Passion & Profession: Chapter 12
In which the Rev. St. John enters a House of Sin, engages in an Unforeseen Transaction, learns Cpt. Aquilaine's Interests therein, and is shewn the Full Measure of his Character.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
When St. John was a boy of only nine years, his family had travelled to Lancaster to visit his mother's people in the Furness Fells. His excitement increased throughout the entire long, wearying carriage ride even as his sisters grew quiet and began to feel ill from jouncing over the country byways. The Christmas prior his grandfather had sent him a book, a local history of the Lake District that spanned the centuries, reaching back through the War of the Roses, the Plantagenets, the Norman Conquest and the Kingdom of Northumbria into the mists of ancient history, when the Roman army had first claimed the territory from the proud Brigantes. St. John had just finished reading his first Tacitus and was thrilled to see a tumbled-down Roman army fort or maybe unearth a Celtic shield-boss.
The next year, their mother died, and they never visited the Lake District again. St. John was glad of that; he never wished to go back.
Whilst taking an afternoon ramble with his grandfather, exploring the foot of Coniston Old Man, they had spotted a shepherd making his way up the sheer slate hillside to rescue a frightened lamb that had separated from the ewes. Grandfather had been explaining to St. John how Christ the Shepherd worked in similar fashion-searching for one lost sheep out of a hundred rather than contenting Himself with the ninety-nine that had not gone astray-when suddenly the hillside gave out under the unfortunate herder's feet and he fell, a precipitous slide over the rocks followed by a drop of more than 200 feet to the ground below. Even as an adult he could recall how the man tumbled through the air, so silent, as his young mind prayed O God, do not let him die, spare his life and I will be good every day, I will not complain about having to read Pro Archia or tell Mother when Mary pulls at my ears, oh please God spare him, but it mattered not, of course. By the time Grandfather and he had scrambled over to him the shepherd was quite dead, just a sad, twisted heap of broken bone and bloody flesh. It had shocked him quite to the core, to see how a man could be thinking only of his lost lamb one moment, wanting to rescue it and get back to his cottage in time for tea, and then dead the next. How things could change so irrevocably in a matter of seconds.
The fright of it had woken him many nights in a row, as he watched the man fall again and again in his dreams, and although he gradually lost his fear of high places, he never forgot the feeling of that first moment of panic, as everything shifted and tumbled away, never to return.
For only the second time in his life, St. John felt that dizzying lurch of helplessness as he watched Cpt. Aquilaine enter the brothel. His mind slowed as it struggled to grasp what he had just seen: an impossible, irreparable thing, the death of all that had made him so briefly but deeply happy. Less than an hour ago he had woken with the intent of sharing breakfast with the Captain, visiting the library, meeting with the head of the Calcutta Abolition Society, and beginning to compose a pamphlet on the degradations of slavery in India. During their fight he had steeled himself for a day of miserable anxiety followed by another fight and then, quite probably, his first flinching exploration of penetrative intercourse. Now that too was lost forever, just as the shepherd must have known, mid-fall, that he would never again have tea in his cottage. He nevertheless found himself pleading that what he had just seen could be unseen, as if by wishing strongly enough he could change the past, even for a few crucial seconds.
O Marcus, please do not enter that doorway. Please do not enquire about a whore and how much trade she had the previous night. I am so sorry for all my failings and I shall change them all; come back, I pray, explain to me how it is all a hideous mistake and that I am the greatest fool in Christendom, and I will do whatever you like. It is only sodomy; it is only fellating; I see now how none of those things are important compared to your staying with me. Please-I will do anything to keep you.
But bargaining with God had not saved the poor shepherd; now it did not stop the Captain from offhandedly dismantling everything that had brought joy to the Rev. Rivers. And so he stood there in the street whilst the vegetable peddler hassled him about a cauliflower, watching and remembering how silently the shepherd fell, with what resignation he faced his death. All that remained was to do the needful and see it with his own eyes, just as he and Grandfather had gone to the shepherd in case he had survived, hoping beyond hope that by some miracle God's Merciful Hand had stayed his fall.
Perhaps I will have been mistaken, a hideous mistake, and I will be so ashamed of myself and my foolish fears, and I shall apologise to him at great length, and how grateful I will be to have the opportunity to do so! In the end, when his anger at me has passed, we can joke about what a poor fellator I make and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well between us.
St. John's brief spark of optimism flared and snuffed itself out the instant he knocked on the red door with marigolds. He could only deceive himself for so long; from the moment he met Cpt. Aquilaine a secret anxiety had worried away at him, as if his spirit could sense some approaching catastrophe. Now it had arrived. He felt dazed; the true pain would arrive soon, he had learnt, and he shrank from it even as he knew it to be the just wages of his many and deliberate sins. But he must see the affair through to its bitter end.
After a long pause, very long, during which a cold, leaden fear began to weigh down his heart, the stocky man with the moustache peered out. He gave the Reverend a long, appraising look and said “We're closed,” shutting the door in St. John's face. St. John took a step back in dismay, then hardened his resolve and knocked harder. When the man next put his head out to glare St. John shoved his boot into the gap between door and lintel.
“Do not tell me you are closed; I just saw an army-man go in only two minutes earlier. These sorts of houses are always open.”
The man's eyes narrowed at him. “Are you from the Missionary Society? Stop bothering the girls or I shall teach you a lesson with my fists.” He tried to slam the door shut once more but was blocked by the Reverend's boot. As his solid face tightened with anger St. John searched desperately through his pockets for his coin purse; he pulled it out with a flash and jingled it significantly.
“I will pay you if you let me in.”
Then the entry-way stood open to him; the guard smiled a toothy, insincere smile. “Should have said so, my friend!”
St. John squinted at the darkness of the foyer with a combination of dread, shame, and prurient interest; he had naturally heard of such tawdry places, but never expected to actually cross the threshold of one. To his disappointment he found the room would not have looked out of place at the British Officer's East India Club. It contained the same stuffed horsehide chairs, hanging begonias, and blown-glass oil lamps; the wall was hung with fans and fetishes and a frieze of yakshinis, young and nubile. Intrigued, he peered at the frieze in an attempt to understand what activities were being depicted, hands clasped behind his back in the nature of a scholar appraising a dubious work of art. When he belatedly recognised its tremendously erotic depictions he blushed violently; the moustachioed man pointedly ignored this and launched into his standard introduction for new customers.
“Everybody here is very cultured, very respectable … we are a good house. Nobody is riffraff. There can be food, or dancing, or wine, or whatever else Sir desires.” He hesitated slightly at this glowing description of the entertainment possibilities; clearly they were not prepared at that exact moment for a drinking party featuring hookahs, nautch dancers, and sitars droning in the background. “But, ah, it is early in the day, and most of the girls are still asleep-they are very delicate, of course-so simply tell me who you want to visit and I'll wake one up. Thin? Fat? Pale? Pale skin costs extra.” He ticked off the options on his thick fingers.
St. John shook his head in another bout of mortification. “Please, do not misunderstand me, my good man. I do not wish to-that is-visit the girls. You see, I saw a man here-”
The sophisticated demeanour slipped, revealing the guard's practical core. “Boy then? We don't have men. You want to get fucked you'll have to go down the street.” He gave an elaborate shrug.
“O God no! No, that is assuredly not what I am seeking. The Englishman who came in here … I want to speak to him.”
The guard laughed in harsh amusement. “We are a discreet house, Sir, very discreet, and our other customers are none of your business. So pick a girl-or a boy-or I will send you on your way.”
St. John swallowed hard and shut his eyes. Christ forgive me. “I'll take a boy, then.”
“Very good!” He promptly dropped back into the routine speech. “We've got two boys, Jaladhar and Tarun. Jaladhar is eighteen, castrated, could easily be mistaken for a hijra, and a dancer, but that costs extra. Tarun is twelve. Still learning the trade, but he's got pretty eyes and speaks good English. His voice has not yet broken so he can sing; that will also cost extra.”
“Are they both available currently?” St. John frowned in confusion.
“Oh yes, and you could visit both, if you like, Sir. That will, of course, cost extra.”
“Just Tarun, then.” He stared at the ground; when he had come to India to spread the Word, he had not anticipated that he might one day hire a dancing-boy in a brothel to aid in tracking down his errant male lover.
“An excellent choice. You will not be disappointed. Wait right here, Sir, and I'll be back in a moment.” He vanished down a hallway, leaving St. John to pace the foyer whilst trying not to wonder: if Cpt. Aquilaine dislikes everything about women, and both the boys are currently free, then what is he doing right now? When the guard returned he was trailed by a tall, slender boy who yawned and rubbed his eyes with henna-stained hands, smudging the kohl around. Finally the guard boxed his ear and told him to be polite, and the boy belatedly straightened, plastering a vague, nondescript sort of smile on his face.
“This is Tarun. Will he suit, Sir ?”
“Yes … quite. Thank you.”
Whilst the blushing Reverend was relieved of a fair bit of his money, he took the opportunity to make a closer inspection of his new companion. Tarun looked modest and shy, and kept giving his client timid sidelong glances. St. John's heart took a lurch and he had to remind himself it was an act; brothel workers tended to be wise beyond their years and very skilled in the arts of earning money by preying on sympathies. When the awkward necessities of business had been completed, the guard led their party of two down a crooked, dimly lit corridor, past curtains and doors and staircases. Most of the building was silent, although from behind one curtain came the smell of burning opium and languid whispering in a mix of English and Bengali. Finally he pulled back a yellow curtain and ushered the Reverend through with a slight bow.
Early morning sunlight seeped through a cloth nailed up over the lone window, and dust motes wafted leisurely past. The room was unexpectedly charming and boasted a small table with chairs, neatly-made bed, hanging silver lamp and a gilt picture of Ganesha hung with flowers. Presumably Tarun lived in plainer quarters not intended for entertaining. Motioning his guest into a stuffed chair, the boy began to set the table with cups and silverware retrieved from a painted cupboard. St. John sat stiffly, not knowing what was expected of him at this point, and uncertain of how to proceed with his poorly-conceived plan. He cleared his throat meaningfully and Tarun turned back to him.
“What can I do for you, Sir?” He made a somewhat-unskilled attempt at coyness. As promised, his voice was still high, clear, and stilted; other people might have even called it musical.
“I … I have a simple request, but I hope it is not an odd one.” St. John wished to not seem pathetic, and tried very hard to stop fiddling with his hands.
Tarun smiled again, with a more genuine air this time. “Your chai will be done soon, Sir. Then I will sit and pour you the chai, Sir, and then we will talk.” St. John relaxed slightly; the traditional chai service and demure behaviour of the workers placed it several notches above the crasser brothels, which were more like lupanariae than salons. They heard a quiet knock and Tarun hurried over to the doorway, retrieving a kettle of hot water from the guard, now playing footman. He began to steep chai as St. John watched intently, unable to think beyond his present situation. Finally the boy sat and poured him a cup, offering it with both hands in a practiced move he had obviously copied from someone else. His words were less polished.
“What do you want me to do, Sir? You have one hour.”
St. John winced and waved off the suggestion. “I only need you briefly, Tarun. I wish you to do one small task, and then you can go back to sleep. Will you help me?”
Tarun shrugged. “I will do whatever you like, Sir.” He was evidently used to strange requests, even at such a tender age.
“An Englishman came in here this morning, just now, and the guard knew him. I wish you to take me to the room where he visits. Can you do that?” He held up a silver rupee and Tarun stared at the coin with parted lips before slowly shaking his head.
“I must not bother other guests. They will beat me.”
“Then we shall tell them I became lost whilst trying to leave. Will that work?”
Tarun frowned in thought, then burst out, “That is all you want from me? And then the whole rupee is mine?” An odd look flashed over his face and the mask slipped; he looked very young for a moment. St. John realised it was in all likelihood as much as he received in two months from his customers. O God, how many of these unfortunates here are debt-bonded or outright slaves? How many will spend their entire lives forced to service English and Indian customers alike? And I cannot save them. St. John tried to give the boy the kindest smile he could manage under the circumstances. When he was twelve, his greatest concern was understanding the dual in Xenophon's Anabasis. “Yes, all of it, and I will not tell anyone you have got it. Take me to that man, and you can have the rupee and all the chai, if you want it, and you can sleep in late.”
For this he was rewarded with an actual grin, and he briefly glimpsed the twelve-year-old that Tarun might have been, if not for circumstance of birth and family. Tarun took the coin with nimble fingers and stood, and they slipped back into the hall.
After returning nearly to the foyer, they crept up a staircase to the first floor; as soon as they were halfway up a pair of voices made themselves known and one of them, most definitely, belonged to Cpt. Aquilaine. St. John could not make out words, but the tone and cadence were as familiar to him as his own skin. The other voice was indeed that of a woman. His hands began to shake, and he trembled with a feverish sort of misery; whatever would happen next, it had begun. Tarun gestured emphatically at a warped wooden door and mouthed He is in here.
St. John nodded back and mouthed Thank you. Tarun smiled up at him again and started to creep back down to his own quarters; the Reverend, on impulse, reached out to clasp him by the shoulder. He handed the youth two more silver rupees, for the singular pleasure of seeing the look of awe on his young face. If he could not have happiness himself, he could still spread it to others. Then he shooed Tarun away and turned back to the door, listening at a crack. It might all be a hideous mistake, he supposed, but he did not possess an infinite capacity for self-deception.
“Āpani bhrūkuṭi haẏa. Ēṭā bhāla yathēṣṭa āpanāra jan'ya nā, Kyāpṭēna?”
“Ēṭi āra'ō dudha praẏōjana.”
“Āpani āmāra cā pachanda nā.”
“Kārana āpani yathēṣṭa dudha saha ēṭi karā nā, Harj. Śudhu ēkhānē ānā, āpani habē?”
“Yā'i karatē cāna, Pukkā Sahība.”
“Yē yathēṣṭa, īśbarēra dōhā'i jan'ya, Harjindēr!” A spoon clinked angrily in a tea cup.
“Āpani atiśaẏa kichu ragacaṭā āja.” The woman broke off into coughing.
“Ēṭā ēkaṭā bājē sakāla haẏēchē paryanta haẏēchē.” His voice softened slightly. “Ēbaṁ ēṭi kakhana'i sahaja āpani prēkṣaṇa tā'i asustha. Āpani ki ḍāktārēra kāchē yā'ōẏā haẏani? Āmi ēṭikē jan'ya yathēṣṭa artha āpani, bhagabāna jānēna.”
“Tini balēchēna pratyēka samaẏa ēka'i jinisa. Āra'ō biśrāma pāna.”
“Āmi icchā āpani tāhalē.”
“Āpani satyi'i nā. Āpani śudhumātra bhadra hatē baluna. Āmi jāni, kāraṇa āpani āmāra kōna dēkhāra jan'ya, śudhu Maina āsalē kakhana'i.”
“Āmi sabasamaẏa āpanākē hisēbē dēkhatē āsā. Āpani jānēna.” Cpt. Aquilaine was clearly struggling to keep his voice level.
“Ēbaṁ āmi jāni yē āpani śudhumātra nitya thēkē Maina dēkhāra jan'ya cā'i!”
“Āmi āpanāra sāthē ē'i nā ārō tarka habē, Harj.” There was a brief pause, and then, “Kōthāẏa sē ēkhana?”
The woman snorted. “Ādarśa. Tini kōrsēra haẏa ghumēra! Pratyēkē ēkhānē ēkhana'ō ghumanta.” He heard a sigh, and a chair's legs scraping back across the floor. “Kintu āmi āpanāra jan'ya yētē habē tākē jāgānō, Pukkā Sahība.” As the woman stood she smothered another cough.
St. John had already heard quite enough to confirm far worse than he had imagined; the only thing that startled him now was how dispassionate he felt. His mind observed, calmly, as his heart was momentarily torn between grief and rage; should he limp away and hide, licking his wounds, or confront the Captain so he could not possibly deny any wrongdoing? As if from a great distance, his hand reached out and pushed open the door with a jerk. A thin, worn woman stood in front of him as if she were intending to exit; she stepped back with a small cry as he pushed into the room. In one glance he took in the rumpled bed, the lewd painting of Shiva and Parvati, and, just as he had imagined it, the Captain reclining at a small table, so similar to the one in Tarun's quarters, fussing with a cup of chai.
Cpt. Aquilaine leapt to his feet with a jerk, jarring the table and upsetting the full tea cups. The woman-Harjinder, St. John surmised-hastened over to sop up the hot liquids before they spilt onto the floor; as she moved, she hissed something angrily at the Captain. St. John simply stood by the door, taking in the scene with the desperation of one who feels compelled to memorise a situation in detail, although he does not understand its import.
“St. John, what in God's name are you doing here?” Cpt. Aquilaine cried out, eyes full of panic. “How did you come to this place?”
A cold smile lifted the corners of St. John's lips; as wretched as he felt, it gave him some small, dark pleasure to see Cpt. Aquilaine so stupefied. He had feared, in his heart of hearts, that he would simply be mocked as a guileless fool and sent on his way.
“It was too easy, you know. I simply followed you. You are not hard to follow.”
The Captain stared at him, mouth gaping; Harjinder continued cleaning up the chai without so much as a glance at the men. “What in hell possessed you to do that? Why would you do such a thing?”
“With all your talk a few days past of your hidden crimes, I could not stop thinking of where you went off to on Thursdays, and what makes you so unhappy then. After our fight this morning I felt I must know. And here I am and now I have proof positive: you are as lacking in honour and gentlemanly virtues as any man I have ever met.”
“Do not say that! O St. John, do not say that to me, I beg you. I would have told all long ago, but I feared exactly this … that you would judge me so harshly that it would come irrevocably between us!” Cpt. Aquilaine brushed a hand across his face, as if trying to wipe the scene in front of him from his eyes.
“There is no honour in visiting brothels, Captain, and less even when they are full of slaves who must simper and submit whether they will or no!”
“It will not seem as sordid when I explain, I assure you. If you will but let me explain-”
“Were your foul tempers on Thursdays because you had to pay such a steep price for affection? Or because it would then be seven full days before you would enjoy them again?” The pieces began to tumble into place, and he could not stop them, even if he wished; the situation they now revealed burnt like acid on his wounded heart, an almost palpable pain.
“Stop this nonsense!” Cpt. Aquilaine slammed his hand against the wall, causing all three people in the room to jump a little. His voice started to rise as he came out from behind the table. “You are making wild accusations and besmirching my name, Reverend.”
“Is there aught left of it to besmirch?” St. John spoke between clenched teeth. He did not care what happened next, so long as he had his say first. “Tell me what you do on Thursdays, Marcus. Do you come here to pay for your sodomy because I would not offer it to you for free? Or have you purchased them outright and now come to enjoy your little harem of servile flesh, Master?”
“Watch your tongue; you have not the first idea of what you are saying.”
St. John leant up close to him, wanting the Captain to understand the full weight of his next words. “On the contrary, it is quite clear. Perhaps Harjinder here is your purchased slave, but it is Maina who you come to visit today … I heard that much from the hall. Is Maina your whore of choice now?”
Cpt. Aquilaine struck St. John so hard that he fell back onto the floor, blood trickling out of a cut on the corner of his mouth. As he scrambled backwards in shock, seeking purchase on the dusty boards, the Captain loomed over him, hands balled into fists and face nearly incandescent with fury.
“You bastard-you damned scoundrel-you will not say such things again! You will never say that again about her!”
St. John sprang to his feet and stuck his nose inches from the Captain's; rage flowed through him like he had never felt before, so strong that his voice shook and his bloody lips curled back in nearly a snarl. “I do not need to repeat it; your countenance gives it away. Keep your whores, Captain, and enjoy them. We are through.” He turned and hastened through the door, brushing past the guard who had come to investigate the raised voices. His footsteps picked up speed as he fled down the corridor, through the foyer and out into the bright, hazy sunshine of the Calcutta streets.
He returned to the Club nearly fainting from his exertions. Sanyal, who was sitting on a cushioned bench and picking at his teeth, leapt guiltily to his feet when he saw St. John rush in, red-faced and panting, a smear of dried blood on his chin.
“Sahib, what has happened? Have you been attacked?”
St. John braced himself against the wall, struggling to speak. “I have … received … bad news … I must … go away.”
“Ah, Sahib, that is terrible! Is someone ill? Must you leave Calcutta?” The butler wrung his hands in sympathy.
“Yes, at once … Sanyal, I must have a … rickshaw in half an hour … to the Victoria Hotel … please give my regards to the … secretary. Tell him I regret … regret my haste in leaving.” Without waiting for a response he turned and hurried up the stairs.
Once in his room, he dragged his travelling chest from the study to the sitting room and began to pack. In five minutes he was done; his worldly possessions amounted to no more than three changes of clothes, his theological and scholarly books, and a few personal items. The shock of what had happened was now washing over him in waves, and so he sat down on the chest in the middle of his suddenly-barren rooms and stared blankly at the far wall, dashing away the occasional tear. Prayer came but haltingly to his mind.
Lord, I thank Thee that Thou hast shewn Thy servant the true cost of sin, for now I understand why fornication is not permitted. We humans are not well able to withstand the tides of fortune, and truly, as much as I longed for a taste of the carnal knowledge that Eve offered to Adam, now I would give almost anything to forget. It did not occur to me that joys of the flesh would be accompanied by such a painful reverse.
He forced himself to stop, because even during this simple prayer of repentance he kept seeing, unbidden, the look on Cpt. Aquilaine's face as he loomed over St. John, fists at the ready. Instead he pressed a hand over the ache in his breast and stared at the floor, not daring to think further. Minutes slid by, quite slowly, as his impatience to leave increased. He considered pulling the servant-bell and telling Sanyal he was ready.
Someone knocked at the door, loud and insistent. It was not the knock of a servant. The moment he opened his door Cpt. Aquilaine pushed his way in, surprisingly collected and still brushing rickshaw dust off his coat. The Captain opened his mouth to speak, then looked around the now-empty room before turning back to St. John.
“You … you are packing? You are leaving?”
“I am leaving, yes. I shall be gone in a quarter of an hour, and you will not see me again. There is nothing you can do or say to dissuade me, Captain, so do not pain yourself in trying.” He kept his voice deliberately unfriendly, dreading that his resolve would crumble yet again.
“Just like that, because of what happened this morning? If it was-but now-please, not because I lost my temper. I should never have hit you, please do not let that be the cause. I shall repent of it, St. John, any way you choose!”
St. John gritted his teeth and pressed on; how close he was to giving way. He must conquer these deceitful emotions. He remained silent, fighting, and Cpt. Aquilaine continued, desperation rising in his voice.
“All your fine talk of your high regard for me, and how you would think well of me despite whatever hidden sins I might confess; where has that gone to, Reverend? How did you come to trust me so little that you would spy on me?”
It was intolerable; he could not look at his friend's face a moment longer. St. John pulled Col. Fitzpatrick's letter from out of his pocket. He had never destroyed it. “What say you to this? Your fine friend the Colonel wrote to me as well as to you, and he told me so much about you! Your belief in keeping no secrets between intimates, and your Thursday activities … but I knew that if I shewed the letter to you, you would declare it a fraud and an abomination. So I made determination to see for myself.”
“Placido wrote to you?” The Captain looked as if he were the one who had been struck.
“He has been far more forthcoming about your character than you have. It is a shame I did not see it sooner.”
“Do not listen to that man; even he does not know the half of it. I will tell you all. Please wait before you make your judgement against me!”
“Do you honestly think that spinning out more untruths for me will change my mind as to anything now? Business with your Sepoys, you called it once-a bald-faced lie. Injuring your leg demonstrating calisthenics; is that how they refer to fornicating nowadays? And all your talk of how unappealing and unlovely women were-only I found you in a brothel surrounded by them! Have you ever spoken true to me, even once?”
“I only said such things because I thought you were one of those men who truly disliked women!” Cpt. Aquilaine looked near to tears. He dropped clumsily to his knees and took the Reverend's hands into his. “Let me speak true now, as true and open as I have ever been. I love you, St. John, and I will do anything to keep you.”
St. John pulled his hands away. “Cpt. Aquilaine, it pains me to say it but I … I also loved you. Loved. Perfect tense: complete. Now that I know you in full, Marcus Aquilaine, it is quite done; it does not matter what you claim, or do, for it will not come back.”
“You loved me? You did not say. Why did you not say?” The Captain's voice cracked and fell to a whisper.
“I am not the sort to go about writing sonnets and whispering little affections. And looking back, I did not genuinely love you, I loved who I thought you were. Who you deceived me into thinking you were! I assure you, however, that it is quite the opposite now. Truly, Captain, I cannot tell you how deeply I despise you and everything you stand for: slave owning, fornicating with whores, lies, seduction … shall I go on? Considering that your own mother was little better than a prostitute herself, the fact that you would choose to consort with them renders false all your fine declarations about how you would prove yourself to be a better man than your father.” He watched Cpt. Aquilaine grow ashen as the blood drained from his face. “But comfort yourself! Soon no doubt you will find some other innocent fool, who will think you are the finest and best man in the whole of Calcutta, who will give himself up to you just as I did. And then you can put another feather in your hat, one more conquest to boast of at the public house.”
His words were intentionally and intolerably cutting; the Captain stood abruptly and broke away. St. John wondered for a moment if he would be struck again, but instead the Captain simply wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his red coat and pointed to the travelling chest.
“You are moving out, it appears. Perhaps that is for the best. Are you … are you leaving Calcutta?”
“Not just Calcutta, Captain, I am leaving Bengal!” St. John's chin tilted up and his eyes grew narrow and cold. All the self-restraint he had allowed to soften grew hard once more. “When I came to India, it was to do mission-work; now I am setting out to accomplish that task. Some weeks ago I accepted an appointment to found a parish at the invitation of Prince Krishna of Hill Tippera. I shall go to him soon; it is well, I suppose, that you learn this now. You would have discovered it eventually, at any rate.”
Grief shifted to anger in the Captain's face. “And at what point would you have told me? Would I have woken one morning, my arms seeking you in bed, only to find some carefully-penned missive explaining in detail all the different ways in which I was a scoundrel?”
At this St. John faltered slightly. “I will not claim I am proud of myself for that. I could not think of how to tell you. But know this: I would have told you face-to-face. I would not have allowed my hidden faults to be revealed in a letter; I am a gentleman.”
He did not need to spell out the implications of his words; merely putting Col. Fitzpatrick's letter back in his pocket did the deed for him.
Cpt. Aquilaine gave him as hard a look as he had ever received. He spoke in a voice deliberately calm, but with an undercurrent of anger flowing through, as deep and powerful as the Ganges itself. “Before you take yourself off to Hill Tippera, then, perhaps I shall hold up a mirror and shew you the true measure of your worth, although I doubt it will profit you.
“You are a cold and unrelenting man. You have no room for mercy or forgiveness, not for yourself, not for others. How will your fine mission-work be achieved, when the heathens see that you despise them as deeply as you despise yourself, and when you treat every flaw, every hesitating or errant footstep as a sin worthy of eternal hellfire? Have you no sense of proportion, or is any crime-no matter how small-a thing that earns a lifetime of suffering and repentance? So much for charity and lovingkindness! Who will accept what you offer, knowing the price they will pay for it? You shall drive them all away, and they will come to learn that your God is nothing but a schoolmaster to be hated and feared.
“What an imbecile you are, St. John Rivers! You are so afraid of yourself, and of what God has made you, that you feel it necessary-vital, even-to take out your misery on all the people around you, most especially those who love you. You cannot admit any weakness, no matter how small, and-God forbid it-should any flaw become evident you will punish those who notice it rather than make an attempt to improve yourself. I pity any person, man or woman, who grows close to you, for as sure as the sunrise when you begin to feel weak, or threatened, you will make them suffer for your failing ten times over, and then you will criticise them for weeping. Is this how you treated your sisters, or that woman Jane who you hoped to marry? She had better sense than I, that is certain. She saw through you far quicker.”
St. John held up his arms as if to protect himself from the torrent of words; they struck too closely, too keenly. Cpt. Aquilaine saw this and softened his voice in response, leaving St. John with the additional burden of gratitude. “I will not be ashamed that I loved you, for I thought I saw in you a warm heart, and a kind spirit hidden under those layers of fear and self-hatred. Even now I find a large part of me wants to take you into my arms and touch you until you are gentled and at peace again, for you are so upset you are trembling, even though it is clear you cannot admit; I doubt you can even recognise in yourself when you are so distressed. I won't, however; you have not earnt it, you do not deserve it, and you would not do the same for me should our situations have been reversed. So mayhap I am learning from you after all! But know this, please: I may not have honour, I may be easy to despise and reject and yes, I am the sort of man who will buy slaves and visit whores and fornicate with them. But at least I treat the people around me as if they are human beings, not draughts pieces to be pushed back and forth in order to sooth some misery of my own making.”
He broke off, nearly gasping for air. By then they were both on the edge of tears, and staring at each other as if across a great distance. The situation was hideous.
Sanyal interrupted with a knock on the door. “Sahib, the rickshaw is here!”
Cpt. Aquilaine tipped his hat to the Reverend, looked at him with an inscrutable expression, and exited without a word. St. John tried futilely to stop weeping whilst Sanyal and a footman came in to retrieve his chest. As they carried it down the stairs he followed them, stumbling as if blind, and Sanyal had to actually assist him into the rickshaw. As they pulled away from the British East India Officer's Club he could just make out a shako bobbing away through the crowded streets, taking a slight lurch to the left with every step as if the wearer walked with a limp.
And then it was done.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
notes:
Furness Fells - the fells (hills) and mountains of the Furness, a region in Cumbria (historically Lancashire), also known as the Lake District. Coniston Old Man is the highest fell in the Furness.
Pro Archia - A speech made by Cicero, defending a poet who was accused of only pretending to be a Roman citizen. It is a standard text read by Latin students everywhere, as in the heart of the speech Cicero defends literature and the classical education.
all manner of things shall be well - from Julian of Norwich: “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”
yakshinis - highly-eroticised spirits found in Hindu mythology.
nautch dancers - Indian women who danced professionally for men at parties. They were more professional than traditional belly-dancers (who originally only performed for their families), more independent than geishas, and were long considered morally superior to courtesans, because their primary occupation was dancing (although many were happy to make a bit of extra money on the side).
hijra - Hijras are Indians who identify as men but dress and act like women; they are considered a third gender. (It is very hard to describe a hijra in western terms, as they do not think of themselves as homosexual, or transgender, or intersex, or male, or female; they would simply call themselves “hijra”.) They often live in groups, are occasionally but not necessarily castrated, make money by prostitution (they almost always take the passive rôle, causing many people to suggest that hijras are homosexual) and appearing at weddings, where they are said to bring good luck. The British attempted to ban them during the days of the EIC, but had little success.
lupanariae - Lupanaria is Latin for “brothel”. It is related to lupa, “she-wolf”, and literally means “a den of she-wolves”.
dual verbs in Xenophon's Anabasis - In Ancient Greek, as in English, verbs can be conjugated as singular (I - you - she/he/it) or plural (we - y'all - they). Unlike English, they can also be conjugated in dual form (we two people - you two people - those two people). Greek nouns likewise come in three quantities: one, two, or plural. Dual forms and endings are rarely taught, however, because (as all first year Greek students are repeatedly assured) verbs and nouns never take the dual; Homer may have used them, but they were archaic by Plato's time 400 years later, and would never appear in commonly-read texts.
During their second year of studying the language, students begin to cut their baby-Greek teeth on Xenophon's Anabasis, a rousing tale of military adventures in the Turkish peninsula. It is nearly always the first unedited, unsimplified, actual Greek encountered in the school setting. The opening six words of the Anabasis are: “Darius and Parysatis had two sons.” The words “had”, “two”, and “sons” are all in the dual.
Shiva and Parvati - Shiva is a powerful Hindu god; just how powerful depends on the specific type of Hinduism. Parvati is a Hindu goddess, wife of Shiva. She brings life-force to all beings, is renowned as the mother of Ganesha, and together they form a representation of an ideal Hindu marriage. They are occasionally depicted in an erotic embrace, celebrating some of the more physical joys of marriage.
draughts - checkers.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
When St. John was a boy of only nine years, his family had travelled to Lancaster to visit his mother's people in the Furness Fells. His excitement increased throughout the entire long, wearying carriage ride even as his sisters grew quiet and began to feel ill from jouncing over the country byways. The Christmas prior his grandfather had sent him a book, a local history of the Lake District that spanned the centuries, reaching back through the War of the Roses, the Plantagenets, the Norman Conquest and the Kingdom of Northumbria into the mists of ancient history, when the Roman army had first claimed the territory from the proud Brigantes. St. John had just finished reading his first Tacitus and was thrilled to see a tumbled-down Roman army fort or maybe unearth a Celtic shield-boss.
The next year, their mother died, and they never visited the Lake District again. St. John was glad of that; he never wished to go back.
Whilst taking an afternoon ramble with his grandfather, exploring the foot of Coniston Old Man, they had spotted a shepherd making his way up the sheer slate hillside to rescue a frightened lamb that had separated from the ewes. Grandfather had been explaining to St. John how Christ the Shepherd worked in similar fashion-searching for one lost sheep out of a hundred rather than contenting Himself with the ninety-nine that had not gone astray-when suddenly the hillside gave out under the unfortunate herder's feet and he fell, a precipitous slide over the rocks followed by a drop of more than 200 feet to the ground below. Even as an adult he could recall how the man tumbled through the air, so silent, as his young mind prayed O God, do not let him die, spare his life and I will be good every day, I will not complain about having to read Pro Archia or tell Mother when Mary pulls at my ears, oh please God spare him, but it mattered not, of course. By the time Grandfather and he had scrambled over to him the shepherd was quite dead, just a sad, twisted heap of broken bone and bloody flesh. It had shocked him quite to the core, to see how a man could be thinking only of his lost lamb one moment, wanting to rescue it and get back to his cottage in time for tea, and then dead the next. How things could change so irrevocably in a matter of seconds.
The fright of it had woken him many nights in a row, as he watched the man fall again and again in his dreams, and although he gradually lost his fear of high places, he never forgot the feeling of that first moment of panic, as everything shifted and tumbled away, never to return.
For only the second time in his life, St. John felt that dizzying lurch of helplessness as he watched Cpt. Aquilaine enter the brothel. His mind slowed as it struggled to grasp what he had just seen: an impossible, irreparable thing, the death of all that had made him so briefly but deeply happy. Less than an hour ago he had woken with the intent of sharing breakfast with the Captain, visiting the library, meeting with the head of the Calcutta Abolition Society, and beginning to compose a pamphlet on the degradations of slavery in India. During their fight he had steeled himself for a day of miserable anxiety followed by another fight and then, quite probably, his first flinching exploration of penetrative intercourse. Now that too was lost forever, just as the shepherd must have known, mid-fall, that he would never again have tea in his cottage. He nevertheless found himself pleading that what he had just seen could be unseen, as if by wishing strongly enough he could change the past, even for a few crucial seconds.
O Marcus, please do not enter that doorway. Please do not enquire about a whore and how much trade she had the previous night. I am so sorry for all my failings and I shall change them all; come back, I pray, explain to me how it is all a hideous mistake and that I am the greatest fool in Christendom, and I will do whatever you like. It is only sodomy; it is only fellating; I see now how none of those things are important compared to your staying with me. Please-I will do anything to keep you.
But bargaining with God had not saved the poor shepherd; now it did not stop the Captain from offhandedly dismantling everything that had brought joy to the Rev. Rivers. And so he stood there in the street whilst the vegetable peddler hassled him about a cauliflower, watching and remembering how silently the shepherd fell, with what resignation he faced his death. All that remained was to do the needful and see it with his own eyes, just as he and Grandfather had gone to the shepherd in case he had survived, hoping beyond hope that by some miracle God's Merciful Hand had stayed his fall.
Perhaps I will have been mistaken, a hideous mistake, and I will be so ashamed of myself and my foolish fears, and I shall apologise to him at great length, and how grateful I will be to have the opportunity to do so! In the end, when his anger at me has passed, we can joke about what a poor fellator I make and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well between us.
St. John's brief spark of optimism flared and snuffed itself out the instant he knocked on the red door with marigolds. He could only deceive himself for so long; from the moment he met Cpt. Aquilaine a secret anxiety had worried away at him, as if his spirit could sense some approaching catastrophe. Now it had arrived. He felt dazed; the true pain would arrive soon, he had learnt, and he shrank from it even as he knew it to be the just wages of his many and deliberate sins. But he must see the affair through to its bitter end.
After a long pause, very long, during which a cold, leaden fear began to weigh down his heart, the stocky man with the moustache peered out. He gave the Reverend a long, appraising look and said “We're closed,” shutting the door in St. John's face. St. John took a step back in dismay, then hardened his resolve and knocked harder. When the man next put his head out to glare St. John shoved his boot into the gap between door and lintel.
“Do not tell me you are closed; I just saw an army-man go in only two minutes earlier. These sorts of houses are always open.”
The man's eyes narrowed at him. “Are you from the Missionary Society? Stop bothering the girls or I shall teach you a lesson with my fists.” He tried to slam the door shut once more but was blocked by the Reverend's boot. As his solid face tightened with anger St. John searched desperately through his pockets for his coin purse; he pulled it out with a flash and jingled it significantly.
“I will pay you if you let me in.”
Then the entry-way stood open to him; the guard smiled a toothy, insincere smile. “Should have said so, my friend!”
St. John squinted at the darkness of the foyer with a combination of dread, shame, and prurient interest; he had naturally heard of such tawdry places, but never expected to actually cross the threshold of one. To his disappointment he found the room would not have looked out of place at the British Officer's East India Club. It contained the same stuffed horsehide chairs, hanging begonias, and blown-glass oil lamps; the wall was hung with fans and fetishes and a frieze of yakshinis, young and nubile. Intrigued, he peered at the frieze in an attempt to understand what activities were being depicted, hands clasped behind his back in the nature of a scholar appraising a dubious work of art. When he belatedly recognised its tremendously erotic depictions he blushed violently; the moustachioed man pointedly ignored this and launched into his standard introduction for new customers.
“Everybody here is very cultured, very respectable … we are a good house. Nobody is riffraff. There can be food, or dancing, or wine, or whatever else Sir desires.” He hesitated slightly at this glowing description of the entertainment possibilities; clearly they were not prepared at that exact moment for a drinking party featuring hookahs, nautch dancers, and sitars droning in the background. “But, ah, it is early in the day, and most of the girls are still asleep-they are very delicate, of course-so simply tell me who you want to visit and I'll wake one up. Thin? Fat? Pale? Pale skin costs extra.” He ticked off the options on his thick fingers.
St. John shook his head in another bout of mortification. “Please, do not misunderstand me, my good man. I do not wish to-that is-visit the girls. You see, I saw a man here-”
The sophisticated demeanour slipped, revealing the guard's practical core. “Boy then? We don't have men. You want to get fucked you'll have to go down the street.” He gave an elaborate shrug.
“O God no! No, that is assuredly not what I am seeking. The Englishman who came in here … I want to speak to him.”
The guard laughed in harsh amusement. “We are a discreet house, Sir, very discreet, and our other customers are none of your business. So pick a girl-or a boy-or I will send you on your way.”
St. John swallowed hard and shut his eyes. Christ forgive me. “I'll take a boy, then.”
“Very good!” He promptly dropped back into the routine speech. “We've got two boys, Jaladhar and Tarun. Jaladhar is eighteen, castrated, could easily be mistaken for a hijra, and a dancer, but that costs extra. Tarun is twelve. Still learning the trade, but he's got pretty eyes and speaks good English. His voice has not yet broken so he can sing; that will also cost extra.”
“Are they both available currently?” St. John frowned in confusion.
“Oh yes, and you could visit both, if you like, Sir. That will, of course, cost extra.”
“Just Tarun, then.” He stared at the ground; when he had come to India to spread the Word, he had not anticipated that he might one day hire a dancing-boy in a brothel to aid in tracking down his errant male lover.
“An excellent choice. You will not be disappointed. Wait right here, Sir, and I'll be back in a moment.” He vanished down a hallway, leaving St. John to pace the foyer whilst trying not to wonder: if Cpt. Aquilaine dislikes everything about women, and both the boys are currently free, then what is he doing right now? When the guard returned he was trailed by a tall, slender boy who yawned and rubbed his eyes with henna-stained hands, smudging the kohl around. Finally the guard boxed his ear and told him to be polite, and the boy belatedly straightened, plastering a vague, nondescript sort of smile on his face.
“This is Tarun. Will he suit, Sir ?”
“Yes … quite. Thank you.”
Whilst the blushing Reverend was relieved of a fair bit of his money, he took the opportunity to make a closer inspection of his new companion. Tarun looked modest and shy, and kept giving his client timid sidelong glances. St. John's heart took a lurch and he had to remind himself it was an act; brothel workers tended to be wise beyond their years and very skilled in the arts of earning money by preying on sympathies. When the awkward necessities of business had been completed, the guard led their party of two down a crooked, dimly lit corridor, past curtains and doors and staircases. Most of the building was silent, although from behind one curtain came the smell of burning opium and languid whispering in a mix of English and Bengali. Finally he pulled back a yellow curtain and ushered the Reverend through with a slight bow.
Early morning sunlight seeped through a cloth nailed up over the lone window, and dust motes wafted leisurely past. The room was unexpectedly charming and boasted a small table with chairs, neatly-made bed, hanging silver lamp and a gilt picture of Ganesha hung with flowers. Presumably Tarun lived in plainer quarters not intended for entertaining. Motioning his guest into a stuffed chair, the boy began to set the table with cups and silverware retrieved from a painted cupboard. St. John sat stiffly, not knowing what was expected of him at this point, and uncertain of how to proceed with his poorly-conceived plan. He cleared his throat meaningfully and Tarun turned back to him.
“What can I do for you, Sir?” He made a somewhat-unskilled attempt at coyness. As promised, his voice was still high, clear, and stilted; other people might have even called it musical.
“I … I have a simple request, but I hope it is not an odd one.” St. John wished to not seem pathetic, and tried very hard to stop fiddling with his hands.
Tarun smiled again, with a more genuine air this time. “Your chai will be done soon, Sir. Then I will sit and pour you the chai, Sir, and then we will talk.” St. John relaxed slightly; the traditional chai service and demure behaviour of the workers placed it several notches above the crasser brothels, which were more like lupanariae than salons. They heard a quiet knock and Tarun hurried over to the doorway, retrieving a kettle of hot water from the guard, now playing footman. He began to steep chai as St. John watched intently, unable to think beyond his present situation. Finally the boy sat and poured him a cup, offering it with both hands in a practiced move he had obviously copied from someone else. His words were less polished.
“What do you want me to do, Sir? You have one hour.”
St. John winced and waved off the suggestion. “I only need you briefly, Tarun. I wish you to do one small task, and then you can go back to sleep. Will you help me?”
Tarun shrugged. “I will do whatever you like, Sir.” He was evidently used to strange requests, even at such a tender age.
“An Englishman came in here this morning, just now, and the guard knew him. I wish you to take me to the room where he visits. Can you do that?” He held up a silver rupee and Tarun stared at the coin with parted lips before slowly shaking his head.
“I must not bother other guests. They will beat me.”
“Then we shall tell them I became lost whilst trying to leave. Will that work?”
Tarun frowned in thought, then burst out, “That is all you want from me? And then the whole rupee is mine?” An odd look flashed over his face and the mask slipped; he looked very young for a moment. St. John realised it was in all likelihood as much as he received in two months from his customers. O God, how many of these unfortunates here are debt-bonded or outright slaves? How many will spend their entire lives forced to service English and Indian customers alike? And I cannot save them. St. John tried to give the boy the kindest smile he could manage under the circumstances. When he was twelve, his greatest concern was understanding the dual in Xenophon's Anabasis. “Yes, all of it, and I will not tell anyone you have got it. Take me to that man, and you can have the rupee and all the chai, if you want it, and you can sleep in late.”
For this he was rewarded with an actual grin, and he briefly glimpsed the twelve-year-old that Tarun might have been, if not for circumstance of birth and family. Tarun took the coin with nimble fingers and stood, and they slipped back into the hall.
After returning nearly to the foyer, they crept up a staircase to the first floor; as soon as they were halfway up a pair of voices made themselves known and one of them, most definitely, belonged to Cpt. Aquilaine. St. John could not make out words, but the tone and cadence were as familiar to him as his own skin. The other voice was indeed that of a woman. His hands began to shake, and he trembled with a feverish sort of misery; whatever would happen next, it had begun. Tarun gestured emphatically at a warped wooden door and mouthed He is in here.
St. John nodded back and mouthed Thank you. Tarun smiled up at him again and started to creep back down to his own quarters; the Reverend, on impulse, reached out to clasp him by the shoulder. He handed the youth two more silver rupees, for the singular pleasure of seeing the look of awe on his young face. If he could not have happiness himself, he could still spread it to others. Then he shooed Tarun away and turned back to the door, listening at a crack. It might all be a hideous mistake, he supposed, but he did not possess an infinite capacity for self-deception.
“Āpani bhrūkuṭi haẏa. Ēṭā bhāla yathēṣṭa āpanāra jan'ya nā, Kyāpṭēna?”
“Ēṭi āra'ō dudha praẏōjana.”
“Āpani āmāra cā pachanda nā.”
“Kārana āpani yathēṣṭa dudha saha ēṭi karā nā, Harj. Śudhu ēkhānē ānā, āpani habē?”
“Yā'i karatē cāna, Pukkā Sahība.”
“Yē yathēṣṭa, īśbarēra dōhā'i jan'ya, Harjindēr!” A spoon clinked angrily in a tea cup.
“Āpani atiśaẏa kichu ragacaṭā āja.” The woman broke off into coughing.
“Ēṭā ēkaṭā bājē sakāla haẏēchē paryanta haẏēchē.” His voice softened slightly. “Ēbaṁ ēṭi kakhana'i sahaja āpani prēkṣaṇa tā'i asustha. Āpani ki ḍāktārēra kāchē yā'ōẏā haẏani? Āmi ēṭikē jan'ya yathēṣṭa artha āpani, bhagabāna jānēna.”
“Tini balēchēna pratyēka samaẏa ēka'i jinisa. Āra'ō biśrāma pāna.”
“Āmi icchā āpani tāhalē.”
“Āpani satyi'i nā. Āpani śudhumātra bhadra hatē baluna. Āmi jāni, kāraṇa āpani āmāra kōna dēkhāra jan'ya, śudhu Maina āsalē kakhana'i.”
“Āmi sabasamaẏa āpanākē hisēbē dēkhatē āsā. Āpani jānēna.” Cpt. Aquilaine was clearly struggling to keep his voice level.
“Ēbaṁ āmi jāni yē āpani śudhumātra nitya thēkē Maina dēkhāra jan'ya cā'i!”
“Āmi āpanāra sāthē ē'i nā ārō tarka habē, Harj.” There was a brief pause, and then, “Kōthāẏa sē ēkhana?”
The woman snorted. “Ādarśa. Tini kōrsēra haẏa ghumēra! Pratyēkē ēkhānē ēkhana'ō ghumanta.” He heard a sigh, and a chair's legs scraping back across the floor. “Kintu āmi āpanāra jan'ya yētē habē tākē jāgānō, Pukkā Sahība.” As the woman stood she smothered another cough.
St. John had already heard quite enough to confirm far worse than he had imagined; the only thing that startled him now was how dispassionate he felt. His mind observed, calmly, as his heart was momentarily torn between grief and rage; should he limp away and hide, licking his wounds, or confront the Captain so he could not possibly deny any wrongdoing? As if from a great distance, his hand reached out and pushed open the door with a jerk. A thin, worn woman stood in front of him as if she were intending to exit; she stepped back with a small cry as he pushed into the room. In one glance he took in the rumpled bed, the lewd painting of Shiva and Parvati, and, just as he had imagined it, the Captain reclining at a small table, so similar to the one in Tarun's quarters, fussing with a cup of chai.
Cpt. Aquilaine leapt to his feet with a jerk, jarring the table and upsetting the full tea cups. The woman-Harjinder, St. John surmised-hastened over to sop up the hot liquids before they spilt onto the floor; as she moved, she hissed something angrily at the Captain. St. John simply stood by the door, taking in the scene with the desperation of one who feels compelled to memorise a situation in detail, although he does not understand its import.
“St. John, what in God's name are you doing here?” Cpt. Aquilaine cried out, eyes full of panic. “How did you come to this place?”
A cold smile lifted the corners of St. John's lips; as wretched as he felt, it gave him some small, dark pleasure to see Cpt. Aquilaine so stupefied. He had feared, in his heart of hearts, that he would simply be mocked as a guileless fool and sent on his way.
“It was too easy, you know. I simply followed you. You are not hard to follow.”
The Captain stared at him, mouth gaping; Harjinder continued cleaning up the chai without so much as a glance at the men. “What in hell possessed you to do that? Why would you do such a thing?”
“With all your talk a few days past of your hidden crimes, I could not stop thinking of where you went off to on Thursdays, and what makes you so unhappy then. After our fight this morning I felt I must know. And here I am and now I have proof positive: you are as lacking in honour and gentlemanly virtues as any man I have ever met.”
“Do not say that! O St. John, do not say that to me, I beg you. I would have told all long ago, but I feared exactly this … that you would judge me so harshly that it would come irrevocably between us!” Cpt. Aquilaine brushed a hand across his face, as if trying to wipe the scene in front of him from his eyes.
“There is no honour in visiting brothels, Captain, and less even when they are full of slaves who must simper and submit whether they will or no!”
“It will not seem as sordid when I explain, I assure you. If you will but let me explain-”
“Were your foul tempers on Thursdays because you had to pay such a steep price for affection? Or because it would then be seven full days before you would enjoy them again?” The pieces began to tumble into place, and he could not stop them, even if he wished; the situation they now revealed burnt like acid on his wounded heart, an almost palpable pain.
“Stop this nonsense!” Cpt. Aquilaine slammed his hand against the wall, causing all three people in the room to jump a little. His voice started to rise as he came out from behind the table. “You are making wild accusations and besmirching my name, Reverend.”
“Is there aught left of it to besmirch?” St. John spoke between clenched teeth. He did not care what happened next, so long as he had his say first. “Tell me what you do on Thursdays, Marcus. Do you come here to pay for your sodomy because I would not offer it to you for free? Or have you purchased them outright and now come to enjoy your little harem of servile flesh, Master?”
“Watch your tongue; you have not the first idea of what you are saying.”
St. John leant up close to him, wanting the Captain to understand the full weight of his next words. “On the contrary, it is quite clear. Perhaps Harjinder here is your purchased slave, but it is Maina who you come to visit today … I heard that much from the hall. Is Maina your whore of choice now?”
Cpt. Aquilaine struck St. John so hard that he fell back onto the floor, blood trickling out of a cut on the corner of his mouth. As he scrambled backwards in shock, seeking purchase on the dusty boards, the Captain loomed over him, hands balled into fists and face nearly incandescent with fury.
“You bastard-you damned scoundrel-you will not say such things again! You will never say that again about her!”
St. John sprang to his feet and stuck his nose inches from the Captain's; rage flowed through him like he had never felt before, so strong that his voice shook and his bloody lips curled back in nearly a snarl. “I do not need to repeat it; your countenance gives it away. Keep your whores, Captain, and enjoy them. We are through.” He turned and hastened through the door, brushing past the guard who had come to investigate the raised voices. His footsteps picked up speed as he fled down the corridor, through the foyer and out into the bright, hazy sunshine of the Calcutta streets.
He returned to the Club nearly fainting from his exertions. Sanyal, who was sitting on a cushioned bench and picking at his teeth, leapt guiltily to his feet when he saw St. John rush in, red-faced and panting, a smear of dried blood on his chin.
“Sahib, what has happened? Have you been attacked?”
St. John braced himself against the wall, struggling to speak. “I have … received … bad news … I must … go away.”
“Ah, Sahib, that is terrible! Is someone ill? Must you leave Calcutta?” The butler wrung his hands in sympathy.
“Yes, at once … Sanyal, I must have a … rickshaw in half an hour … to the Victoria Hotel … please give my regards to the … secretary. Tell him I regret … regret my haste in leaving.” Without waiting for a response he turned and hurried up the stairs.
Once in his room, he dragged his travelling chest from the study to the sitting room and began to pack. In five minutes he was done; his worldly possessions amounted to no more than three changes of clothes, his theological and scholarly books, and a few personal items. The shock of what had happened was now washing over him in waves, and so he sat down on the chest in the middle of his suddenly-barren rooms and stared blankly at the far wall, dashing away the occasional tear. Prayer came but haltingly to his mind.
Lord, I thank Thee that Thou hast shewn Thy servant the true cost of sin, for now I understand why fornication is not permitted. We humans are not well able to withstand the tides of fortune, and truly, as much as I longed for a taste of the carnal knowledge that Eve offered to Adam, now I would give almost anything to forget. It did not occur to me that joys of the flesh would be accompanied by such a painful reverse.
He forced himself to stop, because even during this simple prayer of repentance he kept seeing, unbidden, the look on Cpt. Aquilaine's face as he loomed over St. John, fists at the ready. Instead he pressed a hand over the ache in his breast and stared at the floor, not daring to think further. Minutes slid by, quite slowly, as his impatience to leave increased. He considered pulling the servant-bell and telling Sanyal he was ready.
Someone knocked at the door, loud and insistent. It was not the knock of a servant. The moment he opened his door Cpt. Aquilaine pushed his way in, surprisingly collected and still brushing rickshaw dust off his coat. The Captain opened his mouth to speak, then looked around the now-empty room before turning back to St. John.
“You … you are packing? You are leaving?”
“I am leaving, yes. I shall be gone in a quarter of an hour, and you will not see me again. There is nothing you can do or say to dissuade me, Captain, so do not pain yourself in trying.” He kept his voice deliberately unfriendly, dreading that his resolve would crumble yet again.
“Just like that, because of what happened this morning? If it was-but now-please, not because I lost my temper. I should never have hit you, please do not let that be the cause. I shall repent of it, St. John, any way you choose!”
St. John gritted his teeth and pressed on; how close he was to giving way. He must conquer these deceitful emotions. He remained silent, fighting, and Cpt. Aquilaine continued, desperation rising in his voice.
“All your fine talk of your high regard for me, and how you would think well of me despite whatever hidden sins I might confess; where has that gone to, Reverend? How did you come to trust me so little that you would spy on me?”
It was intolerable; he could not look at his friend's face a moment longer. St. John pulled Col. Fitzpatrick's letter from out of his pocket. He had never destroyed it. “What say you to this? Your fine friend the Colonel wrote to me as well as to you, and he told me so much about you! Your belief in keeping no secrets between intimates, and your Thursday activities … but I knew that if I shewed the letter to you, you would declare it a fraud and an abomination. So I made determination to see for myself.”
“Placido wrote to you?” The Captain looked as if he were the one who had been struck.
“He has been far more forthcoming about your character than you have. It is a shame I did not see it sooner.”
“Do not listen to that man; even he does not know the half of it. I will tell you all. Please wait before you make your judgement against me!”
“Do you honestly think that spinning out more untruths for me will change my mind as to anything now? Business with your Sepoys, you called it once-a bald-faced lie. Injuring your leg demonstrating calisthenics; is that how they refer to fornicating nowadays? And all your talk of how unappealing and unlovely women were-only I found you in a brothel surrounded by them! Have you ever spoken true to me, even once?”
“I only said such things because I thought you were one of those men who truly disliked women!” Cpt. Aquilaine looked near to tears. He dropped clumsily to his knees and took the Reverend's hands into his. “Let me speak true now, as true and open as I have ever been. I love you, St. John, and I will do anything to keep you.”
St. John pulled his hands away. “Cpt. Aquilaine, it pains me to say it but I … I also loved you. Loved. Perfect tense: complete. Now that I know you in full, Marcus Aquilaine, it is quite done; it does not matter what you claim, or do, for it will not come back.”
“You loved me? You did not say. Why did you not say?” The Captain's voice cracked and fell to a whisper.
“I am not the sort to go about writing sonnets and whispering little affections. And looking back, I did not genuinely love you, I loved who I thought you were. Who you deceived me into thinking you were! I assure you, however, that it is quite the opposite now. Truly, Captain, I cannot tell you how deeply I despise you and everything you stand for: slave owning, fornicating with whores, lies, seduction … shall I go on? Considering that your own mother was little better than a prostitute herself, the fact that you would choose to consort with them renders false all your fine declarations about how you would prove yourself to be a better man than your father.” He watched Cpt. Aquilaine grow ashen as the blood drained from his face. “But comfort yourself! Soon no doubt you will find some other innocent fool, who will think you are the finest and best man in the whole of Calcutta, who will give himself up to you just as I did. And then you can put another feather in your hat, one more conquest to boast of at the public house.”
His words were intentionally and intolerably cutting; the Captain stood abruptly and broke away. St. John wondered for a moment if he would be struck again, but instead the Captain simply wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his red coat and pointed to the travelling chest.
“You are moving out, it appears. Perhaps that is for the best. Are you … are you leaving Calcutta?”
“Not just Calcutta, Captain, I am leaving Bengal!” St. John's chin tilted up and his eyes grew narrow and cold. All the self-restraint he had allowed to soften grew hard once more. “When I came to India, it was to do mission-work; now I am setting out to accomplish that task. Some weeks ago I accepted an appointment to found a parish at the invitation of Prince Krishna of Hill Tippera. I shall go to him soon; it is well, I suppose, that you learn this now. You would have discovered it eventually, at any rate.”
Grief shifted to anger in the Captain's face. “And at what point would you have told me? Would I have woken one morning, my arms seeking you in bed, only to find some carefully-penned missive explaining in detail all the different ways in which I was a scoundrel?”
At this St. John faltered slightly. “I will not claim I am proud of myself for that. I could not think of how to tell you. But know this: I would have told you face-to-face. I would not have allowed my hidden faults to be revealed in a letter; I am a gentleman.”
He did not need to spell out the implications of his words; merely putting Col. Fitzpatrick's letter back in his pocket did the deed for him.
Cpt. Aquilaine gave him as hard a look as he had ever received. He spoke in a voice deliberately calm, but with an undercurrent of anger flowing through, as deep and powerful as the Ganges itself. “Before you take yourself off to Hill Tippera, then, perhaps I shall hold up a mirror and shew you the true measure of your worth, although I doubt it will profit you.
“You are a cold and unrelenting man. You have no room for mercy or forgiveness, not for yourself, not for others. How will your fine mission-work be achieved, when the heathens see that you despise them as deeply as you despise yourself, and when you treat every flaw, every hesitating or errant footstep as a sin worthy of eternal hellfire? Have you no sense of proportion, or is any crime-no matter how small-a thing that earns a lifetime of suffering and repentance? So much for charity and lovingkindness! Who will accept what you offer, knowing the price they will pay for it? You shall drive them all away, and they will come to learn that your God is nothing but a schoolmaster to be hated and feared.
“What an imbecile you are, St. John Rivers! You are so afraid of yourself, and of what God has made you, that you feel it necessary-vital, even-to take out your misery on all the people around you, most especially those who love you. You cannot admit any weakness, no matter how small, and-God forbid it-should any flaw become evident you will punish those who notice it rather than make an attempt to improve yourself. I pity any person, man or woman, who grows close to you, for as sure as the sunrise when you begin to feel weak, or threatened, you will make them suffer for your failing ten times over, and then you will criticise them for weeping. Is this how you treated your sisters, or that woman Jane who you hoped to marry? She had better sense than I, that is certain. She saw through you far quicker.”
St. John held up his arms as if to protect himself from the torrent of words; they struck too closely, too keenly. Cpt. Aquilaine saw this and softened his voice in response, leaving St. John with the additional burden of gratitude. “I will not be ashamed that I loved you, for I thought I saw in you a warm heart, and a kind spirit hidden under those layers of fear and self-hatred. Even now I find a large part of me wants to take you into my arms and touch you until you are gentled and at peace again, for you are so upset you are trembling, even though it is clear you cannot admit; I doubt you can even recognise in yourself when you are so distressed. I won't, however; you have not earnt it, you do not deserve it, and you would not do the same for me should our situations have been reversed. So mayhap I am learning from you after all! But know this, please: I may not have honour, I may be easy to despise and reject and yes, I am the sort of man who will buy slaves and visit whores and fornicate with them. But at least I treat the people around me as if they are human beings, not draughts pieces to be pushed back and forth in order to sooth some misery of my own making.”
He broke off, nearly gasping for air. By then they were both on the edge of tears, and staring at each other as if across a great distance. The situation was hideous.
Sanyal interrupted with a knock on the door. “Sahib, the rickshaw is here!”
Cpt. Aquilaine tipped his hat to the Reverend, looked at him with an inscrutable expression, and exited without a word. St. John tried futilely to stop weeping whilst Sanyal and a footman came in to retrieve his chest. As they carried it down the stairs he followed them, stumbling as if blind, and Sanyal had to actually assist him into the rickshaw. As they pulled away from the British East India Officer's Club he could just make out a shako bobbing away through the crowded streets, taking a slight lurch to the left with every step as if the wearer walked with a limp.
And then it was done.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
notes:
Furness Fells - the fells (hills) and mountains of the Furness, a region in Cumbria (historically Lancashire), also known as the Lake District. Coniston Old Man is the highest fell in the Furness.
Pro Archia - A speech made by Cicero, defending a poet who was accused of only pretending to be a Roman citizen. It is a standard text read by Latin students everywhere, as in the heart of the speech Cicero defends literature and the classical education.
all manner of things shall be well - from Julian of Norwich: “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”
yakshinis - highly-eroticised spirits found in Hindu mythology.
nautch dancers - Indian women who danced professionally for men at parties. They were more professional than traditional belly-dancers (who originally only performed for their families), more independent than geishas, and were long considered morally superior to courtesans, because their primary occupation was dancing (although many were happy to make a bit of extra money on the side).
hijra - Hijras are Indians who identify as men but dress and act like women; they are considered a third gender. (It is very hard to describe a hijra in western terms, as they do not think of themselves as homosexual, or transgender, or intersex, or male, or female; they would simply call themselves “hijra”.) They often live in groups, are occasionally but not necessarily castrated, make money by prostitution (they almost always take the passive rôle, causing many people to suggest that hijras are homosexual) and appearing at weddings, where they are said to bring good luck. The British attempted to ban them during the days of the EIC, but had little success.
lupanariae - Lupanaria is Latin for “brothel”. It is related to lupa, “she-wolf”, and literally means “a den of she-wolves”.
dual verbs in Xenophon's Anabasis - In Ancient Greek, as in English, verbs can be conjugated as singular (I - you - she/he/it) or plural (we - y'all - they). Unlike English, they can also be conjugated in dual form (we two people - you two people - those two people). Greek nouns likewise come in three quantities: one, two, or plural. Dual forms and endings are rarely taught, however, because (as all first year Greek students are repeatedly assured) verbs and nouns never take the dual; Homer may have used them, but they were archaic by Plato's time 400 years later, and would never appear in commonly-read texts.
During their second year of studying the language, students begin to cut their baby-Greek teeth on Xenophon's Anabasis, a rousing tale of military adventures in the Turkish peninsula. It is nearly always the first unedited, unsimplified, actual Greek encountered in the school setting. The opening six words of the Anabasis are: “Darius and Parysatis had two sons.” The words “had”, “two”, and “sons” are all in the dual.
Shiva and Parvati - Shiva is a powerful Hindu god; just how powerful depends on the specific type of Hinduism. Parvati is a Hindu goddess, wife of Shiva. She brings life-force to all beings, is renowned as the mother of Ganesha, and together they form a representation of an ideal Hindu marriage. They are occasionally depicted in an erotic embrace, celebrating some of the more physical joys of marriage.
draughts - checkers.