 
 
 I am to be presented to the Maharanee (the Queen), 
 who lives in a separate palace, in two or three days, 
 though she is not the Maharajah's wife, but his 
 maternal aunt. The principal families of Travancore 
 belong to an ancient race that has almost disappeared 
 from the rest of India, in which the transmission of 
 name, title, and fortune is solely through the female 
 side, who in addition have the right to repudiate their 
 husbands at will. 
 
 In the royal family the Maharanee is the eldest of 
 the daughters, and the Maharajah the oldest son of 
 the first princess of royal blood. As neither the 
 actual Queen nor her sisters have any female des- 
 cendants, the dynasty is shortly bound to expire.
 
 46 THE HOME OF THE 
 
 The children of the Maharajah have no right to reign, 
 and they do not even bear the title of Prince. 
 
 The women of this caste, whose family name is 
 Nayer, nearly all have features of an especial delicacy. 
 They wear plain bands of hair on each side of their 
 foreheads, but the rest of the hair, which is very black 
 and smooth, is piled into a mass on the top of their 
 heads. This falls forward on to one side like a 
 soldier's cap, giving a somewhat rakish expression, 
 which contrasts strongly with their grave and formal 
 manner. 
 
 25th December 
 
 Towards five o'clock in the evening, as the burning 
 sun has commenced to sink, quantities of musicians 
 in zebu chariots arrive, almost stealthily. The Maha- 
 rajah has lent me the orchestra from his palace for 
 several hours. 
 
 They come barefooted and noiselessly, entering 
 my room with the velvety step of a cat ; then these 
 artists, who have fine and delicate profiles, make 
 ceremonious bows and seat themselves on the ground. 
 They wear little gilt turbans on their heads and 
 diamonds in their ears, and are draped in the antique 
 fashion with a piece of silk barred with gold, which 
 is thrown over one shoulder so as to leave part of the 
 chest and a metal-encircled arm free. Aromatic 
 odours and scents of rose waters escape from their 
 light clothing. 
 
 They carry huge instruments with copper strings, 
 like gigantic guitars or mandolines, whose curved 
 handles end in monsters' heads. These guitars, 
 which give out different tones, vary much amongst 
 themselves, but they all have large bodies, whilst 
 here and there along the neck hollow balloons, 
 looking like fruits clustered round a stalk, are placed 
 to increase their resonance ; they are very old and
 
 MAHARAJAH OF TRAVANCORE 47 
 
 precious, so withered, that they have acquired great 
 sonority ; they are painted or gilt, or inlaid with 
 ivory, and even their quaint appearance fills me with 
 a sense of mystery, the mystery of India. The 
 musicians smilingly show them to me ; some are 
 made to be stroked by the fingers ; others to be played 
 with a bow ; others again are struck with a stick of 
 pearl ; and there is even one that is played by rolling 
 a little ebony thing looking like a black egg over the 
 strings. What refinements unknown to our Western 
 musicians ! There are tom-toms tuned to different 
 pitches, and boy singers whose robes are of especial 
 richness. A printed programme prepared for this sole 
 purpose is placed before me, in which the strange but 
 melodious names of the musicians are all in twelve 
 syllables. 
 
 It is five o'clock, and all, to the number of about 
 twenty-five, are seated in readiness on the carpet ; 
 the room is already filled with shadow, and punkhas 
 keep the air in motion with their slow and wearied 
 movement. All the monster-headed guitars are in 
 readiness, and the musicians are about to commence. 
 What agonizing sounds most instruments of such a 
 size produce, and what a clamour such tom-toms. 
 I am all attention, prepared for much noise. Behind 
 the musicians an arched door, leading to a white 
 vestibule, remains open, and a golden ray from the 
 setting sun falls on a group of red-turbaned soldiers 
 of the Maharajah's army standing in the reddish 
 glow, but the musicians themselves are plunged in 
 vague shadow. 
 
 Can the concert have commenced ? From their 
 grave and attentive attitudes, and the way in which 
 they watch one another, it would appear so. But 
 there is nothing to be heard. But yes ; a hardly 
 audible high note, like that of the prelude to " Lohen- 
 grin," which is then doubled, complicated, and trans- 
 formed into a murmured rhythm, without growing 
 any louder. . . . What a total surprise, this almost 
 toneless music coming from such powerful instru-
 
 48 THE HOME OF THE 
 
 ments ! One might have said the buzzing of a fly 
 held within the hollow of one's hand, or the brushing 
 of the wings of a night-moth against the glass, or 
 the death agony of a dragon-fly. Then a musician 
 places a little steel thing in his mouth and rubs his 
 cheek over it, so as to produce the murmurings of a 
 fountain. One of the largest and most complicated 
 guitars, that the player caresses with his hand as if 
 he feared it, says " hou, hou " all the time on nearly 
 the same notes, like the veiled cry of the screech owl ; 
 another instrument, which is muted, makes a sound 
 like that of the sea breaking on the shore ; and there 
 are hardly audible drummings played by fingers on 
 the edge of the tom-toms. Then suddenly come 
 unexpected violences, furies that last for a couple of 
 seconds, when the strings vibrate with full force, 
 and the tom-toms struck in another way give out 
 dull and heavy sounds like elephants walking over 
 hollow ground, or mimic the rumblings of subterranean 
 water, or a torrent that falls into an abyss. But this 
 subsides quickly, and the nearly silent music continues. 
 
 A young Brahmin with beautiful eyes is seated 
 cross-legged on the ground holding an instrument 
 whose rude shape contrasts with the delicate refine- 
 ment of the others ; it is made of common pottery, 
 and has pebbles inside a sort of jar with a large open- 
 ing in one of its smooth and swollen sides. 
 
 The sound which he draws from it varies according 
 as he leaves the jar open, or stops the opening by 
 pressing its mouth close to his body. He plays on it 
 with marvellously nimble fingers and sometimes the 
 sound is light, at others deep, occasionally hard and 
 dry like a crackling of hail ; then the pebbles are 
 heard moving at the bottom. 
 
 When the voice of one of the guitars rises above the 
 whispered silence, it is always in a melody of training 
 sounds, a passionate and full-voiced song that plunges 
 into agony ; and the tom-toms, without drowning 
 the trembling and plaintive notes, beat an accompani- 
 ment of mysterious import which expresses the
 
 MAHARAJAH OF TRAVANCORE 49 
 
 exaltation of human suffering far more poignantly 
 than our most supreme music. 
 
 " The elephants are here." Some one utters this 
 phrase, thus breaking the charm that holds me a 
 listener. What elephants ? Oh, yes ! I had for- 
 gotten I had expressed a desire this morning to 
 see the elephants caparisoned with palanquins on 
 their backs in the Indian manner, and the order for 
 then* equipment had been graciously given to the 
 Palace stables. 
 
 The music ceases, for I must go outside to see the 
 elephants. When I reach the threshold I find myself 
 in the presence of three enormous beasts, awaiting 
 me and standing by the door, sharply defined in the 
 brightness of the setting sun. Their heads face me, 
 and at first I can only distinguish amongst their 
 trappings the threatening ivory tusks, and the huge 
 trunks of rose colour veined with black, and the 
 striped ears which keep up a continual and fan-like 
 motion. Long green and red robes, colonnaded 
 palanquins, necklaces of bells and head ornaments of 
 gold embroidery that fall over their huge foreheads. 
 Three superb animals in their prime of seventy years 
 so gentle and tractable ; they turn their intelligent 
 little eyes towards me as they kneel down in order to 
 allow me to mount if I should wish. 
 
 A gracious twilight fills the room as I return to 
 the music of beating wings and rustling insects. 
 
 Each of the guitars chants its despair in turn by 
 intervals of almost voiceless harmony, the one that is 
 struck by the hand or bow, the one that is beaten 
 with the pearl rod, and that strangest one of all which 
 weeps when the little egg-shaped ebony ball is rolled 
 over its strings. 
 
 Their songs have not the bewildering echoes of 
 some far-removed sadness, as those of Mongolia or 
 China have, for they are almost comprehensible to 
 our senses ; they betray the sad brooding of a race 
 that is not different from our own, though long 
 centuries have parted us ; they and our gipsies use 
 
 4
 
 50 THE HOME OF THE 
 
 the same fevered phrases, though in a somewhat 
 coarser way. 
 
 Human voices were only introduced towards the 
 end. One after the other great-eyed, slender youths, 
 clothed in gorgeous draperies, executed trills with 
 wonderful rapidity, but their childish voices are 
 already broken and worn ; the man in a golden 
 turban, who conducts, first plays a weird prelude 
 and then with lowered head looks into their eyes 
 in the manner of a serpent fascinating a bird. I 
 feel that he cast a spell on them, and that he could, 
 if he wished, break the whole mechanism of their 
 feeble throats. It seems the words which they 
 chant to these sad rhythms are prayers to an offended 
 goddess whom they wish to appease. 
 
 Finally, it is the turn of the great master, a man of 
 about twenty-five to thirty, who has a beautiful face 
 and an expression of energy. He is going to repre- 
 sent, with action and song, the plaints of a young 
 girl whose lover loves her no longer. 
 
 Seated on the ground he seems plunged in medita- 
 tion whilst his face becomes sombre. Then, all at 
 once, the voice bursts forth with the cutting tone of 
 Eastern bagpipes, though the upper notes are pos- 
 sessed by a hoarse, manly quality, and an infinity of 
 sorrow is expressed in a poignant and, to me, novel 
 manner. The sorrow expressed in his face and the 
 contractions of the delicate hands, is rendered with 
 highest art. 
 
 This orchestra and these singers belong to the 
 Maharajah, and their music resounds daily in the 
 silence of his guarded palace, where ever-bowing ser- 
 vants, whose hands are joined in a perpetual salute, 
 walk with cat-like steps. How far away the thoughts 
 of this prince must be from ours, and how different 
 his conceptions of the sadnesses of life and love and 
 death ! But this strange and rare music, which is 
 part of his being, reveals a portion of his soul to me 
 that I should never see in our short and formal inter- 
 views, so burdened with ceremony and foreign words.
 
 MAHARAJAH OF TRAVANCORE 51 
 
 VI 
 
 26th December 
 
 Three thousand Brahmins, who live in the sacred 
 inclosure, and bathe in the holy pond, are at present 
 the guests of the Maharajah. They have come from 
 the surrounding countries, and from those forests 
 where they live on fruit and grain, absorbed in mystic 
 dreams and disdainful of the things of this world. 
 They have assembled to celebrate a religious festivity 
 that lasts for fifty days, and is held every six years. 
 They offer long prayers of expiation for blood that 
 was shed many years ago in a neighbouring country 
 during a war of conquest ; it matters little that it was 
 countless years ago ; the spilt blood still calls for 
 supplicating cries, still demands religious music, and 
 the bellowings of sacred shells like those graven on 
 the arms of Trivandrum. The ray-crowned idols of 
 Panda vas, which are thirty feet high, and have hideous 
 faces, and fierce downcast eyes, have been drawn for 
 this occasion from their secret sanctuaries. Muscular 
 efforts aided by ropes have rolled them into the open 
 air and sunlight of the temple courtyard, where they 
 may strike terror into the minds of the simple 
 whilst the initiated pray to the invisible and ineffable 
 Brahma from the depths of their souls. During these 
 celebrations, the entire Brahmin inclosure palpitates 
 with the intense life of ancient rites, of burning 
 prayers of terror, and of ecstasy. I can hear the 
 far-off murmurings which have an irresistible attrac- 
 tion for me, but I am rigidly excluded, and neither 
 the influence of the Maharajah nor that of any one 
 else can help me. 
 
 The festival of the initiated has found an echo 
 among the believers of the middle and lower castes 
 who live under the immense palms that cover the rest 
 of the town, and who, like myself, are excluded from 
 communion with the Brahmins. Prayers and sup- 
 plications are heard there too, in the whitening dawn, 
 and at the time of sunset.
 
 52 THE HOME OF THE 
 
 Imploring cries are heard in all the cemeteries and 
 at the foot of the sacred trees under which warriors 
 have been buried. The little sacred lamps have been 
 lit all along the shady roads and at those places where 
 monumental stones arise ; and music offerings and 
 flowers are here too. The smallest temples and even 
 the simple altars consecrated to the divinities of the 
 jungles shine with a thousand trembling flames. Here 
 I am welcome to wander as I choose, under the gloom 
 of the interlacing palms, in search of the music and 
 the lights that lure me to them. 
 
 I reach a very old and humble temple, with broken 
 granite columns, standing at the foot of huge trees 
 which lose themselves in the gloom. Tiny lamps 
 filled with coco-nut oil, which look like glow-worms, 
 cast their light about the temple, which is garlanded 
 with flowers and ornaments of pleated reeds. The 
 horrible parrot-faced god is stationed in the further- 
 most of two or three little rooms, where he crouches, 
 many-armed, with his green face overshadowed by a 
 high headdress. Here young, white kids disport 
 themselves in these sacred precincts, of which they 
 are the familiar and venerated occupants. Half -nude 
 worshippers, decked in necklets of flowers, throng 
 round the door, but the noise of the tambourines and 
 bagpipes is almost drowned by the constant and 
 plaintive bellowings of the sacred shells. 
 
 Smiles of welcome greet me, and after having 
 placed wreaths of jasmine flowers, which have in- 
 toxicating odours like that of incense, round my neck, 
 the people stand on one side that I may see. 
 
 Now I reach a place where a monstrous fig tree of 
 great age stands. Men are assembled round a granite 
 platform, supported on pillars which must have be- 
 longed to some ancient funeral monument, revelling 
 in the sound of maddening music. The customary 
 lights, the garlands of roses or jasmine, and the 
 offerings of fruit and grain are here too. A kind of 
 officiating priest, a man of low caste, whose face is 
 quite black, recites ritual phrases in a frenzied manner,
 
 MAHARAJAH OF TRAVANCORE 53 
 
 broken by the din of the tom-toms. Women stand 
 behind the tree, almost hidden in shadow, and utter 
 constant and long-protracted cries. Children tend a 
 fire of grass which has been lighted on the ground, 
 and into whose flames the tom-toms are constantly 
 thrust so that they may retain their dry, sonorous 
 tones. The officiating priest is seized with increasing 
 excitement, and soon seems possessed of an evil 
 spirit. He gives vent to terrible howls and seeks to 
 dash his head against stones or trunks of trees. A 
 hedge of naked arms is formed round to keep him from 
 harm, till at length he falls on the ground exhausted 
 and motionless with a horrible rattling in his throat. 
 
 Yet it would seem that this incomprehensible god, 
 whom they worship under the palms to the sound of 
 the tambours and the savage music, is the same deity 
 in different shape that the mysterious Brahmins wor- 
 ship in spirit in the secret recesses of the great temple. 
 
 Indeed, this god is but another form of the God we 
 adore. For there are no false gods, and the wisdom 
 of sages who profess that theirs is the true God, and 
 that they alone know his name, is but childish folly. 
 For the rest, the conception of a God seated amidst 
 the unmeasurable and inaccessible, be he one or 
 many, be he named Brahma, Jehovah, or Allah, so 
 far exceeds our comprehension, that a little less or 
 greater error can hardly matter in our ideas of Him. 
 No doubt, too, that He listens just as attentively to 
 the prayer of the simple, uneducated native, who 
 wanders through the forest pouring forth his agony 
 of life and death at the foot of some green-faced fetish. 
 
 VII 
 
 26th December 
 
 The cry of the crows is so much intermingled with 
 all the other sounds of India, that one ends by ceasing 
 to heed it. I have already almost ceased to notice the 
 hideous morning aubade that immediately succeeds
 
 54 THE HOME OF THE 
 
 the murmurings that rise from the temple. A great 
 tree that stands before my terrace is one of their 
 favourite nightly resting-places ; a tree covered with 
 large branches which bend under the weight of their 
 black burden. 
 
 As I take my seat in the carriage this morning, the 
 first rays of the sun, which rises at a fixed hour each 
 day, just commence to penetrate through the leaves 
 and under the vaulted palms ; once more I cross the 
 forbidden inclosure in order that I may present my- 
 self before the Maharanee (the Queen). 
 
 Directly we have passed the entrance, I see the 
 sacred ponds again in which Brahmins plunged to 
 their waists in water are making their customary 
 morning ablutions. 
 
 This walled town, which I am visiting at a much 
 earlier hour than on the last occasion, contains not 
 only the dwellings of the princes standing amidst 
 gardens of palms, but streets bordered by humble 
 houses built of clay that are inhabited by Hindoos of 
 high caste. This charming hour of daybreak is the 
 one chosen by the long-eyed housewives for the de- 
 coration of the earth that lies in front of their 
 dwellings. They trace wonderful patterns in white 
 powder upon the red soil, which has previously been 
 well swept and beaten. Their designs are but fleeting, 
 and are carried away by the lightest wind or by the 
 feet of men, goats, dogs, and crows. They do their 
 work very quickly, guiding themselves in the tracing 
 of these designs by marks which have been placed 
 there beforehand, and are visible to them alone. 
 Bending forward in a graceful attitude, they move the 
 little box which contains a powder that escapes in a 
 white trail like an endless ribbon over the surface of 
 the ground. Complicated arabesques and geometrical 
 figures grow marvellously under their hands. Often, 
 too, they place a hibiscus flower, an Indian pink, and 
 a yellow marigold at the chief junction of their net- 
 work of lines after the design is completed. The 
 little street, decorated from one end to the other in
 
 MAHARAJAH OF TRAVANCORE 55 
 
 this manner, seems to be momentarily covered by a 
 fairy carpet. 
 
 The whole of this quarter has retained its character 
 of old-world elegance, honest peace, and simple 
 dignity. 
 
 In front of the door of the Maharanee's garden 
 red-turbaned soldiers are drawn up, who salute and 
 present arms to the sound of fife and drum, in faultless 
 manner. The Queen's husband descends from the 
 steps in front of the house to welcome me, with truly 
 distinguished courtesy. Like the Maharajah, he has 
 had the good taste to retain his Indian dress of velvet 
 with diamond buttons, and his turban of white silk. 
 Notwithstanding this, he is a scholar and a man of 
 refined literary taste. The Queen holds her receptions 
 in a room on the first floor which is, I am sorry to say, 
 decorated with European furniture, but she herself, in 
 national costume, looks like a charming personifica- 
 tion of India. She has a regular profile, pure features, 
 and magnificent large eyes, in fact, all the beauty of 
 her race. In accordance with the tradition of the 
 Nayer family, her jet-black hair is wound round her 
 forehead. Enormous rings of diamonds and rubies 
 hang from her ear-lobes, and her naked arms, which 
 are much bejewelled, are unconcealed by her velvet 
 bodice. For the rest, a piece of silk figured with ex- 
 quisite designs in gold covers her statuesque form. 
 Oh ! it is easy to imagine the degree of refinement 
 to which a noble lady of sovereign race may attain 
 in a country where even the lower classes are cultured, 
 but the especial charm of this Maharanee lies in her 
 benevolence and in a reserved and gentle sweetness. 
 
 There is a charm of sadness, too, which is apparent 
 behind her smiles. I know one of the griefs which 
 has darkened the almost cloistered life of the Queen. 
 Brahma has given her no daughter, nor any niece 
 that she might adopt, so her dynasty is doomed to 
 expire, and doubtless there will be great changes in 
 Travancore, a land hitherto sheltered from the march 
 of centuries.
 
 56 THE HOME OF THE 
 
 We speak of Europe, which has a charm for her 
 imagination, and I see that one of her dreams has 
 been to know this strange and far-off country, as 
 inaccessible to her as the planet Mars or the moon, 
 for no Indian lady of noble birth, not to mention a 
 queen, may undertake such a voyage without incur- 
 ring so great a loss of caste that she would at once 
 fall to the rank of a pariah. 
 
 During the few remaining days which I shall spend 
 here I may sometimes have the honour to see the 
 Maharajah, but never again the gracious Maharanee, 
 so before leaving I seek to impress her image on my 
 mind, for her face does not seem to belong to our 
 times, and it is only in old Indian miniatures that I 
 have had a glimpse of such princesses. 
 
 After my visit to the Maharanee has terminated, I 
 go, without leaving the Brahmin inclosure, and see 
 the sons of one of her sisters, who are heirs pre- 
 sumptive to the throne, after whose death the dynasty 
 will terminate. 
 
 They bear the title of first and second prince, and 
 live in separate dwellings standing in the midst of 
 gardens. Though these young men wear plumes of 
 diamonds in their turbans, hunt the tiger and follow 
 the rites of Brahma, they are none the less conversant 
 with the trend of modern thought, and occupy them- 
 selves with literature or natural philosophy. One of 
 them, who had in accordance with my request taken 
 me to see the trappings of his elephants, showed me 
 some remarkable photographs which he had taken 
 and developed himself, and which he had afterwards 
 sent to an exhibition in Europe, having the wish to 
 gain a medal. 
 
 I felt a desire this evening, as the sun was setting, 
 to see the Indian Ocean, whose waves break on the 
 barren shores about a mile from Trivandrum. 
 
 I had to cross the whole extent of the walled town, 
 but the livery of the Maharajah's carriage insured me 
 safe conduct. I passed peaceful little streets bordered 
 by Brahmin houses, the red walls of palaces and
 
 MAHARAJAH OF TRAVANCORE 57 
 
 gardens, and skirted the precincts of the great temple 
 to which I had never been so close. 
 
 The town once crossed, I found myself in a sandy 
 waste amongst the dunes, where the last red rays of 
 the setting sun still lingered. A few broken and 
 twisted palms were scattered here and there, all lean- 
 ing in the same direction, having yielded like the trees 
 of our own coasts to the force of the sea winds. 
 Heaps of sand which must have taken centuries to 
 accumulate, crumbled remains of madrepore shells 
 and stones, the pulverization of myriads of existences, 
 announced the near presence of the great destroyer, 
 whose terrible voice commenced to make itself heard. 
 Suddenly the road made a turn among the dunes, and 
 the ever restless ocean was spread out before me. 
 
 In other regions of the world it seems as if human 
 life flocked instinctively towards the sea. Men con- 
 struct their dwellings by its shores, and their towns 
 as nearly as possible to its waters ; they are jealous 
 of the smallest bay that can contain ships, and even 
 the smallest strip of coast. 
 
 Here, on the contrary, it is shunned as something 
 dead or void. This sea is but an abyss that cannot 
 be crossed, that serves no purpose, and but inspires 
 terror. It is almost inaccessible, and no one ven- 
 tures on it. Before the endless line of breakers, and 
 along the endless extent of sand, the only human 
 trace that I can see is an old granite temple, lowly 
 and rude, with worn columns, half eaten away by 
 salt and spray. It is placed here to appease and 
 exorcise the restless devourer which imprisons Tra- 
 vancore, and which, calm as it is this evening, will 
 shortly, when the summer monsoon commences, 
 rage furiously during an entire season. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Friday, 29th December 
 
 Among the many graceful favours which the 
 Dewan, in accordance with the instructions of his
 
 58 THE HOME OF THE 
 
 Serene Highness the Maharajah, showered on me, 
 one of the most charming and unforgettable was my 
 reception of to-day at the college for young ladies of 
 noble race. 
 
 I set out on my way directly the sun had risen, 
 not, indeed, without some misgivings, for I dreaded 
 some tedious display of learning. In the forest 
 palms, however, where we allowed our horses to walk, 
 fearing that we might arrive too early, I saw first 
 one, then two, three pretty little girls, sparkling 
 with magnificent ornaments ; naked-footed children 
 of about twelve years with white flowers in their 
 hair, whose gold-embroidered silks and the jewels 
 which covered their arms and neck shone in the first 
 rays of the early morning sun. Their steps, like 
 mine, were directed towards the Brahmin inclosure, 
 but when they saw my carriage they commenced to 
 hasten, running as fast as the bands of precious silks 
 encasing their legs would allow them. Was it pos- 
 sible that these toilettes of Peris or Apsaras were 
 assumed in my honour ? 
 
 I found all the little Indian fairies assembled at the 
 college in their dazzling array. It was holiday time, 
 it seems, but they consented to give up a morn- 
 ing for me. A little one advances and presents me 
 with one of those highly scented and formal bouquets 
 in which flowers and gold thread are mingled. 
 
 It is the Maharajah's pleasure to diffuse education 
 in his kingdom, education which has but proved a 
 scourge to us, but which will be beneficent at Travan- 
 core, since faith has not ceased to irradiate all earthly 
 things. His Highness had also wished to show me a 
 rare and unexpected spectacle in connection with this 
 college of noble ladies which quite equals or even excels 
 our own ; and the word of command had been issued 
 to the parents that the little ones should be decked in 
 the heavy jewels of their mothers and grandmothers. 
 Youthful arms and swelling bosoms glittered with 
 ancient jewellery, set in matchless archaic mountings, 
 such as the goddesses of the temples wear.
 
 A HINDOO LADY.
 
 MAHARAJAH OF TRAVANCORE 59 
 
 The class-rooms were like those of our European 
 colleges, light and simply furnished, with geographical 
 charts and instructive models hanging on the white- 
 washed walls. But the strange scholars all looked 
 like idols, from the little ones whose great black eyes 
 glittered, and whose dark bronze skins were seen 
 between their loin-cloths and their golden corselets, 
 up to the older ones, who wore a veil of white Indian 
 muslin over their dark coiled hair, and who already 
 wore the grave and anxious expression of approach- 
 ing womanhood. 
 
 Essays of style and historical compositions are 
 shown me, also pretty drawings after European 
 models that the little goddesses had made, quite in 
 the manner of our own children ; they were signed 
 with names many syllables in length melodious 
 names that read like a phrase of music. 
 
 A little one of five or six had copied an eagle of 
 complicated plumage standing on a branch ; but she 
 had commenced in the middle of the paper without 
 taking measurement, yet, though there was no room 
 left for the head, she had sketched it all the same 
 flattened and widened out, extending to the edges of 
 the paper, and not a detail or a feather was omitted, 
 and she had bravely signed her beautiful name 
 Apsara. 
 
 I see gold-embroidered velvets and veils diaphanous 
 as mists ; diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and trans- 
 parent enamels ; many bracelets, some so large that 
 they must be held on to the little arms by thread ; 
 necklets made from scarce Portuguese coins, which 
 dated from Goa's times of splendour, and which have 
 slept for centuries in coffers of sandal wood. 
 
 Finally, there are songs, pieces of music for violins, 
 and then dances slow and complicated dances that 
 have a religious tinge, consisting of a series of rhyth- 
 mic steps and a waving of jewel-laden arms. 
 
 These pupils, belonging to castes never seen by 
 strangers, are all beautiful, refined, and graceful, and 
 have eyes such as one can but see in India. Oh I
 
 60 THE HOME OF THE 
 
 how can I describe the impression of chaste and 
 transcendent beauty that these mysterious little 
 flowers have given me ? 
 
 IX 
 
 Saturday, 30th December 
 
 I leave Travancore to-morrow morning, where 
 many more favours have been showered on me than 
 I deserve, seeing that I have simply acquitted my- 
 self of the agreeable duty of offering a cross to the 
 prince. I shall go northward in one of the great 
 decked boats belonging to the Maharajah, by way 
 of the chain of lakes, and it will take me about two 
 days and two nights to reach the little kingdom of 
 Cochin, where I shall stop for a while. After that 
 there will be a journey of thirty to forty hours out- 
 side Cochin, then I shall come to the more frequented 
 regions, where the railroads run, and I shall rejoin 
 the main line from Calicut to Madras. 
 
 As this is my last evening in Trivandrum, I linger 
 longer than usual in the groves which run through 
 the town, where feeble lamps burn dimly under the 
 shade of the dense palms whose conquering night 
 they are powerless to dispel. 
 
 The subjugating yoke of plant life is even more 
 apparent now, when everything is wrapped in a 
 magnificent fall of green, than it is in the daytime. 
 
 I am leaving to-morrow morning, though I have 
 seen hardly anything, and have in no way pene- 
 trated the secret heart of India ; I have divined 
 nothing of the Brahminism of which this country is 
 one of the centres, for everything seems barred to 
 Europeans, even though the most gracious hospitality 
 be extended to them. 
 
 My chance wanderings finally bring me to the 
 street of the merchants, the great straight street that 
 leads to the inclosure which guards the palaces and 
 temples ; the sky is clear and the night starry. 
 Crowds of long-haired men wander under the light
 
 MAHARAJAH OF TRAVANCORE 61 
 
 of antique lamps which are supported by tall thin 
 stalks. These are buyers and sellers of hammered 
 copper-printed muslins, idols, and Brahmin images 
 everywhere a press of naked chests, black heads of 
 hair, and sparkling dark eyes. Stalls where roots, 
 grain, and cakes, the frugal nourishment of the 
 Brahmins, are displayed ; myriads of little shops, 
 always lit by the same kind of ancient lamps, whose 
 double or triple flames are supported by figures of 
 monsters or of gods. 
 
 The porch of the sacred inclosure is seen at the 
 end of the street in the same direction, but much 
 farther on the great temple, through whose open 
 door the inner depths, outlined by thousands of little 
 flames, are visible ; there is the sanctuary of Brahma, 
 the soul of this land of dreams and meditation. 
 
 The whole building is illuminated, even to the 
 depths where the priests alone may venture ; the 
 nave is outlined by points of flame that cluster to- 
 wards the centre into a geometrical pattern ; this 
 must be a gigantic chamber, but it is too far off for 
 me to distinguish. As ever, people are playing within, 
 for the sound of music and the braying of trumpets 
 reaches me, mingled with the long murmurs of 
 human voices. The door that I may not cross stands 
 ever open, and above it the huge pyramid, which I 
 know to be composed of a mass of stone -carved gods, 
 raised its head through the thin mists till its jagged 
 summit seems to mingle with the stars. It is usual 
 in times of solemnity, such as the present one, when 
 prayers and supplications are unending, to light a 
 trail of little flame on each of the four pyramids ; 
 these little fires commence above the doors and climb 
 up amongst the black masses of the sculpture till 
 they seem to trace a road to heaven through the 
 ranks of stone-carved gods. 
 
 At length the street becomes deserted, and the 
 shopkeepers commence to close their wooden shutters 
 and to kindle the little lamps that stand in niches in 
 the walls, and which serve to keep evil spirits from
 
 62 THE HOME OF THE 
 
 the houses. I watch the merchants finishing their 
 daily reckoning. The tiny round silver or copper 
 coins of Travancore are collected in a bag, then they 
 take handfuls of them on a counting-board, which 
 consists of a plank furnished with holes ; a little 
 piece of money drops into each hole, and when the 
 board is quite full one knows the exact number ; 
 then these are shaken into a chest and the reckoning 
 recommences. Others write down figures and make 
 calculations on bands of dried palm-leaf, which look 
 like ancient papyri, and I fancy that I am back in 
 olden times. 
 
 At length the hour has come when all signs of life 
 cease, save the little lights on the walls and the more 
 distant illuminations of the temples ; all is plunged 
 in gloom and silence. No women are visible, for 
 they have all disappeared into the dwelling-houses ; 
 but the men who have knotted up their hair are seen 
 shrouded in white linen or muslin cloths, lying on 
 the terraces or under the verandas, or even before 
 the doors amongst the goats ; with the repulsion 
 that all Indians feel for roofs and ceilings, these men 
 prefer to sleep in the mild, warm night filled with 
 the scent of flowers, where all seems veiled in a bluish 
 dust. 
 
 x 
 
 When the sound of the morning prayer rising from 
 the sanctuary ceases to be heard, and as the harshly 
 croaking crows disperse in the gray dawn, it is time 
 to start, so I take my seat in the carriage which is to 
 conduct me to the " port " of Trivandrum. Once 
 again at the exquisite hour of sunrise I shall pass 
 through the groves of coco-palms in which the 
 town is hidden, but it will be for the last time. 
 
 The stormy wind that has raged during the night 
 has deposited blood-red dust upon the walls of mud 
 and on the thatched roofs, giving more than ever
 
 MAHARAJAH OF TRAVANCORE 63 
 
 the impression of houses illuminated by the glow of 
 a red fire, but above them the palms that have been 
 bathed in the freshness of the night have an almost 
 supernatural green, tinged with glints of emerald. 
 Here and there bunches of flowers hang down in a 
 falling shower from the summits of the trees till they 
 reach to the ground. 
 
 Pickets of the Maharajah's soldiers, looking mag- 
 nificent in their turbans and accoutrements, pass 
 and repass on their way to relieve outlying posts. 
 Throngs of people are calmly proceeding to mass, for 
 it is Sunday, and I see little girls veiled in muslins 
 holding prayer books in their hands ; nearly all these 
 are Christians of old race, whose ancestors wor- 
 shipped Christ several centuries before our own. We 
 hear the tolling of the bells of the strange Syrian or 
 Catholic chapels that are built close to the temples 
 of Brahma, and are sheltered by the same verdant 
 palms. The enchanting scene gives an impression 
 of peaceful calm, in which order and tolerance reign 
 supreme. 
 
 At length the wharf is reached. It will readily be 
 understood that the port of Trivandrum is not 
 situated on the ocean, but on the lagoon, for the 
 coast of this country is inaccessible. 
 
 My boat, which belongs to the prince, lies motion- 
 less amidst a hundred others ; it is a sort of long 
 galley for fourteen rowers, having a cabin on the 
 poop in which it is possible to lie down and sleep. 
 These fourteen rowers ply paddles with bamboo 
 handles, and form a wonderful automatic machine of 
 bronze humanity, instinct with force and vitality. 
 
 The lagoon, which at first was deep and narrow 
 and shut in by a thick hedge of palms, gradually 
 widens and becomes sunlit. Our rowers work them- 
 selves up to a pitch of excitement with songs and 
 cries, cleaving the foul and sluggish waters rapidly, 
 and so begins the peaceful journey which will last 
 three days. 
 
 On both shores palms mingled with many-stemmed
 
 64 THE HOME OF THE 
 
 banyan trees form an endless hedge, whilst garlands 
 of unknown flowers hang from the branches, and 
 great spotted and twisted water-lilies spring from 
 amongst the rushes. 
 
 Barques which are going to Trivandrum pass us 
 continually, for the lagoon is the chief high-road of 
 the peaceful country. Huge boats, like gondolas, 
 that pursue their slow and noiseless course, impelled 
 by statuesque boatmen furnished with long poles, 
 these have houses on their poops, filled with Indian 
 men and women whose black eyes stare with wonder 
 at our fast boat, manned by fourteen rowers. 
 
 Sometimes a marvellous bird, brighter and more 
 gorgeous than our kingfishers, skims quickly along 
 the surface of the water, with a cry of joy ; and there 
 are beds of flowering lilies, and masses of lotus 
 sheeted with rosy blooms. 
 
 The interminable lagoon that serves as a highway 
 changes its appearance hourly. Sometimes it is 
 narrow and shady, sometimes overhung like a church 
 nave by coco-nut palms, whose ribs resemble arches ; 
 at other times it enlarges and expands and seems to 
 extend to infinite distances ; then it narrows and the 
 space between the serried banks of palms is dotted 
 with countless green islands. 
 
 The sun rises, and in spite of the shade and the 
 moving water I feel myself gradually overcome by 
 the stifling heat. Our speed is undiminished as the 
 chief excites the men from time to time by an im- 
 perious clack of the tongue, causing their muscles 
 to stiffen as if they had been struck with a lash, and 
 to which they reply with falsetto cries like those of 
 monkeys. Trailing grasses, branches of lilies, and 
 floating reeds swim quickly past our swiftly flying 
 boat. 
 
 It is ten o'clock, and we are no longer sheltered by 
 the palms, but journey under the blue sky along a 
 narrow passage bordered by shrubs bearing white 
 flowers. The two symmetrical rows of bronzed flesh 
 continue the mechanical movements which have
 
 MAHARAJAH OF TRAVANCORE 65 
 
 already lasted for six hours merely a few drops of 
 perspiration trickle down bodies which shine with 
 the polished reflection of metal in the terrible rays 
 of the sun. A wild luxuriance of flowers hangs from 
 the shrubs standing by the shore, the white colour 
 of which stands out harshly against the deep blue 
 sky ; these trees fruit and flower at the same time, 
 scattering plentiful and useless fruits on the water 
 like a hail of golden apples. My boatmen still 
 continue to row, but they now sing in a dreamy man- 
 ner like that of men wearied with healthy fatigue, 
 whilst their shining teeth are uncovered by a vacant 
 smile. 
 
 We pass an inhabited region where there are 
 villages, pagodas, and old churches in the Hindoo style 
 that even the Syrian churches have adopted. 
 
 Our waterway suddenly narrows and is hedged in 
 by banks of fern ; then we plunge into dim gloom, 
 filled with the scent of earthy freshness ; we are 
 traversing the long tunnel that the Maharajah has 
 constructed so that boats may reach the more distant 
 lagoons, those of the north, which we shall reach 
 this evening, and travel on to-morrow. 
 
 The noise of our paddles reverberates through the 
 tunnel, and as we pass other boats that loom out of 
 the shade like black shadows, our oarsmen utter 
 cries, which are long repeated by melancholy echoes. 
 
 Now that midday has come, we change our gang of 
 men. Once through the tunnel we find ourselves 
 again in an open space dotted with palm-covered 
 islands ; a village hidden by trees stands close by the 
 shore, and fourteen fresh rowers await us there. Re- 
 lays of men are stationed thus at points awaiting 
 orders for the Maharajah's boats. 
 
 The fresh men take their places with much noise 
 and excitement, call out like merry children, vie 
 with each other in rowing and laughing, and their 
 white teeth sparkle as they sing. Some are Christians, 
 and wear a scapular across their naked chests ; others 
 have the seal of Siva painted on their foreheads, and 
 
 5
 
 66 THE HOME OF THE 
 
 the three horizontal lines of Siva traced in gray dust 
 on their arms and chests. 
 
 Palms everywhere, a splendid monotony of palms, 
 so many that one is wearied and almost afraid of them. 
 When one thinks that more than two hundred miles 
 of the country round us is given up to their dominion, 
 a feeling of distress is experienced akin to the senti- 
 ment that the ancients used to name " the horror 
 of forests." 
 
 Palms everywhere, never-ending palms. There 
 are those which rear their plumed heads high into 
 the air, supported by long frail stems ; others again 
 which, like young trees, spring from the surface in the 
 damp warm earth ; but all have the same intense 
 green and the same glossy freshness. They shine 
 in the sunlight as if they had been varnished, whilst 
 below them the lagoons look like mirrors of polished 
 tin. 
 
 My boatmen display a terrible energy, though the 
 sun beats directly on them with such force that 
 white men could not survive it. They row for hours, 
 the muscles of their arms slackening and tightening 
 under their networks of swollen veins, singing the 
 while at the top of their voices. Sometimes a sudden 
 frenzy seems to seize them, their song becomes 
 panting and broken, and they strike the water so 
 furiously that the foam commences to fly and their 
 oars break. The paintings in honour of Siva dis- 
 appear, washed away by the sweat which runs down 
 their bodies. 
 
 Towards evening the lagoon narrows again, and 
 is inclosed by steep shores covered by ferns and 
 trailing plants. Around us there are hundreds of 
 boats lying at rest, and above our heads rises a bridge 
 of sculptured stone. It is the town of Quilon, one 
 of the large towns of Travancore, and, like that city, 
 is embowered in gardens ; for a while the palms are 
 replaced by trees more nearly resembling our own, and 
 I can even discern lawns and rose bushes. 
 
 A large stairway descends to the water, and I can
 
 MAHARAJAH OF TRAVANCORE 67 
 
 see the white colonnaded house which has been 
 uninhabited, I am told, for a long while ; the Dewan 
 has given orders that my evening meal should be 
 prepared there. It is nightfall as we reach the shore, 
 and Indian serving-men, in costumes white as the 
 house itself, hasten to the steps to bid me welcome, 
 and to offer me a bouquet of roses on a silver salver. 
 We are to stop here an hour or two whilst my boat- 
 men rest. 
 
 After supper I wander round the lonely garden 
 and give myself up to meditation. I dream that I 
 am in an old French garden, fallen somewhat into 
 neglect, but where Bengal roses still cluster round 
 the paths. The sky still retains a note of sombre red 
 where the sun has set the same dull glow that is 
 seen on our warmest summer days. 
 
 Through the stillness of the calm night, sweet and 
 ever-haunting impressions of my childhood days 
 come back to me ; as usual I give myself up to the 
 sad play of my imagination, a melancholy sport that 
 I never weary of indulging in. It was in an abandoned 
 garden surrounded by woods that I received my 
 first impressions of nature, and I dreamt my first 
 dreams of the warm countries on some burning 
 August or September evening when just such a glow 
 lit up our flat horizon. 
 
 The same scent of jasmine filled the air in those 
 summer days of old, and the dark wings of bats and 
 owls flitted noiselessly across the copper-coloured 
 sky. 
 
 The bats that fly round this house are much larger, 
 but their silent and capricious flight resembles that of 
 our own ; they, however, belong to the larger species 
 called vampire or roussette, and their huge wings 
 scare away my dreams. Then, suddenly from under 
 the great trees which encircle the garden with their 
 shadows, issues a sound of horns and sacred bag- 
 pipes ; it is the hour of Brahma, and I can hear the 
 murmurs of human voices chanting the evening 
 prayer in the recesses of the temple.
 
 68 THE HOME OF THE 
 
 Suddenly silence reigns once more, but this time 
 it is pervaded by a nameless melancholy that was 
 not there before. The thought crosses my mind 
 that it is the 31st of December, 1899, and in a few 
 hours the century, which was that of my youth, will 
 pass away for ever. The stars above my head pur- 
 suing their almost endless course fill my thoughts 
 with the fearful notion of eternity, and of our poor 
 moth-like existence ; and the death of the present 
 century and the birth of the succeeding one, which 
 will be my last, seem to be insignificant nothings 
 when one thinks of the endless terrifying flight of 
 ages. Agonizing thoughts of death and of our short 
 existence are old and familiar, but to be surrounded 
 by these woods and temples, and to think that I am 
 in the heart of Brahmin India, gives me a strange 
 and delightful thrill ; this old garden, with its roses 
 and jasmines, seems to conjure up vague and un- 
 speakable impressions in which sentiments of exile 
 mingle with a feeling in other countries, but as 
 the years go by it becomes dimmed, like everything 
 else ; this evening it is soon blunted by bodily fatigue, 
 for in the warm languorous night sleep quickly over- 
 takes me. 
 
 The stars shine brightly as we resume our journey 
 at nine o'clock ; our men are now rested, and will 
 row us for two miles to the village where a fresh relief 
 awaits us. 
 
 The slow boats that we had already passed on our 
 way begin to drop behind us once more ; their 
 black outlines are enlarged and doubled by the reflec- 
 tions of the water that gives them the appearance 
 of spectral gondolas. 
 
 The many-creeked lagoon, which has now widened 
 out like the sea, soon becomes lit up by fires ; they 
 are the lanterns of the fishermen and great torches 
 which they use to attract fish, burning bundles of 
 reed, which they swing continually in order to keep 
 them alight. All these flames are reflected by the 
 surface of the shining water, on which the night wind
 
 MAHARAJAH OF TRAVANCORE 69 
 
 has traced a few delicate ripples. Though the mono- 
 tonous rhythm of the paddles begins to make me 
 drowsy, the sentiment of the intense life which 
 animates these swamps is ever present. It is truly a 
 primitive life, however, that hardly differs from that 
 of our first lake-inhabiting ancestors. 
 
 XI 
 
 After a warm night, during which the balanced 
 swing of our oars has never ceased, the first dawn 
 of the new century rises fresh and rosy upon a world 
 ever hunting and watching for its fishy prey in the 
 clear morning light. The immense lagoon, surrounded 
 by thick clusters of overhanging palms, is thronged 
 with innumerable fishing-boats, which often brush 
 past us and cause us to slacken ; sometimes these 
 boats are stationary, at others they wander along 
 stealthily, making as little noise as possible ; men 
 stand in superb postures on the floating planks, hold- 
 ing nets, lines, and lances in their hands, watching 
 all that moves in the water. Birds, pelicans, and 
 herons of all kinds stand on the muddy shore and 
 dart their inquisitive eyes in all directions, so that 
 besides hooks, nets, and barbed forks, there are 
 always hundreds of beaks on the watch. These vora- 
 cious multitudes are attracted and maintained by 
 the shoals of cold-blooded and silent little beings of 
 which the lagoon is the inexhaustible reservoir ; 
 and the commencement of the new century will do 
 nothing to change a mode of life which must have 
 existed since the beginning of time. 
 
 As the banks draw closer we can perceive under 
 the great palms tiny human habitations belonging 
 to people whose very existence is dependent on that 
 of the trees, they are barriers made from palm fibres 
 extending from one tree to another, thatches made 
 from palm, mats, nets, and cords made from palm. 
 
 These precious trees not only give them shelter, 
 fruit, and oil, but also supply nearly every necessity
 
 70 THE HOME OF THE 
 
 of those that live under them, and indeed this part of 
 India could exist without the rice-fields which wave 
 here and there in the wind-like expanses of bluish silk. 
 
 The lagoons gradually expand, and a slight but 
 favourable wind rises, so my boatmen hoist a mat 
 some three or four metres high upon a mast. What 
 with sails and paddles, our speed grows faster across 
 this peaceful little ocean whose shores are forests, 
 that have a bluish look in the distance. Helped by 
 the wind which fills the mast, the men slacken their 
 energies and commence to hum a different song, a 
 sleepy melody which issues through their closed teeth, 
 and seems like a never-ending peal of bells heard from 
 a great distance. 
 
 It is almost midnight in France, the hour at which 
 the twentieth century begins, and the New Year's 
 Festival should be at its height in our land of icy 
 gloom. 
 
 The wind commences to fall, and at midday there 
 is a dead calm, and the heat is like that of a stove. 
 We make for the palm-covered shore in order to 
 land the morning relay of men, who withdraw with 
 profound salutes. Our new gang of men set out 
 at a furious speed ; they are of a lighter bronze and 
 wear necklets and earrings, and sacred emblems are 
 traced in gray dust on their breasts. Now the air 
 bears on us with an unaccustomed weight, and seems 
 as if charged with warm vapour. The sky, the dull 
 surface of the lagoon, and the surrounding objects 
 look faded and tarnished in the excessive light, whilst 
 their outlines seem mingled and confused in a glow 
 of dazzling pallor. In marked contrast with this 
 dimness are the drops of water which ripple by our 
 boat and trickle from the paddles and seem to shine 
 from the foreheads and chests of our rowers. 
 
 Towards three o'clock we cross the boundary which 
 separates Travancore from the little kingdom of 
 Cochin ; but the surface of the water and the palm 
 forests that have followed us since our departure 
 remain unchanged.
 
 MAHARAJAH OF TRAVANCORE 71 
 
 Towards the close of the day, however, towns ap- 
 pear on both banks which lie about the same distance 
 from one another as those of a great river. 
 
 The town on the right bank, the one close to us, is 
 Ernaculum, the capital where the Rajah resides ; by 
 the water's edge there are four Syrian churches which 
 look like pagodas, a great Brahmin temple, barracks 
 and schools, red-coloured buildings standing on red- 
 dish soil, but neither a boat nor a human being by 
 the landing-place. The dwellings of the haughty 
 Brahmins are concealed under the bluish shade of 
 the encroaching palms, or are hidden amidst trailing 
 plants and ferns, and lie far removed from these sad, 
 pretentious buildings. 
 
 Signs of life are, however, visible farther along the 
 left bank. First we pass Matancheri, an Indian 
 trading town, with its thousands of little houses 
 nestling under the trees. The town is situated on a 
 bay communicating with the ocean, and countless 
 boats are riding at anchor ; sailing-boats with strange 
 masts belonging to the olden times, which have never 
 ceased to plough the Arabian Sea on their way to 
 trade with Muscat, some even taking grains and spice 
 to Bussorah and the head of the Persian Gulf. A 
 good deal farther on we come to the old Cochin of 
 the Dutch and Portuguese, now fallen into the hands 
 of other masters ; here and there is a port where 
 modern vessels vomit forth their clouds of dense 
 black smoke. 
 
 In the middle of the lagoon, and far removed from 
 the three dissimilar towns, there is a wooded island, a 
 sort of park filled with old trees, to which my boat 
 directs its course (half concealed by verdure). I can 
 see white stairways and a white landing-place, and 
 farther back an old white palace. It appears that I 
 am to be quartered here by order of the Rajah of this 
 country, whose guest I am. Neglect and decay are 
 apparent everywhere, and the house, standing amidst 
 lawns and huge trees, reminds me of the enchanted 
 home of the Sleeping Beauty, and the gathering
 
 72 THE HOME OF THE 
 
 twilight renders my arrival at the lonely isle more 
 melancholy still. 
 
 As at Quilon, white-robed serving-men throng the 
 steps and offer me roses, and on my way I pass 
 through an exquisite old garden, with straight walks 
 overhung with roses and jasmine, fashioned in the 
 olden style. 
 
 There is nothing but the house on the island, and 
 I am alone in the house. During the times when the 
 territory of Cochin belonged to the Low Countries, 
 this mansion was the residence of the Dutch Governor. 
 It is as massive as a fortress, and the galleries and 
 verandas form a charming series of festooned arches, 
 such as are seen in an old mosque. Within, the 
 colonial luxury of former days, immense whitewashed 
 rooms carpeted by old mats of a fineness that is un- 
 known now ; precious old wood carvings ; furniture 
 made in India after European models of quaint shape 
 and antiquated style ; on the walls coloured prints 
 representing silk, which has faded to a delicious tint. 
 
 A messenger has been dispatched to warn me that 
 I shall not see the Rajah who offers me hospitality, as 
 he is at present in mourning. A little prince of the 
 blood, who was quite young, almost a baby, has just 
 closed his black eyes for ever, and the funeral rites 
 absorb the attention of everybody of the palace. 
 
 I would have much preferred to stop at Matancheri, 
 in some humble " Travellers' Rest," where I would 
 have been free to mingle with the evening life of the 
 people, than to reside in this official solitude. Both 
 here and at Travancore I am in India, at the same 
 time shut out from it. 
 
 The well-mannered and silent serving-men, whose 
 movements have something stealthy about them, 
 light the lamps hanging from the fretted arches ; and 
 when I have finished my prisoner's repast, which is 
 served at a table decorated somewhat strangely with 
 flowers and leaves, I wander into the garden to see 
 the first sunset of the century. A dull glow still 
 pervades the eastern horizon on which the trees trace
 
 MAHARAJAH OF TRAVANCORE 73 
 
 black hieroglyphics ; daylight lingers for a few 
 moments, and owls and huge bats with noiseless 
 wings circle madly through the still warm air. Then 
 all at once the stars commence to shine, and night 
 falls quite suddenly. 
 
 XII 
 
 In the morning, directly the red sun has appeared, 
 my boat is in readiness at the foot of the great stair- 
 way to take me across the lagoon towards Matancheri, 
 where I am to visit the Jews' quarters. 
 
 After the destruction of the second temple of 
 Jerusalem, which occurred in the year 3828 of Crea- 
 tion, 3168 of Tribulation, and 8 of the Christian era, 
 about 10,000 Jews and Jewesses came to Malabar 
 and settled at Cranganore, which at that time was 
 called Mahodraptna. They were received with toler- 
 ance, and from then till now this little colony, which 
 is as much shut off from the nearest Indians as it is 
 from the rest of the world, has kept its ancient tra- 
 ditions intact just like some historic curiosity in a 
 museum. 
 
 Matancheri, which must be crossed from one end 
 to the other in order to reach the town of the " white 
 Jews " (as they are called here), is a sort of purely 
 native market, where all the faces have a bronze 
 tinge, and where the open wooden shops clustering at 
 the foot of slender-stalked palms look low and in- 
 significant. 
 
 I had already proceeded more than half a mile, and 
 my eyes had grown quite accustomed to the native 
 aspect of the place, when the road suddenly turned, 
 and I was surprised to see a sinister-looking old street 
 that had the appearance of being strangely out of 
 place ; high stone houses closely packed together, 
 sullen-looking fa9ades with narrow windows like those 
 of colder countries. The faces of Jews were visible 
 everywhere at the windows, doors, and in the 
 street and their appearance was as surprising as the
 
 74 THE HOME OF THE 
 
 sudden change in the character of the dwellings. The 
 decaying sadness and walled-in isolation of this town 
 seemed to assort ill with its setting of sky and palms ; 
 after taking this sudden turning one is no longer in 
 India, and the mind becomes bewildered, and we no 
 longer know where we are ; perhaps in the corner of a 
 Leyden or Amsterdam ghetto that has been trans- 
 ported to a land whose tropical sun has baked and 
 cleft its walls. Doubtless this quarter was built by 
 the Dutch in imitation of those of the Mother Country 
 about the time of the early colonizations, when the 
 art of adapting buildings to the climate was not 
 understood ; and after their departure these Jews 
 of Cranganore must have taken possession of the 
 abandoned dwellings. Jews, nothing but Jews, a 
 pallid Jewry, whose blood has been impoverished by 
 the stifling houses and the Indian climate contrary 
 to all recognized theory ; two thousand years of 
 residence in Malabar have not in any way modified 
 Jewish faces. They are the same people, dressed in 
 the same long robes, that one meets at Jerusalem or at 
 Tiberius ; young women with delicate features, old 
 wretches with hooked noses, sly-looking children with 
 pink and white complexions, who wear curl-papers 
 over each ear just as their brothers do in Canaan. 
 
 These folk come to their doorsteps to see the 
 passing stranger, for smiling welcome, and I should 
 doubtless be courteously received at any house that 
 I might visit. 
 
 To-day there are, at the most, but a few hundreds 
 of these exiles who, as tradition tells, once numbered 
 ten thousand ; a sojourn which has lasted nearly two 
 thousand years, and the depressing climate, have weak- 
 ened even their enduring race ; it appears that they 
 live by usury and other underhand commerce, and 
 even when they are rich pretend not to be. The in- 
 teriors of the houses of two or three of the chief in- 
 habitants, where I rested awhile, presented the same 
 aspect of ruin, decay and filth, together with semi- 
 darkness and the smell of a wild beasts' den ; I saw
 
 MAHARAJAH OF TRAVANCORE 75 
 
 old furniture in the European style, which must have 
 dated from the time of the Dutch, perishing from 
 rottenness ; mosaic images and Hebrew inscriptions 
 ranged round the walls. 
 
 The synagogue is at the end of the street, and has a J 
 melancholy-looking little belfry, quite warped by time ^ t 
 and split with heat. After having passed the first 
 door, we find ourselves in a courtyard whose walls 
 are as high as those of a prison. The sanctuary 
 occupies the centre, and though it is but eight o'clock, 
 the whitewashed temple gleams in the morning sun. 
 There is perhaps no other synagogue in the world 
 where an ancient style of decoration of such an un- 
 known manner is preserved. The crude colours, 
 which time has faded a little, have a singular charm, 
 and there are green doors painted with strange 
 flowers, porcelain pavements of a marvellous blue, 
 milky white walls, glowings of red and gold round 
 the tabernacle, and the surprising radiance of many 
 columns and gratings of turned copper which have 
 been polished like mirrors by the continual rubbing 
 of human hands. Many multi-coloured crystal lustres 
 of ancient make, that must have come from Europe 
 at the time of the early colonization, hang from the 
 ceiling. 
 
 Some sallow-faced, long-nosed men dressed in long 
 robes, who were mumbling prayers, rise, book in hand, 
 to welcome me, and a tottering old rabbi, who seems 
 a hundred years old at least, advances to meet me. 
 The magnificence of the carefully turned copper 
 columns is first pointed out to me, and I am asked to 
 note the extraordinary polish. Then my attention is 
 directed to the really priceless pavement of blue 
 porcelain, so rare that one scarcely dares to walk 
 upon it ; it was made in China six hundred years ago, 
 and brought here by sea at great expense. 
 
 Finally the tabernacle, which was covered by a long 
 silk cover worked in gold thread, is unbared ; it con- 
 tains tiaras set with gems of a design primitive as the 
 crown of Solomon, which on certain occasions serve
 
 76 THE HOME OF THE 
 
 to deck the head of the ancient rabbi ; there are also 
 holy books and rolls of parchment, wrapped in cases 
 of black silk embroidered with silver, whose age can 
 no longer be ascertained. 
 
 At last the relic of relics is disclosed : the bronzed 
 tablet, that priceless record on which were written 
 some three centuries after the arrival of the Jews in 
 India, in the year 4139 of Creation, 3479 of Tribula- 
 tion, 319 of this Christian era, the rights and privi- 
 leges granted to them by the king who then reigned 
 in Malabar. 
 
 The characters graven on these venerable tables 
 read somewhat after this fashion : " By the help of 
 God who made the world and set up kings, we, Ravi 
 Vurma, Emperor of Malabar, in the 36th year of our 
 glorious reign here in the fort of Maderecatla Cranga- 
 nore, grant these rights to the worthy Joseph Rabban. 
 1st. That he may make proselytes among the five 
 castes. 2nd. That he may enjoy all honours ; that 
 he may ride elephants and horses with all due pomp ; 
 that his titles may be proclaimed by heralds ; that he 
 may use lights in the daytime and that he may make 
 use of all manner of musical instruments ; that he is 
 allowed to carry a large parasol, and to walk on 
 white carpet which may be spread out before him ; 
 finally that he may cause marches to be sounded on 
 his armour as he advances under a canopy of state. 
 We grant these rights to Joseph Rabban, and to 72 
 Jewish landowners, together with the government 
 of his own people, who are beholden to obey him, 
 and to him and his heirs so long as the sun may shine 
 on the world. 
 
 " This charter is given in the presence of the King 
 of Travancore, Trecenore, Calli Quilon, Krengoot, 
 Tamorin, Tamorin Paliathachen, and Calistria. 
 
 " Written by the Secretary, Kalambi Kelapour. 
 As Parumpadpa, the Rajah of Cochin, is my heir, his 
 name is not included among these. 
 
 " Signed Cherumprumal Ravi Vurma, 
 
 " Emperor of Malabar."
 
 MAHARAJAH OF TRAVANCORE 77 
 
 Above the synagogue, close by the side of the J/ 
 cracked belfry, there is a lofty room to which I am 
 taken : here everything is in a state of unconceivable 
 decay and dilapidation ; there are shapeless beams 
 and ruinous walls, and the flooring is full of holes, 
 and bats slumber near the black ceiling. Through 
 narrow windows, pierced like loopholes through the 
 thick walls, the little Dutch town, now passed into 
 Israelitish hands, is seen standing sad, gray, and worn 
 at the feet of the huge palms, whose great heads fill 
 the background, and which merge at once into the 
 forest, whose changeless green extends as far as the 
 eye can reach. On the other side we overlook the 
 thatched roof of a very ancient Brahmin temple, whose 
 low copper cupola seems to crush it against the 
 surface of the burning soil. 
 
 This lofty room, this ruin full of shade and spiders' / 
 webs, is the school of the little " white Jews." About * 
 twenty of them are assembled here, taking advantage 
 of the early morning freshness in order to study 
 Leviticus ; a rabbi, who resembles the prophet Elias, 
 traces passages of Hebrew on a blackboard for these 
 children of exile still speak the ancestral language now 
 fallen into neglect amongst their Eastern kin. 
 
 After the quarter of the " white Jews " conies that \ 
 of the " black Jews," who are the rivals and enemies ' s 
 of the first. I had been warned that I should give 
 much offence if I did not go to see them and their 
 synagogue after having visited the others. Some 
 were even stationed at the entrance of their street, 
 waiting to see if I would come, whilst above me I 
 could perceive rows of pale, emaciated " white Jews' ' 
 faces behind the half-raised curtains, or looking 
 curiously to see which direction I might take. 
 
 Let me go to see the poor " black Jews," who pre- 
 tend that they arrived from India several centuries 
 before the " white Jews," notwithstanding that the 
 white ones proclaim disdainfully that they are only 
 ancient pariahs who have been converted by their 
 teachings.
 
 78 THE HOME OF THE 
 
 They are more tanned than their neighbours, but 
 not black, far from it, though they appear to be half- 
 bred between Israelites and Indians. They hasten 
 to bid me welcome. Their synagogue much re- 
 sembles its rival, but is less rich, and has neither the 
 beautiful copper columns nor the marvellous Chinese 
 porcelain pavement. Just now they are celebrating 
 a service for the children, who are assembled there 
 with their noses buried in their books, and who rock 
 themselves like bears in the orthodox manner of the 
 Mosaic rite. The rabbi made bitter plaints about the 
 pride of their rivals of the neighbouring street, who 
 would never contract marriage nor even hold inter- 
 course with his parishioners. To crown their misery, 
 he told me that the Grand Rabbi of Jerusalem, to 
 whom a collective plaint for intervention had been 
 addressed, had contented himself by replying with 
 this rather offensive generality : " It is only sparrows 
 of the same colour that nest together." 
 
 The granite-walled temple with the copper cupola 
 and the roof of thatch that we first saw from the 
 summit is one of the most primitive and sullen-looking 
 buildings of this coast ; it is needless to say that it 
 is as impenetrable as the temples of other places. In 
 an empty and dismal courtyard, whose high granite 
 walls collect the stifling rays of the sun, there are 
 some strange objects of iron and bronze, many- 
 branched candelabra, I am told, whose surfaces have 
 been corroded by the storms of centuries. 
 
 Close to, and communicating with the temple by 
 galleries, is an ancient palace of the Rajahs of Cochin, 
 abandoned some time since for the new residence of 
 Ernaculum that lies upon the opposite shore. It 
 looks like a heavy, square, old fortress, though it is 
 impossible to determine the precise age of a building 
 in this country where chronology is interwoven with 
 fables and symbols ; but it gives the impression of 
 extreme antiquity, and the moment we enter we have 
 the impression of an unknown something that must 
 date from a ruder age.
 
 MAHARAJAH OF TRAVANCORE 79 
 
 The few little windows, all of which have stone 
 seats carved underneath them, serve to show the 
 thickness of the walls. All the staircases, even those 
 leading to the rooms of state, are steep, dark, and 
 stifling, hardly wide enough for a single person, and 
 have a look of childish savagery. The rooms, too, 
 are long, low, and dark, and have an oppressive and 
 prison-like air. 
 
 The ceilings are carved into complicated panels, 
 roses, and pendentives out of precious woods that 
 still retain their deep colours, with here and there a 
 few traces of painting. The walls, on the contrary, 
 have been left flat, and are absolutely smooth from 
 one end to the other ; at the first glance I thought 
 that they were covered by a stuff of many-coloured 
 design, but the semi-darkness deceived me, for they 
 are painted. The whole palace is decorated with 
 frescoes ; some are slightly damaged by time, but 
 others are in as perfect a state of preservation as 
 some of the paintings on the Egyptian tombs. Oh ! 
 what astonishing frescoes, frescoes of a special type, 
 in which art displays a prodigal and exuberant 
 luxury : masses of nude forms, in which anatomical 
 details are closely reproduced, though the Indian 
 type of beauty is somewhat exaggerated and the 
 wrists too fine and the breasts too prominent. 
 
 Confused swarms of interlacing arms, intermingled 
 thighs, arched backs, and swelling chests. The 
 ankles and the wrists are braceleted, the foreheads 
 are crowned, and necklets adorn the throats. Animals 
 also figure in this debauch of copper-coloured flesh. 
 
 There is not a trace of furniture ; all is empty. 
 Nothing but complicated ceilings, which seem to 
 crush everything with their weight, and these frescoes 
 resembling tapestries, that cover the walls of all 
 these galleries and prolong the nightmare of animal 
 and human flesh into the remotest and darkest 
 chambers. 
 
 The centre room, larger and higher than the rest, 
 is the one in which the rajahs were crowned ; there
 
 8o THE HOME OF THE 
 
 the frescoes represent a group of cloud-encircled 
 goddesses who are in travail in the midst of a huge 
 crowd of nude spectators. 
 
 The sleeping-chamber of the rajahs is the only 
 room that is furnished now, and there a boat-shaped 
 bed, made of panels of precious woods, still offers the 
 repose of its brocaded mattress. 
 
 The bed is suspended from the ceiling by red silken 
 cords, for serving-men were accustomed to rock the 
 sovereign to sleep after his meals. Around the royal 
 couch the wall frescoes are of the most sensuous 
 kind, and display an unbridled lasciviousness, and 
 goddesses, men, animals, monkeys, bears, and gazelles 
 roll their frenzied eyes in paroxysms of desire. 
 
 There is one other much dilapidated room in which 
 a great bronze lamp burns smokily both night and 
 day ; here I am not allowed to enter, as somewhere 
 in the dim background there is a communication 
 with the temples. 
 
 It will soon be the midday hour, when every one 
 must seek the shelter of a roof, and as my shady 
 island is too far distant, I will go to Cochin and 
 seek some " Traveller's Rest." 
 
 In a little hired carriage drawn by two fleet runners 
 I pass once more through the Indian streets of 
 Matancheri, which were so lately thronged with all 
 the types and costumes of Malabar ; now, however, 
 everything seems overcome by midday slumber. 
 
 I soon reach Cochin, which is built upon a sand- 
 bank stretching between the sea and the lagoon ; an 
 old colonial town that has undergone few changes, 
 and in which Dutch influence is still visible. 
 
 The little house which gives me shelter overlooks 
 the shore and the boundless ocean. 
 
 The great blue sea of Arabia stretches before me, 
 and its sands glitter with a rose and white splendour 
 under the vertical rays of the sun ; crows and fish- 
 ing-eagles fly around, uttering joyful cries, whilst a 
 calm swell throws its breakers on the shore with 
 peaceful monotony. Farther out, where the sea is
 
 MAHARAJAH OF TRAVANCORE 81 
 
 of a blue and polished tinge, the fins and backs of 
 sharks that are watching for their prey are visible 
 from time to time. But amidst all this dazzling 
 magnificence the horizon is no longer to be seen. 
 
 Behind the hut which shelters me, and which is 
 open on every side, the wood of coco-nut palms com- 
 mences at once, and I can see the green light that 
 filters through them ; from my windows long branches 
 and long feathered tufts of palm droop towards the 
 ground, lit up with a green and luminous trans- 
 parence that is exaggerated by the dull green back- 
 ground. Now a young Indian climbs noiselessly up 
 a trunk, smooth as a column, ascending by aid of his 
 toes with the ease and rapidity of a monkey in order 
 to obtain the juice that comes from the veins of the 
 leaves, and which is used as a drink ; and this climb- 
 ing man, who seems half animal hi this silent and 
 swift ascent, is the last impression that permeated 
 through my half-closed eyes. 
 
 How I love to feel the deep and shining sea so 
 near to me, and to hear its mighty throbbing ! It 
 is the highway that leads freely to all lands, the 
 highway where one can breathe and see far around, 
 and it is the road that I have always known. Truly 
 life is more gladsome in its vicinity, and I find my 
 old self again now that I am near it once more. For 
 an instant I can imagine that I am no longer in this 
 shady, confined, and incomprehensible Indian land. 
 
 XIII 
 
 After my siesta it is time to return to my isle of 
 the enchanted palace. 
 
 The sun is setting as I take my final departure in 
 the boat with fourteen rowers which is to take me to 
 Trichur, the most northerly town in the kingdom of 
 Cochin, a journey that will occupy the entire night. 
 As usual our start is magnificent. The rowers, who 
 are quite rested, seem to snatch shovels full of water 
 at each stroke of the paddles, and a sail has been 
 
 6
 
 82 THE HOME OF THE 
 
 hoisted to help us. Once more we take the easy road 
 of the lagoon, and the palm-covered banks fly quickly 
 past us. 
 
 The evening sun, fast sinking behind the rampart 
 of eternal verdure, droops and dies as ever in flames 
 of rosy gold. A cloudless sky of strangely lovely 
 tint is spread above our tranquil world ; once more 
 we are in the midst of fisheries, boats, and spread- 
 out nets, surrounded by the lake-like life we saw last 
 evening that life of olden days which still lingers 
 upon these Indian lagoons, curtained in on all sides 
 by forests of palms, whose mystery and depth seem 
 increased by the growing twilight. 
 
 My boatmen hum once more through their closed 
 mouths the song of yesterday. It appears that this 
 refrain is suited to the hours of ease when, thanks to 
 a favouring wind, they can paddle more heedlessly. 
 Fishermen on the other boats chant the same melody, 
 which does not seem to issue from human throats, 
 but rather resembles a distant peal of church bells 
 floating across the limpid waters from all directions. 
 
 This " Land of Charity " is peopled by thousands 
 of beings who, beneath their shady palms, dream 
 with a confiding simplicity of resurrection ; Chris- 
 tians, Brahmins, or Israelites all clinging to their old 
 and venerable faiths which, however they may differ 
 amongst each other, seem to contain a shadow of the 
 same truths. I dream, too, of the childish hope that 
 possessed me, that I might have been able to seize 
 a few shreds of the intangible truth, that truth 
 which is so sullenly guarded in the heart of this 
 Brahmin faith. But no ; here, as everywhere else, 
 I am the eternal stranger, the perpetual wanderer, 
 who only knows how to appreciate the charm of 
 strange surroundings. My dream is over too, for I 
 am leaving, nursed by songs, in a handsome boat ; 
 but even as it is I am amused, and perhaps this is 
 the path which destiny has traced out for me, and 
 with which I must be content. 
 The curtains of forest which are drawn all round
 
 MAHARAJAH OF TRAVANCORE 83 
 
 the horizon have an ever-deepening tone of blue, a 
 blue that merges into black where the sun has sunk. 
 Occasionally their monotonous line is broken by 
 some gigantic tree that rears its black shadow against 
 the sky. The planet Venus is the first of the stars 
 to glimmer through the fading tones of rosy gold, 
 then the moon appears by her side, but it is a moon 
 such as one rarely sees, and only in the limpid air of 
 hot countries. The crescent is faintly outlined by 
 a thin, luminous edge, yet the whole surface can be 
 distinguished with a wonderful clearness ; one feels 
 that it is lit up from behind and that it is no simple 
 disc, but a ball suspended in transparent emptiness, 
 and in spite of all the principles we have acquired, 
 this somewhat shocks our primordial notions of 
 equilibrium and weight. Darkness has at last over- 
 taken us, and the boatmen have lit their fires in order 
 to attract the fish. The songs have died away, and 
 all seems to sleep, all but the sinewy limbs of my 
 fourteen rowers, who hurry me towards the north 
 during the whole night. 
 
 XIV 
 
 Wednesday, 3rd January 
 
 There is a sudden conflagration as the sun rises 
 from behind the thicket of palms. My boat had 
 touched ground several times during the night, and 
 now rests finally in the mud at the foot of a hill of 
 red earth. We have reached the port of Trichur, 
 where the lagoons end, and the waters are crowded 
 by hundreds of other slumbering, gondola-prowed 
 boats. 
 
 Trichur, a very ancient and conservative Brahmin 
 town, stands half a mile farther on amongst the 
 trees, but hardly any one is stirring there when I 
 arrive in my ox-cart. The palms which shelter the 
 thatched wooden houses are shaken by a cold wind, 
 which raises clouds of fiery-coloured dust that looks
 
 84 THE HOME OF THE 
 
 almost like powdered blood. With its little shops 
 peopled by grain sellers and copper workers, and its 
 lanes of hairy banyans, this town resembles all those 
 other towns of Malabar which, hidden amidst the 
 woods, continue their ancient modes of existence far 
 from the coast and all modern things ; but its temple 
 is particularly large and terrible, and it bears the 
 name of Tivu Sivaya peria vur, which means Saint- 
 Siva-great-town. 
 
 I alight in front of this temple, which is a fortress 
 as well, and which sustained the siege of Tippoo, the 
 formidable Sultan of Mysore, and climb up slopes on 
 which herds of indolent sheep and zebus are still 
 sleeping. On seeing my approach some Brahmins, 
 who had stationed themselves in a doorway to medi- 
 tate and to watch the sun rise, hasten anxiously to 
 meet me. Did the stranger think ? . . . But I tell 
 them that I know, and that I had merely come to 
 admire the sculptured towers from a respectful dis- 
 tance. On hearing this the Brahmins, with many 
 smiling salutes, retire to the sanctuary without 
 troubling further about me. The heavy walls are 
 whitewashed, but the four doors, crowned with 
 monstrous sculptured towers that face the four winds 
 of heaven, have still retained the warm and dark 
 colour of Indian granite. These four red towers date 
 from the earliest ages, and are decked with ornaments, 
 colonnades, and barbaric figures. 
 
 Were it not for the wintry gusts of wind which 
 sweep by everything, and which twist the hanging 
 branches of the banyan trees, raising huge clouds of 
 reddish-coloured dust, there would be nothing stir- 
 ring in the town of Siva. By the roadsides there are 
 peaceful nooks under trees where the people may 
 pray ; in such spots we should have placed crucifixes 
 in the olden days ; here these shady cross ways are 
 decked with granite altars, symbolic stories, and 
 statues. 
 
 There are but few passers-by ; some dreamy-eyed 
 men going to the temple, beautiful and proud in
 
 MAHARAJAH OF TRAVANCORE 85 
 
 their nudity, with their black masses of hair hanging 
 to their loins, and their foreheads painted with the 
 seals of Vishnu or of Siva ; nearly all wear the sacred 
 cord across their breasts, which is the outward 
 symbol of high caste. There are some women going 
 to draw water whose figures are bent under the flashing 
 copper urns which they carry on their shoulders ; 
 draperies with many -coloured borders cover them, 
 without in any way hiding their outlines. One of 
 their swelling breasts is hidden by muslin, but the 
 other, the right one, is always left uncovered ; their 
 young bosoms are more developed than those of 
 European races, and seem almost out of proportion 
 with their delicate waists ; yet the outlines are match- 
 less, and have served as models for those stone and 
 bronze torsos that Hindoo sculptors have given to 
 their goddesses from the remotest ages, torsos in 
 which the feminine charms seem purposely heightened. 
 
 As I pass these women on the road, their glance 
 meets mine almost stealthily ; it is very tender, but 
 indifferent and far-away an unintentional caress of 
 the flaming black eyes then suddenly their eyelids 
 droop. 
 
 For the passing stranger they are like a thousand 
 other things in this country, like the great temple 
 itself unfathomable. 
 
 I remain the guest of the Rajah of Cochin till I 
 reach the frontier, and have only to allow myself to 
 be conducted ; all has thoughtfully been provided for 
 my morning journey to Trichur : the guide, the repast, 
 and even the teams of oxen which will take me to 
 Shoranur after a journey of three hours through 
 villages, jungles, and woods. 
 
 Alas ! at Shoranur I shall have left the charming 
 India that tourists never visit, and I shall find the 
 ubiquitous railways, and from there I shall take the 
 express train to Madras.
 
 IN THE LAND OF THE GREAT 
 PALMS
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 IN THE LAND OF THE GREAT PALMS 
 
 i 
 
 THE WONDERFUL ROCK OF TANJORE 
 
 ABOVE the immense plains of this country of Tanjore 
 and above the bushy kingdom of palms, which 
 stretches out like the sea, a huge detached rock rears 
 its head ; l standing sentinel, as it has done since 
 the beginning of time, over a region from which it has 
 seen the forests spring and the towns and temples 
 grow. It is a geological oddity, a whim of some 
 primaeval cataclysm, and looks like a helmet, or the 
 prow of some Titan's ship, half-submerged in an 
 ocean of greenery. It is two hundred metres high, 
 and springs without warning from the neighbouring 
 plain ; and its sides are so smooth, that even in this 
 country, where vegetation conquers everything, no 
 single plant has been able to find a foothold. 
 
 The early Indians, the great mystics of the olden 
 days, naturally chose this as a place of worship, and 
 for centuries have carefully hollowed out the rock so 
 as to form galleries, stairways, and gloomy temples. 
 Cupolas covered with beaten gold shine from the 
 summit, and every night a sacred lire burns on the 
 very top of the rock, and this fire, which has been 
 kindled for centuries, can be seen shining like a light- 
 house from the remotest parts of Tanjore. 
 
 As the sun rises on the native village built at the 
 foot of the rock, there is a greater stir than usual, for 
 
 1 The Rock of Trichinopoly. 
 89
 
 90 IN THE LAND OF 
 
 a solemn Brahmin festival in honour of Vishnu takes 
 place to-morrow, and since yesterday the natives have 
 been occupied in weaving innumerable garlands of 
 yellow flowers. The women and young girls, who 
 are grouped round the fountain filling their copper 
 urns, have already donned their festival attire, their 
 finest bracelets, nose-, and ear-rings. The zebus 
 attached to the carts have had their horns painted 
 and gilt, and are decked with necklets, bells, and 
 tassels of glass. Garland sellers almost block our 
 passage with their displays of floral wreaths ; Indian 
 pinks, Bengal roses, and marigolds, threaded like 
 pearls, are made into many-rowed boa-like necklets, 
 from which hang flowers and ornaments of gold 
 thread. To-morrow all the folk who go to their 
 devotions, and all the gods stationed in the temples, 
 will wear on their flesh, stone, or metal chests such 
 ornaments of rose or yellow flowers. The housewives, 
 who were stirring directly the dawn appeared, hasten 
 to trace geometrical figures on the carefully swept 
 soil in front of their dwellings with the white powder 
 that issues from the little box which they hold in 
 their hands, and with which they weave fantastic 
 designs like intermingling ribbons. One hardly 
 dares to walk along the streets : these networks of 
 white lines, with yellow carnations placed at the 
 points of intersection, are so beautiful. The wind 
 commences to rise, carrying with it clouds of the 
 blood-coloured dust which gives a reddish tone to 
 everything in Southern India, and within an hour 
 all the tracery that has caused so much labour will be 
 effaced. 
 
 The houses of the town are painted the colour of 
 red brick, and have the fork of Vishnu inscribed above 
 the door ; all are very low and have thick walls, 
 buttresses, and porches that remind me of the Egypt 
 of Pharaoh's days. There are as many dwellings for 
 the gods as there are for men, and nearly as many 
 temples as there are houses ; and on all the temples 
 and amongst the reddish monsters crowning the
 
 A WAYSIDE DIVINITY NEAR THE BASE OF THE ROCK, 
 TRICHINOPOLY.
 
 THE GREAT PALMS 91 
 
 breastwork of the walls, families of crows are perched 
 who look at the passing crowds and watch for the 
 spoils and all the scraps of filth that can serve as 
 prey for them. A horrible idol can be seen in each 
 of the little sanctuaries, whose doors are never closed ; 
 it is nearly always the elephant-headed Ganesa, 
 decked with necklets of fresh yellow flowers which fall 
 over his many arms and conceal his hanging trunk. 
 
 There are temples upon temples, holy bathing- 
 places for the ablutions of the Brahmins, palaces, 
 and bazaars. 
 
 There are mosques too, for the faith of Islam 
 that has triumphed in the north-west and centre 
 of India has filtered to some extent into this region 
 of the great palms. How different from the Brahmin 
 temples are these simple and geometrical arabesque - 
 covered mosques that rise from between their slim 
 minarets, and keep themselves white as those of 
 Hedjaz in spite of the red dust which gives its tone to 
 everything in this country. 
 
 A swarming as of an ant-heap, and the constant 
 set of people in one direction suffices to guide me, 
 even on the evening before the festival, towards the 
 rock temple that dominates the town. It is made 
 of three or four monstrous blocks that are without 
 a crack and almost without a wrinkle ; these stones 
 have merely been thrown one on the other, and the 
 sides, rounded like the flanks of animals and polished 
 by running rain-water, hang over in a fearful manner. 
 A veritable crowd of cawing crows whirls incessantly 
 round the summit. A monumental stairway plunges 
 into the dim recesses of the rock, between high 
 granite columns of laboured design, and past thou- 
 sands of steeples and idols which have been rendered 
 almost shapeless by age. Some young elephants, 
 that are sacred and descended from sacred parents, 
 are standing by, nearly blocking up the entry ; they 
 are covered with little bells threaded in the same 
 way as the garlands, and, as I pass, these elephants 
 caress me with their trunks in babyish glee.
 
 92 IN THE LAND OF 
 
 I commence to ascend the stairs, which almost 
 suddenly plunge into darkness ; now religious music, 
 whose volume is increased by the sonority of the 
 grotto, fills the air, seeming to issue from the bowels 
 of the earth. 
 
 I need not say that the rock is filled with a number 
 of superposed temples, galleries, passages, and stair- 
 ways ; some penetrating into mysterious darkness 
 are interdicted to all but the priests. There are 
 statues in every angle and corner ; some are colossal, 
 whilst others are as tiny as gnomes, but all have 
 crumbled with age and have only stumps instead of 
 arms, and their faces are no longer recognizable. 
 As I am not one of the faithful, I must keep to the 
 great central gallery that is open to everybody, and 
 which ascends between splendid columns hewn out of 
 solid blocks. These columns are covered by figures 
 and designs, but the bases, as far up as the height of a 
 man, have lost all shape under the constant polishing 
 which has continued for countless centuries by the 
 nude figures who have pressed against them in these 
 narrow passages. Formerly the walls, and even the 
 pavements and steps, were covered with signs and 
 inscriptions, but age and the rubbing of countless 
 hands and naked feet have rendered them indis- 
 tinguishable. 
 
 First we enter some low and stifling rooms, from 
 which a sound of chanting issues out of the gloom, 
 then higher up we come to a temple, as large as a 
 cathedral, whose ponderous roof is upheld by a forest 
 of columns. The profane are allowed to enter on 
 condition that they do not advance too far ; so it is 
 impossible to see where the temple finishes, and there 
 are passages and sculptured grottos which disappear 
 into the blackness of the rock. In a corner, near a 
 hole through which light comes, some Brahmin 
 children are engaged in the study of the holy books 
 under the tutelage of an old man who is entirely 
 covered with white hair. From the roof prodigious 
 properties belonging to the Brahmin procession are
 
 THE GREAT PALMS 93 
 
 suspended men, cars, horses, and elephants, all 
 larger than their natural size, strange forms, carefully 
 made from cardboard and painted, or tinselled paper 
 stretched over a thin framework of bamboo. 
 
 Tribes of little birds, swallows or sparrows, in that 
 anxiety of reproduction which characterizes the life 
 of this land, have found time between two religious 
 processions to fill these fantastic carcasses with their 
 nests ; so the confused forms of the suspended 
 monsters are gay with the fluttering of wings and 
 musical with the chirping of the young birds whose 
 song falls like light hail on the ground below. 
 
 We have to mount higher yet. These polished 
 walls, which are often of a single block, and the semi- 
 darkness remind one of a catacomb ; but a flood of 
 sunlight suddenly pierces through a hole cut in the 
 rock, and we see the pagodas and palm trees stretched 
 far beneath us. There are also some stones which 
 have been brought here as large as those of the early 
 stone age ; these have been thrown, pell-mell and 
 unjointed, one on top of the other, but their huge 
 weight keeps them in position, and time can never 
 shift them from their place. 
 
 At every step we encounter Brahmins of superb 
 form and appearance whose chests are daubed with 
 ashes in honour of Siva, the god of death. They 
 hurriedly ascend and descend, busied with the 
 arrangements for to-morrow's festival, disappearing 
 into the passages that are forbidden to me, and 
 bringing out copper vases filled with water or bearing 
 garlands to the gods I may not see. 
 
 There is yet another temple. I may not enter it, 
 but only look in from the threshold. It is built over 
 the one I have just left, but is much larger and more 
 magnificent, and much lighter too, for there are 
 many square openings in the roof through which the 
 blue sky can be seen, through which the sunlight falls 
 on the aedicules sheathed in their many-coloured and 
 gilt ornaments. 
 
 Above this last sanctuary are the terraces from
 
 94 IN THE LAND OF 
 
 which the plains of Tan j ore may be seen extending 
 as far as the eye can see, dotted with thousands of 
 other temples that emerge from the green palms. 
 
 At last we reach the stone which forms the summit, 
 a single block which the original volcanic disturbance 
 has placed here somewhat unsteadily. This is the 
 stone which looks like the prow of a ship or the crest 
 of a helmet when it is seen from below. The sun is 
 shining on its smooth sides as we ascend by one 
 hundred and forty faintly traced steps, so narrow, 
 worn, and sloping, that we cannot escape a feeling 
 of giddiness. 
 
 It is on these final terraces, adorned with golden 
 cupolas, that the sacred fire is nightly lit. Here also, 
 in a dark and heavy kiosk, surrounded by iron bars 
 like a wild beasts' den, the supreme idol is found ; 
 their god, the horrible black Ganesa, is the wild beast, 
 and until one approaches quite close to the bars, his 
 crouching form cannot be discerned. His elephant's 
 ears and trunk fall over the protruding belly, and 
 the stone body is half-clothed in gray, dirty, torn 
 rags. Here the captive god, whose expression is 
 fierce and cunning, reigns alone and supreme in the 
 airy temple built above all the rest of temples, from 
 which an uninterrupted stream of music and prayer 
 has poured forth for the last two thousand years. 
 
 We stand far above the region of human habitation, 
 and almost above the zone which the birds inhabit. 
 Below us we see the whirling flights of crows and the 
 eagles whose wings are stretched out motionlessly 
 in the air. The country that we overlook is one 
 where religion holds its extremest sway ; temples 
 are scattered everywhere, almost as abundantly as 
 trees, and the red harvest of sacred pyramids emerges 
 on all sides above the verdure. So plentifully do the 
 sacred towers rise above the palms that from the 
 height at which we are situated they resemble mole- 
 hills in a field of grass. Those twenty-four monstrous 
 towers down there, grouped like the tents of an 
 encampment, belong to the temple of Chri Ragam,
 
 THE GREAT PALMS 95 
 
 the largest of the sanctuaries of Vishnu where I am 
 going to-morrow to see the passing of a solemn pro- 
 cession. 
 
 The town is situated at the base of the overhanging 
 rock, and the complicated network of streets, the 
 profusion of many-coloured temples, and the mosques, 
 that are so white as to look bluish, are marked out 
 as on a highly coloured map ; the holy ponds, which 
 seem to swarm with black flies, shine like mirrors in 
 the sun ; these are no flies, however, but Brahmins 
 at their morning ablutions. 
 
 As at Malabar, the great coco-palms nearly cover 
 the whole of the country, but in the midst of this 
 forest of waving plumes, which extends on all sides 
 of the horizon, there are some occasional gaps ; large 
 yellow patches where the grass has been burnt up by 
 the increasing dryness, which has caused a famine in 
 the north-west provinces, and which is already 
 causing anxiety to the people of Tanjore. 
 
 All the sounds of the animated and seething life 
 below mingle as they rise up to us ; the noise of the 
 joyful town, the rumbling of zebu carts, the tom-toms 
 and bagpipes of the streets, the croakings of the 
 eternal crows, the screams of eagles, the psalms from 
 the many temples beneath our feet, and the brayings 
 of the sacred horns that never cease to echo round 
 the sides of the rock on which we stand. 
 
 ii 
 
 AT CHRI RAGAM 
 
 The little " Travellers' Rest " at which I find shelter 
 is about two miles from the wonderful rock and two 
 leagues from the great temple of Chri Ragam, and is 
 situated in a sunny cleaving where the feathery palms 
 have been replaced by some mimosas, whose foliage is 
 so poor and scanty that they do not give any shade. 
 The dying trees and the burnt-up vegetation that 
 surround us seem to stretch a warning finger over this
 
 96 IN THE LAND OF 
 
 southern land of India, where everything is eternally 
 damp and green, telling of the fearful drought from 
 which the whole district of Radjiput is dying. 
 
 To reach Chri Ragam from my lodging, I have first 
 to pass through the town at the foot of the over- 
 hanging rock, then to make a journey of an hour or 
 two in a carriage under a vault of trees and palms of 
 every age and every shape. On our way we pass 
 endless temples of varied forms and age, and there are 
 many stones and sculptured granite monuments over 
 which the faithful have thrown flowers and garlands 
 such strange garlands in readiness for to-morrow's 
 festival. Over all the entrances and on every door 
 the terrible seal of Vishnu, that three-pronged fork 
 which is inscribed on the foreheads of the men, has 
 been freshly re-painted in red and white colours. 
 There are even specially sacred groves of palms which 
 bear the ensign of the god ; the trunks, smooth as a 
 column, have been entirely covered with red and 
 white, so that it is hard to say where the temples end 
 or the woods commence. The breath of adoration 
 wafts over the whole of this consecrated place. 
 
 When at length we reach the sanctuary itself, an 
 immense sanctuary which stands in seven inclosures, 
 the first of which, containing twenty-one pyramids 
 sixty feet high, is two leagues in circumference, a 
 feeling of bewilderment, caused by the huge size and 
 the profuse display of barbaric splendour, comes over 
 us. The inconceivable plenitude of detail is as start- 
 ling as the size of the building itself. All that I had 
 ever read, all that I thought I knew, and all that I 
 had ever seen at gorgeous performances of fairy 
 spectacles is astonishingly surpassed here. We are 
 also forced to recognize that our cathedrals, with their 
 saints and angels, only compare with these huge red 
 masses of solid rock on which a thousand divinities 
 gesticulate with their twenty arms and twenty faces, 
 as do our modest flowers with those that blossom 
 here. 
 
 We enter an enormous inclosure that is older than
 
 THE GREAT PALMS 97 
 
 the sanctuary, but whose age is unknown, the work 
 of a generation who had dreamt of a tower as large as 
 that of Babel, but who never lived to finish their 
 work. Access is gained by a doorway which is more 
 than forty feet high, made of simple blocks ten to 
 twelve metres long ; at the crown of the archway 
 there are indications of an unfinished pyramid, which 
 would doubtless have struck terror into the minds 
 of those who saw it, but probably its achievement was 
 impossible. The whole structure has acquired a tone 
 of reddish copper, and the sacred parrots, perched in 
 groups on the projecting sculptures, look like patches 
 of brilliant verdigris. 
 
 On the other side of the doorway there are magnifi- 
 cent avenues leading to the temples. These avenues 
 extend through the various inclosures and are bor- 
 dered by religious buildings, ponds, bazaars, gods 
 seated in niches, and many stone kiosks supported 
 on slim columns of antiquated design everywhere 
 the same four-sided Indian columns with their capitals 
 formed by a group of hanging monsters. The door 
 of each fresh inclosure is surmounted and overwhelmed 
 by an indescribable pyramid, sixty feet high, made 
 up of fifteen stories of colossal gods ranked one above 
 the other. All the statues of the airy kingdom look 
 upwards with thousands of eyes and gesticulate with 
 thousands of arms ; there are some who have twenty 
 arms projecting in a fan-like manner from each of 
 their sides, others with twenty faces which look in 
 every direction, their heads adorned with tiaras, and 
 they brandish lotus flowers, deaths' heads, and 
 emblems of all sorts. Numbers of mythical animals 
 force their way through the crowded ranks of the 
 gods : peacocks with extravagant tails, or five- 
 headed serpents. The stone has been carved and 
 chiselled with so much boldness that each subject 
 and each accessory seems to be independent of the 
 rest and looks as if it might detach itself and spring 
 to the ground. The pyramid on which these dense 
 crowds are graven grows narrower as it rises, termi- 
 
 7
 
 98 IN THE LAND OF 
 
 nating at length in a series of lance -like points. The 
 almost unfading colours in which these men, beasts, 
 robes, and adornments were painted still retain their 
 brilliancy ; the predominant tone is blood-red, and 
 seen from a distance each pyramid is red, but this 
 tone alters as we get nearer, and patches of green, 
 white, and gold become visible. 
 
 The last inclosure is reserved for Brahmins of pure 
 race attached to the service of the gods, who live here 
 with their families. At last we arrive at the temple 
 proper, and see the sullen and defiant ramparts of its 
 old crested walls rising before us, whilst the customary 
 red pyramid of sculptured gods lowers over the dark 
 and gloomy entrance. On each side of this last door 
 are terraces on which elephants are chained. These 
 beasts, which at present are engaged in swallowing 
 some young trees that the faithful have brought, are 
 very old and sacred. Scattered near, and contrasting 
 strongly with the splendour of the mighty pyramids 
 of crowded figures, are objects that are almost bar- 
 baric, straw huts, simple little carts of ancient make, 
 rude and primitive tools. Everything that clusters 
 at the foot of the old rampart is ruined, worn, and 
 imbued with traces of an uncivilized age that has long 
 since disappeared. 
 
 The sun is setting, and it is almost too late to enter 
 the temple, for twilight has already descended amongst 
 the naves and arches of vaulted stones. If I enter, it 
 is but to inquire about to-morrow's procession of the 
 priests, who flit by like shadows lost in the wilderness 
 of colonnades. The information I obtain is vague 
 and contradictory ; it may be to-night . . . perhaps 
 later ... it would depend on the weather and on the 
 moon. ... I can see clearly that the priests are not 
 anxious that I should be present. 
 
 However, in an echoing gallery, whose walls are 
 decorated from one end to the other by two rows of 
 fantastic tigers and horses reared on their hind legs, 
 and of more than natural size, I meet a sweet-faced 
 old priest who informs me it will most certainly be at
 
 A MOHAMMEDAN TYPE.
 
 THE GREAT PALMS 99 
 
 daybreak, and says that to be more sure I had better 
 spend the night in the temple itself. 
 
 I return to my carriage and make for the modest 
 lodging to which hunger calls me. After that I shall 
 return at once and sleep in the temple. 
 
 A beautiful silvery moon is shining as I leave my 
 " Travellers' Rest " once more. So white is the 
 moonlight that I should have thought that the walls 
 and the bare ground were covered with snow. The 
 moon's pale rays filter through the thin branches and 
 delicate leaves of the mimosas just as they do through 
 the branches of our trees when winter has stripped 
 off their leaves ; and the tiny flowers, like balls of 
 down, resemble snowflakes and hoar frost. Can this 
 be some northern territory that has wandered into 
 the land of heat ? Everything ceases to astonish in 
 this wondrous land where fantastic and ever-changing 
 images provide a constant feast of unexpected 
 spectacle. 
 
 The wintry illusion fast melts away, and as soon 
 as we leave the parched clearing, the well-defined 
 shadows of the palms, banyan trees, and trailing 
 creepers become apparent again. The illuminated 
 fete which is being held in the town is just now at its 
 height ; all the open temples, even the smallest ones, 
 scarcely larger than a cupboard, are adorned with 
 lighted lamps and yellow garlands. As we hasten to- 
 wards Chri Ragam our carriage passes rapidly through 
 many scenes which fade into one confused recollection. 
 It happens that this is also the month of Ramadan, 
 so the Mohammedans are keeping their festival too. 
 The great mosque, before which surges a crowd of 
 turbans of all colours, is covered by lines of fire, and 
 in order to make their spectacle yet more fairy-like, 
 the white walls, columns, arabesques, and illumina- 
 tions have been draped with a veil of red muslin 
 which hides the sharp outlines with a rosy glow, and 
 casts a haze of distance and uncertainty over the 
 building ; the minarets and the dome, however, are 
 not sheathed in coloured draperies, and shoot up
 
 ioo IN THE LAND OF 
 
 boldly towards the starry sky, where their snowy 
 crescent-crowned forms glimmer in the moonlight. 
 
 in 
 
 PREPARATIONS FOR THE PROCESSION 
 
 The night has fallen as I get back to Chri Ragam, 
 and the walls of the temple of Vishnu are plunged in 
 gloom. I am standing in the sacred precincts where 
 Brahmins alone may dwell, in the large avenue en- 
 circling the sanctuary. The car of the god is stationed 
 here, waiting for the moonlight ; it is covered by a 
 sort of dais or fantastic pavilion which sparkles with 
 red, green, and yellow gold, and its roof is much 
 ornamented with miniature towers like those of the 
 temple ; the car itself, which forms the base of all 
 this, is a huge and terrible mass of sculptured beams, 
 old as the Brahmin faith, of such dimensions that it 
 seems impossible that it could ever be put in motion. 
 The gilt superstructure, resembling an extravagant 
 and shining pavilion, has only been placed there 
 to-day, and is a thing of no weight, made from silk, 
 tinsel, and paper stretched over a bamboo frame- 
 work, which, however, gives the impression of height- 
 ened effect and magnificence. The moon illumines 
 white groups of men surrounding the car, Indians 
 looking like phantoms in the white muslins with 
 which their heads and chests are swathed. But it 
 seems that the moonlight does not suffice, for torches 
 are brought in order that the wheels, which allow the 
 car to move like a monstrous tortoise, may be at- 
 tached ; these car wheels are solid discs some three 
 feet high made from two layers of timber placed 
 side by side and fastened together with iron bolts. 
 The ropes to which three or four hundred frenzied 
 men will harness themselves to-morrow, ropes, thick 
 as a Brahmin's leg, that serve to draw the huge 
 machine, are already being laid out on the ground. 
 
 At present the great stone temple is empty ancl
 
 THE GREAT PALMS 101 
 
 shrouded in the gloom of night, and my footsteps 
 echo through the silence in an almost terrifying 
 manner. A few Brahmins, who have come from the 
 country for the festival, have sought shelter here, and 
 wrapped in their muslins lie stretched out on the 
 stones like dead men. The few dim lamps hung at 
 long distances apart and the occasional moonbeams 
 make this forest of columns, and its people of idols, 
 seem more boundless than ever. 
 
 The avenue along which the car will travel to- 
 morrow at daybreak follows the four sides of the 
 sullen-crested rampart of the sanctuary, sweeping in 
 a bold, straight line between the fortress wall and the 
 old houses of the Brahmins, with their complicated 
 columns, verandas, and terraces guarded by granite 
 monsters ; it is very gay, for scarcely any one will 
 sleep to-night, and many white groups, whose out- 
 lines are sharply defined in the ghostly moonlight, 
 are to be seen wandering along it. 
 
 Women and young girls of high caste commence 
 to leave their houses and gather at the thresholds of 
 the doors, where they begin to decorate the venerable 
 earth that the car of Vishnu will plough into deep 
 ruts when the morning comes. The night is beauti- 
 fully clear, and everything is plain as in the daylight. 
 These women and young girls are so laden with 
 collars of jasmine, and so many garlands of threaded 
 flowers hang on their bosoms, that as they move it is 
 like a swinging of censers. 
 
 There is one young and slender girl, wrapped in 
 black and silver muslin, so beautiful that I stop 
 almost involuntarily before her. Each time that she 
 stoops to the ground, and each time that she raises 
 herself up, the click of the precious rings that sur- 
 round her ankles and arms is heard. The design 
 that she traces on the ground, and which she seems 
 to invent as she goes on, is of a charming oddity. 
 The guide who accompanies me this evening is a 
 Vellana of noble race, and he, at my suggestion, 
 ventures to ask her if she would lend me the white
 
 102 IN THE LAND OF 
 
 powder for a while so that I may assist in decorating 
 the soil in front of her dwelling. She smiles, and 
 after some hesitation hands the little box to him, 
 so that he may give it to me, for she is too disdainful 
 even to touch my hand. The white ghosts wander- 
 ing along the avenue surround me, puzzled to know 
 what I am going to do, anxious to know what design 
 will spring up under my hands. 
 
 As I trace the monogram of Vishnu very clearly 
 on the dull, red soil, a murmur of surprise and sym- 
 pathy rises from the bystanders. The little Indian 
 beauty even consents to take the sand-box from my 
 hands and to consult with me as to her plans ; there 
 will be a border of rose ornaments and stars, and 
 hibiscus flowers are to be placed in the centre of 
 each panel. 
 
 I feel, however, that I have trespassed far enough, 
 if not too far, and in order that she may not think 
 me an intruder, and that I may receive a gentle 
 smile of farewell, feel that the precise moment has 
 come for me to withdraw. 
 
 Some mysterious rite that I may not see is about 
 to be consummated. It is almost midnight. All 
 the white groups have assembled round the gilded 
 car of the god with the shining canopy. To give 
 more pomp and solemnity to the occasion, the great 
 sacred elephants, one of which is a hundred years 
 old, have been tethered close to the car, and, clothed 
 in their gold-fringed robes of state, shuffle about in 
 the moonlight like flabby monsters. Huge parasols 
 terminating in copper balls have been opened, and 
 now a procession of young Brahmins advances carry- 
 ing torches, whose triple flames are supported on 
 three branches after the manner of the fork of Vishnu. 
 
 This is the hour for the accomplishment of the 
 mysterious rite. From a hidden recess at the back 
 of the temple the most sacred symbol, the true and 
 only image of Vishnu, " the one who may not be 
 looked upon," the god of pure gold reclining on 
 a five-headed serpent, will be taken and carried on
 
 THE GREAT PALMS 103 
 
 to the platform which stands in an old kiosk built 
 specially for the purpose. Priests with lighted lamps 
 will watch at his feet, and then to-morrow morning 
 they have only to pass the god into the car through 
 a window and to seat him under the dais-shaped 
 tower that guards him from all prying eyes. Each 
 time that the Vishnu of Chri Ragam passes along the 
 avenue on his way to the kiosk, he is, it is needless 
 to say, swathed in many draperies ; and even then 
 the removal always takes place at night, so that no 
 uninitiated eye may catch a glimpse of his form. It 
 happens this year that the festival takes place during 
 the period of the full moon, and I, the only profane 
 stranger here, am warned that I ought to retire, for 
 it is really very light. So I retire from the avenue. 
 I take up my quarters in the distant temple with the 
 Brahmins already reposing there, and wait for the 
 coming dawn. The gloomy place is filled with an 
 immense and peaceful calm, and a feeling almost 
 akin to freshness hovers in the air. As I fall asleep 
 I hear murmured prayers, whose faint whispers echo 
 amongst the vaulted arches ; sometimes also the 
 muffled tread of naked feet wandering cautiously 
 over the pavement. 
 
 IV 
 THE PROCESSION PASSES 
 
 Croak ! Croak ! A crow awakens me with the 
 hoarse cry with which it salutes the dawning day, 
 and gives the signal to its fellows sleeping by thou- 
 sands in the vicinity. The resonance of this forest 
 of stone prolongs and magnifies the sounds of the 
 mournful concert sung amongst these vaulted arches, 
 for the crows are in some manner sacred and nest in 
 the temple itself. Undying echoes repeat " Croak, 
 croak " from all sides ; echoes hovering amidst far- 
 distant granite passages, fading amongst lofty naves 
 or reverberating through underground passages, 
 whose mazes can be felt rather than seen. The entire
 
 104 IN THE LAND OF 
 
 temple vibrates with the answering cries of this 
 serenade offered every morning to the many gods 
 who live among these sacred shades. 
 
 It is necessary to have the eyes of a bird to per- 
 ceive that day must soon dawn, and it is darker than 
 it was last night. The lamps have gone out and the 
 moon no longer shines. A dampness as of a tomb 
 is spread over the stones, filling one with a sense of 
 chilliness. Nothing is visible, only here and there 
 the faint glimmer of light which niters through a 
 vent or enters by a hole in the roof. Now another 
 sound is added to the cries of the birds, a noise of 
 wings and a rustling of feathers ; the black swarm 
 is about to fly. 
 
 Ah ! at last the light comes. In this land it 
 always comes quickly, just as it goes. ... So quickly, 
 that the effect is theatrical ; prodigious perspectives 
 of columns stand out suddenly in diaphanous pallor, 
 a pallor so faint as to make them resemble reflections 
 from more distant objects, illusionary and impalpable 
 images of pillars seen through a veil of grayish gauze. 
 Vast points of view are suddenly revealed, crossways 
 of naves whose ends cannot be discerned. Now, be- 
 hind me, appears the avenue where I met the priest 
 last evening, the avenue of the prancing monsters, 
 whose outlines I can already see. The human shapes 
 which were extended on the ground, swathed in their 
 muslins, rise and stretch their arms, and straightening 
 their backs take their departure, wan and trans- 
 parent figures, the sound of whose footsteps seems 
 strange in this scene of colourless enchantment. 
 
 Near to the flagstone on which I slept last night, 
 a granite staircase leads to the terraces of the 
 temple ; gropingly I find my way to it by keeping 
 my hands close to the cold walls. 
 
 I ascend, and on reaching the top find myself alone. 
 
 The terraces which surmount the flat and massive 
 vaulted arches extend like a desert ; a desert of huge 
 paved stones, that lies round me on all sides ; a 
 desert which appears to merge into the far-distant
 
 THE GREAT PALMS 105 
 
 clouds. Here, too, I am possessed with a sense of 
 illusion, but the lighting of the scene is quite different ; 
 it is clearer, though the day has not yet come, and 
 yet, just as in the temple, all the objects that I begin 
 to discern seem unreal. These clouds extending 
 round the terrace are formed of vapour that has 
 condensed on the earth during the night ; a vapour 
 so thick that it resembles a bluish-coloured wadding 
 that might be touched if one were near enough ; the 
 whole plain is filled with its fleecy masses, and only 
 a few tufts of the black feathers and black fans that 
 spring from the heads of the tallest palms emerge 
 from it. A greenish light of a deliciously trans- 
 parent shade of beryl gradually covers the eastern 
 horizon, looking like a transparent patch of oil which 
 expands in a wide circle over the veil that night has 
 cast over the sky. A large red globe still lingers in 
 the western sky. Is it some worn-out planet ? or 
 a dead world ? or but the slowly-sinking moon ? 
 By this time all the crows that inhabit the temple 
 are awake, and I can hear the concert of their voices 
 beneath me, and the answering cries that descend 
 from all points of the air, now black with whirling 
 flights of wings. 
 
 It takes me ten minutes to walk through the 
 wilderness of stones, across naves, galleries, stair- 
 ways, and passages, to get back to the avenue running 
 round the building where I was last night, and along 
 which the procession will shortly pass. 
 
 The golden god must be in his place his journey 
 from the temple to the kiosk, and from the kiosk to 
 the car duly accomplished for when I reach the 
 spot no one is near. 
 
 The sacred elephants, divested of their finery, are 
 reposing in stalls, which are on a granite balcony 
 extending from either side of the door. The terrible 
 seal of Vishnu painted on their huge foreheads, the 
 same mark that the men have on their own, but ten 
 times greater. Their intelligent eyes are fixed on the 
 car lying near them, which they are so soon to follow.
 
 106 IN THE LAND OF 
 
 It is almost day, and the sun must soon rise. The 
 four monstrous wheels are fitted to the car, and the 
 cables lie extended on the ground. Now the high 
 priests descend from the kiosk, where they had 
 passed the night in prayer ; they are preceded by the 
 procession of youths who carry triple-flamed torches, 
 which they extinguish on coming into the brightness 
 of the growing day. The venerable old men appear 
 separately at the top of the black staircase, at first 
 distantly and surrounded by the smoke of the pine 
 torches, but as they gradually descend the steps their 
 wondrous mystic faces, surrounded with white hair, 
 become defined in the fresh morning light, and I 
 see that their foreheads are shaved up to the crown 
 of their heads, in order that the forked seal of their 
 god may be painted in larger characters. They are 
 almost nude in their forgetfulness of earthly things ; 
 a loin cloth surrounds their body, and they wear a 
 little linen cord indicating their rank, which nestles 
 amidst the fleece of white hair growing on their 
 chests. 
 
 Now men are removing the foot-bridge, draped 
 with strange old silks, that led from the car to the 
 window of the kiosk, and which served for the trans- 
 port of the golden Vishnu. An orchestra of dark- 
 faced musicians plays something deafening, some- 
 thing melancholy and barbarous enough to make 
 one shudder ; some beat the tom-toms, while others 
 blow with all their force into gigantic horns that are 
 turned towards the invisible god. 
 
 The decoration of the car is at last completed. 
 Four wooden horses, to give the resemblance of a 
 quadriga, have been yoked in front of it ; horses 
 with outstretched wings and feet that rear themselves 
 into the air with a look of fury. Around the throne 
 of the god, now concealed by impenetrable curtains 
 of red silk, a kind of suspended garden has been made 
 with branches of natural flowers, whose yellow 
 carnations and marigolds are mingled with golden 
 thread. Naked youths, at first concealed amongst
 
 THE GREAT PALMS 107 
 
 the draperies and the canopies of silk and flowers, 
 are seen stationed at various heights on the rolling 
 structure ; these are the guards of honour of the 
 god, and their horns now answer the melancholy 
 howlings that issue from the orchestra stationed on 
 the ground. 
 
 The sacred elephants advance towards the car and 
 kneel down of their own will so that the embroidered 
 robes and head ornaments of gold and pearl may be 
 put on them ; then they proceed to place themselves 
 behind the priests in the still stationary procession. 
 Meanwhile the younger men fall into rank towards 
 the front of the car, by the side of the four monstrous 
 cables that lie stretched out on the ground. 
 
 The wall of the temple which forms one of the 
 sides of the avenue remains dark, deserted, and 
 mournful, but, on the other side, a watching crowd 
 gathers before the houses of the Brahmins, and all 
 the windows, the verandas with their heavy 
 columns, and the pavements, ornamented with mon- 
 sters, are thronged with children and old men. 
 There are crowds of women everywhere in their gold- 
 embroidered muslins, necklets of flowers, and spark- 
 ling jewels ; some carry offerings to the priests, whilst 
 others hasten with little sand-boxes in their hands 
 to repair the ravages that have been made in their 
 work, and to place a few fresh, yellow flowers here 
 and there. 
 
 The mists that night had thrown over the plain 
 have vanished and melted away, in a single instant, 
 like unsubstantial dreams. 
 
 Day dawn in tropical countries is not favourable 
 to any attempts at human pageantry. The spectacle 
 that seemed enchanted but a short while ago when 
 I was on the terraces and whilst the last torches 
 were flaming in the hesitating dawn, now seems un- 
 able to bear the pure clearness of the morning sky. 
 Yet I can tell nothing of the sky save that it is in- 
 finitely limpid and adorably green, of a pale, re- 
 splendent green that cannot be named. But by the
 
 io8 IN THE LAND OF 
 
 side of it everything looks miserable and faded. The 
 temple wall displays its decay and its mouldering 
 red patches. Too much is visible ; the aid of night 
 or the dazzling brightness of the sun is wanted. The 
 ornamentation of the car is coarse and childish, and 
 the robes of the elephants worn-out and ragged. The 
 clear bronze colour that spreads over the faces and 
 bosoms of the young women resists a little longer, 
 it is true, but there are draperies and muslins which 
 almost look like filthy rags. In this deceptive 
 moment the decrepitude and decadence of Brahmin 
 India seem assured, its rites and festivals appear to 
 have fallen into decay just as its superhuman monu- 
 ments and its superb race of men. People of a 
 bygone age, and creeds of a past time whose cycle is 
 accomplished and now fall into decay. 
 
 However, nothing indicates the oppression of the 
 foreigner ; not a single modern detail intrudes on 
 this ancient spectacle, and I am the only alien pre- 
 sent at the festival. 
 
 At last the sun comes, the great magician whose 
 appearance will transfigure everything. This sudden 
 bursting forth has something tragic in it, which har- 
 monizes with the temple and with the god whose 
 festival is celebrated to-day. A cloud, close to the 
 horizon, the only visible one, still conceals the sun 
 from those who are on the level ground, a dark 
 copper-coloured sky, three pointed flames, resembling 
 the fork of Vishnu painted on the foreheads of the 
 men. The great towers, however, can see the sun, 
 and the crests of the red granite walls, and the 
 pyramids of gods towering into the air begin to 
 glisten as if surrounded by a halo of glory. 
 
 The sacred parrots, who have thousands of nests in 
 this forest of sculpture, commence to stir and utter 
 shrill cries ; their green colour, the green of a Chinese 
 water-colour, looking still more unreal amidst the red 
 entanglement of faces, arms, and legs that grimace 
 and gesticulate on every part of the tall pyramid. 
 
 The gildings on the summit of the car commence to
 
 THE GREAT PALMS 109 
 
 shine now, and the great hour is at hand. The horns 
 give the signal, and hundreds of arms, with tensely 
 knotted muscles, fix themselves on the cables. All 
 the young men, even the most noble Brahmins, join 
 in united effort, partly from pleasure and partly from 
 a sense of duty. Now they make ready. With a 
 grace that is almost feminine, and which contrasts 
 strongly with their proud masculine eyes and thin 
 broad shoulders, they unknot their heavy coils of 
 hair ; then raising their arms, which many bracelets 
 encircle, retie them into a tighter knot. 
 
 The second signal, a fury of tom-toms, and a more 
 imperious blast of the horn, is answered by an outcry 
 of human tongues, whilst the cables stretch under the 
 effort of straining muscles. However, the enormous 
 machine does not move, for it has become embedded 
 in the ground since last year's procession. 
 
 At the instigation of their leader a better organized 
 attempt is made, and this one will no doubt be suc- 
 cessful. More men come to help, and old men, whose 
 chests seem covered with snow, mingle their white 
 fleeces with the black ones. A great cry goes up 
 from the crowd, and muscles and backs are strained 
 more furiously than ever. Still it does not move, 
 and the cables fall, like huge dead serpents, from 
 their disheartened hands on to the ground. 
 
 But they know well enough that the car will move. 
 Since the memory of man the car of the god has never 
 refused to budge under the efforts of forefathers, 
 whose arms have fallen back to dust so long ago that 
 their souls must either have been reincarnated or 
 freed from fallacious personality and merged into the 
 one universal soul. 
 
 The car will move, as the old priests who stand 
 there unconcernedly with dreamy eyes and souls 
 already half loosened from their emaciated bodies 
 know well enough. Even the elephants know it too, 
 for they stand there quite peacefully, though the 
 thoughts which fill their large brains are quite un- 
 fathomable to us. The oldest especially must know
 
 no IN THE LAND OF 
 
 it well, the one who has seen three or four generations 
 of arms attached to these ropes, and has been familiar 
 with this scene for the last hundred years. 
 
 " Run ! fetch the levers and the tackle, we must 
 have them." Whole trunks of trees are brought on 
 the shoulders of the porters, the levelled end is placed 
 under the wheel which will not move, whilst ten men 
 sit astride on the end that projects into the air and 
 spring up and down, whilst others pull ahead at the 
 ropes and pullies. 
 
 The huge structure trembles. There is a great cry 
 of joy, and the car starts off. 
 
 The wheels of Vishnu's car commence to revolve, 
 tearing up the earth with four deep furrows. The 
 car moves, accompanied by the groans of straining 
 axles, a creaking of bending wood, and the din of 
 human voices and sacred trumpets. There is an 
 immense overflow of childish joy ; white teeth 
 glimmer in mouths which are opened widely with 
 shouts of triumph, and the air is filled with waving 
 arms. 
 
 The car has moved some thirty paces from its 
 original place, but it now stops and becomes em- 
 bedded again. The elephants who had commenced 
 to walk in procession behind stop also, jostling against 
 one another softly but heavily. So everything must 
 be recommenced. 
 
 However, this seems to be the natural order of 
 things, and they prepare to start anew. Whilst the 
 levers and other tackle are being brought, women rush 
 between the serried ranks of priests and almost under 
 the feet of the gentle elephants, so that they may kiss 
 the freshly made furrows in the soil, the ruts dug by 
 the weight of the golden god. The sun's rays have 
 sunk from the summit of the temple on the crowds 
 assembled below and now clothe them with mag- 
 nificence. Metal rings shine on all the naked arms, 
 and diamonds and rubies threaded on pins sparkle in 
 the noses of the women. Through the transparence of 
 painted or gold-laced muslin, the bosoms of young
 
 THE GREAT PALMS in 
 
 girls are seen stainless as the breasts of the Bride of 
 Siva, the goddess with the eyes of fishes. 
 
 The huge machine proceeds jerkily along ; some- 
 times it makes terrible bounds, then come the never- 
 ending stoppages ; thus the procession lasts for two 
 or three hours, in a veritable revelry of strength and 
 movement. The tracks left by the procession of the 
 gods make the ground look as if it had been worked 
 by an army of savage ploughs, the same ground that 
 was so smooth this morning and so garlanded with 
 white ribbons and dotted flowers. 
 
 As the procession makes a long halt at one of the 
 corners of the temple, where it is necessary to lever 
 the car round the bend of the avenue, I mount again, 
 with my guide and a Brahmin, to the terraces that ex- 
 tend over the labyrinth of naves the dim passages 
 and the halls with their myriad columns in order 
 that I may find a little air and quiet. The terraces 
 are as deserted as they were this morning, but the 
 sunlight shows me that they are decayed and ruined, 
 and that their grayish-red walls are riven by cracks, 
 which look like impresses that centuries have left. 
 The hour is still early enough, and the sun sufficiently 
 low for me to sit or even to lie down in the long 
 shadows cast by the monstrous towers. 
 
 The terrace extends before me like a solitary and 
 dismal steppe ; close by its edge there are some tiny 
 old gods with bats' wings who bend over to look down 
 below ; there is nothing else, only this flat plain with 
 its towers of stony-faced gods rising at regular inter- 
 vals ; but the sanctuary is so vast that some of these 
 towers are quite distant. 
 
 Here and there deep ruts like trenches are seen ; 
 these are the mouths, the openings of the open-air 
 promenades that have been contrived amongst the 
 gloomy halls below ; the one in the centre is planted 
 with banyan trees, whose green heads appear above 
 the terrace, and this is the one that surrounds the 
 holy of holies, the secret and dreadful place of gloom 
 where the unapproachable idols repose.
 
 H2 IN THE LAND OF 
 
 Perhaps the little divinities who look over the crest 
 of the wall are interested in the procession which I 
 can no longer see nor hear from where I am ; all the 
 turmoil below is hidden from me, so also is the neigh- 
 bouring town with its houses and its streets, and my 
 strange desert seems to border directly on the forest 
 of palms whose bluish outlines are visible against the 
 horizon. 
 
 Crows and vultures wheel around in a dazzling sky, 
 traversed from time to time by flights of green 
 parrots. Lizards crawl about, and the hopping 
 squirrels which haunt the monuments and trees of 
 India play and chase one another amongst the holy 
 stones. I fall into a contemplative silence, and there 
 is nothing to make me uneasy but the pyramids of 
 gods that rise into the air above my head ; the atti- 
 tude of the graven figures is calm and impassive, but 
 the images seem too grotesque, and the towers are 
 too lofty for my European notions. 
 
 An hour has flown whilst I have been resting in the 
 shade of this airy wilderness. My guide and the 
 Brahmin are asleep too, lying comfortably at full 
 length on the warm stones. 
 
 Can it be that some hallucination has seized me, or 
 is it giddiness ? One of the towers down there seems 
 to totter, and now it actually moves. For an instant 
 I am stupefied, then I look again and understand ; 
 ah ! it is the mock tower of the car, it is the pro- 
 cession trailing along by the side of the temple wall 
 farthest from me. From where I am the taut ropes, 
 the excited crowd, the elephants, and the procession 
 are all hidden as in a ditch, and I can only see the 
 counterfeit structure covering the throne upon which 
 the invisible god is seated. Neither the music nor 
 the cries of the people are audible. This is the last 
 impression the car of Vishnu leaves on me, that 
 of a tower moving by itself along the edge of the 
 terraces, silently and solitarily, in the wilderness of 
 stone.
 
 THE GREAT PALMS 113 
 
 AMONG THE BRAHMINS AT MADURA 
 
 At Madura, the town which was once the capital of 
 a splendour-loving king, there is a temple dedicated 
 to Siva, and to Parvati his wife, the goddess with the 
 eyes of a fish ' a temple that is larger than the 
 Louvre and much more elaborately sculptured, and 
 which contains perhaps as many marvels. 
 
 Thanks to the influence of the gracious Maharajah 
 of Travancore, I shall be able to enter this sanctuary, 
 descend to its underground caverns, and see the 
 treasures and head-dresses of the goddess. Though 
 the town retains all its Indian features, strangers, 
 who come here in large numbers, are well received, 
 and the temples are not so sullenly guarded as in 
 some of the neighbouring states. 
 
 At Travancore letters of introduction have also 
 been given me to families of various castes living at 
 Madura. I first visit the Brahmins, who in India 
 represent all that is most distinguished and select. 
 
 This massive and clumsy house, which contains a 
 ground floor and a single story, is typical of all dwell- 
 ings of the aristocracy of this town. There is also a 
 veranda with columns, whose capitals are carved into 
 the likeness of monsters' heads, and a little stone 
 staircase leading to the chamber of honour, situated 
 on the first floor and overlooking the street with its 
 three tiny festooned windows. The head of the 
 family, a white-haired old man, receives me there ; 
 he is surrounded by four young men, who, it seems, 
 are his sons. Their long eyes are underlined by 
 strokes of black paint ; as to clothes, they merely 
 wear a scrap of cloth round their waists, but this does 
 not prevent them from having an air of distinction, 
 nobility, and grace. The room, whitewashed and 
 beautifully clean, has a certain air of elegance, and is 
 perfumed by the scent of some unfamiliar incense 
 
 1 In Indian Miivakchi, 
 
 8
 
 H4 IN THE LAND OF 
 
 that has been burnt there. The chairs are of carved 
 ebony. On the walls, in gilt frames, there are some 
 old water-colours representing the seven incarnations 
 of Vishnu. On the floor a beautiful Indian carpet 
 and some mattresses covered with a flowered material. 
 The Brahmins are a little surprised at my visit, for 
 strangers do not generally call ; nevertheless, they 
 seem anxious to be courteous and hospitable, and 
 invite me to inspect their house. First there is a 
 melancholy courtyard surrounded by walls, on which 
 sheep and goats are lying under the shade of a stunted 
 banyan tree. Then we visit the roofs, whose terraces 
 are the homes of pigeons and the resting-places of 
 countless crows. From here we overlook the palace 
 of the ancient kings of Madura, an enormous and 
 costly monument of the seventeenth century, built 
 in the Hindoo- Arabian style ; the town, with its 
 temples and its huge red pyramids of gods towering 
 from all sides into a sky black with birds, lies farther 
 off and stretches out till it joins the distant forest of 
 palms. Finally, I am taken to the library, which is 
 crammed with books of philosophy and religion ; 
 all these volumes indicate a highly-advanced and 
 special culture which contrasts strongly with the 
 simple garb of my hosts. 
 
 Before going I return to the reception-room and 
 rest there a few moments, whilst one of the young 
 men takes a long gilt mandoline and plays softly on 
 its muted strings. Of course I have not seen the 
 women, that would not have been proper, but before 
 I take leave the two youngest children of the house 
 are brought to me, two little girls of three to four 
 years who advance towards me without any traces of 
 fear. Their costume consists of little heart-shaped 
 plaques of gold, which are suspended from a little chain 
 that is attached round their waists, and some heavily 
 chiselled rings that adorn their wrists and ankles. 
 
 They are two little marvels of beauty, two ch arming 
 bodies of bronze, and with eyes of night in whose depths 
 a smile seems to lurk under their long painted lashes.
 
 a 
 
 O 
 
 1 
 
 oi
 
 THE GREAT PALMS 115 
 
 VI 
 BALAMONI, THE GOOD BAYADERE 
 
 A bayadere, celebrated as much for her charity as 
 for her grace, lives at Madura. In accordance with 
 the usual custom she was at first the favourite of a 
 Nabob, who at his death left her covered with as 
 many precious stones as an idol. Rich and free now, 
 she spends her fortune in works of art and deeds of 
 charity, and in the theatre which she has had specially 
 built, revives with her own charming art classic 
 Indian tragedies that are thousands of years older 
 than our own. 
 
 I wander under the splendour of the full moon on 
 my way to the theatre of Balamoni, the good baya- 
 dere, and as I pass through the palm woods the long 
 black feathers hanging down in all directions from 
 their slender stems sway and brush softly against 
 each other in the gentle breeze. 
 
 Balamoni is on the stage when I reach my seat ; 
 she is at the back in a garden of painted flowers, in 
 the golden tower of a fairy palace where she is held 
 captive, and she sings from her windows, accom- 
 panying herself on a precious mandoline. 
 
 She is a young princess betrothed to the son of a 
 king of one of the neighbouring countries, and her 
 affianced is coming to seek her shortly. At the very 
 first notes one feels the charm of the music and of her 
 voice. Her costume is copied from an antique bas- 
 relief and her outline is charming. At each gesture 
 of the singer the diamonds and rubies with which she 
 is covered glitter. 
 
 The rest of the scenery is of an artlessness that is 
 doubtless unintentional, but even whilst making me 
 smile, it gives the impression of an exotic and distant 
 land. The hall is very large and can hold over a 
 thousand persons, though it is simply like one of those 
 light structures of wood, matting, and bamboo that 
 people erect by the side of the temples at the time of
 
 n6 IN THE LAND OF 
 
 the great religious festivals. It has no decoration of 
 any sort, but on each side of the stage there are boxes 
 for the princesses of the ancient reigning family ; the 
 princesses, however, are not coming this evening, for 
 it is not their day. The whole of the pit and other 
 seats are filled by naked-breasted spectators, for the 
 temperature is that of a hot-house filled with scented 
 flowers. 
 
 Balamoni sings in a tongue that has long since 
 vanished in the Sanskrit, which is the mother of our 
 Indo-European languages, and the entire piece will 
 be played in this language just as it was written 
 formerly in the first dawn of time ; but all the listeners 
 excepting myself are sufficiently educated to under- 
 stand it. The story runs something in this wise. 
 The young princess, whose part the bayadere acts 
 to-night, is loved by seven young princes at the same 
 time, and all these princes are brothers. In order 
 that they may not cause any suffering to each other, 
 they have sworn amongst themselves that none of 
 them should ever wed her, not even the one who was 
 chosen to be her husband by his father the king, the 
 one who was coming to seek her in the palace in which 
 she was kept. In the beginning they are all happy, 
 contenting themselves with her friendship and her 
 smiles. But one day, whilst hunting in a wood, evil 
 spirits, who had assumed the form of white-haired 
 fakirs, came to tempt each one separately and to set 
 them against each other by false statements. Then 
 hatred and unhappiness entered into the palace with 
 a thousand plans of violence and crime. However, 
 the good spirits intervened in their turn, before any 
 wrong had been committed, and after a fearful 
 struggle regained possession of the princes' souls. 
 Once more the princes found calm and peace with 
 their adopted sister, and enjoyed perfect happiness 
 in the fulfilment of their duty. During one of the 
 entr'actes, I went to the box of Balamoni, who had 
 been told of my intended visit, in order to thank her 
 for being so beautiful, and for having played the
 
 THE GREAT PALMS 117 
 
 young girl's part with gestures so pure and simple. I 
 found her in a plain little room carpeted with matting, 
 in which the diamonds and ornaments that were 
 strewn about seemed as much out of place as the 
 fantastic presents that some genii might have left 
 in the hut of a shepherdess. 
 
 As I reached the door waiting-men, in accordance 
 with the usual custom, place a thick collar of natural 
 flowers, interwoven with gold thread, round my neck, 
 and the hostess offered me her hand with an easy and 
 assured grace. Her proposal, she informed me, was 
 to revive the whole of the ancient Sanskrit plays, and 
 she professed herself much flattered when I mentioned 
 that I would speak of her to my friends in France. 
 
 I met the bayadere again next morning in a place 
 that had no romance attached to it ; it was at the 
 station of the Madras Railway, for, alas ! the railway 
 runs through Madura. She was accompanied by two 
 servants and was going by train to visit her property 
 in the country, just as any modest and prudent house- 
 wife might have done. Truly, in the midst of the 
 rather shabbily attired Indian crowd she seemed to 
 have the air of a peri who had wandered from her 
 way. From afar she could be seen shining like a 
 star, for there were diamonds in her ears, diamonds 
 on her neck and bosom, and her beautiful bare arms 
 were covered with diamonds from the wrists to the 
 shoulders. Others of a wondrous limpidity were 
 attached to the septum of her little quivering nose, 
 drooped over her mouth. Between her yellow waist- 
 band and the short corset of lilac-coloured silk, a 
 portion of her body, smooth as a fair column of metal, 
 and part of the beautiful breasts, w r hose outlines were 
 modestly concealed by folds of muslin, were exposed 
 to view. (In evening dress our women expose the 
 upper part of the bosom, and I cannot see that it 
 is more improper to show the lower part, it lends 
 itself less to artificial imposition, that is all.) 
 
 The bayadere comported herself with so much re- 
 serve and dignity, indeed, that I saluted her, just as I
 
 n8 IN THE LAND OF 
 
 would have done any lady of position. She an- 
 swered my greeting in the Indian manner, touching her 
 forehead with two ruby-covered hands ; then, accom- 
 panied by her maids, took her seat in the carriage 
 " For ladies only." 
 
 I follow the good Balamoni with my eyes as I leave 
 the horrible neighbourhood of the station and make 
 my way to the temple of the goddess. During the 
 course of the day some of her kindly deeds were 
 related to me. This one amongst others : last month 
 some European ladies who were collecting money for 
 a Hindoo orphanage came to her, upon which Bala- 
 moni, with her beautiful smile, handed them a note 
 for a thousand rupees (about eighty pounds). She is 
 charitable to all, and the poor know the road to her 
 house well enough. 
 
 VII 
 
 THE TEMPLE 
 
 In the temples of India twilight always comes on 
 long before its usual time, under the shadow of low 
 roofs, that are heavy and oppressive as those of 
 sepulchres. The evening sun is still shining in the 
 west, but the little lamps placed at the approach of 
 the temple of Madura, and along the granite-covered 
 avenue that forms a sort of prefatory vestibule where 
 garland sellers are stationed, are already lighted. 
 Any one coming from outside, as I do, sees everything 
 mingled in universal gloom ; men, idols, monsters, 
 human faces and great stone faces, rigid gestures of 
 statues who have too many arms, and the real motions 
 of men who have but two. The sacred cattle, after 
 wandering through the streets all day, have come here 
 too, to nibble flowers and reeds before retiring to 
 sleep in the temple. 
 
 After the avenue, there is a door like a tunnel that 
 pierces through a huge pyramid of gods that towers 
 into the sky. Then we reach the temple itself, a
 
 THE GREAT PALMS 119 
 
 silent and echoing city, whose vaulted streets cross 
 one another in all directions, and whose countless 
 people are the stone images graven here. Each 
 column and each monstrous pillar is made of a single 
 block, placed upright by means unknown to us 
 perhaps by the united strength of millions of sinews 
 and afterwards deeply sculptured, carved with 
 images of all sorts of gods and monsters. The ceilings 
 are entirely flat, and at the first glance it is difficult 
 to see how they are supported ; then we notice that 
 they are composed of single blocks of stone eight to 
 ten metres long, resting on their two extremities, 
 and that an infinite number of these blocks have been 
 placed side by side, just as ordinary planks are 
 placed with us. The whole structure is built some- 
 what in the manner of those almost everlasting 
 edifices of Thebes or Memphis over which time has 
 no control. Just as at Chri Ragam, there are serried 
 ranks of prancing horses, that beat the air with their 
 fore feet, and rows of gods that die away into the 
 dimmest distance in lines of fading perspective. The 
 antiquity of the columns is only to be divined from 
 the worn surfaces near their base, or from the blackish 
 polish that covers everything within reach of bodies 
 or hands ; a polish that only the constant and daily 
 contact of animals and men can give. Magnificence 
 and filth, a combination of Titanic luxury and barbaric 
 negligence. Garlands, reeds, and leafy branches of 
 banyan, that have been suspended from one column 
 to the other to celebrate some festival, now lie on the 
 ground in putrefying masses ; properties belonging to 
 the processions, fantastic animals, white elephants of 
 natural size made from paper or paste-board, lie 
 crumbling and rotting in the corners. Sacred cattle 
 and real elephants wander freely through the naves 
 and drop their dung on the greasy and slippery pave- 
 ments that their feet have polished. Great vampire 
 bats swarm amongst the lofty vaults, but their black 
 wings sweep so noiselessly among the roofs that no 
 sound is heard.
 
 120 IN THE LAND OF 
 
 From an inner court that is open to the sky, I catch 
 a glimpse of the fading evening light. It is un- 
 occupied, but some peacocks are perched with out- 
 spread tails on the granite monsters. Above the 
 surrounding walls those red and green towers, those 
 surprising pyramids of gods, are visible at varied 
 distances ; half-way up amidst the divinities, swallows 
 and parrots flutter round their nests ; but nearer the 
 bristling points of the summit, still shimmering in the 
 sun, crows and eagles are wheeling madly through 
 the air. 
 
 Outside this courtyard, and in a more concealed 
 part of the sanctuary, I chance upon the priest to 
 whom I was specially recommended, the one who can 
 show me the adornments of the goddess. 
 
 It seems that I cannot see them to-morrow, for to- 
 morrow is a day of high religious festival. Just as 
 the Vishnu of Chri Ragam makes the yearly round of 
 his temple in a car, so the Siva and Parvati of Madura 
 make an annual excursion by boat in a great lake that 
 has been hollowed out for them ; and this happens to 
 be the evening before the day appointed for the 
 sacred promenade. 
 
 But, on the day after to-morrow, so soon as it is 
 light in the temple, the doors of the secret vaults shall 
 be thrown open, and the treasures displayed before me. 
 
 VIII 
 THE BOAT OF SIVA 
 
 Need I mention that the boat is a huge and ex- 
 travagant thing, though it is but temporary, and a 
 new one is built each year ? Upon a hull suited to a 
 three-decked ship, a sort of fairy palace is made from 
 bamboo framework covered with silk or gilt paper ; 
 then there are towers like those of the temples, paper 
 horses and elephants, and the whole surface is covered 
 by waving streamers. All the same our European 
 eyes are fascinated by the extreme strangeness, and
 
 THE GREAT PALMS 121 
 
 the archaic and Eastern imagery with which it is 
 decorated. 
 
 It is two o'clock in the afternoon, and a burning sun 
 pours its fires upon the lake and its deserted banks. 
 The boat is waiting there, moored to a granite stair- 
 way, new and resplendent in the midst of the old and 
 unchanging scene. Though this is the hour fixed for 
 the embarkment of Siva, no one comes and nothing 
 even stirs. 
 
 The lake on which the boat rests has been dug out 
 by human hands, and is a square some six to eight 
 hundred metres across ; granite staircases line its 
 four sides and allow the faithful to descend to its holy 
 waters ; in the middle of the lake is a square island 
 that has towers at each of its corners ; whilst in the 
 middle of the island an entirely white pagoda stands 
 in a garden of banyan trees. The banks present large 
 open spaces where crowds may congregate, but now 
 these shores are overwhelmed by light and heat ; in 
 the vicinity there are curtains of verdure, banyans, 
 palm trees, and some temples ; but they are quite 
 distant from the temple of the goddess, and almost 
 in the country. 
 
 I hear the sound of approaching tom-toms ; the 
 procession is coming. Soon it issues from a shady 
 avenue and advances into the sunlight, into the small 
 burning desert where the lake and the strange ship 
 slumber. 
 
 Cardboard giants, some ten or fifteen feet high, that 
 roll and totter on the shoulders of their bearers, come 
 first, followed by artificial elephants carried on men's 
 backs ; then six real elephants clothed in long red 
 robes entirely covered with spangles, and a score of 
 huge red parasols of the ancient Asiatic form that was 
 fashionable in the processions of Babylon or Nineveh. 
 Next come the tom-toms and the screeching bagpipes ; 
 and lastly the great gilt palanquins of Siva and the 
 gods of his race. 
 
 No crowd follows ; the procession is quite unac- 
 companied, and it does not seem to have aroused any
 
 122 IN THE LAND OF 
 
 interest on its way through Madura. Slowly it makes 
 the round of the lake, under the ever-burning rays of 
 the sun, and at last stops before the boat ; but no 
 curious eye has even come to look. 
 
 They next go through the ceremony of embarkation, 
 which takes place in the following order : the two sons 
 of Siva, Siva himself, and lastly Parvati his wife. 
 Some ancient boatmen, who doubtless have been 
 attached to this service for many years, advance from 
 the lake, the water dripping from their hairy bodies 
 as they approach the palanquins. How different this 
 is from the placing of Vishnu in his car, that ceremony 
 so mysteriously accomplished at Chri Ragam during 
 the night when the god was hidden by so many veils. 
 I remain quite close, and no one troubles about me or 
 even requests me to retire. The curtains of the 
 palanquins are wide open, and perhaps on this 
 occasion I may see the idols that have been worshipped 
 and dreaded for so many centuries. 
 
 Oh ! how can I express the surprise and the feeling 
 of horror that they gave me as they passed close by, 
 supported on magnificent cushions, carried on the 
 wrinkled arms of old and naked servitors. Evil- 
 looking little dolls that seemed flexible and boneless, 
 and whose necks had sunk between their shoulders 
 under the weight of their jewelled tiaras. Little 
 rose-coloured faces of the size of an orange (why rose 
 when the Indian race is bronze-coloured ?), thin lips 
 and closed eyes that had no lashes, thdy might well 
 be styled human embryos, still-born abortions that 
 retained a fierce expression even in their eternal sleep. 
 Yet in spite of their sullen look they have an air of 
 repletion, an almost drunken weariness in the midst 
 of the profusion of necklaces, diamonds, rubies, and 
 wreaths of fine pearls with which their miserable 
 bodies are loaded. Great golden ears loaded with 
 precious rings are hung on each side of their heads, 
 and false hands of gold, that are much too large, with 
 long nails, are attached to their hands, whilst large 
 golden feet dangle from their legs.
 
 THE GREAT PALMS 123 
 
 A tiny hand, which looks like that of a foetus or of 
 a monkey, has escaped from its huge golden gauntlet 
 and lies there a crumpled mass of the same rosy colour 
 as the idol's face. 
 
 The orchestra of tom-toms and bagpipes plays with 
 frenzied fury as the hairy boatmen carry off these 
 ancient still-born children, wrapped in glittering 
 brocades and jewels that gleam in the dazzling sunlight. 
 Now they seat them on thrones that are placed at the 
 bottom of the boat, where they remain invisible en- 
 shrouded by thick curtains. 
 
 It is all over now. The procession, the elephants, 
 and the parasols vanish, and once more the banks of 
 the lake are deserted. The fantastic boat waits for 
 the evening, then, when the moonlight shines, its 
 wanderings will begin. 
 
 Night has come once more, and this old Hindoostan 
 finds peace ; its glaring lights and mad excesses of 
 brilliancy and colour are now swathed in shade. 
 Now, too, the moonbeams penetrate the pall of bluish 
 darkness that has settled on the earth and irradiate 
 everytlung with their soft and silvery light. Crowds 
 of the faithful hasten to kindle rows of wicks dipped 
 in oil that have been placed along the three tiers of 
 descending steps which extend around the lake ; and 
 soon the immense extent of the square pond is out- 
 lined by a triple line of fire. The pagoda on the 
 island in the centre is illuminated also, delineated in 
 lines of palms, though it still remains white in the 
 gleaming moonlight. 
 
 The crowd has been assembling since sunset. All 
 the leafy avenues of tangled banyan trees, which lead 
 here from the country and the town, pour forth their 
 floods of humanity on to the shores of the sacred lake. 
 Thousands and thousands of heads are now gathered 
 by the banks, like pebbles on a shore, to pay honour 
 to Siva ; dark and delicate Indian heads that are 
 smaller than those of Europeans, and which seem to 
 find room for feelings of the most ardent mysticism 
 and the most glowing sensuality. (These two things
 
 124 IN THE LAND OF 
 
 are often associated, though, alas ! the recognition 
 of the fact may well fill us with dismay.) 
 
 Each one who comes to the lake of Siva carries a 
 long reed, still decked with leaves, across his shoulders, 
 so that the multitude almost looks like a field of grain. 
 The elephants of the great temple, that have been 
 brought back at nightfall, now look like rocks or 
 islands scattered in the midst of this moving plain of 
 vegetation, from which the dark outlines of Hindoo 
 heads sometimes protrude. 
 
 Near the fantastic boat, that floating palace with 
 its gilt towers on which Bengal fires constantly burn, 
 an agitated crowd is seen. To the sound of music 
 the towing ropes are brought forward and laid along 
 the ground, then, with shouts of joy, hundreds of the 
 faithful seize them with convulsive grasp. Those 
 who cannot take place by the tightly-stretched rope 
 plunge into the lake bespattering everything ; with 
 water up to their waists they push the boat from behind 
 or draw it by its side, or at least walk in its wake. 
 
 The noise increases, and the tom-toms and the 
 bag-pipes play furiously ; the boat has started and 
 now moves smoothly past the granite edges of the 
 lake. The god and the goddess have begun their 
 oft-repeated journey under a moon that seems to 
 shine with more than usual splendour. The gentle 
 elephants covered with tinkling bells follow along the 
 banks with hesitating steps, fearful lest they tread 
 upon some child or injure the crowds so closely 
 thronged about them. 
 
 IX 
 
 THE TREASURES OF THE GODDESS WITH THE 
 FISH'S EYES 
 
 I went to the temple this morning, immediately the 
 sun rose, in order to see the treasures of the goddess. 
 The inclosure contains two sanctuaries. The larger 
 is dedicated to Siva, under the name of Sundareehvar
 
 THE GREAT PALMS 125 
 
 (the blessed one). The other on the right, opposite 
 the Patramaral (the pond of the golden lily), is dedi- 
 cated to his wife Parvati, who is also named Minakchi 
 (the goddess with the fish's eyes). 
 
 An animated throng already surrounds the laby- 
 rinth of stone, and all the niches between the dread- 
 ful statues and the granite stalls are occupied by 
 flower sellers, who weave garlands of marigolds, 
 Bengal roses, and gold thread. A continuous stream 
 of half -clothed men passes by, their hair still dripping 
 with water from the morning ablution, and their eyes 
 yet lost in the land of prayer and dreams. The sacred 
 elephants and cattle that dwell in the dusky naves, 
 the birds of the sky that nest in the towers or amongst 
 the red pyramids, all tremble with joy and life in the 
 fresh morning air, and their cries, bellowings, and 
 songs are heard in all directions. 
 
 I find the priests awaiting at the appointed place to 
 conduct me to the hidden recesses. 
 
 A heavy copper door that leads to the secret part 
 of the temple is thrown open, then after traversing a 
 nave bordered with black gods that loom out of a 
 cavern-like darkness, I find myself in the midst of 
 a pure light by the pond that is named " the pond 
 of the golden lily." It is a deep square of water open 
 to the sky, and its sides are surrounded by granite 
 steps which lead down to the water. Exquisite 
 colonnades, supporting a roof that is sculptured and 
 painted in a grave, formal manner, run round the 
 four sides and form a cloister in which Brahmins can 
 walk and meditate. One side of the jealously guarded 
 inclosure is still bathed in a half light that is fresh 
 and blue, whilst the other is illuminated in tones of 
 rose-red by the morning sun. Above the cloisters 
 that surround the lake with an unbroken line, the 
 towers of the temples, those same prodigious red 
 pyramids of gods that tower over everything and that 
 are seen from all sides, shine in the bright firmament 
 at various heights and unequal distances, each sur- 
 rounded by its wheeling flight of birds. A sparkling
 
 126 IN THE LAND OF 
 
 golden cupola is also seen towering into the sky. It 
 is the cupola of the holy of holies, that place of 
 mystery to which no human influence can ever give 
 me access. Oh ! what a strange lake this is, motionless 
 as if enchanted. The columns standing round it are 
 reflected, lengthened, doubled, and reversed in water 
 that is untarnished by a single ripple, in water that 
 seems dead, in a prison of magnificent severity. A 
 nameless peace hovers over this " pond of the golden 
 lily," this mirror of the sun, the clouds, and the stars, 
 that lies hidden in the heart of the immense temples. 
 
 I have given up trying to recollect by what ways the 
 priests are leading me amidst the labyrinth of arches. 
 The more we advance, the more monstrous and 
 oppressive our surroundings become. Everything is 
 built of stones, whose mass grows more enormous 
 at every step. Twenty-armed gods, with their huge 
 and varied attitudes, swarm amid the gloom, and I 
 pass by endless rows of them standing in tortured 
 postures. I walk in a dreamland that is peopled by 
 giants and shapes of terror. It is dark around me, 
 and our footsteps wake echoes that seem to issue 
 from a tomb. 
 
 The sculptures become more prodigious and every- 
 thing grows more magnificent, but at the same time 
 all is more filthy and more barbarously uncared-for. 
 To the height of a man the walls and ledges are 
 polished and black with filth and wet. We are in a 
 gallery consecrated to the elephant -headed god Ganesa, 
 whose monstrous form is illuminated from below by 
 several smoky flames that burn close by his trunk 
 and feet. Here, in a loathsome corner that is quite 
 dark, a herd of living creatures, whose breathing is 
 plainly audible, stand amidst monsters whose con- 
 torted attitudes are graven out of stone. An idle 
 family of zebu cows, who continue to sleep as though 
 the sun had not risen yet. We slip in the dung with 
 which the stones are covered, but no one dares to 
 throw it out, for all that comes from the cattle is as 
 sacred as the cattle themselves. Above our heads
 
 . Twt: 
 
 AVKXUK OF OREOttOXA 1'AI.MS 
 
 in a loathsome ec 
 are graven. out o 
 
 tW*i VI fit
 
 THE GREAT PALMS 127 
 
 huge bats flutter their widely extended wings in terror 
 and bewilderment. 
 
 Once, as we were passing by a high and gloomy 
 nave at the bottom of which I could dimly see some 
 colossal divinities lit up by several lamps, my guides 
 seemed to hasten their footsteps and to be filled with 
 uneasiness. One of the Brahmins who was guiding 
 me turned round and whispered that we had passed 
 the holy of holies, but that he had only told me after 
 we had passed for fear that I might have seen too 
 much. The priests at length halted in a vast and 
 superb spot, a sort of square lying in a forest of massive 
 columns, a place into which several cathedrals seemed 
 to open, for naves led off in every direction, and lost 
 themselves in gloom. We are surrounded on all sides 
 by gigantic gods, hewn from a single block of stone, 
 who brandish lances, swords, and skulls, but their 
 figures are black, shining, and greasy, for they have 
 drunk of the sweat of the countless hands that have 
 lingered on them. There are many altars gleaming 
 with objects of copper and silver ; many pyramids of 
 bronze that time has almost worn out, but which once 
 held torches and played some mysterious part in the 
 worship of the goddess. In the middle there is a 
 swarming crowd of the nude, long-haired beggars who 
 haunt the vicinity of every temple ; the guardians 
 drive and shove them away with many cries, for they 
 throng importunately round a sort of barrier that has 
 been made by attaching two cords from one pillar to 
 another. 
 
 A portion of the strained cord is lowered so that I 
 may pass, then raised once more so as to inclose the 
 priests and myself within its circle. In front of me 
 there is a table of great extent covered with a black 
 carpet on which are heaped the treasures of the 
 goddess. 
 
 A chair is placed for me near the piles of gold and 
 precious stones, and a garland of marigolds is hung 
 round my neck. Now the priests hand me the ancient 
 jewels they have left their hiding-place for one little
 
 128 IN THE LAND OF 
 
 hour ; they beg me to handle them, and find amuse- 
 ment in throwing them, one after the other, on to my 
 knees. There are dozens of golden tiaras, ornamented 
 with stones of many colours, ropes of pearls, and rubies 
 that resemble boa-constrictors. 
 
 Bracelets a thousand years old ; ancient neck-pieces 
 so heavy that they can hardly be lifted with one hand. 
 Great urns like those the women carry on their 
 shoulders when they go to draw water from the well, 
 but these are hammered and chased out of fine gold. 
 There is a chest ornament, a plate of wondrous blue, 
 made from uncut sapphires large as nuts. 
 
 The sound of far-off music reaches me from the back 
 of the temple as these strange riches are poured into 
 my hands ; the growling of tom-toms and the deafen- 
 ing plaint of sacred shells and bagpipes. From time 
 to time there are sounds of strife behind me, the cries 
 of the guardians chasing away the horde of famished 
 beggars, whose thronging threatens the frail barrier 
 of rope. Now they show me stirrups of heavy gold 
 inlaid with diamonds, doubtless used by the goddess 
 when she rides abroad. There are the false ears in 
 gold, with pendants of fine pearls, that they hang on 
 each side of her rose-coloured doll-like face when the 
 procession day arrives. Here, too, the false hands and 
 feet of gold which they fasten to the ends of her half- 
 formed extremities each time that she forsakes the 
 temple's shade to make her solemn wandering. 
 
 I believed that all was over when once the trea- 
 sures, with which the table was so extravagantly 
 laden, were exhausted. But it was not so ; the 
 priests led me through dark galleries, filled with 
 dreadful shapes, to a court in which sounds were 
 heard like those of clear and lively trumpet notes. 
 There, clothed in red robes, the six sacred elephants 
 were standing in the sunlight waving their large 
 transparent ears. On my appearance they at once 
 knelt down, though the fan-like motion of the ears 
 was uninterrupted. Then when I had bestowed on 
 each the silver offering that their small, shrewd eyes
 
 THE GREAT PALMS 129 
 
 sought for, they rose up and departed with the 
 ambling gait of contented bears. They went hap- 
 hazard or where they listed, for they have full liberty 
 to wander through all these passages and naves. 
 
 The halls through which I am now conducted are 
 built and roofed with enormous blocks, and have the 
 look of cyclopean caverns. Attendants, who accom- 
 pany us, climb up the walls to draw back the mat 
 blinds that cover air-holes of irregular shape, but it 
 is in vain. It is really so dark that we must have 
 lamps. Naked children run to fetch lamps and 
 torches of an antique form that burn smokily at the 
 extremities of long bronze stalks, or on the ends of 
 supports bent into the form of a horn. 
 
 A door covered with iron is thrown open, and our 
 young torch-bearers enter first. 
 
 We are in one of the fantastic stables of the god- 
 dess. A silver cow and some golden horses of natural 
 size are ranged there, bathed in a perpetual night 
 and a constant damp heat. 
 
 Now the children approach the rudely sculptured 
 figures, and the shining gems with which the harness 
 is studded are seen to glitter in the torches' flame. 
 Above our heads, somewhere in the awe-inspiring 
 granite roof, we hear the shrill cries and the constant 
 fluttering of featherless wings made by the crowd of 
 vampires that fly above us in maddened wheelings. 
 
 There is a second door cased with iron ; another 
 stable for animals of silver and of gold. 
 
 A third and last door. Here live a silver lion, a 
 huge golden peacock, with fully expanded tail, whose 
 eyes are made of uncut emeralds, and a golden cow 
 with the face of a woman of supernatural size, who 
 wears jewels in her ears and jewels in the division of 
 her nose in the manner of the Indian women. Golden 
 sedan chairs for the use of the goddess are stabled 
 in the corners ; state palanquins, wholly made of 
 gold, wrought with precious carvings and inlaid with 
 flowers of diamonds and rubies. 
 
 The naked children cast the light of their curved 
 
 9
 
 130 IN THE LAND OF 
 
 handled torches on these fabulous treasures, but as 
 the torches give more smoke than light I can only 
 see a detail here and there, or the glint of a precious 
 stone, and the rest of the cavern is plunged in a 
 sepulchral and oppressive gloom. The walls are 
 covered with spiders' webs and little stalactites, and 
 in places saltpetre and slime ooze out of them. The 
 startled vampires wheel noiselessly round us, and as 
 they flit by we feel as if a tattered dark material 
 had swept past us, and hear a shrill cry like that of 
 a rat caught in a trap. 
 
 TOWARDS PONDICHEERY 
 
 Leaving the country of Madura in a northerly 
 direction, and ascending towards Pondicherry, we 
 gradually forsake the damp region of the great palms. 
 Their shady clumps are farther apart and give place 
 to fields of grain, plantations, and rice patches. The 
 air gradually becomes less oppressive, but the country 
 is not so well watered and the whole land seems 
 changed. 
 
 An air of pastoral tranquillity reigns, though the 
 inhabitants are more sparsely scattered than those 
 of Europe. Troops of goats, and herds of small 
 humped cattle graze on the fast ripening grass that 
 still remains, watched over by naked shepherds, and 
 by shepherdesses wrapped in scarlet cloth. 
 
 Each village of mud and thatched house has its 
 Brahmin temple, whose pyramid of gods and whose 
 monsters that lean over the walls crumble away to 
 reddish dust in the burning rays of the terrible sun. 
 At long intervals there are masses of enormous trees, 
 under whose shade gods seated on thrones are ever to 
 be found, guarded by stone horses or cows that have 
 kept watch there for many centuries. 
 
 The red dust ; the red dust that hourly assumes a 
 greater mastery. Dryness also becomes more marked,
 
 HINDOO WOMAN AND BABE.
 
 THE GREAT PALMS 131 
 
 and we hasten through regions which are suffering 
 from a drought that is probably exceptional, and 
 where the sky has a fixed blue limpidity that looks 
 eternal. 
 
 On all sides husbandmen are labouring at the 
 work of irrigation, which they carry out by means of 
 the ingenious methods of olden times. Men may be 
 seen standing knee-deep in all the streams that 
 surround the rice-fields, each couple holding an ex- 
 tended sheep-skin by the cords which are attached 
 to it ; they swing it with an automatic movement 
 that is guided by the refrain they sing, and in turn 
 fill it and empty its contents into a gutter situated 
 at a higher level, from which the water runs among 
 the furrows of rice that still looks fresh and green. 
 
 The wells, which are always placed under the trees, 
 are worked in a different manner, and to the accom- 
 paniment of a different melody. A bucket is fastened 
 to the end of a very long pole, which is balanced on 
 the top of an upright mast ; two men walk erect on 
 this pole, supporting themselves with the graceful 
 agility of gymnasts by clinging to the branches of 
 the neighbouring trees ; they take three steps in one 
 direction, and the pole dips towards the well and the 
 bucket fills ; three steps in the reverse direction, 
 and the pole rises and the bucket swings in the air ; 
 and so they go on, from morning to night, never ceas- 
 ing to sing. 
 
 As we proceed the dryness threatens to become 
 disastrous, and we soon pass the first dead trees. 
 These are burnt up as if by fire, and their leaves are 
 curled up and coated by the red dust which attacks 
 the monuments of the south, but which here casts its 
 blood-coloured stain over the plants themselves. 
 Face to face with this thirsty land and rainless heaven 
 how impotent our little human efforts seem, little 
 buckets of water hauled up one after the other from 
 the bottom of wells whose springs are gradually dry- 
 ing up. Now we begin to understand the reality 
 and to feel the approach of the frightful famine
 
 132 IN THE LAND OF 
 
 which before our arrival in India only seemed to us 
 like a pre-historic plague that was quite inexcusable 
 in these days of civilization, when steamboats and 
 railways were at hand to bring food to those who 
 were dying of hunger. 
 
 XI 
 AT PONDICHERRY 
 
 The woods of coco-nuts and the great palms re- 
 appear as we approach Pondicherry, our tiny and 
 decaying colony. The region around has so far been 
 spared by the drought, and looks like an oasis which 
 the streams and the rain have not ceased to water, 
 and which in some way recalls the beautiful verdure 
 of the south. 
 
 Pondicherry ! amongst the names of all the ancient 
 colonies which exercised so great a fascination over 
 my childish mind, those of Pondicherry and Goree 
 were the ones that most readily called up the dreams 
 of strange and foreign lands that ever haunted me. 
 Towards my tenth year, an aged grand-aunt spoke 
 to me one evening of a friend who had lived at 
 Pondicherry, and read me a passage from one of her 
 letters, which even then was half a century old, and 
 in which she spoke of palm trees and pagodas. 
 
 Oh ! what feelings of melancholy come over me as 
 I reach the charming and far-distant town, where 
 amidst the mouldering walls an entire chapter of 
 ancient French history slumbers. 
 
 There are little streets almost like those that are 
 hidden in our own peaceful provinces, little straight 
 streets bordered by old and low whitewashed houses 
 standing amid the red earth ; garden walls, over 
 which tropical flowers and bindweeds fall ; barred 
 windows behind which pale-faced Creoles or lovely 
 Eurasians, whose eyes gleam with Indian mystery, 
 may be seen. " Rue Royale,'' " Rue Dupleix " one 
 can read these names cut in the stone in the ancient
 
 THE GREAT PALMS 133 
 
 letters of the eighteenth century, just as I remember 
 to have seen them at the street corners of my native 
 town on some of the older houses. " Rue Saint 
 Louis " and " Quay de la Ville Blanche," the word 
 " quay '.' spelt with a " y." 
 
 In the centre of Pondicherry there is a large, over- 
 grown, and deserted square, ornamented in the middle 
 by an elaborate fountain whose age does not, I 
 think, exceed one hundred years, though the glare 
 of the all-devouring sun has made it look much 
 older. Somehow this open space conveys an im- 
 pression of infinite sadness, though I am quite in- 
 capable of saying why. 
 
 From the very first, I, who feel myself so much of 
 a stranger in the rest of India, am possessed by a 
 feeling of charm that olden charm of one's native 
 land which nothing can replace, and that our newer 
 colonies of the extreme East do not yet possess, in 
 that they have had no past. 
 
 It is but a tiny little town that exists on its tradi- 
 tions, that lives but because it has lived, systematic- 
 ally isolated from the rest of India by our hostile 
 neighbours, and having neither port nor anchorage 
 on the Gulf of Bengal where our boats can shelter. 
 Electricity and smoking funnels are wanted also, and 
 here are no hurrying throngs as at Madras or Cal- 
 cutta, and neither strangers nor tourists ; for as 
 Pondicherry is not on the direct route, who would 
 be likely to come to see it ? 
 
 Facing the sea there is a garden where a band 
 plays at sundown, and is the evening resort of a 
 number of pale-faced children ; some of them born 
 in France, others in the land of exile. There, 
 amongst beautiful tropical trees, a quantity of columns 
 have been erected around the statue of Dupleix 
 columns so tall and fine that they resemble ships' 
 masts. These precious monoliths, these reeds of 
 granite, sculptured in Indian style, bear witness to 
 our bygone greatness, for the Maharajah of the 
 country gave them to this same Dupleix in olden
 
 134 IN THE LAND OF 
 
 times so that he might embellish the palace of France 
 with them. But, alas ! the palace was never built. 
 
 An angry sea, on which no sails are visible, and 
 whose appearance is as hostile and prison-like as that 
 of Travancore, breaks into foaming billows along the 
 shore. An iron pier juts out into the water, permit- 
 ting communication with the packets that anchor 
 opposite the shore, but which remain for as short a 
 time as possible. Several large boats are lying 
 wrecked along the sands, of themselves proving the 
 insecurity of the coasts, so massive and solid are 
 they, so well fitted for the struggle. 
 
 " Pondicherry, the town of palaces," as it is called 
 in India. There are, in fact, several beautiful old 
 dwellings with Greek colonnades near the Govern- 
 ment House Buildings, in the midst of gardens which 
 slumber behind lowered mat-blinds, that may well 
 justify this appellation. 
 
 In addition to the officers and functionaries of the 
 colony, some Creole families, who came during the 
 heroic epoch, and who, after four or five generations, 
 have become quite acclimatized, are to be found here. 
 I saw ancient dames whose manners were gentle and 
 old-fashioned ; charming old salons, pervaded by a 
 tinge of melancholy, furnished with sofas and chairs 
 of the eighteenth century, and Louis XVI and 
 Empire clocks, all of which must have made the 
 hazardous journey by the Cape of Good Hope, in 
 the days when the passage by Egypt had not been 
 foreseen. How many hours of languid existence, 
 how many minutes of wearied exile, have not these 
 clocks of olden days numbered ? It is foolish, I 
 know, but the clocks of olden days that I see in the 
 colonies always arrest my thoughts. 
 
 The native town that clusters by the " white city " 
 is large, animated, and quite Hindoo, with its bazaars, 
 palm trees, and pagodas. But the Indians are 
 French Indians, and hold fast to France, or at least, 
 are pleased to say so. 
 
 I cannot say how touched I was at the reception
 
 A HINDOO ACTRESS.
 
 THE GREAT PALMS 135 
 
 accorded me by a certain purely native club that was 
 established by Indian initiative to promote the read- 
 ing of our books and reviews. 
 
 In order to extend further the knowledge of our 
 language a school has been added. Oh ! what ador- 
 able little scholars were presented to me. Children 
 of about eight years of age, with refined bronze faces 
 and such courteous and well-schooled manners. 
 Some are clothed like little rajahs in robes of gold- 
 embroidered velvet, but they can work out problems 
 on the blackboard and do exercises that would per- 
 plex the majority of our school children. 
 
 XII 
 THE DANCE OF THE BAYADERE 
 
 The young painted face, with eyes of excessive 
 length, draws near. The young face with the impress 
 of gloom and sensuality advances and draws back, 
 very quickly and very lightly. The two pupils that 
 roll, black as an onyx on a groundwork of white 
 enamel, are fixed on mine unwaveringly, in these 
 alternative advances of sensual appeal, and retreats 
 into the shade, that are ever succeeded by a new and 
 provocative advance. The young, bronze-coloured 
 face is wreathed in precious stones, and a band of 
 gold and diamonds surrounds the forehead and de- 
 scends over the temples, concealing the hair, and in 
 the ears and nose many diamonds sparkle. 
 
 It is night, and everything is lit up, but in all this 
 crowd I can only see the woman with the hel meted 
 head whose shining point seems to exercise a fascina- 
 tion over me. There are many spectators gathered 
 around watching her also, scarcely leaving room for 
 her evolutions, only a sort of passage by which she 
 can reach me and then draw back ; but they have 
 ceased to exist for me, and I only see the woman and 
 her sparkling head-dress and the play of her black eyes 
 and eyebrows. She has a body lithe as a serpent,
 
 136 IN THE LAND OF 
 
 yet firm and plump ; enchanting arms that seem in- 
 stinct with assurances of embrace, and which twist and 
 writhe like snakes loaded and encircled up to the 
 shoulders by diamonds and rubies. But, no ! the 
 attraction lies in those eyes whose expression is ever 
 changing, sometimes mocking, sometimes tender, and 
 which look into mine in a way that makes me tremble. 
 The jewels of her head-dress and the gems in her ears 
 and nose shine so brilliantly, and the golden band 
 forms such a brightly denned framing, that the face 
 underneath, with its soft features and its dull and 
 dusky skin, seems to have a nameless and far-off 
 indefiniteness, even when it is quite close to me. The 
 bayadere goes and comes ; she seems to dance for me 
 alone. Her dance is noiseless, and only the tinkling 
 of the precious bracelets on her ankles is heard, for a 
 carpet receives the cadenced impress of the little 
 naked feet, whose expanded and mobile toes are 
 burdened with rings. 
 
 All this takes place in an atmosphere so saturated 
 with essences and the perfume of flowers as to be 
 almost unbreatheable. I am at a fete given by the 
 Indians who live here, the French Indians, and I am 
 in the house of the most wealthy of them. On my 
 arrival the host placed a many-rowed collar of jas- 
 mines of intoxicating odour round my neck, and 
 sprinkled me also with rose-water from a long-necked 
 silver flagon. The heat is suffocating. The guests 
 are mostly seated a row of dusky heads whose tur- 
 bans are embroidered with gold thread. Above these 
 heads great fans of painted palm are waved by naked 
 and erect attendants their nudity looking the more 
 strange amongst this gaily decked crowd, where even 
 the men wear diamonds in their ears and at their 
 waists. 
 
 The bayadere has been told that the fete was in my 
 honour, so that it is to me that this comedienne, 
 accomplished both by nature and inheritance, ad- 
 dresses herself. 
 
 She has come from afar for this evening, from one
 
 THE GREAT PALMS 137 
 
 of the temples of the south, where she is in the service 
 of Siva ; her reputation is great, and her performances 
 are costly. 
 
 She sways backwards and forwards, waving mean- 
 while her beautiful nude arms, twisting her fingers 
 into strange shapes, and her toes, which have been 
 trained since her infancy to that purpose, into still 
 stranger contortions, the great toe being always 
 separated and maintained erect in the air. 
 
 Between the gauze of gold that enwraps her loins 
 and the corset in which her bust is held a close prisoner 
 one sees as usual a little of her pale bronze body, a 
 little of her vigorous and sinewy flesh ; and the play 
 of the lower part of her breasts and of her waist is 
 exposed to our gaze. 
 
 Her dance consists of a series of expressive poses, a 
 kind of acted monologue, with those oft -repeated 
 advances and retreats, approaching towards me 
 through the lane of human faces, coming quite close 
 with her eyes riveted on mine ; then, with a sudden 
 flight, disappearing into the gloom that envelops 
 the lower end of the hall. 
 
 She depicts a scene of seduction and reproach. Be- 
 hind, at the back, musicians intone the melody of 
 this scene to an accompaniment of tambourines and 
 flutes. She, too, sings as she acts, but only to herself, 
 and in a little voice that is not intended to be heard. 
 This, however, serves to aid her memory, and to allow 
 her to enter more fully into the varied dramatic phases 
 of her part. 
 
 Now she approaches from the end of the hall that is 
 shrouded in shadow, a creature glittering in gold and 
 jewels ; she darts towards me with an indignant air 
 of accusation, and menaces me with expressive 
 gestures that call heaven to witness the magnitude of 
 the crime I have committed. 
 
 Then suddenly the bayadere bursts into a fit of 
 mocking laughter ; she overwhelms me with bantering 
 disdain and with extended finger, points me out to 
 the jeering crowd. Her irony is, of course, factitious,
 
 138 IN THE LAND OF 
 
 just as were the superb imprecations with which she 
 but lately encompassed me. But it is a marvellous 
 imitation all the same. Her titter and somewhat sad 
 laughter can be heard to resound in her heaving chest, 
 and she laughs with her mouth, her eyes, and her eye 
 brows, with her bosom, and with her heaving and 
 panting breasts. As she withdraws, shaken with 
 laughter, the effect is irresistible, and one must laugh 
 with her. 
 
 She withdraws backwards, as quickly as her little 
 feet will take her, turning away her head in scorn, so 
 that she may no longer see me. But now she returns 
 with slow and solemn step ; these sarcasms were but 
 spite ; her love is too strong, she returns conquered 
 by the sovereign passion, stretching her hands out 
 to me, imploring pardon, and offering her all in a final 
 appeal. And as she again withdraws, with her head 
 thrown back and her half -opened lips that disclose the 
 pearly teeth glimmering beneath the diamonds in her 
 nose, she wishes me to follow her, even seems to con- 
 mand it, she calls me with her arms, her breasts, and 
 her languorous eyes ; she calls me with all her being, 
 as with a loadstone, and for a very little I should 
 follow her almost involuntarily, for I am at last spell- 
 bound by her fascinations. Her promises of love are 
 false, and like her laughter but part of the comedy. 
 One knows it, and indeed it is no worse for that ; per- 
 haps even the knowledge of its unreality only adds a 
 new and malignant charm. 
 
 Whilst she acts, a sort of magnetic or invisible bond 
 unites her to those two men who sing in the orchestra, 
 and who, like her, go and come along the human 
 passage ; sometimes advancing, then taking three or 
 four steps backward. They follow her when she 
 comes near me, but are the first to draw back when it 
 is time for her to retire ; they never allow her to escape 
 from out of their sight, and their burning gaze is fixed 
 on her, whilst with widely opened mouths they ever 
 sing in the high falsetto voice of a muezzin. With 
 heads bent forward they, who are tall, look down on
 
 THE GREAT PALMS 139 
 
 her who is short, and they have the air of being the 
 masters by whom she is inspired and possessed. 
 They seem to guide her with their voices, and to fan 
 her with the flame of their breath like some delicate 
 and glittering butterfly that they have tamed to their 
 will, and there is an unknown something in this that 
 seems perverse and uncanny. 
 
 In the less brightly lit place where the orchestra is 
 seated there are two or three other gaily-adorned 
 bayaderes who had already danced. One had struck 
 me as being especially strange, a sort of beautiful, 
 poisonous flower ; tall and thin, with features that 
 seemed too delicate and eyes that were too long 
 already, without their unnatural lengthening of paint ; 
 blue-black hair, stretched in tight bands across the 
 cheeks ; drapery that was wholly black, a black 
 girdle and a black veil with the slightest silver edging. 
 Her ornaments consisted of nothing but rubies, rubies 
 that covered hands and arms, and in her nose a bunch 
 of rubies that fell over her mouth, so that the ghoulish 
 lips looked as if a spot of blood had yet remained on 
 them. 
 
 But I forgot them all so soon as I saw that one, 
 that queen, that star, make her sudden appearance 
 between the musicians who stood aside to let her pass, 
 that creature all decked in gold who had been kept 
 for the last. 
 
 Her dance was long, very long, almost wearisome, 
 yet I dreaded the moment when it would end and I 
 should see her no more. 
 
 Once more she repeated her reproaches and that 
 irresistible laugh ; once more I felt the mockery of 
 her sparkling eyes and again the evermore despairing 
 calls of love. 
 
 At last she ceases and all is over, and I wake up 
 and see the people gathered around, and find myself 
 surrounded once more by the realities of the enter- 
 tainment organized in my honour. 
 
 Before retiring and it is time I go to compliment 
 the bayadere. I find her wiping her face with a
 
 140 IN THE LAND OF 
 
 delicate handkerchief ; she has been very hot, and 
 the perspiration rolls down her forehead on to her 
 smooth and dusky bust. In a manner that is now 
 correct, cold, and indifferent, the tired and uncon- 
 cerned comedienne receives my compliments with 
 little bows of mock modesty, little bows made in the 
 Indian style, hiding her face each time with hands 
 on every finger of which she wears diamonds. 
 
 What thoughts can there be in the soul of a baya- 
 dere of the old race and the pure blood ? the daughter 
 and granddaughter of bayaderes, one who has been 
 trained through descent, that has lasted for hundreds 
 and thousands of years, to be a creature of naught but 
 phantasy and pleasure. 
 
 XIII 
 WRITTEN ON LEAVING PONDICHERRY 
 
 I am leaving Pondicherry to-morrow for the States 
 of Rajputana, where the famine rages, going by way 
 of Nizam. I have hardly spent ten days in our old 
 colony, and am astonished to find that I cannot leave 
 without regret, though I have hitherto borne my 
 Indian partings with the lightest heart. I might even 
 say that this land of Pondicherry has resumed a sway 
 over me. I might say that I have found my old re- 
 collections once more. At the moment of my de- 
 parture I feel the same feeling stirring within me that 
 I experienced in the bygone days of my youth when 
 the time came for me to quit that other decayed old 
 town, Saint Louis of Senegal, where I had spent a whole 
 year. 
 
 I had lodged at the hotel, just as any ordinary 
 traveller might do, for there are two hotels at Pondi- 
 cherry that exist modestly without any visitors. I 
 had chosen the one by the side of the sea, a house of 
 somewhat stately aspect that dated from the founda- 
 tion of the town, and whose dilapidations were con- 
 cealed under a coating of whitewash. In view of the
 
 THE GREAT PALMS 141 
 
 air of abandonment and neglect that prevailed, I 
 entered with some trepidation, and who would have 
 thought that I should become attached to the chance 
 lodging ? 
 
 The great and almost bare whitewashed room which 
 I occupied showed plainly the havoc wrought by time, 
 and recalled in a strange and familiar manner that 
 other room which I lived in long ago on the coast of 
 Africa. Green-shuttered windows overlooked the vast 
 plain of the Indian Ocean, whose breezes brought a 
 delicious freshness even during the hottest hours of 
 the day. As in the Creole salons, there were ancient 
 chairs of carved wood, and on a Louis XVI console a 
 clock of the same period, whose persistent ticking 
 told of life and of a soul that was old and worn. All 
 was dried up, worm-eaten and fragile, and I did not 
 dare to sit down too quickly nor to jump into bed 
 hastily. But there was always the same fair weather, 
 blue sky, pure air, and delicious and home-like peace. 
 
 Leaning from the windows I could see, besides the 
 shore and the sea, the terraces of some old houses 
 that stood close by. These also called back recollec- 
 tions of Africa, for the roofs were Moorish in style, 
 and the burning sun had riven them with many cracks. 
 From morning till night I am cradled by the sleepy 
 song of a troop of naked Indians who work dreamily 
 in the neighbouring courtyard, and who are occupied 
 in filling mat sacks with grain and spices for the ships. 
 
 My room was never closed, neither during the day 
 nor the night, and the beasts of the air made their 
 home with me ; sparrows walked on the mats that 
 covered the floor without ever heeding my presence, 
 and little squirrels, after an inquiring gaze, came in 
 too and ran over the furniture ; and one morning I 
 saw two crows perched on the corner of my mosquito 
 net. 
 
 Oh ! how sad and still were these midday hours, 
 when the tropical sun poured down on the silent little 
 streets lying round the house, streets with the strange 
 old-fashioned names. Nothing in my room or my
 
 142 IN THE LAND OF THE GREAT PALMS 
 
 surroundings served to remind me of modern times ; 
 there was nothing on those lonely terraces or on the 
 wide blue plain of the deserted sea by which I could 
 fix the period, though the deliberation of the men 
 occupied in filling their sacks with corn made me 
 think of some colonial scene of olden times. Then 
 forgetting our hurryings, our eagerness, and our rapid 
 steamers, I fancied myself back in the old days when 
 one came here by the Cape of Good Hope on some 
 shapely and wilful sailing-vessel which travelled with 
 a deliberation that made the distance seem ten times 
 as great. 
 
 My regrets, as may be imagined, cannot be very 
 deep ; all will be forgotten to-morrow, driven away by 
 the fleeting images of new and fresh scenes. But 
 nothing that I have already seen in this old India, or 
 that I may yet see, will take such a hold on me as 
 this little corner of old France stranded on the shores 
 of the Gulf of Bengal.
 
 \ 
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA
 
 CHAPTER V 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 i 
 
 TOWARDS HYDERABAD 
 
 IT is no longer green, there are no more great palms ; 
 the earth is no longer red, and it is quite chilly. . . . 
 These are the surprises that attend my first awakening 
 in Nizam after having journeyed all the night from the 
 regions of Madras and Pondicherry, where yesterday 
 everything was still so green. We have now reached 
 the central plateau of India, and are in the midst of 
 a stony wilderness where all is different save the 
 croaking of the eternal crows. 
 
 Parched lands and grayish plains alternate with j 
 millet fields that are vast as little seas. In place of 
 superb coco-nut palms a few sparse aloes and some 
 miserable date trees, almost withered up by the 
 drought, cluster round villages that have also changed 
 their aspect, and that now resemble those of Arabia. 
 Islam has placed its mark on all these things Islam 
 that seems to love gloomy regions and gleaming deserts. 
 
 The costumes have changed too. Men no longer go 
 about with naked chests, but are swathed in white, 
 and they do not wear long hair, but wrap their heads 
 in turbans. 
 
 The dryness increases hourly as we penetrate farther 
 among the weary sameness of the plains. Rice patches, 
 whose furrows can still be seen, have been destroyed 
 as if by fire. The millet fields, which hold out longer, 
 are for the most part yellow and hopelessly damaged. 
 
 In those which are still alive watchers, perched on 
 platforms made of branches, are to be seen everywhere 
 trying to scare away the rats and birds that would eat 
 10 MS
 
 146 IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 everything ; poor humanity in the clutches of famine, 
 trying to guard a few ears of corn from the ravages of 
 famished animals. 
 
 The night chills have vanished, and the sun piti- 
 lessly pours a furnace-like heat on the earth, whilst 
 the sky extends above our heads, limpid and blue as 
 a great sapphire. 
 
 The scenery towards the end of the day becomes 
 strange and wonderful. Scattered amidst fields of 
 burnt-up millet and parched jungles there are heaps 
 of monstrous brown stones, great blocks with polished 
 sides and fantastic outlines that have wandered here 
 somehow. They seem to have been purposely piled 
 up into strange and unstable postures ; some are 
 upright, and some lean so strangely that these group- 
 ings, which are often of great height, have always the 
 most absurdly improbable appearance. 
 
 The sun is setting, and Hyderabad is at last visible, 
 very white amidst clouds of white dust, and very 
 Mohammedan with its terraced roofs and slender 
 minarets. The trees, fast dying of drought, are shed- 
 ding their leaves and give the false impression of the 
 decline of the year. The river that flows in a large 
 bed at the foot of the town is almost dried up, and the 
 water is so low as to be nearly imperceptible. Troups of 
 elephants of the same grayish colour as the mud banks 
 are slowly wandering along, trying to bathe and drink. 
 
 The day declines and the Eastern sky is lighted by 
 a burning glow ; the whiteness of the town fades 
 slowly into an ashy blue, and huge bats commence 
 to flit silently through the cloudless sky. 
 
 ii 
 
 HYDERABAD AWAITS THE NIZAM 
 
 The inhabitants of this country, however, have not 
 felt the tortures of famine that tread at the heels of 
 their neighbours of Rajput, and the glittering splendour 
 of their capital is at its brightest now that they await 
 the return of their king, of the Nizam as he is called here.
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 147 
 
 " Long Live the Nizam, Our Prince," is seen in great 
 gold letters on all the floating banners and at the 
 top of the many triumphal arches, decked with silk 
 and muslin, that cross the roads and streets. 
 
 Hyderabad, the white city that overhangs the 
 almost dried-up river, in whose fresh mud the hordes 
 of elephants are wandering, Hyderabad, beflagged and 
 gay, has been waiting day by day for a week for the 
 king who does not come. 
 
 " Welcome to the Nizam, Our Ruler," is the in- 
 scription written above the archway thrown over the 
 great stone bridge leading to the town, an archway gaily 
 decked with red crape and covered with gold spangles. 
 
 There is a constant stream of passengers dressed in 
 many colours, of horses, waggons, and attendants, 
 passing over the bridge. I am surprised after journey- 
 ing through such a succession of sad plains to find 
 hidden amongst these gray and stony steppes a city so 
 teeming with life and colour. 
 
 The streets extend before us, white, broad, and 
 straight, thronged by a crowd that glitters with all 
 the colours of a flower-bed. First of all we are as- 
 tonished by the luxury and the infinite variety of the 
 turbans. There are rose, salmon, and cherry-coloured 
 ones, and some with the tints of peach blossom ; here ^ 
 lilac, amaranth, yellow, or golden ones are seen. 
 All are worn large, immoderately large, wrapped 
 round the little pointed caps with their free ends 
 hanging loosely behind on the wearer's robes. 
 
 The streets extend white, broad, and straight, 
 crossed here and there by triumphal arches, which 
 are taller than the houses, and from which spring 
 minarets crowned with golden crescents. In addition 
 to these stone arches several others, made of silk 
 stretched over bamboo frames, have been raised in 
 honour of the prince who does not come. In the 
 middle of the town there is an archway of enormous 
 proportions, a four-sided arch with four minarets which ' 
 tower above all the others near, tower, too, above the 
 tapering spires of the mosques and dart into the air,
 
 148 IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 far above the dust of Hyderabad, into the purity of 
 the unchanging sky. 
 
 The Arabian ogive, as it is seen here, has been 
 much complicated by festoons and indentations, the 
 Indians having even enriched the fanciful beauty of 
 the original models. On the ground floors of all the 
 houses rows of arches succeed one another in infinite 
 variety, either very pointed or very obtuse, the rose- 
 pattern predominating, although the many-leaved 
 trefoil is often seen. Along the whole length of the 
 street merchants are seated on cushions and carpets, 
 under the shelter of the porches, the arches of which 
 have been elaborated with such studied refinement. 
 The back of their shops is in open-work masonry like 
 the front, and the blue, green, and gold with which it 
 is painted make it resemble the outspread tail of some 
 huge bird of the peacock tribe. Here is the jewellers' 
 quarter, where collars, bracelets, and glass trinkets 
 glitter in every shop, side by side with precious gems, 
 and tinsel glitters next to virgin gold. Here is the 
 quarter of the perfumers, where the essences of all the 
 flowers are stored in ancient Chinese vases, brought 
 here long ago by caravans. There is also the sparkling 
 street where slippers are sold, all gilt and bespangled, 
 with the tips bent backwards like the prow of a 
 gondola. Intermingled everywhere, as if by chance, 
 are the stalls of the flower-sellers, where masses of 
 roses, broken from their stems, are piled up into tiny 
 mountains. There are piles of jasmine flowers, too, 
 that children thread as they would thread beads. We 
 pass by sellers of arms, lances, and the great two- 
 handed swords of olden days, knives for tiger-hunting, 
 these of a special shape and destined to be flung into 
 the tiger's gaping jaws as it leaps upon its victim. 
 Marriage robes for men, gilt all over, are on sale, and 
 marriage turbans glittering with spangles. Here is 
 a quarter where the space between the houses and the 
 middle of the street is occupied by people engaged in 
 printing light muslins, some of which seem transparent 
 as the mist. Little designs in silver and gold are strewn
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 149 
 
 over green, rose, or yellow grounds. The fabric may 
 not be lasting, for the first drop of rain would spoil all, 
 but the colouring is always admirable, and the smallest 
 piece that issues from the hands of these artists of 
 the street looks like the magic veil of some peri. 
 Gold, gold, there must be gold everywhere, or, failing 
 that, tinsel or gilt paper, or anything that will glitter 
 in the gorgeous sunlight and fascinate the eye. 
 
 The dust is white, the houses white, and the garments 
 ' of the people white ; a snowy whiteness is the prevail- 
 ing note of the streets and their moving multitudes, 
 and it is from the whiteness of the robesthatthe glowing 
 colours of the muslin turbans stand out in such relief. 
 
 " Honour to the Nizam ! " The amount of silks, 
 muslins, and velvets hung out in honour of the long- 
 absent prince is quite incredible. Hyderabad glories 
 in the expectation of its king, and for the last eight 
 days everything has been ready, even the flowers that 
 the sun has now withered. But the Nizam is at 
 Calcutta, driving through the streets with Asiatic 
 pomp, followed by a dozen gilded carriages. He 
 neither returns nor sends any news, but drifts at the 
 mercy of his inclinations. The Indians, who would 
 do exactly the same in his place, are not at all sur- 
 prised at his proceedings, and merely continue to 
 expect him. Alas ! however, there is no danger that 
 the rain will come to spoil the light draperies, to wash 
 away the gildings of the triumphal arches, for there is 
 never a cloud in the sky. 
 
 Each day, as the hours advance, there is an in- 
 creasing bustle, and from an ever-thickening cloud of 
 dust a volume of sound arises, the cries of the streets, 
 the braying of the bands, that swells and swells, until 
 nightfall comes and silence returns. 
 
 There is a constant stream of horse-drawn carriages 
 and of carts to which trotting zebus are yoked. These 
 are skiff-shaped coaches of basket-work in which 
 mysterious ladies sit, enveloped in hanging curtains 
 pierced with holes, through which these painted 
 beauties can gaze upon the crowd. There are splendid
 
 150 IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 horsemen, with pointed caps and streaming turbans, 
 riding with couched lances. Long strings of drome- 
 daries belonging to some caravan, elephants of burden 
 returning from their work, all covered with dust or 
 mud, elephants of state marching to the sound of 
 bagpipes in wedding processions, with little towers 
 on their backs in which the bridal pair are concealed 
 behind curtains drawn close. 
 
 The monotonous chaunt of the palanquin bearers is 
 heard, as, running with nimble steps, they carry on 
 piles of embroidered cushions some important and be- 
 spectacled old gentleman, or some grave priest lost in 
 prayers. Beggars in rags, covered with shells, drag 
 themselves along, and there are mad folk of disquiet- 
 ing aspect, who are sacred, and whose eyes have the 
 far-off look of those who discern other worlds. 
 Long-haired old dervishes, all bedabbled with ashes, 
 hurry along ringing bells, seeing nothing as they forge 
 ahead, while people respectfully stand aside to let 
 them pass. We meet bands of Yemen Arabs, whose 
 presence the Nizam is pleased to encourage. Now 
 the chief of some far-off province advances, a man of 
 savage and magnificent mien, who dashes along at a 
 breakneck pace, followed by horsemen bearing lances. 
 The air is filled with the scent of burning perfumes, 
 scented, too, by the red roses which are heaped up be- 
 fore the sellers of wreaths, scented by the white jasmine 
 flowers that overflow their baskets and fall like snow 
 into the dusty street. Who would think that famine 
 is approaching from the west, or that it had already 
 made its voracious presence felt on this side of the 
 frontier ? And with what water and in what sheltered 
 gardens have all these flowers been brought to bloom ? 
 Towards sundown the characters of the Thousand 
 and One Nights begin to appear, dandies whose eyes 
 are painted with blue and whose beards are tinged 
 vermilion ; they wear robes of brocade, or of velvet 
 trimmed with lavish gold, many necklaces of pearls or 
 of precious stones, and carry tamed birds of prey upon 
 their right hands.
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 151 
 
 " Welcome to His Highness the Nizam " is seen 
 once more : this time over an archway hung with 
 orange-yellow crape, decked with citron- and sulphur- 
 coloured streamers of the same material, and spangles 
 of gold. This archway is outlined against a large and 
 snowy mosque, adorned with crescents and with 
 points of gold, and as it is the hour of evening prayer 
 the mosque engulfs the white-robed crowd of wor- 
 shippers, whose heads are wrapped in muslin, and who 
 from afar look like great flowers of many hues that 
 have been scattered over the ground. 
 
 However, the news circulates that the Nizam is not 
 yet returning ; certainly that he will not be back till 
 after the moon of Ramadan. At the next moon per- 
 haps he may return ... or it may be later. Allah 
 alone can say. 
 
 in 
 
 GOLCONDA 
 
 AT the corner of one of the outlying streets of Hyder- 
 abad, this inscription can be read upon an old wall 
 " Road to Golconda." It would have been equally 
 true to have written up " Road to Silence and Ruin." 
 
 Passing along the deserted road, from which our 
 horses' feet raise clouds of dust, we first see a number 
 of abandoned little mosques, and many crumbling 
 little minarets of rare elegance and exquisitely beauti- 
 ful design. Then nothing more. We plunge into the 
 parched and ashy-coloured steppes and see heaps of 
 granitic blocks of such strange shapes that it seems as 
 if they could not belong to our terrestrial sphere. 
 
 After driving for an hour we arrive on the banks of 
 a lake, whose waters are so low that its muddy bed is 
 exposed to view. Behind the lake the whole horizon 
 is walled out by a phantom town of the same ashy- 
 gray colour as the surrounding plain. This is Gol- 
 conda, the city which for three centuries was one of 
 the marvels of India. 
 
 It is well known that all cities, palaces, and monu- 
 ments that man has erected look larger when they are
 
 152 IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 in ruins ; but really these ruins are too overwhelming. 
 First there is a crested rampart, at least thirty feet 
 high, furnished with bastions, parapets, and stone 
 watch-towers, which appears to extend for miles into 
 the desert country ; then above this already formid- 
 able inclosure there is a cyclopean fortress tower. It 
 is made out of a mountain, one of those strange 
 mountains, one of those agglomerations of granite 
 blocks that give the country its appearance of fantastic 
 unreality. The desire for what is gigantic and super- 
 human which possessed the kings and peoples of the 
 olden days must surely have found here everything 
 to its heart's wish. Amongst the monstrous blocks 
 walls have been built, inclosed within each other and 
 poised one above another, whilst their crested ramparts 
 intermingle bewilderingly. Close to the edge of the 
 boldest rocks bastions have been thrown out that 
 overhang terrible precipices ; mosques have been 
 poised at various heights, arid there are complicated 
 arches and prodigious buttresses. The topmost stone 
 of all, from superstition or the whim of design, has 
 been left in its natural state, looking like some great 
 round-backed beast crouching on the highest summit. 
 
 At the gates of the dead city, near piles of cannon 
 balls of stone or metal, and of implements from many 
 an ancient siege and battle, there are modern repeating 
 rifles stacked in sheaves. The soldiers of the Nizam 
 and many sentries are on guard, and we have to show 
 a special permit. Access to these ruins is not granted 
 to any comer, for they still constitute an impregnable 
 fortress, and it is reported that the sovereign conceals 
 his treasures here. 
 
 Terrible gates, those of Golconda, which will only 
 swing round under the combined efforts of many men. 
 The double leaves of the doors, now lying back in the 
 recesses hollowed out in the thickness of the ramparts, 
 are armed with long and pointed, dart -like, iron spikes, 
 a formidable armature which serves to ward off the 
 elephants, who used to delight in destroying the huge 
 beams with their trunks as they filed past into the city.
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 153 
 
 As we enter, my little convoy suddenly assumes the 
 appearance of European shabbiness in spite of my 
 two drivers with their gilded turbans and the runners 
 who wave large fly-fans round the horses' flanks. 
 
 The first street that we come upon after passing 
 through the thick walls is the only one that is at all in- 
 habited. A few poor wretches live here in ruined palaces, 
 and keep modest booths for the benefit of the soldiers. 
 
 The rest of the immense inclosure is occupied only 
 by silence and a feeling of emptiness. Golconda is but 
 an ashy plain, bestrewn with fallen stones and ruins 
 of all sorts, from amongst which the rounded and 
 polished backs of primitive blocks, that look like 
 slumbering beasts, are seen to rise. The entire 
 country is covered with such blocks of stone, which 
 sometimes rise to the height of mountains, which dwarf 
 and outlive the puny constructions of man. 
 
 The Indian story about these stones of Nizam is 
 that after God had finished the creation of the world 
 He found Himself in possession of a quantity of super- 
 fluous material, which He then rolled up in His fingers 
 and cast haphazard down upon the earth. 
 
 The doors of the citadel, fiercely sheeted with iron 
 spikes, like the gates in the city walls, give access to 
 confused masses of granite, from which one ascends 
 to the open air by roadways or by dismal staircases 
 that lead through fortifications and passages cut out 
 of the naked rock. The whole building is of a vast- 
 ness which fills us with stupefaction, even in this land 
 of India where colossal things are passed unnoticed. 
 The crested walls, intermingling with the rocks, form, 
 even to the very summit, a series of impregnable 
 positions. There are cisterns, consisting of deep caves 
 hollowed out from the bare rock, in which water can 
 be kept during times of siege. There are dark 
 holes leading to subterranean passages, which descend 
 to the very heart of this fortified mountain and through 
 which the open country may be reached in cases of 
 supreme danger or of despairing flight. 
 
 Mosques are built at various heights, so that when
 
 154 IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 danger is nigh prayers may be said to the very last. 
 All has been foreseen and prepared, as if for indefinite 
 resistance against a race of giants, and it is not possible 
 to understand how, some three centuries before our 
 modern guns were invented, the sultans of Golconda 
 could ever have been driven from such a stronghold. 
 
 As we ascend, an ever-widening circle of desolation 
 bathed in a glare of sunlight lies before us. The 
 masonry becomes more bold and terrifying, but ever 
 more ruined ; towers and walls bend and lean, so that 
 our heads reel ; great masses seem ready to fall, and 
 we see arches riven by gigantic cracks. There are 
 also the remains of monuments which we cannot 
 comprehend, of which neither the use nor the age is 
 known ; and in the caverns there are gods who ruled 
 before Islam, monkey-headed images of Hanouman, 
 that live among the bats, before whom tiny flames 
 flicker and smoke, doubtless lighted here from time 
 to time by some mysterious worshippers. 
 
 On the last terrace, at the topmost height of all, 
 there is a mosque and kiosk from which the sultans in 
 the olden days used to overlook the land and watch 
 for armies approaching from the remotest distances. 
 The view from here, the gardens and the shady nooks, 
 was celebrated in bygone days, but now life has 
 departed from these plains. 
 
 The climate has changed and rain is wanting, and 
 it would even seem as if India becomes more parched 
 as the forces of its people wither and decay. Beyond 
 the chaos of the walls and ramparts of the citadel, 
 which extends far down the silent plain, the outer 
 crested wall of the city, still kept in repair by the 
 Nizam, wanders away into the far distance, serving 
 to mark out the limits of the city which was once 
 Golconda, Golconda of the wondrous diamonds. But, 
 one asks, what good purpose can such a wall serve by 
 merely inclosing a patch of desolation which has grown 
 to resemble the immense desolation by which it is 
 surrounded ? Here is the same gray plain with the 
 strange smooth stones that look like herds of monsters
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 155 
 
 crouching amongst the ashes. Farther off, Hydera- 
 bad is just visible as a white streak, and scattered here 
 and there at the edges of the plain those everlasting 
 blocks of stone, which, heaped into rugged mountains 
 and the semblance of fantastic fortresses, give the 
 impression of an infinite and mournful succession of 
 cities that have perished. At a little distance from 
 the walls of the dead city there are some carefully 
 whitened domes which do not appear to be in ruins. 
 They rise out of inclosed gardens whose verdure still 
 looks astonishingly fresh and green amidst the parched 
 surroundings. They are the tombs of the ancient kings 
 of Golconda, that, thanks to the respect of the Indians 
 for their dead, have been spared from destruction. Nay, 
 more, the great mortuary gardens surrounding them 
 have even been replanted during the last few years. 
 
 Many sultans and sultanas of the fairy kingdom 
 slumber under the beautiful and stately cupolas . Only 
 one is wanting to this silent company, that last one 
 who, after having built the dwelling-house that was to 
 last him for eternity, was driven from home and 
 sepulture by the conquering Aurangzeb, driven forth 
 to exile and to death. 
 
 Their resting-peace is exquisite. Near by stand 
 rows of cypress trees which resemble ours, though the 
 heats of India have caused them to spindle. Never- 
 theless, such trees are the favourites, chosen of the 
 dead in Eastern cemeteries as they are in our own. 
 The sandy walks, too, with their rows of rose bushes, 
 ruddy with bloom, are as straight as those of our old 
 French gardens. Numbers of women and young girls, 
 whose duty is to tend the artificial luxuriance of this 
 oasis, are occupied from morning to night in pouring 
 the water from the earthen jars which they carry over 
 the flower beds, the precious water that has been 
 drawn by men with much toil from wells that are as 
 vast as huge abysses. 
 
 Seen from a distance, the coating of whitewash 
 conveys a false impression of preservation to these 
 domes, but all traces of painting and ornamentation
 
 156 IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 have vanished from the interiors of these vast 
 mausoleums, and the luxury of former days has been 
 swallowed up in grayish mould. 
 
 However, there are garlands of flowers on each of 
 the little marble tombs standing under the hollow 
 cupolas reverential and charming reminders of a 
 dynasty which passed away three hundred years ago. 
 
 The strange and homelike charm of these gardens, 
 standing in parched wildernesses which are only kept 
 green by constant waterings, is that tall and delicate 
 cypress trees are found side by side with palms, and 
 that humming birds fly boldly over vases of roses just 
 as our butterflies do at home. 
 
 IV 
 THE DREADFUL CAVES 
 
 The grottos are consecrated to all the divinities of 
 the Pourana, but the greatest of them all are sacred to 
 Siva, the god of Death. 
 
 Men, possessed by an inspiration which was both 
 terrible and colossal, laboured for centuries in the 
 hollowing out of these granite mountains. Some of 
 the caves are the work of the Buddhists, others of the 
 Brahmins, and there are some dating from the times 
 of the Jai'na kings. Civilizations and religions passed 
 away without ever interrupting that tremendous work 
 of excavation and sculpture. 
 
 Towards the thousandth year of our era, according 
 to the account of the Arabian Macoudi, the earliest 
 author who mentions these grottos, they were then in 
 the fullnessof their glory, and countless pilgrims from all 
 parts of India came to them in a never-ending stream. 
 
 Now they are forsaken and long periods of drought 
 have laid waste the austere regions which surround 
 them, but their ageless existence is continued in- 
 definitely in the midst of the silence and abandonment 
 of a country whose life is fast ebbing away. 
 
 The modern road leads across a ruddy-coloured 
 little desert, out of which strangely regular little hills,
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 157 
 
 that resemble great citadels or donjon towers, emerge at 
 intervals, breaking the monotony of a plain which, but 
 for them, is smooth and flat like the shore of the sea. 
 
 It was in an Indian cart that I traversed the waste 
 on which the sun was beating down, following a road 
 that was outlined by dead trees. 
 
 Towards evening a phantom town, that resembled 
 the Tower of Babel as it is represented in old pictures, 
 drifted past us. This was the once celebrated town of 
 Dalantabad, where the last of the Sultans of Golconda 
 died in exile three hundred years ago. A city that is 
 a mountain, a fortress, and a temple ; a rock which 
 the men of olden days have trimmed and walled and 
 smoothed from its summit to its base, so that it is 
 more astonishing than the pyramids of Egypt, stand- 
 ing in their deserts of sand. Hundreds of crumbling 
 tombs are scattered around, and the great rock is 
 encompassed by countless crested ramparts, bristling 
 with lances, each inclosed within its fellow. We 
 entered through formidable double doors which, like 
 those of Golconda, still retain their iron sheathings. 
 
 Within there is no one ; only silence, ruins, and 
 withered trees whose rootlets hang trailing from their 
 leafless branches like tresses of long hair. We left 
 the fortresses, passing through double doors which were 
 just as fiercely armed and just as useless as the others. 
 
 Towards the east a rocky barrier extended across 
 the horizon, and as the road wound up in zigzag 
 fashion, I had to descend and walk behind the slowly 
 trailing cart. It was the hour of the setting sun, 
 the hour when the gorgeous and unchanging glow 
 covers the land that knows no clouds. Dalantabad, 
 that crested mountain of ramparts and temples, 
 seemed to rise with us into the air, outlined against 
 the sky in a halo of glory, whilst ever extended round 
 us the still immensity of red and burning plains from 
 which all traces of life had vanished. 
 
 On the summit of the ridge another group of ruins, 
 called Rozas, awaited us ; a Mussulman town crowded 
 with ruined mosques and delicately tapering minarets.
 
 158 IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 Here many cupolas that have covered graves were 
 clustered near the ramparts, which now loomed 
 through the twilight. Though it was almost dark in 
 the streets, several turbaned men were seated on the 
 stones strewn by the roadside : a few last stubborn 
 inhabitants, old people who would not quit these walls 
 because of the sanctity of the mosques. 
 
 Then, during the next hour, nothing but the mono- 
 tony of the rocks, the ever-widening plain, and the 
 deep silence of the night. 
 
 Suddenly there is something so surprising and so 
 impossible that a feeling almost like fear steals over us 
 during the moment that it takes us to comprehend. 
 The sea ! the sea ever before us, though we know that 
 we are in Nizam, in the very centre of India. 
 
 There is a sudden dip in the ground, and the ever- 
 changing sea lies extended before us. We overlook it 
 from the summit of the immense cliff along which our 
 road runs, and we feel the mighty wind coming from 
 below, a wind chilly as that of the ocean. 
 
 But these are only plains which extend before us, 
 plains from whose surface the wind raises the clouds 
 of dust which so resemble the foaming billows. 
 
 Now we reach our journey's end, and the grottos, of 
 which there is as yet no sign, lie underneath us, along 
 the mournful shore : they are hollowed out in these 
 enormous cliffs and their dreadful mouths of terror are 
 open on to this waterless ocean. 
 
 It is night and the stars are shining as my cart stops 
 before the " Rest Houses," out of which the hosts, 
 two white-haired Indians, hasten to receive me, calling 
 loudly the while to their serving-men, who are idling 
 about the neighbourhood. 
 
 No one would consent to conduct me through the 
 grottos of Siva. " It would be better," one said, " to 
 wait for day." At last a shepherd, who was bringing 
 back his goats, was persuaded by offer of money, and 
 we set out, carrying a lantern that could be lighted 
 when we got down to the dismal cavern mouths. 
 
 The night is moonless but clear, so when our eyes
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 159 
 
 become accustomed to the gloom we can distinguish 
 our surroundings. 
 
 First we descend by a slope, some five or six hundred 
 metres long, to the plain that looked like the sea. We 
 descend through great silence : above us the twinkling 
 magnificence of the stars, around us strange-shaped 
 rocks and cactus plants. No doubt these plants are 
 withered up like everything else, but they are still 
 erect, and their stiff branches resemble waxen lights 
 held in a candelabrum. The gloom becomes more 
 pronounced as we reach the bottom and walk along 
 the edges of the tideless shore at the foot of the over- 
 shadowing cliffs. The wind which blew so strongly 
 as the night was falling has subsided ; there is not a 
 rustle audible anywhere, and a strange solemnity 
 has come upon the place. 
 
 On the face of the cliffs we see the yawning mouths of 
 the caves, more intensely black than all the surround- 
 ing darkness, seeming too vast to be the work of man, 
 yet too regular to be natural. But I had expected to 
 find them thus ; I knew that they must be fashioned so. 
 
 We pass them by without stopping ; then the shep- 
 herd suddenly hesitates, turns round, and retraces his 
 steps. Religious dread, or perhaps even fear alone, 
 prevents him from approaching the place to which he 
 had proposed to take me, doubtless some place of 
 nameless dread. Then with a manner which seems 
 to say " No ! You will have to be satisfied with this 
 one," he plunged forward amidst masses of fallen rock, 
 stones, and cactus plants, into the mouth of the 
 nearest of the gloomy excavations. 
 
 Already we are surrounded by a fearful beauty 
 though I understand that this is nothing to the one 
 that he did not dare to show me. 
 
 There are courts open to the sky, great as places 
 of stately festival, hewn out of the solid granite, out 
 of the mountain itself. Their walls rise vertically to 
 an overwhelming height, outlined by three or four 
 tiers of galleries, placed one above the other, and 
 between whose massive pillars rows of gods of super-
 
 i6o IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 human stature are ranged a dead audience assembled 
 to witness the spectacle of Death. The darkness of 
 night enshrouds everything, but the ceiling of the 
 Titanesque hall is the star-strewn sky, whose vague 
 and diffused light allows us to distinguish the crowd 
 of solemn giants who watch us as we approach. 
 
 There are so many of these sculptured caverns that 
 one almost forgets the number, though each one re- 
 presents the work of an entire generation. 
 
 My goatherd, recovering from his first timidity, 
 becomes more and more bold as we proceed on our 
 Dantesque journey. He now lights the lantern that 
 we may enter a cavern which is quite dark, one that 
 must date back to some early and barbarous age, one 
 where we shall no longer be safeguarded by the stars, 
 for the sky will be hidden by the granite masses of the 
 mountain. It is a kind of avenue, high and deep as 
 the nave of a Gothic cathedral, from the smooth walls 
 of which spring jutting arches which resemble ribs. 
 It is as if we were in the inside of some animal, or the 
 carcass of a monstrous whale. So poorly does our 
 little lantern light up the surrounding darkness that 
 it at first seems as if the long hall is quite empty. 
 But now a form becomes visible, and the outline of 
 some one stationed at the back acquires distinctness ; 
 it is the image of a solitary god some twenty or thirty 
 feet high, seated on a throne whose shadow covers 
 the wall behind him and reaches to the roof, where it 
 dances at the pleasure of the little flame we have 
 brought with us. The god is hewn from the same 
 granite, and is of the same colour as the rest of the 
 place, but his giant's face has been painted red and 
 the great eyes are white with black pupils. These 
 eyes are lowered towards us as though in surprise 
 that we should thus disturb him in the midst of his 
 nightly slumber. The stillness of the cavern is so deep 
 that the vibration of our voices continues to be heard 
 long after we have finished speaking, and the horrible 
 stare of the god causes a feeling of embarrassment. 
 However, the goatherd is no longer afraid now that
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 161 
 
 he has satisfied himself that all the stony images are 
 as motionless during the night as they are by day. 
 On leaving the grotto he extinguishes the lamp, and 
 from the deliberation with which he retraces his steps, 
 I gather at once that he is going to take me to some- 
 thing which he did not dare to face at first. We walk 
 hurriedly across the sand, which resembles that of the 
 seashore, and following the line of the cliffs pass, with- 
 out stopping, before the mouths of those caves whose 
 mysteries are now already explored. 
 
 The night is far advanced as we reach our destina- 
 tion. The man lights the lantern and then hesitates 
 as if to collect his courage. Evidently the place to 
 which we are going must be very dark. 
 
 A touch of unexpected horror is imparted to this 
 cave, the entrance of which is much larger than any 
 of the others, by the fact that the guardians of the 
 threshold, instead of being calm like those we had 
 lately seen, are twisted and contorted in convulsions 
 of suffering, rage, or agony ; but in the dim light it 
 is difficult to distinguish, amidst the black masses 
 that surround us, which are images and which are but 
 the jagged shapes of the mountain itself, for the very 
 rocks and the huge overhanging fragments have 
 writhing attitudes and the convulsive forms of pain. 
 We stand before the dwellings of Siva, the implacable 
 god of Death, he who slays for the very joy of slaying. 
 
 Even the silence that guards the threshold has some- 
 thing about it that is peculiar and terrible ; rocks and 
 great human forms, those stark and agonized shapes 
 over whose tortured heads ten centuries have already 
 passed, are enveloped in silence whose sonority is so 
 awe-inspiring that we dread the sound of our own foot- 
 steps and listen with anxiety to our very breathing. 
 
 But now we are prepared for everything except 
 noise. Hardly, however, had we penetrated into the 
 first vault before a sudden and startling report re- 
 sounded through the air, just as if we had touched 
 the mechanism of a spring gun, a report that instantly 
 spread through all the temples a flapping of great 
 
 11
 
 162 IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 black wings, the maddened wheelings of great birds 
 of prey, eagles, owls, and vultures, sleeping in the 
 crannies of the roof. This rushing noise of wings is 
 swollen by the hollow echoes into a mighty symphony 
 of sound which rises and falls, and dies away into the 
 distance ; then it is no more, and silence reigns. 
 
 Leaving this vaulted archway, which was but a 
 peristyle, we again perceive the stars above our heads, 
 though they are only visible at intervals and have the 
 far-off look of stars seen from the bottom of some 
 great cleft. The successions of open courtyards which 
 have been made by removing half a mountain, by 
 taking away enough granite to build a town, are 
 peculiar in that their walls, which rise to the height 
 of two hundred feet, with galleries of gods in full array 
 of battle, are nor perpendicular but lean over us 
 threateningly. The solidity of the rock, which extends 
 the whole way down in a single solid mass that has 
 neither flaw nor crevice, was relied upon to produce 
 the effect of a chasm that is closing in a chasm in 
 which we must be instantly engulfed. 
 
 And then, those first courtyards were empty, while 
 these are filled with many colossal objects, obelisks, 
 statues, elephants on pedestals, porches, and temples. 
 It is no longer possible to form any idea of the arrange- 
 ment of the grotto, for midnight is near and our 
 lantern flickers feebly amidst the gloom. We can 
 only discern a profusion of horrible images ; here the 
 face of a dead man figured in the rock ; there the 
 form of a grinning skeleton or ogling monster starting 
 out of the obscurity through which we wend our 
 way, only to fade instantly out of sight amidst the 
 confused shapes of darkness which surround us. 
 
 At first we only saw single elephants ; now there are 
 troops of them, standing upright with pendant trunks, 
 the only things that seem calm amidst the rout of 
 phantoms that are tortured and twisted by all the 
 agonies of death. These elephants form the supports 
 of the triple sequence of monolithic temples that 
 occupy the centre of the cave.
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 163 
 
 We pass between these temples and the leaning 
 walls that surround them so threateningly. On our 
 way we have occasional glimpses of the stars, which, 
 however, have never seemed so far away as they seem 
 now. Around us a confused medley of furious forms, 
 fighting monsters, and of shameful and horrible em- 
 braces, disembowelled and headless human beings 
 still locked in each others' arms. Siva, Siva at every 
 turn, Siva decked with a necklace of skulls, Siva, who 
 engenders and who slays, Siva, who has many arms, 
 so that he may slay the more, Siva, whose mouth is 
 twisted with a grin of irony, making hideous love, so 
 that he may slay the children whom he begets, Siva, 
 who dances with mad shouts of triumph on quivering 
 tatters of human flesh, on limbs torn from their 
 sockets, or amongst the entrails which he has snatched 
 from mutilated corpses. Siva, in an ecstasy of joy 
 and pleasure trampling on the bodies of little girls 
 whose skulls have been battered in by his cruel heels. 
 These horrors emerge one by one from the surrounding 
 gloom. Our nickering light plays under them for an 
 instant, then they disappear, and darkness enshrouds 
 them once more. In places the groups are nearly 
 effaced, for the flight of centuries has left its trace, 
 and their faint outlines are hardly visible before they 
 fade into the indistinctness of the deep shades to 
 mingle with rocky shapes that seem vaguely instinct 
 with the horrors that animate the place. I no longer 
 see, I no longer know where they end. I only feel 
 that the whole mountain, even to its very heart, must 
 be crowded with these dim forms of horror, thronged 
 with this luxuriance of immortal agony. 
 
 The elephants that support the central temples 
 upon their backs seem out of place here, for their 
 attitudes are calm and tranquil, but on passing round 
 to the other side of the temples we find that the 
 corresponding elephants are animated by the pre- 
 vailing madness of torture and of strife. Some are 
 embraced by tigers and other wild beasts, fantastic 
 beasts ; others are torn by their cruel teeth ; here,
 
 164 IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 half-crushed by the temples on their backs, the 
 elephants wage combats to the death. On this side 
 the great encircling wall, that solid mass of granite, 
 leans over more than ever, and the confused luxuri- 
 ance of figures only commences to be outlined some 
 twenty feet from the ground, while the lower part of 
 the wall which bellies out like the side of some 
 overhanging ruin that is just about to fall to pieces 
 is smooth, with here and there a few soft curves. I 
 can fancy myself in the inside of a deep-water shell, 
 or in the hollow of a gigantic wave that has lifted all 
 these edifices on its mighty crest, from which they 
 must instantly fall, burying me in chaos. 
 
 We have now completed the circuitous course 
 which leads between the lofty monolithic temples and 
 the graven mountain walls that dominate them on 
 every side. The interior of the temples is now the 
 only thing left to see, but my guide again hesitates 
 and suggests that we should wait till the morrow, till 
 the sun has risen. 
 
 The staircases which lead upwards are in disorder ; all 
 the steps are broken, and the constant passage of naked 
 feet has given them a dangerous and slippery polish. 
 
 We maintain silence as we ascend, involuntarily and 
 almost without knowing why, but the smallest stone 
 that totters, or the tiniest pebble that rolls down makes 
 an alarming noise that is repeated by the echoes. 
 Around us on every side are manifold images of horror. 
 Siva in varied attitudes, Siva tortured by convulsions, 
 slim-waisted Sivas expanding their heaving chests in 
 the drunken delight of passionate love and of slaughter. 
 
 Even amidst the darkest gloom I did not regret that 
 I had forgotten to bring either a firearm or a stick, 
 and the possibility of being interfered with either by 
 man or beast never once crossed my mind. But now 
 the terror of the goatherd communicates itself to me, 
 a grisly fear that is nameless and indescribable. 
 
 I had expected that horror would run riot in the 
 sanctuary, that I should find forms of unspeakable 
 dread ; but no, all is simple and peaceful. It is like
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 165 
 
 the great calm that must inevitably greet one on the 
 other side after the terrors of death have done their 
 work. There is not a single graven image, not even 
 the suggestion of human or animal shapes. There is 
 absolutely nothing : the grave and solemn temples are 
 quite empty. Only if we walk or speak the echoes 
 are louder and more mournful than they were. 
 Otherwise there is nothing to affright us, not even the 
 flapping of a night bird's wings. Even the square 
 columns that have been hewn from the solid rock and 
 which extend from the ceiling to the floor are decorated 
 with a sober and severe pattern of intercrossing lines. 
 
 It is evident, however, in spite of the ruin and 
 ravage wrought by time, that the place has always 
 been sacred. We feel this the moment we enter, for 
 we are immediately inspired with a feeling of re- 
 ligious dread. These walls would not be so blackened 
 by the smoke of torches and lanterns, nor would these 
 floors of granite be so smooth and greasy, unless the 
 place were still visited by crowds of worshippers. The 
 god of Death has not deserted the mountain that the 
 people of another age have hollowed out for him, 
 and a soul still dwells in this ancient sanctuary. 
 
 There are three chambers, three temples, each 
 situated above the other, all cut out of the same block 
 of stone. The last of the three is the holy of holies, 
 the forbidden place which I have been debarred from 
 visiting in all the other Brahmin temples. 
 
 There, at least, I expected to see something of 
 nameless horror, but, again, there is scarcely anything 
 to see. Yet that which is there astonishes and 
 terrifies more by its primitive simplicity and its 
 brutal daring than all the collections of horrors piled 
 up outside. On a crumbling stone altar is a little 
 black pebble that shines like polished marble ; its 
 shape is that of an elongated egg that stands on end, 
 and on the sides of the pedestal on which it is placed 
 are graven those mysterious signs which the followers 
 of Siva never fail to trace with ashes on their foreheads 
 when the morning light appears.
 
 166 IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 Everything around is blackened with smoke, and 
 the niches that are hollowed out in the walls to receive 
 the lights that the faithful bring are covered by a 
 thick coating of soot, while thousands of wicks, that 
 no one dares to remove, swim in oily filth. All this 
 foulness tells of an old and stubborn creed, an un- 
 civilized and timorous worship. 
 
 But this black pebble, the centre, the reason, and 
 the cause of all this tremendous task of sculpture and 
 of excavation, is the most expressive and the most con- 
 crete symbol that the Indians of former days could find 
 to typify the god, who ceaselessly engenders that he may 
 ceaselessly destroy : it is the Lingam : it represents the 
 god of procreation who labours but to nourish death. 
 
 A faint light is hovering over the expanse which 
 resembles the sea as I quit the travellers' shelter where 
 I had slept on my return from the dreadful caves. 
 The day has hardly dawned, and under the cloud of 
 dust which hangs over it like a mist, the expanse has 
 a tone of blue, that neutral blue of the fog-enshrouded 
 sea, but the sun rises quickly and discovers a reddish 
 plain, parched and waterless, dotted here and there 
 with a few dead trees. I am on my way to the 
 temples of Siva, to see if all those things were real or 
 if they were but phantasms which will not bear the 
 light of day. This time I am alone, for I know the 
 road that leads down among the rocks and the tall 
 cactus plants standing erect like candles of mellow wax. 
 
 Though the sun has only just risen, its rays are 
 already powerful enough to make my temples burn, a 
 wicked and destructive sun that spreads death and deso- 
 lation over the Indian land with daily increasing force. 
 
 Three men carrying long sticks, shepherds without 
 flocks, ascend from the plain, saluting me profoundly 
 as they pass. They are terribly emaciated, and fever 
 glows in their great eyes. Doubtless they have come 
 from the land of famine, on the threshold of which I 
 am now standing. Thousands of little plants that 
 formerly carpeted the mountain side are now changed
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 167 
 
 into a sad and lifeless coating of felt, but the beasts 
 that yet remain still carry on their endless struggle 
 for existence, and the ground is strewn with the bodies 
 of little birds on which eagles have lately preyed. 
 Huge and voracious spiders have spread nets every- 
 where to catch the last butterfly or the last grass- 
 hopper. And the glory of the sun, whose fierceness 
 increases every moment, till it becomes like a scorch- 
 ing brazier, is as sinister as the glory of Siva . . . the 
 god who engenders and who slays. How my thoughts 
 are fixed on him this morning as I descend to his 
 horrible sanctuary ! How well, too, I can understand 
 him, as the Brahmins know him, the god who kindles 
 life in man and beast with mad and mocking pro- 
 fusion, but who takes care to invent an enemy 
 especially fitted to destroy each species he has created. 
 How joyously and with what inexhaustible and de- 
 tailed art has the god made teeth, horns, claws, 
 famine, plagues, and the venom of serpents and of 
 flies. He has sharpened the beaks of the birds which 
 skim over the ponds teeming with fish, and for man, 
 who has acquired the mastery over savage beasts, he 
 has cunningly kept disease, exhaustion, and old age ; 
 and into the heart of all he has thrust the foolish and 
 maddening dart of love. For all he has designed the 
 countless, impalpable swarms of what is infinitesimal, 
 filling even the streams of clear water with myriads of 
 destroyers or with the spawn of cruel worms ready to 
 batten on the vitals of those who come to drink. . . . 
 " Suffering exists to elevate and purify the soul," I 
 grant it, but what about our children, our little ones, 
 who died without ever having understood, choked by 
 a disease which has been specially invented for them ? 
 For that matter, too, I have seen suffering, nay, even 
 anguish and useless supplication in the eyes of the 
 humblest creatures. . . . Poor little birds that linger 
 in the agony which imbecile sportsmen have inflicted 
 on them, is this to elevate their souls ? And the 
 tiny-winged things whose life-blood is drained by 
 fierce spiders ! What boundless cruelty infests the
 
 i68 IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 whole seething mass of creation, a loathsome cruelty 
 the reality of which has been acknowledged by the 
 peoples of all ages, but whose pitiless truth has never 
 struck me so forcibly as it does now that I am once 
 more seeking the grottos of Siva. Yet I am one of the 
 happy and fortunate ones whom famine cannot touch 
 and for whom fate seems to have no immediate 
 menace. At the most I have but to fear the burning 
 sun or the bite of some black-ringed cobra that may 
 be lying under the withered grass. 
 
 When I reach the bottom and stand on the plain of 
 dust and sand I have only to turn to the right in 
 order to find myself within a few minutes' walk of 
 the huge and yawning entrance. No alarming noise 
 startles me this morning as I enter the dreadful 
 sanctuary. The eagles, vultures, and falcons which 
 sleep in the roof have already started out in search 
 of prey and hunt with ever-ready claws and beak. 
 Everything is silent, but the silence is less terrible 
 than it was on my midnight visit. 
 
 Once more I see the monolithic temples supported 
 on the backs of the elephants, and the obelisks that 
 stand in front of them, rising up in the centre of this 
 deep cleft from whose overhanging walls the graven 
 images look down. But by the light of the rising sun 
 all seems less colossal and less superhuman, and not 
 horrible enough to celebrate the god as he deserves. 
 These were the works of a childish race who had not lived 
 long enough to understand the terrible ferocity of life 
 or who did not know how adequately to symbolize it. 
 
 There is nothing to recall the impression that was 
 made on me during my midnight visit when I came 
 here in the dark with a feeble lantern that only lighted 
 up the images from underneath. The morning light 
 reveals a state of extreme dilapidation. It is not only 
 that centuries have passed by, reaping their harvests 
 of heads, bodies, columns, and capitals, but that these 
 temples, like all the temples of Siva, were assailed at 
 the time of the Mussulman Conquest by hordes of 
 fanatics intent on worshipping God by some other name.
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 169 
 
 When I saw these horrors enshrouded in the gloom of 
 night, I did not suspect that they had once been painted, 
 but now that I can plainly see the whole crowded 
 assemblage gesticulating wildly under the shadow 
 of the overhanging rocks, I perceive that they are still 
 tinted with a cadaverous green and that the backs of 
 their niches are yet of the reddish colour of dried blood. 
 
 The monolithic temples in the centre were also in 
 those days painted with many colours and tints like the 
 temples of Thebes and Memphis ; whites, yellows, and 
 reds still linger on the more sheltered places. This 
 morning, however, I shall ascend by myself. I wish to 
 be alone. The presence of a sentient being, even so rude 
 and uneducated a one as the goatherd who was with me 
 the night before, would disturb my colloquy with Siva. 
 
 Within there is such a silence as I had foreseen, 
 but I had thought that there would have been more 
 light. It is almost dark in spite of the rising sun, 
 under whose fierce rays the great red plain is already 
 glowing. A little of the freshness which night had 
 left still lingers on, as if imprisoned by these granite 
 walls, but within the secret sanctuary, whose walls 
 have been befouled by the smoky torches of by- 
 gone ages, an eternal gloom surrounds that black 
 pebble, the Lingam, which represents the god of Life 
 and Death with such irony, yet with such perfect truth. 
 
 THE SONG OF FAMINE 
 
 It is especially the little children, poor little skele- 
 tons who look at me with eyes filled with mute wonder 
 at their own sufferings, who sing or wail this song. 
 
 They stand at the entrances of the villages, or in 
 the open places by the roadside, clasping tightly with 
 both hands their hollow bellies, which resemble empty 
 leather wine-bottles, so loosely do the folds of their 
 skin hang down. 
 
 To hear the full blast of this dread song, one must 
 travel about one hundred leagues from the cave of the
 
 170 IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 destroying god, towards the north-west, towards the 
 land of Rajput, where men die by thousands for want 
 of the little rice which no one sends them. 
 
 In this land the forests are dead, the jungle is dead, 
 everything is dead. 
 
 The spring rains, that used to come from the 
 Arabian Sea, have failed for many years past, or they 
 have gone elsewhere, expending themselves uselessly 
 on the deserts of Beloochistan. So the torrents have 
 no more water, the rivers are dried up, and the trees 
 can no longer clothe themselves with leaves. 
 
 It is by the little frequented route of Rutlam and 
 Indore that I journey towards the land of famine, and 
 I am on one of those railways which now furrow 
 India in every direction. The train is almost empty, 
 and the few passengers are all natives. 
 
 For hours an endless succession of forests passes 
 before us, no longer forests of palm trees, but of trees 
 like our own. Indeed, were it not for their extent and 
 for those wild backgrounds, we might fancy ourselves 
 at home. Their delicate branches are of a grayish 
 colour, and the general tint is that of our oak trees in 
 December. Ancient Gaul in late autumn must have 
 looked so ; but it is April and we are in India, and this 
 tropical spring heat, this fiery glow which pours down 
 on the wintry landscape, only serves to plunge our 
 thoughts into a bewildering maze. There is nothing, 
 however, which we see during our first day's journey 
 which seems to point to a pressing want, still we seem 
 possessed by a feeling of something abnormal, of a 
 desolation that cannot be alleviated. Indeed, one 
 might almost fancy oneself to be travelling through a 
 planet of which the end were threateningly nigh. 
 
 Need I say that India, the mother and the cradle of 
 the European race, is a land full of ruins ! The 
 spectres of towns which perished ages and ages ago 
 are to be found almost everywhere, towns whose names 
 are now forgotten, but which were great cities in their 
 day, and which overlooked abysses from their lofty 
 mountain perches. There are ramparts extending for
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 171 
 
 miles, and palaces and temples that are now only the 
 home of monkeys and of snakes. By the side of such 
 ruins, how pitiful our donjon towers, our manor 
 houses, and all the remnants of our feudal age appear ! 
 
 Ruins and forests of the colour of ochre or burnt 
 sienna follow one another all along the line, plunged, 
 till the evening comes, in a shimmering haze of heat. 
 At last the burning sun sets behind the masses of 
 dead vegetation and the ruins of the legendary cities ; 
 but the air is so dust -laden that the glory of the sun 
 is dimmed, and its colour is of that faded rosy hue 
 which we see on a chilly winter's evening. 
 
 Next morning we wake and find ourselves on the 
 boundless jungle. At the first village at which we 
 stop a sound is heard directly the wheels have ceased 
 their noisy clanking a peculiar sound that seems to 
 strike a chill into us even before we have understood 
 its nature. It is the beginning of that horrible song 
 which we shall hear so often now that we have entered 
 the land of famine. Nearly all the voices are those of 
 children, and the sound has some resemblance to the 
 uproar that is heard in the playground of a school, 
 but there is an undefined note of something harsh 
 and weak and shrill which fills us with a sense of pain. 
 
 Oh ! look at the poor little things jostling there 
 against the barrier, stretching out their withered 
 hands towards us from the end of the bones which 
 represent their arms. Every part of their meagre 
 skeleton shows with shocking plainness through the 
 brown skin that hangs in folds about them ; their 
 stomachs are so sunken that one might think that 
 their bowels had been altogether removed. Flies 
 swarm on their lips and eyes, drinking what moisture 
 may still exude. They are almost breathless and 
 nearly lifeless, yet they still stand upright and still 
 can cry. They are hungry, so very hungry, and it 
 seems to them that the strangers who pass by in their 
 fine carriages must be rich, and that they will pity 
 them and throw them something. 
 
 " Maharajah 1 Maharajah ! " all the little voices
 
 172 IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 cry at once in a kind of quivering song. There are 
 some who are barely five years old, and these, too, 
 cry " Maharajah ! Maharajah ! " as they stretch their 
 terribly wasted hands through the barrier. 
 
 The Indians who are travelling in the train are only 
 humble occupants of the third and fourth classes, but 
 they throw what they have, scraps of cake and copper 
 coins, for which the famished children rush like wild 
 beasts, trampling each other under foot. What use 
 can they make of the money ? It seems that there is 
 yet food in the village shops for those who have 
 money to buy it with. Even now there are four 
 wagons of rice coupled to the train behind, and loads 
 pass daily, but no one will give them any, not even a 
 handful, not even the few grains on which they could 
 live for a little while. These wagons are going to the 
 inhabitants of those towns where people still have 
 money and can pay. 
 
 What is it that is stopping us ? Why are we forced 
 to stay so long at this dismal place, where the crowd 
 of the starving swells in size, as every minute passes, 
 the song of their distress becoming fiercer and fiercer ? 
 
 The land around the station is so dry and dusty that 
 the fields which used to be cultivated with rice and 
 other crops merely resemble a desert of ashes. Now 
 the women approach, or rather the skeletons of 
 women, with hanging breasts which look like leather 
 bags. They seem almost exhausted by their efforts, 
 for they, too, have hastened here in the hope of selling 
 the heavy and stinking bundles which they carry on 
 their heads, skins stripped from their cattle which 
 have perished of hunger. But the price of a cow 
 which still shows signs of life has fallen to a quarter 
 of a rupee (about fivepence), for it is impossible to 
 provide food for cattle, and nothing in the world 
 would induce the people of this Brahmin country to 
 eat the flesh. So who wants to buy a stinking hide 
 that swarms with flies ? 
 
 I have already thrown out all the small coins which 
 I have by me, but, my God ! why do not they start ?
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 173 
 
 Oh I the despair of a tiny mite of three or four, from 
 whom a somewhat bigger child has snatched the coin 
 that it held clenched so tightly in its little hand. 
 
 At last the train moves and the outcry dies away. 
 Once more we plunge into the silent jungle, but the 
 jungle is dead, that jungle which ought to swarm with 
 life now that the spring has come. The thickets and 
 the grasses will never be green again, and April has 
 no power to awaken their languishing sap. So, like 
 the forest, the jungle keeps its wintry appearance 
 in spite of the fierce and scorching sun. Here and 
 there we see thin and scared gazelles wandering about, 
 poor beasts that cannot find food, and that do not 
 know where to search for water. Sometimes we see a 
 young branch projecting from the trunk of an old and 
 withered tree, a tiny twig that seems to have collected 
 all the flowing sap, so that it may put forth a few 
 tender leaves, or even a great red flower, which 
 blossoms sadly in the midst of all this desolation. 
 
 At each village where we stop a famished horde 
 watches across the barrier. The song that we so dread 
 to hear, that heart-rending and high-pitched reiteration 
 of the same notes, greets us directly we approach, then 
 it swells, and at last breaks into a despairing wail as 
 we disappear into the parched and desolate wastes. 
 
 VI 
 THE BRAHMINS OF THE TEMPLES OF ODEYPOURE 
 
 About one hundred and fifty miles beyond the 
 dreadful grottos in the north-west direction of ever- 
 increasing drought the white city of Odeypoure, in 
 the land of Meswar, still forms a delicious halting- 
 place on' the famine track, whose traces I have now 
 commenced to follow. 
 
 As we approach, the white masses of the palaces 
 and temples are visible from a great distance, sur- 
 rounded and inclosed on every side by a background 
 of peaked and lofty mountains, the sides of which are 
 clothed with forests.
 
 174 IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 Notwithstanding that the want of rain has changed 
 the green of the leaves to tones of withered brown, and 
 in spite of the sadness of a land whose trees have become 
 bare and yellow in the springtime, the city, as seen 
 from a distance, still retains a privileged and a smiling 
 aspect, standing as it does at the foot of wooded hills 
 that make for it a sort of nest of peace and mystery. 
 
 But as we come nearer the distress is only too pain- 
 fully apparent. Pitiful beggars wander through the 
 avenues of dead trees leading to the gates. I have 
 never seen such creatures elsewhere, and it scarcely 
 seems possible that they are alive. They are but 
 mummies or dried bags of bones that walk abroad, 
 that still have eyes in the depths of their sockets and 
 voices in the depths of their chests with which to ask 
 for charity. They were once labourers in the fields, 
 and they have dragged themselves towards the town 
 because they heard that food is still to be had there. 
 But ofttimes they fall by the roadside, and here and 
 there we see them lying in the dust, which gives a 
 ghastly tint to their nude forms, and which will soon 
 form the shroud of their death-agony. 
 
 Along the avenue we pass an endless succession of 
 sad and silent inclosures belonging to the Maharajah 
 of Odeypoure. Projecting above the walls that sur- 
 round them are the roofs of mausoleums, the ruins 
 of temples, stone and marble kiosks, buildings with 
 cupolas, which have been used for the cremation of 
 dead princes, and great dying trees denuded of leaves, 
 on whose branches monkeys are seated. 
 
 At last we reach the tall and white doors that lead 
 out under the ramparts. These are guarded by 
 Indians armed with naked sabres, and the flood of 
 starving beggary is brought to a standstill as a river 
 by a lock. Here they remain, a dreadful mass of 
 outstretched hands not, indeed, that they are pre- 
 vented from passing through, but city gates have 
 ever been the chosen spot, in all the countries of the 
 world, of those who beg. 
 
 Odeypoure was only founded some three centuries
 
 : 
 
 P? 
 C 
 
 UJ 
 
 C 
 
 
 
 u, 
 
 o 
 
 
 
 w
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 175 
 
 ago (after the destruction of Chitor, 1 the ancient 
 capital of Meswar, whose ruins lie some miles farther 
 towards the east), but the town, wrapped in its shroud 
 of whitewash, has already an air of extreme antiquity. 
 It contains a number of Brahmin temples, filled with 
 white columns and white obelisks, the largest and 
 most sacred of which is the temple dedicated to the 
 god Chri-Jannath-Raijie. Very white, too, those \ 
 great palaces of the Maharajah that stand upon a 
 lofty rock, one side commanding the whole town, the i 
 other reflecting its whiteness in a deep, clear lake, *- 
 which is surrounded by forests and mountains. 
 
 Immediately on my arrival I was able to win the 
 friendship of two young Brahmin brothers, both 
 priests of the great temple. It was their custom to 
 pay me a modest daily visit during those silent and 
 scorching hours when I could no longer leave the little 
 hostelry, which was situated in a lonely and dusty 
 plain outside the walls. Both brothers were clothed 
 in white robes and wore small turbans, both had the 
 same exquisitely refined features, and the same mystic 
 expression illuminated the eyes of each. 
 
 Their noble lineage dates back, without a break or 
 flaw, for two or three thousand years, and they are the 
 children and the great -great -grandchildren of those 
 dreamers who, since the beginning of time, have set 
 themselves apart from our common humanity, in that 
 they have never given themselves up to intemperance, 
 nor mingled either in commerce or in war. They have 
 never slain even the humblest created thing, nor have 
 they eaten anything that has ever lived. It would 
 seem that they are moulded from a different and a 
 purer clay than ours, one that has almost shaken off 
 the trammels of the flesh, even before death has done 
 its work. Their senses, too, must be more acute than 
 ours, more capable of appreciating the things that lie 
 beyond this transitory life. 
 
 Alas ! my hopes of attaining a little wisdom from 
 
 1 Chitor, built in 728, sacked in 1533 by Bahadur, Shah of 
 Guzerat, and finally destroyed in 1 568 by Akbar.
 
 176 IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 them were futile. From generation to generation 
 [ their Brahminism has become obscured by the abuse 
 1 of ritual observances, and they no longer know the 
 hidden meaning of the symbols. 
 
 " The King Chri-Jugat-Singhie, son of Chri-Karan- 
 Singhie, great worshipper of the god we serve, began 
 the construction of our temple in 1684, the year of his 
 accession to the throne. This prince built the other 
 temples on the lake, and twenty years were occupied 
 in the construction of these three buildings. Several 
 princes from the neighbouring countries came in great 
 state, with many elephants, to the ceremony of in- 
 auguration, which took place in 1708, when the image 
 of our god was placed in the sanctuary." 
 
 This history was told me by one of the brothers in 
 the midday silence and shade of the " Travellers' 
 Rest." Its shutters were closed against the sun, the 
 flies, and the parching wind of famine. They are 
 very well informed about the temples of Odeypoure, 
 and all the deities of the Pouran Pantheon, but when 
 I question them about the nature of their eternal hopes, 
 and as to what they can see of the life beyond, they 
 do not know how to answer me in any way that I 
 can understand. We seem accordingly at once to lose 
 touch of each other ; we no longer feel ourselves to 
 be souls bound by a common tie, and a curtain like 
 that of night falls between us. Doubtless they are 
 i seers, as indeed are the majority of priests, but they 
 1 are also simple-minded men who cannot explain 
 themselves. 
 
 The two priests bring me simple presents daily, 
 flowers or modest cakes made in the native fashion. 
 They are gentle and courteous, too, but an abyss 
 seems to separate us, and, mingled with the respect 
 with which they treat me, there is a kind of insur- 
 mountable disdain. For instance, not only would 
 they rather die than partake of the horrible dishes 
 tainted with blood and flesh to which my forefathers 
 have accustomed me, not only would they refuse to 
 take a glass of water from my hands, but even to eat
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 177 
 
 or drink anything in my presence would seem to them 
 a dishonour that nothing could efface. 
 
 This morning they pushed my door ajar a little 
 before their usual hour, letting in a ray of blinding 
 light, clouds of dust, and the breath of a furnace. 
 They came to tell me that this was the day on which 
 their god held festival, and that they would not be at 
 liberty to come back, but that I might find them at 
 sunset in the first inclosure of their temple. 
 
 They left some garlands of jasmine, such as the 
 people of this part wear about their necks during the 
 festivals, but they were made of true French jasmine, 
 a sort that is unknown in the more central parts of 
 India. This was the first time that I had seen the little 
 white flowers threaded into a childish garland since 
 the early summers of my life, since the time when, 
 seated in the shade of the old walls which surrounded 
 the courtyard of my parents' house, I used to delight 
 myself by weaving necklets like those my Indian friends 
 had brought to me. Suddenly the memory of those 
 far-off summers came back to me, once more I saw 
 the foliage hanging from the wall, and all the plants 
 and flowers of that courtyard, which used to represent 
 the world to my childish eyes. Then for a little while 
 the Brahmin land and the city of Odeypoure, with its 
 deities, its sun, and its famine, were blotted from my 
 mind, and seemed to fade into immeasurable distance. 
 
 As the day declined I sought the temple of the god 
 Chri-Jannath-Raijie. 
 
 His temple is white as the freshly fallen snow, and 
 one ascends to it by a monumental staircase of thirty 
 or forty steps, guarded by rows of stone elephants. 
 
 Here in the North of India the Brahmin pyramids 
 no longer resemble those of the South with their 
 madly mingling crowds of divinities and animals : 
 they are more sober, more mysteriously calm, and 
 from a distance resemble those tall, funereal trees 
 that grow in cemeteries. The temple of Chri-Jannath- 
 Raijie is adorned with several of these pyramids, 
 which are white too, white as the fallen snow. 
 
 12
 
 178 IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 As I knew that none but Hindoos of noble caste 
 were allowed to pass within the temple, I stayed in the 
 courtyard and sent a message to my friends. Though 
 they appeared at once, a change seemed to have come 
 over them since we last met in the " Travellers' Rest," 
 and the gulf that separated us had widened even 
 broader. They at once excused themselves for not 
 taking my hand as was their wont, for in the exercise of 
 their priestly office they had to handle sacred things. 
 
 For the first time I saw them nearly naked, as it is 
 usual for priests to be when serving their god. The little 
 cord of the " true sons of Brahma " was looped round 
 their finely shaped bronzed chests, and their dilated 
 eyes had a far-away look which I had not seen before. 
 
 With unvarying courtesy they seated me in a place 
 of honour, at the foot of a copper image of Vishnu, 
 which stood opposite the door of the sanctuary. 
 
 The courtyard of the temple was blocked with flower 
 sellers, whose baskets were filled with necklets of white 
 and yellow jasmine, and with strings of Bengal roses, 
 but amidst all these flowers the spectres of famine 
 wandered in ever-increasing numbers, poor skeletons 
 with fevered eyes and of earthly hue. 
 
 Processions of Brahmins passed before me, ascend- 
 ing or descending the steps of the temple, passing 
 between the great stone elephants that reared their 
 trunks towards the sky from the topmost flight of 
 steps. All the men were clothed in white and wore 
 sabres at their waists, while from their chests several 
 rows of flowers hung down. There were old men whose 
 snowy beards were brushed back after the fashion of 
 Rajput, which makes them look like old white cats ; 
 and many little children, whose legs were hardly long 
 enough to let them climb the stairs, but whose ex- 
 pression, however, was always grave and concerned 
 and who wore the tiaras of velvet and gold, with which 
 their heads are adorned, with much solemnity ; the 
 women were marvellous, draped in the antique style 
 in coloured muslins whose designs were worked in 
 gold, or in black muslins adorned with silver stars,
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 179 
 
 A hollow-sounding music reached us from the depths 
 of the dark and impenetrable temple, and sometimes 
 the noise proceeding from a gigantic tom-tom rumbled 
 amidst the roofs like thunder. Each person, before 
 ascending, stooped down to kiss the lowest step and 
 even those upon the topmost stair turned round to 
 kiss the threshold of the doorway before they left the 
 temple's holy shade. But the spectres of famine were 
 ever at hand, discountenancing the gaily dressed throng 
 with their ghastly nudity. Sometimes they at- 
 tempted to stop the worshippers with their withered 
 hands, clinging to their muslin veils, seeking to extort 
 charity with gestures that were brusque and sudden, 
 like the hands of snatching apes. 
 
 Then the wind rose, as it did each evening at the 
 same hour. It brought, however, no refreshing cool- 
 ness to the burning city, but merely a haze of dust, in 
 which the sun set yellow and dull as the sun of our 
 northern climes. 
 
 In spite of everything the festival continued in the 
 streets till nightfall. People threw whole handfuls of 
 coloured and perfumed powder at each other, till faces 
 and clothes were almost covered, and sometimes there 
 were seen those who emerged from the fray with one 
 side of their faces bedabbled with violet, blue, or red. 
 All the white robes bore the imprint of hands that had 
 been dipped into dyes of brilliant colours the impress 
 of five fingers stamped in rose, in yellow, or in green. 
 
 VII 
 THE ENCHANTED WOOD OF ODEYPOURE 
 
 Three fakirs live in this enchanted wood, their 
 thatched shelter standing close to the roadside at the 
 foot of a hill which mirrors itself in a tranquil lake. 
 Three young men with beautiful regular features, 
 long-haired and nude, powdered from head to foot 
 with dust of a pale gray stone colour. 
 
 All day and every day, at no matter what hour one
 
 i8o IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 passes, the three fakirs are there, seated under the 
 humble shelter which is open on all sides. Their legs 
 are crossed in the posture of Buddha, and they sit 
 motionless on the ground, in front of the waters which 
 reflect the mountains, the dismal forests, and the white 
 palaces of the King of Odeypoure. 
 
 Directly we have passed through the great pointed 
 gates that lie behind the city the silent woods com- 
 mence, woods which climb to the lofty peaks which 
 surround us, so that they may join on to the distant 
 forests and the jungles where the tigers dwell. 
 
 The trees are of medium height, and the bushes, 
 with their slender twigs, are like our own, but both 
 trees and bushes are as leafless as trees and bushes are 
 in France at the end of the autumn. And yet it is 
 springtime here, a tropical spring, and the air is hot 
 and stifling. Overhead is a cloudless and unchanging 
 sky that stretches over the whole of India just as it 
 overhangs these forests. The weather is brilliantly 
 fine, and so it has been for three years past, which 
 is the reason why everything is dying. 
 
 It is astonishing how lovely and calm this shady 
 place has remained, lying, as it does, outside the city 
 gates. All the life seems to congregate towards the 
 other side of the town, and scarcely any one passes 
 along the road which leads in front of the three fakirs 
 who sit in meditation by its side. 
 
 In the woods there are wild boars, monkeys, and a 
 quantity of birds, flights of turtle-doves, and droves 
 of parrots. Flocks of superb peacocks strut up and 
 down among the dead trees, under the grayish bushes 
 and upon the ashy -coloured soil. We see them 
 running along in single file with outstretched tails, 
 the wondrous sheen of which looks like a spurt of 
 green and incandescent metal. All these animals are 
 free and unrestrained, yet their demeanour is not 
 that of wild animals and birds, for in these lands, 
 where they are never slain by man, the idea of flight 
 does not animate them as it does at home. As to the 
 tigers that live on the other slope of the mountain,
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 181 
 
 no living man has ever seen them wandering amidst 
 the thickets of this enchanted wood. 
 
 The first glance that we get of the three stone- 
 coloured men who are seated so motionless by the 
 roadside skirting the edge of the lake is one that fills 
 us with the vague dread of something supernatural. 
 They differ from statues in that their long hair, 
 moustaches, and eyebrows are black, but their eyes 
 are so strangely fixed that we cannot be certain. 
 
 These men are merely fakir novices of about twenty 
 years of age ; fastings and penances have not yet 
 altered their gracious forms, and their legs, which 
 after a while will be withered and contracted into one 
 fixed position, are still plump and almost feminine. 
 The designs in red that are inscribed on the dust- 
 covered foreheads in some way resemble those on the 
 bedabbled faces of clowns, but their expression is so 
 grave that we never think of making the comparison. 
 
 Behind them, under the shelter of the thatch, we can 
 see the orderly and gleaming rows of copper vessels! 
 that serve for their morning ablutions and for their 
 frugal meals. The dead branches stretching above 
 their heads are the chosen resorts of birds. Parrots, 
 turtle-doves, gorgeous peacocks, and the thousand 
 feathered songsters that have been robbed of their 
 living by the long drought, come here to pick up the 
 grains of rice that the three sages have scattered on 
 the ground for them, after their frugal meal. 
 
 The wanderer who stops to speak to the three fakirs 
 is sometimes invited by a gesture or by an absent smile 
 to seat himself under the shelter of their roof, but as 
 the ground has been swept so carefully they beg their 
 guests to remove their shoes before drawing closer. 
 Then their eyes plunge into dreamland again and one 
 is free to depart at will, for they speak no more, nor 
 do they ever seem to see. 
 
 This lake, lying amidst the woods, belongs to the 
 King of Odeypoure, and the palaces and a few old 
 white temples are the only buildings reflected therein. 
 On the two islands in the centre there are more palaces
 
 i82 IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 and walled gardens, but everywhere else the banks are 
 covered by an interlacing thicket of trees and shrubs. 
 On every side the lake is shut in by steep and lofty 
 mountains, whose sides are clothed by dying forests, 
 though we sometimes see the white glitter from a little 
 citadel of olden days, or the reflection from some tiny 
 Brahmin sanctuary perched on a jagged summit, far 
 above the flights of soaring eagles. 
 
 Close by the edge of the water, which grows lower 
 every day, the branches are still tinged with green : 
 everywhere else, no matter where we may look, only 
 the tones of rusty autumn or the chill grays of winter 
 are to be seen. 
 
 To-day I saw one of the fakirs move for the first 
 time. I had gone to the enchanted wood about sun- 
 set at the hour when a thick cloud of smoke always 
 overhung an abandoned house belonging to the Maha- 
 rajah that lay on the opposite shore. It was not smoke, 
 however, but a simple whirlwind of dust raised by the 
 trampling hoofs of wild boars, of which hundreds come 
 every evening to scramble for the maize that is thrown 
 from one of the upper windows by order of the King, 
 since the dead jungle can no longer sustain them. 
 
 Suddenly one of the fakirs rose up and went to look 
 for the mirror, powder, and carmine that were in the 
 shelter behind him ; then, after having again assumed 
 his former cross-legged posture, he whitened his face 
 and carefully painted the sign of Siva on his forehead. 
 No living thing was near, save the peacocks and the 
 turtle-doves, which had begun to cluster on the trees 
 in anticipation of their evening meal. In whose 
 honour, then, can he have made this evening toilette ? 
 
 At last, however, the sound of horses galloping 
 quickly through the trees is heard. It was the King 
 who passed with some thirty of his courtiers on 
 beautiful horses, whose harness flashed with a thou- 
 sand colours. All the horsemen were clothed in 
 white, and long robes enwrapped their slender forms. 
 Their beards and moustaches were worn brushed 
 upwards towards their foreheads after the fashion of
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 183 
 
 Odeypoure, a fashion which gives a cat-like expression 
 to the chiselled bronze features that are at the same 
 time both intellectual and manly. 
 
 The King galloped at the head of the troop. His 
 beard was worn like the beards of the others, but a 
 matchless beauty and distinction graced his features 
 and his bearing. 
 
 As I watched them disappearing through the leafless 
 glades my thoughts were carried back to our own 
 middle ages, and I fancied some prince or duke 
 returning from the chase, followed by his train of 
 knights and barons on the beautiful evening of a 
 century that had long since passed away. 
 
 VIII 
 A VISIT TO A RAJPUT PRINCE 
 
 The stylishly appointed landau which by order of 
 the Maharajah of Odeypoure has fetched me from the 
 " Rest House " gallops up sanded slopes bordered 
 by balustrades and clumps of rose bushes. We are 
 near the shore of the lake on that rock from which the 
 palaces rise in a clustering amphitheatre. Here and 
 there marble elephants are seen emerging from the 
 flowers and foliage. As we sweep up the steep and 
 sharply winding slopes, pulled by two powerful and 
 fiery horses, the horizon rapidly enlarges and the 
 panorama of the enchanted wood and the blue lake 
 studded with its island palaces unfolds itself before us, 
 but it seems as if the wall of forests and mountains, 
 which makes such a mysterious background to every- 
 thing at Odeypoure, were rising with us too. The 
 Maharajah, Prince of Meswar, whose palace I am j 
 about to visit, is descended from the ancient and the 
 most powerful of the royal families of Rajput. He is^ 
 one of the survivors of the " dynasty of the sun." 
 Centuries and centuries before our oldest and most 
 princely European families had emerged from obscurity 
 his ancestors had levied arms to conquer kingdoms 
 or to free queens who had been led into captivity.
 
 1 84 IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 Rama, the founder of the " dynasty of the sun," 
 the hero who attained divinity, had, as we are told 
 in the Ramayana, two sons, the elder of whom es- 
 tablished Lahore. The descendants of the second 
 extended their sway over the people of Rajput to- 
 wards the middle of the second century. However, 
 at the epoch of the great incursion of barbarians from 
 the north in the year 524 all the princes of the family 
 were massacred, the queen only excepted, she being 
 at the time on a pilgrimage. Finding herself pregnant, 
 she took refuge in a cave, where she died in giving 
 birth to a son. The child was adopted by some pious 
 Brahmins, in whose care he was only with difficulty 
 retained, for his royal blood impelled him towards 
 the warlike practices of the Bhils who inhabited the 
 neighbouring mountains. These soon after chose him 
 for their chief, and one of their warriors, after cutting 
 his finger, made a bloody mark on the young man's 
 forehead in token of his sovereignty. About 723 the 
 descendants of the cavern-cradled king established 
 themselves here as sovereigns, and since that time 
 their line has never ceased to reign. Even to-day the 
 custom of marking each successive king on the fore- 
 head is still observed, and the bloody seal is imprinted 
 by the rough hand of a Bhil, in token of the sovereign's 
 rude origin. 
 
 The landau stops in an inner courtyard, planted 
 1 with palm and cypress trees, and here a white-robed 
 officer of the royal household receives me. As is 
 usual in India, the princely establishment consists of 
 several palaces, but the one into which I am first 
 shown is modern, with European drawing-rooms, 
 looking-glasses, sideboards laden with silver, and 
 billiard-rooms, appointments which we had been far 
 from expecting to see in so indigenous a town. 
 
 The Maharajah, however, prefers the ancient dwell- 
 ing-place of his ancestors, and it is there that audience 
 will be granted to me. I must now prepare for it. 
 
 At first we thread our way through a number of 
 little gardens and silent passages, then suddenly, after
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 185 
 
 passing under a tall and pointed archway with doors 
 of wrought copper, we come upon a noisy crowd re- 
 velling in deafening music. We find ourselves in an 
 1 immense courtyard, in a place built for the combats 
 of elephants, a site overlooked on one side by the 
 majestic white fa$ade of the old palace, with its ancient 
 sculptures, its decorations of blue tile, and its golden 
 sun, whilst on the other side, rows of stalls are ranged 
 against the wall, in which chained elephants are 
 placidly chewing their fodder. In the middle three 
 or four hundred men of savage mien Bhils who 
 have come from the mountains for the festival of 
 their god, are holding sticks which they strike one 
 against the other in the manoeuvres of a war dance 
 which is being played for them on bagpipes, horns, 
 huge tom-toms, and cymbals of bronze. Hundreds of 
 women are leaning over a terrace watching this dance 
 a wondrous exhibition of beauties with dark eyes 
 and splendid bosoms veiled in muslin. 
 
 What a number of passages have still to be traversed 
 before the sovereign is reached ! What a number of 
 courtyards, where great scented orange trees are 
 flowering between arcades of white marble ! How 
 many ante-chambers, whose recesses are littered with 
 slippers, and where men, armed with long sabres, are 
 seated in every corner ! There are passages, too, 
 which barely allow us to squeeze by, and dark little 
 staircases of the olden times, hewn from the solid 
 rock, which are so narrow, steep, and slippery as to 
 be almost alarming. As we thread our way through 
 the gloom we encounter endless successions of guards 
 seated amidst the slippers that trail on the ground in 
 every direction. Often, too, horrible divinities glare 
 at us from their hiding-places as we pass by. At last, 
 after having clambered to a great height through the 
 rocks and rooms that are built upon the rocks, a door 
 is reached before which the officer, who has been 
 guiding me, stops respectfully. Then, after saying in 
 a low voice " His Majesty is here," he retires and 
 leaves me to enter alone.
 
 186 IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 I am in a white gallery with marble arches, which 
 overlooks a huge white terrace. On the ground is a 
 linen cloth of snowy whiteness. There are no attend- 
 ants present, and in the whole extent of this fresh, 
 airy, and spotless little desert there is no furniture 
 save two gilt chairs that are placed in the centre. In 
 the figure that stands there, alone and upright with 
 outstretched hands, I recognize the horseman whom I 
 saw the other evening, the one for whom the fakirs 
 made their toilette. Now, however, he is clothed in a 
 simple white robe with a necklace of sapphires. 
 
 Now that we have seated ourselves with becoming 
 ceremony on the light gilt chairs, an interpreter, who 
 has entered noiselessly, places himself behind me. 
 Each time that he speaks he holds a napkin of white 
 silk before his mouth, so that his breath may not 
 annoy his lord a useless precaution, however, for his 
 teeth are white and his breath is sweet. 
 
 This silent prince, so rarely accessible to strangers, 
 possesses both charm and grace, together with an ex- 
 quisite courtesy that is tinged with a certain shyness, 
 the kind of timidity that I have sometimes noticed in 
 very great aristocrats. At first he deigns to ask if I 
 have been well treated in his country, and if I like the 
 horses and carriage that he had sent for me the 
 usual trivialities of a tentative conversation between 
 persons who are separated from each other by differ- 
 ence of race and diversity of opinion. Afterwards, when 
 the conversation turns on European affairs and on the 
 countries which I have just left, and on Persia, whither 
 I am so soon to go, I can perceive how many thoughts, 
 that would be curious alike to both of us, we might 
 interchange did not so many barriers stand in the way. 
 
 Now, however, some one comes to remind the prince 
 that this is the hour of his evening ride in the en- 
 chanted forest where the fakirs dwell. To-day he 
 proposes to ride round the shores of the lake as far as 
 the house where the wild boars assemble daily. 
 Serving-men with large Oriental parasols were already 
 in attendance, so that he might be sheltered as he
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 187 
 
 passed along the terraces on his way to join the knights 
 and barons who are even now waiting in the saddle. 
 Before dismissing me he is kind enough to give orders 
 that the unfinished palace which he is building shall 
 be shown, and that a boat should be in readiness to 
 take me to the island palaces of the olden times. 
 
 It would seem then that even in these days of 
 change there are still Indian princes who plan dwell- 
 ings such as their forefathers dreamt of in the bygone 
 days of splendour. 
 
 The new palace is perched loftily on a flat and 
 circular space that juts out upon the lake. It is com- 
 posed of a number of white halls and white kiosks, 
 almost covered with festoons, and traceries of stone 
 and marble, so placed as to overlook the varied aspects 
 of the lake. A sumptuous staircase, lined by elephants 
 of stone, leads down to the waters which lie em- 
 bosomed amidst high and savage mountains and 
 gloomy virgin forests. Within, mosaics of glass and 
 porcelain deck the walls. In one room there are 
 sprays of roses, each flower of which is made from 
 porcelains of twenty different colours ; in another 
 room, aquatic plants, water-lilies, herons, and king- 
 fishers. One room has just been finished. Here 
 rose-coloured lotus flowers wander over the moss- 
 green walls in a simple, antique, and formal design, 
 which reminds us of what we call " the new art." In 
 the middle of this room there is a crystal bedstead, 
 with satin cushions of the same tone of green as the 
 walls and velvet mattresses that match the rosy 
 colour of the lotus flowers. I step into the boat that 
 is waiting for me near an old Brahmin temple that 
 lies amidst the trees, a temple so dilapidated that it 
 seems ready to crumble into the water through which 
 we row towards the isles. The usual evening wind 
 has already risen, the wind that daily strews the land 
 of Rajput with dust and de^.th. On the lake, how- 
 ever, it becomes fresh and pure and but flecks the 
 waters round us with tiny blue waves. 
 
 We first touch the smaller of the two islands. The
 
 i88 IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 palace on this island is barely one hundred years old. 
 How secluded and shut in it is ! For my part, I 
 should have thought that it was sufficiently isolated 
 by the deep waters which surround it. There are 
 little gardens surrounded by mosaic-covered walls, 
 now overgrown by rank weeds, thickets of brambles, 
 inextricable tangles of vegetation, and great tufted 
 bunches of mallow flowers. There are labyrinths of 
 low, dark rooms, decorated with mosaics or with fast 
 fading paintings. These rooms are so constructed that 
 freshness and shade might be enjoyed at all times of 
 the day. Here, too, the kings of bygone times could 
 meditate before an everchanging prospect, inclosed 
 and melancholy gardens, wild and distant horizons, 
 the forests where the tigers dwelt, or the fairyland of 
 white palaces that rose on the opposite shore. Oh ! 
 who can say what strange dramas or what lingering 
 agonies these little rooms have seen, these little de- 
 serted rooms, now slowly mouldering in the damp 
 emanations of the lake ! Sometimes we see curios 
 that stand in dark and gloomy niches in the walls, 
 trifles that came from Europe, things which must 
 have been valued here a hundred years ago, old- 
 fashioned porcelains, Dresden figurines in the cos- 
 tumes of the time of Louis XVI, artificial flowers in 
 Empire vases. . . . Who were the queens and who were 
 the young princesses who received these fragile 
 presents, who shut them up so carefully, and who 
 have passed away leaving them behind ? 
 
 The palaces of the larger island, which we now 
 visit, were built by a glorious potentate who lived 
 about three hundred years ago. They are more 
 extensive and elaborate, but even in a more advanced 
 stage of ruin than those on the other island. The 
 huge landing-place, the white steps of which are partly 
 submerged in the water, is ornamented by great 
 elephants of stone that seem to be stationed there to 
 await the arrival of the boats. The mournful gardens 
 are as much shut in as those of the neighbouring 
 island, but their walls are more elaborately inlaid with
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 189 
 
 mosaics and much more richly sculptured. The great 
 branched palm of the South is found here, but it does 
 not grow naturally, and it can only be seen near the 
 abodes of princes. The air is deliciously scented by 
 groves of orange trees, the flowers of which are strewn 
 like a coating of hoar-frost over the ground and over 
 the dead leaves which lie thick upon it. It is already 
 late as we reach the palace, and the sun has sunk 
 behind the steep and tall mountains that enshroud 
 the lake with a primitive twilight. Now is the hour 
 when the parrots roost, and I notice that they have 
 chosen the branches of these jealously guarded orange 
 trees for their resting-place. We see them arriving 
 in flocks from the enchanted wood in little green 
 clouds, clouds of a green more vivid than that of the 
 fading leaves, for even at the water's edge everything 
 has commenced to turn yellow, and the wintry tints 
 of the surrounding forests will soon be universal. The 
 wind that bears famine and drought on its wings blows 
 ever more strongly, and amidst the ruins of this 
 lonely isle the evening seems instinct with an almost 
 menacing melancholy. 
 
 IX 
 THE BEAUTIFUL ROSE-COLOURED CITY 
 
 I have journeyed a hundred leagues farther north, 
 but since leaving Odeypoure desert has followed upon 
 desert, and the whole land seems accursed. The 
 remains of what were once villages, jungles, and 
 cultivated fields have disappeared under a sad and 
 monotonous winding-sheet of white-coloured ash that 
 looks as if it had been strewn there by some immense 
 volcano. At last, after passing through this land of 
 desolation, we came upon a city which seemed full of 
 Oriental glow and charm. The avenues leading to 
 the crenelated walls and arched gateways of the city 
 are thronged by white-robed cavaliers, by women 
 wrapped in long red and yellow veils, by ox carts, 
 and by strings of camels decked in gay accoutrements.
 
 igo IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 Surely the times of plenty could not show a more 
 dazzling display of life and colour ! 
 
 But what can be the meaning of those miserable 
 heaps of rags lying at the foot of the ramparts ? 
 There are human shapes hidden under them. What 
 can all these people be doing on the ground ? Are 
 they ill, or are they drunk ? Ah ! these are heaps of 
 bones, or the withered and mummified carcasses of 
 the dead. No, it cannot be that, for there are some 
 who still move, their eyelids tremble and they can see, 
 and there are some who can even stand on the totter- 
 ing bones that serve as legs. 
 
 After we have passed the first gate another is seen, 
 cut through an inner wall which is painted in rose 
 colour up to its jagged crests, a bright rose colour so 
 regularly flecked with white flowers as to resemble a 
 piece of chintz. The tatters of humanity are there 
 also, but the dark forms wallowing in the dust look 
 more frightful close to the charming rose colour of the 
 flower-spangled wall. They look like skeletons with 
 leather overdrawn, and their bones stand out with 
 horrible precision. Elbows and knee-caps make great 
 swellings like the knots upon a stick, and the thighs, 
 which have only one bone, are thinner than the legs, 
 which have two. Some are grouped in families, but 
 others are abandoned and alone ; some lie extended 
 on the ground, almost at the point of death, whilst the 
 rest sit huddled in crouching attitudes of stupid immo- 
 bility, with grinning teeth and eyes which sparkle with 
 fever. In one corner a fleshless old woman, who appears 
 to be alone in the world, weeps silently upon her rags. 
 
 What an enchanting surprise awaits us as we pass 
 through the second gate and behold the interior of the 
 town ! 
 
 What an astonishing and kingly caprice it must 
 have been that planned a whole rose-coloured city, 
 where all the houses, ramparts, palaces, towers, bal- 
 conies and temples are of one colour, evenly diapered 
 with similar posies of white flowers. One might almost 
 think that all the walls had been hung with an antique
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 191 
 
 chintz of floral design, or that the town had been hewn 
 out of onyx in the style of the old cameos of the 
 eighteenth century. It is so different from anything 
 that we have seen elsewhere, and the whole effect is 
 one of complete and charming improbability. 
 
 There are streets laid out in straight lines, some 
 almost a mile long and twice as broad as our boule- 
 vards. These are flanked by high palaces, the facades 
 of which display an endless succession of Oriental 
 fantasies. I have never seen such extravagant luxury 
 of superposed colonnades, of festooned arches, towers, 
 windows, and balconies. All, too, of the same tint, a 
 rosy tint whose colour is that of a flower or of an old 
 silk, and even the tiniest moulding or the tiniest 
 arabesque is outlined by a white thread graven in relief. 
 It almost looks as if a delicate tracery of white lace had 
 been nailed over the pieces of sculpture. On the flat 
 surfaces, however, the decoration which resembles 
 chintz with old-fashioned posies is again to be seen. 
 
 A seething crowd fills the whole length of the streets 
 with a dazzling and ever-changing play of colour. 
 Each side of the pavement is encumbered by mer- 
 chants who have spread out their wares of cloth, 
 copper, and arms on the ground before them. Wan- 
 dering amongst the crowd are busy throngs of women, 
 who are decked in muslins emblazoned with all manner 
 of fantastic designs, whose naked arms are encircled 
 with bracelets which go right up to their shoulders. 
 
 In the middle of the street there is an unending 
 procession of armed horsemen bestriding gorgeous 
 saddles, of heavy carts drawn by zebus with painted 
 horns, of long strings of camels, and of elephants with 
 gilded robes whose trunks have been ornamented with 
 complicated networks of coloured patterns. Drome- 
 daries, on which two people ride one behind the other, 
 also pass by with ambling gait and outstretched necks 
 like those of running ostriches. Nude fakirs, covered 
 with white powder from head to foot, walk past, and 
 palanquins and chairs that are borne on men's 
 shoulders are carried along ; an Oriental fairyland
 
 192 IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 parading in all its splendour in a setting of rosy 
 magnificence inconceivable in its beauty. 
 
 Servants lead tamed cheetahs belonging to the King 
 through the streets. These are led on slips so that 
 they may become accustomed to crowds. They wear 
 little embroidered caps tied under their chins with a 
 bow, and they pace along, putting down each velvet 
 paw with infinite precaution as though stepping over 
 eggs laid on the ground. . . . For greater security 
 they are also held by their ringed tails, and four 
 attendants always walk behind. But there are also 
 many hideous vagrants graveyard spectres like 
 those lying at the rampart gates. For these have 
 actually dared to enter the rose-coloured city and to 
 drag their skeletons through the streets. There are 
 more of them than I should have thought possible. 
 Nor are those who wander tottering and with haggard 
 eyes through the streets the only ones. There are 
 horrible heaps of rags and bones lying on the pave- 
 ments hidden amongst the gay booths of the mer- 
 chants, and people have to step aside so as not to tread 
 upon them. These phantoms are peasants who used 
 to live in the surrounding districts. They have 
 struggled against the droughts which have brought 
 destruction to the land, and their long agony is im- 
 printed on their incredibly emaciated bodies. Now all 
 is over ; their cattle have died because there was no 
 more grass, and their hides have been sold for a mere 
 trifle. The fields which they have sown are only 
 steppes of dusty earth where nothing can grow, and 
 they have even sold their rags and the silver rings 
 that they used to wear on their arms and ankles so 
 that they might buy food. They starved for months, 
 till at last famine definitely appeared, hideous famine 
 which filled the villages with the reek of a charnel- 
 house. 
 
 They are hungry and they wish to eat, that is why 
 they have come into the city. They thought that 
 people would take pity on them, and would not let 
 them die, and they had heard that food and grain were
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 193 
 
 stored here, as if to resist a siege ; they had heard, too, 
 that every one in the city had something to eat. 
 
 Even now carts and strings of camels are constantly 
 bringing sacks or rice and barley that the King has 
 procured from distant lands, and people are piling 
 them up in the barns, or even on the pavements, in 
 dread of the famine which threatens the beautiful 
 city on every side. 
 
 But though there is food it cannot be had without 
 money. It is indeed true that the King gives food to 
 the poor who dwell in his capital, but, as to helping the 
 peasants who die by thousands in the surrounding 
 fields, how can that be done if there is not a sufficiency ? 
 So all heads are turned aside from the poor wretches 
 who wander through the streets, and who haunt the 
 places where people eat, still hoping that a few grains 
 of rice may be thrown to them, till at length the time 
 comes when they must lie down anywhere, even on the 
 stones of the street, to wait for death's deliverance. 
 
 At this very moment they are piling hundreds of 
 sacks, which the camels have brought, on to the pave- 
 ments : room cannot be found in the barns so three 
 starved and naked children, whose ages range from 
 five to ten years, must be driven from the place where 
 they had sought a rest. 
 
 A woman who is standing by tells us that they are 
 three brothers and that their parents, who brought 
 them here, are dead (of hunger, I suppose) : that is 
 why they are here, and they stay because they have 
 nowhere else to go. 
 
 The woman appears to see nothing unusual in all 
 this, yet she does not seem heartless or unkind. My 
 God 1 what sort of folk are these ? What can be the 
 material from which the souls of these people are 
 fashioned ? people who would not kill a bird, but 
 who feel no compunction when little children are left 
 to die upon their doorsteps ? 
 
 The tiniest of the three children seems to be almost 
 dead, for he is motionless and has no longer strength 
 enough to drive away the flies that cling to his closed 
 13
 
 I 9 4 IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 eyelids : his belly is so empty that it resembles the 
 carcass of an animal that has been drawn for cooking, 
 and he has dragged himself along the ground so long 
 that at last his hip bones have rubbed through the skin. 
 
 But they must move on elsewhere so that there may 
 be room for the sacks of grain that have been brought 
 here. The tallest of them gets up and takes the little 
 child tenderly to his bosom, and after giving a hand 
 to the other brother, who can still walk, he silently 
 moves away. 
 
 The eyes of the little one open for a moment. Oh ! 
 what a look of unspeakable anguish is written on the 
 face of this innocent martyr ! what an expression of 
 reproach, of astonishment, of surprise that any one 
 could be so unhappy, and be left to linger in such 
 suffering ! But the dying eyes are soon closed ; the 
 flies return to settle there, and the poor little head falls 
 back on the wasted shoulder of the elder brother. 
 
 With a wonderful look of resignation and childish 
 dignity the small elder brother totters forward with his 
 charges, but he neither murmurs nor sheds a tear, for 
 is he not now the head of the family ? Then after 
 having made sure that he is far enough off not to be 
 in the way, he lays his brothers very gently on the 
 ground and stretches himself out by their side. 
 
 The wonderful luxury of the city attains its most 
 curious effects in the open space from which the 
 principal streets diverge. There the pyramids of the 
 Brahmin temples are coloured pink up to their ex- 
 tremities, and, rising through flights of black crows 
 into the dusky sky, give us the impression of rosy yew 
 trees dotted with flowers. The fa$ade of the king's 
 palace is also rose, overlaid with white flowers : this 
 building even surpasses in height the fronts of our 
 cathedrals, and is composed of an endless repetition 
 of kiosks placed one above the other. Each kiosk is 
 like the one below it, and each has the same colonnades, 
 the same lattice-work and the same complicated domes, 
 whilst on the topmost pinnacles are royal standards 
 whose coloured bannerets flap in the parching wind.
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 195 
 
 Rose are the palaces, rose are the houses lining the 
 streets that lead on all sides into the dusty distances. 
 
 In the central square the crowds are more animated 
 and more noisy, and many jewels sparkle amidst the 
 dazzling diversities of colour that the revellers wear. 
 The spectres of famine are more numerous, too 
 especially the shadowy forms of little children who are 
 drawn hither by the smell of the rice-cakes and the 
 sweets of honey and sugar that are being cooked in 
 the middle of the open space. Of course, no one gives 
 them away, but they stay on all the same, their dilated 
 eyes sparkling with a fevered longing, even though 
 they can hardly stand on their trembling legs. 
 
 And the invasion of these hunger-smitten ones in- 
 creases rapidly. It is like a ghastly tide that flows 
 from the country towards the town, and the roads 
 leading across the plains are strewn with the corpses 
 of those who have died before reaching the city gates. 
 
 A woman has just stopped to beg at the stall of a 
 bracelet-seller, who is even now eating hot and 
 savoury pancakes. The woman is a mere spectre, who 
 clasps to her bony bosom and withered breasts the 
 skeleton of a child. No, the trader will give her no- 
 thing ; he does not even deign to look at her. Then 
 the mother, whose breasts are dried up and whose 
 child must die, flies into fury and the cry of a maddened 
 she-wolf hurls itself forth through her unclenched 
 teeth. She is quite young, and was doubtless beauti- 
 ful ; youth still glimmers in her ravaged cheeks, indeed 
 she is almost a child and can hardly have seen more 
 than sixteen years. But at last she understands that 
 no one will take pity on her and that she is doomed. 
 Then her despairing wail rises into the yell of a 
 hunted beast that knows that its pursuers are at hand. 
 Meanwhile the huge and pampered elephants walk 
 past with heavy tread, munching the costly forage 
 which has been brought from distant lands. 
 
 The outcries of the crows which swarm in thousands 
 on the roofs and in the air can ever be heard rising 
 above the clamouring of the crowd. This eternal and
 
 196 IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 perpetual croaking, that dominates all other Indian 
 sounds, here swells into a mighty crescendo, into a 
 scream of delirious ecstasy, for the times of famine, 
 when the odour of death is rife in the land, are the 
 times of plenty for the crows, the vultures, and the 
 flies. 
 
 It is now time to feed the royal crocodiles that live 
 in the shadow of high-walled gardens. 
 
 The kingly palace is almost a world in itself, with 
 its endless dependencies, its stables for elephants and 
 for horses. In order to reach the artificial lake where 
 the crocodiles are to be found, we must pass through 
 many doors bristling with iron, and through many 
 courtyards broad as those of the Louvre. All these 
 courtyards are flanked by sullen-looking buildings 
 whose windows are barred with iron. Naturally, their 
 walls are painted in rose colour and scattered over with 
 nosegays of white flowers. To-day these quarters are 
 crowded, and the roll-call is being read out. It is 
 pay-day, and soldiers of barbaric aspect and superb 
 bearing are waiting with standards and lances in their 
 hands. They are paid in heavy coins of the olden 
 time, in round pieces of silver or in squares of bronze. 
 
 We pass through a marble hall, with arches and 
 columns sculptured into arabesques. Here a cloth of 
 purple is stretched over a gigantic loom, and dozens 
 of workmen are occupied in covering the surface with 
 raised flowers of gold embroidery. This is only a new 
 trapping for one of the favourite elephants. 
 
 The gardens, by dint of laborious watering, have 
 been kept almost green, so that they seem a wondrous 
 oasis in the midst of the parched land. A crested wall, 
 some fifty feet in height, incloses vast and park-like 
 slopes over which a gentle melancholy broods. There 
 are cypresses and palms and little woods of orange 
 trees and many roses that load the air with fragrance. 
 There are marble seats where one may rest in the 
 shade, kiosks of marble, built for the pleasaunces of 
 bayaderes, and marble basins where princes may 
 bathe. There are peacocks and monkeys, and oc-
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 197 
 
 casionally the furtive muzzles of jackals peer out from 
 under the orange trees. 
 
 At last we reach the formidable walls which sur- 
 round the great pond, and at once see that its waters 
 have almost disappeared through the long drought. 
 Enormous old crocodiles, that look like rocks, slumber 
 in the mud. Soon, however, a white-haired old man 
 advances and stations himself on the steps leading 
 down to the water's brink, singing as he walks in the 
 high falsetto voice of a muezzin calling to prayer, and 
 as he sings he waves his arms as if to call the slumber- 
 ing reptiles. Then the crocodiles awake, and their 
 first slow and indolent movement gives way to a fear- 
 ful agility and suppleness of motion. They approach 
 quickly, swimming across the pond, accompanied by 
 great greedy tortoises who have also heard the call 
 and wish to be fed too. All now form a circle at the 
 foot of the steps on which the old man stands with his 
 serving-men, who carry baskets of meat. The livid 
 and viscous jaws now distend cavernously in readiness 
 to swallow the goat's flesh, the legs of mutton, and the 
 lungs and entrails which are thrown to them. 
 
 Yet outside in the streets no one, with muezzin's 
 call, summons the starving to come and be fed. Those 
 who have just arrived still wander about with out- 
 stretched hands, tapping, should any one chance to 
 look their way, upon their hollow bellies. The rest, 
 who have lost all hope, lie down anywhere, even under 
 the feet of the crowd and in the track of the horses. 
 
 A French stranger has ordered his carriage to stop 
 at a crossing where two of the avenues of rosy palaces 
 and temples join, a spot much thronged by merchants, 
 horsemen, and women in gay muslins. Here he 
 alights and advances towards one of these dreadful, 
 inert heaps of starving human beings and stoops down 
 to place pieces of money into their lifeless hands. 
 
 Immediately it is as though a horde of mummies 
 had suddenly risen from the dead. Heads emerge 
 from the rags that covered the heap, and withered and 
 bony forms rise slowly from the ground. " What !
 
 ig8 IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 He is giving money ! we can buy something to eat ! " 
 The ghastly resurrection suddenly extends to other 
 heaps lying hidden behind the piles of merchandise, 
 the crowds and the furnaces of the pastrycooks, for 
 they seethe and stir and grovel on the ground. Then 
 a swarm of phantoms advances with faces of dead men, 
 with horrible, grinning teeth, with eyes whose lids 
 have been eaten away by the flies, with breasts that 
 hang like empty bags on their hollow chests, and with 
 bones which rattle as they walk. Instantly the 
 stranger is encircled by these spectres of the charnel- 
 house. They throng round him, they seize on his 
 clothes, and try to snatch the money from his hands 
 with finger-nails which look like claws. And all the 
 while their poor pleading eyes seem to ask pardon 
 and forgiveness for their importunity. 
 
 Then silently the phantoms melt away. One of the 
 spectres who was too weak to stand tottered and fell, 
 causing the spectre nearest to him to fall also. This 
 one in his fall brought others to the ground, but as 
 each one in tumbling over clung to his neighbour, all 
 gradually collapsed, fainting and exhausted, into the 
 dust, from which they had no longer strength to rise, 
 like a troupe of marionettes or like a set of ninepins 
 that are bowled over. 
 
 Now the sound of approaching music is heard, and 
 I can see an agitated crowd. It is a religious procession 
 that has been sent out to announce that a festival will 
 be held on the morrow in the Temple of Brahma. 
 One of the attendants, whose duty it is to keep the 
 road clear, notices that an old woman has fallen on her 
 face into the roadway, so he picks her up and throws 
 her back on to the pavement out of the way, where 
 she lies bruised and groaning. 
 
 The passing procession is one of great beauty. A 
 black elephant, ornamented with designs in gold, leads 
 the way ; behind him musicians walk, playing a solemn 
 air in the minor mode on their bagpipes and their 
 copper instruments. 
 
 Then four gray elephants advance, bearing on their
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 199 
 
 backs young men adorned like gods. These graceful 
 youths wear tall tiaras on their heads, and throw per- 
 fumed and coloured powders over the people standing 
 beneath them. These powders are so light and subtle 
 that it almost looks as if they were scattering clouds. 
 Gradually, too, the colours of green, violet, yellow, 
 and orange settle on the elephants and tinge them with 
 strange fantastic tones. The joyous youths throw the 
 scented dust by handfuls, and the robes and turbans 
 of the crowd are coloured at their will. Even the 
 little, starving children, who look up from the ground 
 on which they lie, are covered with the sandal -scented 
 powder, and often their eyes are filled, for the motions 
 of their enfeebled hands are too slow to shield them. 
 
 Now the day suddenly declines and a universal 
 pallor seems to irradiate from the rose-coloured walls. 
 Overhead the sky is blue, but the air is so charged with 
 dust that the moon looks wan. Flocks of black- 
 winged birds swoop down to roost, and crows and 
 pigeons nestle so closely together on the cornices that 
 the rosy palaces are outlined by strings of sombre hue. 
 Vultures and eagles still swoop in wheeling circles 
 through the air, and the monkeys, who live freely on the 
 house-tops, grow lively as the night comes, and chase 
 each other with nimble feet : strange little shadows 
 running with lifted tails along the edges of the roofs. 
 
 Below, the streets grow empty, for there is no 
 night life in Eastern cities. 
 
 One of the tame cheetahs, who is on her way back 
 to the palace to sleep, has seated herself on her 
 haunches near the corner of a street. Just now she is 
 on her best behaviour and with her cap all awry wears 
 an expression of well-fed contentment. Her attend- 
 ants have seated themselves in like fashion around 
 her, though one of them still holds her by the tail. 
 The cheetah's mystic eyes of pale green jade are fixed 
 on some of the starving children who lie panting on 
 the ground, only a few steps away from her. 
 
 The merchants hasten to fold up their many- 
 coloured stuffs and to pack their plates, vases, and
 
 200 IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 vessels of copper into baskets. Then they retire to 
 their houses, leaving more heaps of starving wretches, 
 who had been hidden amidst their gay merchandise, 
 exposed to view. Soon these will be the only human 
 beings to be seen, and during the night they will be 
 the masters of the pavement. 
 
 Gradually the heaps of death-smitten wretches be- 
 come more clearly denned, and they are more numerous 
 than I could have fancied. The square becomes de- 
 serted, and these rigid forms and hideous heaps of 
 rags will soon be left to the loneliness of the night. 
 
 In the deserted country outside the city walls all 
 the trees swarm with life in this twilight hour. Eagles, 
 vultures, and splendid peacocks flock there in troops, 
 each forming a little colony on the slender and leaf- 
 less branches. Gradually their outcry ceases, and the 
 stillness is only broken by intermittent calls which 
 soon become less frequent. The complaining voices 
 of the peacocks still linger in the evening air ; then, 
 as night comes on, the mournful cries of jackals take 
 up the song. It is ten o'clock, a late hour for the city 
 whose life almost ceases with the day. The country 
 around has become exquisitely silent. A mist seems 
 to veil the distance, but it is only the dust rising from 
 the parched sand. The pale moonlight glistens on the 
 white and dusty ground, the dead trees, and thorny 
 cactus plants. Night has brought a sudden chill, and 
 we seem to see the snows of winter. How cold it will 
 be for the poor children who are lying naked and 
 starving on the ground ! The silence of the desert 
 has now penetrated within the walls, and nothing can 
 be heard but the rumbling of muffled music issuing 
 from the depths of the Brahmin temples. A few 
 white-robed men still move up and down the lofty 
 staircases, which are flanked by elephants of stone. 
 No one else can be seen, and the streets are quite 
 deserted those long, straight streets that seemed 
 broader and larger now that they are no longer 
 thronged with people and equipages. The beauty 
 of the palaces, and their fretted windows, seem even
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 201 
 
 more imposing in the calm moonlight, and the rose- 
 coloured city is still rosy in the whiteness of the moon. 
 
 But the black and sinister heaps are still there, 
 those horrible piles of panting rags, those starving 
 herds which have collapsed by the side of the sacks of 
 corn that have been piled hastily on the pavement, 
 and which are now being guarded by men armed with 
 bludgeons. 
 
 Now we are able to see many niches of stone that 
 were hidden during the day by the teeming multitudes. 
 Each one shelters a god, maybe the elephant -headed 
 Ganesa, or maybe Siva, the king of Death, but each 
 idol is decked with flowers, and each has his little lamp 
 which will burn till dawn comes. 
 
 Soon the heaps of rags become transformed into 
 dark shapeless masses, patches of black which befleck 
 the rosy gray of the enchanted city ; but ever and anon 
 a cough or a groan may be heard, and sometimes a 
 leg or an arm protrudes from the ragged heap and 
 stretches itself quiveringly into the air. To those 
 who lie on the ground what matters the joyous day, 
 the calm night, or the radiant dawn ? No one will 
 pity them ; they have lost all hope, and they know 
 that their weary heads must remain where they have 
 fallen, and that they have naught to expect but the 
 last pangs which will end all. 
 
 THE TERRACE ON WHICH THE COUNCILS WERE 
 HELD BY MOONLIGHT 
 
 The pale, full moon that hangs in the twilight sky 
 has not yet commenced to shed its wan light over the 
 masses of ruins that stretch out beneath my feet, and 
 though the sun has sunk behind the mountains more 
 than an hour ago, these ruins are still irradiated by its 
 yellow glow. I am stationed on the lofty terraces of 
 the dwelling of the ancient kings, a sort of formidable 
 and unapproachable eyrie standing in the midst of 
 a great abandoned town. Once it was filled with
 
 202 IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 priceless treasures, but now it is empty, save for the 
 few serving-men who have charge of it. 
 
 I am already at a great height, and if I lean over 
 the luxuriantly carved granite slabs that serve as 
 balustrades to these terraces, I overlook abysses, at 
 the bottom of which lie the remains of houses, temples, 
 mosques, and other splendours. I am already at a 
 great height, and yet I am overlooked on all sides, for 
 the rocks on which the palace is built stand encircled 
 by mountains that are still more lofty. Around me 
 are great pointed peaks of reddish stone rising almost 
 vertically into the air, whose topmost summits are 
 crested by ramparts, the jagged edges of which are 
 outlined against the yellow sky. The towering wall is 
 one of those ancient works whose audacity and 
 enormity fill us with perplexity, for it is built of huge 
 blocks poised on almost inaccessible mountain peaks, 
 and it incloses a circle of several miles. It seems, too, 
 to rise so loftily and with such confidence into the air 
 that I can hardly look at it without a feeling of giddi- 
 ness. Surely the people of olden times could hardly 
 have imagined a more wonderful defence for the now 
 decayed city and the palace where I am standing, for 
 they have transformed the summits of the whole 
 encircling chain of mountains into one huge fortress. 
 And there is but one entrance into the forbidden circle, 
 a sort of natural cleft, through which I can see distant 
 deserts that look as if they had been ravaged by fire. 
 
 The sun was declining as I set out for the ancient 
 capital of Amber, whose ruins now lie beneath my 
 feet, a capital replaced nearly two centuries ago by the 
 town of Jeypore, which I have lately quitted. I was 
 accompanied by guides and horses, placed at my dis- 
 posal by the Maharajah of the beautiful rosy city, the 
 successor of the kings who formerly inhabited this 
 palace of Amber, on whose terraces I now stand. I had 
 hastened to make my escape from the fairy splendours 
 and the Dantesque horrors of Jeypore, and was glad to 
 reach the open plains, where at least all the agonies 
 would be over and the silence of death would reign.
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 203 
 
 Yet I knew through what regions of terror I should 
 have to pass directly I left the rampart gates : it would 
 be like a battlefield over which a conquering enemy 
 had long since swept. Withered corpses would lie in 
 the parching sun, and these corpses would breathe, 
 and some even would be able to rise and follow me or 
 seize me with their poor bony hands in supreme and 
 despairing appeal. 
 
 Yes, indeed, I found all that awaiting me. 
 
 Amongst the dreadful heaps of bones and rags were 
 many old women whose descendants had probably 
 perished of hunger : abandoned grandmothers who 
 lay there, calmly waiting for their turn to come. 
 They did not beg, nor even move, though their great 
 eyes expressed an infinitude of despair. Above their 
 heads multitudes of crows, perched on the branches 
 of the dead trees, were keeping anxious watch until 
 the time should come. 
 
 But children were even more numerous than on the 
 previous days. Oh ! the little faces that seemed 
 astonished at so much misery and destitution, and 
 that looked at us so appealingly from the ground. 
 We got down and stopped before some of the most 
 emaciated, though we could not stop before them all, 
 for they were legion. Poor, little, weary heads, 
 attached to skeletons that could no longer support 
 them. We lifted them up gently, but they fell back 
 confidingly into our arms, and the eyes closed as if 
 they would sleep under our protection. Sometimes 
 we see that the succour we have brought comes too 
 late, but often the tiny spectres get up and take the 
 piece of money that we have given them to the 
 merchants who sell rice. 
 
 My God ! It would cost so little to keep these 
 infants from starvation ! The frugal nourishment of 
 an Indian costs about three half-pence a day. 
 
 After issuing from the rosy gates we had to pass 
 through two miles of ruins before the open country 
 was reached. The gardens that adjoined the road 
 were filled with dead trees and with interminable suites
 
 204 IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 of cupolas and carved stone kiosks, now only in- 
 habited by monkeys, crows, and vultures. The out- 
 skirts of all the towns of this country resemble each 
 other in that they are crowded with burying-places 
 and with vast relics of former civilizations. 
 
 It is needless to say that there are no signs of cultiva- 
 tion, and that no living person can be seen in the 
 villages, which swarm with flies. 
 
 When at last we reached the foot of the mountains, 
 it seemed as if the regions of reddish stone in which 
 we found ourselves were heated by some artificial 
 means. Even in the shade each gust of dry and dusty 
 wind seemed like a breath of flame. The only vegeta- 
 tion of this neighbourhood consisted of great plants 
 of dead cactus. These still remained standing, and all 
 the surrounding rocks bristled with their thorny spears. 
 My two guides rode on horseback with bucklers by their 
 sides, carrying their lances erect, just as the soldiers of 
 Bahadur or Aktar may have done in the olden times. 
 
 The declining rays of the evening sun were flashing 
 in our eyes as we at last saw the narrow cleft which 
 gives access to the inclosed valley of Amber. A for- 
 midable door barred the only entrance, but, when we 
 had passed through it, the ancient capital lay before us. 
 
 We ascended by paved slopes, on which our horses 
 could scarcely find foothold, to that kingly palace of 
 stone and marble, so proudly enthroned on the rocks 
 that overlook the other ruins. 
 
 Close by the entry, near one of the first windings of 
 the ascending road, we came upon a black and evil- 
 looking temple, the floor of which was stained with 
 pools of blood, and which reeked with the stench 
 of a slaughter-house. In a niche at the back, the fearful 
 Dourga lives. She is quite little and almost shapeless, 
 and has the look of a malevolent gnome cowering 
 under a heap of red rags. At her feet lies a tom-tom, 
 almost as large as a tower. For centuries past a goat 
 has been slaughtered here each morning at daybreak 
 to the sound of the enormous tom-tom. Then the 
 priests offer the warm blood to the goddess in a cup
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 205 
 
 of bronze, and place the horned head before her on a 
 plate. How can the goddess have slipped into the 
 Brahmin Pantheon even under the title of Spouse 
 of the God of Death, this Dourga, this fearful Kali, 
 who is so greedy of blood that even human sacrifices 
 were formerly offered to her in the very land where for 
 ages all slaughter has been forbidden ? 
 
 Where can she have come from with her red cloak, 
 from what dark ages, and from what gloomy night ? 
 
 At different points on our route, heavily studded 
 bronze gates have been thrown open for us, but at last 
 we had to leave our horses and continue our ascent on 
 foot, through courtyards and gardens and winding 
 staircases. We pass through marble halls, whose 
 thickset pillars are decorated with tiny designs of 
 barbaric taste. The vaulted arches were once clothed 
 with glittering mosaics, and patches of shining look- 
 ing-glass still shimmer under the damp incrustations 
 that make the walls resemble the sides of a stalactite 
 cave. The doors, too, were of sandal wood inlaid with 
 ivory. As we climb higher we see piscines which still 
 contain a little water, and there are baths hollowed out 
 of the rock in which the ladies of the harem used to 
 bathe. In the central space there is a cloistered, hang- 
 ing garden, from which the rooms of the queens, 
 princesses, and beauties of former days opened out. 
 As I passed through on my way towards the topmost 
 terraces, the air was scented with the perfume of 
 ancient orange trees, but the old guardian complained 
 bitterly of the monkeys who now seemed to think 
 themselves masters of the place, and were even bold 
 enough to gather the oranges. 
 
 Now that I had reached the topmost terraces, I 
 waited for the night to come. The ancient kings had 
 built these places and surrounded them by rich balus- 
 trades so that they might give audiences or hold 
 councils there by moonlight, and I had wished to see 
 these terraces at their allotted hour, under the moon- 
 light which will soon pour down upon them. 
 
 The eagles, vultures, peacocks, turtle-doves, and
 
 206 IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 swallows have now retired for the night, and the 
 abandoned palace seems doubly abandoned in the 
 pervading silence. The sun has been hidden from me 
 for a long time by the lofty mountains, but it must 
 have set by now, for on the terrace below me I can 
 see the Mussulman guardians, who ever wait for the 
 holy hour of Moghreb, turn towards Mecca, and say 
 their evening prayers. 
 
 Just at this moment a hollow sound reaches me from 
 the blood-stained temple. It is the Brahmin hour of 
 prayer also, and the tom-tom commences to roar, the 
 tom-tom of the witch-like goddess with the scarlet cloak. 
 
 These heavy and resounding blows are but the pre- 
 lude of, and signal for, an orgy of savage sounds. 
 Groaning bagpipes and iron cymbals join in, and a 
 horn howls unceasingly on two ever-repeated notes, 
 which swell and fall and become blurred in their 
 passage through the hollow and empty rooms on which 
 these terraces are built. Suddenly an answering peal 
 of bells floats through the air. It is the little temple 
 of Siva whence this insistent ringing comes, a little 
 chapel perched on the top of the pointed peaks which 
 surround me, a temple leaning against the lofty wall 
 whose crests stand out against the evening sky like 
 the teeth of a black comb. 
 
 I had not expected to hear so much clamour amidst 
 these ruins, but in India the destruction of a town 
 and the decay of its sanctuaries do not prevent the 
 performance of the sacred rites, and the gods still 
 continue to receive service in the midst of the most 
 deserted regions. 
 
 For the last few moments my eyes have been turned 
 towards the little temple from which the pealing bells 
 resound, and when I next look towards the ground, I 
 am almost shocked to see my shadow suddenly and 
 sharply defined there. Instinctively I turn to see 
 whether some one has not lighted a strangely bright 
 lamp behind me, or whether an electric search-light 
 has not enveloped me in its wan rays. But no, it is 
 the great full moon, the moon of royal audiences that
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 207 
 
 I had quite forgotten, but which has already com- 
 menced its nightly offices, almost without any interven- 
 ing twilight, so quickly in this country do the days 
 make haste to die. 
 
 Other shadows, the shadows of motionless things, 
 are now thrown everywhere in alarming contrast with 
 spectral brightness, but the terrace of the moonlight 
 audiences is bathed in the full white glory of the moon. 
 
 I shall descend when the clanging music has ceased, 
 for I should hardly care to traverse so many narrow 
 staircases and passages whilst it lasts, or to walk alone 
 at this late hour through the palatial halls that must 
 now be given up to wraiths and monkeys. 
 
 But the music lasts a long while, so long that I can 
 count the kindling stars. 
 
 How commanding and yet how hidden the place is, 
 and what kings of phantasy these sovereigns must 
 have been who planned these moonlight terraces ! 
 
 In about half an hour the sounds of the tom-toms 
 and the howls of the sacred horns become less deafen- 
 ing and less frequent. Their vibrations linger and 
 grow feeble, and their outbursts of renewed and des- 
 perate frenzy are of ever-diminishing duration. I feel 
 that the sounds express a lingering agony, and that 
 they are dying of exhaustion. At last silence comes 
 back again, and from the bottom of the valley, where 
 the ruins of Amber lie, I can hear the melancholy 
 flute-like voice of wandering jackals. 
 
 It is not really dark in the stairways and the low 
 halls of the palace as I make my way down. Every- 
 thing seems bathed in moonbeams of bluish whiteness, 
 and silvery rays enter through festooned windows and 
 cast the charming outlines of the pointed arches on to 
 the pavement : the faded mosaics on the walls glow 
 with new life, so that the halls seem studded with gems 
 or sparkling drops of water. As I passed through the 
 gardens, now heavy with the scent of flowers, the 
 upper branches of the orange trees became all alive 
 with the agitated and noisy awakening of the monkeys. 
 
 My guides await me at the lower doors, where, after
 
 208 IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 the freshness of the terraces, the air seems hot and 
 stifling. They are already in the saddle, and carry 
 their lances in their hands. We trot tranquilly 
 through the night towards the city of Jeypore, which 
 I am leaving for good to-morrow. 
 
 I have decided to avoid Beckanire, a town lying a 
 hundred leagues farther north. I had intended to 
 visit it, but I have heard that the horrors of the famine 
 culminate there, and that the streets are lined with 
 corpses. Alas ! No ! I have seen enough. So I 
 shall take the road that leads back to less desolate 
 lands, to places where, being near to the sea of Bengal, 
 life can still thrive. 
 
 XI 
 THE TOWN OF FEETTED STONE 
 
 My last halting-place in the land of famine was the 
 city of the King of Gwalior, a city which is entirely 
 overhung with lace-like carvings, and is renowned 
 throughout the whole of India for the imaginative 
 luxury of its sculptured stonework. It is almost too 
 pretty, and the complicated perforations look laboured. 
 The houses seem to resemble scene-paintings, punched 
 out of fine cardboard, but they are made of stone, and 
 their delicate traceries are by no means fragile. The 
 thousands of little columns surrounding the festooned 
 doors of the windows, from which stalactites hang 
 down, have capitals of foliage, whilst their bases seem 
 to spring from the heart of a flower. The streets are 
 overhung by a prodigious number of loggias and 
 balconies, rising one above the other, all fashioned 
 from stone from the neighbouring quarries. Should 
 any one desire to make a trellis for their balcony or a 
 screen behind which beautiful ladies may sit unseen, 
 it is only necessary to take a huge slab of stone, sawn 
 to the thinness of a plank, and then to cut out 
 arabesques of exquisite refinement. Once in its 
 place, the slab resembles a fragile piece of wood-carving 
 or even imitates the delicacy of paper. Then it is
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 209 
 
 coated with snowy whitewash, and the surrounding 
 walls are painted with gaudy representations of flowers 
 and processions of gods or of elephants. 
 
 The nightmare of famine is almost forgotten directly 
 one enters this fairy city, in spite of the surrounding 
 desolation which draws nearer every day. Here the 
 people are rich enough to buy grain and there is still 
 water enough to keep the gardens green. Baskets of 
 roses are still on sale in the open places, waiting for 
 people to buy them for their scent, or for the adorn- 
 ment of their persons. 
 
 We are in a Brahmin town, yet turbans are as 
 plentiful as in the land of Mahomet. It must be 
 admitted that they are of a special shape, being always 
 wound tightly round a rigid framework, but there are 
 endless varieties of form and colour dictated by the 
 position and caste of the wearer. Some resemble 
 a sea-shell, others the hats of the Louis XI period ; 
 here are some which remind us of the caps worn by 
 women in former days, and we even see some which 
 have two horns and long turned-up flaps. They are 
 made of silk, and their colours are scarlet, pink, 
 sulphur yellow, and celadon green, and, just as at 
 Hyderabad, their fresh hues are thrown into relief by 
 the whiteness of the crowds and of the streets. The 
 sign of Siva, carefully painted on the foreheads of the 
 men, is here transformed into the shape of a white 
 butterfly with wings extending from either side of a 
 red ball. The fork of Vishnu, however, remains just 
 as it was in the south of Hindustan. 
 
 This is a town of horsemen, for they can be seen 
 everywhere galloping on prancing steeds decked with 
 golden harness. Many people ride on elephants, and 
 strings of camels walk past in slow procession. There 
 is no lack of mules, nor of little asses whose gray skins 
 are faintly tinged with pink. 
 
 The carriages are very varied in kind, and all are 
 extravagant. There are some tiny ones plying for 
 hire which are made of glittering copper, with tops 
 fashioned like pagodas. These are harnessed close up 
 
 14
 
 2io IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 to the horse's tail, and are constantly shaken by the 
 trotting. Then there are others which roll along with 
 slow and solemn majesty, drawn by a pair of huge and 
 sleepy zebus, yoked so far apart from each other that 
 the whole road is taken up. These are invariably 
 shaped like the arched prow of a ship, but the prow 
 is so narrow that the people in the carriage have to 
 sit cross-legged, one behind the other. The largest 
 carriages shelter mysterious and hidden beauties. 
 These are shaped like a monstrous egg, and their 
 interiors are jealously shielded from view by red 
 curtains. Sometimes one may catch a glimpse of a 
 beautiful, beringed and amber arm reposing amidst the 
 draperies of these slowly moving vehicles, or perhaps 
 even the vision of a naked foot loaded with many 
 rings. Then there are litters of every description. 
 On some, young dandies, whose eyes are extended by 
 paint and whose ears sparkle with diamonds, are 
 being carried, dressed in robes of mauve or orange silk ; 
 in others, nabobs, severely garbed in mantles of purple 
 or violet velvet, are being borne along, their beards 
 spread out in fan-like waves over the velvet folds of 
 their garments, beards which are generally snowy 
 white, but which sometimes have been tinted with 
 bright vermilion dyes. 
 
 Many salutes are exchanged in the pretty streets, 
 whose houses look as if they were made of white stone 
 tulle. People are very courtly in Gwalior. 
 
 It is incontestable that the beauty of the Aryan race 
 reaches its highest development of perfection and re- 
 finement amongst the upper classes in this country, 
 where the pale skins are scarcely darker than those of 
 the European races. Oh ! the wonderful eyes and the 
 almost too exquisite and too regular beauty of the 
 women who walk past in groups of dazzling colour, 
 each one draped like a Roman matron in tinted and 
 transparent muslins. 
 
 How remote is the India where the great palms 
 grow, and where a bronze-coloured race walks about, 
 with no other adornment than their flowing hair.
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 211 
 
 The muslins of Rajputan, that enwrap these people 
 from head to foot, are, by intention, archaic in design, 
 and the colours are always thrown on in patches and 
 blurred forms which have no distinct outline. Here a 
 woman has chosen a moss-green fabric strewn with 
 rose-coloured spots for her veil, another who walks by 
 her side is in golden yellow shaded with blues which 
 alternate between tones of lapis lazuli and turquoise, 
 whilst another is in lilac stained with a marbling of 
 bright orange. The lightness of these tissues, the floods 
 of sunbeams, and the transparency of the "shadows 
 cause all these colours to flash prismatically. And 
 sometimes in the midst of all these flower and morning 
 hues, another beauty passes, dressed like the queen of 
 the night, bringing the marvellous contrast of black, 
 black veils, zigzagged over with long stripes of silver. 
 
 Colours exercise such a fascination over the people 
 of Gwalior that there are whole streets whose inhabit- 
 ants are solely occupied in dyeing muslins and tinting 
 them with tones in harmonious relief. This charming 
 art is exercised quite openly, and it is usual for the 
 people who pass by to stop and express their opinions 
 on the work in progress. When a piece is finished, it 
 is hung over one of the carved balconies, or given to 
 two little children to carry about in the sunlight till it 
 is dry. The dyer's quarters seem to be in a state of 
 constant festivity with these gay and airy stuffs thrown 
 like veils over the houses, and others that float in the 
 air like waving flags. 
 
 Many bridal processions promenade slowly through 
 the city, preceded by tambourines and bagpipes, the 
 husband riding on horseback under the shelter of an 
 enormous parasol that serving-men hold over his 
 head. Funeral processions hurry past us with ex- 
 cessive haste, the corpse tightly swathed in linen and 
 carried joltingly on the shoulders of the bearers ; 
 following these, a breathless crowd that howls and 
 bays as dogs do at the moon. At the street corners 
 there are fakirs bedabbled with ashes, who lie in 
 convulsed and epileptic attitudes, and who pray with
 
 212 IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 the expectant fervour of instant death. The great 
 market-place is surrounded by temples and mosques, 
 covered with the most delicate traceries, and the stalls 
 of the merchants who sell silks, carpets, prints, cakes, 
 and grains are besieged by crowds of women in multi- 
 coloured veils. 
 
 Those horrors of death and slaughter, those sicken- 
 ing displays of carcasses of animals and of reeking fish, 
 of guts and scraps of quivering flesh, are nowhere to 
 be seen, for the people of Brahma do not eat anything 
 that has ever lived. In the place of such exhibitions 
 we see heaps of roses plucked from their stems, which 
 are used in the making of essence, or simply to be 
 woven into necklaces. 
 
 White doorways, over which are trellised balconies, 
 give access to the immense royal quarters. There are 
 snowy palaces surrounded by beds of white roses and 
 by languishing trees, whose foliage is that of late 
 autumn rather than of April. There are lonely parks 
 that grow more parched every day, and even the king 
 cannot prevent this from taking place. There are 
 little lakes, now almost waterless, on whose shores 
 stand marvellously sculptured kiosks, in which the 
 Court was wont to take the air in the rainy seasons, 
 when water abounded and the trees were thick with 
 leaves. 
 
 Peacocks and monkeys wander disconsolately 
 through the fading walks where the roses are still kept 
 in flower with infinite care, but even these animals 
 seem anxious about the drought and the encroaching 
 desolation. 
 
 The King of Gwalior is at present in the neighbour- 
 ing mountains, where he seeks relief from the fever 
 that preys upon him. I have his authority to enter his 
 palace, so that all doors fly open before me. 
 
 The rooms are furnished in the European style with 
 gildings, brocades, and mirrors, so that we might fancy 
 ourselves in the Palais Bourbon or at the Elysde. 
 But in the midst of this commonplace luxury we can 
 feel that India is hidden behind the silken hangings on
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 213 
 
 the walls ; we can feel the sadness of the parks that 
 are withered in the spring, and the anguish of the 
 suffering country. The young lord who guides me 
 with such distinction through the palace is quite a 
 denizen of fairyland, for he is clothed in white, and a 
 cap of rose silk rests on his head, pearls are in his ears, 
 and he has a necklet formed of two great rows of 
 emeralds. His face recalls the incredibly beautiful 
 features that we see in old Indian or Persian minia- 
 tures. The eyes, which are already too long, are 
 lengthened by lines of paint, the nose seems too 
 delicate, and the black moustache is almost too silky. 
 His cheeks are almost too red with the blood under 
 the skin of amber. 
 
 The resting-places of the ancient kings of Gwalior 
 occupy an immense and silent quarter on the other 
 side of the city, and the dead monarchs lie in the 
 midst of gardens, and under temples of stone and 
 marble, on which the pyramids have the shapes of 
 huge cypress trees or churchyard yews. 
 
 Amongst all the mausoleums that raise their pointed 
 towers towards the sky, the most sumptuous is the one 
 in which the late Maharajah sleeps. The stone and 
 the white marble of this tomb are magnificently 
 worked, and a black marble cow (venerated symbol) 
 reposes in its sacred shades. This royal tomb is barely 
 finished, yet the birds have already taken possession 
 of it. Owls, doves, and parrots nest in flocks on its 
 pyramids, and the steps are strewn with their gray 
 and green feathers. The pyramid is very high, and 
 through the wheeling flights of crows and eagles that 
 encompass its summit we can see the whole city and 
 its sculptured houses and palaces, its dying gardens, 
 and its monuments. The outskirts are, as usual, 
 encumbered with ruins ; ancient cities of Gwalior, 
 ancient palaces and city quarters, abandoned because 
 of their age and decay, or deserted during the stress 
 of war or at the fancy of their rulers. One side of 
 the horizon is bounded by a Titan citadel, such as the 
 noble Hindoos used to build in the heroic ages of
 
 214 IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 their country in the days before they were tamed by 
 strangers, and when they led a free and warlike life. 
 A league of ramparts, donjon towers, and fierce old 
 palaces crowns yonder precipitous rocks, more than 
 a hundred yards in height. The dim background is 
 filled with tones of ashy gray and tints of withered 
 leaves, and these dead forests and jungles that are 
 dead, seen in the extreme and vague background, 
 throw menace, silent menace, at the city which is yet 
 so free from care, so blithe the menace of the ap- 
 proaching famine. 
 
 Yesterday evening I took a farewell ride through 
 the city of fretted stone, mounted on one of the king's 
 elephants and accompanied by an amiable Court 
 official. It was at the cooler hour, when the ladies in 
 painted muslins, or in muslins worked with silver, take 
 the air of the balconies, which are like gems. 
 
 Every one seemed to know my companion by sight, 
 and to recognize the liveries of the two attendants who 
 ran ahead of us, so that we passed along amidst a 
 shower of salutations. 
 
 The elephant on which we were riding was a female 
 about seventy-five years old, and so tall that we were 
 on a level with the first floors of the houses. The 
 streets were so narrow that we could even touch the 
 delicate traceries of the sculptured galleries on which 
 fair ladies were sitting, who saluted us as we passed by. 
 In one of the squares a space has been partitioned 
 off by mats high enough to prevent people looking 
 over them ; but we, from our lofty perch, could see 
 into the airy inclosure and overlook the marriage 
 festival which was being held in the street, because 
 the house of the bridal couple was too small. We 
 could see bejewelled young women in gold-spangled 
 veils seated in a circle listening to singers and 
 musicians. 
 
 Many salutes greeted us from the market-place, and 
 the petty traders and poor folk bent to the ground 
 with deep obeisances. The dashing horsemen merely 
 bowed their heads, reining in their horses, which
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 215 
 
 reared and plunged, frightened by our elephant, up- 
 setting baskets of roses. Even little children of five 
 or six, delightful little girls with painted eyes, stopped 
 and saluted us by placing their hands on their fore- 
 heads. Their curtsies seemed to rise up from the very 
 ground beneath us, from under the very feet of the 
 monster which trod so gently lest she might hurt 
 these little ones. 
 
 I recollect that we stopped with a sudden jolt at the 
 corner of a street, which was scarcely wide enough 
 to let us pass ; then the head of an enormous male 
 elephant with long tusks appeared in front, coming 
 towards us. There was a moment's pause. It almost 
 seemed as if the two colossal beasts were holding a 
 courteous consultation, as indeed may have been the 
 case, for they both came from the royal stables and 
 must have known each other well. At last the new- 
 comer retreated thirty paces till he came to a court- 
 yard, and as we passed by he stroked us gently with 
 his trunk. 
 
 XII 
 THE ROYAL MOUNTAIN 
 
 Midday already looms, dazzling and sad, upon the 
 desolate plains of India. My elephant gently ascends 
 the huge slope that leads up the mountain side to the 
 ruin-crowned summit, which seems a burial-garden of 
 the gods, strewn with palaces and temples. 
 
 The climbing elephant zigzags across the road so 
 as to mount more easily ; the undulations of his gait 
 rock me as with soft cradling, yet each footstep betrays 
 the might of the colossus, for the dust flies up under 
 the weight of his puissant feet. Hardly any sound 
 accompanies the muffled tread, and in the utter silence 
 of my surroundings I can hear little else than the 
 jingling of the two silver bells that hang from the 
 animal's side, bells that chime in sad and melancholy 
 cadence. Sometimes, too, the flapping wings of pass- 
 ing eagles or vultures resound through the stifling and
 
 216 IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 motionless air. The stiff ascent hugs close the flanks 
 of vertical rocks. On the side of the abyss a low and 
 massive wall with parapets juts out over grayish dis- 
 tances, which lie bathed in a glare of sun and dust. 
 
 On the mountain side gigantic things tower over us, 
 huge jagged rocks, crowned with castles and turrets, 
 such as the people of our time neither dare to build 
 nor know how to build. Looking up we see a pro- 
 digious expanse of palaces of the olden time and of un- 
 known style, palaces with watch-towers and balconies 
 which jut out over the abysses, into which they look 
 unflinchingly. For more than a thousand years dy- 
 nasties of kings, of whose existence we know nothing, 
 piled stone upon stone on the mountain which was 
 already a fortress by Nature, so as to raise to the 
 clouds this impregnable stronghold. Truly, the forti- 
 fied chateaux and manors of our country squires seem 
 ridiculous in comparison with the stupendous ruins 
 with which India is filled. 
 
 The cumbrous elephant still ascends, the two bells 
 ever repeating their soft and monotonous plaint. The 
 overhead sun outlines the dancing shadow of the animal 
 on the path, and paints in black outlines the image 
 of his waving trunk. The two escorts who precede us 
 climb sleepily, carrying long silver-mounted wands of 
 state in their hands. 
 
 At different heights gateways bar the road which 
 we ascend with Oriental slowness. What need is there 
 to say that these are terrible gates with loopholed 
 keeps rising above them, and that they are guarded 
 by native troops, stationed there, perhaps, because 
 the king has taken up his abode amidst the ruins of 
 the glorious past ? Around us a widening circle of 
 dim plains, whose withered trees look ashy in the 
 dust -laden atmosphere. The gray horizon seems to 
 mingle with a gray sky, thick with incandescent haze 
 and flights of birds of prey, weary of wheeling over 
 plains, which reek of drought, exhaustion, and of death. 
 
 A fiery glow reverberates from the rocks, and no 
 breath of wind stirs through the air ; even the birds
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 217 
 
 are slumberous and as though overcome by the mid- 
 day glare. Eagles and vultures settle with folded 
 wings to watch us as we pass by. The motion of the 
 elephant gradually benumbs me, like the constant 
 rocking of a gondola ; my dazzled eyes close, and soon 
 I see nothing but the immediate objects that start out 
 from the midst of the surrounding grayness, for water- 
 less years have even enwrapped the red granite of the 
 rocks with a winding-sheet of dust. 
 
 First I see the gilt turban, the brown neck, the back 
 draped in white, and the little sharpened dart of the 
 Hindoo driver, who sits, lance in hand, crouched like 
 a Buddha on the animal's neck ; then a little of the 
 scarlet cloth of the elephant's headpiece ; then his two 
 huge pink ears marbled with black, that wave fan- 
 like so as to drive off flies and other winged tormentors. 
 
 The docile beast ascends untiringly, pulverizing the 
 path under his heavy feet. By his side and close to 
 the rocks there are great rounded masses of stone that 
 recall his shape, and that have been engraved with his 
 image by the people of a long-forgotten age. Here 
 vague carvings resembling trunks of tusked heads ; 
 there curved backs whose outlines are almost those of 
 the rocks themselves. There are also inscriptions in 
 several dead languages, and many gods stand in 
 niches cut from the solid rock, the work of the Pals 
 or the Jamas, who were the first inhabitants of this 
 formidable spot. 
 
 Down below in the burning plains the ruins of 
 ancient Gwalior begin to be visible amidst the floating 
 clouds of ashy dust, and I can see also the white out- 
 lines of the new city that the Indians disdainfully call 
 Lachkar (the encampment), and the great stone pyra- 
 mids of the Brahmin temples. It is midday ; ardent 
 flames pour down upon our heads, and the overheated 
 rock glows like a furnace ; eagles, vultures, and crows 
 sleep, overpowered by heat and silence. 
 
 Ever ascending, we arrive at the foot of the awe- 
 inspiring palaces that stand on the precipitous edge 
 and seem to raise the mountain's crest higher into the
 
 218 IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 air. These towered fagades are of incomparable 
 splendour, for they are built of regular courses of 
 monstrous blocks of equal size, extending along the 
 whole length of the building, their surfaces adorned 
 with bands of green, gold, and blue mosaics, depicting 
 many races of men and animals. Formerly these were 
 the homes of the powerful Kings of Gwalior, who, up to 
 the sixteenth century, lived here lofty and inaccessible. 
 
 A huge final gateway, glittering with bright blue 
 mosaics and bristling with the Maharajah's soldiers, 
 at last admits us to the level space which extends for 
 more than a mile along the summit of a plateau which 
 is entirely surrounded with ramparts and said to be 
 the most impregnable stronghold in all the Eastern 
 Indies. From the earliest times this place has never 
 ceased to be a loadstone to the envy of warlike kings, 
 and volumes of history are filled with the accounts 
 of marvellous battles that have been fought here. Now 
 it is but a lofty desert covered with palaces and tombs 
 and with the temples and idols of every age and every 
 civilization. Nowhere in Europe can such a place be 
 found, such a tragic museum of bygone splendours. 
 
 The elephant kneels down so that we may alight 
 and enter a mosaic-covered palace that seems less 
 archaic and better preserved than the others. 
 
 It is barely five hundred years old, but the colossal 
 foundations date from the time of the Pal kings who 
 reigned at Gwalior from the third to the tenth century 
 of our era. We wander through low, frowning rooms 
 whose ceilings are formed from blocks of granite, and 
 encounter the strange silence by which ruins are ever 
 haunted. A dim twilight and a sense of freshness, 
 grateful after the burning glow of the air outside, pre- 
 vail. Nothing remains of the magnificence of olden 
 days but the luxury of the carving and the marvellous 
 enamels on the walls, that represent winged beasts, 
 phoenixes and blue- or green-winged peacocks in glow- 
 ing colours, colours of whose permanence the secret 
 has been lost. The view of the outer world only 
 reached these palaces through sheets of perforated
 
 IN FAMISHED INDIA 219 
 
 granite embedded in the masonry of the walls. Such 
 were the windows where beautiful captives stood lost 
 in dreamland, and here, too, kings must have come to 
 watch the clouds and the far-off plains with their 
 armies and their battles. The whole of the front which 
 overlooks the abyss, and which is three hundred feet 
 long, with a height of not less than a hundred feet, the 
 whole of these halls and rooms, whose walls are as thick 
 as those of casemates, breathe alone through these 
 fretted slabs, which open neither for flight, nor suicide, 
 nor love, more dreadful far than the iron bars of a 
 prison. Everywhere under the stones there are secret 
 staircases leading to cellars, basements, and dungeons, 
 and no one now knows to what depth the rock is 
 hollowed out into abandoned wells and dark passages. 
 
 Other palaces, yet more barbarous, lie by the side 
 of this one. There is one that is built of huge blocks 
 that dates from the Pal kings, another belonging to 
 the Jain period, an almost shapeless mass of rock 
 pierced by tiny triangular windows that resemble 
 loopholes. 
 
 In another direction the fortified plateau is covered 
 with temples whose diversity relates the whole history 
 of Brahminism, with tanks large enough to satisfy the 
 wants of thousands of men in the event of a siege, and 
 wherever we may look a wilderness of tombs and 
 statues. 
 
 I stop before a Jain temple whose gods were formerly 
 mutilated by the soldiers of the Great Mogul, and 
 dreamily compare it with the old monuments of the 
 Christian faith. Even our most beautiful churches are 
 built of stones of uneven size embedded in mortar. 
 Here, on the contrary, huge smooth, regular blocks 
 are so adjusted and mortised into each other that they 
 stand upright by themselves, miracles of precision, 
 which forms an almost imperishable whole. 
 
 Now I and my Indians have resumed our seats on 
 the back of the slowly swaying elephant, and to the 
 accompaniment of the same tinkling bells we slowly 
 descend the other slope of the mountain into a ravine
 
 220 IN FAMISHED INDIA 
 
 of red rocks which soon cast shadows over our heads. 
 We pass ascending horsemen whose steeds take fright 
 and rear, and a dromedary which wheels round in 
 terror, letting his burden fall to the ground, for even 
 in this land of elephants it seems that there are few 
 animals which learn to pass them without fear. 
 
 The gorge down which we journey is peopled by 
 stone giants, colossal figures of Tirthankars, cut from 
 the naked rock, that have their homes here in niches 
 and caves, where they stand or sit. 1 
 
 Some are twenty feet high, and all are completely 
 nude, and their vastness of detail gives them an ob- 
 scene appearance. Both sides of the valley are lined 
 with staring figures, and our road runs through the 
 midst of them. 
 
 But the iconoclastic army of the Great Mogul passed 
 along this road in the sixteenth century wreaking 
 vengeance on these images, breaking the heads and 
 hands of some and disfiguring others in another way, 
 so that all are mutilated.* 
 
 Now it seems that fresh figures loom through the 
 dusty haze which veils the country. In other valleys 
 which open out before us amongst other rocks the 
 motionless throng continues in apparently never-end- 
 ing succession. It is as if the air were ash-laden, yet 
 the glare of the sun is everywhere. The heat and the 
 tranquil tinkling of the bells dispose us to slumber. 
 As we draw near to the plains everything grows more 
 and more indistinct, and sleep almost overcomes us 
 as we pursue our swaying march through ranks of 
 giants whose outlines seem to melt into the vagueness 
 which environs us. 
 
 1 The largest of the statues are those of Parvasnath and of 
 Tirthankar Adinath, the founder of the Jaina faith, and do not 
 date farther back than the fifteenth century. 
 
 * Mutilations ordered by the Emperor Babar in 1527.
 
 TOWARDS BENARES 
 
 221
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 TOWARDS BENARES 
 
 i 
 
 THE THEOSOPHISTS OF MADRAS 
 
 " A HEAVEN with no personal god, an immortality 
 without a separate soul, and purification without 
 prayer." 
 
 This was the formula, the supreme conclusion, that 
 rang in my ears in the melancholy silence that fol- 
 lowed our conversation. A dark sadness filled the 
 lonely house that stood by the riverside amidst strange 
 trees and palms. The severe library in which we sat 
 was still illuminated by the light that fell through the 
 window panes, but the transparent images that repre- 
 sented all the emblems of man's faith gradually faded. 
 Here, as in a mortuary museum, were emblazoned in 
 coloured glass the triangle of Jehovah, the lotus of 
 Cakya-Mouni, the fork of Vishnu, and the symbols of 
 Isis. I was in the house of the Theosophists of Madras, 
 of whom I had heard so many wondrous things. For 
 though I scarcely believed in them, I had come, almost 
 despairingly, to beg for a ray of hope, and this was all 
 that they had to offer, the cold consolation of the 
 doctrines of Buddha, which I already knew, the light 
 of my own reason. 
 
 " Prayer," they said, " who is there to hear it ? 
 Each man has to face his own responsibility. Re- 
 member the laws of Manou. Man is born alone, lives 
 alone, dies alone, and justice alone awaits him. Who 
 is there to hear prayers and to whom would you pray ? 
 for you yourself are God. You must pray to yourself 
 by means of your own actions." 
 
 223
 
 224 TOWARDS BENARES 
 
 A silence fell upon us, one of the saddest that I have 
 ever passed through, and in the midst of this silence 
 it seemed as if my last faint beliefs fell from me one by 
 one with almost imperceptible rustlings, like those of 
 falling leaves, withered by the breath of the cold, calm 
 reasoning of my companions. 
 
 Nevertheless, the two men who had listened to me 
 were kind and well-intentioned. The first was a Euro- 
 pean who, wearied of our anxieties and perplexities, 
 had come here to seek the spiritual detachment which 
 Buddha used to preach, and had become the leader of 
 the Theosophical Society ; the other was a Hindoo, 
 who, though he disdained our Western philosophies, 
 had returned home from Europe vested with our 
 highest academical honours. 
 
 " You have told me," I replied, " that our fading 
 individuality persists for a little while after death. 
 Can you at least give me this absolute proof of what 
 you say ? can you show me, can you give me some 
 evidence of its truth ? " 
 
 " Yes," he replied, " we can prove it, but only by 
 reasoning. As to giving you visible proofs, tangible 
 proofs, no. To see those who are wrongly called the 
 dead for there are no dead special senses, special 
 circumstances, and special temperaments are essential. 
 But you may believe our words. We and many others 
 worthy of credence have seen the departed, and have 
 written down a description of what we have seen. 
 Look, you will find in this bookcase books which 
 relate . . . To-morrow when you have become one of 
 us you shall read them." 
 
 And was it for this that I had come to India, to the 
 old cradle of religion, and was this all that was to be 
 found in the temples ? Brahminism tinctured with 
 idolatry, and here, a rearranged Positivism of Cakya- 
 Mouni, and the Spiritualistic books which have been 
 lying about all over the world. 
 
 After another silence I asked, like a man who has 
 given in, and knowing that my question merely verged 
 on childish curiosity I asked, almost timidly, whether
 
 / 
 
 o \ 
 HINDOOS CROSSING THE SEA.
 
 TOWARDS BENARES 225 
 
 they would allow me to see the fakirs, those marvellous 
 Indian fakirs who have gifts and can work wonders. 
 Here at least I should see some proof of another 
 world, something superhuman, something beyond my 
 comprehension. 
 
 The Hindoo, who was seated opposite to me, raised 
 his eyes to the ceiling, and a frown contracted the cold 
 and refined Dantesque face, framed in a white turban. 
 " Fakirs ? " he replied " fakirs ? There are no more 
 fakirs." 
 
 And it was thus that I heard from the mouth of one 
 who was fully qualified to speak, that I must renounce 
 all hope of ever seeing anything miraculous on earth. 
 
 " Not even at Benares ? " I ventured shyly. " I 
 had hoped that at Benares I had been told 
 
 " Let us understand each other. There are plenty of 
 begging fakirs, posturers, and those who are dead to 
 pain, and you will not need our help to find them. 
 But the ' seers,' the fakirs who could work miracles 
 the last of these men was known to me. As to this, 
 you may believe us, such men did exist. But the 
 century which has just ended saw the last of them. 
 The old fakir spirit of India is dead ; we are a decaying 
 race, and the materialism of the West has hastened this 
 decay. We must, however, resign ourselves ; it is 
 fate, and the turn of the Western races will come too. 
 . . . Yes, we have had our fakirs. You can read the 
 records of them on those shelves. ..." 
 
 The dead symbols of human faiths in the window- 
 panes were becoming faint and indistinct ; night fell, 
 and the library was wrapped in mournful darkness. I 
 had come to Madras with the intention of staying 
 some time with these Theosophists, and on the morrow 
 I was to have taken up my abode in their house, but 
 now I resolved to leave them, never to return. What 
 was there for me to do, shut up in that house of barren 
 emptiness ? Surely it was better to do as I had always 
 done, to feast my eyes on the things of this world, 
 which, if they be transitory, are at least, for an instant, 
 real. And then what of their proofs, the proofs of an 
 
 15
 
 226 TOWARDS BENARES 
 
 immortality such as they foresee ? Is not the thought 
 of the perishing of the flesh torture enough to those 
 who have really loved ? And what should we do, I 
 and mine, with the immortality which satisfied these 
 people ? No, give me the Christian dream, that dream 
 of an immortality where I shall live a conscious, dis- 
 tinct, and individual self, where I may love and find 
 again those whom I loved on earth. Without that 
 hope what would faith be to me ? 
 
 As I returned towards the town, it was the hour 
 when the crows intone their noisy hymn to Death 
 before settling themselves to sleep on the branches of 
 the trees. The doctrines of the people I had just left 
 seemed to me as empty and as vain as the statues of 
 the little elephant -headed gods which I could dimly see 
 along the road under the palms and banyans. 
 
 The same evening I sent a grateful letter of disap- 
 pointed refusal to the Theosophists, telling them that 
 I should come to see them again in the morning, but 
 that it would be to bid them farewell, for that I had 
 made up my mind to leave Madras at once. 
 
 And that night, amongst the ruins of the old homes 
 of my childhood, I saw the pale, distorted faces of 
 those I had loved best, and knew that they were dead 
 for ever ; and, as in that other night in Jerusalem 
 when my first beliefs fell from me, dreams of unspeak- 
 able horror and of a sadness without surcease followed 
 on each other till the morning came, when I was 
 awakened by the harsh voice of a crow, which sang 
 the song of death to the rising sun. 
 
 When I returned in the afternoon to say farewell, 
 the leader of the Theosophists, who had read and had 
 understood my letter, met me with a sweetness that 
 I had little expected. 
 
 " Christian ! " he cried, clasping my hand in a long 
 embrace, " I had thought that you were an unbeliever. 
 I was wrong in offering you the matter-of-fact explana- 
 tions of the principles which Buddha left us, the 
 explanations which we usually give first. ... A mind 
 like yours needs the esoteric faith, and our friends at
 
 TOWARDS BENARES 227 
 
 Benares understand that better than we do, and there 
 you will find prayer and recommunion under another 
 form. But prayer alone will not suffice, and they will 
 teach you how to deserve. . . . Seek and you will find. 
 I have searched for forty years, so take courage and 
 seek further. Indeed, I do not think that we would 
 wish to keep you with us, for the teaching of our house 
 is not suited to you, and, besides," he added smil- 
 ingly, " your time is not come yet, the world still 
 holds you in its clutches." 
 
 " Pe'rhaps." 
 
 "You seek, but you are afraid to find." 
 
 " That may be." 
 
 " We speak to you of renouncing all things, and 
 you, you wish to live. Go your way, go to Delhi and to 
 Agra, go where you wish and to all that calls and at- 
 tracts you. Only promise me that before you leave India 
 you will go to Benares to our friends. We shall have 
 announced your visit, and they will be expecting you." 
 
 The Hindoo whom I saw the day before entered 
 silently and looked at me with a smile of sweet com- 
 passion. All at once these two men seemed to be 
 transfigured, to become greater, more subtle and im- 
 penetrable, but the same expression of peace and good- 
 ness radiated from the eyes of these strange ascetics, 
 and though I could not understand this sudden trans- 
 formation, I inclined my head before them in trustful 
 thankfulness. 
 
 To stay a while with their friends at Benares before 
 leaving India. Ah ! yes ! I consented gladly, feeling a 
 vague presentiment that there I should find a different 
 environment where I might find peace. 
 
 But that I would reserve till the eve of my departure 
 from India. I would defer that last test as long as 
 possible, for I still hesitated like a coward whom a 
 double fear assails. It might be that all my hopes 
 would be taken away from me for ever, or I might 
 find. Then perhaps the new way would open out 
 before me and an end would come to all these earthly 
 joys, mere illusions doubtless, but still so delightful.
 
 228 TOWARDS BENARES 
 
 ii 
 
 TWILIGHT AT JUGGERNAUT 
 
 The gigantic temple of Juggernaut stands in the 
 centre of an old Brahmin town far away from every- 
 where among the sands and dunes of the Gulf of 
 Bengal. 
 
 I arrived at sunset on my way from the interior. 
 Suddenly my carriage glided along noiselessly, as if 
 we were running on velvet. We were on the sands, 
 and the long, blue line of the sea lay before us. 
 
 First we pass some fishermen's huts, scattered 
 amongst the cactus hedges that grow on the dunes. 
 Then Juggernaut appears, rising above myriads of 
 gray, palm-thatched roofs. The aspect of the temple 
 on this sea-girt shore is particularly strange, and the 
 pyramid is so tall that all the objects lying at its feet 
 seem dwarfed. It has the elongated and swollen ap- 
 pearance of a crocodile's egg, a huge egg placed up- 
 right on its end. Rose-coloured veins wander over a 
 white surface that is without other ornamentation, and 
 it is two hundred feet high without counting its bronze 
 disc or the upright darts that bristle on its summit. It 
 can easily be seen, standing on the flat sea-level shore, 
 by ships which are making for the mouth of the Ganges, 
 and nautical maps mark its site. The coast in this 
 region, however, offers no favourable anchorage, so 
 that seamen only know the old sanctuary from its dim 
 outlines. 
 
 A large, wide road leads straight to the temple, that 
 central point and lode-star of Juggernaut, and on my 
 arrival there this road is thronged with people. This 
 part of India is not so civilized, the natives view 
 strangers with astonishment, and children turn back to 
 follow one. The sea wind has deepened the colour of 
 the nude men, and the women, who are wrapped in 
 muslins, have so many rings round their ankles that 
 they can hardly walk, and such a profusion of bracelets 
 covers the space between their wrists and shoulders
 
 TOWARDS BENARES 229 
 
 that their beautiful arms seem sheathed in metal. The 
 little houses are more completely covered by paintings 
 than I have seen elsewhere, and on their whitewashed 
 fronts cruel-faced gods and goddesses are outlined in 
 blue and red, after the style of the frescoes of Thebes 
 and Memphis. The houses, too, with their columns, 
 buttresses, and walls that slope inwards in such an 
 exaggerated manner recall those of ancient Egypt. 
 
 The temple is a large and sullen fortress inclosed in 
 a square of crested walls, each frontage of which has a 
 central door. The principal entrance faces the street 
 down which I am now walking, and two monsters with 
 lolling eyes, flattened noses, and fierce grins guard its 
 portal. Through the open doorway I can see large, 
 white steps crowded with people ascending to the 
 temple. 
 
 I need not say that to me the sanctuary is closed, 
 and the priests even ask me to go farther off, for I had 
 ventured to place my feet on some part of the paving- 
 stones of the temple which jutted out into the road. I 
 have to withdraw to the sand of the street, the sand 
 which is free to all, with which the streets of Jugger- 
 naut are felted. 
 
 But I may walk round the square fortress which I 
 must not enter. The four walls are surrounded by an 
 avenue of massive houses, built of baked earth old 
 dwellings whose thick walls slope inwards and are 
 painted with the usual rows of gods or devils, in blue 
 or red, on their frontages. Broken staircases lead to 
 verandas which overhang the street, and there parties 
 of Indian women are sitting in the evening air, looking 
 around or dreaming, braceleted creatures, often fair to 
 look upon in their transparent muslin veils. 
 
 A troop of little girls, whose curiosity seems in- 
 satiable, follow me in my walk around the temple. The 
 eldest may be eight years old, and all are charming. 
 They wear golden rings on their ankles and in their 
 noses, and look frankly at me with eyes that are painted 
 into an almond shape. 
 
 It is expected that a great pilgrimage will arrive
 
 230 TOWARDS BENARES 
 
 shortly before nightfall, so I walk slowly round the 
 crested walls while awaiting it. The avenue behind the 
 temples is more lonely, and were it not for my escort 
 it would be dismal ; but the little girls follow closely 
 behind me, stopping when I stop, and when I push 
 forward the tinkling of their metal-encircled limbs tells 
 me that they are hastening forward also. 
 
 The great, white, rose-veined temple is still far from 
 me, as it is in the centre of the square, round which I 
 am walking, but there are many smaller temples 
 clustered round the outer walls which I can see better. 
 All have the same pumpkin-like shape, but they are 
 cracked and blackened, and show signs of extreme old 
 age. The giant in the middle, however, seems quite 
 young, for it is quite white. Its shape, though, is 
 an unexpected one. The bronze disc crowned with 
 gleaming points and the childishly barbaric shape 
 might make one think that it had been built by the 
 denizens of the moon, or of some other planet. As 
 usual, flocks of birds are flying madly round before 
 seeking their evening shelter in the temple. 
 
 The little girls and I reach the third side of the for- 
 bidden square. Here many beautiful dreamers are 
 gathered on the verandas, and there is a market being 
 held in the street where fruits, rice, flowers, and painted 
 muslins are being displayed for sale. 
 
 The sun has set, and all the earth is in shadow, but 
 the temple is still bathed in rosy hues. It is nearly 
 time for the sacred monkeys to take their customary 
 evening walk. I see one on the crest of the sacred wall, 
 where he sits and scratches himself, but as he squats 
 there he can hardly be distinguished from the little 
 gods and other monsters that are sculptured on the 
 ramparts. Soon another comes and perches on a 
 neighbouring crest, a third, a fourth, and now the walls 
 are all alive with monkeys. 
 
 The light is fast fading. Only the upper part of the 
 pyramid has a luminous rosy tint, the rest of the huge 
 temple looks gray and old. On the edge of the wall 
 there are stone-coloured monkeys and stone monsters
 
 TOWARDS BENARES 231 
 
 of the colour of monkeys, and there are vultures perched 
 everywhere. In the air clouds of crows and pigeons 
 fly in narrowing circles round the disc of bronze. 
 
 Now it is time for the monkeys to take their evening 
 walk. First one lets go his hold, glides down the wall, 
 jumps to the ground and boldly crosses the street, the 
 groups of merchants respectfully standing aside ; then 
 others, running on all fours, follow him in single file. 
 Were it not for their long legs one might have said 
 that they were dogs with odd and frisky manners, and 
 tails carried high in the air. The first monkey steals a 
 plum from a basket as he passes ; the others do like- 
 wise, all from the same basket. Now they clamber 
 quickly up the sides of a house and the mysterious 
 procession disappears among the roofs. 
 
 On the outer walls of the temple a horrible black and 
 grinning idol of Pandavas, twice the height of a man, 
 dwells in a sort of shelter made of branches and palm- 
 matting. An old priest mounts on a stool and places a 
 garland of yellow flowers round the idol's neck ; then, 
 after lighting a tiny lamp, makes many obeisances and 
 tinkles a little bell. This done, he draws the curtains 
 for the night, and goes away, still bowing. Something 
 flits stealthily past my face : a large bat of the kind 
 called " vampires," which has come out before its usual 
 time and now flies low and fearlessly among the crowd. 
 
 A faint rosy glimmer lingers on the point of the 
 tower, and the hour sacred to Brahma is at hand. The 
 temple resounds with music and outcries, which reach 
 me in a confused hum. What can be happening within 
 the forbidden temple ? What fearful idols receive the 
 evening homage of the people ? and what form can 
 prayer assume in these souls, as impenetrable to me as 
 the temple itself ? 
 
 One monkey, meanwhile, has remained seated on 
 the crest of the wall, with his back turned on the 
 people standing in the street, and his tail hanging 
 over the edge of the coping. He looks sadly at the 
 light fading from the top of the pyramid, on whose 
 summit whirling clouds of crows and pigeons are taking
 
 232 TOWARDS BENARES 
 
 up their night quarters, and at the veins and projec- 
 tions of the monstrous building, now black with birds 
 whose wings still flap. I can scarcely see more than 
 the outlines of the monkey's form, though the nearly 
 human back and the pensive head with its pricked 
 ears stand out plainly against the rosy pallor of the 
 enormous tower. 
 
 Again the sensation of noiseless fanning, as the bat 
 flits backwards and forwards without heeding me. 
 
 The monkey looks at the great pyramid, I look at the 
 monkey, and the little girls look at me. An equal want 
 of comprehension divides each of us from the other. 
 
 I have taken up my position once more near the 
 chief entrance to the temple, on that sandy stretch 
 where the main street of Juggernaut ends. The crowd, 
 assembled to await the arrival of the pilgrims, now, as 
 they tell me, close at hand, grows denser every minute. 
 
 The sacred cattle are there, too, wandering among 
 the crowd. There is one especially petted by the 
 children, huge, quite white, and doubtless very old. 
 There is also a small black cow with five legs, and a 
 gray one which has six. The extra legs, however, are 
 too short to reach the ground, and hang from their 
 sides like dead or withered limbs. 
 
 Far away, at the end of the street, I can at last see 
 the pilgrims. There are some two or three hundred, 
 and their flat, grass parasols are open, though it is full 
 dusk. Wallets and gourds hang from their waists, and 
 shells and charms are fastened all about them. Their 
 faces and chests are powdered with ashes, and they 
 walk with feverish haste, as if the sight of the sacred 
 edifice had kindled the fire of religion within them. 
 
 Now music comes from a balcony, which is placed 
 above the entrance to the temple ; cries of human voices 
 mingle with the tom-toms ; sacred horns howl dolefully. 
 
 The pilgrims hasten forward, and when they have 
 reached the open space, throw down their clothes, para- 
 sols, wallets, and rush tumultuously, and like a crowd 
 of maniacs, through the doors guarded by the monsters 
 up the stairways and into the yawning temple.
 
 TOWARDS BENARES 233 
 
 The night has come, and I must go to seek the 
 " Travellers' Rest," which, as in most towns, will 
 probably be far distant, and almost in the country. 
 
 I find it in a little sandy waste, where the rocking 
 sound of the sea is heard ; that sound which is the same 
 on every shore. I can see neither Juggernaut nor its 
 strange tower, for both are drowned in dark blue shades. 
 The smell of the sea and of the little wild plants with 
 which the sands are carpeted, takes my melancholy 
 musings away from the Gulf of Bengal to the land of 
 my childhood, to the shores of the Isle of Oleron. 
 
 Only those can know the charms and all the bitter 
 sadness of far journeyings who have an unconquerable 
 attachment for their native land grafted in their souls. 
 
 HI 
 THE WHITE SPLENDOURS OF THE GREAT MOGULS 
 
 Express trains now make it possible to annihilate 
 space in India, just as they do with us. So I return in 
 forty-eight hours from Juggernaut on the shores of the 
 Gulf of Bengal to the region where the dry wind of 
 famine blows, travelling across the dreary northern 
 plains and passing Benares, which I still dread and 
 hesitate to visit, and now I am in the Mohammedan 
 city of Agra. 
 
 To any one coming, as I do, from Brahmin India 
 for the first time, the most striking feature is the abso- 
 lute change in the character of the religious monu- 
 ments. Mosques replace pagodas, and a sober, precise, 
 and elegant art takes the place of wanton luxury. In- 
 stead of the orgy and promiscuity of gods and monsters, 
 which characterize the temples of the Pourana divini- 
 ties, we see that the places of worship of the land of 
 Agra are decorated by pure geometrical lines which 
 arabesque amidst white marbles, with here and there a 
 few formal flowers traced on their polished surfaces. 
 
 The Great Moguls ! Those words sound to-day like 
 the title of some old Oriental fairy-story, like the name 
 of some legend.
 
 234 TOWARDS BENARES 
 
 Here they lived, those magnificent monarchs, masters 
 of the vastest empire that the world has ever seen. 
 The city of Agra is still commanded by one of their 
 enormous palaces, and it still stands much as they left 
 it, though there are traces of ruin and poverty which 
 they never can have known. 
 
 Under the burning clouds of dust, and whirling 
 flights of crows, vultures, and eagles, the city of Agra 
 remains as of old. 
 
 A marriage procession, preceded by huge drums, 
 sallies forth as I enter. The husband is a lad of six- 
 teen, he is dressed in red and green velvet and is 
 mounted on a white horse. The wife, who cannot be 
 seen, follows in a palanquin which is shut in ; then come 
 attendants, carrying on theirheads the wedding presents 
 in gilt chests, and closing in are four men pompously 
 bearing on their shoulders the gilded marriage bed. 
 
 The houses are old and very tall, widening out 
 towards the top, with overhanging galleries and bal- 
 conies. On the ground floor are merchants who sell a 
 thousand gaudy things which quiver with silks and 
 spangles. On the first floor bayaderes and courtesans, 
 black and heavy-browed, lean from the windows, and 
 above, many humble people live, whose curtains are 
 kept discreetly drawn. On the roofs I can always 
 see perching vultures and sometimes troops of mon- 
 keys, who either muse, or else watch the folk below. 
 It is centuries since the monkeys first invaded Agra 
 and made their homes like parrots on the roofs, and 
 certain ruined quarters are almost given over to them, 
 where they live at their pleasure, pillaging the sur- 
 rounding gardens and markets. 
 
 From the distance the palace of Agra seems almost 
 like a mountain of red sandstone that bristles with 
 fierce battlements. Looking at these blood-coloured 
 and gloomy prison walls one wonders how the court 
 of the magnificent emperors could have used this spot 
 as the scene on which their fantastic luxury was dis- 
 played. If, however, we approach from the riverside, 
 where the sacred Jumna runs beneath its shady walls,
 
 TOWARDS BENARES 235 
 
 alhambras of white lace appear, looking like some 
 dreamland palaces, which by chance had sprung from 
 the flanks of a rugged fortress of Titans. It was up 
 there that the great Moguls and their sultanas lived, 
 overlooking everything, almost in the sky, inaccessible 
 and secluded amidst the whiteness and transparence of 
 pure marble. 
 
 We enter through arched doors, not unlike vaulted 
 tunnels, piercing the triple ramparts, and then we mount 
 imposing stairways of the same deep sandstone hue. 
 
 Suddenly a diaphanous pallor dawns upon us, great 
 white and silent splendour, for we have reached the 
 marble palaces. Everything is white pavement, 
 walls, pillars, ceilings, and the chiselled balustrades of 
 terraces which face the far-off hills. Here and there a 
 few flowers are graven on the spotless walls, flowers 
 worked in mosaics of agate and of porphyry, but they 
 are so fine, so rare, and yet so simply wrought, that 
 the snowy look of the palace is in no way changed. 
 Silence and abandonment are everywhere, but every- 
 thing is as clear and sharp as on the day which saw 
 the banishment of the last emperor. Time has only 
 left the faintest trace on all this marble. These ex- 
 quisite things, so fragile, and of an appearance so 
 delicate, are, compared with us, almost eternal. 
 
 A melancholy garden also was perched up there, 
 on this artificial mountain, in the very centre of the 
 enormous, closely shut-in citadel. It is surrounded by 
 large porches of marble, which look like the entrances 
 to white grottos, from the vaults of which stalactites 
 hang down. But these are no natural grottos, for the 
 smallest carvings on their vaulted ceilings are won- 
 drously exact ; the least facet of their complex arches is 
 geometrically precise. A narrow black line, which looks 
 as though it had been traced with the tip of a brush, 
 edges all these arabesqued designs. This is the work 
 of no painter's brush, but a very skilful inlay of onyx. 
 
 These halls of melancholy splendour are doorless 
 and either open into one another or lead to terraces 
 through great arched openings. This would convey a
 
 236 TOWARDS BENARES 
 
 sense of trustfulness were it possible to forget how 
 these palaces were guarded by terrible bastions under- 
 neath. There is even an open terrace on which audi- 
 ences were given, decorated with the most refined 
 simplicity ; just a few masterly carvings of the marble, 
 nothing more. Then there is a black marble throne 
 for the Great Mogul, and by the side of it a white 
 marble stool for the Court buffoon, and that is all. 
 In those days, it appears, political discussions were 
 of such serious import that the presence of the fool 
 was needed so as to give relief to the minds of the 
 debaters. We all know that in political gatherings 
 I to-day there is no need to select any special fool for 
 this purpose. 
 
 The Emperor's bathroom is white that goes with- 
 out saying snowy white, with an inextricable tangle 
 of lines, arches, and sculptured windows. The 
 sonorous vaulted roofs are carved into facets and look 
 as if they were powdered with frozen milk. A few 
 graceful flower-sprays are engraved at random over 
 the marble walls, the meanest of which is a marvel of 
 gold and lapis lazuli mosaic. 
 
 On the extreme edge of the ramparts which support 
 the whole building, on the side of the Jumna and the 
 great open plains, there are many little buildings and 
 tiny kiosks overlooking the country in which the sul- 
 tanas and veiled beauties used to sit and taste the 
 evening air. It is here that the lace-like traceries of 
 the marble give the most wonderful effects. The walls 
 are transparent, but only from within, and the single 
 plaques, of which they are constructed, are so elabor- 
 ately worked that at a distance they resemble costly 
 embroideries, stretched between slender and charming 
 columns. Yet these traceries, which look so perishable 
 and delicate, embody the most lasting and most ruin- 
 ously beautiful creations that man has ever made. In 
 the lower parts of this monstrous building there are 
 other chambers, some even in the solid rock, rooms 
 that are half in shadow, and whose magnificence has 
 a furtive look. Among others are the baths of the
 
 OVERLOOKING THE JUMNA.
 
 TOWARDS BENARES 237 
 
 Grand Sultana, a kind of vast enchanted cavern where 
 one feels an earthly chill, and where the feeble light 
 drops from the ceiling like a shower of rain which frost 
 has turned to ice. The walls are covered with mosaics 
 made of silvered glass, but their lustre has been 
 tarnished by damp and age, and the myriad prisms 
 only shimmer now with the delicate reflections of 
 worked brocade. In the old days this hidden place 
 was peopled by all the fairest and most beautiful that 
 the Indian race could offer, and the still untarnished 
 stones and benches where they lay and rested are yet 
 haunted by their youthful amber forms. 
 
 A royal fortress was situated here long before the 
 arrival of the conquering Moguls, who introduced these 
 milk-white marbles and these geometrical ornamenta- 
 tions. There still are some rooms where the archaic 
 carvings on the sandstone dates from the Jaina kings. 
 At the bottom of the gloomy staircase, hollowed 
 from the solid rock, one comes to strange and fearsome 
 places, dungeons where people were thrown to the 
 cobras, the room in which sultanas met their fate, 
 bottomless black holes and underground passages 
 leading to charnel- or to treasure-houses which no one 
 dares to explore. These are the deep and noxious 
 roots of the lily-like splendour which blooms above. 
 
 After leaving these gloomy vaults I return to the 
 kiosks, whose fine traceries advance to the edge of the 
 ramparts, and whose balconies overhang the yawning 
 depths below. I linger awhile in places where the 
 beauties and sultanas of bygone times, secluded in this 
 palace far above the wheeling flights of birds, have 
 stood and gazed between the marble plaques and fluted 
 columns. All the surroundings are of exquisite re- 
 finement. Mosaic flowers and minute carvings are 
 scattered over the unvarying white background and 
 everything here looks whiter than elsewhere, though 
 a lingering sadness seems to hover round this spot. 
 Doubtless, the view that the sultanas saw was less 
 desolate than it is now ; the same plains extending to 
 the horizon, the same wandering river, but the wind
 
 238 TOWARDS BENARES 
 
 of famine did not blow nor did that death-like haze of 
 dust hang over the land like some dreadful pall. Be- 
 neath the balconies and almost under their feet, the 
 belles could overlook the arena where bloody fights 
 between elephants and tigers were given for their sport ; 
 but now the courtyard is overgrown with shrubs and 
 trees whose leaves have been withered by the drought. 
 
 In no part of India are the birds so numerous or so 
 troublesome as they are here. Their cries are the only 
 sounds which reach me on the lonely terraces, and the 
 pale marbles echo with their screams. As twilight 
 comes on the winged crowd seems to segregate. One 
 tree below me is black with crows ; another is so 
 thronged with parrots that it looks as though its dead 
 branches had once again put forth leaves. White- 
 bosomed eagles and bald-headed vultures wander 
 tamely round the abandoned circus. 
 
 Amongst the distant plains white cupolas, of that 
 diaphanous pearliness that no artifice can ever imitate, 
 are seen rising from the dusty haze that covers all the 
 land, a haze which turns from blue to purple in 
 the evening twilight. These are the resting-places of 
 the princesses who once trod these lofty terraces, and, 
 arrayed in gold-striped muslins and precious stones, 
 displayed their naked loveliness. The largest dome is 
 that of the Taj, Taj the incomparable, where the great 
 sultana, Montaz-i -Mahal, sleeps since two hundred 
 and seventy years ago. Everybody has seen and has 
 described the Taj, which is known as one of the classic 
 wonders of the world. Enamels and miniatures still 
 preserve the features of the much-beloved Montaz-i- 
 Mahal and of her husband, the sultan, who created the 
 place, wishing to enshroud his dead wife with unheard- 
 of splendour. Standing in a park-like cemetery that 
 is walled in like a fortress, the Taj is the largest and 
 most stainless mass of marble that the world has seen. 
 The walls of this park and the high cupolas rising 
 over the four outer gates are of red sandstone encrusted 
 with alabaster, but the artificial lakes, shady groves, 
 and boskages of palm and cypress that lie within dis-
 
 r - 
 
 THE INCOMPARABLE TAJ.
 
 TOWARDS BENARES 239 
 
 play a cold formality of tracing. Out of these the 
 incomparable monument towers forth in a whiteness 
 which the surrounding sombre greenery seems to en- 
 hance. An immense cupola and four minarets, lofty 
 as towers, stand on a white pediment, and everywhere 
 the same restful purity of outline and the same calm 
 and supremely simple harmony of tone pervade a 
 colossal edifice entirely built of white marble, diapered 
 by almost imperceptible lines of a pale gray. 
 
 On coming nearer, delicate arabesques of thin black 
 marble inlay are observed, which damascene the walls 
 and underline the cornices, twining round the doors 
 and minarets. 1 
 
 Under the central cupola, which is seventy-five feet 
 high, the sultana sleeps. Here there is nothing but 
 the most superb simplicity, only a great white splen- 
 dour. It should be dark here, but it is as light as if 
 these whitenesses were self-illuminating, as if this 
 great carved sky of marble had a vague transparence. 
 There is nothing on the walls but veins of pearly gray 
 and a few faintly outlined arches, and on the dome's 
 white firmament nothing but those facets traced as 
 with a compass, which imitate the crystal pendants of 
 some stalactite cave. Around the pediment, however, 
 there is a bordering of great lilies sculptured in bold 
 relief. Their stalks seem to spring out of the ground, 
 and the marble flowers look as if their petals were 
 about to fall. This decoration, which flourished in 
 India in the seventeenth century, has now been more or 
 less indifferently imitated by our modern Western art. 
 
 The wonder of wonders is the white grille that 
 stands in the centre of the translucent hall and incloses 
 the tomb of the sultana. It is made of plaques of 
 marble placed upright, so finely worked that it might 
 be thought that they were carved in ivory. On each 
 marble upright and each stud with which these fretted 
 marble plaques are surrounded little garlands of tulips, 
 fuchsias, and immortelles are worked in mosaics of 
 
 1 The Taj formerly had doors of solid silver. These were taken 
 away when Agra was sacked by Suraj-Mall.
 
 240 TOWARDS BENARES 
 
 turquoise, topaz, porphyry, or lapis lazuli. The 
 sonority of this white mausoleum is almost terrifying, 
 for the echoes never seem to cease. If the name of 
 Allah is intoned the exaggerated echo lasts for several 
 seconds and then lingers in the air like the faint breath 
 of an organ. 
 
 Behind the formidable ramparts of Delhi, about 
 sixty leagues farther north, the Great Moguls had 
 another enchanted palace even more magnificent than 
 the one at Agra. 
 
 The great pointed arches of the Delhi palace look 
 on to a garden shut in by high and crested walls. 
 The splendour of the delicate structure has never been 
 exceeded, but it is a prison if only for fairies and genii. 
 What need to say that it is of the whitest marble, or 
 that the ceilings rain their frosted icicles upon the 
 matchless carvings ? But here masses of gold mingle 
 with the whiteness of the marble, and their colours 
 blend into a new harmony. The thousand wondrously 
 chiselled arabesques lining the walls and roof appear 
 in a setting of sparkling gold. 
 
 No other light but that which comes through the 
 arches opening on to the garden enters the palace, so 
 that the columns and indented arches which succeed 
 each other in a diminishing perspective appear to fade 
 into a thin blue haze, yet all the roofs and walls seem 
 to have the transparency of alabaster. 
 
 The throne -room, which contained the famous pea- 
 cock throne of emeralds and gold, is entirely white and 
 gold. In some of the rooms the tall marble walls are 
 strewn with bouquets of roses, roses like the roses of 
 a Chinese embroidery, with tints varying from bright 
 to pale pink, and whose every petal is faintly edged 
 with gold. In other rooms there are blue flowers of 
 lapis and of turquoise. Each room generally opens 
 into the adjoining one, only being separated from it 
 by one of those lace-like marble plaques which replace 
 the hangings of our uncouth abodes. 
 
 The famine-bearing wind harries the thickets of the 
 lonely garden and scatters their last leaves like an
 
 A CITIZEN OF DELHI.
 
 TOWARDS BENARES 241 
 
 autumn tempest ; whirlwinds of dead leaves invade 
 the silent palace and the white pavement where the 
 precious throne once stood. 
 
 IV 
 AMONG THE RUINS 
 
 The land in which the Mogul emperors lived is now 
 but a winding-sheet for ruined towns and palaces. 
 Egypt herself cannot boast so many ruins on her sands 
 as this decaying region. There, on the banks of the 
 Nile, is the land of monstrous granite temples ; here, 
 chiselled marbles and fretted stones lie like lost souls 
 scattered about these sad wastes. 
 
 India, cauldron in which the first human intelligence 
 seethed, is filled with innumerable wrecks of bygone 
 days, whose beauty and profusion plunge us into be- 
 wilderment. Besides the towns which fell into decay 
 through wars and massacres, there are others whose 
 magnificence rose into being at the whim of some 
 sovereign, but never was completed. There are palaces, 
 too, raised by a myriad workmen to gratify the longing 
 of some sultana which have never known an occupant. 
 
 Between Delhi and that capital of olden times where 
 the great tower of Kuth stands, built of pink granite, 
 the road is lined with ruined fortresses and phantom 
 towns, great crested walls with moats and drawbridges. 
 Within, no living soul. The silence is only broken 
 by monkeys rushing through the bushes or clambering 
 up the heaps of fallen stones. 
 
 There are cemeteries, too, almost boundless in ex- 
 tent. For miles the earth has been filled with the dead, 
 and funeral pavilions and tombs of all ages are heaped 
 together in a bewildering labyrinth of crumbling ruins. 
 
 Some tombs, hidden among the myriad trees whose 
 wreckage strews the ground, are still kept up in a 
 spirit of splendid piety, but it would be impossible to 
 find the paths which lead up to them through the 
 heaps of stone and holes and yawning pits were they 
 not mapped out by swarms of maimed and leprous 
 
 16
 
 242 TOWARDS BENARES 
 
 beggars who solicit alms from the passing pilgrims. 
 It is strange, indeed, to one who follows these dusty 
 tracks to come upon some marvellous mausoleum with 
 walls of fretted marble hung with red silks and decked 
 with carpets, over which bunches of fresh gardenias 
 and tuberoses are strewn. The most splendid of these 
 are the tombs of the fakirs and the dervishes of the 
 olden days, who lived lives of purposed wretchedness and 
 complete renunciation, and to whose memory sultans 
 of long ago paid such madly extravagant honours. 
 
 The rose-coloured granite tower was visible on the 
 horizon of this famine-stricken land long before the 
 ramparts and the chiselled palaces could be descried. 
 These nestle at its feet hidden amidst the undulations 
 of a stony land, where only goats and shepherds dwell. 
 
 It is almost the oppressive hour of noon as I pass 
 through double gates which lead into this phantom 
 town. A vast and melancholy space, so vast that its 
 extent cannot be gauged, extends before me. All 
 around are trees dying of drought, whose yellow leaves 
 are scattered by the parching wind, and shapeless 
 heaps of stones, domes, and towers, so worn as to re- 
 semble rocks. By the foot of the tower there are those 
 remains of pompous magnificence which mark that this 
 was once royal ground. 
 
 All styles are mingled in these glorious relics. So 
 many wars and invasions have passed over the place, 
 so many buildings have been razed to the ground, and 
 have sprung up anew, phoenix-like from their ruins, 
 that it is no longer possible to retrace the history of 
 this land of shades. 
 
 I take refuge from the midday heat in the shadow of 
 a palace which belonged to a king whose name is now 
 but a legend, and I occupy the corner of a high gallery, 
 a sort of loggia overlooking a hall filled with great 
 square columns which are emblazoned with archaic 
 sculptures. Here for some hours I may sleep or muse 
 alone, or seek to penetrate the spirit that once animated 
 these ruins, or if not that the thoughts of the animals 
 which now inhabit it. Outside, the torrid sun parches
 
 THE ROSE-COLOURED GRANITE TOWER
 
 TOWARDS BENARES 243 
 
 the desert lands : the grasshoppers are still, and the 
 flies no longer busy. Only from time to time the screech 
 of a parrot returning to its shady nest among the 
 carvings, or the rustling of dry leaves chased past the 
 pillars by the famine wind. Nothing else is to be heard. 
 
 The ceiling is made of long superposed granite 
 blocks, placed in pyramids like the beams of our old 
 timber-work. This kind of roofing denotes a period 
 when men knew nothing about building vaults or 
 domes, or if they did know of them, mistrusted such 
 work. Under me lies a forest of superb monolithic 
 blocks whose squared frontages carry the mind back 
 to the earliest Hindoo period. From the dim corner 
 where I sit I can look out through the large bayed 
 openings, and I see the red sandstones, the fiery 
 granites and the porphyries below, enkindled in the 
 blazing sun. Wonderful porticoes rear their many- 
 pointed arches inscribed with Kufic characters into 
 the clear transparent air. An obelisk of black iron, 
 covered with Sanskrit writing, and dating from an 
 unknown age, rises out from among the tombs from a 
 paved place which was the central court of a most sacred 
 mosque, once said to be the most beautiful in the world. 
 
 I hear a light trotting on the pavement below. 
 Three goats, followed by their kids, enter the palace 
 and without any hesitation clamber up to the high 
 gallery where I am standing. Here, full of unconcern, 
 they lie down to take their midday nap. Crows and 
 turtle-doves also come to the cool shade and settle 
 down and sleep. 
 
 Then all is silence, unbroken even by the sound of 
 the dead leaves, for the wind slumbers now like all else. 
 
 At the back of my loggia there is a little window, 
 from which I ought to see the sky, but I only see a 
 white embroidery on a rosy background, which seems 
 to be suspended in the air at an uncertain distance 
 from me. It is the great tower whose marble in- 
 crustations gleam in the rosy granite. 
 
 This is the last halting-place before I reach Benares, 
 the town which I so dread. I shall be there in two
 
 244 TOWARDS BENARES 
 
 days, for it has been impossible for me to dally longer, 
 and I must face the supreme disenchantment which I 
 feel sure awaits me. The peace that hovers about 
 these ruins steals over me, and I think of the House 
 of the Masters, whose strange and frugal hospitality I 
 am soon to share. 
 
 The burning hazes beckon me to sleep and dreams, 
 but my mind is still occupied with the great tower 
 which rises near at hand. A king built it, so the 
 legend tells, to satisfy the whim of his daughter, who 
 wished to see the wanderings of a far-distant river. 
 As I draw nearer the window, the tower comes into 
 full view, and I see its rosy shaft rising into the sky 
 implacably pure. The eye is bewildered by its height 
 and slimness, which surpass those of all known towers 
 or minarets, and the swelling of the base gives it an 
 oddly curved appearance. It is astonishing to see a 
 monument so splendid and so marvellously preserved 
 rising from this desert strewn with ruins. 
 
 The stone is of so fine a grain and such a polish that 
 centuries have never tarnished its perfection, and its 
 fresh colour is matchlessly preserved. The flutings 
 which traverse the entire length of the column look 
 like folds in a fabric, or tucks in some lady's silken 
 gown, and the whole tower is pleated with them like a 
 closed parasol. One thinks also of a stack of organ 
 pipes, or of a bundle of huge palm trunks, knotted at 
 intervals with embroidered bands, which are the granite 
 galleries loaded with Islamite inscriptions in white 
 mosaic. Drowsiness comes over me. Suddenly there 
 are footsteps beneath me, hasty footsteps unexpectedly 
 breaking the long silence. Some twelve men appear, 
 glowing with crude colours, whose blues and whites 
 and golds break the monotony of the great ruddy 
 stones. They are Mussulmans from the north, Afghans 
 with pointed caps which fall over their faces, so that 
 only their hooked noses and jet-black beards are 
 visible. They walk quickly and have a false and cruel 
 look. Concealed in my unsuspected hiding-place I can 
 watch them at my leisure, and it is soon evident that
 
 TOWARDS BENARES 245 
 
 they are only pilgrims who have come on some pious 
 errand. They pause reverently before the porticoes of 
 the ruined mosques or stop to kiss the tombs, and then, 
 always with the same haste, move farther off, and at 
 last disappear among the ruins. 
 
 It is now three o'clock and life's pulses stir once 
 more. The green parrots peer from their holes, and 
 with beaks hooked into the carvings look downwards. 
 Then they fly off with the fierce cry of newly-wakened 
 life. The three goats awaken too, and take their kids 
 to pasture amid the short and burnt -up grass. I also 
 descend and wander in the phantom town. 
 
 Ruined houses, ruined temples, ruins of mausoleums 
 and of palaces ; and, here and there, lean flocks that 
 nibble among the stones, and spread out over this 
 vast, melancholy, and walled-in plain. 
 
 The shepherds play on muted pipes, as if saddened 
 by the presence of the crumbling temples ; and in the 
 midst of all this desolation the rose tower seems to 
 keep a sleepless vigil. 
 
 There are still balconies overlooking open spaces 
 which once were avenues, loggias jutting from the 
 crumbling walls from which beauties of bygone 
 ages could see elephants passing in purple pomp, pro- 
 cessions of mailed warriors, and the moving crowds of 
 the wondrous olden days. 
 
 Oh ! the sadness of these balconies and these deserted 
 streets. 
 
 v 
 
 t THE FUNERAL PYRES 
 
 A gray winter's evening on the Ganges. The night- 
 mists rise from the sacred river and dull the rays of 
 the declining sun. The dark outlines of the crumbling 
 palaces and temples of Benares rear their black shadows 
 against the still luminous Western sky. 
 
 Amongst the slumbering boats mine is the only one 
 that is in motion. We drift slowly, at the foot of the 
 sacred town, amidst the shadows of monstrous temples
 
 246 TOWARDS BENARES 
 
 and of frowning palaces. Three rainless famine years 
 have so lowered the water's level that the height of 
 the buildings above it seems increased, and the very 
 foundations of Benares are uncovered. Fragments of 
 palaces which have been submerged for centuries rear 
 their heads among the motionless barques, and ruins 
 of temples that have been swallowed up and forgotten 
 come to light. The old Ganges bares its bed of mystery 
 and desolation. 
 
 The ravaged banks attest the mad rages of a sacred 
 river that is both life-giver and life-destroyer, and that, 
 like the god Siva, begets but to destroy. Nothing can 
 resist the terrible force of its floods during the rainy 
 season ; stately walls of granite and whole embank- 
 ments have slipped in a solid mass into the stream, 
 where, fantastic forms, they rest, as though hurled 
 there by an earthquake. Security is felt only some 
 thirty or forty feet away from highwater mark, and it 
 is there that the first windows, balconies, and miradors 
 are to be seen. Below that the Ganges is the master, 
 and everything is every year submerged. All build- 
 ings are constructed with that fact kept in mind by the 
 builders ; kiosks, massive as casemates, sheltering 
 heavy and thick-set gods, cyclopean embankments and 
 monstrous blocks that seem unmovable, but which 
 sometimes totter in the fury of the waters. 
 
 The pyramids of countless temples rise into the 
 evening air, high above the houses and palaces, and, 
 like those of Rajput, resemble carved stone yew trees, 
 but there is red, dull red, mingled with a dying gold. 
 These are so frequent as to cover all Benares. Along 
 the whole length of the town, which follows the bend 
 of the river in a matchless crescent, granite steps, like 
 those of a pedestal, descend from the habitations to the 
 very edge of the sacred stream. To-day the lowest 
 steps are visible, portent of famine and death, for they 
 are only uncovered in tears of drought. The majestic 
 stairways are now deserted ; up to noon they were 
 thronged by crowds of merchants selling fruits and 
 grasses for the sacred cattle, or flower-sellers whose
 
 TOWARDS BENARES 247 
 
 stalls were heaped with the garlands and bouquets 
 which worshippers offer to the river in token of respect. 
 The parasols of dried grass, under which everybody 
 shelters, are still there, open and resting on their 
 handles, parasols without folds which resemble metal 
 discs. The terraces and stairways are so thickly covered 
 with these as to look like a battle-field with the buck- 
 lers planted in limitless array. A dull twilight comes 
 on and the air grows chill. I had not thought to see 
 this wintry aspect and such gray skies here. My boat 
 drifts at the current's will, sometimes grazing the 
 shores, whose edges are overhung by gloomy palaces. 
 
 We come to a sinister-looking spot situated amid 
 the ruins of overthrown palaces. On the blackened 
 soil there are little heaps of sticks which ragged men 
 of evil look are trying to light, and these little heaps, 
 which smoke but will not burn, are of a peculiar long 
 and narrow shape funeral piles for the dead. 
 
 A dead body is laid on each of them with feet point- 
 ing towards the river, and, on drawing nigh, I can see 
 the toes projecting among the sticks. How small the 
 heaps are and how little wood it must take to burn a 
 corpse ! My Hindoo boatman explains to me that 
 these are the pyres of the poor and that the wood is 
 damp ; that they had no money to buy any more. 
 
 Now the hour of Brahma is at hand and evening 
 worship begins all along the stream. Brahmins draped 
 in thin veils descend from all the stairways, hastening 
 to fetch the sacred water for their rites and ablutions 
 such as their rank prescribes. Multitudes throng the 
 granite steps, just now so deserted, and the thousand 
 little rafts anchored in the shadow of the temples or 
 the palaces, and the thousand bamboo resting-places 
 made for the hour of prayer, are crowded with dreamers 
 who sit motionless in the posture which time has con- 
 secrated. The thoughts of the praying multitudes are 
 soon lost in the unfathomable depths of the world be- 
 yond, that mysterious beyond into which our ephemeral 
 personalities must shortly melt. 
 
 In the quarter of the dead and near the smoking
 
 248 TOWARDS BENARES 
 
 pyres two other human forms are, each resting on a 
 frail litter. They are wrapped in muslin, and their 
 bodies are half plunged into the river. These, like the 
 living, are taking their bath in the sacred stream, their 
 one last supreme bath before being placed on the piles 
 of wood which are now being prepared. 
 
 The mists of evening settle on the opposite shore, a 
 flat plain of mud and grass annually inundated by the 
 Ganges. Gradually these vapours take shape, as may 
 be seen in rainy skies, and the river banks are blotted 
 out. I look upon the crescent of the sacred city, rising 
 into the air, and it seems to me that its buildings have 
 ranged themselves like the spectators of a theatre to 
 watch the clouds that assembled at their feet. 
 
 A young fakir, whose long hair falls upon his 
 shoulders, stands by the abode of the dead in a rigid at- 
 titude, with his head turned towards the smoking heaps 
 of wood and their gruesome burdens. Though covered 
 with white dust he is still beautiful and muscular. 
 His chest is decked with a garland of marigolds, such a 
 garland as the people here cast upon the river's breast. 
 
 A little way above the funeral heaps some five or 
 six persons crouch upon the frieze of an old palace, 
 which fell into the river long ago. Their heads are 
 wrapped in veils, and, like the fakir, they stare fixedly 
 at their kinsman who is being burned. 
 
 Two people especially, who seem to have the crouch- 
 ing attitude that betokens old age, look anxiously at 
 the smallest of the pyres. It is only a little boy of ten 
 years old, as my Hindoo boatman tells me after inquir- 
 ing from people standing on the shore, but all the same 
 they have brought too little wood for the purpose of 
 burning his body. The smoke mounts up to the mo- 
 tionless pair, the smoke of their little one who now 
 begins to burn, for the attendant has fanned the flame 
 with his coarse loin-cloth. Temples and palaces look 
 calmly on this blackened resting-place, and in the 
 hazy air their magnificence seems to mock these slow 
 cremations of the poor whose misery accompanies 
 them even in death. A new occupant for the funeral
 
 TOWARDS BENARES 249 
 
 pyres is seen at the top of the great staircase. A fifth 
 body emerges from a dark passage and journeys to 
 the Ganges where its ashes will be cast. On a litter 
 of bamboo branches six half-nude and ragged men of 
 lowly caste carry the corpse, feet foremost, down the 
 steep incline. No one follows, no one weeps ; and 
 children on their way to bathe skip merrily round as 
 if they saw nothing. It is only the soul that counts at 
 Benares, and when that has fled the rest is hastily dis- 
 posed of. It is only the poor who accompany the dead, 
 fearing lest there may not be wood enough or that the 
 attendants may throw unburnt remains into the river. 
 
 A rose-coloured muslin of gorgeous design covers 
 this corpse, and white gardenias and red hibiscus 
 flowers are knotted round its loins. It has the form 
 of a woman, which the flowers also show, and admir- 
 able, too, in spite of the chill touch of death, does the 
 form reveal itself. " The daughter of a rich house," 
 my boatman says. " Look at the beautiful wood which 
 they have brought." 
 
 To await her coming I tell my boatman to stop upon 
 the yellow, troubled, and slimy waters of the Ganges, 
 where filth and weeds are always cloaked by flowers. 
 Countless tuberoses, Indian pinks, marigolds, and 
 necklets of the yellow flower, which are daily offered 
 to the sacred river, float down this foul -smelling water. 
 Golden blossoms cover the scum that clings to the 
 banks and mingle with the human ashes in the fellow- 
 ship of decay. 
 
 Entrusted to the common men who bear her like a 
 thing of no account, the body of the beautiful dead 
 woman comes down. 
 
 When she has reached the edge of the water, close 
 by my boat, the porters place her on the muddy shore, 
 with half the body in the water for her final bath. 
 One of the men bends over her, and with some trace of 
 respect uncovers the face, that she may take a supreme 
 last look at the river. Then, following the prescribed 
 rites, stoops and fills the hollow of his hand with the 
 Ganges waters, which he pours into her mouth. I can
 
 250 TOWARDS BENARES 
 
 now see her long closed eyes, with their dark fringes, 
 and her straight and delicate nose and her full cheeks. 
 Lips of an exquisite shape are half closed on her pearly 
 teeth. She must have been very beautiful, and no 
 doubt that some evil chance came to cut her off in 
 the full bloom of youth, for she has changed so little. 
 The pink muslin in which she is wrapped has become 
 wet and clings transparently to her, clings to her bosom 
 and loins and does not hide her matchless nudity. . . . 
 To think that all this loveliness should have been given 
 to common porters, and that fire will claim it soon ! It 
 is now the turn of one of the other two waiting in the 
 sacred stream, a man huddled in a white muslin wrap, 
 whom they carry to the pyre. He has not stiffened, 
 and his head rolls from side to side before it settles on 
 the wooden pillow. Now they cover him with branches, 
 and now set fire to the bottom of the pile. As for the 
 little boy, he is still burning badly, and his black smoke 
 enfolds the motionless pair who stand watching. 
 
 It will soon be time for the birds to rest, but it even 
 seems to me that they are more plentiful in Benares 
 than in other parts of India. Swarms of crows, utter- 
 ing hoarse cries, and clouds of pigeons wheel round 
 and round, and each temple tower has its particular 
 crowd, flying in circles like stones hurled from a sling. 
 The deepening river-mists grow colder, and the odour 
 of decay is ranker in the evening air. 
 
 I should like to stay longer to see them place the 
 young goddess on her pyre, but that will not be for a 
 long while yet, and the damp, transparent muslin 
 almost makes it embarrassing to look further at her. It 
 seems sacrilege to look at her since she is dead. No ! 
 Let us away. I will return later when her time has come. 
 
 What a tireless destroyer, the Ganges ! So many 
 palaces have fallen into its waters, whole frontages 
 have slipped away without breaking, and lie there half 
 submerged ; and so many temples ! Those that are 
 built too near the water have their towers twisted like 
 the leaning tower of Pisa and are irremediably under- 
 mined. Only those which are situated higher up and
 
 TOWARDS BENARES 251 
 
 whose basements have been protected by heaps of 
 granite or by old substructures have kept their red or 
 golden towers erect, but what a strange aspect these 
 towers have ! Seeking a comparison, I might have 
 said, " a churchyard yew tree," but the aspect of these 
 towers is stranger than that, for there are bundles of 
 little steeples, and myriads of tiny spires, all resem- 
 bling each other, and of the unvarying traditional form 
 for which no parallel can be found in the range of 
 Western architecture. 
 
 All Brahma's people are now gathered by the deep 
 water, and the thousand little rafts bend under the 
 weight of the praying multitudes. Gray staircases, 
 foundations, and mud-coloured walls, which seem the 
 bared roots of the sacred city, tower above the people, 
 whose hands are joined in prayer, or who throw offer- 
 ings of flowers into the river. 
 
 My barque leisurely ascends the stream and passes a 
 spot where lonely old palaces congregate, and where 
 there are no rafts moored to the shore. (All the rajahs 
 of the surrounding country have a palace on the Ganges 
 where they seek a retreat from time to time.) 
 
 The massive walls rear straight into the air without 
 interruption ; the windows, the balconies, and the life 
 of these impenetrable buildings only showing them- 
 selves at a higher level. 
 
 There is music within, this evening, a stifled, groan- 
 ing breath of music, and bagpipes, which have a haut- 
 bois note, wail forth thin melancholy sound. Sometimes 
 it is but a single phrase, a lamentation which rises and 
 falls ; then there is silence, perhaps broken by the croak 
 of a. raven, and from a neighbouring palace an answer- 
 ing plaint is heard. Tom-toms resound with measured 
 blows, like the slow tolling of a passing bell. Oh ! the 
 mystery, the unspeakable sadness of these sounds, 
 which float over my head as my boat glides on these 
 death-tainted waters. To me it sounds like the death- 
 wail for the young girl whose image is still before my 
 eyes ; the swan-song of so many other beings and things 
 that are no more.
 
 252 TOWARDS BENARES 
 
 I had not foreseen the gray skies and the wintry 
 aspect of this sacred city, nor had I thought that I 
 should find the old self of former days reviving in me, 
 ever a prey to the allurements of the new and strange, 
 and the seductions of the outer world. I had hoped to 
 find peace and deliverance at the house of the Masters in 
 the hallowed air of Benares, this city that is as the heart 
 of a sacred land. My promised initiation commences 
 to-morrow, but in spite of this I feel more than ever en- 
 thralled by all that is beautiful and transitory, and by 
 the things of the kingdom which owns Death as lord. 
 
 It is quite dark as I return to the pyres, and the birds 
 no longer fly in circles, but have settled in long rows 
 on the cornices of the palaces and temples, forming 
 black cordons which still tremble with the last flutter- 
 ing of their wings. The towers of the Brahmin temples 
 lose their sharpness of outline and look like black 
 cypress trees rearing their heads into the pale sky. 
 
 My boat, with its train of yellow flowers and grasses, 
 has come back to the still waters, which now reek more 
 strongly with a deathly and insipid odour. In order to 
 reach the place where the black smoke from the funeral 
 pyres ascends, I have to pass the praying crowds, and 
 to thread my way among rafts laden with motionless 
 Brahmins. Yet, as my boat floats down the river, 
 these men, in ecstatic attitudes, with their burning 
 eyes fixed on vacancy, never see me as I brush past 
 them. Their dust-coloured faces only seem to me like 
 some far-distant vision. 
 
 I reach the quarter of the dead too late. A great 
 pyre is flaming, and whirling sparks and tongues of 
 fire ascend into the air. The young girl is in the midst 
 of it, and nothing can be seen of her but one ghastly 
 foot, whose extended toes seem to tell of agonies of 
 suffering, standing out blackly on a red background 
 of fire. 
 
 Four more persons have gathered on the walls which 
 overlook the burning ghat, too closely veiled for their 
 features to be recognized. They sit and look with tran- 
 quillity that almost seems indifference: relatives, no
 
 TOWARDS BENARES 253 
 
 doubt, perhaps even the parents from whom she in- 
 herited her matchless beauty. 
 
 How much must these beliefs (into which I am to be 
 initiated to-morrow) change these people's views of life 
 and death ! A soul has passed away, a soul that scarce 
 knew itself, and which, moreover, was not akin to 
 theirs, a soul, maybe, that had been conscious for 
 centuries and centuries, and had but taken fleeting 
 shape in this daughter of their flesh. Later, no doubt, 
 they will meet again, but much later, when ages shall 
 have run their appointed course. 
 
 One of the two poor people who were crouching on 
 the wall to watch the burning of their little boy rises, 
 and, unveiling his face so as better to see, approaches 
 the little heap. The glare from the young girl's funeral 
 pyre lights up the features of an emaciated old woman. 
 Is he quite burnt ? she seems to ask. She is very old, 
 a grandmother rather than a mother, for mysterious 
 sympathies and tendernesses are often seen between 
 grandparents and grandchildren. But is the body 
 totally consumed ? Her poor eyes are tortured by the 
 thought that they did not have enough money to buy 
 the necessary wood, and that the pitiless attendants 
 might throw some tatters of unburnt flesh into the river. 
 She stoops again anxiously over the smouldering 
 heap, while the attendant moves the embers with a 
 stick to convince her that all has been duly consumed. 
 Then she makes a sign. " Yes, all is over. You can 
 throw the rest into the river." On her face, however, 
 I can see the eternal human agony that is just the same 
 here as it is with us, that agony which waits for us all 
 in spite of our courage or our nebulous beliefs. Doubt- 
 less this grandmother loved the small transitory form 
 which has just been destroyed, and doted on its face, 
 its expression, its smile. Her soul cannot have been 
 sufficiently detached, and her Brahmin insusceptibility 
 must have been at fault, for she is weeping. 
 
 Even the Christian faith, which is the kindest of all, 
 does not promise to give us back those childish 
 smiles and the kind eyes of white-haired grandams.
 
 254 TOWARDS BENARES 
 
 The attendant takes a wooden shovel, and scatters 
 the embers of the pauper pyre into the river. 
 
 On the neighbouring heap the foot of the young girl 
 falls at last into the ashes. 
 
 VI 
 THE HOUSE WHERE THE MASTERS DWELL 
 
 At the far end of an old garden stands a low and 
 modest Indian house on which time has left few traces. 
 The whitewashed walls and the green sunblinds remind 
 me of the houses of my birthplace, but this roof slopes 
 forward so as to form a veranda, and the white columns 
 which support it tell of the land of eternal sunshine. 
 But the garden, although neglected, is neither tropical 
 nor strange, and the overhanging Bengal rose bushes 
 shelter sweet old homely walks which resemble ours. 
 
 The masters of the house have grave and beautiful 
 faces, the faces of a Christ with bronzed skin and black 
 hair, and they welcome me with soft and radiant smiles 
 and whispered words. Yet sometimes it seemed as if 
 their thoughts were no longer with me, and that they 
 had stolen away into the other world to join their 
 souls, that had already taken refuge there. 
 
 The House of the Masters is always open to those 
 who care to come, and a kindly welcome awaits all. 
 
 And yet with what deep and unspeakable terror I 
 knocked at their door, feeling that this was the supreme 
 test, and that, if I found nothing here, I should never 
 find anything anywhere else. 
 
 The Masters spend their time in work and medita- 
 tion, but, like all Hindoos, share their houses with birds 
 and beasts, putting up with gentle resignation with 
 their importunities. Squirrels come in through the 
 windows, sparrows build their nests in the ceilings, and 
 the whole house is full of birds. 
 
 In an inner room there is a platform covered by a 
 white cloth for the numerous guests, who sit upon it 
 in Indian fashion while searching for the hidden things. 
 Brahmins are crouching there, whose brows bear the
 
 TOWARDS BENARES 255 
 
 seals of Vishnu or of Siva, thinkers who wander bare- 
 foot and with no garment but a coarse cloth wrapped 
 round their loins, but who have looked on everything, 
 and for whom the world has no more snares, learned 
 men who, in their contempt of earthly things, look 
 like beggars or labourers of the fields, but who have 
 mastered the latest and most transcendental philo- 
 sophies of Europe, and who say with tranquil assur- 
 ance : " Our philosophy begins where yours ends." 
 
 The Masters work or meditate the whole day, to- 
 gether or alone. The plain tables before them are 
 loaded with those Sanskrit books containing the secrets 
 of that Brahminism which preceded all our religions 
 and philosophies by so many thousand years. 
 
 In these unfathomable books the old thinkers, those 
 sages who had clearer vision than any men of our race 
 or age, have inscribed the sum of all human knowledge. 
 To them the inconceivable was almost clear, and their 
 long-forgotten works now pass our degenerate under- 
 standing ; and so, to-day, years of initiation are re- 
 quired merely to see, hidden dimty amidst the obscurity 
 of the words, the unfathomable depths beyond. 
 
 If there be any people who can understand, it must 
 be these sages of Benares, for they are the descendants 
 of the wondrous philosophers who wrote these books. 
 Their blood is the same, the blood of men who never 
 slew and whose bodies were never nourished on the 
 flesh of other creatures. 
 
 Surely their bodies must be less earthly and more 
 ethereal than ours, and by their long heredity of medi- 
 tation and prayer they must have reached subtleties 
 of perception and a delicacy of intuition impossible to 
 us. But they simply say : " We know nothing and 
 simply seek to learn." 
 
 One high amongst them is a European woman, who 
 has come here to seek shelter from the turmoil of the 
 world. 
 
 Her face is still beautiful, though crowned with silver 
 hair, and she lives here, barefooted and detached from 
 earthly strife, the thrifty and austere life of an ascetic.
 
 256 TOWARDS BENARES 
 
 It is on her goodwill that I have fixed my hopes, 
 trusting that she may throw open to me the formidable 
 gates of knowledge, for she was once of my race and 
 understands my native tongue. 
 
 And yet I am filled with doubts and misgivings, and 
 as if to entrap her in a snare I begin to speak of that 
 other woman who lived here so long among the Mas- 
 ters, whose tarnished fame had caused me to doubt, for 
 it was asserted of her that she was a juggling impostor. 
 
 " Do you not think that she is to be excused per- 
 haps ? Her intentions were good, and perhaps she only 
 practised deceit in order to bring others to believe." 
 
 " No, it is never right to cheat. Nothing can come 
 from falsehood," replied the woman with a frank look. 
 I feel a new and sudden confidence in my teacher. 
 
 " Our principles," she said to me a little later, " our 
 dogmas ! We have none. Amongst the Theosophists 
 (such is the name by which they call us) you will find 
 Buddhists, Brahmins, Mussulmans, Protestants, Catho- 
 lics, and orthodox people, and even folks like you." 
 
 " But what must I do to join you ? " 
 
 " Swear to regard all men as your brothers and your 
 equals, and meet them with the same love whether 
 they be beggars or princes. Swear to seek spiritual 
 truth by all the means in your power. That is all. 
 Those whom you have lately left at Madras are tinged 
 with Buddhism, from whose cold tenets your mystic 
 temperament has recoiled. It is in esoteric Brah- 
 minism in its oldest form that we find our light and 
 peace. To us it seems to offer the purest form of truth 
 which men may know. And we would wish you to 
 journey on our road. But you know the allegory of 
 ' The Guardians of the Threshold,' those monsters 
 which lurk outside the temples and seek to terrorize the 
 neophyte in his initiation. Their true meaning is that 
 all knowledge is born with the pangs of labour. You 
 know that we say that personal individuality is but a 
 faint and ephemeral spark, and for one so personal as 
 you, this, I know, will be hard to learn. We believe so 
 much that is opposed to all the faiths in which you have
 
 TOWARDS BENARES 257 
 
 been trained. But do not hate us if we pluck out 
 those slumbering hopes which perhaps unconsciously 
 still sustain you." 
 
 " No, my hopes are dead. I have none to lose." 
 
 " Then come to us. . " 
 
 VII 
 IN THE MORNING GLORY 
 
 The sun has just risen from the plain through which 
 old Ganges wanders, a plain of mud and vegetation still 
 overshadowed by the mists of night ; and waiting there 
 for the first red rays of dawn lie the granite temples 
 of Benares, the rosy pyramids, the golden shafts, and 
 all the sacred city, extended in terraces, as if to catch 
 the first light and deck itself in the glory of the morning. 
 
 This is the hour which, since the Brahmin faith 
 began, has been sacred to prayer and to religious 
 ecstasy, and it is now that Benares pours forth all its 
 people, all its flowers, all its garlands, all its birds, 
 and all its living things on to the banks of the Ganges. 
 Awakened by the kiss of the sun, all that have re- 
 ceived souls from Brahma rush joyously down the 
 granite steps. The men, whose faces beam with calm 
 serenity, are garbed in Kashmir shawls, some pink, 
 some yellow, and some in the colours of the dawn. 
 The women, veiled with muslins in the antique style, 
 form white groups along the road, and the reflections 
 from their copper ewers and drinking-vessels shimmer 
 amongst the silvery glints of their many bracelets, 
 necklets, and the rings which they wear round their 
 ankles. Nobly beautiful both of face and gait, they 
 walk like goddesses, while the metal rings on their 
 arms and feet murmur musically. 
 
 And to the river, already encumbered with garlands, 
 each one comes to offer a new wreath. Some have 
 twisted ropes of jasmine flowers which look like white 
 necklets, others garlands of Indian pinks whose flowers 
 of golden yellow and pale sulphur gleam in contrast, 
 resembling the changing colours of an Indian veil. 
 17
 
 258 TOWARDS BENARES 
 
 And the birds who had been sleeping all along the 
 friezes of the houses and the palaces awake too and fill 
 the air with chirpings and with song in the mad joy 
 of dawn. 
 
 Turtle-doves and singing birds hasten to bathe and 
 drink with all these Brahmins and to sport amongst 
 these men who never slay. 
 
 In all the temples the gods have their morning 
 serenades, and the angry roar of the tom-toms, the 
 wail of the bagpipes, and the howling of the sacred 
 trumpets are heard from every side. 
 
 And up above all the festooned and sculptured 
 windows, from which the east may be seen, are 
 thronged with aged heads, those who from sickness or 
 by reason of old age cannot come down, but who here 
 invoke the morning light. And the sun bathes them 
 in his warm rays. 
 
 Naked children holding each other by the hand come 
 in gay throngs ; yoghis and slowly-moving fakirs de- 
 scend the steps ; the sacred cattle advance with de- 
 liberate steps, while people stand respectfully aside 
 offering them fresh wreaths of reeds and flowers. They, 
 too, seem to look on the splendours of the sun, and in 
 their harmless fashion appear to understand and pray. 
 
 Next come the sheep and goats ; then dogs and 
 monkeys hurry down the steps. 
 
 Now the sun pours streams of warmth into the air 
 which the night dews have chilled. All the granite 
 temples scattered on the steps that serve as niches and 
 altars, some for Vishnu, some for the many-armed 
 Ganesa, protrude into the sunlight their squat little 
 gods gods which are gray with mud, for they have 
 slept many months under the troubled waters of the 
 river to which the ashes of the dead are consigned. 
 
 Now that the rays of the sun are fierce the people 
 shelter under the large umbrellas whose shade awaits 
 them. For these huge parasols, which resemble gigantic 
 mushrooms clustering under the walls of the city, are 
 always left open. 
 
 Above me the old palaces seem to have grown
 
 
 mm 
 
 
 nrjF^ 
 
 BATHING IN THE SACRED WATERS, BENARES
 
 TOWARDS BENARES 259 
 
 young, and the rosy pyramids, the golden arrows, and 
 all the shining weathercocks glitter in the morning air. 
 
 The many rafts and the lower steps are thronged 
 with Brahmins, who, after setting down their flowers 
 and ewers, hasten to disrobe. Pink and white muslins 
 and cashmeres of all colours lie mingled on the ground, 
 or are hung over bamboo canes, and now the match- 
 less nude forms appear, some of pale bronze, others of 
 a deeper shade. 
 
 The men, slim and of athletic build, plunge to their 
 waists into the sacred waters. The women, still wear- 
 ing a veil of muslin round their shoulders and waists, 
 merely plunge their many-ringed arms and ankles into 
 the Ganges ; then they kneel at the extremest edge 
 and let fall their long unknotted coils of hair into the 
 water. Then, raising their heads once more, they 
 allow the water dripping from their drenched hair to 
 fall upon their necks and bosoms. And now with their 
 tightly-clinging draperies they look like some statue 
 of a " winged Victory," more beautiful and more 
 voluptuous than if they had been nude. 
 
 From all sides the bowing people shower their gar- 
 lands and their flowers into the Ganges ; all fill their 
 ewers and jars and then, stooping, fill their hollowed 
 hands and drink. Here religious feeling reigns 
 supreme, and no sensual thought ever seems to assail 
 these beauteous mingled forms. They come into un- 
 conscious contact with each other, but only heed the 
 river, the sun, and the splendour of the morning in a 
 dream of ecstasy. 
 
 And when the long ritual is ended, the women retire 
 to their homes, while the men, seated on the rafts amid 
 their garlands, dispose themselves for prayer. 
 
 Oh ! the joyful awakenings of this primeval race, 
 praying in daily unison to God, where the poorest may 
 find room amongst the splendours of the sun, the waters, 
 and the flowers. 
 
 And to think of the awakening of our sordid human 
 ant-heaps, of the men who are a smoke and iron age, 
 where, under our old and cloudy sky, the mob, poisoned
 
 260 TOWARDS BENARES 
 
 with alcohol and blasphemy, hasten towards the 
 murderous mills. 
 
 The white groups of women mount the stairs on 
 their homeward way, and keeping closely under the 
 shadow of the stone walls look like some bas-relief from 
 the antique. The water still drips from their hair, 
 which falls in heavy masses on the muslin draperies, 
 and a bare arm supports a polished drinking vessel on 
 each woman's shoulder. 
 
 The men still remain by the banks of the Ganges, 
 and, seated in the prescribed fashion, complete their 
 preparations before sinking into ecstasy. In honour of 
 Siva they trace lines of dust on their newly laved chests 
 and on their foreheads paint in red the dreadful seal. 
 
 There is no burning now in the quarter of the dead, 
 and the walls that surround it look black in the morn- 
 ing light. Two muffled shapes wrapped in shrouds are 
 there, but no one is busied with them. One is already 
 stretched on his funeral pyre, but the other is still 
 taking his last bath in the waters of the Ganges, there 
 amongst so many human beings in the full strength 
 and beauty of life. The hour of prayer is at its full on 
 all the rafts and on the steps leading to the water, and 
 there is no one to light the funeral fires, so the dead 
 must wait. 
 
 On every face there is a strange vacant look. I 
 notice eyes which do not see and features that are fixed 
 and rigid. Through the closed fingers of a young man, 
 sunken in mystic contemplation, one can only see the 
 gleaming eyes staring into the other world. There are 
 fakirs covered with beads, whose souls have fled from 
 their heedless bodies, and old men whose limbs are 
 covered with dust. 
 
 By the side of the water there is one who prays with 
 upturned eyes. He is seated on the skin of a gazelle, 
 crouching there motionless like a statue of Cakya- 
 Mouni, with crossed legs and knees that touch the 
 ground, the long, bony right hand clasping his right 
 foot. He is old, and the colour of the wet garment 
 glued to his emaciated form tells that he is a yoghi.
 
 TOWARDS BENARES 261 
 
 Wrapped in a cloth of pale rosy orange, he prays 
 silently : his glassy eyes and livid face on which the 
 seal of Siva has been newly traced stare fixedly at the 
 sun with an expression of ineffable happiness. 
 
 By his side stands a young man, who from time to 
 time bends forward to fill his hollowed hands that he 
 may refresh the many flowers strewn round the holy 
 man, or that he may drench the ascetic's flame-coloured 
 robe. That he may dream more sweetly, two smiling 
 boys are posted on the stones above him to play him 
 music. One breathes into a sea-shell, which sighs 
 " hou, hou," like the sound of a far-off horn, the other 
 softly beats a little tom-tom. There are many crows 
 around gazing with interest at the old fakir seated on 
 his gazelle skin, the head and horns of which dip to 
 the river's edge. 
 
 Women and children who are going home approach 
 to offer him their greetings and pass with an affection- 
 ate smile or a murmured prayer, and then move noise- 
 lessly on as though they feared to distract his attention 
 or to disturb his meditations. 
 
 I now ascend the river and reach the region of the 
 mysterious palaces. On my return the old man is still 
 there, still holding his bony foot in his emaciated hand. 
 The direction of his gaze has never changed, and the 
 burning rays of the sun cannot dazzle those dimmed 
 eyes which stare into heaven with an expression of 
 beatitude. 
 
 " How calm he is ! " I remark. 
 
 My boatman looks at me, and smiled as one smiles 
 at a child who has made a foolish remark. 
 
 " That man ! Why, he is dead ! " 
 
 Oh ! he is dead ! I had not seen the leathern thong 
 which passed under his chin and held his head to a 
 cushion. 
 
 I had not observed the crow which flew so near his 
 face, nor had I noticed that the young attendant, 
 stationed there to freshen the jasmine garlands and the 
 flame-coloured robe, often waved a cloth to scare the 
 bird away.
 
 262 TOWARDS BENARES ^ 
 
 He died yesterday afternoon, and after having 
 bathed him they have piously placed him there in 
 that praying posture, the posture which had always 
 been his in life, so that he may view the full glory of 
 the morning. The head was tied back so tightly in 
 order that he might better see the sun and sky. 
 
 He will not be burned, for they never burn the 
 yoghis, their holy lives having freed their bodies from 
 all grossness ! This evening they will place his re- 
 mains in an earthern vase and then consign them to 
 the Ganges. So these were congratulations that each 
 smiling passer-by offered to the happy saint whose 
 virtues and ethereal nature proclaim that he is for ever 
 freed from reincarnation, and that life and death shall 
 know him no more. 
 
 A dog comes near and sniffs, and then slinks away 
 with drooping tail. Three red birds come to look too. 
 A monkey clambers down, just touches the hem of his 
 garment, and then rushes up the stairway, and the 
 young guardian suffers them all to come, only show- 
 ing impatience towards the crow, whose obstinate re- 
 turn tells of approaching putrefaction. Yet the crow 
 keeps coming back, almost brushing with its black 
 wings the saintly face that is wrapped in the ecstasy of 
 death. 
 
 VIII 
 
 AT THE BRAHMIN'S HOUSE, CLOSE BY THE GOLDEN 
 
 TEMPLE 
 
 " The Supernatural ? It is quite possible that we 
 have had fakirs who have been able to perform super- 
 natural acts, and there may be such even to-day. But 
 our sages do not favour such methods. No ! We 
 reach our bourne by the road of profound meditation. 
 It is the only certain way." 
 
 The man who speaks to me thus is an old man, a 
 Brahmin he is, entitled to be called a Pundit, for he is 
 learned in the Sanskrit tongue and the Sanskrit philo-
 
 TOWARDS BENARES 263 
 
 i 
 
 sophies, but I see that he has the same disdain for the 
 miraculous as the Masters of the House of Silence. 
 
 We are seated on the terrace of the house, round 
 which Benares stretches, and as we talk the growing 
 twilight settles down upon us. The little terrace, which 
 is reached by a stairway leading from the narrow street, 
 is gloomy and secluded. My interpreter, who is a 
 pariah by birth, may not set foot here, so he remains 
 on the topmost step, where his outlines appear in the 
 dusky background. His voice, when he translates, 
 seems to come f rorh afar in the still evening air. Some- 
 times in the eagerness of explanation he forgets and 
 places his foot on the threshold, whereupon my host, 
 who is neither a Theosophist nor a believer in equality, 
 calls his attention to this breach of the decencies es- 
 tablished by a thousand years of practice, and the 
 pariah draws back complacently. 
 
 From the terrace little is seen but mouldering walls 
 and myriads of flying crows, save only the one marvel, 
 which rises close at hand from the surrounding ruin 
 and decay, a jewelled dome glittering in the rays of 
 the evening sun. It is the Golden Temple whose 
 pinnacles now swarm with countless parrots. 
 
 I often come to visit this venerable Pundit whose 
 house is rich in ancient books and manuscripts, and 
 his dwelling stands in the oldest and most sacred 
 quarter of Benares, far distant from the new districts 
 which have been rendered commonplace by that great 
 leveller, the railway. 
 
 The quiet surroundings inspire one's mind as in the 
 olden times. Here is the mystic atmosphere which 
 tells of meditation, and which ever turns the mind to 
 thoughts of death and all that is beyond. The Masters 
 of the still-white house grant that these are sacred, 
 prayer-steeped places : Benares, Mecca, Lhasa, and 
 Jerusalem, where, notwithstanding modern doubt, the 
 carnal bonds are loosened and one is nearer heaven. 
 
 Even stately ceremonials and rich temples influence, 
 so they tell us, the soul. Everything has its use. 
 None of these things is indifferent.
 
 264 TOWARDS BENARES 
 
 IX 
 AT HAPHAZARD IN BENARES 
 
 As I leave the House of the Masters, where, in the 
 silence only broken by the cries of the birds, such 
 strange and new doctrines of eternity have been im- 
 parted to me, I am filled with whirling thoughts about 
 the infinite, and cannot call back my mind to earthly 
 scenes. 
 
 Yet the Oriental fairyland is ever waiting at the 
 door of the humble dwelling, though it somehow seems 
 to have lost all charm for me. It may be that an air of 
 mystery and meditation floats through this atmosphere 
 of Benares and strangely alters and dims the fascina- 
 tion of the East. 
 
 The labyrinths of little Indian streets and the sculp- 
 tured or painted houses resemble those of other cities, 
 and everywhere women, lovely as those of Tanagra, 
 pass lightly veiled along the shady narrow streets. 
 Sometimes a sunbeam falls on their metal rings and 
 bracelets, or on their many-hued robes, patterned in 
 silver on a green or golden ground, making them shine 
 luminously. Then the women resemble the houris of 
 a dream, and should you meet their glance it is as if 
 that look contained all that may be of earthly bliss. 
 
 But the fakirs crouched in delirium at the street 
 corners call back the thoughts of prayer and death, 
 and there are innumerable shapeless sacred stones 
 whose age and use have been forgotten, but which may 
 not be touched by hands profane, but only by those of 
 some caste who may touch them or wreathe them with 
 flowers. In the thicknesses of the walls dismal re- 
 cesses are hollowed out where, behind iron gratings, the 
 imaged gods are seated, and on every side the stone 
 pyramids of the temples rise into the air. Herds of 
 gentle sacred cattle wander from morn till night, 
 generally choosing the market-places, and where the 
 crowd stand thickest. Monkeys, pigeons, crows, and 
 all the birds of the sky sport amidst the people entering 
 their houses and eating with them, and this alone
 
 TOWARDS BENARES 265 
 
 proclaims that this is a foreign land very far removed 
 from ours. 
 
 We meet many bridal processions with their accom- 
 paniment of plaintive music and bell-hung dancers ; 
 the faces of the bridal pair are hidden by veils of jas- 
 mine flowers, which rain down from their hair powdered 
 with gold. Sometimes it is a marriage of the babes, 
 the husband looking not older than five years, and the 
 wife, two or three perhaps. Both are seated in the 
 same litter, and their staid gravity is delightfully droll. 
 Where the husband is older, fifteen or sixteen, he 
 rides a horse, but his face is always hidden behind 
 trailing flowers. 
 
 In worldly affairs this Brahmin people have retained 
 their graceful and almost childlike simplicity, but in 
 abstract conception and all the kingdoms of the soul, 
 the meanest Brahmin, garbed in nothing but a loin- 
 cloth, stands far above our pretentious wiseacres, who, 
 passing him, merely deign to puff the smoke of their 
 cigars into his face. 
 
 As the Masters of the Sacred House declare, the very 
 atmosphere of Benares seems to contain some essence 
 that lifts us out of ourselves and even those who have 
 only stayed here a little while seem transformed. And 
 yet in all the world there is no pageant so glorious, and 
 matchless forms ever appeal to our bewildered senses, 
 and in no other place does the flesh so loudly summon 
 one from his celestial dreams. 
 
 The fearsome goddess Kali, too, has her temple in 
 the sacred city, a dark red temple, red as the colour of 
 the blood for which she is athirst, a temple with stones 
 dabbled with blood and reeking of some recent sacri- 
 fice. A noxious smell of monkeys mingles with the 
 odours from the carnage, and blinking eyes look at 
 you from every corner. The monkeys spring upon 
 your shoulders as you enter and thrust their cold, 
 nimble fingers into your pockets, or gently pull your 
 hair. A single family came from the forests long ago 
 to make their home with Kali, but no one dared to 
 drive them forth, so now the temple and the gardens
 
 266 TOWARDS BENARES 
 
 are full of them, and the old intruders have become 
 the masters, fed with grain and treated with religious 
 respect by all. 
 
 The Golden Temple stands in the very heart of 
 Benares, carefully hidden amid a maze of narrow 
 streets. It is very small and so surrounded that it is 
 difficult to get a view of it. Only the dreamers of the 
 neighbouring terraces and the flying swarms of birds 
 can see its fabulous domes which are wrought in pure 
 gold. As we approach, the labyrinthine streets grow 
 closer and more tortuous, and idols are scattered every- 
 where. I see ruins and filth of all sorts, gold in little 
 dens, rotting garlands of flowers, carved Lingams of 
 agate mounted on pedestals and sacred stones that one 
 dares not touch. 
 
 The idol -sellers offer their gods of bronze and marble, 
 sanctified by being made here, and fakirs, with strange 
 wild eyes and ghostly features dabbled over with secret 
 signs, crouch at the street corners. As you pass they 
 look up from their fires of crackling wood, and with 
 hesitating gesture give you their blessing. 
 
 An inclosed space, overhung with ruined walls, 
 serves as a court to the Golden Temple, although it 
 does not join on to it, and one must plunge into a 
 dark, narrow lane to find an entrance. 
 
 This sacred courtyard is always filled with fakirs, 
 and it is sacrilege for a stranger to touch anything 
 here. Niches closed with gates of fretted bronze are 
 hollowed out around the walls and in them are rows of 
 precious polished agates, sacred stones by which the 
 mysteries of life and death are prefigured. 
 
 Cages, as for wild beasts, are filled with fierce divini- 
 ties, and in the corners, decked with flowers and 
 fineries, are horrible Ganesas, worn and besmirched 
 by all the fingerings of the faithful . Necklaces of faded 
 flowers strew the ground, mingled with the dust of 
 centuries and the dung of the sacred cattle, who, having 
 wandered through the crowds all day, make this their 
 sleeping-place at night. Here, too, the pilgrims coming 
 to the temple congregate, pious hermits from the
 
 TOWARDS BENARES 267 
 
 surrounding wastes, radiant-faced yoghis in flame- 
 coloured robes, and men crowned with shells and 
 beads, all clustering together under an old granite 
 kiosk. Round them are seated the usual crowd of 
 begging or epileptic fakirs, those loathsome skeletons 
 in which alone the eyes seem to live, and lepers who 
 stretch out fingerless hands for alms. A vague feeling 
 of horror which I am unable to repress comes over me 
 when I see these rigid forms, these faces plastered with 
 cinders or with yellow powder, and I can never forget 
 the look of one old fakir, whose straggling hairs were 
 knotted high above his head. 
 
 No unbeliever may ever cross the threshold of the 
 Golden Temple, but there is an ancient house of prayer 
 just opposite the doors across a narrow lane, from 
 which the mad richness of the Golden House is visible, 
 and at sunset and sunrise players of horns and tom- 
 toms sit on the balcony here and serenade the god of 
 death. There are three domes, one of which is of black 
 marble, covered with images of the gods, but the two 
 others are hammered and sculptured from sheets of 
 purest gold. No gilding or other artifice could convey 
 such an impression as these thickly wrought sheets 
 which time cannot tarnish. 
 
 Whole flocks of green parrots have built their nests 
 undisturbed amongst the golden leaves and flowers, 
 and, as they flutter by, their colours seem to catch an 
 unnatural lustre from the priceless background. 
 
 Nearly all the streets lead to the Ganges, where they 
 grow wider and become less gloomy. Here, suddenly, 
 the magnificent palaces and all the brightness of the 
 day dawn upon us. 
 
 These massive tiers of steps, which stretch along 
 the banks and reach to the water's edge even in these 
 times of drought, where fallen temples emerge from 
 their slimy bed, were made in honour of the Ganges, 
 and on each landing there are little granite altars, 
 shaped like niches, in which diminutive gods are 
 placed. These images are like those of the temples, 
 but they are of more massive construction, so as to
 
 268 TOWARDS BENARES 
 
 withstand the swirl of the waters which cover them 
 during the annual rains. 
 
 All the life of Benares centres round the river. 
 People come from palaces and jungles to die on its 
 sacred banks, and the old and the sick are brought here 
 by their families to await the end. The relatives never 
 return to their homes in the country after the death has 
 taken place, and so Benares, which already contains 
 three hundred thousand inhabitants, increases rapidly 
 in size. For those who feel their end approaching this 
 is the spot so eagerly desired. 
 
 Oh ! to die at Benares. To die on the banks of the 
 Ganges ! To have one's body bathed for the last time, 
 and then to have one's ashes strewn into the river ! 
 
 HESITATION 
 
 " Manas, soul : in Sanskrit, a radiant matter diffused 
 around us, to which it is impossible to assign those 
 definite limits which pertain to a separate and distinct 
 individuality, irreductibly and for ever distinct." 
 
 The sound of these words penetrates through the 
 calm air of the little house, where I am seated on the 
 linen-covered bench in front of my instructress. Her 
 task is to banish from my mind all thoughts of a dis- 
 tinct existence, and to this she returns unrelenting, 
 though with kindness, again and again. Those whom 
 I have loved, my friends, my relatives, myself, all atoms 
 separated but for one instant from the great whole, 
 atoms which when years have run their course will melt 
 into an Eternal and Ineffable Unity. What a clear, 
 sad interpretation of the sweet, vague Gospel words : 
 " One day we shall be returned to the bosom of God." 
 
 So it is a delusion that the individuality of those we 
 have loved persists. Their smiles, the expression of 
 their faces, and all the things which distinguish them 
 from others, and which seem the ethereal reflection of 
 their souls, all that we would wish to be imperishable 
 and unchangeable, is but of the passing moment.
 
 TOWARDS BENARES 269 
 
 For a long time I clung, almost with despair, to our 
 Christian faith, and refused to consider even a doctrine 
 which seemed so pitiless. Lately, at Madras, I once 
 more rejected it in its hard old Buddhist form, but 
 now, the pure faiths which have been taught almost 
 from the beginning of time grow on me day by day, 
 and after passing through realms of terror, which I 
 neither can nor will describe, I feel that here at last 
 I can find peace and consolation. 
 
 As the masters had foretold, a growing sense of dis- 
 tance seems to separate me from this world and the 
 memories of my lost ones. I no longer invoke with 
 agony those who have left me. Doubtless they still 
 exist, freed from the earthly trammels of their per- 
 sonality. Yet I accept the idea of that far-distant 
 meeting, that melting into them which will not be to- 
 morrow, but after centuries the length of which our 
 ephemeral nature cannot conceive. 
 
 I know that this mood is but a passing one, and that 
 when I have left this place the world will claim me once 
 more, but never again in the old way, for the seed sown 
 in my soul will grow, and Benares will call me back. 
 
 How empty, pitiable, and vain my past in life has 
 been ; I, who doted on the world's array of changing 
 forms and colours, and but sought to pass the things 
 that pass away. 
 
 It grows dusk as I leave the Masters' House, and all 
 the charm of the East awaits me with its lures. In aim- 
 less wanderings I happen to light upon the quarter of 
 the bayaderes and courtesans. Lights kindle in all the 
 upper floors of the houses, where by day muslin-sellers 
 display their rich gold-spangled wares. A whole 
 street is occupied by these creatures of night and shade, 
 now appearing at the windows or on the balconies, 
 adorned for the evening. Their rooms, decorated with 
 mirrors and many childish baubles, are brilliantly 
 lighted up, and on the whitewashed walls images of 
 Ganesa, Hanouman, and the bloody Kali may be seen. 
 Rings and gems shine from their ears and naked arms, 
 and necklaces of heavy-scented flowers fall in rows
 
 270 TOWARDS BENARES 
 
 upon their breasts. They have the same velvety eyes 
 as those daughters of Brahma who unveil themselves 
 each morning by the Ganges, and it may be the same 
 flesh of bronze and amber. 
 
 XI 
 A BENCH ON WHICH BUDDHA SAT 
 
 To-day my friend the Pundit takes me into the 
 country to see a bench on which Buddha used to sit, 
 and on our way there we converse about the hidden 
 things. 
 
 Barley and corn grow in the peaceful and lonely 
 country round Benares, and were it not that ripe 
 harvests and green trees are to be seen here in Feb- 
 ruary, I might fancy that this was France. Shepherds 
 watching their zebus, bulls, and goats, play on pipe and 
 reed. By the woodside there are the sacred stones on 
 which pious peasants have placed yellow wreaths, 
 stones which long ago may have represented Ganesa or 
 Vishnu, for some resemblance is still visible. Birds of 
 gorgeous colours, some turquoise blue, some emerald 
 green with scarlet crests, hop near us,f earless of the men 
 who never slay. A tranquil calm seems to hover over 
 all this land. Heaps of ruins and tombs almost buried 
 under trees and roots of trees lie scattered around, and 
 over them lowly villages have been built, whose roofs 
 are those of the old cemeteries or temples. Monasteries 
 built when Buddhism was at its height, which were 
 transformed into mosques when Islam swept the land 
 and then abandoned when the Brahmin faith resumed 
 its sway, and tombs of fakirs, warriors, or dervishes, all 
 lie in confused masses under the bluish shade of banyan 
 or of mango trees. Some large stones bear on their 
 several sides the signs of diverse faiths ; here Buddha's 
 lotus, there some verses from the Koran. 
 
 The occupants of the little huts built upon the ruins 
 follow the ancient trade, weaving sashes, whose silken 
 threads are stretched over old graveyards, or dyeing 
 muslins, which they spread out to dry over the door-
 
 TOWARDS BENARES 271 
 
 ways of the ancient temples in sunny places where the 
 lizards sport. 
 
 The spot which forms the object of our pilgrimage 
 is still far distant. On our way we pass a cart drawn 
 by zebus. It is filled with children, and is led by an 
 old wizard of a man, who reminds me of the bogey of 
 the fairy-tale. 
 
 There are at least twenty boys and girls, some five 
 or six years old. Their heads are to be seen every- 
 where ; some peep through the open sides, and others 
 stick out under the awning which they have raised. 
 All these children are decked with jewels, necklaces, 
 and nose-rings, and wear their best clothes and tall, 
 spangle-covered caps. Their eyelids have been rimmed 
 with black, not, I am told, out of vanity, but to avert the 
 glance which some evil witch might cast on them. The 
 good-natured old bogey who leads the team has a long 
 white beard like a river god, and his naked breast is 
 covered with gray hairs like the fur of a polar bear. 
 Where is he taking these babies to ? Doubtless to 
 some childish festival, for they look so happy and gay 
 in their holiday finery. 
 
 Now that we are in the heart of the country our 
 carriage is useless, so we must cross the sunny plains 
 afoot. At last we reach the goal of our journey, and 
 see that it stands in the centre of a stony dell, over- 
 hung with grayish rocks that look like ruins. Here 
 goats nibble the short grass, while shepherds make 
 music with their pipes. 
 
 An old bench of blackened stone stands under a 
 shady tree, which might be mistaken for our oaks, and 
 the Pundit and I seat ourselves reverently, for this is 
 the place where Buddha sat more than two thousand 
 years ago, the place where he preached his first sermon. 
 The Buddhist faith, which is still the creed of the far 
 East, has long departed from these lands, and Indians 
 no longer come to this once hallowed spot. In spite of 
 its forlorn appearance, this old bench is still the spot 
 round which millions of human thoughts revolve, and 
 the unfathomable intellects of countless yellow men,
 
 272 TOWARDS BENARES 
 
 living either in the heart of China, the islands of Japan, 
 or the dark forests of Siam, dream of the holy place, 
 and sometimes pilgrims cross the many intervening 
 miles merely to kneel and kiss this ancient bench. 
 Here in the exquisite silence of this pastoral spot the 
 Pundit and I talk of the tenets of the Brahmin faith. 
 
 Close by the seat from which Buddha preached his 
 doctrine of cold wisdom a huge rounded granite tower 
 rises. It, in its day, was much covered with sculptur- 
 ings, but the two thousand years which have passed 
 over its head have worn away the carvings, and filled 
 the chinks with grass and weeds. These are the 
 remains of the first Buddhist temple. This is the 
 place where Benares once stood. At about a man's 
 height from the ground the rough stones and pro-, 
 jections are gilded, and this gives a strange and un- 
 expected appearance to so old a monument. It ap- 
 pears that whenever Chinese, Annamites, or Burmese 
 pilgrims realize their dream, and at last journey to the 
 seat and tower, they bring these gold leaves with them 
 from their far-off lands and nail them up as tokens of 
 respect one might almost say in guise of visiting 
 cards to the forsaken sanctuary. 
 
 As we return to Benares, at the close of the day, my 
 companion stops our carriage at the country house of 
 one of his friends, a noble Brahmin, learned like him- 
 self in philosophy and Sanskrit. They offer me fruits 
 and fresh water, but, I need not say, do not eat of 
 the food rendered impure by my presence. The old 
 dwelling is exquisite. The garden, too, has straight 
 walks, edged with a plant which resembles box, and 
 water-basins with fountains in the old French style. 
 Our marguerites, nasturtiums, and roses grow here too, 
 and, although the winter has robbed some trees of 
 their foliage, the flowers, the warm air, and the yellowy 
 leaves give the impression of a lingering summer, or 
 maybe of a dying autumn, an autumn whose end has 
 been hastened on by too much sun and drought too 
 long.
 
 q 
 O
 
 TOWARDS BENARES 273 
 
 XII 
 
 WHAT THE MASTERS AT BENARES THINK OF 
 CHRISTIANITY 
 
 " If you are a Christian," say the sages of Benares, 
 " cling fast to the faith you have, and do not seek 
 further. Christianity is a beautiful symbol, marvel- 
 lously adapted to the Western mode of thought, and 
 the germs of truth are hidden in it. You have in Christ 
 a divine and ever-living master, for there is no death : 
 only the life here and the life eternal, and the expecta- 
 tion of those who die in Him will not be unfulfilled. 
 
 " But if your reason cannot accept the teachings of 
 Christ and ' the letter which kills,' then, and then 
 only, come to us. If the path of prayer and devotion 
 is closed to you, we will show you the more difficult 
 way of abstract knowledge. Yet, after countless ages, 
 both roads meet, and end at the same bourne." 
 
 " Prayer," they say on another occasion, " cannot 
 perhaps influence the daily events of our lives, but for 
 the development and consolation of our souls it is 
 supreme." 
 
 " We cannot think that the great God, ' the One 
 whose Name may not be spoken,' listens to the prayers 
 of men." 
 
 " But the astral sphere is peopled by beneficent 
 beings, individualized particles of Him, who watch us 
 from afar. Christians ! call on Jesus, and never doubt 
 He and those who live in Him are there, and that you 
 will be heard." 
 
 XIII 
 ANOTHER MORNING 
 
 The morning air of Benares is fresh and dewy. 
 They call it winter here, but it is a winter which 
 resembles one of our fine October days. 
 
 At daybreak I make my way to the river from the 
 far-off suburb where I live, and on the road I pass 
 country market-folk hastening to the town, wrapped to 
 
 18
 
 274 TOWARDS BENARES 
 
 the eyes in muslins and cashmeres as though the cold 
 were great. They carry jars of cream and baskets of 
 rice cakes suspended from sticks which are slung over 
 their shoulders ; flowers too, whole hampers of flowers, 
 always the same jasmine garlands and yellow mari- 
 golds, offerings to old Ganges, whither the people 
 flock each morning. 
 
 I reach the top of the steps, but before descending 
 pause by an old kiosk where a fakir has lived for 
 more than thirty years, tending a little fire lit on the 
 ground by his fakir predecessors more than a thousand 
 years ago. He is old and fleshless, and his long hair 
 is knotted into a roll upon his head, and his naked 
 body is covered with ashes. After throwing a jasmine 
 collar round my neck he glances at me for an instant 
 with eyes that have a far-off look. Then, with a ges- 
 ture which gently bids me sit and meditate, he smiles 
 and sinks gently back into the land of dreams. 
 
 Before us, framed in by the ancient columns of the 
 little shelter, lies the Ganges, the opposite shore and 
 the still flat plains yet wrapped in the mists of night, 
 out of which the great enchanter, the sun, slowly rises. 
 
 From a neighbouring kiosk, which also overhangs 
 the river, the morning serenade to the Ganges and all 
 the gods of Benares commences. I can see the long 
 horns pointing towards the east through the sculptured 
 pillars, and can distinguish their howls, which are 
 those of a monster at bay, and the sullen and hollow 
 roar of the tom-toms that are being beaten inside. 
 
 Following the general custoih, I go each morning 
 to the river where my boat awaits me. First we pass 
 the place of the funeral pyes, and as it is several 
 days since the plague brok^ out, there is only one 
 corpse there. It is lying on the shore, plunged half 
 into the water, taking its last bath. Many must have 
 been cremated in the night, however, for smoking 
 embers fill the burning ghat, and under the flowers 
 the water is all blackened by the human embers that 
 float past mingled with filth and rubbish. The young 
 fakir who watches the dead stands motionless, with
 
 TOWARDS BENARES 275 
 
 crossed arms and sunken head powdered with dust ; 
 he resembles some Grecian bronze newly unearthed, 
 save that his long hair is dyed, and that he wears a 
 jasmine crown. Carcasses of drowned cattle and dead 
 dogs float amongst the flowers, and the Ganges diffuses 
 a faint sickly smell into the limpid air, speaking of 
 death even in the rosy hues of the enchanted morning. 
 
 I feel that spring is near and even the traces of 
 winter which I had noticed at first seem to have 
 vanished. I feel a languor in the morning air, and it 
 may be that the river has felt it too, for the long- 
 haired bathers, whose breasts are hidden in fine muslins, 
 seem to tarry longer. The winged bathers come in 
 crowds, and sparrows, pigeons, and birds of all colours 
 swarm among the praying Brahmins, alighting on their 
 shining drinking- vessels or amongst the flowers. Some 
 cling to the boat ropes and sing at the top of their 
 voices. The sacred cattle are more indolent, and lie 
 sunning themselves at the foot of the steps, where 
 children come and caress them, bringing bunches of 
 fresh-cut grass and handfuls of green and juicy reeds. 
 
 All the worshippers of Benares are assembled on the 
 banks, and as ever nude, bronze forms of Indians, 
 nobly born, throng the huge steps lining the shore or 
 seek the shelter of the strange expanded umbrellas ; 
 and even the niches of granite, in which six-armed gods 
 dwell, and the rafts that lie in the full glare of the sun, 
 teem with men. 
 
 I am the only man by the riverside who does not 
 pray. All the others at least perform the sacred rites, 
 ablutions, obeisances, and offerings of white and 
 yellow flowers. 
 
 The morning prayer ascends from all the rafts and 
 landing-places ; but I have no place among the faith- 
 ful, who look scornfully at me or feign to ignore my 
 presence, taking me to be one of the tourists who, now 
 that the journey has been made so easy, flock here in 
 great numbers. 
 
 But I am no longer the same as I used to be, and 
 the hours spent in the House of the Masters have left
 
 276 TOWARDS BENARES 
 
 an impression on me which I think will never fade. I 
 have crossed the terrors of the threshold and can see 
 what place awaits me. Everything around me has 
 changed : life and even death in the new and different 
 light which the Masters have thrown on the Life 
 Eternal. 
 
 And yet " the illusions of this world," as the sages 
 call them, have a hold upon me still. Those feelings 
 of supreme detachment and renunciation of all that is 
 earthly and transitory, which they have instilled into 
 me, grow in my soul ; but I know no place where the 
 spiritual and the fleshly so mingle as at Benares. 
 Here people think of prayer and death, yet the lights, 
 the colours, the young women, whose damp veils but 
 half conceal their charms, and the incomparable dis- 
 plays of Indian beauty, lurk on every side to trap the 
 senses. 
 
 My boatmen, needing no instructions, row up the 
 river to the lonely quarter of the old palaces. I am to 
 return this afternoon to the Masters' House, not indeed 
 without dread, though their teachings, which at first 
 shocked me, gain hourly upon my attention. I am no 
 more what I used to be, and it seems as if they had 
 taken possession of my inmost soul, that they might 
 fuse it into that soul which is the Essence of the 
 Universe. 
 
 " You can only desire," the sages say, " that which 
 is different from yourself, that which you have not ; 
 and did you but know that the things you seek are 
 within you, for the Essence of all things is within you, 
 then desire would melt away." 
 
 " You are a part of a Godlike spirit, from which all 
 truth and beauty radiates, and could you but engrave 
 this truth upon your heart, those narrow and mistaken 
 views from which suffering and sadness and the desire 
 to be a separate entity arise would of themselves fall 
 from you." 
 
 We pass by old mysterious palaces, but there are no 
 women by the river's edge, wringing the water from 
 their dripping hair, nor is there any one on the stairs,
 
 TOWARDS BENARES 277 
 
 or at the foot of the high and dismal walls. Suddenly, 
 however, the heavily barred door in the basement of 
 one of the princely dwellings a door which must be 
 submerged in the rainy season is thrown open and a 
 young woman appears in the bright sunshine, in radi- 
 ant contrast to the sombre granite background. She 
 is covered after the fashion of the Roman woman, 
 with two veils which fall from her head one of violet 
 edged with silver, the other of an orange hue. She 
 looks across at the barren plain on the opposite bank of 
 the river, and her bare arm is raised so that she may 
 shade her large eyes, those Indian eyes, whose charm is 
 undescribable. The violet and yellow muslins serve to 
 accentuate the matchless lines and harmonious curves 
 of her young body. 
 
 She is I and I am She, and we are part of one God- 
 like Whole, the sages tell me, and it feels as if already 
 I felt their serenity growing upon me. 
 
 I look for a while at the woman standing there with- 
 out regret or troubled feelings, resting my eyes upon 
 her as on a young sister of whose beauty I am proud. 
 A feeling of brotherhood links us together, and the 
 splendour of the morning seems to unite us. We are 
 the sun, the ever-changing fantasy of nature, the 
 Universal Soul. 
 
 Can it be that the delusion from which the desire to 
 be a separate entity springs has already fallen from 
 me? 
 
 XIV 
 TO MY UNKNOWN BROTHERS 
 
 I have taken the simple oath required of me, and 
 the Masters of the little House of Silence have made 
 me one of their disciples. 
 
 I shall not attempt to repeat what they have com- 
 menced to teach me, for I am not sure that any one 
 would care to follow me so far out of my usual course. 
 
 I know well that it is only expected of me that I
 
 278 TOWARDS BENARES 
 
 should speak of the trifling events of my journey, and 
 catch the glint of passing things. 
 
 And how, too, after but a few days of initiation, could 
 I think myself capable of teaching ? The little that I 
 could tell might unbalance or even lead to the terrors 
 of the threshold, but no further. 
 
 And I do not claim to have discovered the Vedas 
 any more than I claim to have discovered India. Im- 
 perfect translations of these wonderful works have long 
 been amongst us. 
 
 I only wish to tell my unknown brothers, and in this 
 present age I have many, that more consolation resides 
 in the Vedic doctrines than they might at first suppose, 
 and the consolation offered there cannot be destroyed 
 by reasoning like that of the revealed religions. 
 
 This collection of the Vedas is not the work of one 
 man, but of a whole race ; and one finds contradic- 
 tions, obscurities, and even childish inanities by the 
 side of passages that are supremely marvellous. The 
 Masters at Benares, who study these writings, inex- 
 tricable as a jungle and bottomless as the sea, are, I 
 think, the only men who can explain their meaning. 
 None else had disclosed such abysmal depths, and I 
 have never heard such words on life and death. They 
 alone can give answers which will satisfy the burning 
 questionings of the human mind, and such evidence is 
 brought before you that it is impossible to doubt the 
 continuance of life beyond the terrestrial sphere. 
 
 But the lonely little whitewashed house, standing in 
 its rose garden, must not be approached too lightly, 
 for here renunciation and death have their abode. 
 Peace reigns within, but should it touch you for a 
 single moment, you can never be your old self again, 
 and it is a fearful ordeal to see, even dimly and from 
 afar, Brahm the Absolute He Who dwells afar, Who 
 sits apart from earthly strife ; Brahm, the ineffable 
 He of Whom we cannot even think, and of Whom no 
 words may ever be spoken, and Whose nature may 
 only be expressed by Silence.
 
 INDEX 
 
 Afghan Mussulmans, 244-245 
 Agra: 
 
 Birds at, 238 
 
 CharacteriHtics of, 233 
 
 Fortress, ancient, 237 
 
 Palaces of, 234-237 
 Amber, 202, 204-205 
 Anuradhapura : 
 
 Dimensions of, 18 
 
 Meaning of name, 7 note 
 
 Rock temple of, 15-17 
 
 Ruins of, 8, 11-12 
 
 Site of, 7-8 
 
 Village in, 12 
 Arabian Sea, 80-81 
 Architecture, 119, 219 
 Aunis, recollections of, 19, 27 
 
 Babar, Emp., 220 note 
 Balamoni, 115-118 
 Banyan trees, 30, 32, 35 
 Bas-reliefs on stone, 15-16 
 Bathing, ceremonial, 44, 259, 
 
 275 
 
 Bats, 67, 119, 127, 129, 231 
 Bayaddre at Madura, 115-118; 
 
 at Pondicherry (dancing), 
 
 135-140 
 
 Beckanire, 208 
 Bed, suspended, 80 
 Beggars, 127; starving, 1 74 ; 
 
 diseased, 242, 267 
 Benares : 
 
 District of, 270 
 
 Funeral pyres at, 247-250, 
 
 252-254 
 
 Street sights of, 264-267, 274 
 Temples at, 246 ; Golden 
 
 Temple, 263, 266, 267; 
 
 temple of Kali, 266 ; re- 
 mains of first Buddhist 
 
 temple, 272 
 Theosophists at, 254-257, 268, 
 
 273, 276-278 
 
 Bhils, 184-185 
 Bible localities, 1-3 
 Birds: 
 
 Agra, at, 238 
 
 Benares, at, 250, 270 
 
 Nesting in temples, 93, 
 
 103 
 
 Boars, 182 
 
 Boatmen, 63-67, 70, 82, 83 
 Brahma : 
 
 Evening prayer to, 67 
 
 Vision of, 278 
 Brahminism : 
 
 Festival of Vishnu, 90-91, 100, 
 103, 106-112 
 
 Festival, sexennial, 51 
 
 Impenetrability of, 60, 82 
 
 Obscuring ritual of, 176 
 
 Temples of, see Temples 
 Brahmins : 
 
 Bathing by, 44, 259, 275 
 
 Benares, Pundit at, 263, 27t- 
 272 
 
 Diet of, 176-177, 212, 255 
 
 Dress of, 41, 106 
 
 Odeypoure, at, 175-179 
 
 Status of, 113, 265 
 Buddha : 
 
 Bench of, 270-271 
 
 Statues of, 17, 19 
 
 Temple of, first, 272 
 Hucldiust priest at the Rock 
 
 Temple, 16 
 Buried city. See Anuradhapura 
 
 Capitals of columns, 97, 113 
 
 Carpet factories, 42 
 
 Carriages, various, in Gwalior, 
 
 209-210 
 
 Cars, bullock, 28, 29 
 Caste, symbol of, 41. 85, 106, 
 
 178 
 Cattle with supernuinerarylegs, 
 
 232 
 
 279
 
 280 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Caves, 156-166, 168-169 
 Century, nineteenth, end of, 
 
 68 
 
 Chariots for gods, 26 
 Cheetahs, 192, 199 
 Children : 
 
 Brahmin, 113 
 
 Cartload of, at Benares, 271 
 Clothes of, 42 
 Famine song of, 169-173 
 Starving, 193-195, 199, 203 
 Chitor, 175 and note 
 Chri-Jannath-Raijie, temple of, 
 
 175, 177 
 
 Chri-Jugat-Singhie, King, 176 
 Christianity, Theosophical at- 
 titude towards, 273 
 Christians in Travancore, 34, 
 
 63 
 
 Cochin, kingdom of : 
 Arrival in, 71 
 
 Jewish settlement in. 73-78 
 Palace of Rajahs of, 78-80 
 Voyage from, 81-83 
 Cochin, town of, 80-81 
 Cocoa palms, 34 
 Coloured powder for throwing, 
 
 179 
 Cranganore, Jewish settlement 
 
 at, 73-74 
 
 Crocodiles, feeding of, 196-197 
 Crows, 32, 38, 53-54, 91, 94, 
 103, 145, 195-196, 261-262 
 Cruelty in creation, 167-168 
 
 Dagabas, 15 
 Dalantabad, 157 
 Dawn, 103-104, 106-107 
 Decoration of the ground, 54, 
 
 90, 101 
 
 Delhi, palace at, 240 
 Dourga (Kali), 204-205, 265 
 Drama, Sanskrit, 116-117 
 Drees : 
 
 Brahmins of, 41, 106 
 Turbans, 147-149, 209 
 Women, of, 117, 178, 191, 
 
 210-211, 264, 277 
 Dromedaries, 191 
 Drought, effects of, 145-146, 
 169-173. See also Famine 
 Dyeing of muslins, 211 
 
 Egyptian memories, 229 
 
 Elephant-headed god, 33, 91, 
 
 94, 126 
 Elephants : 
 Bath of, 18 
 Fear inspired by, 220 
 Madura temple, of, 128 
 Maharajah's, 49 
 Natural shapes like, 35 
 Old sacred, at Chri Ragam, 
 98, 102, 105, 107, 108, 
 109 
 
 Representations of, 15-16 
 Rides on, 214-220 
 Stone, in cave temples, 162, 
 
 163-164 
 
 Young sacred, 91 
 Ernaculum, 71 
 
 Evil spirits, superstitions as to, 
 31, 61 
 
 Fakirs : 
 
 Benares, at, 264, 274-275 
 Gwalior, in, 2 1 1 
 Odeypoure, at, 179-182 
 Tombs of, 242 
 Famine : 
 
 Cost of rescue from, per man, 
 
 203 
 Money the scarcity, not food, 
 
 172, 193 
 
 Rajput, in, 146, 170 
 Song of, 169-173 
 Victims of, 190, 192-195, 197- 
 
 201, 203, 207-208 
 Fearlessness of animals and 
 
 birds, 140, 180, 270 
 Female line, descent through, 
 
 45-46, 55 
 
 Fish-eyed goddess, see Parvati 
 Fishing, 69 
 Flowers, offerings of, to the 
 
 gods, 11-12, 15, 16, 62 
 Frescoes, 79-80 
 
 Fretted stone, city of, 208-215 
 Funeral processions, 211 
 Funeral pyres, 247-250, 252- 
 254 
 
 Galley, voyage in, 63-72 
 Ganesa, 33, 91, 94, 126 
 Ganges River : 
 
 Ceremonial bathing in, 259, 
 275 
 
 Drought's effect on, 246
 
 INDEX 
 
 281 
 
 Qanges River (continued) : 
 
 Funeral pyres by, 247-250, 
 252-254 
 
 Palaces on, 251, 267 
 
 Sacredness of, 268 
 Ghaut Mountains, 29-31. 34 
 Girls' College, 58-60 
 Golconda, 151-150 
 Granite blocks, 35 
 Great Moguls, 233-237, 240 
 Grottos, 156-166, 168-169 
 Gwalior : 
 
 Ancient, 217-220 
 
 City of fretted stone, 208-215 
 
 Palace of, 212 
 
 Tombs of kings at, 213 
 
 Hanouman, 154 
 
 Home memories, 19, 27, 67-68, 
 
 132, 177, 226, 233 
 Hyderabad, 146-151 
 
 Indian Ocean, 29, 42, 56 
 Interpreter, 186, 263 
 Irrigation, methods of, 131 
 Islamism, 91, 99, 145, 206 
 Isolation in India and impene- 
 trability of things Indian, 
 45, 50, 60, 72, 82, 85, 176- 
 177, 232 
 Ivory workshops, 42 
 
 Jews : 
 
 Cochin, in, 73-78 ; " Black 
 
 Jews," 77-78 
 Travancore, in, 34 
 Jeypore (rose-coloured city), 1 89- 
 
 202 
 Juggernaut, 228-233 ; pilgrims 
 
 at, 232 
 Jumna, River, 234, 236 
 
 Kali (Dourga), 204-205, 265 
 Kandy, drive from, 8-10 
 Kuth, tower of, 241 
 
 Lachkar, 217 
 
 " Land of Charity " (Travan- 
 core), 23, 34, 82. See also 
 Travancore 
 
 Litters, 210 
 
 Madura : 
 
 Brahmin family at, 113-114 
 
 Madura (continued) : 
 
 Temple at, 113, 118-120, 124- 
 
 130 
 Theatre at, 115-117 
 
 Malabar, Jewish refugees in, 
 73-78 
 
 Marriage processions, 35-36, 
 211, 234, 265 
 
 Matancheri, 71 ; Jewish settle- 
 ment at, 73-78 
 
 Minakchi. See Parvati 
 
 Monkeys, 230-231, 234, 265-266 
 
 Montaz-i-Mahal, 238 
 
 Moonlight, 19-20, 99, 206 
 
 Mosques, 91, 99, 233 
 
 Music and Musicians, 46-50 
 
 Muslins of Rajputan, 210-211 
 
 Nagercoil, 31 ; journey from, 
 
 32-36 
 Neyzetavaray, 32 ; journey from, 
 
 36-37 
 Nizam : 
 
 Nature of country, 145 
 Stones of, 153 
 
 Oberon, Isle of, recollections of, 
 
 27 
 Odeypoure : 
 
 Beggars of, 174 
 Brahmin priests of, 175-178 
 Enchanted wood of, 179-183 
 Temple at, 175, 177-178 
 Odeypoure, King of. See Raj- 
 put prince 
 
 Palancota, 25, 26-28 
 Palm trees, 30, 32, 66 ; products 
 of, 69; inscribed with sign of 
 Vishnu, 96 
 Pandavas, 51, 231 
 Parrot-faced god, 52 
 Parrots, 97, 108, 189, 267 
 Parvasnath, 220 note 
 Parvati (fish-eyed goddess) : 
 
 Image of, 122 
 
 Indian name of, 113 
 
 Stables of, 129 
 
 Treasures of, 124-130 
 Peacocks, 181 
 Pondicherry : 
 
 Dance of bayaderes at, 135- 
 140 
 
 Description of, 132-135
 
 282 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Pondicherry (continued) : 
 District of, 130-131 
 Regrets on leaving, 140-142 
 
 Pottery factories, 42 
 
 Pyramids of sculptured gods, 
 97, 108, 112, 118 
 
 Quilon, 66 
 
 Rajput : 
 
 Dynasty, origin of, 184 
 Famine in, see Famine 
 
 Rajput prince, 183; visit to, 
 183-187; palace of, 187 
 
 Ramadan, 99 
 
 Red Sea scenery, 1-3 
 
 Rock temple, 15-17 
 
 Rose-coloured city (Jeypore), 
 189-202 
 
 Rozas, 157 
 
 Ruins of India, 170-171 
 
 Saintonge, recollections of, 19, 
 
 27 
 
 Sanghamitta, Princess, 11 
 Sanskrit plays, 116-117 
 Senegal, memories of, 140 
 Shoranur, 85 
 Shrines : 
 
 Flowers offered on, 11-12, 15, 
 
 16, 52 
 
 Lamps on, 12, 52 
 Wayside, 84 
 Singers, 50 
 Siva: 
 
 Boat of, 120-124 
 Caves of, 156-166, 168-169 
 Honour to, 93 
 Image of, at Madura, 122 
 Lingam of, 166 
 Mark of, 41, 65, 261 ; butter- 
 fly, 209 
 
 Procession of, 121-123 
 Statues of, in cave temples, 
 
 163-164 
 Temple of, at Madura, 113, 
 
 118-120, 124-130 
 Spirits of the dead, native fear 
 
 of, 12, 20 
 Squirrels, 40, 141 
 Statues, mutilated, 219-220 and 
 
 note 
 Statues of gods in pyramids, 
 
 97, 108, 112 
 Stones, bas-reliefs on, 15-16 
 
 Suffering, universality of, 166- 
 
 168 
 Syrian bishop, 34 
 
 Tables, roadside, for burdens, 
 
 33 
 
 Taj, 238-239 and note 
 Tanjore, 89 
 Temples : 
 
 Architecture of, 119, 219 
 Benares, at, see under Ben- 
 ares 
 
 Birds nesting in, 93, 103 
 Cattle in, 118, 125 
 Cave, 162-166, 168-169 
 Chri Ragam, 94, 95-99, 100, 
 
 103, 111 
 
 Dirt and neglect in, 119, 126 
 Dourga (Kali), of, 204-205, 
 
 265 
 
 Juggernaut, of, 228-233 
 Madura, at, 113, 118-120, 124- 
 
 130 
 
 Odeypoure, at, 175, 177-178 
 Parrot-faced god, of, 52 
 Rock temple, 15-17 
 Seashore, on, 57 
 Tinnevelli, 23-26 
 Tivu Sivaya peria vur, 84 
 Trichinopoly, Rock of, 89 and 
 
 note, 91-95 
 
 Trivandrum, at, 39, 61 
 Theatre at Madura, 115-117 
 Theosophists of Madras, 228- 
 227 ; at Benares, 254-257, 
 268, 273, 276-278 
 Tigers, 180 
 Tinnevelli, 23-26 
 Tirthankars, 220 and note 
 Tombs : 
 
 Delhi, near, 241-242 
 Royal atGolconda, 155-156 ; 
 at Gwalior, 213; the Taj, 
 238-239 and note 
 Tracery in powder on the 
 
 ground, 54, 90, 101 
 Travancore : 
 
 Approaches to, 29-30 
 Christians and Jews in, 34, 
 
 63 
 College for noble ladies in, 
 
 58-60 
 
 Dynastic descent in, 45-46, 
 55
 
 INDEX 
 
 283 
 
 Travanoore (continued) : 
 
 Seaports lacking to, 29, 43, 
 
 63 
 
 Voyage from, 63-72 
 Travancore, Maharajah of, visit 
 to, 43-45; difficulties of 
 communicating with, 45, 
 50 ; palace orchestra of, 
 46-50 ; elephants of, 49 ; 
 guests of, 51 
 Travancore, Maharanee of, 45; 
 
 visit to, 54-56 
 Travanoore, Princes of, 56 
 Travellers' rest, 32 
 Trichinopoly, Rock of, 89 and 
 
 note, 91-95 
 Triohur, situation of, 81 ; port 
 
 of, 83 ; temple of, 84 
 Trivandrum : 
 Arrival at, 37 
 Buildings and gardens in, 
 
 40 
 
 Factories in, 42 
 Sea view from, 42-43 
 Street of the Merchants, 40, 
 
 60-62 
 Zoological garden of, 42-43 
 
 Turbans, 147-149, 209 
 
 Vedas, teaching of, 278 
 Vishnu : 
 
 Car of, 100-101, 106-112 
 
 Festival of, 90-91, 99-103, 106- 
 112 
 
 Image of, most sacred, 102 
 
 Mark of, 41, 96, 102 
 
 Temple of, at Chri Ragam, 
 
 94, 95-99, 100. 103, 111 
 Visits, hour for, 39 
 
 Waterside birds, 69 
 Women : 
 
 Appearance of, 33, 85 
 Bathing of, in the Ganges, 
 
 259 
 Decoration of the ground 
 
 traced by, 54, 90, 101 
 Dress of, 117, 178, 191, 210- 
 
 211, 264, 277 
 Ruling caste, of, 45 
 Worship, ultimate object of, 53 
 
 Yoghi, dead, 261-262
 
 PRINTED BY 
 
 HAZEIX, WATSON AND VINEY, LD. 
 LONDON AND AYLE8BURY.
 
 ,,?_ 
 
 UCLA-College Ubrary 
 
 D8413V65iE1900 
 
 L005 721 165 Q 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 A 001 086 026 o