Passion & Profession: Chapter 15
In which the Rev. St. John sees the City of Calcutta in a New Light, reflects on the Glorious Complexity of an Orange, and uses his Oratory Skills for Good Purpose.
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St. John half-walked, half-stumbled his way down the steps from the rectory, casting about as if he had been abruptly struck blind and mute. He could not set aside what he had just seen and heard; something had happened to him-no, something was happening, happening at that very moment-and he could feel it even though he did not understand what it was or whether it was being done to him, or by him, or in spite of him. So entirely overthrown was he that he could neither think nor speak, and the Bishop's words rang through his ears like the staccato beat of a military drum, mirroring the allegro pulse of his heart.
Love the Lord thy God, and love thy neighbour as thyself. The crime of Sodom was pride and selfishness. We are flesh made manifest: take joy in the apple and the ocean wave. Thou art fearfully and wonderfully made. God has not erred in thy making.
At the bottom step he paused to draw breath and attempt to recover his bearings. His head was aswim with scraps of feeling and snatches of ideas that could not coalesce themselves into conscious thoughts, with one exception. The most attentive and exacting part of his mind-the part that constantly wondered if he had a morsel of food trapped in his teeth or a button undone on his waistcoat, the part that even in the throes of pleasure whispered how ridiculous you look, St. John, with your parted lips and furrowing brow, and he will mock you if you allow any noise to escape, the part that he hated most of all because it never allowed him to forget himself or just live unthinking-noted that he had managed to avoid tumbling down the stairs. Then he raised his head, and even that part fell silent as the scales fell from his eyes.
The city of Calcutta looked as though it had been wrought entirely of gold.
As the monsoon season slowly tapered off, the weather became even more fickle and varied than was its wont. At present it could not decide whether to produce rain, or sun, and so settled for both. The rain fell steadily with a gentle but determined patter, too much to set aside parasols but too little to drive the inhabitants indoors; meanwhile the sun, having burnt away much of the haze overhead, lingered behind the remaining clouds and lit them so they shone like silver against the blue sky. The air was fresh and rain-scented with loam, and the cobblestone streets and tin roofs and marble-faced palisades glowed warm and yellow with the late-summer sunlight. He had never before seen the city in such a state, or perhaps he had simply never noticed.
He saw soldiers and priests, boulevards and alleys and trees, dingy shops and gilded temples. Storekeepers bartered with townsmen, women drew water from the wells, servants swept the doorstops to fine houses and rickshaws clattered down the wide streets, weaving through cows and school boys and chickens straying from their roost. He watched the bustling confusion that swirled around him, drinking in the sights. What had before been nothing but disorder and chaos now seemed like a grand, stately dance, and he marvelled not at how it ever managed to work, but how infrequently it failed. Dung dropped on the road meant fuel for a cook stove, not a lack of sanitation. Beggars huddled by the temples were not desperate and rejected; rather, society gave them a place to receive alms and they bestowed the blessings of karma in return. Even the weeds growing in cracked stone walls shewed that life itself was so determined, rocks could not stop plants from forcing themselves towards the sun. It took his breath away. Was this what other men saw when they woke in the morning, or looked into the eyes of their wife, or sang a favourite hymn with the choir resounding through the church? He felt as if hithertofore he had viewed the world through a veil of censure and disdain, and now it had been snatched away without warning, leaving him blinking at the daylight. Finally he understood why people spoke so fondly of green grass and the glories of the sky at sunset. Everywhere he looked he saw nothing but loveliness and joy, and grace overflowing. And he had never before noticed how beautiful it all was.
St. John was no fool; he realised that Calcutta looked so beautiful not because something had shifted in the city itself but because something had shifted in him. He also realised that this wider perspective could not last, because the tax laid upon seeing such things was the necessity of relinquishing that vision; humans could not live, they would be entirely paralysed by beauty and wonder. Best to enjoy such gifts whilst they lasted. He began to walk.
After a full hour of aimless strolling and watching in delight, St. John paused at a street-vendor's cart and bought an orange. He was not hungry; he merely wanted to interact somehow with the surrounding city, rather than just observe it. But his fingers paused as they moved to peel and section it, and he looked more carefully. He thought of the seed that had once grown and after many years become a tree, and the farmer who nourished each of the saplings, hoed and grafted with a thousand years of agricultural wisdom brought about to bear on that one tree. The flower had been fertilised by a bee that simply went about its business, never knowing its larger rôle in the warp and weft of sun, water, and soil. Once pollinated, the flower had produced a fruit which in time swelled and ripened and was picked by the farmer, set gently in a cart, and taken into town over paved streets that were once paths trodden by peasants.
What an astonishing thing; how many times I have preached that the very heavens proclaimed the glory of the Lord. But people do not need to look to the heavens to see how wonderful it all is; they could look at a single piece of fruit instead. It is almost odd how such a lovely thing could come from God.
To St. John, God had always been a stern and demanding taskmaster, much in the manner of his own father: distant, unbending, disapproving, and grim, never failing to notice each transgression, never hesitating to bring about an exacting punishment in return. There was no warmth, no affection, no fondness. St. John respected God, he feared God, he turned his face away to hide his shame and hoped the relentless Mind of God would not search too thoroughly through his tainted heart. He trembled at the verses about man's sinful nature, retribution for wickedness, and the depravity of unnatural lusts. So much was wrong in him, so many failures, so many flaws, and for each he would receive his full punishment until the sin had been utterly driven out. It terrified him. He suspected that this, in part, was why he had always taken such pains to remonstrate Mary and Diana on their clothing, their manner, the state of their souls and the quality of their minds; he wanted them to be better than he could make himself, to spare them the correction looming over his thin shoulders. If he could not remove himself from God's scrutiny, perhaps he could at least shield others or, better still, keep them on the path so they did not stray and fall under that gaze.
But now he knew that such behaviour was not the only way to be a father. Not every father sought flaws and overlooked virtues. Not every father felt the best way to keep a child righteous was by speaking harshly when they strayed and keeping silent when they stayed the course.
It was strange to think of how much he felt for one small, talkative girl, whom he had known merely twenty-four hours. Stranger still how desperately he wanted her to be well, and be strong, and be kept free from any sort of harm; these feelings had to be a reflection of what he felt for Cpt. Aquilaine. Thinking of how proud the Captain must have been of Muniya as an infant, never disappointed that his child was a girl, and how gloomy he was Thursday evenings, knowing it would be seven long days before he saw her again, sent a twist of longing and affection through St. John's heart. And if he, who had only met her once, cared so deeply, how immeasurable must be the love her father held for her!
And if the love a father felt for his daughter was a mere shadow of the love the Heavenly Father felt for His children, as they struggled through each wearying day, then it did not matter what were his flaws. It did not matter how often he failed or how deeply ingrained were his sinful desires; he could be the least pleasant, least charitable, most wilful, and most selfish man in all of India and that would not keep his Father from loving him less. God might feel less pride, or more displeasure, or a heavy measure of disappointment, but never any less love.
He supposed it possible that he was terribly mistaken, that the Lord was indeed more like his own father than Cpt. Aquilaine, who loved his daughter without a trace of shame, without conditions or qualifications, and who would never turn his back on her suffering and say “It is as much as she deserves for her crimes.” Possibly he was deluding himself, trying to escape from the lifetime of toil and deprivation that was the just penalty for any human being so foolish as to be born onto this sinful earth, and God the Father was as he had always imagined, cold and unyielding …
But for the orange, wet from the rain and glowing in the sunlight: sweet juice and bitter peel, meat and seed and rind, an entire world bound up into one small orb held in the palm of his hand. Something so exquisite could only have been designed by a Creator who considered it good.
When he left England, he had dedicated himself to being an instrument in the Lord's Hands, to be used in whatever way Providence saw fit. Had that same Providence led the Captain to him the very first day he set foot in India, when he was lost and surrounded by orphan children? The lack of parish lodgings, the dreams that plagued his sleep, their stroll through Maidan Park that inspired him to return for the kite festival, the girl in yellow lost in the crowd … far too late he saw it, how everything in the past months had driven them together despite all his efforts to the contrary. St. John could not possibly understand why, unless it was simply to shew him that God had indeed not erred in his making. Or perhaps he would never understand it; perhaps it had nothing to do with him at all. Perhaps everything had happened so Muniya would receive £4,000 and be freed from a hopeless life of debt-bondage and prostitution. Perhaps the entire purpose of his life in Calcutta was to free Tarun, or write a pamphlet about slavery that would inspire a lawmaker to propose abolition, or buy the orange that gave a farmer the final coin needed to complete his beloved daughter's dowry, allowing her to marry the cousin she had played with since childhood, and they would join in union and create another spark of happiness in a world that needed so much …
And how would he ever know? He could not see the intent behind all of it-how could he have ever thought otherwise, and been so arrogant as to assume he understood the true purpose of anything, no matter how small-and that was acceptable. Perhaps humans were more like the bees in the orchard, going about their business, firm in their belief that searching for flowers, making honey, returning to the hive and telling other bees of the grove's location was the purpose of the universe, never knowing how their actions were pollinating the tree, helping to create the fruit that was nurtured and ripened and picked and carted into town and sold to an Englishman in an old-fashioned hat who sat on a bench in the rain, making a fool out of himself as he wept and stared at an orange.
But if God's Providence had indeed brought the Captain to him, then had he not cast it all aside thoughtlessly, hubris and conceit leading him to believe that he knew exactly what the Lord intended for him? Had his greatest offence against God been to reject the happiness offered to him a hundred different times, in as many different ways?
He gave the orange to a beggar on the temple steps. Grand visions must needs be set aside; there was work to do. St. John began to walk once more, still dashing hot tears off his face where they mingled with the afternoon rain, but now his footsteps had a purpose and led him in a very specific direction. And he had always found comfort and purpose in work.
Finally he arrived at his destination, Jas. McKenzie's Apothecary. As he started to enter, the most exacting part of his mind spoke up, once more wide awake. Do you not know how odd you look, St. John? You cannot possibly go in there just now. You are soaking and red-eyed; they will think you mad and whisper behind your back.
St. John replied, Thank you for your concern. Clearly you feel it necessary to look after my welfare. But I am entering the shop nonetheless, no matter my appearance. There are more important things I must worry about this afternoon.
When he emerged some minutes later, he was three guineas poorer and held a small, dense package under one arm, wrapped in a rumpled piece of brown packing paper. The shopkeeper did look at him rather strangely, but had been polite nonetheless. Next his feet carried him back in the direction of the cathedral. He hoped desperately he would not encounter the Bishop during these errands. Outside the haberdashery he paused, and took a mental stock of how much money he had remaining to him: £36, 4d, to his name. Under other circumstances he would have thought this an extravagant amount, but assuming three shawls at five guineas apiece, plus £10 more to ship them all the way back to Morton … he would still have enough. It was not an enormous luxury that he wanted-and had he not just given away £4,600 earlier this afternoon? Perhaps he would need something fine, on occasion. Or perhaps he would buy it for no good reason at all. The bells on the door jingled slightly as he went in, and jingled louder when he exited several minutes later, lighter by two shillings and six pence but having finally exchanged his lappets for the pine-green silken cravat.
St. John's footsteps now increased in speed and determination, and although he felt terribly frightened of the potential outcome that lay before him, at least now he would know that he had truly done his best. In fact, certain parts had been trying their best this whole time, just as other parts had been working at cross-purposes to countermand his feeble attempts. But now they were all entirely focused on the goal. He turned his back on the cathedral, diocese offices, the rectory and the haberdashery, and made his way up Wellington St., heading in the direction of the British Officer's East India Club.
The Club's appearance had not changed in the last month; it surprised him that it had not, and then he wondered exactly why he thought things would have changed. His presence was by no means integral to the appearance of the foyer. Sanyal, the finest butler in east Calcutta, was regrettably not on duty that afternoon, and he was forced to bribe the footman with an entire ¼ rupee before he would admit that yes, Cpt. Aquilaine was still in residence. Then the footman returned to the important task of cleaning out one ear with a piece of straw, leaving St. John to ascend the stairs on his own.
The stairs seemed to go on for a mile, the corridor for two, and the minute it took him to ascend and walk to the last door on the left took an hour in his mind. He stood in front of it, listening, but did not hear movement in the rooms beyond. He hesitated to knock; the Captain would likely turn him away and all would be for naught. But he had to try, he knew he had to try; if he no longer wanted to be as cold, as distant, as calculating as he had been before, then he had to take the risk and start here. He composed himself and stood as straight and tall as his stature would allow, hoping to keep his face impassive.
St. John knocked on the door.
After a long moment's pause, the only noise being the pounding of blood through his ears, he heard a door opening, footsteps, and then the sound of stumbling and cursing. For the moment he forgot about his predicament and instead worried if the Captain had injured himself or fallen over something.
Cpt. Aquilaine, still cursing, jerked the door open in annoyance; St. John tried to remain calm as he watched the Captain's face shift from irritation to surprise. His eyes may have lit up almost imperceptibly, or it might have been the folly of imagination. They stood, looking at each other through the open door for a brief moment, and then the Captain spoke. “Reverend-why are you here? I had not expected … here, will you step in a moment? Please, please come in.” So St. John stepped in, stiff with trepidation, trying not to glance around at the disaster that had befallen Cpt. Aquilaine's sitting room. The Captain noticed his efforts not to stare.
“I am sorry for the wretched state of this place,” he said waiving a hand around and running his fingers through his hair, looking harried. “I am trying to pack and it turns out to be far more difficult than I had expected. I have acquired so many bits of furniture and glasses and books and candles and such. I truly have no idea where it has all come from; I do not recall purchasing so many things.”
St. John shook his head, amused in spite of himself and not wishing to smile at the chaos. “It does not matter. I had assumed it would be so, since you will be leaving soon.”
“Two weeks. You yourself are leaving … sooner, perhaps?”
“The ship is set to kedge out Tuesday,” St. John replied. That at least was strictly true.
Cpt. Aquilaine started to reply, then thought better of it. All of a sudden St. John could not think of a single thing to say, and in truth could hardly think of a single word at all. He felt paralysed, stricken. The silence became uncomfortably long, and when he glanced at the Captain the Captain's inability to speak appeared to match his own. Then the Captain dropped his gaze slightly and said,
“Reverend, are you-” he broke off and took a step closer, reaching out a hand, and St. John felt a rush of heat sweep up through his legs until it reached the very top of his head, flushing his cheeks as it went. Cpt. Aquilaine saw the blush and hesitated whilst St. John's free hand leapt to the cravat about his throat.
“That is new, is it not? I have never seen it before-is it green?” Receiving only a nod for reply, he continued, “I did not think I would ever see you wear something so … fashionable.” A flash of regret passed over his features, then was gone.
“I have been looking at it every Sunday when I walk to church. Today I decided there would be no harm in purchasing it, so I thought-”
“That it was nearly your last day in civilisation, and you had best do your shopping whilst you had the opportunity?” The Captain smiled at last. “I doubt my opinion on the subject will matter, but a touch of colour does suit. You look less, well … my opinion matters not so, ah, would you like a drink?” The last words all came out in an embarrassed rush. He recovered himself and said, “I am glad you have come, truth be told; I was going to write a note of thanks for your help yesterday-it was quite reassuring to know that Muniya was in good company-but this is better than writing since you know my hand is none too elegant.” He cleared a stack of books off one sitting chair and his shako from the other, then waved St. John over. “Brandy?”
“Thank you, no, that is, no brandy.” St. John stumbled over the words, flustered at the slight compliment to his outfit, then held out the package under his arm abruptly, “I have brought you something to drink, Captain, if you will take it. I do not know in truth if it is any good, but the man in the shop reassured me it was well-oaked, whatever that may mean.”
The Captain removed the bottle from the brown paper and held the label closer to the lamp. “Glenlivet! The man spoke true, it is a fine single-malt.” He carefully peeled away the wax and removed the cork. “Will you stay and share a glass with me?”
“A small one, perhaps. I have not had whisky before.”
“It is an acquired taste, but a taste worth acquiring if you ask me. Here, sit and I will find the glasses.” So St. John sat, clutching the now-open bottle as if it might shatter at any moment, whilst the Captain rummaged through boxes and drawers, finally returning with his brandy snifters. “These will have to do for now, I'm afraid.” St. John shrugged a little; he did not know enough about alcohol to have the shape of glassware make any appreciable difference.
Cpt. Aquilaine poured a fingerful for his guest and two for himself, then held up his glass in salute before taking a small sip. “This is a good whisky, and I have not had it in five years.” He turned to St. John with a puzzled look on his face. “May I ask why I have received this? I very much doubt you simply saw it in a shop and decided to purchase it for me.”
St. John stared at the pale liquid in his hand. He took a sip, decided it was a pleasant enough drink, and then pushed ahead. He looked the Captain in the eye and said “Please, consider it an apology. I have much to apologise to you for, and we both know I am not good at that sort of thing, so I thought whisky might grease the wheels, so to speak.”
“What are you apologising for, exactly?”
“For being cold, and cruel, and too stern, and too swift to judge and find fault, and for implying that you lacked honour, and for insulting your daughter, and for … being intolerable in general. I think that covers nearly the whole of it?” He blinked hard. “I wanted to say it before you left, and to tell you that I regret so deeply my flaws, for they are many, and they have caused so many problems. I fear that if I had been less critical, less severe, then you would have been comfortable telling me about Muniya, and I might have caused you less woe. I regret that most of all because you, in such a short time, shewed me more of happiness and delight than I had ever known before, an entirely different world from the one I knew, and I caused nothing but grief in return. And for that I am sorry, more than you know. Damn.” He searched hastily for a handkerchief before remembering he had never replaced the one that had been tied around Muniya's knee.
“Why, St. John!” Cpt. Aquilaine leant forward in his chair; he held out one of his own and St. John took it gladly. He tipped his head in thanks before forcing himself onward.
“I have had a full month to do little but brood over what you told me, and I cannot find a single weakness in what you said, unless it was that you focused solely on my faults; I would have preferred you mention my virtues as well, but I have had a hard time finding them myself lately! I will only mention this, then; I do want you to know that I never intended to do evil in withholding mention of the letter from Col. Fitzpatrick. I swear it was an imbecilic attempt to keep from wounding you further; I received mine the same day you did, and you were in such a state that I did not wish to add another ounce of misery to your woes.”
Cpt. Aquilaine nodded slightly, staring at his whisky. “I feared you had known for weeks and weeks, and had held it close in case the need arose.”
“No, I am cold and calculating, but not as bad as all that.”
“You did not tell me about your plans to leave for Hill Tippera, however.”
St. John nodded and rubbed at his eyes once more. It was strange how easily tears flowed once they had begun, and he was already wrung through by the afternoon. “It was exceedingly foolish of me, and selfish as well, but I knew I would not leave for two months, so I thought to tell you later and have a bit of happiness in the mean time, and try to give you some as well. I did not do it very well, clearly; I have little skill in pleasing others. I knew I had to leave, as I could not cease my sin when I was around you, but it made me so angry having to give you up that I actually fought back, in a way, and I chose to continue sinning whilst I could. And by the time we received those cruel letters, I had decided not to go at all. I could not injure you, and I was so happy myself, every time we were together or even when I merely thought of you!”
He broke off, choking, and had to take another sip of whisky before forcing himself to go on. If he accomplished nothing else today he would at least try to mend some of the wounds he had caused. “I would have stayed, if it had not been for everything in Sonagachi, and I blame myself for that, not you. I was too suspicious and quick to judge. But please, Marcus, if it seems at times that I have little regard for the wishes of those around me, that is my own terrible pride stopping up my tongue when I should speak, and letting it loose when I should keep still. I swear I have never thought of you as merely a thing to be used for my own purposes. You were far too … I held you high regard. I still do. I did not mean to toy so with your affections. Please believe me.”
Cpt. Aquilaine looked at him, and St. John saw hurt, sorrow and understanding all bound up together in his expressive eyes. “I am glad to hear you say this, St. John. It does me good, to hear it was not as deliberate as it felt from my end. I do wish we could have talked more, and that you could have told me this, any of this, whilst we were still intimates. But that is in the past, now.” He shifted, settled down further in his chair and rubbed his leg with a fist. St. John watched as he did so, half his mind on the present and half on how to approach his next topic of conversation, when he noticed something that had been at the back of his mind during the festival.
“Your cane! I did not see it yesterday; nor do I see it now. What has happened?”
The Captain gave a rueful sort of laugh. “I do not take it with me when I go about town with Muniya; she is too fast for me, and I cannot manage her with one hand and a cane with the other. When Harjinder was stronger we would all go out, and it was easier with two of us watching her, but lately I have left it behind and simply paid the price afterwards. Thank you again, by the way. You do not have children, and you cannot know what a state I was in when I looked up from my conversation and found she had vanished into the crowd.”
“You are her father. I imagine your highest concern is for her wellbeing.” St. John saw his opening and decided to take it. “There is one other thing I hoped to speak to you about today, and it concerns her.”
“Go on.” The Captain looked wary.
“My hope-my intention-is simply to ease her future a little. Let me explain. Before I came here, my sisters and I waited in expectation for an inheritance from an uncle. We had little to support ourselves on, and our family's land and my parish provided only the most basic needs: plain clothes, simple living, and a single maid. My sisters were forced to live away from home as governesses in order to maintain themselves. Then our cousin Jane came to us quite unexpectedly, when all the family thought she had vanished. And when the uncle passed on, who did the inheritance all go to but … Jane! All hopes were dashed, but of course we tried our best to be glad with her. When she learnt what had happened, she refused to keep the money and insisted on sharing it equally amongst us. Can you imagine? My sisters were able to stop working and come home, and I had the means to fund my trip here!”
“I had no idea you were in possession of so much money,” Cpt. Aquilaine muttered. “Perhaps I should have let you pay for ale more often.”
St. John smiled and waved off the suggestion. “It has never signified greatly, not for me at any rate. Money is important, naturally, but it is especially so for a woman. My sisters had no dowry or income, beyond the pittance they made as governesses, and so they had no prospects. £5,000 apiece freed them from the burden of dependency and provided them each with a steady income. And this is what I wished to speak to you on: I want for Muniya to have something similar; with your consent, I will give my inheritance over to her until she reaches majority, unless there is some grave need beforehand.”
And I do hope you will consent, Captain, because if you refuse this offer I shall give her the money nevertheless.
The effect St. John's statement had on Cpt. Aquilaine was dramatic; the Captain stared slack-jawed, shaking his head side-to-side not as if to refuse, but as if it was impossible to grasp what had just been said to him. He collapsed back in the chair, launched himself forward until he had gone nearly off it and onto the carpet, and then fell back once more whilst finishing his whisky in a single gulp.
“You wish to do what?”
“I wish to give her my inheritance; it amounts to £4,000. She needs more to live on than what you can simply send her if she is to have any education, or any dowry, or any maintenance to live off when she is older.” He tried to keep his voice level and reasonable; if it seemed too extravagant, he knew Cpt. Aquilaine would reject it out of hand.
“Good God, St. John! That would be the whole of your inheritance, would it not?”
“The largest part of it, yes.” He sipped primly at his own glass.
“For God's sake, why would you do that? What are you thinking?”
“I have just told you, Marcus! Because I am a man, an Englishman, educated and independent, and as a reverend I shall always have a means of supporting myself. It is hard for a woman to make an honest living, doubly so if she is not educated towards that end. They must rely on their menfolk for support, and they are terribly restricted by society as to how they can earn a livelihood. We are very cruel to them in certain ways. This will help her, will it not?” Unspoken between both of them was the sentiment that, if Muniya had expectations and income, she would be far less likely to fall into the life her mother lived.
“I cannot believe you would do such a thing for my daughter. I cannot. You have only known her, and known of her, since yesterday!” His voice fell to just above a whisper. “I do not know what to say, St. John, and I have half a mind to forbid it. A thank you would be a mockery of my gratitude. But I cannot repay you. Neither of us ever could. My family shall be in your debt forever.”
St. John shook his head gently. “One of the first things you ever said to me, Captain, was this: 'There is no debt amongst friends.' But if you cannot accept friendship with me, and I fully understand that sentiment, perhaps you could consider it a just repayment for the myriad things you have shewn me and taught me? I wish I had time to tell you all I have been thinking on and realising … All I ask in return is permission to look in on her from time to time and see how she fares. Perhaps it will ease your mind a little, whilst you are in Kabul, knowing there is someone here besides her mother who will keep an eye on her. And she is so charming and lively, and has so much of you in her, that the occasional visit would be a delight, not a chore.”
There was a brief pause as Cpt. Aquilaine started and stopped numerous words, as though he could not decide how to respond or which of St. John's many statements to respond to. Finally he settled on the most obvious puzzle. “Do you intend to travel back from Hill Tippera every fourth month, to go and visit a girl whom you have met yesterday? Surely I am misunderstanding you.”
“No, you are not. I am not going to Hill Tippera, Captain. I am staying in Calcutta.”
“But when last I saw you-last before yesterday, that is-you said you were going for certain, to start a parish. Did you speak false to me?”
“No, I had every intention of going; I felt I had to get away or risk my very soul. But I spoke to the Bishop earlier today over tea, and it came up in the course of conversation-many things did-and when he learnt that much of my motivation for leaving the city was not in truth to follow God's Will but to simply break off my affections with you, he became … less inclined to have me leave. Disinclined, actually. I suspect I will end up teaching at the Bow Bazar Secondary School after all.”
“After all that, you are back where you started.” The Captain's face was unreadable. His voice grew quiet. “And now that I shall be leaving, you will be able to stay.”
Lord, Thou hast blessed Thy servant with many talents. Please, Father, give Thou aid to me as I use them now.
“I do not wish that were the case, Captain. It makes me quite sad. You are such a good man to talk to, and it eases my heart like nothing else. Of all the losses I feel, the loss of your friendship and our conversations may be what I mourn the most.”
Cpt. Aquilaine, always true to form, could not resist the opportunity. “I admit I did not think my powers of language were my most compelling feature.”
Also true to form, St. John blushed. “Please note my words. Conversation may be what I mourn most. Not all of me is in equal agreement on that statement.”
“So you are saying that for all you enjoy my language, certain aspects would prefer my tongue.”
Then they both laughed, and the last shreds of tension vanished from their shoulders and faces. They became comfortable in one another's company once more, and fell into their old patterns of speech as if they had never been apart. “My dear Captain, you cannot know how many times this past month those certain aspects have reproached me for my foolishness and, more significantly, my lack of adventure. Once a new opportunity has flown away and shall not return, how small become the surrounding concerns, and how large the imagined benefits! Yes, you could say that aspects of that self remain in rather deep mourning for their loss.”
“Those poor aspects! How shall they ever be consoled?”
“Not terribly willingly, I can assure you of that.” It was now St. John's turn to be rueful. “And would you believe how much that has taught me in turn? I do not mean like that, thank you.” He could not help but laugh again at the expression on the Captain's face. “I mean this: not all physical passions are equal. Not every act has proved itself base in my mind! Fornicating is a simple release, similar to onanism, and I am not certain of the value in it. We can learn much when we practice self-control. But sometimes … sometimes intimacies are merely a different way of making manifest those feelings which are so difficult to put into word, or another way of appreciating the Lord's creation!”
Cpt. Aquilaine raised an eyebrow at him. “I am quite certain you have never said such a thing before, Reverend, and I frankly cannot believe that you might actually think that. All your talk about rising above our physical natures, where has that gone to? You have already had too much whisky.”
“I told you I have been to the Bishop's for tea,” St. John replied innocently. “We talked of many things. He is, as I learnt, of the opinion that the Lord would be offended if you picked a ripe apple and merely thought about how fresh it smelt and how sweet it tasted, without actually ever, that is, tasting it.”
“I find myself strangely fond of this bishop. Did he impart more wisdom?”
St. John turned serious once more. “I wish I had time and opportunity to tell you all that I have learnt today. I can scarcely wrap my head around it. If I thought on it for a year I suspect I would understand but a small portion of it. Would you like to hear a little of it now?”
“Perhaps I would.” The Captain poured them both another finger of the whisky, and St. John mentally flinched. The Glenlivet had cost him a full three guineas, one guinea more than he had paid for his Sunday clothes. He hoped they would not end up drinking a quarter of it that afternoon. They toasted again, clinking their glasses together this time, and St. John forged ahead.
“As you no doubt know, we Christians are called to love God. Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. But my entire life I have approached the Lord with fear and shame, and because I felt there would be grave penalties if I did not obey. I have tried to compel my mind to feel affection, or gratitude, or fondness, or any fair thing towards the Creator, but I could not do it. I have never once actually loved God. Imagine! The greatest commandment of all, and I have not done it once! And truly, how can I? How can I feel love for a Being with no limbs to embrace, no face to smile upon, no voice that whispers consoling words in time of trouble? How can I love what I cannot touch or see or talk with at night?
“Think, then: Thou shalt love the Lord thy God; this is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself. Perhaps we humans can only fulfil that first commandment by following the second. Loving one another. What if, instead of ruining myself trying to love God, I simply love another person? Find someone, love him as deeply as I can bear it, with as much honesty and generosity as I can manage, and then whisper a thank you to the One who had created us both? It would be far better than I have managed heretofore.”
St. John had been staring out the dingy window during this whole speech; his clenched hands threatened to shatter the snifter were clenched into fists and his whole body had gone tense with emotion. He was suddenly reminded of his very first night with the Captain, in that selfsame room, when he had declared his passion to follow the Lord wherever He might lead. How badly he had failed in that goal. When finally he dared look up and meet the Captain's eye once more, he found he could not because the Captain was now staring intently at the floor.
Cpt. Aquilaine spoke then, and his voice was unexpectedly harsh. “So what I am to do with your grand, newfound knowledge, Reverend? Why share this with me?”
“Because I have a request, Marcus. And it is a simple one, although I know it will not be easy for you to fulfil.” He leant forward and placed his hand on top of the Captain's, then looked him in the eye with as direct a gaze as he could manage. “Let me speak for five minutes, and then I swear to you I will be done with talking, and if it is what you wish then you will hear from me no more. But please give me five minutes first.”
The Captain did not pull his hand away, but neither did he give a yea or nay. St. John did not move either, merely continuing to gaze up at him. Finally Cpt. Aquilaine gave a single slow nod, just one, and St. John reluctantly withdrew his hand, folding them in his lap to restrain his greedy fingers. He felt he could touch the Captain for a year and not grow weary of the contact.
“What I have to say is this: my passion is to be an instrument in the hands of the Lord, to be used in whatever way He deems best. Your passion, as I think I finally understand it in full, is to earn for your family the honour that had been lost in past generations, restore it to its former glory (if possible), and to prove to yourself that you are a better man than your father was. And why do you want all these things? For your beloved uncle, yes, and for yourself, but mostly you want them for Muniya. And what father would not? But hear me out. I will not comment on money, as I find it rather less important than most people do, but I can speak about honour and character. It seems to me that all your soldierly instincts have blinded you to what lies so close to your hands that if you but uncurl your fists and stretch out your fingers, you cannot help but touch it! Your chance to reclaim your family's honour and to prove to yourself a good man, better than your father, will not come on a battlefield; it has already been offered to you. I think it is your daughter, your Maina-bird.
“Here is my reasoning. What you suffered as a child, and continue to feel keenly even today, cannot be undone. Your best hope is to halt your family's particular misery before it wounds another generation of innocents, and you have the unique power to give to Muniya what you never had yourself. Whilst my inheritance can keep her from falling into the cycle of debt-bondage and prostitution her mother still suffers under, only you, of all people on this planet, can save her from the shame-filled state that you yourself were forced to endure. I beg you, stay here with her! Raise her well, be the sort of man she will be proud to call 'Papa,' and she will never care about her parentage or her illegitimacy. Then she will be free from her father's burdens as well as her mother's. It is not the glories of battle, with clashing swords and bayonets; it is something far harder and slower and you will not be awarded a medal for valiant service at the end of it. But you will have her, and she will consider you the finest father that any girl has ever had.
“When I came to Calcutta, I was so certain that I knew how the Lord intended to use me, and I have been absolutely wrong on every count. You cannot know how dearly I wish I had learnt that sooner. In all likelihood I shall regret it forever. I do not want you to do the same.” He reached over once more, and once more set his hand on the Captain's. “That is all I have to say on the matter. You were good to listen to it. I know these sort of words are not to your liking.”
Cpt. Aquilaine snatched his hand away and grabbed St. John's in a crushing grip before St. John could so much as pull away in surprise. The strength of those fingers almost brought tears of a different sort to the Reverend's eyes.
“Damn you! Do you presume I leave her and go to Afghanistan for a lark? I was happy, I wanted to stay-” His voice was thick with anger, and St. John had to grit his teeth against the pain. “Almost. In truth, I was somewhat happy, but Calcutta has been a lonely place apart from you and Muniya, and I worried you would not long tolerate me, with all your talk about how we sinned every time we came together. Certain acts were sin, and certain thoughts were sin, and in short, everything that gave me joy was sin. So when you mentioned that Lord Elphinstone was in town, I contacted him to enquire if he could use my skills, fearing you would soon cut me off. And I was entirely correct! I left for honour, yes, and improvement of station, but primarily I left because of you. Now you remain; have you also decided you were wrong about all that sinfulness?”
“Good heavens, no. Such intimacies between men are still a sin. The Bishop argues otherwise, but I am convinced he is misguided; the Scriptures are quite clear on it. ”
The Captain's manner turned cool and he released St. John's hand abruptly. “Then whether you stay or go matters not to me.”
“Forgive me if I do not explain well, but I shall make the effort. I want you to understand this, Marcus. Why are we commanded to love God and to love one another? What is the purpose? Because God loves us like a father, and we cannot understand what that means if we ourselves do not know how to love. For a long time I could not comprehend it, but now I am beginning to see! You might feel annoyance toward Muniya, or disappointment, or even embarrassment, but you could never feel any less love, no matter what she does. Likewise God the Father loves me, despite my transgressions. And that is a very good thing, for we are all born into sin and there is no purely good action, nothing that is not tinged with wickedness. We must try to do good but ultimately it is an expression of our love for Him and nothing more.”
Cpt. Aquilaine finished his second glass of whisky more swiftly than the first. He looked as miserable as St. John had ever seen him. “So, after all that talk, we arrive at the heart of the matter, and it is thus: you have finally learnt to love God. My congratulations, Reverend … but what of me? Why do you bother to tell me such things?”
St. John smiled then, as he had not smiled in an entire month. So many words between them, and these next words were the only ones that truly signified. “Because that is not the heart of the matter. This is what I have finally learnt: I love you, Marcus Aquilaine. You have shown me how, and now my heart loves you, my mind loves you, and my body loves you. I am a better person for knowing you, and my feelings are so strong that I could express them a hundred different ways and still want to say it, every hour of every day. I can hardly stop thinking of being with you, even now, and I no longer fear that our Heavenly Father will cast me off for it. I will serve God, but I will also sin boldly, so long as it is with you, because now I know: it is not the sin but the with you that is most important to me.”
He was weeping yet again; he had lost count for the day. He reached for the handkerchief once more, but never managed to dry his tears; Cpt. Aquilaine reached one long arm over and snatched the scrap of cloth away before St. John could press it to his eyes. St. John followed the path of the handkerchief from whence it had come, to where the Captain was dabbing at his own wet cheeks.
“My poor handkerchief! It does not work as well when it is already damp,” he complained. “Well, one must do one's best, I suppose.” He handed the cloth back when it was thoroughly sodden. “I shall not apologise for its condition; you are entirely to blame, St. John.”
“Have I convinced you, then?”
Cpt. Aquilaine took up St. John's hand and kissed it gently. “Did you ever doubt it? Since the day I met you, I have always known: you have a way with words, Reverend.”
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notes:
allegro - another musical tempo; fast or lively.
fertilised by a bee - The rôle of insects in plant fertilisation was first proposed by Christian Sprengel in the late 18th century; although he published his theories in 1793, they were never translated from German to English, and no-one seemed much inclined to believe him, at any rate. Darwin took up the issue once more in the 1840s and in 1861 published Fertilisation of Orchids, at which point everyone was more prepared to accept his ideas on pollination.
Regrettably, I did not learn this fairly critical piece of information until well after I had written this chapter; I decided, amidst much hand-wringing, that I was far too fond of St. John's meditation on the rôle of bees to abandon the metaphor. To gloss merrily over the inconsistency, then, I told myself that as a young Cambridge scholar, St. John had encountered and read some Sprengel whilst attempting to improve his German. The beauty of writing is that occasionally one can get away with such deceptions.
guinea - The guinea was an old British coin with a value of 21 shillings, last issued in 1816. (British currency was 12 pence to a shilling, 20 shillings to a pound, until decimalisation in 1971 simplified everything rather dramatically.) However, the concept remained in use for more than a hundred years after the coin was withdrawn from circulation, as it had by that time taken on an aristocratic tone. Professional salaries were often paid in guineas, and luxury items still had their prices listed in guineas, even though the payment itself had to come in pounds.
Glenlivet - This whisky (technically named “The Glenlivet”) has been in near-continuous production since 1824, with one brief but understandable pause for WWII.
Thou shalt love the Lord … love thy neighbour as thyself - Matthew 22:37-39.
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St. John half-walked, half-stumbled his way down the steps from the rectory, casting about as if he had been abruptly struck blind and mute. He could not set aside what he had just seen and heard; something had happened to him-no, something was happening, happening at that very moment-and he could feel it even though he did not understand what it was or whether it was being done to him, or by him, or in spite of him. So entirely overthrown was he that he could neither think nor speak, and the Bishop's words rang through his ears like the staccato beat of a military drum, mirroring the allegro pulse of his heart.
Love the Lord thy God, and love thy neighbour as thyself. The crime of Sodom was pride and selfishness. We are flesh made manifest: take joy in the apple and the ocean wave. Thou art fearfully and wonderfully made. God has not erred in thy making.
At the bottom step he paused to draw breath and attempt to recover his bearings. His head was aswim with scraps of feeling and snatches of ideas that could not coalesce themselves into conscious thoughts, with one exception. The most attentive and exacting part of his mind-the part that constantly wondered if he had a morsel of food trapped in his teeth or a button undone on his waistcoat, the part that even in the throes of pleasure whispered how ridiculous you look, St. John, with your parted lips and furrowing brow, and he will mock you if you allow any noise to escape, the part that he hated most of all because it never allowed him to forget himself or just live unthinking-noted that he had managed to avoid tumbling down the stairs. Then he raised his head, and even that part fell silent as the scales fell from his eyes.
The city of Calcutta looked as though it had been wrought entirely of gold.
As the monsoon season slowly tapered off, the weather became even more fickle and varied than was its wont. At present it could not decide whether to produce rain, or sun, and so settled for both. The rain fell steadily with a gentle but determined patter, too much to set aside parasols but too little to drive the inhabitants indoors; meanwhile the sun, having burnt away much of the haze overhead, lingered behind the remaining clouds and lit them so they shone like silver against the blue sky. The air was fresh and rain-scented with loam, and the cobblestone streets and tin roofs and marble-faced palisades glowed warm and yellow with the late-summer sunlight. He had never before seen the city in such a state, or perhaps he had simply never noticed.
He saw soldiers and priests, boulevards and alleys and trees, dingy shops and gilded temples. Storekeepers bartered with townsmen, women drew water from the wells, servants swept the doorstops to fine houses and rickshaws clattered down the wide streets, weaving through cows and school boys and chickens straying from their roost. He watched the bustling confusion that swirled around him, drinking in the sights. What had before been nothing but disorder and chaos now seemed like a grand, stately dance, and he marvelled not at how it ever managed to work, but how infrequently it failed. Dung dropped on the road meant fuel for a cook stove, not a lack of sanitation. Beggars huddled by the temples were not desperate and rejected; rather, society gave them a place to receive alms and they bestowed the blessings of karma in return. Even the weeds growing in cracked stone walls shewed that life itself was so determined, rocks could not stop plants from forcing themselves towards the sun. It took his breath away. Was this what other men saw when they woke in the morning, or looked into the eyes of their wife, or sang a favourite hymn with the choir resounding through the church? He felt as if hithertofore he had viewed the world through a veil of censure and disdain, and now it had been snatched away without warning, leaving him blinking at the daylight. Finally he understood why people spoke so fondly of green grass and the glories of the sky at sunset. Everywhere he looked he saw nothing but loveliness and joy, and grace overflowing. And he had never before noticed how beautiful it all was.
St. John was no fool; he realised that Calcutta looked so beautiful not because something had shifted in the city itself but because something had shifted in him. He also realised that this wider perspective could not last, because the tax laid upon seeing such things was the necessity of relinquishing that vision; humans could not live, they would be entirely paralysed by beauty and wonder. Best to enjoy such gifts whilst they lasted. He began to walk.
After a full hour of aimless strolling and watching in delight, St. John paused at a street-vendor's cart and bought an orange. He was not hungry; he merely wanted to interact somehow with the surrounding city, rather than just observe it. But his fingers paused as they moved to peel and section it, and he looked more carefully. He thought of the seed that had once grown and after many years become a tree, and the farmer who nourished each of the saplings, hoed and grafted with a thousand years of agricultural wisdom brought about to bear on that one tree. The flower had been fertilised by a bee that simply went about its business, never knowing its larger rôle in the warp and weft of sun, water, and soil. Once pollinated, the flower had produced a fruit which in time swelled and ripened and was picked by the farmer, set gently in a cart, and taken into town over paved streets that were once paths trodden by peasants.
What an astonishing thing; how many times I have preached that the very heavens proclaimed the glory of the Lord. But people do not need to look to the heavens to see how wonderful it all is; they could look at a single piece of fruit instead. It is almost odd how such a lovely thing could come from God.
To St. John, God had always been a stern and demanding taskmaster, much in the manner of his own father: distant, unbending, disapproving, and grim, never failing to notice each transgression, never hesitating to bring about an exacting punishment in return. There was no warmth, no affection, no fondness. St. John respected God, he feared God, he turned his face away to hide his shame and hoped the relentless Mind of God would not search too thoroughly through his tainted heart. He trembled at the verses about man's sinful nature, retribution for wickedness, and the depravity of unnatural lusts. So much was wrong in him, so many failures, so many flaws, and for each he would receive his full punishment until the sin had been utterly driven out. It terrified him. He suspected that this, in part, was why he had always taken such pains to remonstrate Mary and Diana on their clothing, their manner, the state of their souls and the quality of their minds; he wanted them to be better than he could make himself, to spare them the correction looming over his thin shoulders. If he could not remove himself from God's scrutiny, perhaps he could at least shield others or, better still, keep them on the path so they did not stray and fall under that gaze.
But now he knew that such behaviour was not the only way to be a father. Not every father sought flaws and overlooked virtues. Not every father felt the best way to keep a child righteous was by speaking harshly when they strayed and keeping silent when they stayed the course.
It was strange to think of how much he felt for one small, talkative girl, whom he had known merely twenty-four hours. Stranger still how desperately he wanted her to be well, and be strong, and be kept free from any sort of harm; these feelings had to be a reflection of what he felt for Cpt. Aquilaine. Thinking of how proud the Captain must have been of Muniya as an infant, never disappointed that his child was a girl, and how gloomy he was Thursday evenings, knowing it would be seven long days before he saw her again, sent a twist of longing and affection through St. John's heart. And if he, who had only met her once, cared so deeply, how immeasurable must be the love her father held for her!
And if the love a father felt for his daughter was a mere shadow of the love the Heavenly Father felt for His children, as they struggled through each wearying day, then it did not matter what were his flaws. It did not matter how often he failed or how deeply ingrained were his sinful desires; he could be the least pleasant, least charitable, most wilful, and most selfish man in all of India and that would not keep his Father from loving him less. God might feel less pride, or more displeasure, or a heavy measure of disappointment, but never any less love.
He supposed it possible that he was terribly mistaken, that the Lord was indeed more like his own father than Cpt. Aquilaine, who loved his daughter without a trace of shame, without conditions or qualifications, and who would never turn his back on her suffering and say “It is as much as she deserves for her crimes.” Possibly he was deluding himself, trying to escape from the lifetime of toil and deprivation that was the just penalty for any human being so foolish as to be born onto this sinful earth, and God the Father was as he had always imagined, cold and unyielding …
But for the orange, wet from the rain and glowing in the sunlight: sweet juice and bitter peel, meat and seed and rind, an entire world bound up into one small orb held in the palm of his hand. Something so exquisite could only have been designed by a Creator who considered it good.
When he left England, he had dedicated himself to being an instrument in the Lord's Hands, to be used in whatever way Providence saw fit. Had that same Providence led the Captain to him the very first day he set foot in India, when he was lost and surrounded by orphan children? The lack of parish lodgings, the dreams that plagued his sleep, their stroll through Maidan Park that inspired him to return for the kite festival, the girl in yellow lost in the crowd … far too late he saw it, how everything in the past months had driven them together despite all his efforts to the contrary. St. John could not possibly understand why, unless it was simply to shew him that God had indeed not erred in his making. Or perhaps he would never understand it; perhaps it had nothing to do with him at all. Perhaps everything had happened so Muniya would receive £4,000 and be freed from a hopeless life of debt-bondage and prostitution. Perhaps the entire purpose of his life in Calcutta was to free Tarun, or write a pamphlet about slavery that would inspire a lawmaker to propose abolition, or buy the orange that gave a farmer the final coin needed to complete his beloved daughter's dowry, allowing her to marry the cousin she had played with since childhood, and they would join in union and create another spark of happiness in a world that needed so much …
And how would he ever know? He could not see the intent behind all of it-how could he have ever thought otherwise, and been so arrogant as to assume he understood the true purpose of anything, no matter how small-and that was acceptable. Perhaps humans were more like the bees in the orchard, going about their business, firm in their belief that searching for flowers, making honey, returning to the hive and telling other bees of the grove's location was the purpose of the universe, never knowing how their actions were pollinating the tree, helping to create the fruit that was nurtured and ripened and picked and carted into town and sold to an Englishman in an old-fashioned hat who sat on a bench in the rain, making a fool out of himself as he wept and stared at an orange.
But if God's Providence had indeed brought the Captain to him, then had he not cast it all aside thoughtlessly, hubris and conceit leading him to believe that he knew exactly what the Lord intended for him? Had his greatest offence against God been to reject the happiness offered to him a hundred different times, in as many different ways?
He gave the orange to a beggar on the temple steps. Grand visions must needs be set aside; there was work to do. St. John began to walk once more, still dashing hot tears off his face where they mingled with the afternoon rain, but now his footsteps had a purpose and led him in a very specific direction. And he had always found comfort and purpose in work.
Finally he arrived at his destination, Jas. McKenzie's Apothecary. As he started to enter, the most exacting part of his mind spoke up, once more wide awake. Do you not know how odd you look, St. John? You cannot possibly go in there just now. You are soaking and red-eyed; they will think you mad and whisper behind your back.
St. John replied, Thank you for your concern. Clearly you feel it necessary to look after my welfare. But I am entering the shop nonetheless, no matter my appearance. There are more important things I must worry about this afternoon.
When he emerged some minutes later, he was three guineas poorer and held a small, dense package under one arm, wrapped in a rumpled piece of brown packing paper. The shopkeeper did look at him rather strangely, but had been polite nonetheless. Next his feet carried him back in the direction of the cathedral. He hoped desperately he would not encounter the Bishop during these errands. Outside the haberdashery he paused, and took a mental stock of how much money he had remaining to him: £36, 4d, to his name. Under other circumstances he would have thought this an extravagant amount, but assuming three shawls at five guineas apiece, plus £10 more to ship them all the way back to Morton … he would still have enough. It was not an enormous luxury that he wanted-and had he not just given away £4,600 earlier this afternoon? Perhaps he would need something fine, on occasion. Or perhaps he would buy it for no good reason at all. The bells on the door jingled slightly as he went in, and jingled louder when he exited several minutes later, lighter by two shillings and six pence but having finally exchanged his lappets for the pine-green silken cravat.
St. John's footsteps now increased in speed and determination, and although he felt terribly frightened of the potential outcome that lay before him, at least now he would know that he had truly done his best. In fact, certain parts had been trying their best this whole time, just as other parts had been working at cross-purposes to countermand his feeble attempts. But now they were all entirely focused on the goal. He turned his back on the cathedral, diocese offices, the rectory and the haberdashery, and made his way up Wellington St., heading in the direction of the British Officer's East India Club.
The Club's appearance had not changed in the last month; it surprised him that it had not, and then he wondered exactly why he thought things would have changed. His presence was by no means integral to the appearance of the foyer. Sanyal, the finest butler in east Calcutta, was regrettably not on duty that afternoon, and he was forced to bribe the footman with an entire ¼ rupee before he would admit that yes, Cpt. Aquilaine was still in residence. Then the footman returned to the important task of cleaning out one ear with a piece of straw, leaving St. John to ascend the stairs on his own.
The stairs seemed to go on for a mile, the corridor for two, and the minute it took him to ascend and walk to the last door on the left took an hour in his mind. He stood in front of it, listening, but did not hear movement in the rooms beyond. He hesitated to knock; the Captain would likely turn him away and all would be for naught. But he had to try, he knew he had to try; if he no longer wanted to be as cold, as distant, as calculating as he had been before, then he had to take the risk and start here. He composed himself and stood as straight and tall as his stature would allow, hoping to keep his face impassive.
St. John knocked on the door.
After a long moment's pause, the only noise being the pounding of blood through his ears, he heard a door opening, footsteps, and then the sound of stumbling and cursing. For the moment he forgot about his predicament and instead worried if the Captain had injured himself or fallen over something.
Cpt. Aquilaine, still cursing, jerked the door open in annoyance; St. John tried to remain calm as he watched the Captain's face shift from irritation to surprise. His eyes may have lit up almost imperceptibly, or it might have been the folly of imagination. They stood, looking at each other through the open door for a brief moment, and then the Captain spoke. “Reverend-why are you here? I had not expected … here, will you step in a moment? Please, please come in.” So St. John stepped in, stiff with trepidation, trying not to glance around at the disaster that had befallen Cpt. Aquilaine's sitting room. The Captain noticed his efforts not to stare.
“I am sorry for the wretched state of this place,” he said waiving a hand around and running his fingers through his hair, looking harried. “I am trying to pack and it turns out to be far more difficult than I had expected. I have acquired so many bits of furniture and glasses and books and candles and such. I truly have no idea where it has all come from; I do not recall purchasing so many things.”
St. John shook his head, amused in spite of himself and not wishing to smile at the chaos. “It does not matter. I had assumed it would be so, since you will be leaving soon.”
“Two weeks. You yourself are leaving … sooner, perhaps?”
“The ship is set to kedge out Tuesday,” St. John replied. That at least was strictly true.
Cpt. Aquilaine started to reply, then thought better of it. All of a sudden St. John could not think of a single thing to say, and in truth could hardly think of a single word at all. He felt paralysed, stricken. The silence became uncomfortably long, and when he glanced at the Captain the Captain's inability to speak appeared to match his own. Then the Captain dropped his gaze slightly and said,
“Reverend, are you-” he broke off and took a step closer, reaching out a hand, and St. John felt a rush of heat sweep up through his legs until it reached the very top of his head, flushing his cheeks as it went. Cpt. Aquilaine saw the blush and hesitated whilst St. John's free hand leapt to the cravat about his throat.
“That is new, is it not? I have never seen it before-is it green?” Receiving only a nod for reply, he continued, “I did not think I would ever see you wear something so … fashionable.” A flash of regret passed over his features, then was gone.
“I have been looking at it every Sunday when I walk to church. Today I decided there would be no harm in purchasing it, so I thought-”
“That it was nearly your last day in civilisation, and you had best do your shopping whilst you had the opportunity?” The Captain smiled at last. “I doubt my opinion on the subject will matter, but a touch of colour does suit. You look less, well … my opinion matters not so, ah, would you like a drink?” The last words all came out in an embarrassed rush. He recovered himself and said, “I am glad you have come, truth be told; I was going to write a note of thanks for your help yesterday-it was quite reassuring to know that Muniya was in good company-but this is better than writing since you know my hand is none too elegant.” He cleared a stack of books off one sitting chair and his shako from the other, then waved St. John over. “Brandy?”
“Thank you, no, that is, no brandy.” St. John stumbled over the words, flustered at the slight compliment to his outfit, then held out the package under his arm abruptly, “I have brought you something to drink, Captain, if you will take it. I do not know in truth if it is any good, but the man in the shop reassured me it was well-oaked, whatever that may mean.”
The Captain removed the bottle from the brown paper and held the label closer to the lamp. “Glenlivet! The man spoke true, it is a fine single-malt.” He carefully peeled away the wax and removed the cork. “Will you stay and share a glass with me?”
“A small one, perhaps. I have not had whisky before.”
“It is an acquired taste, but a taste worth acquiring if you ask me. Here, sit and I will find the glasses.” So St. John sat, clutching the now-open bottle as if it might shatter at any moment, whilst the Captain rummaged through boxes and drawers, finally returning with his brandy snifters. “These will have to do for now, I'm afraid.” St. John shrugged a little; he did not know enough about alcohol to have the shape of glassware make any appreciable difference.
Cpt. Aquilaine poured a fingerful for his guest and two for himself, then held up his glass in salute before taking a small sip. “This is a good whisky, and I have not had it in five years.” He turned to St. John with a puzzled look on his face. “May I ask why I have received this? I very much doubt you simply saw it in a shop and decided to purchase it for me.”
St. John stared at the pale liquid in his hand. He took a sip, decided it was a pleasant enough drink, and then pushed ahead. He looked the Captain in the eye and said “Please, consider it an apology. I have much to apologise to you for, and we both know I am not good at that sort of thing, so I thought whisky might grease the wheels, so to speak.”
“What are you apologising for, exactly?”
“For being cold, and cruel, and too stern, and too swift to judge and find fault, and for implying that you lacked honour, and for insulting your daughter, and for … being intolerable in general. I think that covers nearly the whole of it?” He blinked hard. “I wanted to say it before you left, and to tell you that I regret so deeply my flaws, for they are many, and they have caused so many problems. I fear that if I had been less critical, less severe, then you would have been comfortable telling me about Muniya, and I might have caused you less woe. I regret that most of all because you, in such a short time, shewed me more of happiness and delight than I had ever known before, an entirely different world from the one I knew, and I caused nothing but grief in return. And for that I am sorry, more than you know. Damn.” He searched hastily for a handkerchief before remembering he had never replaced the one that had been tied around Muniya's knee.
“Why, St. John!” Cpt. Aquilaine leant forward in his chair; he held out one of his own and St. John took it gladly. He tipped his head in thanks before forcing himself onward.
“I have had a full month to do little but brood over what you told me, and I cannot find a single weakness in what you said, unless it was that you focused solely on my faults; I would have preferred you mention my virtues as well, but I have had a hard time finding them myself lately! I will only mention this, then; I do want you to know that I never intended to do evil in withholding mention of the letter from Col. Fitzpatrick. I swear it was an imbecilic attempt to keep from wounding you further; I received mine the same day you did, and you were in such a state that I did not wish to add another ounce of misery to your woes.”
Cpt. Aquilaine nodded slightly, staring at his whisky. “I feared you had known for weeks and weeks, and had held it close in case the need arose.”
“No, I am cold and calculating, but not as bad as all that.”
“You did not tell me about your plans to leave for Hill Tippera, however.”
St. John nodded and rubbed at his eyes once more. It was strange how easily tears flowed once they had begun, and he was already wrung through by the afternoon. “It was exceedingly foolish of me, and selfish as well, but I knew I would not leave for two months, so I thought to tell you later and have a bit of happiness in the mean time, and try to give you some as well. I did not do it very well, clearly; I have little skill in pleasing others. I knew I had to leave, as I could not cease my sin when I was around you, but it made me so angry having to give you up that I actually fought back, in a way, and I chose to continue sinning whilst I could. And by the time we received those cruel letters, I had decided not to go at all. I could not injure you, and I was so happy myself, every time we were together or even when I merely thought of you!”
He broke off, choking, and had to take another sip of whisky before forcing himself to go on. If he accomplished nothing else today he would at least try to mend some of the wounds he had caused. “I would have stayed, if it had not been for everything in Sonagachi, and I blame myself for that, not you. I was too suspicious and quick to judge. But please, Marcus, if it seems at times that I have little regard for the wishes of those around me, that is my own terrible pride stopping up my tongue when I should speak, and letting it loose when I should keep still. I swear I have never thought of you as merely a thing to be used for my own purposes. You were far too … I held you high regard. I still do. I did not mean to toy so with your affections. Please believe me.”
Cpt. Aquilaine looked at him, and St. John saw hurt, sorrow and understanding all bound up together in his expressive eyes. “I am glad to hear you say this, St. John. It does me good, to hear it was not as deliberate as it felt from my end. I do wish we could have talked more, and that you could have told me this, any of this, whilst we were still intimates. But that is in the past, now.” He shifted, settled down further in his chair and rubbed his leg with a fist. St. John watched as he did so, half his mind on the present and half on how to approach his next topic of conversation, when he noticed something that had been at the back of his mind during the festival.
“Your cane! I did not see it yesterday; nor do I see it now. What has happened?”
The Captain gave a rueful sort of laugh. “I do not take it with me when I go about town with Muniya; she is too fast for me, and I cannot manage her with one hand and a cane with the other. When Harjinder was stronger we would all go out, and it was easier with two of us watching her, but lately I have left it behind and simply paid the price afterwards. Thank you again, by the way. You do not have children, and you cannot know what a state I was in when I looked up from my conversation and found she had vanished into the crowd.”
“You are her father. I imagine your highest concern is for her wellbeing.” St. John saw his opening and decided to take it. “There is one other thing I hoped to speak to you about today, and it concerns her.”
“Go on.” The Captain looked wary.
“My hope-my intention-is simply to ease her future a little. Let me explain. Before I came here, my sisters and I waited in expectation for an inheritance from an uncle. We had little to support ourselves on, and our family's land and my parish provided only the most basic needs: plain clothes, simple living, and a single maid. My sisters were forced to live away from home as governesses in order to maintain themselves. Then our cousin Jane came to us quite unexpectedly, when all the family thought she had vanished. And when the uncle passed on, who did the inheritance all go to but … Jane! All hopes were dashed, but of course we tried our best to be glad with her. When she learnt what had happened, she refused to keep the money and insisted on sharing it equally amongst us. Can you imagine? My sisters were able to stop working and come home, and I had the means to fund my trip here!”
“I had no idea you were in possession of so much money,” Cpt. Aquilaine muttered. “Perhaps I should have let you pay for ale more often.”
St. John smiled and waved off the suggestion. “It has never signified greatly, not for me at any rate. Money is important, naturally, but it is especially so for a woman. My sisters had no dowry or income, beyond the pittance they made as governesses, and so they had no prospects. £5,000 apiece freed them from the burden of dependency and provided them each with a steady income. And this is what I wished to speak to you on: I want for Muniya to have something similar; with your consent, I will give my inheritance over to her until she reaches majority, unless there is some grave need beforehand.”
And I do hope you will consent, Captain, because if you refuse this offer I shall give her the money nevertheless.
The effect St. John's statement had on Cpt. Aquilaine was dramatic; the Captain stared slack-jawed, shaking his head side-to-side not as if to refuse, but as if it was impossible to grasp what had just been said to him. He collapsed back in the chair, launched himself forward until he had gone nearly off it and onto the carpet, and then fell back once more whilst finishing his whisky in a single gulp.
“You wish to do what?”
“I wish to give her my inheritance; it amounts to £4,000. She needs more to live on than what you can simply send her if she is to have any education, or any dowry, or any maintenance to live off when she is older.” He tried to keep his voice level and reasonable; if it seemed too extravagant, he knew Cpt. Aquilaine would reject it out of hand.
“Good God, St. John! That would be the whole of your inheritance, would it not?”
“The largest part of it, yes.” He sipped primly at his own glass.
“For God's sake, why would you do that? What are you thinking?”
“I have just told you, Marcus! Because I am a man, an Englishman, educated and independent, and as a reverend I shall always have a means of supporting myself. It is hard for a woman to make an honest living, doubly so if she is not educated towards that end. They must rely on their menfolk for support, and they are terribly restricted by society as to how they can earn a livelihood. We are very cruel to them in certain ways. This will help her, will it not?” Unspoken between both of them was the sentiment that, if Muniya had expectations and income, she would be far less likely to fall into the life her mother lived.
“I cannot believe you would do such a thing for my daughter. I cannot. You have only known her, and known of her, since yesterday!” His voice fell to just above a whisper. “I do not know what to say, St. John, and I have half a mind to forbid it. A thank you would be a mockery of my gratitude. But I cannot repay you. Neither of us ever could. My family shall be in your debt forever.”
St. John shook his head gently. “One of the first things you ever said to me, Captain, was this: 'There is no debt amongst friends.' But if you cannot accept friendship with me, and I fully understand that sentiment, perhaps you could consider it a just repayment for the myriad things you have shewn me and taught me? I wish I had time to tell you all I have been thinking on and realising … All I ask in return is permission to look in on her from time to time and see how she fares. Perhaps it will ease your mind a little, whilst you are in Kabul, knowing there is someone here besides her mother who will keep an eye on her. And she is so charming and lively, and has so much of you in her, that the occasional visit would be a delight, not a chore.”
There was a brief pause as Cpt. Aquilaine started and stopped numerous words, as though he could not decide how to respond or which of St. John's many statements to respond to. Finally he settled on the most obvious puzzle. “Do you intend to travel back from Hill Tippera every fourth month, to go and visit a girl whom you have met yesterday? Surely I am misunderstanding you.”
“No, you are not. I am not going to Hill Tippera, Captain. I am staying in Calcutta.”
“But when last I saw you-last before yesterday, that is-you said you were going for certain, to start a parish. Did you speak false to me?”
“No, I had every intention of going; I felt I had to get away or risk my very soul. But I spoke to the Bishop earlier today over tea, and it came up in the course of conversation-many things did-and when he learnt that much of my motivation for leaving the city was not in truth to follow God's Will but to simply break off my affections with you, he became … less inclined to have me leave. Disinclined, actually. I suspect I will end up teaching at the Bow Bazar Secondary School after all.”
“After all that, you are back where you started.” The Captain's face was unreadable. His voice grew quiet. “And now that I shall be leaving, you will be able to stay.”
Lord, Thou hast blessed Thy servant with many talents. Please, Father, give Thou aid to me as I use them now.
“I do not wish that were the case, Captain. It makes me quite sad. You are such a good man to talk to, and it eases my heart like nothing else. Of all the losses I feel, the loss of your friendship and our conversations may be what I mourn the most.”
Cpt. Aquilaine, always true to form, could not resist the opportunity. “I admit I did not think my powers of language were my most compelling feature.”
Also true to form, St. John blushed. “Please note my words. Conversation may be what I mourn most. Not all of me is in equal agreement on that statement.”
“So you are saying that for all you enjoy my language, certain aspects would prefer my tongue.”
Then they both laughed, and the last shreds of tension vanished from their shoulders and faces. They became comfortable in one another's company once more, and fell into their old patterns of speech as if they had never been apart. “My dear Captain, you cannot know how many times this past month those certain aspects have reproached me for my foolishness and, more significantly, my lack of adventure. Once a new opportunity has flown away and shall not return, how small become the surrounding concerns, and how large the imagined benefits! Yes, you could say that aspects of that self remain in rather deep mourning for their loss.”
“Those poor aspects! How shall they ever be consoled?”
“Not terribly willingly, I can assure you of that.” It was now St. John's turn to be rueful. “And would you believe how much that has taught me in turn? I do not mean like that, thank you.” He could not help but laugh again at the expression on the Captain's face. “I mean this: not all physical passions are equal. Not every act has proved itself base in my mind! Fornicating is a simple release, similar to onanism, and I am not certain of the value in it. We can learn much when we practice self-control. But sometimes … sometimes intimacies are merely a different way of making manifest those feelings which are so difficult to put into word, or another way of appreciating the Lord's creation!”
Cpt. Aquilaine raised an eyebrow at him. “I am quite certain you have never said such a thing before, Reverend, and I frankly cannot believe that you might actually think that. All your talk about rising above our physical natures, where has that gone to? You have already had too much whisky.”
“I told you I have been to the Bishop's for tea,” St. John replied innocently. “We talked of many things. He is, as I learnt, of the opinion that the Lord would be offended if you picked a ripe apple and merely thought about how fresh it smelt and how sweet it tasted, without actually ever, that is, tasting it.”
“I find myself strangely fond of this bishop. Did he impart more wisdom?”
St. John turned serious once more. “I wish I had time and opportunity to tell you all that I have learnt today. I can scarcely wrap my head around it. If I thought on it for a year I suspect I would understand but a small portion of it. Would you like to hear a little of it now?”
“Perhaps I would.” The Captain poured them both another finger of the whisky, and St. John mentally flinched. The Glenlivet had cost him a full three guineas, one guinea more than he had paid for his Sunday clothes. He hoped they would not end up drinking a quarter of it that afternoon. They toasted again, clinking their glasses together this time, and St. John forged ahead.
“As you no doubt know, we Christians are called to love God. Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. But my entire life I have approached the Lord with fear and shame, and because I felt there would be grave penalties if I did not obey. I have tried to compel my mind to feel affection, or gratitude, or fondness, or any fair thing towards the Creator, but I could not do it. I have never once actually loved God. Imagine! The greatest commandment of all, and I have not done it once! And truly, how can I? How can I feel love for a Being with no limbs to embrace, no face to smile upon, no voice that whispers consoling words in time of trouble? How can I love what I cannot touch or see or talk with at night?
“Think, then: Thou shalt love the Lord thy God; this is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself. Perhaps we humans can only fulfil that first commandment by following the second. Loving one another. What if, instead of ruining myself trying to love God, I simply love another person? Find someone, love him as deeply as I can bear it, with as much honesty and generosity as I can manage, and then whisper a thank you to the One who had created us both? It would be far better than I have managed heretofore.”
St. John had been staring out the dingy window during this whole speech; his clenched hands threatened to shatter the snifter were clenched into fists and his whole body had gone tense with emotion. He was suddenly reminded of his very first night with the Captain, in that selfsame room, when he had declared his passion to follow the Lord wherever He might lead. How badly he had failed in that goal. When finally he dared look up and meet the Captain's eye once more, he found he could not because the Captain was now staring intently at the floor.
Cpt. Aquilaine spoke then, and his voice was unexpectedly harsh. “So what I am to do with your grand, newfound knowledge, Reverend? Why share this with me?”
“Because I have a request, Marcus. And it is a simple one, although I know it will not be easy for you to fulfil.” He leant forward and placed his hand on top of the Captain's, then looked him in the eye with as direct a gaze as he could manage. “Let me speak for five minutes, and then I swear to you I will be done with talking, and if it is what you wish then you will hear from me no more. But please give me five minutes first.”
The Captain did not pull his hand away, but neither did he give a yea or nay. St. John did not move either, merely continuing to gaze up at him. Finally Cpt. Aquilaine gave a single slow nod, just one, and St. John reluctantly withdrew his hand, folding them in his lap to restrain his greedy fingers. He felt he could touch the Captain for a year and not grow weary of the contact.
“What I have to say is this: my passion is to be an instrument in the hands of the Lord, to be used in whatever way He deems best. Your passion, as I think I finally understand it in full, is to earn for your family the honour that had been lost in past generations, restore it to its former glory (if possible), and to prove to yourself that you are a better man than your father was. And why do you want all these things? For your beloved uncle, yes, and for yourself, but mostly you want them for Muniya. And what father would not? But hear me out. I will not comment on money, as I find it rather less important than most people do, but I can speak about honour and character. It seems to me that all your soldierly instincts have blinded you to what lies so close to your hands that if you but uncurl your fists and stretch out your fingers, you cannot help but touch it! Your chance to reclaim your family's honour and to prove to yourself a good man, better than your father, will not come on a battlefield; it has already been offered to you. I think it is your daughter, your Maina-bird.
“Here is my reasoning. What you suffered as a child, and continue to feel keenly even today, cannot be undone. Your best hope is to halt your family's particular misery before it wounds another generation of innocents, and you have the unique power to give to Muniya what you never had yourself. Whilst my inheritance can keep her from falling into the cycle of debt-bondage and prostitution her mother still suffers under, only you, of all people on this planet, can save her from the shame-filled state that you yourself were forced to endure. I beg you, stay here with her! Raise her well, be the sort of man she will be proud to call 'Papa,' and she will never care about her parentage or her illegitimacy. Then she will be free from her father's burdens as well as her mother's. It is not the glories of battle, with clashing swords and bayonets; it is something far harder and slower and you will not be awarded a medal for valiant service at the end of it. But you will have her, and she will consider you the finest father that any girl has ever had.
“When I came to Calcutta, I was so certain that I knew how the Lord intended to use me, and I have been absolutely wrong on every count. You cannot know how dearly I wish I had learnt that sooner. In all likelihood I shall regret it forever. I do not want you to do the same.” He reached over once more, and once more set his hand on the Captain's. “That is all I have to say on the matter. You were good to listen to it. I know these sort of words are not to your liking.”
Cpt. Aquilaine snatched his hand away and grabbed St. John's in a crushing grip before St. John could so much as pull away in surprise. The strength of those fingers almost brought tears of a different sort to the Reverend's eyes.
“Damn you! Do you presume I leave her and go to Afghanistan for a lark? I was happy, I wanted to stay-” His voice was thick with anger, and St. John had to grit his teeth against the pain. “Almost. In truth, I was somewhat happy, but Calcutta has been a lonely place apart from you and Muniya, and I worried you would not long tolerate me, with all your talk about how we sinned every time we came together. Certain acts were sin, and certain thoughts were sin, and in short, everything that gave me joy was sin. So when you mentioned that Lord Elphinstone was in town, I contacted him to enquire if he could use my skills, fearing you would soon cut me off. And I was entirely correct! I left for honour, yes, and improvement of station, but primarily I left because of you. Now you remain; have you also decided you were wrong about all that sinfulness?”
“Good heavens, no. Such intimacies between men are still a sin. The Bishop argues otherwise, but I am convinced he is misguided; the Scriptures are quite clear on it. ”
The Captain's manner turned cool and he released St. John's hand abruptly. “Then whether you stay or go matters not to me.”
“Forgive me if I do not explain well, but I shall make the effort. I want you to understand this, Marcus. Why are we commanded to love God and to love one another? What is the purpose? Because God loves us like a father, and we cannot understand what that means if we ourselves do not know how to love. For a long time I could not comprehend it, but now I am beginning to see! You might feel annoyance toward Muniya, or disappointment, or even embarrassment, but you could never feel any less love, no matter what she does. Likewise God the Father loves me, despite my transgressions. And that is a very good thing, for we are all born into sin and there is no purely good action, nothing that is not tinged with wickedness. We must try to do good but ultimately it is an expression of our love for Him and nothing more.”
Cpt. Aquilaine finished his second glass of whisky more swiftly than the first. He looked as miserable as St. John had ever seen him. “So, after all that talk, we arrive at the heart of the matter, and it is thus: you have finally learnt to love God. My congratulations, Reverend … but what of me? Why do you bother to tell me such things?”
St. John smiled then, as he had not smiled in an entire month. So many words between them, and these next words were the only ones that truly signified. “Because that is not the heart of the matter. This is what I have finally learnt: I love you, Marcus Aquilaine. You have shown me how, and now my heart loves you, my mind loves you, and my body loves you. I am a better person for knowing you, and my feelings are so strong that I could express them a hundred different ways and still want to say it, every hour of every day. I can hardly stop thinking of being with you, even now, and I no longer fear that our Heavenly Father will cast me off for it. I will serve God, but I will also sin boldly, so long as it is with you, because now I know: it is not the sin but the with you that is most important to me.”
He was weeping yet again; he had lost count for the day. He reached for the handkerchief once more, but never managed to dry his tears; Cpt. Aquilaine reached one long arm over and snatched the scrap of cloth away before St. John could press it to his eyes. St. John followed the path of the handkerchief from whence it had come, to where the Captain was dabbing at his own wet cheeks.
“My poor handkerchief! It does not work as well when it is already damp,” he complained. “Well, one must do one's best, I suppose.” He handed the cloth back when it was thoroughly sodden. “I shall not apologise for its condition; you are entirely to blame, St. John.”
“Have I convinced you, then?”
Cpt. Aquilaine took up St. John's hand and kissed it gently. “Did you ever doubt it? Since the day I met you, I have always known: you have a way with words, Reverend.”
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notes:
allegro - another musical tempo; fast or lively.
fertilised by a bee - The rôle of insects in plant fertilisation was first proposed by Christian Sprengel in the late 18th century; although he published his theories in 1793, they were never translated from German to English, and no-one seemed much inclined to believe him, at any rate. Darwin took up the issue once more in the 1840s and in 1861 published Fertilisation of Orchids, at which point everyone was more prepared to accept his ideas on pollination.
Regrettably, I did not learn this fairly critical piece of information until well after I had written this chapter; I decided, amidst much hand-wringing, that I was far too fond of St. John's meditation on the rôle of bees to abandon the metaphor. To gloss merrily over the inconsistency, then, I told myself that as a young Cambridge scholar, St. John had encountered and read some Sprengel whilst attempting to improve his German. The beauty of writing is that occasionally one can get away with such deceptions.
guinea - The guinea was an old British coin with a value of 21 shillings, last issued in 1816. (British currency was 12 pence to a shilling, 20 shillings to a pound, until decimalisation in 1971 simplified everything rather dramatically.) However, the concept remained in use for more than a hundred years after the coin was withdrawn from circulation, as it had by that time taken on an aristocratic tone. Professional salaries were often paid in guineas, and luxury items still had their prices listed in guineas, even though the payment itself had to come in pounds.
Glenlivet - This whisky (technically named “The Glenlivet”) has been in near-continuous production since 1824, with one brief but understandable pause for WWII.
Thou shalt love the Lord … love thy neighbour as thyself - Matthew 22:37-39.