Chapter 23

It is better to celebrate the occasion than to annoy the gods with
pretended virtue and too many promises. —Eastern Proverb

Three amber moons in a purple sky.

The day of the great inauguration ceremony dawned inauspiciously
for somebody. For one thing, the blasting powder laid ready by the
sappers under
the pipal trees for explosion the day following, blew up prematurely.
Some idiot had left a kerosene lamp burning in the dug-out, probably,
and a rat upset it; or some other of the million possibilities took place.
Nobody was killed, but a dozen pipal trees were blown to smithereens,
and the ghastly fact laid bare for all to see that in the irregular chasm
that remained there was not a symptom of the treasure—as Samson
was immediately notified.

So Samson had to attend the ceremony with that disconcerting knowledge
up his sleeve. But that was not all. The night signaler, going off duty,
had brought him a telegram from the high commissioner to say that
all available military bands were to be lent for the day to the maharajah,
and that as many British officers as possible, of all ranks, were to take
part in the procession to grace it with official sanctity.

That was especially aggravating because it had reached his ears that
the Princess Yasmini intended to ride veiled in the procession, and
to sit beside her husband in the durbar hall unveiled. He was therefore
going to be obliged to recognize her more or less officially as consort
of the reigning prince. Simla did not realize that, of course; but it was
too late to wire for different instructions. He had a grim foreboding that
he himself would catch it later on when the facts leaked out, as they
were bound to do.

(It was babu Sita Ram who "caught it" first, though. Within two days
Samson discovered that Sita Ram had been sending official telegrams
in code on his own account, very cleverly designed to cause the high
commissioner to give those last minute instructions. It was obvious
that a keener wit than the babu’s had inspired him; but, though he was
brow-beaten for an hour he did not implicate Yasmini. And after he
had been dismissed from the service with ignominy she engaged him
as a sort of secretary, at the same pay.)

But that was not all, either. The murderer of Mukhum Dass was refusing
stolidly to plead guilty to another charge, and Blaine’s butler had come
out with the whole story of the burglary. Parliament would get to hear
about it next, and then there would be the very deuce to pay. The police
were offering the murderer what they called "inducements and persuasion";
but he held out for "money down," and did not seem to find too unendurable
whatever it was that happened to him at intervals in the dark cell. There
are limits even to what an Indian policeman can do, without making marks
on a man or compelling the attention of European officers.

On top of all that, Samson had to hand Dick Blaine a check amounting
to a month’s pay, look pleasant while he did it, and—above all—look
pleasant at the coming durbar.

On the other hand, there were people who enjoyed themselves. Sialpore,
across the river, was a dinning riot of excitement—flags, triumphal arches,
gala clothes and laughter everywhere. Dick Blaine, driving Tess toward
Yasmini’s palace in the very early dawn, had to drive slowly to avoid
accident, for the streets were already crowded. His own place in the
procession was to be on horseback pretty nearly anywhere he chose
to insert himself behind the royal cortege, and, not being troubled on
the score of precedence, he had Tom Tripe in mind as a good man
to ride with. Tom could tell him things.

But he waited there for more than an hour until the royal elephants arrived,
magnificent in silver howdahs and bright paint, and watched Tess emerge
with Yasmini and the other women. Tess wore borrowed jewels, and
a veil that you could see her face through; but Yasmini was draped
from head to foot as if the eyes of masculinity had never rested on her,
and never might. Things were not going quite so smoothly as they ought,
although Tom Tripe was galloping everywhere red-necked with energy,
and it was nearly half an hour more before the escort of maharajah’s
troops came in brand-new scarlet uniforms, to march in front, and behind,
and on each side of the elephants. So Dick got quite a chance to "josh"
Tess, and made the most of it.

But things got under way at last. Dick’s sais found him with the horse
he was to ride, and the procession gathered first on the great maidan
(open ground) between the city and the river, with bands in full blast,
drums thundering to split the ears, masters of ceremony shouting, and
the elephants enjoying themselves most of all, as they always do when
they have a stately part to play in company.

Utirupa led the way in a golden howdah on Akbar, the biggest elephant
in captivity and the very archetype of sobriety ever since his escapade
with Tom Tripe’s rum. Akbar was painted all over with vermilion and
blue decorations, and looked as if butter would not melt in his mouth.

Next after Utirupa the princes rode in proper order of rank and precedence,
each with two attendants up behind him waving fans of ostrich plumes.
Then came a band. Then Samson, and a score of British officers in
carriages whose teams were nearly frantic from the din and the smell
of elephants and had to have runners to hold their heads—all of which
added exquisite amusement. Then another band, and a column of the
maharajah’s troops. Then more elephants, loaded with the lesser notables;
and after them, a column nearly a mile long of Rajput gentry on the
most magnificent horses they could discover and go in debt for.

After the Rajput gentry came a third band, followed by more maharajah’s
troops, and then Yasmini on her elephant, followed by twenty princesses
and Tess, each with a great beast to herself and at least two maids to
wave the jeweled fans. Then more troops, followed by Dick and Tom Tripe
together on horseback leading the rank and file. Trotters jogged along
between Tom and Dick, pausing at intervals to struggle with both forefeet
to remove a collar bossed with solid gold that he regarded as an outrage
to his dogly dignity.

And the rank and file were well worth looking at, for whoever could find
a decent suit of clothes was marching, shouting, laughing, sweating,
kicking up the dust, and having a good time generally. The water-sellers
were garnering a harvest; fruit- and sweetmeat-peddlers were dreaming
of open-fronted shops and how to defeat the tax-collector. The police
swaggered and yelled and ordered everybody this and that way; and
nobody took the slightest notice; and the policemen did not dare do
anything about it because the crowd was too unanimously bent on having
its own way, and therefore dangerous to bully but harmless if not hit.

Half-way down the thronging stream of men on foot came another elephant—
a little one, alone, carrying three gentlemen in fine white raiment—Bimbu
and Pinga and Umra to wit, who, it is regrettable to chronicle, were very
drunk indeed and laughed exceedingly at most unseemly jokes, exchanging
jests with the crowd that would have made Tess’s hair stand on end,
if she could have heard and understood them. From windows, and
roofs that overhung the street, people threw flowers at Bimbu, Pinga
and Umra, because all Hindustan knows there is merit in treating beggars
as if they were noblemen; and Bimbu wove himself a garland out of
the buds to wear on his turban, which made him look more bacchanalian
than ever.

In and out and around and through the ancient city the procession filed,
passing now and then through streets so narrow that people could have
struck Utirupa through the upper story windows; but all they threw at
him was flowers, calling him "Bahadur" and king of elephants, and great
prince, and dozens of other names that never hurt anybody with a sense
of pageantry and humor. He acted the part for them just as they wanted
him to, sitting bolt upright in the howdah like a prince in a fairy story,
with jeweled aigrette in his turban and more enormous diamonds flashing
on his silken clothes than a courtesan would wear at Monte Carlo.
And all the other princes were likewise in degree, only that they rode
rather smaller elephants, Akbar having no peer when he was sober
and behaved himself.

And when Yasmini passed, and Tess and all the other princesses, there
was such excitement as surely had never been before; for if you looked
carefully, with a hand held to keep the sun from your eyes, you could
actually see the outlines of their faces through the veils! And such
loveliness! Such splendor! Such pride! Such jewels! Above all, such
fathomless mystery and suggestion of intrigue! Pageantry is expensive,
but—believe Sialpore—it is worth the price!

And then in front of the durbar hall in the dinning, throbbing heat, all the
animals and carriages and men got mixed in a milling vortex, while the
notables went into the hall to be jealous of one another’s better places
and left the crowd outside to sort itself. And everything was made much
more interesting by the fact that Akbar was showing signs of ill-temper,
throwing up his great trunk once or twice to trumpet dissatisfaction.
His mahout was calling him endearing names and using the ankus alternately,
promising him rum with one breath and a thrashing with the next. But
Akbar wanted alcohol, not promises, and none dared give him any before
evening, when he might get as drunk as he wished in a stone-walled
compound all to himself.

Then Samson’s horses took fright at Akbar’s trumpeting, he getting out
of the carriage at the durbar door only in the nick to time. The horses
bolted into the crowd, and an indignant elephant smashed the carriage;
but nobody was hurt beyond a bruise or two, although they passed
word down the thunderous line that a hundred and six and thirty had
been crushed to death and one child injured, which made it much more
thrilling, and the sensation was just as actual as if the deaths had
really happened.

And inside the durbar hall there was surely never such a splendid scene
in history—such a sea of turbans—such glittering of jewels—such a
peacocking and swaggering and proud bearing of ancient names! Utirtipa
sat on the throne in front of a peacock-feather decoration; and-marvel
of marvels!—Yasmini sat on another throne beside him, unveiled!—with
a genuine unveiled and very beautiful princess beside her, whom nobody
except Samson suspected might be Tess. She wore almost as many
jewels as the queen herself, and looked almost as ravishing.

But the Princess Yasmini’s eyes—they were the glory of that occasion!
Her spun-gold hair was marveled at, but her eyes—surely they were lent
by a god for the event! They were bluer than the water of Himalayan
lakes; bluer than turquoise, sapphire, the sky, or any other blue thing
you can think of—laughing blue,—loving, understanding, likable, amusing
blue—two jewels that outshone all the other jewels in the durbar hall that day.

And as each prince filed past Utirupa in proper order of precedence,
to make a polite set speech, and bow, and be bowed to in return, he
had to pass Yasmini first, and bow to her first, although he made his
speech to Utirupa, who acknowledged it. So, when Samson’s turn
came, he, too, had to bow first to Yasmini, because as a gentleman
he could hardly do less; and her wonderful eyes laughed into his angry
ones as she bowed to him in return, with such good humor and elation
that he could not help but smile back; he could forgive a lovely woman
almost anything, could Samson. He could almost forgive her that no
less than nineteen British officers of various ranks, as well as
one-hundred-and-three-and-twenty native noblemen had seen him
with their own eyes to make an official bow to the consort of a reigning
maharajah. He had recognized her officially! Well; he supposed he
could eat his aftermath as well as any man; and he drove home with
a smile and a high chin, to unbosom himself to Colonel Willoughby
de Wing over a whisky and soda at the club, as Ferdinand de Sousa
Braganza reported in some detail at the Goanese Club afterward.

Late that night, when the fireworks were all over and the lights were
beginning to be extinguished on the roofs and windows, it was a question
which was most drunk—Akbar, the three beggars, or Tom Tripe. Akbar’s
outrageous trumpeting could be heard all over the city, as he raced
around his dark compound after shadows, and rats, and mice and anything
else that he imagined or could see. What Tom Tripe saw kept him to
his quarters, where Trotters watched him in dire misery. The three beggars,
Bimbu, Pinga and Umra, saw three amber moons in a purple sky, for
they said so. They also said that all the world was lovely, and Yasmini
was a queen of queens, out of whose jeweled hand the very gods ate.
And when people scolded them for blasphemy, they made such
outrageously funny and improper jokes that everybody laughed again.

Drunk or sober (and more than ninety-nine per cent. of Sialpore was
absolutely sober then as always) every one had something to amuse
and entertain, except Samson, whose mental vision was of a great
empty hole in the ground in which he might just as well bury all his hopes
of ever being high commissioner; and poor Tom Tripe, who had worked
harder than anybody, and was now enjoying the aftermath perhaps least.

Sialpore put itself to bed in great good temper, sure that princes and
elephants and ceremony were the cream of life, and that whoever did
not think so did not deserve to have any pageantry and pomp, and that
was all about it.

Next morning early, Dick Blaine drove down to look for Tom Tripe, found
him—bound him in a blanket—shoved him, feet first, on to the floor of
the dog-cart, and drove him, followed by Trotters in doubt whether to
show approval or fight, to his own house on the hill, where Tess and
he nursed the old soldier back to soberness and old remorse.

By that time Bimbu and Pinga and Umra were back again at the garden
gate, sitting in the dust in ancient rags and whining, "Bhig mangi, saheebi!"
"Alms! heavenborn, alms!"